#almost seems like a painting with the way the strokes and blending works!

[writingforstraykids]

I owe you a kiss - Pt.9

Pairing: Minchan x femReader

Word Count: 2943

Summary: Minho and you spend a day at the art gallery, Chan takes you out for dinner by the river. Both of them try their best to make room for you and reconnect. You haven't been so happy in a while.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, dinner date, museum date, soft!min, soft!chan

A/N: Thought I'd surprise you with another chapter today that I wrote after posting chapter 8. I think we could use the fluff🤭🖤

PART EIGHT | PART TEN (coming soon)

You exchange a soft smile with your husband, tilting your head at him. “You’re okay?” you ask gently. For a moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the city life outside the window. 

“Let’s go out today?” he asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the calm. “Just you and me.”

You study Minho’s face, swallowing at the hope in his eyes. It’s been three weeks since you clashed and you’ve been working on easing out the many strains those past months have taken on your life. Sometimes, Minho seemed a little hesitant, not knowing if you’d let him in enough. “Where would we go?” you ask, allowing a small smile to cover your lips.

“You mentioned that art exhibit at the new gallery downtown a few days ago. I thought you might want to see?” he suggests gently.

You feel warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of him still remembering that. “That sounds wonderful,” you say excitedly. “I would love to.”

“Yeah?” He smiles so sweetly that you reach out for him. He leans into your touch as you caress his cheek and searches your eyes carefully.

“Yes, darling,” you mirror his smile.

The two of you get ready in comfortable silence, side by side, occasionally sharing glances that hold soft smiles and unspoken words. As you step outside, hand in hand, the city greets you with the vibrant colors of an early evening. The sun, low in the sky, paints everything in hues of orange and gold.

The gallery is a modern space with stark white walls filled with vibrant art. You wander through the exhibits, Minho’s presence a steady warmth at your side. You’re busy looking at the different pieces, but his eyes can’t stop finding you. Once more, he notices how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and how safe you always make him feel. A small smile settles on his lips as he watches you, following you around the rooms willingly. 

At one painting, a chaotic blend of dark and light, you pause longer than at the others. Minho beside you observes the play of emotions across your face. “What do you see?” he asks quietly, not asking about the painting but the meaning you give it.

Your eyes linger on the canvas, chewing your lip a little. “Struggle,” you say, your voice soft in the almost empty room. “But there’s beauty in it too. The colors clash, and still they harmonize…it’s almost like…,” you pause, not quite sure if you should continue.

“It’s like us,” Minho finishes for you, his voice barely above a whisper. He turns to look at you, his gaze filled with understanding. “Finding our beauty in the struggle. Finding some light in the darkness.”

You meet his gaze, your heart aching at the truth of his words. You reach for his hand, fingers intertwining naturally as if they were made to fit together. “Thank you for bringing me here,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

Minho’s thumb strokes your hand gently, and his eyes soften. “I’d go anywhere with you,” he replies.

You continue your walk through the gallery, and once you step outside, the sky has turned into a velvety blue, and and stars begin to peek out. You decide to take a little detour on your way back home, walking through the park. The city sounds soften in the background, replaced by the rustle of leaves and distant laughter.

The park is lit by scattered lamps, casting their golden lights on the winding path. You walk slowly, comfortable in the peace you feel with him. At a bench by the duck pond, you sit down with him, gazing at the water that glitters beneath the moonlight.

The air is cool by now, a gentle breeze teasing your skin, making you shiver. Minho notices almost immediately, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you into a warm hug. You lean against him, head resting against his shoulder, and sigh happily. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Minho confesses, voice laced with a warmth that reminds you he’s your home. “I missed just being with you without having to try and function. Just..us.”

You turn to look at him, eyes finding his in the dim light. “We don’t always have to be strong, do we? We can just be us, flaws and all.”

“No, we don’t always have to be strong,” Minho agrees, his hand gently cupping your face. As long as we’re together…that’s enough. That’s more than I could’ve ever asked for,” he whispers. Your lips meet in a gentle kiss before he squeezes your shoulder. “Let’s get back home, hm?”

The walk back is quiet but comfortable. As you reach the doorstep, Minho stops, turning to you with a serious expression on his face. “Let’s make a promise,” he says, eyes locking with yours. “No matter what happens, we keep fighting together, we keep finding beauty in the chaos.”

You nod, face softening at the desperation in his eyes. “I promise.”

Minho leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss to seal your promise. It’s soft and sweet and holds the promise and gentle words of today. “Come on, honey. Let’s see if Channie’s home yet,” he says, and you nod happily.

Inside, the house is quiet, making the atmosphere feel almost too serene. As you shed your coats and shoes, Minho calls out gently, not wanting to startle Chan, who might be home. There's no response, and he leads you through to the kitchen, where a note on the counter catches your eye.

"Out with Felix and Binnie. Don't wait up. - Chan" reads the neatly penned message, Minho's lips turning up in a small, knowing smile. "Guess it's just us tonight," he comments.

You nod, missing Chan but also relishing the quiet intimacy that the evening promises with just the two of you. "What do you feel like for dinner?" you ask, turning towards the fridge.

Minho shrugs, watching you with an affectionate gaze. "Anything's fine, as long as I'm with you," he replies, his tone soft. 

Deciding on something light and easy, you opt to make a salad with all the fresh ingredients you have, adding grilled chicken for some warmth and substance. Minho sets the table, his movements relaxed, a playlist of soft music filling the background.

As you both sit down to eat, the conversation flows more freely than it has in weeks. Gradually, the dialogue drifts towards more personal topics, about how you've both been feeling and the little things you've missed about each other.

"It's been tough, hasn't it?" Minho says at one point, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. "But nights like this... they remind me why it's worth it. Why we're worth it."

You reach across the table, your hand covering his. "It has been tough. But I wouldn't want to face it with anyone but you," you admit, your voice thick with emotion.

After dinner, you clear the dishes together, a routine that feels comforting in its normalcy. Minho washes, you dry, and there's a gentle efficiency to your movements, a dance you've performed countless times before, each step familiar and reassuring.

With the kitchen tidied up, Minho suggests a walk outside. The night air is still warm enough to be inviting. "Let's just walk around the block, a little night stroll," he proposes, and you agree readily.

Outside, the neighborhood is quiet. Most of the houses are dimmed for the evening, and their inhabitants are likely winding down much like yourselves. You walk hand in hand, your steps unhurried, the silence between you comfortable and easy.

At one point, Minho stops, pulling you into a gentle embrace. "I love you," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know I don't say it enough, but I do. So very much."

"I love you too," you respond, leaning back to look into his eyes. “And you're right. Nights like tonight remind me of us, of what we have and what we're fighting for."

Returning home, you settle onto the sofa, Minho pulling a blanket over you both. You lean into him, your head on his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Let's not wait so long to do this again," you suggest, your voice muffled against his shirt.

"Yeah," Minho says, his arm tightening around you. 

As you nod in agreement, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek, you realize that the struggles and the chaos of the past weeks have not been in vain. They've brought you to this moment, safe in Minho’s arms.

-

Chan finds himself back earlier than he planned. After his evening out, he feels the pull of home - of you and Minho - stronger than the laughter and light of the city streets. As he approaches the house, his heart is a mix of nerves and hope. He unlocks the door quietly, half-expecting to find the house still echoing with the tension of previous weeks.

Instead, he steps into a soft-lit silence, low music playing in the living room where he finds you and Minho asleep on the sofa, intertwined under a shared blanket. The sight makes him stop in the doorway, a gentle smile spreading across his face as relief washes over him. Here, in this scene of peaceful slumber, he sees the healing that has begun between you. It almost feels as if you’ve never struggled.

Chan sets down his keys quietly and walks over, his movements gentle to avoid waking you. The intimacy of the moment - the way Minho's arm encircles your waist, how your head rests against his chest - is so sweet. It reminds him of the depth of love and commitment that binds you together, a stark contrast to the coldness that had crept into your interactions lately.

Chan reaches down, tenderly brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch is feather-light, a silent vow to himself to mend the threads of your relationship that he's held too loosely. The small action makes you stir, and your eyes flutter open, meeting his in a sleepy state.

"Channie," you mumble, your voice thick with sleep. "You're back early."

He nods, his hand moving from your hair to gently squeeze your shoulder. "Couldn't stay away too long," he admits, his voice low and warm. "I missed home."

Minho stirs next to you, his eyes opening to Chan's familiar presence. "Hey," he greets, his voice rough with sleep "We were just waiting up for you," Minho teases lightly, though the crinkles by his eyes show his sincerity. He sits up, adjusting the blanket over you, ensuring you're still covered and warm.

Chan chuckles softly, the sound soothing the lingering edges of his earlier anxiety. "It looks like you did more sleeping than waiting," he observes gently.

"Join us," you say, patting the space beside you. 

As Chan settles beside you, the weight of the past weeks—the misunderstandings, fears, and pain—seems to lift slightly. Together, you sit in the soft glow of the room, the silence comfortable, filled only with the soft sounds of your synchronized breathing.

As the evening deepens into night, you all decide it's time to move from the sofa to the bed. Hand in hand, you help each other tidy up the living space before heading to the bedroom.

You all get comfortable in bed, Chan, in the middle this time, turns to face each of you, his eyes holding a soft light. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "For this. For us."

Minho reaches to squeeze his hand. “We love you, Channie.”

“I love you too,” he smiles happily.

-

Chan had suggested it: a quiet evening out, just the two of you. You agreed to the promise of a few hours solely with him, which sounded too good to pass. Chan suggested a small restaurant by the river, one that promised a breathtaking view.

Now that the evening is here, you feel nervous, a soft flutter in your stomach. It reminds you of the early days, the first few dates, and the awkward dance of not wanting to choose between Minho and him. You spend quite some time picking your outfit, wanting to feel beautiful and hoping to see the spark in Chan’s eyes you haven’t seen in a while.

Chan is not one bit less nervous than you are, choosing a simple but elegant shirt he knows you like. When he sees you, ready and waiting, his breath catches in his throat. “You look so beautiful,” he manages, his voice rough with emotion. The sincerity in his gaze and the slow smile covering his lips make your heart beat faster, and your eyes water a little.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You look quite handsome yourself.”

“Thanks,” he smiles shyly, blushing a little.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet, with music playing in the background. Chan parks near the river just as the sun is slowly dipping below the horizon, painting the water with a golden glow.

Hand in hand, you walk to the cozy restaurant, which has soft lighting and a gentle, nonintrusive conversation. You choose a table near a window with a view of the river, now shimmering under the first touches of twilight.

You two fall into easy conversation as you eat, yet beneath the lightness of their conversation, deeper topics linger at the edges, waiting.  "Y/n," he begins, his voice serious but gentle. “I know things have been tough. I know I've been... distant. Not because I want to be, but because I've been scared - scared of doing the wrong thing, of saying the wrong thing."

"Chan, I understand. I’ve been feeling overwhelmed, too, scared of pushing you away or making things harder for you,” you admit gently.

“I never meant to feel like you couldn’t come to me…or that Min is more important to me,” he tells you guiltily. 

“I know,” you reply, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “But we're here now, and that’s what matters. We can find our way back together.”

Chan’s smile returns, his eyes lighting up as if a weight has been lifted. “I’d like that. A lot.”

As dinner comes to an end, Chan suggests a walk along the river. The cool breeze from the water is refreshing, and the rhythmic sound of the waves against the shore is soothing. 

“Look at the moon,” Chan points up, and you both stop to gaze at the full moon, casting a silver glow over the river. It’s beautiful and peaceful, and for a moment, it feels like everything is right in the world.

“It’s gorgeous,” you comment, leaning into him.

Chan wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you closer. “Not as gorgeous as you,” he says, which makes you both chuckle.

The moment feels right, and you stop walking and turn to face him. “Chan, thank you for tonight. It means a lot to me. I’ve missed just being with you like this.”

He cups your face gently, his touch tender. “I’ve missed it, too—more than I realized. Let’s not let it go again, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, and he leans in to kiss you softly and sweetly under the moonlight by the river.

On the drive home, the car is filled with comfortable silence. A song that you both love comes on the radio, and Chan reaches over to turn it up. You smile and start to sing along quietly. He joins in, and soon, you’re both laughing and singing at the top of your lungs.

Chan parks the car in front of your house and turns to you with a giddy smile. You smile softly, leaning over to cup his face. “My beautiful Channie angel,” you whisper, and he blushes a little. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he smiles shyly. “My sweet baby girl.”

Minho greets you with a gentle smile as you step inside. “Had fun, you two?” he asks gently, giggling surprised as you give him a long, soft kiss. “Hey, darling,” he whispers adoringly.

“Come cuddle with us?” you plead softly, making him laugh.

“Please?” Chan asks sweetly, kissing his cheek.

“Fine, fine,” he laughs. “Go get ready for bed, I’ll be there in a bit,” he promises.

Not much later you’re all comfortable in bed. You’re in the middle, feeling safe between them. To your left, Minho’s warmth is a comforting pressure against your side, his arm thrown loosely over your waist. His fingers draw mindless patterns on the fabric of your nightshirt. Chan’s body is curved around yours protectively, his breath softly tickling your neck. Minho shifts a little, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His eyes meet Chan’s in a silent agreement of how much they love you. 

“Comfortable?” Minho asks softly, barely above a whisper, as if he’s scared of speaking too loudly.

“Very,” you nod, agreeing. You turn your head slightly to smile at him, reaching to touch his cheek. Chan responds by tightening his embrace around you, his hand splaying across your stomach, grounding you.

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the only sounds are the soft rustling of the sheets and the steady, rhythmic breathing of three hearts in sync. You find yourself tracing the lines of Chan’s hand after a while, feeling the strength and warmth of his fingers intertwined with yours. Minho, feeling a surge of affection, leans over to plant a gentle kiss on your forehead, then Chan’s jaw. Chan smiles at the gesture, a small, happy sound escaping his lips. It feels perfect.

PART EIGHT | PART TEN (coming soon)

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist: (Please let me know if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist!)

@atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @kailee08 @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @mellhwang @palindrome969 @michelle4eve @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuaaa @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ontito0icongirls @furiousheartpoetry @bluesiebirdie @scarlet789 @ziipzeepzop-eez @lost-in-avoidance @dprkbyn @bear8585 @lee-knows-cats @mintchip17 @zdgx1 @zerefdragn33l @chansducky10 @melanctton @0325tiny @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @daisyjihannie @felixs-brownies78 @roriiror

[reverieparacosm]

Art's Silent Language (Lukai Hwei x GN!Reader)

Warnings: none, just a lot of fluff :>

Chapter 1: The Color of Love

(part 2 here)

Summary: In the art studio, Hwei and you discover similarities in your works, leading to a mutual fascination. As you observe each other from afar, an unspoken connection begins to emerge. Hwei's assistance with your artwork adds tension, as you both yearn to unravel the enigmatic depths of each other's artistic abilities.

In the hushed sanctuary of the art studio at the Temple of Koyehn, a tiny Ionian island nestled in the embrace of the cerulean sea, Hwei stands before his canvas, brush in hand. Soft sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting an ethereal glow upon him and illuminating the worn wooden floors beneath his feet.

The delicate hues dances upon his face like whispers of forgotten dreams. His eyes, ever-shifting in color, mirror the emotions that churn within his soul. In this sacred space, where art transcends mere expression and becomes a language of its own, Hwei feels an inexplicable sense of belonging.

His fingertips, stained with vibrant colors, hover hesitantly over the canvas, as if hesitant to disturb the ethereal beauty that his mind's eye has conjured. A symphony of emotions swirls within him - curiosity intertwines with anticipation, while a gentle flame of excitement flickers in the depths of his being.

Hwei's gaze wanders to you, while you are engrossed in your own artistic endeavor. Curiosity sparkles in his eyes as he observes your concentrated expression. Recognizing your commitment to your craft, he admires the dedication and passion evident in your focused brushstrokes.

As Hwei watches, he catches glimpses of the artwork taking shape under your skillful hand. His interest piqued; he finds himself drawn to the subject matter that unfolds before him. With each stroke, you bring to life a scene that echoes the beauty of nature, much like Hwei's own creations.

The air in the studio seems to hold its breath as Hwei and you secretly observe each other in a silent dialogue of curiosity and wonder.

Hwei's heart quickens with an inexplicable sense of familiarity, as if the universe had conspired to bring you together in this space.

Noticing your intricate details, Hwei's fascination is evident as he gazes at your drawn bridge. He appreciates the craftsmanship, recognizing the sturdy blend with nature. His admiration widens at the skillful portrayal of the water's surface, reflecting vibrant water lilies and creating tranquility. The way you capture the delicate ripples, and the play of light creates a sense of peace, inviting the viewer to immerse themselves in the scene.

Hwei marvels at the lush foliage and attention to detail, bringing the natural world to life. The captivating water lilies, with their delicate beauty and vibrant colors, draw Hwei's attention, appearing almost lifelike on the canvas.

As an invisible force that defies explanation draws him closer, Hwei's heart stutters in his chest. Clearing his throat, he breaks the stillness of the studio with a voice barely more than a whisper.

"You...your art," Hwei begins, his voice trembling with awe.

He takes a hesitant step closer, his eyes locked on your masterpiece. The air between you seems to shimmer with an invisible energy, as if the very essence of creativity has woven itself into the fabric of your hearts.

You glance up from your work, your gaze meeting Hwei's with an intensity that mirrors his own.

What Hwei doesn't know is that you admire him. You have been observing him from afar for some time now and you see him as one of the best artists of your time. The way he expresses his art is breathtaking. But you have the feeling that he is holding back.

He seems to be hiding something.

He paints so beautifully. The inside of his mind must be a terrible place.

You study his work within the walls of your secret art sanctuary. Within the intricate brushstrokes and vivid colors, you discovered a hidden depth in Hwei's art. Yet, a sense of caution lingers within you. The last thing you want is to come across as weird or creepy, especially to someone whose talent and passion you admire so deeply.

As the allure of Hwei's art becomes increasingly irresistible, the secret admiration within you reaches a tipping point. The desire to confront the artist, to express the profound impact his work has had on your own soul, grows too strong to ignore. The time for secrecy and hidden admiration has come to an end.

But the fact that you are studying his art should remain your own little secret - for now.

He finds himself caught in the depths of your gaze, his breath hitching in his chest. You feel a gentle fluttering in the depths of your soul as you meet Hwei's searching eyes, a magnetic pull drawing you closer to him.

His eyes are a light pink with a mix of blue.

"Can I help you?" you ask.

"I... I've been watching you, admiring your work," Hwei confesses, his voice filled with admiration. "Your art is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's powerful, evocative, and it speaks to something deep within me."

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your lips, a glimmer of appreciation sparkling in your eyes.

"I've seen your art too," you reply, your voice gentle yet filled with sincerity. "There's a rawness, a vulnerability to your work that resonates with me. But I sense that there's something you're holding back, something you're afraid to fully express."

Hwei's eyes widen in surprise, his breath hitching in his chest. He had never expected you to perceive the hidden layers of his art, the unspoken emotions he had concealed within his creations.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you realize that you may have spoken too boldly, revealing more than you intended. The desire to confront Hwei directly about your findings in his art was not your initial intention.

"You can see that?" he says, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and relief.

You nod, your gaze filled with understanding. "Art has a way of revealing truths, even the ones we try to keep hidden. And I believe that true artistic growth comes from embracing those truths, no matter how difficult they may be."

Hwei's pulse quickens as your words sink in. The invisible barrier that had held him back, the fear of exposing his innermost self to the world, begins to crumble.

"I've been afraid," he admits. "Afraid of being seen, of being judged, of exposing the rawest parts of myself. But seeing your art, feeling the connection it evokes, I can't help but want to break free from those chains."

"Art is a journey, Hwei," you say softly, your voice carrying a soothing warmth. "The crashing waves care not for who hears their roar, and towering peaks feel no shame in blocking the sun's gaze. So too should you refrain from diminishing your brilliance or talents to appease the discomfort of others. As the deep blue sea and high stone sentinels remain true to their nature without apology, so should you remain devoted to your authentic self without need for pardon."

With his gaze lingering on the canvas before him, Hwei's eyes shift hues like the ever-changing tides. With vulnerability in his voice, he begins recounting the pivotal moment that shapes his journey.

"I find solace in the art form known as paint magic," Hwei begins, his voice carrying a weight of both reverence and caution. "It is a medium that allows me to influence the emotions of those who behold my creations - a power that demands strict control and discipline."

He pauses, his expression clouded with a mingling of regret and longing. "The world doesn’t make sense, so why should I paint artworks that do? I find myself teetering on the edge of a precipice."

The human mind is truly the scariest thing of all.

The weight of Hwei's confession lingers in the air, carried by lingering words. Continuing, remorse tinges his voice. "During a demonstration for the temple masters, I have painted Koyehn's sea. I lost control."

Hwei's gaze falls upon his artwork. He studies the painting intently, his critical eye taking in every brushstroke and detail. The frown on his face deepens, revealing a hint of dissatisfaction with his own creation.

As he contemplates his work, Hwei's attention is diverted by the sight of birds gracefully soaring through the vast expanse of the sky. A wistful expression crosses his face, tinged with a touch of envy for the freedom these winged creatures possess.

Hwei absentmindedly reaches up to play with his hair.

The memory haunts him still, the tempestuous sea of emotions threatening to drown his resolve. "My awakening infuriates the temple masters," Hwei confesses, his voice trembling with fear. "They recognize the potential danger of such unleashed power. While they cannot bear to banish their heir, they emphasize the weight of my responsibilities, the need to temper my abilities."

A shadow of sadness crosses Hwei's face as he recalls the aftermath of that moment. "Haunted yet fascinated by the depths of my own power, I continue to explore in secret, under the cover of night. The fear of my full potential being exposed consumes me.”

Enthralled by the captivating sight of the iris flower beside him, Hwei's gaze becomes fixated upon its exquisite beauty. As his fingers brush against the delicate petals, a palpable sense of melancholy washes over him, causing his heart to sink. The vibrant colors that once adorned the flower begin to slowly fade, as if drained of their vitality by his very touch.

With a tinge of sorrow, he observes as the once-vibrant colors of the iris gradually lose their brilliance, their fading hues catching his attention. The petals, once bursting with life, now appear to wilt and wither, as if in response to his mere touch. Hwei's fingertips, lingering momentarily against the delicate bloom, withdraw instinctively as he realizes the unintended effect his presence has had on the flower's vitality.

Hwei, taken aback by the unintended consequence of his presence, quickly withdraws his hand, as if fearing further damage to the delicate bloom. A mixture of wonder and regret flickers in Hwei's eyes as he turns his gaze away from the fading iris. His gaze meets you again.

"I wish, they would only take as I am. For me, I paint because it makes me feel like someone's listening - or I am finally listening to myself," Hwei admits, his voice etched with longing.

There is a profound sadness in Hwei's eyes, a reflection of the burden he carries. He longs for the day when he can fully embrace his power without the fear of its consequences, when he can share his artistry with the world without reservation. But until then, he remains a hesitant guardian of his own potential, forever grappling with the delicate dance between restraint and liberation.

You listen intently, captivated by Hwei's tale and the depth of his struggle. As the weight of his words settles upon you, you feel a surge of empathy for his predicament.

You think to yourself; Hwei, you cannot make everyone think and feel as deeply as you do. This is your tragedy, because you understand them, but they do not understand you.

But you would never say that out loud.

There is nothing more intimate in life than being understood.

"Why do you share this with me?" you ask, your voice filled with genuine curiosity. "Why do you entrust me with the knowledge of your fears and the secrets of your power? Is there something you seek or hope to find in our conversation?"

Hwei takes a moment to consider your question, his eyes searching your face for a connection. A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips, gratitude mingled with a hint of relief.

Nervously, he touches his neck, "I think I fall a little bit in love with anyone who shows me their soul," Hwei whispers, his voice soft yet filled with a hint of longing. His gaze bores into the depths of your eyes, searching for that rawness, that unguarded essence that he so deeply appreciates.

Aware of the challenges you encounter due to your rebellious nature, constantly sketching objects that displease the temple masters, he understands the troubles you face. The thought of your provocative drawings excites him, as he admires your audacity and willingness to challenge the norms. Hwei finds comfort in the fact that you are unafraid to express yourself, even if it means facing consequences.

He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before continuing. "I have carried the weight of my fears and the burden of my power alone for far too long. But in sharing my story with you, I find solace in the possibility that I am not alone in this world."

Unable to resist the temptation, you finally ask, your voice betraying a hint of nervousness, "Hwei, would you... would you mind helping me with my artwork? Your skills are extraordinary."

Hwei moves closer, his footsteps echoing softly in the studio.

As you watch Hwei walking gracefully towards you, you couldn't help but be captivated by his exquisite beauty. What caught your attention the most is his stunning teal hair, a vibrant hue that seems to shimmer under the light.

Hwei's hair cascades down in soft waves, framing his face perfectly and drawing attention to his striking features. It was a color unlike any you had seen before, reminiscent of a tranquil ocean on a sunny day.

You notice Hwei's choice of attire - a comfortable loose tunic that drapes effortlessly over his slender frame. The fabric seems to embrace him, allowing for freedom of movement while still maintaining an air of elegance.

In that moment, you couldn't help but admire Hwei's ability to effortlessly blend beauty and comfort.

As he approaches, you could feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His proximity is both exhilarating and unnerving, stirring a mix of anticipation and unease within you.

Without a word, Hwei gently reaches out, his fingers barely grazing your arm before moving to rest on your hand. The touch is light, yet it sends a surge of electricity coursing through your veins. His touch guides your trembling hand towards the canvas, his movements fluid and confident.

"Let your instincts guide you," he murmurs, his voice as soothing as a whisper. "Feel the brush in your hand, let the colors come alive. I don’t believe that I am of much help, but I can try my best."

Hwei continues to guide your hand, a delicate dance unfolds. His touch is both commanding and delicate, as if he holds the secret to unlocking the depths of your creativity. With each stroke, your apprehension melts away, replaced by a newfound confidence that surges through your fingertips.

During your silent collaboration, Hwei's voice breaks the silence once more.

"I can feel your breath quicken," he says, his voice laced with intrigue. "You're becoming nervous."

His observation struck a chord deep within you, and you realize he has seen through the façade of composure you desperately tried to maintain. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing the intensity of the moment. The realization that Hwei's presence has stirred such a profound effect on you only serves to heighten your anxiety.

As Hwei senses the nervousness radiating from you, he puts his hands on your shoulder.

With a gentle movement, Hwei turns you to face him, his eyes locking with yours in a soft yet reassuring gaze. He reaches out and takes both of your hands in his, his touch warm and comforting.

The connection between you deepens as he leans in closer, his breath mingling with yours in a shared rhythm.

"Take a deep breath," Hwei whispers softly, his breath brushing against your ear. His fingertips trace intricate patterns across your palm, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

As the session draws to a close, your artwork now transforms, Hwei releases his hold on your hand. You turn to face him, your voice a mere whisper, "Thank you, Hwei. Your guidance... it's been an incredible experience."

A knowing smile tugs at Hwei's lips as he regards you, his eyes filled with appreciation and something deeper, something you couldn't quite understand.

"You have a talent within you, waiting to be unleashed," he replies, his voice rich with admiration. "Embrace it, and let it carry you to places you never imagined."

Just as you are lost in the flow of creation, a sudden interruption shatters the tranquility. A temple member, dressed in customary robes, rushes into the studio, his face etched with urgency.

"Hwei," the temple member calls out, his voice breathless. "You are needed immediately. An important matter requires your presence."

Hwei's expression shifts, surprise and concern washing over his face. He glances at you, his eyes filled with regret, as if he wishes he could stay longer.

"I apologize," Hwei says, his voice tinged with disappointment. "It seems duty calls. There are matters within the temple that require my attention."

You nod, understanding the weight of his responsibilities. Though a pang of sadness tugs at your heart, you know that Hwei's commitment to his role is unwavering.

"I understand," you reply, your voice filled with understanding. "Your duty comes first."

Hwei's gaze softens as he takes a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush against your cheek. His touch lingers for a moment, as if imprinting the memory of his presence upon your skin.

"I will return as soon as I can," he whispers, his voice filled with a promise. "Until then, continue to let your art speak the language of your heart.”

With a final, lingering look, Hwei turns and follows the temple member out of the studio, leaving you with emotions swirling within you.

And, for a moment, you see the color of love.

In his eyes.

[bluegekk0]

the way you color stuff is AMAZING!!! I MEAN IT! mind explaining how you make colors look so good?? its ok if you dont want to :)

Hi, thank you so much!!! <3

Generally, I try to go for softer, more pastel like palettes, and that helps make the drawings seem more "consistent" and pleasing to the eye.

First tip: if you use Clip Studio Paint, definitely get this tool. It saves so much time on filling out lineart, and it's crazy accurate. If you're having trouble figuring out how it works, here's how I do it: I put the lineart layer in a group, add another layer below it (still in that group), and then use the tool on that new layer. Make sure the tool is set to refer to layers in a group though. Then I erase some areas that were "enclosed" by the lineart.

As for the actual coloring process. First of all, I use the mechanical pencil brush from Clip Studio Paint, the same one I use for the lineart, except this one has random color jitter per stroke. It adds slight variety to the base colors, which helps making them look less flat.

Here are the settings I use, but I recommend playing around with them if you want less subtle results.

For a comparison, here is one of my drawings with regular flat colors vs one colored with the brush I mentioned:

A pretty important part of the process isn't actually related to the coloring itself, but the layer effects I add to the finished drawing, as well as the paper texture (which you can see in the background; I add it twice, to the background and on top of all the layers).

Here are the layers I usually go with, I'll explain each of them below.

I'll start from the bottom. The paper texture is almost white with some very subtle warm tones, and it's set to linear burn, which works the best for this kind of texture. Like I mentioned, I use this overlay twice, but both use the same layer mode.

Next is the brown-ish linear light mode layer. This is to give the drawing more subtle contrast while also tinting it with a sepia-like tone. You can use any color for this, but I find this light brown color to work the best for my artstyle, since it makes the drawing look softer and gives it the old photograph kind of look which I tend to go for.

The multiply layer is mostly transparent aside from the edges. This is for the vignette effect, not much aside from that. It's definitely a personal preference thing.

Lastly, there is the pin light layer. This one is a bit weird, but I really like the effect. It's hard to explain it, but I use it to tint the dark tones of the drawing with a slight blue color. You'll see what I mean in the examples below. Occasionally, I'll add another layer with a darker base color, since pin light kind of works in reverse: if you use a light color, it will target the dark shades on your drawing, but if you use a dark color, it will instead only go for the light shades. Note that it's pretty strong in this drawing in particular, I usually make it a bit more subtle. If you look at my recent drawings you'll see it.

Here is the same drawing, with each of the layers applied in the order I listed (left to right order):

I'd also like to mention the lineart, which actually plays a big role in making my drawings look softer. I color the lines on the "inside" with a darker shade of the base color, though I often make it more saturated to really bring them out.

For example, here are the colors I use for FPK's lines. Not including his eye colors or the tips of his fingers/feet, since I don't color the lineart there. And a comparison of what he looks like with and without those lines colors, just to show how big of a difference it makes.

And to go back to the previous drawing, here is a similar comparison.

One thing to note is the additional white lines on the darker areas of Grimm's arms, the lines blend with the base color so I like to make them slightly lighter to help them pop out.

And lastly, I'll mention the light outlines you probably noticed by now. I add them as the final touch, they're the same color as the background though I sometimes lower the opacity if I feel like they're too much. They're meant to help with colors that blend together too much, and to highlight the silhouettes of the characters, as well as adding more dimension to the drawing. I think you'll see what I mean when I hide them in this final comparison:

Hope this is helpful! Sorry if you didn't expect that long of a post, I wanted to go through each step in my process so that I can explain it the best I can haha

[neo-wavy]

Unexpected Ways H.RJ

streetartist!renjun x reader warning: none, renjun goes through love at first sight lol

————— ୨୧ —————

With empty pockets and a longing in his heart, he can't help but wonder if there's something more to life than the constant cycle of struggle and survival. But when he looks up from his work and notice a pair of eyes looking back at him from across the street, he wonders whether it's time for a change.

Huang Renjun was an ernest young man who hailed from a small town. He spent his days wandering the city streets, selling his work to passers-by to make ends meet. From graffiti to mural art, his artwork was intricate. Spontaneous creations with distinct creative skills and profound intent, Renjun’s creations were instantly recognizable, with bold, vivid colors and intricate details that drew viewers in. His work captured moments of calm and serenity, transporting viewers to a serene and peaceful world. The colors he used ranged from soothing pastels to vibrant, contrasting hues that created a sense of movement and energy. All of his pieces were works of art that inspired awe and appreciation in anyone who viewed them. His attention to detail and passionate creativity made him one of the most revered artists in town. Renjun was filled with pride everytime his work was praised and lauded, but it wasn't enough to quench his ravenous need. Despite his success, he was dissatisfied and empty on the inside. It seemed as if he was after something, looking for meaning and purpose in everything he did, yet praise from others could never fill the hole within.

Today, Renjun set out his painting booth near the children’s park. He carefully unfolded a soft cotton cloth on the ground, to display his artwork. The white fabric served as a brilliant backdrop for his creations, allowing the vivid colors and details to pop out against the stark background. Renjun was particular about the material he used to display his artwork. He felt that the softness and smoothness of the cotton cloth provided a stark contrast with the rigidity and roughness of the street asphalt, highlighting the beauty of his paintings and further capturing the attention of passersby. The light weight and natural whiteness of the fabric only added to the appeal of the display, creating a soothing and inviting ambiance for viewing his work. Subtle wrinkles and creases in the folds of the cloth were almost like tiny lines of texture that graced the backdrop.The folds and wrinkles of the fabric were not only pleasing to the eye, but also provided an added element of texture and depth to his already striking artwork. Its simplicity and elegance of the setup left people with no choice but to stop and admire the beautiful paintings. On days like these, when the weather was particularly favorable, Renjun would set up his easel. He loved the natural beauty of the park, and often drew inspiration from its lush greenery, sweet-scented flowers, and breathtaking scenery. He would find a quiet corner of the park and spread out a white canvas for his artwork. As the sunlight danced across the white sheet, the artist dipped his paint brushes in his palette of colors and began to work his magic. Renjun gently began to roughly sketch out the outline of the park. His brush meticulously traced the outlines on the canvas. With swift strokes of his pencil, he captured the sunlight glancing through the leaves, the distant sound of birds singing, and the gentle breeze in the air, creating an amazing rendering of the landscape. He paused periodically to take in the breathtaking beauty of the park, which he was painstakingly recording onto the canvas. As Renjun worked intently on his canvas, a few children and their parents stopped in their tracks to watch him. While the adults were impressed by his attention to detail and the meticulous way in which he blended colors and shadows, the children were fascinated by the way he brought the park to life on the canvas. The artist could see the joy and awe in their eyes and he was reminded of why he started drawing in the first place. Soon after, he heard someone close inquire, “Excuse me, how much for that painting?” When Renjun turned around, he noticed a young man staring at one of his works. He smiled broadly at the man, displaying his sparkling whites as his eyes crinkled. "It's 25 dollars, but it's worth every penny." he replied. The young man grinned and gave the money over. The kids flocked around Renjun, staring in wonder as he painted. They appeared enthralled by his ability and creativity, as though drawn in by the enchantment of a fairy luring them into a fantasy realm. Their gazes were drawn to his every brushstroke, and a couple of them even went so far as to stand on their tiptoes to get a closer look. "Wow, you draw like a real-life fairy..." One of the younger children chimed excitedly. Another one cut in, "Yeah, can I touch it?" Renjun turned around and gave the youngsters a bashful grin. "I'm afraid not, at least not once I finish, sorry." 

"Can you teach me how to paint like that?" 

Renjun paused momentarily to consider his response. Then, with a warm smile, he offered, "I'd be happy to teach you one day, but for now, enjoy my work with your eyes first. Art is meant to be admired and appreciated, just like a rainbow." The children giggled and continued to gaze at the vibrant landscapes, their cheeks flushed in appreciation and delight. The afternoon sun slowly set, the parents began to tire from watching over their children. One by one, they took their young ones by the hand and gently pulled them away, leaving in their wake a calm and still park. Despite this, the artist remained in the same spot, finishing the details of the painting. He was determined to capture the peaceful beauty of the setting in its entirety, a reminder of the calm and tranquil world he was so passionate about depicting. Renjun was now finishing up the final touches on his painting, he noticed footsteps approaching through his peripheral vision. He looked up from his work to see who could be disturbing the peaceful atmosphere he was so intent on capturing. As he did, he noticed a pair of white heels stop right in front of him, and his heart suddenly skipped a beat. His gaze moved up the legs to find the owner of these shoes - it was the woman he had met his eyes with across the street. She looked down at him with a warm smile. 

Renjun and the woman looked at each other, time seemed to stand still. The world around them faded away, as their eyes connected in a flurry of emotions. They both felt a strong connection, as if they were meant to meet. 

"Good evening." she said softly, "I'm Y/N."

At the sound of her voice, Renjun felt his heart swell and the color rise to his face.

“Hi, I’m Renjun, Huang Renjun.”

"Your paintings are stunning. I've always wanted to be an artist, but I couldn't." Y/N chirps.

“Why so? If I may ask.” Renjun quips back.

“My family wasn’t very fond of that idea, also, I’m not that good at art” Y/N laughs. Renjun felt a surge of emotions at her response. He could relate to her struggle, having felt the same way when he followed his calling despite the opposition from his family. "I know a thing or two about learning to paint. Would you like to learn from me?" Renjun offered. The woman's eyes lit up at the thought of finally learning how to paint and create her own artwork. "Yes, please!" she eagerly agreed. Renjun doesn't know what overtook him as he offered the young woman, who he had only met 5 minutes ago to teach her to paint. It may have been love at first sight. Because for Huang Renjun, it appears that love encourages individuals to act in unexpected ways and conquer the most insurmountable challenges with stunning bravery.

[gaoau]

You're a reflection of your own creations; what does it say when you scorn them?

Raison d'Être warnings — none. word count — 1.9k

prev. — next.

A day later, [Name] stepped nervously around the puddles on the street outside of Chifuyu's shop. Her fingers tightened and loosened repetitively on the canvas in her hands, wrapped in a plastic bag. People passed her by without so much as a glance. She stared with trembling eyes at Chifuyu sitting at the counter while chatting with Kazutora. Seeing how empty the store was, if either of them glanced out the window, they would catch her instantly.

And she was not ready for that.

In her grasp she held a painting she was not proud of. Usually, it didn't matter how awfully dreadful her creations were—mostly because she rarely ever produced anything concrete—since nobody else would see them. But Chifuyu had specifically commissioned her and her skill to create something he could hang in his shop. A black cat with dazzling blue eyes; it meant something to him and she should have done it justice. How was she supposed to look at him straight and give him a piece so hideous?

If it weren't for the eyes—those damned, horrendously colored eyes—she could have saved it. She tried to replicate Chifuyu's eyes the same way they replayed in her mind, but not even he could rescue her from colors.

So when he turned towards the window and trapped her in that little spotlight of intense blue, she felt her chest tighten. Those mesmerizing irises of his, holding an entire universe of aligning planets within them. They drew an eternity in a way she'd never known.

Chifuyu lit up almost instantly, grinning at her with the welcoming brightness of all his joy. Everything about him simply resonated so much happiness. He waved at her with enthusiasm and beckoned her to enter the shop. She offered back a hesitant smile as she psyched herself up to hand over the painting once and for all.

By the time she was inside, fingers gripping tightly onto the canvas, Kazutora had already vanished to the storage room. She chuckled to herself. It really did amuse her, but she probably should have a proper talk with the man. At least it helped her loosen her muscles. She almost forgot for a second why she was dreading walking into XJ Land.

"Hello, [Name]-san," Chifuyu greeted her, "Good news today?" His eyes flickered between her face and the wrapped canvas against her chest.

[Name]'s brain seemed to stop working appropriately. A laugh slipped, "Why do you ask?"

"I see you smiling."

"Oh, no, I just think Hanemiya-san is really funny."

Chifuyu understood instantly. He chortled, "He'll come around eventually." Gentle chuckles floated around them, both their voices blending into one another's. Although he laughed, Chifuyu couldn't keep his curiosity from eating at him. His pupils stuck to the canvas like glue. He could almost see the painting through the bag. "So? How did the cat anatomy treat you?"

He watched her deflate. Shoulders slumped and a heavy sigh, she fumbled with unwrapping the final piece he'd been waiting for. "I'm not going to lie to you…" she trailed off. A frown settled on her brows when she caught a glimpse of her own creation.

She presented the cat to him. Jet black fur that seemed to glow with the beautiful, elegant highlights of grey and white. The whiskers and the tiny nose and the sharp pupils staring back at him. But what caught his attention the most, what struck him and hung his mouth open, was the deep, intense blue of the wide eyes. Different shades of the same color blending into one another, adding depth and texture, so much he couldn't believe [Name] had managed this in less than a month.

His hands darted on impulse to hold it. She relinquished all responsibility over the painting the moment he took it from her, immediately relieved to have it gone. Chifuyu's gaze seemed to sparkle as he inspected every single millimeter of paint, every brush stroke, every bit of skill [Name] had poured into it. "[Name]-san—"

"I hate it."

"—this is wonderful!" He turned towards her to meet her eyes. The grin on his face froze as he tried to process the three sounds that had left her mouth, blinking owlishly at her in bewilderment. He failed to understand why she held so much hatred; it sounded like she had spat venom. He flickered back and forth between her pursed lips and the blue eyes of the cat. "I don't—[Name]-san, I'm sorry, what?"

"I hate it," she snarled again, each of her words dripping with scalding poison, "I hate the eyes. So much, really, I hate it. I'm sorry, I know you had higher expectations for me—for this."

His own brows furrowed while [Name] refused to look him in the eye. Her scorching glare fixated on the blended blues with such intensity that she could easily burn through the canvas. Chifuyu set the painting down on the counter and cleared his throat. "I love it, [Name]-san."

"No, I know you do, it's just that I see it and think ah, man, you're not growing at all."

"Why would you think that?"

A knot formed in her throat. It was pathetic. She really didn't want to start childishly bawling because of a failed project, but here she was tearing up in front of Chifuyu. Her chest was wide open to expose her rusty heart. "The color is just so… I don't know, it's awful." She gave herself a moment, choking back a crack in her voice. Thunder rumbled in the distance to mock her. "I wish you could see what I'm seeing…"

"What if you could see what I'm seeing, [Name]-san?" he spoke against her defeat. He was challenging every one of her insecurities and the issues that lay much deeper than what he could perceive. Loud and clear, words too bold for someone who didn't know the first thing about art. Not that [Name] did much, either.

But her head jerked up on instinct, features twisted with sheer disbelief. Had she heard him right? In only milliseconds, the intense blue of his irises drew her pupils in. His eyes reflected that glimmer of sapphire with the same brightness her creation did, and yet it didn't, because a poor imitation on fabric couldn't compare to the beauty of the real thing. They were so similar, they seemed like carbon copies, but for some reason she could bear to look into Chifuyu's eyes without cringing.

Chifuyu smiled to himself while [Name] gaped at him utterly flabbergasted. He knew she processed and analyzed the world in a completely different way he could never imagine. If her pitch black splashes of ink—those he had called striking and eye-catching because he knew no better words—were anything to go by, she had no trouble with the darkness of black. It seemed, though, she couldn't handle colors. He understood a little better why she'd chosen to name Ai after a color.

His fingers traced delicately over the blended depth of the cat's eyes. "I see colors, [Name]-san. I see blues. Very intense and very striking. It will look great when I hang it up."

[Name] cast her eyes away; first to the empty wall waiting for the canvas, then to the outside streets soaking in the first few drops of rain. She couldn't see a single color. The world in her eyes was only limited to black and white. It was fine, but she really wanted to know what Chifuyu was looking at as well. "I see…" Her vision blurred, out of focus. She returned to Chifuyu's hand on the painting. It seemed white.

"Do you see Ai?"

[Name] stared into his eyes. "Ai?"

"Do you see the indigo?"

She did. She saw the blue in his eyes and the indigo on the canvas.

"That's what I'm seeing. Here," he chirped. From behind the counter, he produced an envelope. He dutifully presented it to her with both hands, bowing his head in practiced formality.

[Name] paled. She had forgotten about this part—payment. They had agreed on a price, yes, but that had been before she absolutely decimated his commission. She gently pushed the envelope back towards him, trying her best to politely refuse the money. The frown on his face almost made her flinch. "Sorry, Chifuyu-san, I can't accept your money." Her teeth nibbled nervously on her lip. It wasn't modesty, it was her own expectations killing her brain.

"I hired you, [Name]-san. You spent time on this. You deserve to be paid for it."

"I know, I know, but I can't bring my—"

"Okay," he cut her off. His furrowed brows smoothed out to allow space for the softest of simpers. Before [Name] could even blink, he had already slipped the notes out of the envelope. "What would you like for dinner?"

Now [Name] did blink, mouth agape. "Excuse me?"

"Let's go out for dinner, my treat."

Her blood boiled in embarrassment as it rushed to her cheeks. She flared up like a torch, shivering a chill of heat out of her system. It was warm and surprising and welcoming and so real. Her feet felt inexplicably light, but her heart weighed on her chest like a boulder. The pitter-patter of the rain performed a soothing lullaby in her ears. She knew her heart was sore because Chifuyu was good; because Chifuyu had the ability to see the same world she saw without scorning it; because Chifuyu could think all she couldn't.

He really seemed to align the universe in his hands when he leaned in to whisper, "I'll share my comfort food with you, how about that?"

Chifuyu was everything [Name] wanted to be. The peace and the joy in his mind, the curses and events and sorrows that came to shape him as he was today. His way of walking, his way of speaking, the words he chose, the chuckles he puffed. She wanted to agree with him, because it was Chifuyu, and Chifuyu would never lie. If he told her that her art was worth it, then who was she to doubt him? Who was she to doubt herself? It was pathetic truly, the way tears gathered in the corner of her eyes with just a few sentences. She didn't even know why she was crying in the first place. Maybe it was fulfillment, maybe it was acceptance, maybe it was just Chifuyu toying with her weaknesses.

"Thanks…" she managed to mumble, voice shattering into a billion pieces of relief. Her fingers flicked at her eyes to swat the tears away. "I appreciate it, Chifuyu-san."

He offered her a tissue. "Anytime, [Name]-san. I'll go tell Kazutora-kun I'm leaving early." His palm landed on her shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze of reassurance

"Wait, right now?" Her tears halted.

"If not, when?"

"We can schedule it."

Chifuyu burst out laughing at her frantic tone. "You're not getting away from me, [Name]-san." He gave her a friendly slap on her back to shut down any other excuses for protest. Before [Name] could untwist her tongue, he had already vanished into Kazutora's hideout. When she gave herself a second to regain her composure, she found a smile on her lips she hadn't seen sneaking up on her. She didn't mind.

[hme-sturrpz]

Movement is crucial in my definition of graceful. To me, something that is graceful provokes movement that is smooth, aesthetically pleasing and intentional, no matter whether it is actually moving or not. Soft, dreamy facial expressions are also considered as graceful for me, as I like to imagine the subtle changes in appearance of someone with such expressions, which count as movements.

Unfortunately, I fail to find any research that is about generating gracefulness. However, from my observation, gracefulness can be provoked using curves of different thickness, a smooth, subtle transition in colour, soft, pastel colour combinations, and soft, silky, translucent materials.

Dante and Virgil - William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1850)

Graceful is a word commonly used to describe the female body, but in this case, the arches of the bodies and the soft curves that make up the muscle details provoke such a cohesive and harmonious movement. Dante and Virgil in the background create a calming space amidst all the chaos, with Virgil in a silky cape, covering his mouth in a delicate, elegant manner. There is so much contrast in the painting: between the defined muscles and the curves that make them, the violence and the gracefulness, the chaos and the calmness. At first sight, the painting seems gory and violent, but the closer you look, the more the elegance shows, which is what makes this artwork so mesmerizing.

The Veiled Virgin - Giovanni Strazza (1850s)

Despite being made from a solid matter, the veil seems so thin, weighless and smooth, and even depicts movement with the way it layers. It is almost like you could see the material slip on her face or move with her breath. The delicate purity of the Virgin’s complexion is enhanced by juxtaposing it with the translucent, silky shawl. Her face is portrayed so detailedly with the way the high of her cheek, her eyelids and nose shows through the veil, emphasising on her delicate features, with her expression remaining mysterious and elegant.

Flat Flower Work - Rose Nolan (2011)

The whole artwork is made up of straight lines and hard edges, yet manages to create the illusion of curves within the mix of red and white. The flowers chaotically go in every direction, yet are also cohesive and elegant thanks to the way each canvas is set up and blends into each other and into the wall. With the white blending in the background, it almost feels like the flowers and vines are blooming directly on the wall, and the use of purely hard edges to illustrate the soft, delicate flowers even further enunciates the gracefulness.

Seated Woman from Behind - Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1892)

The woman’s body is portrayed with really short, curved strokes of paint, with different outline colours, yet the body itself doesn’t have any colour. This provokes a sense of illusion: while the body itself isn’t there, we can still see the soft, elegant curves of the body and the movement through the direction of the brush strokes - creating the illusion of a moving body in the viewer's mind.  Only her head is coloured, but her face isn’t shown - her presence is shrouded in a veil of mystery. Her hair is tied up in a bun with soft, subtle colour changes, representing elegance and pure femininity.

The Birth of Venus - Sandro Botticelli (1485)

Venus’s body is soft and elegant, yet portrayed in a bold manner. Being the Goddess of love and beauty, her delicate features represent the graceful and fragile side of female nature. On the left side are Zephyr and Aura blowing soft winds, causing her silky hair to sway in the air. The white flowers surrounding them and their floating garments are light and delicate. On the right, Hora, the Goddess of spring, tries to cover Venus with a piece of clothing with intricate and vibrant flower design. 

Portrait of Joseph Roulin - Vincent van Gogh (1889)

Joseph Roulin wears a very dreamy and delicate expression in this painting. His eyes are soft, and the streaks of light and the red on his face add so much depth and emotion. His beard floats and flows elegantly like a combination of cloud and water. The combination of deep blue and green provokes a very calming and soothing atmosphere, and he is surrounded by delicate swirls of vines and flowers. It’s sublime how a composition of seemingly normal man, surrounded by seemingly mundane, everyday objects can provoke such a dreamy, graceful and ethereal atmosphere.

Ao dai - Vietnamese traditional clothes

Ao dai is a Vietnamese national garment. It is a form-fitting, full-length dress, with slits on the sides of legs, which makes it extremely graceful, elegant and sexy but not too revealing, and is made of silk - a light and delicate material. For Vietnamese people, ao dai is a symbol of femininity, beauty and elegance. Plain-coloured ao dai are mostly worn by students, because they emphasise on purity and naivety, but they can also come with printed patterns, embroidery or even hand painting of traditional Vietnamese artefacts. Most ao dai are tailored specifically for the wearer’s body, which further accentuate the beauty and elegance of the body.

Untitled (After Malevich and Schiele) - Sherrie Levine (1984)

The drawing portrays the intertwined naked figures of a man and a woman’s bodies. Every detail of the body is made of very soft, thin, shaky lines, which creates the impression of them being shy. It’s such a raw, intimate, yet graceful and beautiful portrayal of mundane yet deeply personal matters. The simple strokes of hair add so much life and depth to the drawing, and the lack of background makes it seem like the two people are in their own world. It’s profound how the artist can portray such beautiful, personal experience with such simple brush strokes.

In Bed - Édouard Vuillard (1891)

The impression of calmness and silence is portrayed in the dark, neutral tones used in the painting. The layers and softness of the cream-coloured sheets invokes cosiness, intimacy and fragility of the action of falling asleep. Half of the person’s face and whole body is covered, provoking a sense of mystery, but her closed eyes have a soft, comfortable expression. It is left to our imagination to see the dainty, elegant figure under the sheets. The artist managed to find such beauty in the most daily activities.

 Ballet at the Paris Opéra - Edgar Degas (1877)

Compared to the dark orchestra, the ballet dancers stand out in light, powdery pink dresses. With the dancers doused in soft, ethereal light, the isolation of the dancers from the orchestra indicates their transcendental quality. The overwhelming grace and beauty of the dancers is portrayed through their delicate, soft figures, their silky hair, and their light, powdery pink dresses that glisten under the soft light. However, it is also to provoke a sense of fragility and ghostliness, which represents how at that period of time, ballet dancers’ careers were often unstable. 

[detectivechandler]

@gentlemanstarkey said: [ shivering ] sender places small kisses all over receiver's stomach (pirate)

There's a rhythm to life at sea, sun gives way to stars, day fading to night as effortlessly as the ebb and flow of the tide against the shore. Mornings have become his favorite - that holy hour where light barely peeks above the horizon and the deck is still scant of most men. If he's lucky, the ones that await the end of their shift give him no mind, content to mutter amongst themselves about the young man who stands at the railing, fingers curled 'round smooth wood and blue eyes scanning the dark depths as if awaiting sight of some treasure or monster in the deep. Even the water itself is lazy in these early hours - it laps gentle caresses against The Jolly Roger's hull, pressing soft kisses against swaying wood like a mother loathe to wake her babe in its cradle. Joe stands silent, happily watching the day take shape around him, until the arrival of more men and their boisterous laughter chase him back into the shadows of his chosen sanctuary.

Now, he is sprawled across the bed - face flushed with a warmth borne from a thousand things and blonde hair sweat damp and tousled from the earlier wind. He's shifting his hips, the book he'd been devouring set aside and long forgotten, fighting the laugh that threatens to spill from his throat. James' fingers paint ticklish brush strokes over the thin cotton of his shirt, following the contours of lean flanks and pressing playfully into the sensitive skin between his ribs. Half hearted pleas for mercy seem only to egg the older man on, so teeth clench tightly together in their best attempt at feigned disinterest. A losing battle, of course. Joseph Chandler has long since learned it's all but impossible to be indifferent toward a man such as the one currently sprawled half atop him. Fingers reach the hem of his shirt, dipping beneath as if testing their footing, and the younger man frown, reaching to wrap a loose grip around his pirate's wrist. He has an excuse of course, a reason, it sits there on the tip of his tongue, ready to enter battle at its master's command and constructed like any careful lie meant to leave none the wiser.

Blue eyes so like his own study him for a moment and he feels that blasted warmth again, that uncomfortable apprehension from being seen that is both freedom and purgatory all at once. Before he can offer an explanation, an apology maybe, a single thumb reaches to trace the barest of touches along the sweep of his jaw, blending with the older man's affectionate smile in a way that serves to place him more at ease. The slide of his shirt against his stomach tickles in a far different way and Joseph sets his jaw, gaze studying the shadows that sputtering candles paint across the low ceiling.

What would it be like, he wonders, to simply start making shadow puppets? To make a distraction out of a silly game his brother had shown him when they were young?

There's a stretch of silence that feels like an eternity, an absence of the pirate's presence that almost causes him to slip to the floor and crawl beneath the bed in shame and defeat...but then he's there, salt roughened lips against smooth skin, pressing tender kisses all around his navel... and Joe is shifting in surprise, trying (and failing) to hold back a surprised squeak. He expects the other man to move on from the venture, to make quick work of a peck to show his point, but instead he lingers there ... hands moving to grip at the younger man's waist, thumbs smoothing reassuring circles over the bones of his hips. James is everything he is not - the warmth of home while Joe so often feels like a block of ice, confident, intelligent.. he is lean, all muscle and bone from years at sea, while Joseph is pale and soft, round where the beginnings of muscles have not yet broken through. He should be afraid, he's always afraid .. one mistake, one wrong breath, one awkward shudder, and he could be left alone, cast adrift in a world he will never truly understand... but like the savior that he is, James chases those demons, exiles them with every kiss and nibble against the smooth skin.

Instead of hiding away, he tangles his fingers within his pirate's hair, tugging playfully before scratching a gentle pattern across his scalp. They stay this way for what feels like hours - Joe's mind telling him all the reasons he should be cast aside while his lover's mouth writes a novel's worth of counter arguments over every inch and curve. Later, when they lie beside one another, nothing but contentment and grins as they good-naturedly argue over different opinions of a book, James will once again find that place that he tries so hard to keep hidden.. and rather than squirm and shy away, the younger man will simply smile, answering every questioning touch with a kiss pressed to the older man's brow. The declaration, when it comes, will bring a laugh to Joseph's lips and an amusement to blue eyes that flicker in the candlelight, each word punctuated with a rub of James' palm against his stomach.

We'll make a pirate of you yet.

[miraefmd]

— next level.

date: early november word count: 473 words. summary: mirae considers what her next career step is. notes: -

selene’s debut had been explosive. everyone has tuned in to see what bang sunyoung had created and they’d like it enough to hold the newly revealed act steady at the top of the charts. they’d been granted music show wins in record-breaking speed and the rare gift of hurdling over rookie of the year awards straight to a daesang for song of the year.

success isn’t foreign to mirae, even if she’s been told she works like it is. from some perspectives, success had been handed to her on a silver platter and, as such, unaffected aloofness is expected from her. some still perceive her to have such a quality on mere expectation alone.

for all she’s painted in strokes of effortlessly confident, enviable ‘cool girl’, un-wanting to try is one thing she isn’t.

she’s starkly aware of how critical the current moment in her life is. she’s watched squid game’s achievements almost religiously. there’s alerts set on her phone for any big news that comes out under squid game’s topic and she’s been playing the social media game so as not to waste the influx of millions of new followers to her instagram. if the spotlight from squid game alone weren’t enough, gashina has only made it that much brighter domestically.

it’s a new type of pressure she’s never really felt before from any of her individual acting endeavors or modeling, that it’s on her whether she flies or falls from here. there’s been meeting after meeting with management and a&r about what the next steps are and they’ve only grown in number since the mid-september drop of squid game. with her next drama postponed, it’s been script after script sent her way — more than ever before now that the chance of casting her means the hope of some of squid game’s attention rubbing off on her next project — and auditions that for the most part haven’t felt like the next right step. a&r makes a point of how global music can go. it’s easier to capitalize on the global music market and build her profile from there, they claim. gashina’s well-loved by global k-pop fans, so if they aim for a more general public with an english-language single, she has a lot of potential. in the meetings, she nods in silent agreement, but calculates in her head how to be seen as a multi-hyphenate instead of a one-hit wonder.

she’d once worried about being cornered into the label of only being an actor, but now there are forces in all directions saying which next step is the best, and none of the opinions seem to overlap well enough to blend them together into some masterful chess move of her own.

the clock is ticking on her chance and a decision has to be made before making one becomes pointless.

[frequencydave]

Belly (Hype, 1998)

Written and Directed by the legendary Music Video director Hype Williams, Belly feels like a music video come to life. Not always in a good way. Every single shot in the film is stylized in some way: chiaroscuro, unusual compositions, split screen, extreme low angles, symmetrical framing. There are no coverage shots. No basic 2 shots. This lends the film a breathtaking style, but one that becomes aestetically numbing by the end. When every single shot looks as cool as it possibly can, soon they all seem to look the same. What's more, the narrative is extremely by-the-numbers. Boyhood friends turned criminals; Buns, the bad boy played by DMX, and Sincere, the sensitive soul played by Nas. In Sincere's name we see another stylistic choice in Belly. The story is painted with such incredibly broad strokes that sometimes characters' names become placeholders. Later we meet a charismatic Muslim minister named Saviour. We watch Buns get in to deep while Sincere trys to go straight for his wife and child. I cannot stress enough how saccharinely this distinction is drawn. We cut from learning that Buns has an underage mistress to seeing Sincere holding his baby with his wife in a greeting card image. This isn't entirely a criticism. The narrative simplicity complements the visual complexity, but by the end of the film's brief hour and a half runtime, the blend loses some of the coherence it had in the first act, with Sincere just deciding to go to Africa (the country? I thought it was odd that they didn't even mention which country they wanted to emigrate to,) while in the film's most interesting subplot Buns gets recruited by a government agency (the FBI? probably) to infiltrate a Black Muslim group and kill its leader, the aforementioned Minister Saviour. This film was roundly criticized by many in the black community upon release for its perceived negative portrayal of Black men, but this subplot about the government hiring Buns to kill a leader that we are made to understand represents hope and change and support and growth for black men, it in fact reveals that the movie works incredibly hard to provide a powerful explanation for the environment that produces someone like Buns. And who in our society is resposible for things being that way. Unfortunately the preachy tone of the last act, while politically exciting and a little Oliver Stone-esque paranoid in its style, comes across as false in a way that a film like Goodfellas doesn't. While that film ends with Henry Hill working for the government, just like Buns, Henry Hill is a pathetic suburban loser at the end of the movie. Buns achieves a genuine redemption arc and Sincere makes it to Africa in a cool final stylistic touch. We hear his amazed VO while the crowds of Time's Square celebrate the dawning of the millenium. This sentimental ending is uplifting, but feels hollow after the first three act's almost overly gritty depiction of the New York underworld.

[mjulmjul]

hey! i am consistently in awe of your work, i genuinely adore it (I’d love to get prints of some of your pieces if that’s available anywhere 👀) but im writing to ask abt your technique and brushes! Im new to digital art, and i wanna create the sort of effect you make and i cannot for the life of me figure out how to do it! you have these strokes that look sort of like charcoal but also paint? also refracted light???? idk what program u use or anything and im just a noob still learning how to get the most out of the brushes that come w procreate, but even if you’re using a different program and stuff, I’d love to see if there’s anyway i can translate that effect somehow to the tools I’m using. It’s really cool stuff!! im sorry if you’ve already answered this somewhere 😅

hey! ok first off take anything i say with a grain of salt because 1. i'm self taught 2. there are many many ways to do art, there's no One Right Way. experiment and settle on what works best for you!

atm I basically only use procreate on ipad with an apple pencil.

I've compiled the brushes I use most into this post click here, I'd say download some sets and try them out! this seems to be a bit of an unpopular opinion because I regularly see advice to stick to the basic brushes however if you were making traditional art you wouldn't unnecessarily limit yourself to the cheapest brushes/paints either (assuming you could afford everything), so. go ham.

the main technique I use is a pretty common one where I use a big textured brush and then use a base color layer + clipping masks (you can google how to use these) or selection tool to get sharp edges. so I'll make a selection of the shape I want to paint and then paint within that selection. i often do this with light strokes and/or the brush on lower opacity so i'll keep texture. if you look at concept artists on instagram you'll see this technique used a lot too :) 'edge control' is a term to google to find more about hard/soft edges and how they'll improve your art!

for the light, even for digital art I would very very much recommend james gurney's book 'color and light' because it teaches you almost all you need to know about, well, color and light, and you can apply these principles to digital art too. it's well worth the price but if you can't afford it then there are perhaps some copies to be found online ;) for the actual method in procreate, I like to use layers on the add and screen blending modes, sparingly, and NOT with white highlights but with the actual color of the light e.g. yellow, blue-ish, etc. for stuff like wings, it's usually multiple layers stacked on top of each other!

(i am not organized)

as a final note i will add that i painted traditionally for years before starting digital art, so i do think that'll have influenced my approach in a couple ways because i basically took all that knowledge and methods into digital rather than starting from scratch.

[drawlfoy]

detention retention finale p.1

masterlist (read parts 1-2 here!) request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: no this series is from my original idea however i did take inspo from quite a few people (credited at the bottom of this)

summary: gryffindor y/n is put to the test when she tries to use her detentions with draco malfoy to get close enough for him to share his secret. unfortunately, things are never as simple as they seem. (set in 6th year)

warnings (plz pay attention to these this time): blood, violence, mild gore, mentions of wanting to throw up, you’re just kinda not having a great time during this chapter. also, kinda dark!harry trope here. it is a little ooc, i know, but it was what worked and so i ran with it. also, i play around with the timeline of events that occur in hbp so just expect that 

a/n: the long awaited p1 of the finale is here! the second half is almost entirely written save for a few scenes, and i expect to get that out in the next few days (so much less than a week). i really appreciate you all being patient--i wrote and rewrote the potion scene about 3-4 times because it just wasn’t the vibes that i wanted, but i’m semi happy with how it turned out and at this point i’m just gonna go crazy if i keep trying to restructure it so here we go. all the loose ends will b tied up in the last part and y/n is finally gonna catch a break ;) so as always lmk what you think!

word count: 8.7k

here’s a spotify playlist inspired by this fic!

tags: @gruffle1 @missmultifandommess @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop @naiomimoonshard @jejegu @ophelia-enthusiast @alwaysbeanunknownfan @nearly-memories @litty-dumb @callieclearwater @malfoy-wife15 @charlenasaxen @belladaises @fiantomartell @yiamalfoy @crystalox @dracoismybabey @dreamcxtcherr @decaffeinated-turtle @marrymetheonott @felicityofbakerstreet @daedreamss 

enjoy >:)

Snape’s stores were much more difficult to crack than she’d expected. She’d managed to steal one ingredient from there once, but back then all she had to do was disengage the multiple jinxes that guarded the door. Since, unfortunately, her slimy old Potions professor appeared to have felt a compulsion to fluff his nest and redecorate. A new painting was hung on the door--one of a large raven with beady, intelligent eyes that followed her as she walked past as inconspicuous as she could, no doubt preparing to fly off into the painting’s grey sky to alert his master. Her father had something similar to this in front of his Gringotts vault. She resolved to speak with him over the break to try and find a way in. 

Not like she’d had any chance to execute her plan, anyways. It had been two weeks since Y/N had so much as had a simple interaction with Draco. Every time she tried to talk to him, he turned his attention away from her, offering her a disinterested sniff in response or just outright pretending like he didn’t notice her. Pansy Parkinson seemed to take joy in this development, though she was hardly getting anything on her end save for a few dry looking conversations as Draco’s body angled away from her. 

Without the “distraction” of friendship and genuine human connection, Y/N had plenty of time to emotionally free-fall into an internal moral crisis. She supposed that Draco wasn’t expecting her to keep up her end of the deal now, just as her Gryffindor friends had given up on trying to make her useful. Physically, nothing was stopping her from walking right up to McGonagall during one of her detentions and telling her that Draco Malfoy was making an attempt on the headmaster’s life. But was it really worth it? Every time the thought crossed her mind, all she could think about was the way Draco looked when he talked about his mother, the way a shiny film glazed over his eyes and his eyebrows knit together. 

She’d made a promise. Too much was at stake. While she had failed her friends, she was at least not going to fail Draco...not when the rest of the world had betrayed him. 

Y/N was slowly sifting through thoughts like those when Katie Bell stepped foot into the Great Hall for the first time in a month. Her legs, slightly wobbly from being on bedrest for the better half of November, carried her down the aisle towards the trio of Y/N’s now ex-friends. Her soliloquy was interrupted by the familiar sound of Harry’s voice as he spoke, hushed and rather quickly, to Katie, his hands animated and his frame bent slightly lower so he could speak quietly. It didn’t take much imagination to discern what the topic of their discussion was as their eyes flickered over to the Slytherin table. She managed to hear a few snippets as the wind from the owls blew in and carried it towards her: 

“Malfoy--”

“Was it?”

“...remember?”

Katie, lips pressed into a thin line, shook her head. Harry bit his own lip and swung around to look at a blond figure further down the aisle. Draco. He was staring at the meeting, his body entirely frozen while he took it in. 

Oh, Draco.

Before either party could say anything, he was already turned around and speeding off outside of the hall. She swallowed; Harry and the rest of her Gryffindor peers were conversing and not casting a single look her way. Taking a deep breath, she got up from her seat, leaving her half eaten toast behind.

It didn’t take long to locate Draco--Myrtle’s bathroom was hardly a minute’s walk away from the Great Hall. He was in the same position she saw him there last, his head hanging over the sink basin while his body heaved.

“Draco,” she called out.

He snapped around, his eyes wild and his hair slightly wet at the tips. It occurred to her that he’d splashed his face with water. “Come around again for a formal Katie Bell confession?”

“No!” she exclaimed. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t get herself past the doorway. Not when his wand was raised at her like that. “I wouldn’t do that. I would never do that.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he snarled. “Do you really expect me to believe anything you say?”

“Please,” said Y/N. “Please let me explain.” Despite the sting of his words, she couldn’t help but feel some degree of relief when she realized that he was finally speaking to her again, finally acknowledging her again. 

He let out a huff of disbelief. “This isn’t about you. Don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter whether or not you explain. You lied to me. You put my family in danger, me in danger. And for what? A date with Potter?”

“What?” All the air left her lungs as she stared at him. “It was never like that!” 

“Save it.” His tone, a bitter blend of vileness and defeat, echoed off the stone of the bathroom floor. Y/N was overwhelmed with the urge to run up to him and just beg him to forgive her, but the fire in his eyes and the angry twist of his mouth told her that that wasn’t an option. Instead, she slowly crept towards him. His eyes blazed as she neared him holding her hands up. “Please, Draco. I’m begging you.” 

His composure slipped, his wand shaking slightly in the air while he caught his bottom lip on his teeth and stared at her with a look she couldn’t quite place. She was just about to ask him about it when a pair of footsteps stopped right outside the bathroom.

“I know what you did, Malfoy!” Harry appeared, brandishing his wand and pointing it at him with conviction. “You hexed her, didn’t you? Katie?”

Draco sucked in a wheezy breath, struggling to stand up entirely straight as he held his wand at the ready. 

“You’re not even gonna deny it?”

“Let me guess, Y/L/N couldn’t get a confession out of me so you’re here to pick up the slack?” Draco finally snarled. “How cute.” 

“Shut up!” roared Harry. She’d never seen him look so furious before. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do,” he said menacingly, the usual cool confidence she associated with him slowly reappearing in his demeanor as he twirled his wand around his fingers. Y/N finally let out the breath she was holding as Harry zeroed his focus on her. 

“And just what are you doing here?” he hissed. “Hermione was right, huh? You were with him the entire time. I can’t believe I expected anything different from you.”

Despite the fighting nature of the words coming from one of her best friends, she couldn’t help but glance at Draco as confusion briefly rippled through his features. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know that she was being shunned by her friends for not telling them anything.

“I was just checking on him!” she wailed.

Visibly unsatisfied with the answer, Harry just scoffed and aimed his wand at Draco. “You’re going to confess what you did or I’m going to make you regret it.”

Harry wasted no time with firing off the first spell--a weakly cast Stupefy that hardly missed her head as Draco’s Protego ricocheted it in her direction. She yelped as she dodged it, smacking into the side of the stall door and falling on the ground unceremoniously hard. Frantically, she dug through the pockets of her cloak to locate her wand, but she was too late. A flash of light was headed her way.

Instead of it smacking into her chest with the force of a curse, the green light spread around her, creating a shield-like sphere. She met Draco’s eye’s briefly in shock. 

He’d cast a protection spell on her. In the middle of a duel that she was hardly formally a part of, he cast a protection spell on her.

“Diffindo!” The puddles from the eternal broken faucet glowed red as Harry parried Draco’s attack. It again went flying in her direction, breaking through the shell of the Fion Duris charm. In a stroke of luck, she rolled out of the way. A light blue flash followed from Draco--a nonverbal.

Finally. Y/N managed to close her hands around her wand, mind racing with thoughts of who she’d disarm first. Her wand had just begun to point towards Harry as the aftershocks of a Levicorpus charm slammed her to the ground once again, her wand bouncing on the cobbled stone once before rolling under the stall door. Y/N swore. “Harry, stop it!”

Harry was clearly losing composure. Despite his magical talent, the speed at which he was rattling off curses compromised his control...and his aim. Draco sent a few Fion Duris and Protego Maxima charms her way, but it still didn’t help when Harry had completely lost it. 

Things turned for the worst when his Tergeo actually sliced Y/N--just barely, but enough to draw a significant amount of blood in her wand arm. Even if she wanted to try and find her wand behind the toilets, she wasn’t even sure if she had the strength to fire off anything.

Her cry of pain prompted Draco to immediately turn his attention from Harry, angling his body towards her instead, an indistinguishable expression etched into his face as he took in the bloodstained white sleeve of her arm. 

Under normal circumstances, Y/N would’ve swooned at the fact that he willingly forfeited the duel just to check on her. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and Harry’s rage-filled expression and clenched jaw reminded her of this as he reeled his arm back and shouted out, “SECTUMSEMPRA!”

She didn’t think about it. To her credit, there really was no time to think. The cracking crimson light flashing towards Draco’s distracted figure was enough for her to launch herself at him with the intent of knocking them both to the ground--but she was too late, far too late. Glowing red light encased her entire body for a few tense milliseconds before she crumpled to the ground.

The Sectumsempra curse felt like every single nerve ending in her chest was being massaged with a sharp knife. Hot, sticky blood filled her mouth as she blinked, glassy-eyed and dazed, up at the ceiling. Distantly she could hear familiar voices over her body. There was a wet warmth that bloomed on her chest. She managed to glance down at her midsection to see an array of deep, short slashes scattered across her torso. 

“Am I okay?” Her voice sounded tinny and funny to her. A pair of light gray eyes came into her vision as she managed another breath. “Draco? Is that you?”

If he leaned closer, she couldn’t tell. His face was beginning to swim in her vision, blending in with the glass ceiling. Finally, a familiar voice, albeit strained and cracking: “You’re okay.”

She felt something shaky brush past her cheek and the coolness of metal rings dance over her skin.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re going to be okay.” He sounded so far away for someone who was leaning right over her. She could see out of the corner of her eye a figure, cloaked in dark robes, raise its wand and recite an unfamiliar incantation. The metallic taste in her mouth began to subside as she felt the warm stickiness of her own blood seep back into her skin. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not entirely sure what she was apologizing for but doing it anyway. She thought she could feel the warmth of someone’s fingers softly cupping her face, but it could’ve been the heat of the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. In that moment, she was overwhelmed with the desire to just be held, to not be lonely. “Please don’t go,” she begged. 

The last thing she heard was a tense, “...Okay.” Then everything went black.

~

Y/N spent the majority of her break obsessing over the last memory she had of Draco--the startled way in which he gazed down at her as she bled out in Myrtle’s bathroom and felt his soft hands brush the hair away from her face. It was almost as if there had never been a problem between the two of them, like he’d forgiven her at that moment, but she knew that wasn’t true. Their last Potions class together had made that very clear. While he, thank Merlin, wasn’t letting Pansy hang off him like he did in 4th year, he still pointedly ignored her even though she had to nearly hobble into class. So why had he looked so worried if he didn’t care? And why, whilst surfing the high of a cocktail of pain potions, did she feel like she remembered someone with light blond hair at her side in the hospital wing?

“And you’re sure your bandages are comfortable?” Her mother interrupted her train of thought,, the plate of ethically-sourced willowbird lying completely untouched in front of her. 

“Yes, Mum,” groaned Y/N for what had to be the hundredth time of her Christmas break. “I told you. Professor Snape and Madame Pomfrey made me their top priority over the last week of school. They say that I won’t even need them come January.”

Mrs. Y/L/N hummed as she delicately picked through her salad. 

“I can’t believe that Potter boy’s nerve,” said Mr. Y/L/N from the foot of the table. “Hexing his own friend like that?”

“Dad, he didn’t even know what it did!”

“Exactly! What kind of person does that?”

“He’s just stressed,” Y/N mused, though she was personally a tad miffed at the fact that she’d been brutalized by someone she once considered her best friend. “And he was a little angry at me. He thinks I’m in cahoots with Death Eaters.”

“Ridiculous.” Mrs. Y/L/N vigorously shook her head. “Anyways, dear, no relation to the previous topic: I ran into Minerva at Wurgie’s the other day while I was shopping for gifts. She told me something very peculiar. Is it true you’ve become friends with the Malfoy boy?”

Y/N paled. Dealing with the backlash of Hermione, Harry, and Ron had been bad enough, but her own parents? Over the winter holidays? “Draco?” 

“Yes, unless the Malfoys have another son I’m not aware of.”

“Well…” Y/N searched her mother’s face for any sign of animosity but found nothing but genuine curiosity. “Yes. We both had det--I mean, we were partnered for a class project together in Potions. He seems to have grown up a little.”

Oblivious to the slip up, her mother nodded. “Interesting. I was actually quite close with Narcissa myself back in the day. The Malfoys certainly don’t have a great track record of picking the right side, but we were two quaffles in a case throughout our schooling.”

“You knew Mrs. Malfoy?” asked Y/N, her eyes wide. “I had no idea!”

“Of course, we disagreed on the pureblood values and traditions that should be followed with children,” continued Mrs. Y/L/N, “But despite that, she was always kind. I hope she’s faring well.”

Y/N gulped as an idea slowly began to form in her mind. “Er, Mum, actually...Draco told me some things about...well, his mother.”

Both of her parents perked up. 

“So you know how you guys always talk about how the Order owes you a favor for the time you went undercover in the first Wizarding War?” asked Y/N. They both nodded. “Do you think...we could cash that in right about now?”

~

A month later, Y/N stood in front of the painting that hung on Snape’s door, frowning at the raven that stared right back at her, daring her to try and open the door. In all the excitement of Christmas and explaining to her relatives that she’d nearly been murdered by her ex-best friend in a haunted bathroom, she had completely forgotten to ask her father how to distract a charmed guardian painting, and it’d hardly be beneficial to owl him during a busy work month. It was still completely up to her.

The dungeons sent a certain chill through her bones as she ran through possible plans, prompting her to tuck her hands into her pockets and shiver so hard that she didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. 

“What are you doing down here?” came the snotty, posh voice that she knew belonged to Pansy Parkinson.

“Parkinson,” Y/N greeted, snapping her head up to see that she didn’t come alone. Draco strode next to her, though he wouldn’t look at her directly. “Come for a rematch?”

Parkinson pulled out her wand and scoffed. “Wasn’t planning on it, but if you’re offering…”

“Pansy!” Draco hissed, yanking her away and forward. “We have places to be. Don’t waste your time.”

“But--”

“She almost got killed by Potter, like, yesterday,” he continued in a hushed voice. “Do you really want to make that worse?”

Parkinson sent her one last sour look before she was dragged off by Draco (who still refused to make eye contact with her). Y/N slumped against the wall, wincing as one of her injured spots bumped against a protruding stone. Why was he ignoring her? He’d protected her during the duel. He was even the one who stood over her as she lay crumpled on the floor. 

A lump began growing in her throat again as she realized just how lonely she was. With her friends gone, all she had now was...her owl, Edison? Yes, that was it. Edison and Hannah Abbott, who clearly was just letting her sit next to her for meals out of pity. Y/N wished that she had the strength to sit alone and just say fuck it so she wouldn’t have to be the kickstart to a bleeding-heart Hufflepuff’s philanthropy career, but she was already beat down enough as she was. Sitting alone would just seal the deal in her new life as a social reject who dreaded classes where the professors let you choose partners. It was like she was a shy first year again, too nervous to talk to anyone and instead sitting alone at the breakfast table, praying that she’d make friends with someone, anyone, even though she was too afraid to figure out how.

And then came Ron, the sweet ginger boy who she’d met once when she went to a wizarding play with her dad. He’d plopped into the space next to her one day, eyeing the untouched plate of toast in front of her.

“You gonna eat that?” he’d asked. Y/N had just stared, mouth agape that someone was actually talking to her. “Hey, you’re the Y/L/N girl, right? My dad works with yours.”

Without waiting for her reply, he’d just popped the piece of toast in his mouth and continued talking at her as if they were old friends. Before she knew it, she was getting swept up into the social swirl of Harry Potter and his friends, helping them as they made their way through Hogwarts and took on the challenges brought upon them by Voldemort and his cronies. For once in her life, Y/N felt like she actually belonged. 

And she’d thrown all of that away. 

“Y/N?” 

An unfamiliar, dreamy voice sounded from a little further down the dark hall, snapping Y/N out of it. She hadn’t even noticed, but she’d slid down to the ground and tucked herself into a ball. When she touched her face, she felt wetness on her cheeks. The raven in the painting made some kind of weird cackling sound.

“Who’s there?”

A girl in Ravenclaw robes, strange eyeglasses, and shockingly white-blond hair that rivaled Draco’s stepped into sight. Luna Lovegood. She’d seen her a few times--mostly during the Dumbledore’s Army meetings they’d both attended last year--but had never had a private, one-on-one conversation with her beyond the time that Y/N threw a protection charm to protect her from Bellatrix’s Avada Kedavra at the Ministry and she’d thanked her. 

“I thought I heard you talking to someone,” said Luna as she settled in next to her, crossing her legs. “Isn’t Snape’s raven lovely?”

“I suppose so,” mused Y/N. 

“His name is Marvin,” continued Luna, “and he always listens.”

“Huh?” Y/N balked, giving Luna a funny look. No wonder they call her Loony Lovegood she thought. “It--he can...talk?”

“Oh, yes,” said Luna, apparently not noticing her confusion. “Marvin is quite the conversationalist, to be honest. Snape is a very fortunate wizard to have him in his possession.”

As if to accent her point, Marvin crowed a few times.

“I was actually coming here to have a chat with him about you,” said Luna. “I think it’s terribly unfair how your friends are treating you. I thought that Marvin might know what to do. He always seems to.”

“Luna,” Y/N murmured, not expecting the way that her eyes began to swim with tears. “You...you really think so? I’ve been feeling so awful about what I’ve done…”

If she seemed taken aback by Y/N’s emotional outburst, she didn’t show it in the slightest. “Y/N, you just care about other people. And you know what it’s like to be lonely, so I understand why you didn’t want to leave someone alone when they felt that way, even if it was Malfoy.”

Y/N bit her lip to keep the tears from spilling over.

“My mother had this saying about kindness,” said Luna softly. “She told me that it’s easy to be kind to people you already love. But you can really tell how caring someone is by how they treat those who are different.”

Marvin made a sound that was eerily similar to a jackhammer in the background.

“Thank you,” managed Y/N, letting the girl pull her into a hug. “I...I can’t say that enough. I really needed to hear that.”

“I know,” Luna replied wistfully. “I’m sure your friends will come around, too.”

“I sure hope so.” She swallowed, giving her a small smile as Luna squeezed her hand. 

“Marvin is such a funny bird.” Luna shifted onto her feet, creeping towards the painting. “He loves shiny things. Now that I know the spell that weakens the barrier between the natural and painted world, I like to give him things sometimes. If he likes it enough, he’ll fly off to his flock to gloat to his murder for the rest of the day. He’s so proud.”

Something clicked in Y/N’s head. Was this her answer as to how to distract Marvin?

“It’s Transcendere, if you were wondering,” continued Luna, making to walk away. “Just in case you wanted to know. I can’t imagine why you’d need to, though. Anyways, I’m off to meet with Snape over a few questions on the exam. I don’t imagine he’ll be around here for the next hour!”

Before she could even thank her, Luna was already gone and down the hall. Y/N felt her pockets frantically, trying to find one thing that might appeal to the raven. He looked at her expectantly.

Her only piece of jewelry was her family ring, and apart from her obvious personal ties to the object, something told her that giving Snape’s guard bird a concrete identifier as to who broke into his stores would not be wise. So that left….She reached into her pocket, taking out the glittery quill that Draco had gifted her last fall. Giving it one last look and closing her fist around the feather one last time, she thought about how much she wished to go back to the simpler time.

Marvin made a little chirp, snapping her out of her reverie. 

“Transcendere.”

The quill poked through the canvas and into the scene, slowly changing so it fit the art style that the painter used to bring the raven to life. He wasted no time snatching it out of her grip, giving an appreciative gargle before he took off, flying away into the grey sky.

She was in. A quick Alohomora charm opened the door, and Y/N made quick work of deactivating the jinxes that guarded the entrance and was happy to see that he hadn’t changed anything else with his security measures. Finding the potion was easy, and before she knew it, she had reset all the security charms, shut the door, and made her way all the way up to the Gryffindor tower with the vial tucked firmly in her pocket. 

~

Getting Draco alone was the hardest part of her plan. Every time she saw him, he was either surrounded by a gaggle of Slytherins or darting off down side corridors that she could never quite locate. Carrying around the vial of stolen potion was getting increasingly stressful, too, especially now that their DADA class with Snape was coming up. He had to have noticed that his stores were broken into at that point, but given that he hadn’t stopped a meal yet to berate the student body on the importance of integrity and “keeping one’s grabby hands to themselves”, Y/N assumed she was somewhat in the clear. On the bright side, Y/N was enjoying mealtime much more now that she was eating with Luna. Her new friend even convinced her to go to the library with her one night to study--something that Y/N was not too familiar with. 

They’d left right before the library closed, going their separate ways. Something crossed Y/N’s mind as she realized what day it was--Saturday. Draco always worked on the cabinet on Saturdays, and of course he wasn’t going to bring his friends along with him. 

Quietly, she sank down next to the stone wall at the entrance, waiting for Draco to exit. She waited, and waited, and waited. Y/N was just beginning to wonder if Draco had switched his schedule around when the telltale sound of stone bricks scraping against each other snapped her to attention.

Draco looked more frazzled than usual as he stepped out of the newly-constructed entrance, his hands shakily running through his hair and his tie out of place. Y/N felt a sudden pang of guilt at the thought that she was going to add even more stress to his night.

“Draco,” she said, standing up and teetering at the sudden motion.

He started at the sight of her before setting his jaw and turning to continue a walk down in the opposite direction. 

“Please,” breathed Y/N, jumping forward to latch onto his wrist. “I need to talk to you.”

He immediately snatched his hand away, his scowl deeping in his features. “I don’t have time for this,” he said, though sheer exhaustion seemed to replace the usual venom in his voice. “If you’re here to apologize, I don’t want to hear it.”

“But--”

“I don’t have time,” he repeated once again, desperation seeping into the edges of his tone. “I don’t have the time to figure out whether or not I can trust you again.”

“Then let me make it easier.” Y/N reached into her pocket, producing the potion vial that had miraculously not been shattered after she’d carried it for so long. Draco arched an eyebrow. “Run a diagnostic spell on it. I want you to know that I’m being completely honest.”

“Y/L/N, I told you, I don’t want--”

“Please, Draco,” she pleaded, holding it out to him. “Just do it for me. If you do it, we’ll be even for what happened in Myrtle’s bathroom. I’ll leave you alone if you tell me to.”

He sucked in a breath, begrudgingly casting the spell. The vial glowed and cast a bright emerald light on his surprised features. “How did you get that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” rushed Y/N. “Just ask me anything. I’ll take it if you want.”

He looked like he was about to leave her in the corridor alone, so she did the only thing she could think of--uncorking the vial and downing it all in one go. It went down like water, hardly feeling like anything. She was surprised. Wasn’t it supposed to feel more compelling?

“Y/N, you are such an idiot sometimes,” he growled, but he turned back to her anyway. “Okay. Fine. Did Granger put you up to talking to me?”

“No. Harry did,” answered Y/N, the words coming spilling out of her mouth without her even thinking. Draco’s briefly softened expression immediately hardened. 

“I suppose that answers it then,” he snapped. “I’m not sure what that was supposed to accomplish.”

“Ask me something else!” cried Y/N. “Something you don’t already know the answer to.”

His silence was evidence enough that she was maybe, potentially, possibly getting to him. Something twanged in the pits of her stomach, reminding her of the time that she’d eaten bad fish in Greece and was sick for days, but she cast the thought aside for just a moment as he finally responded.

“This is ridiculous,” he clipped. She waited, turning the empty vial over in her hands. Finally, after a few agonizing moments of silence, his voice sounded again. “Why are your friends mad at you?”

Just as she was about to tell him, the tell-tale sound of footsteps and a cat’s meow echoed down the corridor. Filch. Panic-stricked, Y/N launched herself in the direction of the Room before a hand closed over her forearm and pulled her back.

“That’ll take too long,” Draco whispered, so close to her that she could feel his breath on her neck and had to try not to shudder. Without waiting for her response, he yanked her into the broom closet across the corridor and softly shut the door. 

It became fairly apparent that the broom closet was perhaps not the best hiding space for two adults, a fact that Y/N quickly noticed as she realized that the only place she could comfortably place her hands was lightly on top of Draco’s chest. His own hands pressed into the wall on either side of her head as he used it to push himself as far away from her as possible. When her eyes flickered up, she could see in the dim light that he’d shut his eyes. She couldn’t blame him--when she ran the plan through in her head, it rarely ever included getting stuck in a tiny broom closet together, and it never crossed her mind that it could happen before he’d even forgiven her. 

“I heard something too, my pretty.” Filch’s voice floated down the corridor as he neared them. She sucked in her breath, intent to hold it. She wished that she could cast a Silencio on the broom closet, but there was no way to be able to do that in such close range. Plus, she was quite preoccupied with the churning in her stomach that was getting significantly worse. 

Filch’s steps were getting louder as he called out, “Anyone there?”

“Yes,” Y/N let as a tortured, strangled whine. Realization flickered across Draco’s face as his hand shot out to clamp over her lips. She tried not to focus on how warm and nice his skin felt touching her and instead on the fact that Filch was still walking.

The footsteps finally paused outside of the broom closet. Y/N could feel Draco’s heart racing under her palm. She vaguely registered that her hands had long since curled into fists, clinging onto his shirt. 

“Anyone in here?”

“Mmph,” responded Y/N, hardly able to enunciate anything over the death grip Draco had on her face. This only made the lurching in her middle worse, so bad that she felt like she had bile rising in her throat.

“My lovely? What’s that?” A cat’s meow rang out from across the corridor. “Over by the Charms classroom?” Another meow. The sound of quick shuffling would’ve come to Y/N as a relief if she didn’t feel like she was about to puke the entire contents of her stomach up on Draco Malfoy’s hand.

“Thank Merlin.” Draco exhaled. Y/N could feel his shoulders relax under the grip she had on his shirt and took note of the fact that he smelled very strongly of that stupid rich scent in her Amortentia, something that was somewhat difficult when the cramping in her stomach had gotten so bad that she could hardly stand up straight.

Then he let his hand drop.

“They’re mad at me because I didn’t tell them about you.” The words came spilling out so fast and without prompt that Y/N felt like she was out of body, watching someone else speak for her. “I couldn’t ever bring myself to hurt you like that because even though you’ve been mean to me and my friends and I technically have no reason to want to protect you, I still do and it’s just so complicated because I thought I was just being a good person or whatever but honestly now that I think about it f it came down to it I would choose you over anyone else here and that’s scary and ohmygodIcan’tstop--” Y/N managed to suck in a small breath as the magic in her system propelled her forward, barely catching the widened eyes of Draco, “--It’s been so hard being away from you and I understand why you’re angry at me and I’m such a hypocrite for being upset that you were a Death Eater when I didn’t tell you why I started talking to you in the first place but I couldn’t just confess to you when I finally had a reason to spend time with you and I didn’t want to fuck it all up but I did and Draco please help I can’t stop I want to so badly you were never supposed to know all of this I thought that it would just make me tell the truth not everything--”

“I know,” His hand came up one more time, covering her mouth and muffling her voice. Without being able to move her lips, the words died down once again while the waves of nausea and agony hit in their place. Draco’s face had once again adopted that unreadable, somewhat sad expression as he moved his free hand so he could thumb away the tears that were collecting on her cheeks. Her fingers twisted into the soft fabric of his button down as she choked back a sob against his hand. “I know. That was really fucking stupid, even for you. You do know you’re not supposed to take more than an ounce of Veritaserum, right? This is going to take forever to get through your system. You just have to let it run its course. I’m sorry.” The potion was closing in around her throat as she blinked up at him through tear-ridden lashes. “I hear Filch escorting a student to McGonagall. This is our chance to get out.”

Y/N nodded as best as she could without loosening his hold on her, and they were creeping out of the broom closet and slowly making their way down the hall as silently as possible. He was to her right, his left arm slung around her shoulder so he could keep her quiet without sacrificing too much of his balance. He pulled her away from the direction of the Gryffindor dorms.

“Not happening,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing past her ear. He was so close. She shivered. “Filch went that way. Plus, I need to keep an eye on you until you’re back to normal.”

She nodded again. By some miracle, they made it to the Slytherin dorms without much of a hiccup beyond the awkward shuffle down the stairs. “Purity,” muttered Draco, prompting the cobblestones to rearrange themselves into a door. “Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Y/N scoffed behind his hand. The Slytherin common room was, thankfully, entirely empty, but very eerie and cold. She tried to open her mouth to tell him that he’d obviously drawn the short straw when it came to lodging, but when she felt his palm tighten over her lips, she was reminded that that wasn’t an option. 

“Here we are,” murmured Draco, his voice still low and careful as he led her to the end of the hall of the boys’ dormitories. Something other than the effects of the Veritaserum she consumed set off the butterflies inside of her once again when she thought about the fact that she was really going to see Draco’s dorm room. His door, black and heavy, was completely unblemished apart from the silver numbers of his room. 

Before she could think any further, he turned the knob and spun her so he was looking right down at her. “The less you talk, the longer it’s going to take for you to be normal again. Try not to be too loud, though. I wanted to sleep tonight.” With that, he released her once again.

“You have really nice hands,” she blurted out, immediately clapping her own palm over her mouth again.

“Oh.” An uncharacteristic blush rose in his cheeks. 

Squeezing her eyes shut and steeling herself for whatever was about to come out of her mouth next, she let her hand fall. “I--I actually think I can control some of what I say now.” She took one more breath in to check. “Yeah. Thank god. It’s not just...coming out of me anymore.”

“I’m not too surprised,” he said. “You were on quite a roll back there in the broom closet.”

“So, um…” She shuffled her feet. “Are we good now, do you think?”

Draco sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone willingly down two state terrorist interrogation sessions worth of Veritaserum just to apologize to me. So, yeah, I guess. I think you should probably try and get some sleep. Chances are it’ll wear off some by tomorrow morning.” With that, he rested his hands on her shoulders and steered her towards his bed.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, sinking down onto his black silk bedding and meeting his eyes.

He shrugged. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything before you sleep?”

“I’d really like it if you held me until I fell asleep,” Y/N said so quickly that she didn’t even have a chance to look away from him. He blanched, his eyebrows raising but his lip quirking up. 

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought you were going to ask for water or something.”

“Draco, please don’t be mean,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to say it. It just came out. I would like some water, though.”

“Your wish is my command,” he drawled, disappearing into his bathroom before coming out with an empty glass that he cast a quick Aquamenti into. “Go slow. I really don’t want you coughing up water on my sheets.”

“Me neither,” she said between sips. “Merlin knows I’ve embarrassed myself enough already.”

When she finished, she handed it out to him. “Thank you. I really appreciate you doing this. I mean it.”

He snorted on his way to put the glass away. “Of course you do. That’s the beauty of Veritaserum.”

“You’re actually funny sometimes, you know,” she said. 

Draco smirked at her again. “Veritaserum. You’re doing wonders for my ego tonight.”

While he was doing whatever he was before getting into bed, Y/N went ahead and slipped under the sheets, rolling over onto her back so she was closest to the wall. She felt the bed slightly dip to her left and a throat clear.

“What is it now?” muttered Y/N. 

“You know, it’s really hard for me to do what you asked when you’re on your back like that,” he said.

“What?”

“Like, do you want me to be on top of you or something?”

“What are you even talking about?”

Draco huffed and reached his hands out to grab her shoulders once again, turning her to face him. Before she could register what was happening, she felt his own hands come around under her arms to rest on her back. Her head lay on the swath of skin between his shoulder and his collarbone, and she could feel the quickening of his pulse. “There. Honestly.”

“This is really nice,” Y/N blurted out, physically cringing when she realized that in her position she couldn’t easily cover her mouth. 

“Yeah?” She could feel the laugh rattle through his diaphragm.

“Yes.” Y/N huffed. “Stop asking me questions. This isn’t very kind of you.”

He let out another light laugh, his fingers moving to thread through her hair. “Is this okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve wanted--” Y/N buried her face into his shoulder, silencing the words that were about to come out of her mouth. “Oh, my god,” she said after she resurfaced. “I think I want to take a vow of silence after this is over.”

Y/N could hear his smile as he offered her a, “What a load of good that thought is doing you now.”

“Please, just knock me unconscious until it all goes away,” she groaned. 

“Stop demeaning my work,” he said, mock offense creeping into his tone as he continued to card his fingers through her hair in soothing motions. “What do you think I’m trying to do? If you want me to give you blunt force head trauma, then just say so. Sheesh.”

She sighed dramatically. “At this point, maybe.”

“Seriously, though, are you feeling okay? That was a lot of Veritaserum,” he murmured. 

“I’m just feeling mortified right now,” she answered. 

“You still need to tell me where you got it.”

“Oh. I stole it. From Snape.”

All at once, Draco dropped his hands and pulled slightly away so he could gape down at her. “You did what now?”

“Yeah,” she said, confusion creeping into her tone. “It really wasn’t that hard, you know. I’ve done it before.”

“When?”

She felt another lurching sensation. All of the questioning was starting to make her stomach turn again. “I was a second-year. Harry had to brew Polyjuice Potion and he needed an ingredient we couldn’t find anywhere else.”

Draco let out a low whistle. “At twelve?”

“Eleven. My birthday hadn’t come around yet.” 

“That’s…” He’d shifted so she wasn’t pressed up to him, catching his lip between his teeth as he thought. Y/N hadn’t made much notice of this development as the growing pain in her midsection grew. “That’s quite a lot for a kid.” The way his hair glowed in the soft moonlight made her heart twinge. It looked so soft. Y/N noticed that she’d been staring at him for far too long without saying something when he blinked, planning on opening her mouth to apologize or crack a joke when instead:

“I have the biggest crush on you.” The words left her lips without any prior consent, the consonants and vowels forming before she could even think.

He was completely frozen in place, his expression entirely unreadable.

 “Oh, god, and now I’ve ruined it all because I know you said that I didn’t have a chance that one time in detention and you don’t see me like that and I’m pretty sure you’re with Pansy and even if you weren’t I’m not enough for you and I wish I hadn’t taken this stupid potion but I know that I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant that you would trust me--”

Her words stopped abruptly as Draco silenced her--not with his hand, but by placing his lips on hers. The kiss was brief and shy, more of a question in nature than a statement. Her fingers curled around the collar of his shirt as he pulled away, a rather frazzled and deer-in-the-headlights look etched into his features. 

She was speechless. Absolutely, completely, irrevocably speechless. Despite the insistent gnawing of the Veritaserum at the lining of her stomach, she could only manage to blink owlishly up at him, mouth agape.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low. 

“Ehm…” Her lips refused to move. Draco frowned, dropping his hands from her sides and sitting up straighter. Something impartial washed over his features, turning his expression from hurt to uninterested, like he’d woken up from a pleasant nap and was snapped back to reality. His legs pulled away so no part of her body was touching him.

“I--er, didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “I just wanted to make you quiet again, y’know, before you said anything else you regretted. And I thought that...kissing you would shock your system enough to make you stop talking.”

Her cheeks turned a violent red as she realized the depth of his statement. “So you...don’t see me like that?” 

“No.” He ran his fingers through his hair once, took in a deep breath, and dropped his gaze to the comforter. “You should go to sleep. Hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”

At the very least the potion was beginning to settle in her stomach as Draco’s breathing turned slow over the next hour or so. She didn’t know all too much about the mechanics of Veritaserum, but at this point, she had almost nothing left to confess anyways. 

Y/N tore her eyes away from his sleeping form, turning around to face the wall. His bed was soft. And it smelled like him, like the perfect blend of black tea and sage and snobbery that was in her Amortentia. She squeezed her eyes shut and wished to be anywhere but there. When he kissed her, it felt like he wanted her. Yes, of course he was timid, but she’d thought he was just nervous. But what was there for him to be nervous about? She’d already confessed under literal truth serum. He knew how she felt, and he didn’t even say sorry for kissing her and telling her he didn’t mean it like that. He still didn’t want her. Of course he didn’t when Pansy Parkinson in all her obnoxious Slytherin perfection was right fucking there. 

She was just beginning to feel sleep tug on the strings of her consciousness as she felt her hair get tucked behind her ear by a warm hand coming around from behind. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that. It’s better this way, you’ll see. It wouldn’t be fair if I...if it was different.” Despite his words, he let his fingers brush over his jaw as he moved closer, his shoulder lightly pressing into her back.

At that moment, there were so many things that Y/N wanted to say, ranging from “I am never going to live this moment down because I’m positively lovesick over you” to “I am going to beat you up for kissing me and then telling me it didn’t mean anything after I confessed.” Two schools of thought, neither of them perfectly encapsulating the true essence of her feelings. Her most traitorous thoughts told her to stay still and enjoy the final moments of affection she’d get from Draco, but she’d given into impulse a little too much that night. 

He must’ve noticed that her breathing had changed because he suddenly shifted his weight onto his free arm, keeping his hand poised by her neck. 

“Please stop touching me.” The words that came out of her mouth sounded much more pathetic than they did in her head, a voice crack finding its way into the final syllables. He jolted away.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought you liked it when I touched you.”

“Yeah, before you told me you didn’t feel the same way,” she mumbled. “I really would appreciate it if you didn’t make me rehash that again. Today has been humiliating enough. I’m not looking to set a record or something here.”

She’d thought that her quip was pretty good, but Draco remained completely humorless. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me. It was stupid of me to act on impulse like that. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Never meant to--” She stopped in her tracks, instead letting out a sharp huff. “Nevermind. I don’t want a fight right now. I just want to sleep.”

Much to Y/N’s horror, her throat began to tighten up again with the tell-tale coming of tears. The next breath she exhaled was embarrassingly shaky and loud, and the movement that it sparked in Draco was even more mortifying. He made a small sound of sympathy. “C’mere, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I know that must’ve hurt you.”

Undecided between feeling pissed and just wanting to forgive him, she slowly sat up and faced him. His arms were out in a motion of invitation, an unreadable expression in his eyes. 

“You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.” The Veritaserum in her system didn’t care much about her emotional turmoil, much to her horror. Y/N began to turn away, a watery scowl fixed firmly on her face, but Draco’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. 

“If I...wanted to be with you,” he began, his tone careful and clipped, “It would never work. Okay? Trust me when I say it has nothing to do with you. You did nothing wrong.”

“I kind of did.”

“Yeah, well, we both did. But I don’t want you to think that I, er, never thought about it.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t quite sure what the underlying meaning of that was. 

“So... “ He motioned again with open arms. “Do you...want to? I’ll play with your hair again until you fall asleep.”

Y/N stared at him, completely astonished. “Why? If you don’t see me like that, then why?”

“I’m not going to sleep tonight anyways,” he said softly. “And I want to help you feel better.”

She opened her mouth with the hopes of a biting retort coming out, but instead she was met with silence. Against her better judgement, she set her clenched her jaw and gave in. 

His arms were wrapped around her in an instant as she tentatively settled back into his chest, her hands lightly rested on his shoulders. Despite the humiliating previous events, it didn’t feel awkward, especially when Draco’s long fingers slowly threaded through her locks and brushed past her neck. A small, forbidden sigh of contentment left her lips when he let his touch linger over the back of her neck. His deep, slow breathing and the steady beat of his heart began to lull her to sleep. 

The next morning, she was able to lie convincingly enough to Draco, telling him her name wasn’t Y/N Y/L/N and that she was 80 years old. Confident that she wasn’t about to spill all of his secrets to the student body, he told her she was free to go. 

“Draco?” she asked poised by his door.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I’ll see you much after this? You know, now that we aren’t Potions partners and don’t have detention together anymore?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe when this is all over, I’ll see you around at pureblood functions or whatever.”

“Yeah.” Y/N tried not to think about the implications of pureblood functions still existing in the future after this. What kind of world did Draco think this would turn into? “But this is probably it, right? The last time I’ll see you like this?”

She didn’t even need to see his nod. She knew. That’s why he offered to play with her hair despite not even liking her--it was his way of apologizing for roping her into this, for tricking her, for shutting her out, for the Sectumsempra curse...for everything. His way of apologizing before they parted ways. 

final a/n: ty for reading! first off, congrats to the anons that guessed veritaserum. that shit took me forever to write bc i had such high expectations but it turned out to be quite the challenging scene since i still had to juggle draco’s conflicting emotions/distrust and the fact that i really wanted him to make her feel better fjdkas; i thought i’d mention someone who helped me write this (even tho i don’t think they realized how much they helped lmao)L i’d like to thank my 🌟 anon for giving me some inspiration. i was struggling with the first half of this story in terms of pacing for quite some time but found some help in an ask they sent me mentioning how they related to y/n feeling lonely/would like to see luna and neville mentioned. unfortunately, i haven’t quite been able to fit neville in yet (and i’m not sure if i can without it seeming just like a random extra bit of story that isn’t helpful to the plot), but hearing some affirmation that y/n’s loneliness was something that actually resonated w them really helped. it made me realize that the isolation from her friends/draco didn’t have to just be a logical turn of events for the plot to proceed in a sensical way and instead could be used to explore y/n’s character. i hope you all enjoyed! i promise the stuff w her dad and the order will be cleared up next chapter

[shreddedparchment]

A World of Our Own Pt.05

It’s Only a Spark

09/10/2020

Pairing: Bucky x Reader         Word Count: 5,114

Warnings: nudity, slight angst, pining, fluff

A/N: We’re back y’all! Awooo is back on. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to this story but it won’t be a super long one. We’re talking less than ten chapters. I really want to start working on my original fiction because I want to publish, probably self-publish on Amazon or something. Fanfiction is fun but I can’t really sell it since it’s not really mine and I really want writing to be my future. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this next chapter! It’s been a long time coming. xoxo If you reblog thanks for helping me spread my work!

Please DO NOT REPOST my stories. Reblogs are welcome!

Taglist is closed!

Early morning beach walks, heat-soaked sand warming the bottom of your feet as it shifts and hisses with each step you take along the shoreline, is one thing that you can honestly admit to loving.

Being stranded on an uncharted island is not exactly great. Apart from the lack of proper vitamins—though you and Bucky had been making it work and with the knowledge of boar now, there’s your protein—no ice cubes, and no air conditioning, there are some things that you enjoy here.

These walks are one.

You enjoyed last night.

It’s been two weeks since Ryan came to live with you and Bucky, and every night is spent waiting for Bucky to sneak into the fuselage to come and hold you while you sleep.

Well, last night had been a little different. You’d fallen asleep with his head buried against your neck, your arms around his impossibly wide shoulders. Last night he’d let you see more of that vulnerability in him. The inescapable truth that even though he’s making all this work for the two of you—now three—he wants off this island too.

As you come to a stop, you take in the sky. Along the horizon painted around the bearably bright white-orange orb that is the sun, is a glowing and stunning fire red that fades out into a burnt orange, a splash of burgundy and gray before it changes into the deep purple night sky.

It’s so beautiful. This sunrise, bringing with it a new day of promise. A new day of secret looks and lingering touches.

Your mind is flooded with them. Each one more precious than the last.

Bucky hands you your food pack and he holds his hand over yours, fingers overlapping, for two seconds too long. At lunch he sits close. Knees touching before he leans back on his hands and one is so conveniently placed behind you so that it’s almost like he’s got his arm around you.

So many tiny hints that you’ve carefully calculated and added together and realize that Bucky must feel like you do. There’s no other explanation for it.

Maybe, if he were just as touchy feely with Ryan then you might consider it a possibility that he’s just that outgoing. That affectionate. But he only does this with you. He comes to your bed at night—thank goodness.

Last night it had been very clear that he wanted you to hug him, face buried in your neck or pressed tentatively against your chest until he relaxes enough that you can ask him how he’s feeling.

You chew on your scratchy chapped lip, watching as the water changes from dark turquoise to crystal green.

What will Bucky think when he wakes up and you aren’t beside him?

Usually it’s the other way around. Bucky is always gone when you wake up. Last night you’d been woken up by painful memories turned dreams. A life previously lived before the world had fallen apart.

Somehow, you find yourself being grateful for it. All of it. Because it somehow brought you here. To Bucky.

But you’d needed air and that’s why you’re on this beach, earlier than you normally are.

You can’t be imagining things, right? Bucky seems like he likes you too. It’s a little unfair to him if you’re honest. Who else can he like here? Ryan?

Nothing you’ve seen has indicated that he’s gay. If he’s bi, then maybe Ryan but Bucky seems to bristle every time Ryan comes near the two of you when that special tension begins to build.

Are you reading into things too deeply?

Frustrated you slide your hand up into your hair, yanking on it in annoyance as you quickly sweep through it and begin to strip.

Just a quick swim.

 Bucky stirs, reaching for you, knowing he’ll have to hurry out of here in a minute to avoid the questions that Ryan will no doubt ask if he spots him coming out of the fuselage.

Several times, Bucky has nearly told him that he likes you. That you’re his. But he can’t. He hasn’t even told you that he likes you. What if he tells Ryan all of that and then you don’t feel the same?

Bucky thinks…he hopes you feel the same. It seems as if you do.

But in the busy hours of the day when he’s shaping clay and cooking bricks for the hut and you’re weaving the thatch for the roof, he looks up to find you smiling, laughing, or happily chatting with Ryan.

The two of you have hit it off so well and he cannot deny the chemistry that the two of you share. There’s a sparkle in both your eyes when he finds you talking. A spark. An option.

You’re the one that gets to make the choice here. You’re the one that has the right to tell either of them, or both of them, no.

So as Bucky reaches out for you, craving the soft caress of your body and hands as they stroke his hair sleepily, his heart gives a fearful lurch when his hands make no purchase in their search.

He sits up, a panic setting in as he looks around frantically.

Calm down, Bucky. She’s probably just outside.

Only you aren’t. As he emerges, he observes the long since dead cinders of the campfire. His eyes scan the area and he spots Ryan’s blanket rolled up and propped against the driftwood trunk he'd snuggled up to last night.

Where the fuck-? Bucky’s mind reels again. Calm down, Bucky. She’s probably just down by the beach.

Only you aren’t!

Where the hell is she?!

Bucky moves along the length of the spot he'd picked for the hut. Just at the edge of the dense jungle, sturdier ground to give the hut a fighting chance against any storms that may come around.

The sand is undisturbed. His empty clay trough has no water. The palm fronds you’d been tearing fibers from to weave the thatch roofing sits untouched.

There’s also no Ryan.

Suddenly he pick it up. His ears prickle at the sound of your laugh.

He launches himself to the left, ears straining to get it all more clearly.

Now he hears a more masculine tenor that mixes and blends with your own sweet sound.

His heart gives a wild clench as he takes several steps in your direction but stops and waits, eyes trained on the curve all the way down the southern shore.

It takes a few moments because you’re still far away. You’re both laughing, saying something he can’t make out then laughing again.

Bucky clenches his fists, metal screeching in protest.

They’re just walking. Keep it together.

He knows that he should keep his cool. You’d just spent all night sleeping in his arms. You’ve spent the past few months with him, depending on him. You’d declared how much you need him and-shit…

You and Ryan round the large rocks in the distance, just as he realizes that he hasn’t told you how much he needs you. How much you mean to him. He’d only just decided that he really likes you and needs to tell you but what if he’s too late?

What if you think you’ve been a burden?

He hasn’t always been nice.

Fuck.

He's taken care of you. He’s made sure that you’ve wanted for nothing, at least in the way of safety and food—though you’ve done that for him too.

Being nice however, he could have done better. He can do better.

You and Ryan get closer and he can see your skin glistening in the morning sun.

You’ve gone for your swim and Bucky’s suddenly full of fearful rage as he considers what must have happened to have you two walking back together.

He can almost picture you swimming in the sparkling turquoise water. Your naked body is silhouetted against the rising sun but he can imagine that every curve of your body had stood in sharp contrast to the bright rays.

Even in his memories—fond memories that he will never admit to thinking about as much as he does—he can see the peaks of your bare breasts. He can see the curves of your hips, your butt, your neck exposed as you throw your head back when you resurface.

His neck feels hot all of a sudden and he burns hotter when his mind is filled with the image of Ryan coming upon such an exquisite sight.

He would have stood on the beach, probably watching you for much longer than you’ll probably ever realize. Ryan probably cleared his throat when he had his fill and you would have turned maybe expecting Bucky?

Bucky hopes.

Then you’d have ducked under the surface when you realized it wasn’t Bucky but with the way he knows you and Ryan are, that innocent lilt in your voice. The meaningless flirting…

You would have come out of the water after having asked Ryan to turn his back and Ryan would have stolen a peek of your perfect form when you’d turned your back to him as you pulled on your underwear and then slipped back into that summer floral dress you’d been wearing when the plane went down.

The colors have faded a little and the bottom is just as torn as ever. You’ve taken to wearing shorts underneath as it seems to keep getting shorter and shorter the more work you do in it, but it keeps you cool so it’s a favorite of yours.

Your hair is still damp, Ryan’s shoulder bumping yours as the two of you casually walk his way.

Ryan leans closer towards you and says something that Bucky can’t hear but he can see the way it flusters you and you reach over to push him away. Ryan is sent sideways, his feet walking into the shoreline where he splashes only a little before he hurries back towards you and nudges your shoulder again but then reaches around to grab both of your arms to steady you.

He drops them right away, responding to the way you curl in on yourself at his touch, but it’s enough of an embrace that Bucky’s heart gives an ache.

What’s wrong with me? Bucky wonders, knowing that he’s completely in love with you but unable to understand how it happened.

His eyes are glue to your pretty face, the stunning smile that stretches your lips as you and Ryan exchange pleasant conversation, but Bucky can’t care enough to hear what the two of you are saying.

Your skin is glowing in the morning sun as it bounces off the layer of tiny seawater droplets.

If he could have thought up the image of perfection, he knows that he could not have dreamt you up. Yet, he knows that you are it. You’re the epitome of his desires and not just physically. Of course, that part of himself has awoken with you always so close and so exposed in the literal sense.

He’s seen more of your body than he has of any other woman’s in his life, ever maybe.

Sure, there’d been a dalliance here and there in the back of a powder blue Cadillac, but those girls hadn’t undressed. Bunch of dresses pushed up around their waists as the fluffy scratchy fabrics underneath had scratched at his neck and face.

Yes, he has enjoyed the sight of you, but it goes beyond that now.

His attachment, his need comes from your own. In your eyes he can see you search for him, needing him just as he does. You’ve become the other half of his heart. The part that had lost all purpose when Hydra had twisted him mind into the Soldier.

Hearts were for beating. Staying alive. Nothing more.

Until you.

Then it began to hurt and pine and want again. It began to soften with affection at every corny joke, every lingering touch, every sweet chuckle.

You’ve wormed your way under his skin and there’s no way he can keep pretending that he doesn’t already think of you as his. Just as he’s already yours.

“…bucky?...Bucky…?” You sound far away but you’re in front of him, walking closer, your mouth moving but he almost doesn’t hear you.

“Is he alright?” Ryan asks, his voice distant too.

“I don’t know.” You frown, concern turning the corners of your lips down. “Bucky?”

“Ya alright, mate?” Ryan reaches over and gives Bucky’s right shoulder a soft slap, but the gesture doesn’t even move his massive body.

Bucky’s gaze is pull to him and Bucky sees red.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your heart is pounding with fear as you watch the glare that Bucky fixes on Ryan.

Ryan shrinks back a step, still looking a bit concerned by Bucky’s strange stoic stare. However, with Bucky’s sudden flare of rage, you’re almost certain that he’s going to deck him. Bucky is going to punch Ryan, right in the mouth. You just know it.

Instead, Bucky marches between the two of you, separating you with his large body.

As he passes he takes hold of your hand, the metal cool compared to the sun soaked warmth of your skin, and pulls you along down the beach.

“Bucky!” You gasp.

“Where ya going?” Ryan asks, turning to watch the two of you go with his arms thrown out to the sides as his confusion grows.

“I’m not-Can you get the bottles of water from camp?” You call back to him, tripping over your feet a little as you try to match Bucky’s pace.

Reaching out, you wrap your free hand around his metal bicep to get more balance.

“Ya, alright.” Ryan calls back.

“Bucky where are we going?” You demand.

“To check the fish nets.” He explains shortly.

“I already did that.” Ryan retorts, raising his voice so that you can both hear him as Bucky pulls you along further and further.

“To get some fruit then.” Bucky counters.

You realize now that he wants to get you alone, so you turn to follow him without resistance.

Bucky doesn’t speak until you’re both far away from the beach by the hut. He turns you into the small break in the trees where you normally come to pick bananas and mangoes.

Dropping your hand he immediately stoops down and begins to rifle through the fallen mangoes, squeezing them gently to see if they are ripe or spoiled.

“Bucky?” You sigh, watching him ignore you for a bit before you sigh and move to help with the fruit.

You’re not sure how he expects you to carry more than two or three with no basket. Minutes pass. Five, ten, fifteen minutes of sifting through fallen fruit before your arms are full and with a sigh you drop them and reach down to rip more of your dress to wrap them up and carry them more easily.

You’re not very careful with your tearing or as precise as Bucky when he did it that first time all those months ago, so you tear too much and the rip on one side runs all the way up your side exposing your skin.

“What are you doing?!” Bucky gasps, dropping the fruits in his arms as he rushes for you.

The plop, thud, plop of the fruits draws your eyes before his massive form is beside you pushing your hands away from your dress. The shorts underneath are more visible now and tattered like all of your clothes. They’re more durable made of jeans, but you use them to do everything so they’re your most worn piece of clothing.

Your arms fall limply at your sides as your patience wears thin. You chew on your lip hard, urging your voice to be even as you look at him, your eyes searching his furrowed brow, those frantic blue steel eyes.

He’s got something on his mind but he’s not sharing and it’s really starting to piss you off!

As he holds your dress closed, he meets your eyes, hesitating to keep hold of your gaze.

“What’s going on?” You wonder.

“Nothing.” Bucky shrugs. “Don’t rip your dress anymore. Don’t you like this one?”

“Bucky…” You sigh again, urging yourself to have patience.

There’s a sudden shift in his expression, an anger that flashes behind his eyes and it only spurs your own on.

Why would he be angry with you?!

“Just, stop showing the pilot skin.” He lets your dress go and moves back to his abandoned pile of fruit.

“Are you joking?! What does that even mean, Bucky?” Your blood is boiling.

“He likes you.” Bucky declares, throwing the words over his shoulder as if you’re stupid not to have noticed.

“I-” You stutter, trying to wrap your mind around his words, what he means, why it matters, what his anger could indicate. “So what?”

Bucky’s shoulders tense.

“It doesn’t matter if he likes me or not. In case you haven’t noticed, I am the only woman on this island, so he really doesn’t have much of a selection. If we were back on the mainland, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t spare me a glance.”

“Is that really what matters here?” Bucky seethes, but you still can’t guess as to why he’s so bothered by it.

Unless…

“He didn’t see anything, alright? He had his back turned when I got out of the water.” You assure him.

“Oh, like that ass wouldn’t peek? You’re very naïve.” Bucky mutters.

“Excuse you?” You gasp, all attempts at bottling up your anger abandoned.

“He wants you!” Bucky insists, rising and turning to look at you, closing the distance with two steps to stand close but not too close. Just close enough that you’re both able to shout in each other’s faces. “Can’t you see that? The way he looks at you, he even asked me if you were taken. He was all happy when I told him you didn’t have anyone waiting for you back home.”

Your heart falls, a sudden realization hitting you as you think about all the sweet ways Ryan has indeed been flirting with you. If you were taken…

“So…so what you’re saying is that he asked you if I was taken and you told him I wasn’t, right?” You swallow hard, fighting the lump in your throat as you see that Bucky—as stupid as it is to think it in this way—hadn’t claimed you.

It goes in the face of what you’ve always believed, that women are not objects to be owned by men, and yet here on this island with two of them here alone with you for who knows how long—possibly forever—for Bucky not to stand and tell Ryan that you’re his…but you aren’t, are you?

Hurt and anger flow through you, making your hands tremble.

Bucky doesn’t answer. You shake your head, unable to accept that he doesn’t want you enough to tell Ryan that you’re off limits. That you’re his.

What has all this been over the past three months then? Have you been so stupid and so delusional that you saw things in his behavior that aren’t really there?

“I need space.” You tell him and without hesitation you turn and walk away, into the jungle to be as far away from this emotional blow as you can.

Only, you get two steps before metal is wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back towards him swiftly and easily as if you’re made of nothing more than feathers.

He pulls you against his chest, metal hand extended back behind him as he does. When you crash against him, he wraps it around your waist while his other hand reaches up behind your head to hold you in place as he dips and kisses you hard.

His arms are vices around you, pulling you tight as if he can’t feel you unless you’re right up against him.

After a few moments of contact, his lips soften, melding with yours gently and tenderly.

You’re breathless as you let him lead, relishing in the feel of his kiss as his lips part and the tip of his tongue coaxes your own open.

You gasp but meet him eagerly, letting your body fall against his. Slipping your arms underneath his, you feel the thick, hard planes of his back until you reach his shoulders and pull him towards you as the kiss consumes you both.

Your body is humming. You can feel every shift of his skin against yours like tingling fire. A burning touch that electrifies you as it shifts in meaning.

This is Bucky claiming you. This is his declaration.

He pulls back, a small smack to his lips as he breaks the kiss. Your eyes are hazy and fogged as you open them, searching his face with only half your mind working while the other still lingers on the intensity of his kiss.

You’re breathless too, and you forget so when you breath it’s a rush of air that makes you lightheaded and you cling to him harder so that you won’t fall.

Bucky smiles, adjusting his grip to hold you steady.

He brings his hand up to caress your temple and then your cheek, sliding a tickling thumb along the still tingling skin.

“Be my girl?” He says, voice deep but low and quiet so that only you can hear. It dives into your chest and warms it further, making your legs weak with not only their meaning but tone and the smooth velvet of its flow.

You swallow hard, looking for more breath where there doesn’t seem to be any. It all feels so unreal. Like your daydream as you’d watched him mix clay and chop wood and every muscle of his torso had rippled and flexed for you and you’d wished he would hold you, just like this and kiss you, just like now.

Somehow, you find strength and oxygen enough to speak. “I thought I already was.”

This confession makes his expression soften; it draws his brow down once again as he devours your face before leaning down to claim your lips once more.

You whimper, so please and so relieved that you haven’t been alone in this. You’ve wanted him and he also has been wanting you.

You break his kiss to gasp for air, “Never let me go.”

Bucky sighs, pulling you tighter—as if that’s even possible—against his chest. His hug is crushing and you know that he’s holding you as close as he can but you want it to be even closer.

“Never.” Bucky whispers, sounding emotional too.

You want to see his face, to see the expression that he’s wearing that makes that voice, but you can’t bear to pull away. Instead you bury your face against his neck as he does the same and both of you simply enjoy the embrace.

~~~~~~~~~~

This shift is dynamic.

The way you and Bucky respond to each other’s presence changes instantly and you couldn’t be happier.

As you walk back towards the beach with him, hand in hand, you can’t help the smile that splits your cheeks.

Each of you chances several glances at the other, smiling wider as you make your way.

“What?” Bucky chuckles, shaking his head as you stare.

“If I’d known that making you jealous was the way to get you to make a move…” You tell him.

Bucky shakes his head. “I think I’d have gone crazy if you’d done anything intentionally.”

You can almost picture Bucky’s rage if you’d done something on purpose, throwing yourself on Ryan just to get a rise out of him.

The idea of you wanting anyone’s touch other than Bucky’s is so preposterous that you really don’t know how Bucky could have believed for even one second that you and Ryan were possible.

“I’ve only wanted you, Buck.” You sigh, cuddling closer into his side as you rest your head against his metal bicep.

Bucky sighs deeply, relieved?

“I didn’t want to…assume,” He begins. “We were the only two here and you’re the only woman? Me the only man? I was so afraid that I’d make you feel uncomfortable if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“You could have asked.” You sigh. “But I guess I could have said something too. I could have told you it was okay.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I-I wasn’t nice to you at first. I don’t blame you for thinking I wasn’t feeling it. It’s my own fault.”

You pull him to a stop, tracing the shape of his forearm. “Bucky, none of this is your fault.”

This guilt he carries around with him about the plane, being marooned here, now his behavior when you first crashed?

“You didn’t know me. You saved me. We were strangers then. I don’t blame you for keeping me at a distance. Especially with everything that you’ve gone through and who you are? It’s natural for you to want to be cautious.” You understand his position.

Being the former Winter Soldier could not be easy to carry.

“But I should have been nicer.” He argues, reaches up to stroke your cheek again.

You lean into his touch, suddenly grateful that he can touch you like this away from the fuselage at bedtime.

Bedtime…holy shit. Your stomach erupts into flutters.

You quickly clear your throat and swallow to clear away the thoughts of how this will change bedtime too.

“I should have been more patient.” He continues.

With a smile, you shrug. “Maybe, but then you wouldn’t be you. I needed the kick in the butt. I’ve led a pretty sheltered life. I wasn’t prepared to survive out here. I’m glad you were stern.”

“Stern feels like an understatement. I was mean.” Bucky argues.

“Why are you so damn stubborn? I’m trying to give you a pass here, Barnes.” You gripe, suddenly annoyed again.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, stroking your cheek with more affection at the sound of your irritation.

“Oh, man. You’re a firecracker.” He observes but doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s leaning in to kiss you again.

You push yourself towards him, eager to kiss him again because you can, and you’ve wanted it for so long. The fervor with which you pull him against you should be embarrassing but you’ve been so starved for his affection and now that you have it, you’re going to take advantage of it.

“I really like you.” He whispers as he pulls away.

Your heart is exploding with butterflies and your stomach flips pleasantly.

“I really like you, too, Bucky.” You smile. “So much.”

He gives you one more quick peck before leading you back towards the hut, hand in hand.

As you approach, you put a little more distance between the two of you but keep your hand wrapped around his. Both of you search the area for Ryan, Bucky probably eager for him to see that you two are now together but as you move towards the clay trough, you spot only the bottles of water that you’d asked him to fetch.

Bucky lets go and moves for them, thirsty.

“Well, at least he’s useful.” He says, taking a drink. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” You look around, wondering if he’d one back to the fuselage for something. “Maybe he forgot something back at camp?”

“Maybe.” Bucky says, eyeing the way to camp with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know if I trust that guy.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky. I’m already yours.” You tease and turn to fix him with a smile.

Bucky shakes his head, fighting his own but it only makes him give you a heart-stopping half-smile. Pretty pink lips curved on one side in a new expression that you make note of to demand it again someday.

“I’m serious.” He insists. “There’s something off about it. I don’t know what, but I feel like he’s hiding something.”

“Something about the plane?” You wonder, voice serious now as you consider that you’ve only known Ryan for such a short time.

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, moving towards the clay trough where he immediately dips his hands in to mix the sediment that’s settled at the bottom.

“But he’s so nice.” You counter, feeling sad by the thought that Ryan might be two-faced.

“Most bad guys are.” Bucky mutters sinisterly.

You open your mouth to argue when the sound of splashing turns you towards the shoreline.

Rising from the water is Ryan, shirtless, blonde curls plastered against the side of his face. He wipes the water away and freezes for a moment when he spots the two of you on the beach.

He suddenly smiles, moving towards his shirt and pulls it over his head as he approaches.

“Hi.” You offer, squinting against the morning sun. A quick glance at Bucky shows you he’s standing, hands and forearms covered in clay as he stands watching Ryan too.

“Hello.” Ryan replies, moving towards the two of you with relaxed and easy walk. “When did you two get back?”

“Just now.” You smile at him, forcing yourself to see the kind man instead of the suspicious pilot that showed up out of nowhere.

Bucky’s own worries now seeping into you.

“Went for a swim?” You wonder, looking over his shoulder in the direction he came from.

“It’s hot out here.” He explains.

“Did you find anything?” Bucky suddenly asks, his voice full of forced friendliness. “You went to the cabin, right? What were you looking for?”

Ryan freezes by the small fire pit you and he had dug up a few days earlier to cook food on the beach instead of having to run all the way back to camp.

“I did go there, yeah.” He nods. “I wanted to see if mah bag was still there. I had some personal items I was hopin’ had survived the crash.”

“Nothing too important I hope?” And you really do hope it’s nothing that means a whole lot.

Ryan meets your gaze and fixes you with a tight and forlorn grin. “Some pictures of mah son.”

“Your son?!” You gasp, completely shocked by his declaration. “You have a son?”

“Aye, I have a son.” Ryan sighs. “I’ll go get the fish, ya? I’ll cook breakfast. You take a rest.”

“Now he has a son?” Bucky wonders once Ryan is a safe distance away and you honestly can’t blame him for the suspicion you can hear in his voice.

You really don’t know Ryan at all and now have to wonder how much more he might be hiding.

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier. 

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

--

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

[missjaystone]

Old Faces

Summary: The love of his life, the one that got away, finally comes back into Sam’s life and he loves the life they build together, but something... is off... Word Count: 2,490 Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader Warnings: Angst, panic attack, anxiety attack, implied smut

(Hate to do this to my man Sam, I love him to death and he deserves the entire universe. Part one of two. (Find Part 2 here))

Sam could never forget the first time he met you; Riley brought him home after their first tour together since Sam didn't have a family to come home to. Not that Riley had one either, he only had one person; his goddaughter, you. Sam had a pretty good idea of who you were since, according to him, Riley never shut up about you. He was so proud of you; you got into Quantico at 21, two years younger than their typical admission age of 23! You picked them up at the airport in late November, almost a week before Thanksgiving and you wore jeans with a dark blue hoodie, the words 'FBI Quantico' written in white on the front. You were vibrant, full of life and excitement. By the time Thanksgiving was over and he was going to his own place, he was head over heels in love with you. The only guilt he had was that you were only 23 at the time, more than 15 years his junior. By the time he'd worked up the nerve to ask Riley for permission, they were already due for their second tour; it'd have to wait until they got back. But, they never came back, Riley never came back. The same Sam Wilson that left was not the man who returned.

Five feet was all that was between him and the love of his life. Five feet between him and the one that got away, the one he never thought he'd see again. You just waltzed right into the VA, out of all the Veterans Affairs offices in the entire city of New York and you just walked right into the one he worked at in his free time, when he wasn't busy being an Avenger. He hadn't seen you in at least five, maybe seven years and he could see how you'd changed just in the way that you moved and conversed with the receptionist. You'd gained some muscle mass, that much was obvious even with your jacket on. You must've injured your left shoulder too, he could tell moving it too much or too quickly was painful, or at the very least uncomfortable. You wore a tired expression on your face, but not tired like you hadn't gotten enough sleep, tired like you'd just gotten out after fighting an unwinnable battle for too long. He knew exactly how that tired felt. Something about the moment seemed not-quite-right, it felt off. He couldn't place it so he ignored it.

So he approached you hesitantly, giving a small wave to get your attention; he'd learned his lesson about startling soldiers when Bucky nearly choked him for entering the living room and sitting on the couch too quietly. He watched you look over him for a brief second before recognition his and you nearly tackled him in a hug. He heard you groan quietly at the sudden movement but just tried to avoid adding pressure to your shoulder when he returned the tight hug "you're a sight for sore eyes, (y/n)." "So are you Sam, is this where you've been hiding?" You asked him with a teasing smile. "Sam Wilson never hides, what about you? Where the hell have you been?" He countered with a wide grin. "All over the place; DC, New Orleans, and now with any luck, New York permanently," you answered him, the two of you walking slowly as you conversed. "What do you do these days? And what brings you here?" He was curious as to where you'd been all these years. He hoped to god you weren't already married.

"Hm, I wonder what could possibly bring me to the Department of Veterans Affairs, I can't quite place my finger on it," you sarcastically thought out loud, making him roll his eyes. He was still smiling "very funny, I meant New York." "Work. I've been going around to different colleges teaching things like military history, strategic intelligence, and general polemology, and I just landed a more permanent position at Columbia," you answered with a casual shrug. He started to ask where you served but Steve calling him stopped that "Sam, we're needed at the tower!" He sighed quietly and sent you an apologetic smile "give me your number and we'll-" He paused, looking at you in shock when he saw his phone in your hand. You gave it back after a couple of seconds and smiled "old habits die hard, we'll get together later." "You need to stop pickpocketing people," he said as he smirked at you before jogging over to his friend.

Sam finally got back to you a week and a half later and you two caught up over coffee. He was repeatedly left awestruck when you told him about what you'd been up to. Gradually, your get-togethers turned from getting coffee two or three times a week to grabbing dinner and just getting together to talk and reconnect. It took a while and a lot of prodding from Bucky and Steve before he finally asked you on a proper date. He actually asked you out on Riley's birthday, you both had a laugh at that. Your dates were frequent, mainly whenever his Avenger schedule allowed it. He couldn't wait to introduce you to everyone, he watched as you easily blended in with and meshed with everyone. It was perfect. You were perfect. Still, something seemed not-quite-right, it felt off. Yet, he still couldn't place it so he ignored it.

A year together flew by before either of you knew it. He'd already been contemplating when the perfect moment would happen but now, watching you look over the entire city from the Empire State Building Observation Deck with the sun setting behind you, he knew there'd never be a better time. He'd commit this moment to his memory for the rest of time. He got down on one knee while you were looking through one of the telescopes and took the little velvet box out of his pocket. He could see a few people stopping to watch out of his peripheral vision. When you finally did let go of the telescope and looked at him, you were visibly shocked "Sam? Are you-" You couldn't even finish the question as your eyes started to water when he nodded. His smiling face looked up at you as he, and all of the onlookers gathered around, desperately waited for a response. He watched as you nodded quickly, letting the happy tears fall "yes, hell yes!" He and the group that congregated around you cheered as he picked you up and spun you happily. He pointed over to where Redwing had been perched on a pole "Steve's been manning him so I could have this on video for us." You just laughed and pulled him into a kiss, feeling like you were both on cloud nine. This would be one of the greatest moments of his life. Still, something still felt off. He continued ignoring it. It must've been a little paranoia, so he brushed it off.

Both the wedding and the reception were small and intimate. Tony offered the compound for the tower for the venue and with much help from Pepper, he turned it into the most beautiful place you'd ever seen. Wanda, Pepper, and Natasha helped you pick out a wedding dress. While the three of them were eager to help you and Sam pick and plan, Steve and Bucky stepped back since they didn't have a clue. They helped Sam get the perfect suit; navy blue suit and jacket, white dress shirt, and a dark maroon tie. Planning started in January, a month after he proposed and you wed in May. He nearly cried when he saw you walking down the aisle, clearly holding himself back. You, however, didn't hold any tears back when you two exchanged vows, having to stop yourself at least eight times when you recited your own. Somehow, Vision got ordained, but nobody asked questions. The kiss you two shared was perfect, this was without a doubt, the absolute greatest moment of his life. Except, it felt off. But Sam was far too happy to pay any mind to the feeling he'd grown so used to ignoring.

Despite you and Sam both insisting a weekend away would be a good honeymoon, everyone wanted to send you off to somewhere nice for a couple of weeks. After collective brainstorming, they decided on and booked you two a 14-day all-inclusive honeymoon in Santorini, Greece. You were both pushed onto the Quinjet before you could object at all. Someone had already packed bags for both of you and loaded them on. The ride wasn't as long as you thought it would be and Clint bid you both goodbye and good luck. The hotel room was opulent; it was decorated beautifully with paintings and native flora and fauna, rose petals on the bed, a chilled bottle of champagne sat on the table; it honestly felt like a dream. "Well, Mrs. Wilson, shall we?" Sam asked but when you tried to step into the room, he picked you up bridal style and carried you inside. He set you down on the bed gently but quickly positioned himself over you, his forearm holding him up with his free hand stroked your cheek, looking into your eyes with such love and adoration it almost made you cry again. "I love you so much, and I always will," he whispered softly as he trailed kisses from your lips down along your jawline and to your neck. "I love you too, Sammy, more than anything," your voice was quiet, your mind too focused on the way he was kissing and paying special attention to that one sweet spot on your neck.

For the first three days, you and Sam spent the entire time in your hotel room, intertwined with each other in an intimate dance. Exploring the island was incredible, Sam loved watching you admire everything and really take in the culture. He never missed an opportunity to take new pictures of you. You were sending plenty of pictures to the team, thanking them a million times over for this gift. Sam particularly enjoyed watching you in the crystal clear turquoise waters. Watching you was like being ensnared by a siren's song, and it was a song he never wanted to end. Reality felt off but he'd long ago accepted it was just his subconscious waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Sam, wake up," your voice said as Sam was lightly shaken. Except, it wasn't exactly your voice, it sounded... off. He turned over and went to toss his arm around your waist and pull you close but was met with nothing. He furrowed his brows and looked around the room for you. Nothing. "(Y/n)?" Sam called as he got out of bed, pulling on whatever was closest to him. No answer. You weren't in the room or the bathroom, you weren't on the patio. He knows you would've left a note if you had gone somewhere. He starts to worry, he grabs his phone and scrolls through his contacts for your number but it's not there, neither are your text messages to each other; your pictures together are gone too. Even as Sam starts to full-on panic, he sees things around him starting to fade away; when he tries to grab something for stability, his hand goes through it. Soon, with everything gone, he's left in a white space with nothing around him. "Sam?" A distorted voice calls out, it's too masculine to be yours.

It sounds familiar, almost like Steve but not quite. "Sam, we need you to wake up right now," another equally distorted voice says and he swears he feels like someone lightly slapped his face. "Somebody go get Bruce!" a third voice calls, more of an order than a request; it was feminine but not yours, it sounded a bit like Natasha but not quite. "His vitals are spiking quite rapidly, he could be in danger very soon if we don't wake him up immediately," a digitalized voice said. Was it Vision, maybe?

Before Sam knew what was happening, he jolted up to a sitting position, gasping for breath. He was in his room at the Tower, everyone around him. He was soaking wet now and Bucky was holding an empty bucket behind his back. His eyes darted around the room anxiously as he questioned rapidly "where is she? What happened? How'd I just get here?" "Whoa, whoa, Sam, where's who?" Steve asked calmly as he gave his friend a towel. "What do you mean 'who'? My wife! My soulmate! Where's (y/n)?" He questioned, his anxious state making it come out harsher than he intended. Everyone still in the room shared a curious look before Steve cleared his throat "you aren't married Sam. You said you weren't feeling well last night so you went to bed early; you've been asleep for almost a whole 24 hours. We all rushed in when we started hearing things, then we heard screaming." Steve explained with a small frown. "We've been trying to wake you up for half an hour, whatever you were dreaming about must've been nuts," Bucky said, earning a look from Steve.

"His vitals are returning to normal, FRIDAY will keep a close eye though," Vision stated. Sam now sat in his bed in deep contemplative silence. "Do you need anything?" Steve asked, setting a hand on his friend's shoulder comfortingly. Sam shook his head after a long minute "no, I think I just need to be alone for a bit to process." Steve nodded and headed for the door, Bucky following with Wanda and Clint in tow. Natasha sent him a small smile and stopped on her way out "call any one of us if you need something, anything at all." He nodded, watching her close the door behind her. He felt a lump in his throat; the best year of his life was a dream. The love of his life, his soulmate, coming back into his life was a dream. He wanted to yell, punch something, cry, rip his hair out, do something/anything to get rid of the pit he felt in his heart now. He wasn't going on without you anymore, he'd done his best to forget and suppress so you could find someone who didn't have nearly two decades on you but he couldn't anymore. He knew you were his soulmate when he first met you but he suppressed it, assuming it was misplaced affection. He knew when he and Riley shipped out for the second time that you were his soulmate because now, he wasn't fighting for the country out of respect or loyalty, he was fighting so you specifically could have a good be safe in this country. Now, he absolutely knew you and him were meant to be together, and he was going to find you. He couldn't bear the pain of knowing who his soulmate was and not having you.

[universallychaoticpan]

For gold and sweet slumber

Hange x fem!reader

There were few things Hange loved more than all nighters in their lab, the silence only broken by the soft sputtering of the candlelight in the lamps that painted the room in honey-colored light. Especially when they'd recently made a new discovery, had had a breakthrough, or simply got lost in the scientific texts that covered their office wall to wall and back again. Truly, they'd probably have spent the rest of their life alone in that room had it not been for that damn teacup. One morning, far to early to be awake and still be sane, Hange had been tearing through the scouts' latest base, their footsteps echoing through the drafty stone halls. Pounding on Levi's door, it opened to reveal a very tired looking Erwin and behind him, Levi's glowering, eyes looking ready to kill. Rushing past him, Hange started talking excitedly about their latest findings, pretending not to see the way the captain was practically begging her to go back to their office and let them sleep.

Back and forth they paced, almost tripping over their feet several times before-

CRASH

They'd bumped into the wall, sending Levi's teacup collection rattling and shaking along the shelf before one fell, as if in slow motion, before shattering on the cold ground, with shards of carefully decorated porcelain landing at their feet.

Hange wished she had been exagerating when she said that the moment the shops in town opened, Levi had dragged them inside to buy a replacement. And thank the walls he had

Because there, behind the counter, eyes still bleary from sleep, was you, the young owner of the shop that Levi had so often frequented. Smiling at the sight of the familiar man before you, you quickly launched into an explanation of all the newest blends you'd stocked up on since his last visit. And Hange was being honest when they said they'd never been so excited to hear about a new herb blend from inside wall Sina. Levi nodded politely before he and Hange stepped away to find the newest addition to his collection.

And thank the walls they were walking away. Which was good for you, because it meant you could hide the blush quickly spreading across your cheeks, immediately waking you up. Part of you wanted to yell at Levi for not bringing his companion with him sooner. After some time, they gathered their things and left, the woman you now knew as Zoe Hange leaving with a small wave to you that only made your smile grow wider.

Oh, pull yourself together, you chided silently, you've only just seen them and already you're gigling like a lovesick school girl. Brushing off your skirts, you resigned yourself to readying your shop even further for the day ahead.

But the thought of them stuck with you, not helped at all by the fact that they were now with Levi whenever he wandered in. And eventually, after a few weeks, they began coming on their own just to talk to you. You learned that they were a section commander for the sruvey corps, and one of the leading researchers when it came to knowledge about the titans. She learned that you had owned the tea shop since you were 18 years old, when your mother had passed away and left the business to you. Sometimes, when they just needed to get out of their makeshift lab, something they never thought they'd want to do in favor of spending time with another person, they'd walk the short way over to town, and knock on your door before you let them inside with a smile, just like always. They would work while you cleaned up after the day, a comfortable silence filling the room as you both stole glances at one another before looking away bashfully. You'd end the night by falling into easy conversations, laughing and sharing stories as the candles danced, burning lower and lower while the hours passed. More than once, you'd found yourself frantically opening up after waking minutes before to the brunette snoring across the table from you.

You found yourself worrying for them when they left on expeditions, even though you knew they'd come back. You'd still remind yourself that she was a seasoned soldier who could take care of herself, and that within a week, she'd be back talking animatedly with you over midnight tea.

And unbeknownst to you, they were thinking about returning to the interior out in the field, just because it meant being with you again. In your shop that was quiet and felt like safety, making you laugh with that voice clearer than the cathedral bells that rang over the walls, sweeter than the sugar and honey you sold day by day.

Thinking of your kind eyes and bright smile, they almost didn't notice the abnormal titan charging towards them until Moblit dragged them out of the way, slaying the titan a few moments later with another warning of 'that was far to close, section commander.'

That was it. They needed to do something about their constant pinning, their need to tell you exactly how they felt consuming their every waking moment, memories of you permeating their mind. For once in her life, she wanted more than anything to get away from the giant brutes that roamed the land and go home.

They'd found the best things of their solitude with you, and everything they'd ever yearned for. The quiet they loved to sit in while they worked was just as comforting in your presence, but the way your eyes lit up with fascination as they told you their ideas was just as invigorating. They'd be lying if they said they hadn't felt their heart rise in their throat and a blush creep across their skin when you cleaned and bandaged a cut they'd obtained while taking a sample, when they'd woken up to your features relaxed as you slept across the table from them.

So as soon as they rode back through the gates, they tore through the city on their own, weaving throngs of people on the same route they had traveled for months now. Going to your shop was so familiar to them that they probably could have done it with their eyes closed. However this was not the time to run that particular experiment.

With a pleasant jingle, the door swung open, causing you to look up in surprise at the commander how standing in your doorway, panting heavily. Your smile brightened, then fell a bit when they simply stood in the door, looking fearful.

Moving towards them slowly, you gently took their hands in yours, causing them to meet you eyes so full of concern, so full of care, as if the only thing on your mind was how to help them. The thought filled them with saccharine warmth as they brought their hands up to gently cradle your face, your line of sight completely obscured by the brunette looking into your eyes so intensely you felt you'd melt, and yet full of gentle uncertainty as you leaned into their touch. In one final second, you both seemed to understand every emotion, intention, and action of the person across from you, understanding becoming undeniable as your lips brushed theirs ever so softly.

You leaned into each other as the kiss deepened, one hand traveling to the back of your neck while the other wrapped around your waist, your hands curling into their hair while their tongue swept across your bottom lip in feather light strokes.

One thing was clear to the both of you now:

This was complete and pure bliss, the kind of tentative joy people spent their lives searching for.

And it had all come about because of an all-nighter, a very annoyed captain, and a broken tea cup.

////

Another day, another mildly self indulgent piece about one of my favorites. Hope you enjoyed this, I might make a part two so tell me if you'd be interested in reading that. (I'll probably do it anyway lmao.) Likes, comments and reblogs are always welcome, and so are requests and asks. <3

[casualpastelgay]

Title: Good Ending?

Pairing: Zen(Hyun Ryu) x Cherry (OC of @darkta)

Rating: General

Word Count: 1704

Type: Angst

Notes: I wrote this piece for @nostringsdetached! It was a collaboration piece with the owner of Cherry, @darkta! I don’t write angst very often, it was a very nice change for me. You can get the entire zine for no cost [here]!

~*~*~*~*~

“I’m home.” Cherry sighed as she opened the door to her apartment. A small twitter was the only response to Cherry’s announcement, but it nonetheless turned her dreary expression into a small smile.

Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor as she made her way over to her parrotlet’s cage. “Hi, Skittles.” She cooed to the little, sky-colored bird. Cherry inserted a finger between the bars of his cage and stroked his neck, which Skittles leaned into happily. “Work was tough today.” She murmured, idly twirling her fingers in Skittles’ cage as he begged for more attention. “You know what that’s like, right?” Cherry asked, earning a small sneeze in response from her companion.

Cherry giggled at her bird’s antics as she removed her fingers from the cage to open the artfully crafted door. She then let Skittles hop onto her finger then flitter up to settle in one of her large hoop earrings. “The manager was hard on me today.” Cherry spoke softly as she squatted down to remove her heels, careful not to stir Skittles from his resting spot.

She placed her shoes on the rack by the door to her apartment as she continued to relay her day to Skittles. “All of my designs were declined today, and on such short notice.” Cherry placed a kettle on the stove and picked an English breakfast blend teabag out of a rather large selection. She was sure the powerful black tea would cure her conscience of any doubts in her own abilities.

“The building process of the costumes was supposed to start last week; I can’t believe they had the nerve to ask for a redesign!” Cherry fiddled with the purple ribbons in her light auburn hair. “This is going to be so stressful for the whole team.”

The kettle sang as the water boiled, Cherry quickly picked up the kettle and poured it into an ornate teacup. It was one she had painted herself, she was very proud of it.

“You think we can do it, Skittles?” Cherry asked her parrotlet as she stirred her tea with a little silver spoon. Skittles pecked softly at her earlobe in response, like he was scolding her for doubting her skills. “Thank you for your honesty.” Cherry chided the bird lightly, raising the teacup to her lips and taking a dainty sip.

Once Cherry had finished her tea and returned Skittles to his cage, she padded towards her workspace. Fabric swatches and sketches adorned the walls of the small area, some spilling onto the floor. She tried to keep it tidy, but when she stared at her muse she sometimes couldn’t help but let her ideas overflow.

In the center of the room, he stood proudly, her muse. Or at least, what Cherry could create of him. Donned in an elegant white and gold suit was her prince, Zen. In reality, it was a mere mannequin. But with how bold and beautiful her suit design stood, it breathed life into the figure. It started as a small project, just sketching and dreaming, but in Cherry’s heart there was so much love for this man that a magic seemed to take form.

“Zen…” Cherry sighed, running her fingers along the golden trim of the suit’s sleeves, imagining his hands and the warmth they would hold. Her eyes traced up and down the mannequin, fingers quickly following as she fixed any tiny imperfections she noticed. With how long she had been working on the suit, there were little things to change or fix, but it had to be perfect. He was perfect.

A buzzing sound startled Cherry. She fished through her pocket for her phone, smiling to herself. Cherry had installed the pockets on this dress herself after agonizing over it for what seemed like ages. On her phone screen was a single notification, one from the app Mystic Messenger. It was Zen.

Her love, yes, was sadly a fictional creation. However, Zen had helped her through so much in her life that she barely minded. It would be lovely to see him, to touch him, to be held by him. But some things couldn’t be helped.

Cherry tapped on the notification to open the app, seeing that she’d unlocked a new chatroom. As she read, tears budded in her eyes.

“I wish I could be there to help you, but I still can’t cross over dimensions…”

“Oh Zen, if only you could. If only you could be here, standing in front of me.”

“I want to get to know you better… but it’s sad that all your answers are already determined.”

“If I could, there’s so much I would tell you. There’s so much I would do with you. There’s just so much…”

“I’ll always be here so that you can come see me whenever you want… use me.”

“Don’t hesitate to come find me…”

Cherry choked back a sob, a stray tear curling down her chin as she continued to read.

“I realized that our thoughts and feelings…”

The stray tear glistened like a glass heart, falling so delicately to crash into the screen of Cherry’s phone.

Heat suddenly coursed through her hand, causing Cherry to gasp and drop the phone to the floor. She stared down at Zen, his hand pressed up against the screen as he smiled at her through the cracks in the screen. Lights blinded Cherry, almost causing her to stumble backwards into a workbench, but she caught herself just in time. Time seemed like it stopped but was racing forward at the same time, it was nothing she had ever felt before. What was this sensation?

“Transcend dimensions.”

Cherry gaped as she heard a familiar voice, though this time… It wasn’t coming from her phone.

Her eyes slowly raised from her phone, now shattered on the floor, to the mannequin that stood before her. Though now, it wasn’t merely a mannequin.

“Zen?!” Cherry let out a strangled noise, half way between a gasp and a cry.

“Jagiya~” Zen breathed, a smile stretching across the face that hadn’t existed there moments before. He took a step towards her like he had never been trapped in a lifeless prison. Like he was real.

“Zen…?” Cherry said again, incredulous. Had she gone mad?

“Cherry,” Zen wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him.

The tears that had been stunned into stopping spilled over with new fervency as Cherry was held by her love, something all logic told her was something that would never happen. Could never happen.

Zen pressed a loving kiss to her forehead, stroking Cherry’s hair as she sobbed. “Shh, Jagi, I’m here.” Zen cooed, allowing his love to press her face into the princely suit she had made for him.

His heart beat, she could feel the heat of life in him. It all made no sense, could she allow herself to be convinced this was real? But it all did feel… So real. “How did you get here? How…” Cherry choked out, deep blue eyes meeting shimmering red.

“I’ve always been here.” Zen spoke softly, peppering soft kisses down Cherry’s cheek to clean her of tears. “I’ll always be here.”

Cherry hiccupped as her mind continued to attempt to process what had happened. Even if this wasn’t real, she could still allow herself to enjoy it. Right?

Zen stopped short of pressing his lips to her. No, no, he was taking things much too quickly. They hadn’t even been on a proper date yet. “Cherry?” He asked, releasing her and taking a step back.

“Yes?” Cherry asked, a timid blush creeping across her features as the handsome man slipped down to one knee.

“Would you care to join me on a date?” Zen held a hand out to Cherry, hoping with all the light in his heart that she would take it and come with him.

Cherry balked, fingers trembling as magnets seemed to draw her hand to his without her mind needing to process his words. “Of… Of course, Zen.”

Zen smiled when Cherry took his hand, leaning forward to press a kiss to her fingers. “Jagiya, thank you.” He rose to his feet, his own fingers intertwining with hers. Should he abandon this pretense? Just sweep her off her feet like he had yearned to for so long? Or was that too much for right now?

The blush on Cherry’s face deepened as her prince stared down at her, he seemed to be considering something. “Where do you want-“ Her question was cut off by a surprised yelp as Zen lifted her off her feet into a princess hold.

Cherry averted her wide eyes when Zen’s face was once again, so suddenly close to hers. “Sorry, Cherry, I have waited so long for this day.” Zen chuckled, pink caressing his own features. “All men are wolves, you know.”

“I trust you.” Cherry murmured, meeting Zen’s eyes for a moment before looking away again.

Zen blinked, taken aback for a moment by the honesty in his love’s words. “Then what are we waiting for?” He spun to face the front door of the apartment, still easily holding Cherry’s small figure in his arms.

Cherry stared wistfully into the smiling man’s handsome face as he strode towards the doorway, a faint skip in his step. All true meaning slipped away, all that mattered was him and her. He was overdressed to be outside, she wore no shoes; but still the door opened to a new life, a new path.

A familiar warmth spun through Cherry, like the heat of her phone before she dropped it. It seemed to resonate from Zen. A sparkling light blinded her for a second time, though she stared through it to meet Zen’s gaze. A weightless feeling surrounded her, like Zen had let her go but she still floated in the light. She could still feel him against her.

The couple seemed to evaporate there in the doorway, the light encasing Zen brighter than ten suns but as gentle as a lamb. Were they here? Were they there? Were they anywhere? Neither could tell, but since they were together, no reality mattered anymore. To Cherry and Zen, this was perfection.

Good Ending?

~*~*~*~*~

Want more? Visit my [masterpost]!

If you enjoyed, please also consider donating to my [ko-fi]!