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alreadyblondenow · 4 years

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I’ll never leave again

Yuta x reader // SMUT, ANGST, fluff? Summary: A Japanese transferee added color to your already colorful and perfect life and you both find true love as you help him with his battle against drugs. Word Count: 7k Warnings: MAJOR DRUG USES, wearing, explicit mature themes, mentions of alcohol, blood, hospital, rehab, unprotected sex, mentions of other idols Note: IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE WHEN IT COMES TO DRUGS, PLEASE CLICK AWAY. THANK YOU. this fic is 100% came from my imagination, unlike my other works that are inspired from true events and personal experiences, this fic is 100% made up.

Spaced out and really not in the mood to socialise, you were busy thinking how you’re going to break things off with your boyfriend Jaehyun. The perfect captain of the cheerleading squad and the handsome captain of the basketball team, together and being high school sweethearts is kind of getting old to you. And by getting old you mean you don’t love Jaehyun anymore. Not that he cheated on you or he treated you badly, no Jaehyun’s a great guy. It’s just that maybe he is not what your heart wants anymore.

It’s hard to explain something you cant even understand. You can’t actually pin point when did you start forcing yourself to see Jaehyun and why is this happening. “I can’t just stage a cheating scenario, that’s not me. I think Jaehyun deserves the truth” thats your response when Yeeun suggests to stage a cheating act where Jaehyun will see some random dude in your bed. “He will not buy it. Because he knew I can’t cheat” you added making Yeeun more frustrated.

To finish all your problems regarding breaking up with Jaehyun, you decided to just tell him the truth. He believed everything you said. “I felt it. Your kisses became different” Jaehyun said after you explained your part, you were glad that the breakup was mutual.

Now that you’re on your senior year, you wanted to focus on studying and trying new things. You gave up cheerleading and entrusting the squad to Yeeun. Giving up cheerleading was not a problem even though literally all of your friends are part of the squad, but they understand you. You’re just following your heart. Cheerleading is soon replaced by art, your second passion next to dancing and you couldn’t be more happier.

Everything was going smooth, having good grades, self love, and more art. Although, people in school still see you as this popular cheerleader who used to be with the school star player, you’re having a hard time making new friends. Until you met Nakamoto Yuta. A Japanese transferee who’s always quiet, private and scary because he had a lot of piercings. Not to you of course, you never see him that way. You met at the football field while you were having a quick sketch of the sunset with all your coloring materials just after a long day at school. “You should try using soft pastels, they’re more easier to blend” he said peaking from the back bleacher, you turned around to check who it is.

“I’m Yuta by the way, we have the same art class” he’s a little shy and awkward, but nice enough to introduce himself first. You knew you go to the same art class, actually he is quite an artist. He can be top of the class if only he submits his works.

“Hi, I’m y/n” you smiled at him offering a hand shake but you realised your hand is dirty because of the oil pastel. “We can fist bump instead” you suggest and he let out a small laugh. He looks beautiful under the perfect orange light from the sunset, his skin is unbelievably white and flawless, he looks unreal and you can’t stop staring.

“So...” he snapped out of you, “it’s nice to me you y/n. I hope you take my advice” you nod and waved goodbye as he leaves you alone with your drawing session. Your heart is beating so fast and you don’t know why but one things for sure, you find Yuta attractive. Really attractive.

The next day, you made sure to buy soft pastels and it did made your life easier. You wanted to thanked him but he didn’t come to school for two days. It really is useful to you, it made you work faster and easier, you couldn’t stop drawing and filling your sketchbook with colors.

After three days, he made his appearance again in school and he looked like shit. Maybe he got sick? That’s why he haven’t been showing up. Whatever the reason is, it made you shy to talk to him and tell him all about the things you already create with colors that he recommended. But destiny was being a little too friendly, he caught you again sketching your heart out at the bleachers.

“You work fast” he came out of nowhere again.

“Yes! Actually I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but you seem not well I couldn’t bother you” he smiled at you like there’s nothing wrong, “If you want, I could show you some of mine, a- at home if you want” you noticed he’s being friendly and who are you to refuse.

Yuta brought you to his house, just five streets from your home. Turns out Yuta is rich... and alone, he lives with his Japanese butler, Ruka. “My family is in Japan if you’re wondering” he tells more information about him while you two walk upstairs to his room. The house is simple but it was too spacious, it feels lonely and cold but you kept that thought to yourself. Good thing Yuta’s room is full of colors, different kind of masterpiece are put up on his wall, lots and lots of drawing and coloring materials neatly stacked on his working table, and a beautiful view of the town from his window.

“Uhm, if you need something from my stuff I’ll gladly give it to you” still amazed by what you’re seeing right now, all you want to do is look at all of his works. “Wow - that’s uhm, too much but I’m happy you can introduce me to a lot of art materials” you can’t hide your excitement, everything in his desks looks new to your eyes and you can’t help but ask questions about different materials. ‘What’s this for?’ ‘How do you use this?’

Not to mention you’ve been praising his works for almost half an hour already. He’s happy that you find him as a great artist and that you’re willing to be friends with him, seeing you in his room gives him hope. Ruka knocked at Yuta’s door and invited you to have dinner with them, you didn’t notice it’s already dark and you definitely need to go home already. But you didn’t want to leave Yuta yet, “Sure. I’d love to”

Even the smell of their freshly cooked dinner is new to you, since their both Japanese they only eat Japanese food everyday. “I hope you like Japanese food, I asked him to order takeout but Ruka insists. Told me you should try his cooking” he whispers beside you while Ruka is busy preparing the table. “It’s fine, I don’t get to eat Japanese food always so I don’t mind” you smiled to Yuta, taking away his worries.

The food was delicious, and the dinner table was full of laughter and stories from Ruka. They were both exchanging stories, telling you too much information you don’t need to know, but they tell you anyway. You found out that Yuta plays soccer and he’s a really good player, he’s an impulsive buyer when it comes to his art materials and your favorite information for the night, Yuta has seventeen piercings. The three of you laughed and laughed the whole dinner time while enjoying the delicious Udon and a lot of deep fried seafood.

Later that night Yuta walked you home and endlessly thanked you for spending time with him. “Everything that happened today is so random, but I could get used to this” you said, secretly hoping you could spend some more time with him. “This is my house. I would normally invite you to come in, but its pretty late - which reminds me” your voice and your hands were shaking, pretty sure you’re blushing too. “We have this thing every Friday. Me and my family- uhh, just meet me here at 7?” How brave of you to ask.

If Yuta could only shout and scream from happiness he would, instead he just gave you a nod and a sweet smile before he waved goodbye to you. “See you tomorrow” he shouts before you get inside.

There’s no way of hiding it, you have a crush on Yuta. And you cant ruin this wonderful friendship by being obvious, you told yourself. The next day you made an effort to look cute, “so much for not being obvious” you talk to yourself through the mirror. As you get on with your day, you can’t stop thinking how Yuta is a complete charmer and a really nice guy. Gentleman enough to walk you home in the middle of the night and smiling so sweetly before he leaves.

Yuta on the other hand, has been asking about you to his friends. It’s either they tell him that you’re smart, pretty and popular or they tell him that you are the former captain of the squad. No one told him the things that he single handedly found out about you. In Yuta’s eyes you’re this simple girl that has her life all planned out already. He understood the whole popularity thing because whats not to love about you?

Hiding his excitement, he was pretty early but you told him it’s perfectly fine. Your family adored Yuta, they were all talking nonstop the whole night asking questions about Japan. Which made you worry actually, what if Yuta was hurting and he misses his family or miss Japan in general. Yuta seemed to enjoy everyone’s company, at least that’s what you think and you could only hope that he’s not faking it.

“Sorry, this is the least I can do. The dinner last night was so great, I wanted to invite you over” you brought him to your room so you could have some privacy. Which is not normal. The last guy you brought to your room was Jaehyun, and that happened two years ago.

He was busy looking around your room with an amused smile, looking at the pictures taken from crazy parties, cheerleading competitions, and basically every important event of your life. Yuta let out a small laugh when he saw your cheerleading uniform framed and hanged on your wall.

“What’s so funny about it?” you giggle while you both look at the framed uniform.

“I’ve never seen something like this before, I guess I’m amazed” to be honest he really is amazed that your uniform became something like a trophy that you display around your room. “I bet you look good wearing it” he was smiling while looking at you when he said that. Suddenly the room became hot.

“You should smile more often, your smile is nice” to divert the attention, of course you praised him again.

“If you think my smile is beautiful, you should’ve seen yours” there’s no getting away with that so you just accepted it.

On the following days, you’ve been spending more time with Yuta talking, drawing and getting to know each other more. And the more you spend time with him, your feelings grow and grow. In a matter of weeks, you’re sure you’ve completely fallen in love with him.

He became your friend, in fact your only friend since you left cheerleading. Every friend of yours is either a cheerleader or jock, given that they’re all athletes, they don’t have time for you anymore. That’s why you think Yuta is a life saver.

Not long ago, you discovered about Yuta’s drug addiction. Weed, Meth, Heroin, all kinds. Maybe that’s why sometimes he’s so spaced out and he miss school a lot. “Yuta’s parents sent him here because of his drug addiction, only he can help himself” Ruka explained to you over coffee while Yuta is out doing whatever he’s doing. Even though he has problems, you still stick with him. He’s still a nice guy who loves his art, the same nice guy your family adored. With or without drugs.

One night, you were playing Jenga with him on his bedroom floor with a few bottle of beers and snacks on the side. “I’m going to win, I’m good at this” he totally loves teasing you whenever you two get competitive with each other. “You wish. Okay my turn” you said after drinking your beer in one down, but the Jenga tower fell off and Yuta laughed so hard he has tears on his eyes. He saw your face completely pissed off as you open another beer and building the tower again for another game.

“Who’s Jaehyun?” you were surprised at his question, something a student from your school wouldn’t dare ask because the whole school knows him.

“Oh right, you’re a transferee” he sat up and sat closer to you, legs crossed and both arms are supporting him on the floor “Uhm. He’s my ex. We’ve been together for two years? I think. And then I broke with him, over the summer because I don’t love him anymore - the breakup was mutual, if you’re wondering” He nods, and ready to ask you another question.

“Do you like someone now?” he reached for your hand which made you stop building the tower and intertwined it with his. You wonder why he’s suddenly so bold and confident. You nod, completely speechless.

“Is it me?” Yuta bravely asks, and you nod without hesitation.

He reached for your lips and kissed you gently, cupping your face as his thumb swipes on your cheeks admiring your beauty. Time stopped the moment you touch lips and you feel the happiness in your stomach balls up, ready to explode.

“This is probably wrong”

And suddenly that happiness you felt was replaced by confusion. He pull away from your touch leaving you so confused and still in shock. “What’s so wrong about this?” you asked him while getting him to look you in the eyes, tugging his arm so he wont’s get too far.

“I’m a drug addict y/n. You can’t be with someone like me. Cliché as it sounds but, I’m scared to ruin your life. You’re this perfect person who I happen to meet at football field and you’re just nice enough to welcome me in your life”

He looks frustrated and confused as you are but you knew damn well that meeting him is something you don’t regret. “You don’t get to push me away just because you decided to be honest with your feelings and somehow decided to be a coward afterwards” it wasn’t easy to stay calm but you tried so hard, your grip on his hand was becoming tighter and he noticed it. “I like you! And you make me happy. You’re the one who put color in my life, well literally and figuratively. But my point is, don’t throw us away” you decided to be brave and kissed him again. This time, hungrier and full of need. You sat on his lap and pushed him down slowly all the way to the floor. Hands all over each other, switching positions and rolling on the floor without stopping the kiss.

It was not a surprise for everyone when you went public, they already foresee what’s going on between you two. Your family still adored Yuta just like how they adored him from the first time they met him. The whole popularity problem in school completely changed in a good way because of Yuta. More people from school are talking to you now, they’re not scared or shy to be friends with you anymore because Yuta somehow changed everyone’s perspective. With Yuta you’re this normal person who’s happy to be with his boyfriend.

Happy days are nothing but pure laughter and great memories with Yuta. Movie night with Yuta and Ruka with a bunch of Japanese treats on the side is your new Friday night schedule. And inviting Yuta and Ruka for family dinner during special occasions has been a thing that made Yuta happy. He told you he’s a sucker for spending time with family but his family is in Japan and he can’t go home until he’s clean. That was the night you decided that you will never leave Yuta’s side.

Yuta is this bright color that made your life even more colorful. He is this man, full of surprises and definitely no dull moment. You learned how to take care of him in your own ways without making him feel sorry for himself. Vulnerable, important and ordinary, that’s what he made you feel. And by ordinary, you mean no social pressure from the people around you. Just two normal people who fell in love in a normal way. Sometimes, situations can be a handful but it was never a problem for the both of you. Yes he has drug issues but for you, Yuta deserves to be loved. And no one can stop you from loving him.

Your love for each other grew and grew until you reach being intimate with each other.

It was raining hard and the wind was strong, you decided to stay over at Yuta’s house. Already washed up and fresh, you wait for your boyfriend in his bed as he turned off the lights in his room and replaced it with scented candles.

“You look comfortable there” he giggle as he crawls in bed and sat beside you leaning on his headboard. It’s chilly and cold in Yuta’s room, you cant help but be closer to him. Closer as possible.

“You like that?” You hum and nod with eyes closed to answer him. Surprisingly, he kissed you and your eyes opened only to see Yuta’s handsome face close to yours. The kiss was slow and you were both taking time savouring this quiet memory. It went on like that for some time, until the kiss became wet and needy. He hungrily kissed you bitting and licking your lips. Hands creeping just under your shirt, all the way to your clothed boobs and skilfully unclasps your bra. Gently kneading your right boob and doing a circular motion on your nipple.

“We’ve never gone this far” you said as you catch your breath, and went back to kissing him a little bit slowly this time.

“Do you think its time?” He managed to ask you in between those soft kisses, giving you sweet pecks. You nod excitedly. “Sit between my legs” you followed what he told you, completely clueless on what he’s going to do next.

“Spread your legs wide” it suddenly became hotter as you spread your legs nervously. Your head is resting on his shoulder, back against his chest, heart beating so fast as you wait for his next move. “Yuta, can you kiss me?” your voice cracked but he just smiled, and shook his head. “Not until you remove your shorts and panties” and so you did. Hurriedly removing your thin shorts and laced panties, throwing them on the floor.

The moment his finger had contact with your wet slit you gasp and grabbed his shoulder gripping it tightly as you moan. You feel like this is new to you but it isn’t, of course you’re not a virgin anymore and Jaehyun did a fair share on that. “Yuta- Ah! Baby I’m almost there” with heavy breaths and sharp gasps, you warn him and at the same time stopping yourself from cumming too early.

“Wider” he said so calmly, you followed spreading your legs wider. Fingers drilling a little harder than before and you finally let go. Shivering and catching your breath, eyelids already heavy. He licks your parted mouth as you enjoy your high, filthy but fucking hot. His breath smells like mint.

“You seem so calm the whole time you were finger fucking me” with all the energy left in your body, you went back to laying on his side.

“Yeah well my cock isn’t” he kissed you on the forehead and tells you, “i love you, you sound beautiful the whole time. I was busy listening to you”

You have something on your mind right now that you’re somehow scared to ask because he might refuse, “I have a question” you sat up and sat on his lap. Your legs and pussy are still exposed, and you’re making Yuta’s cock even more hard. “Why did you not ever asked me to have sex with you?”

“Well will you have sex with me baby?” Just like that, straightforward and calm like the Yuta you know. You were both giggling like little kids for some time while waiting for your answer. It’s not that you don’t want to but you were just shy to say your answer out loud.

“You’re shy, aren’t you?” of course he knew you’re being shy. He’s your boyfriend who happens to know everything about you. “Well, I’m horny” he sat up to reach your lips, kissing you gently but enough to prove that he is horny. Slowly his kisses went to your neck, making you moan softly. But you pull away not telling him anything. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking right. Please don’t be mad-“

To his surprise, you removed your shirt and your unclasped bra. Now you’re fully naked on top of your boyfriend, “It’s not fair that I’m the only ones naked here, baby” you grab the end of his shirt and helped him to removed it. “You scared me” he managed to tell you in between hungry kisses, “you’re so in trouble” he added and pushed you on the mattress.

Laughing like a little girl, while Yuta is busy kissing your naked body beneath him. Your head is dangling on the edge of the bed seeing his room upside down. His cock is poking your thigh the moment he’s on top of you naked, and you’re positive that it made you nervous. “Baby, I think your cock wont fit me” your boyfriend was amused by what you just said, “It will” is the only response he said before licking your nipples and sucking them gently. He grabbed your right leg putting it on his shoulder and kneeled in between your legs, lining his cock in your entrance.

Slowly he pushed his cock inside you making you bite your hand and close your eyes to stop yourself from moaning too loud. “See? it fits” Yuta is doing the opposite, he’s groaning with every thrust he give you letting out sounds you didn’t know he can make. Whimpering like a little boy beside your neck, you can hear him clearly. As his pace goes faster you were losing your mind at how good he fucks you for the first time.

“Don’t fucking stop” with heavy breath and gasp, you reached for his neck and encircled your arms around him. Legs spreading wider for him, moans becoming a little bit louder. The bed is shaking you’re sure Ruka can hear you both.

“Y/n, if you don’t stop moaning like that- I swear” his thrust became quicker and sharper leaving you speechless. Your pussy clenched the whole time trying to fight the sensation and trying so hard not to be on edge yet. But it’s a battle you can’t win, Yuta is so good at making you let go. You didn’t say that you were cumming but he can tell because your legs were already shaking and you were grabbing everything you can on bed and gripping it a little too hard. He pulls out and pumped his cock in front of you making his cum land perfectly on your boobs. Just the sight of his cum on your beautiful body, makes him hard again.

You grabbed him with both hands through the neck, and pull him on your chest kissing him a little too harsh. Filthy as it looks but you don’t care. You spread your legs again and put a hand in between the two of you and grabbed his hard cock. Pushing it inside you again, he let you do what you want. In a matter of seconds, he’s inside you again.

“I was disappointed, you didn’t cum inside me” you pout and he thrust again without a single word making your head roll back again, smiling like a fool because you got want you want. Yuta fucked you again, but this time rougher and he get to cum inside you.

“Sorry if I didn’t cum inside you earlier” he kissed your forehead while you calm down from your orgasm. You still can’t talk and you’re still catching your breath, all you can do is smile as you wait for your legs to stop shaking.

And that was the start of having sex with Yuta with every chance you get. Making out in your room that leads to sex before doing homework. Watching the sunset through his window still naked and all over each other. Sex was different with Yuta, it was damn wild and filthy but full of love. Something you never felt before.

Whenever you’re busy working on something in the art room and Yuta needed to fetch you there, you make out with him for some time because he missed you already. Even though anyone can just enter and catch you two, he never cared.

If you’re not allowed to go out on a Friday night, he will sneak up to your room through your open window while you were sleeping and kiss you quietly until you wake up. You love having quiet sex with Yuta in your room because its funny how you two try to stop moaning too loud. On top of that, he needed to stop himself from fucking you too hard and remind him to go slow from time to time.

Your fear of giving him a blowjob because you’re not that confident with it completely changed when one day you were just so hungry for his cock and you went down on your knees and gave him a blowjob for the first time. That’s during lunch and you brought him to the locker room where you and Jaehyun used to make out before practice. To your surprise Yuta came three times in your mouth, for some reason he loved it. From there on he always ask you for a blowjob and you always gladly give him what he wants.

If there are days with him that are nothing but pure happiness, of course there are days that are almost impossible to bare. All you can do is be strong and keep your patience long, remind yourself that you love Yuta no matter what happens. You really don’t know where it all started, or what triggered him to go back on drugs but you noticed he’s been busy and he’s not telling you the whole truth whenever you ask him ‘what’s up?’

After spending six beautiful months together, suddenly Yuta is gone again for days. He’s been missing a lot again and that can only mean he’s out somewhere taking drugs or he’s taking drugs and he’s in trouble. When you came to his house, Ruka was stopping you from entering the house but you insist.

“What is it Ruka?” you know he’s hiding something from you and Yuta is inside. So you shout from the outside, forcing Yuta to come out. He did. Limping and face all beat up. You’re not mad or disappointed, you were simply worried about him. “He got home this morning, and he’s still high from drugs. I don’t think this is a great time y/n.”

You look at each other’s eyes from a far, both hurt but yours is not physical. Broken heart, that’s what pains you. It’s hard to step away from his house, looking in his eyes full of hurt. Deep down you know he wanted to hug your kiss but he can’t because he can’t fucking move and he’s too humiliated.

What you saw today was too much and you needed a breather. It’s good that its Friday, you can be with your friends and somehow divert your mind. “People can get beaten up with a lot of reasons specially when drugs is involved” Johnny says while drinking his beer and playing beer pong with the others. “Don’t think about it too much, he’s going to be okay” Yeeun shouts from another side of the table. All of your friends were supportive with the relationship you have with Yuta even though they know about his drug problems. You spent days being with your friends while Yuta is recovering and there’s not a day where you don’t check up on him.

A week passed already and theres still no sign of Yuta. You can’t just show up in front of his house again, you didn’t want to disturb his recovery. Besides, school works are pilling up you need to focus studying and finishing some of the requirements. Your mind is buried into Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and you didn’t notice you passed out. When you woke up, you found Yuta beside you all snuggled up and waiting for you to open your eyes.

“Am I dreaming?” you closed your eyes and opened them again, no you’re not dreaming. He smile a little, you figure he’s still in pain. “Are you alright now? How did you get in?” you sat up to check his face and his arm. “I’m alright, I just needed to see you. I can’t take it anymore. I missed you so much” he reached for your hands and kissed your knuckles. He pats the mattress telling you to come lay with him in bed, and you did. Fingers intertwined and bodies close to each other, just how you like it.

“Why do you stay with me? You’re this perfect girl that fell in love with an addict”

For some reason you were scared of how he asked you that question. It almost felt like he’s going to leave you. There was a minute of complete silence before you answer him, “Because thats what you do if u love someone. You don’t give up on them. And just so you know I love you, and Im in love with you”

He chuckled but still careful not to overdo it because of the bruises in his face, “I know. I know that all too well” he placed his hand just above your jaw, and left a kiss on your forehead. “I’m trying to be better for you so I wont have to leave you eventually and go to fucking rehab. I can do this right?” hearing Yuta say that made you realise you were wrong about him wanting to leave you. He doesn’t want to leave, he wanted to be better for you. You kissed him on the lips pouring everything from the past couple of weeks in it. The kiss was wet but it wasn’t because of spit, but because of tears.

After what happened, he tried being clean but he just ends up taking drugs over and over again. There was a time that you caught him taking cocaine in his bathroom and he shut the door with a loud slam and told you to go home. Seeing him do things like that pains you to the core. He never wanted to hurt you like this, he never pushed you away because deep down he wanted to be better and if that happens he wants you to be on his side.

A week before prom, Yuta made sure he’s clean and he promised you he will never ruin prom night for you. As a way of celebrating for being fourteen days clean and spending time with each other, you had sex after a wonderful night spent with Yuta.

“Fuck I missed being inside you” he whispers behind your ear while his fucking you with a steady pace. As always, the way he fucks you can make you lose your mind and smile like a fool while moaning and gasping at the same time. You closed your eyes as you let go of the feeling and cum for the first time tonight, the moment you open your eyes you see Yuta’s eyes closed completely blown by the frenzy on being on edge. And bleeding.

His nose is bleeding uncontrollably.

“Baby- you need to stop” opening his eyes to ask if he hurt you, he saw the blood on your boobs, completely panicking. “Did I do this to you baby- where does it hurt?” you were crying already, not talking to him as you quickly wore your clothes and screamed for help, calling Ruka as loud as you can.

Yuta was completely clueless but his head was spinning and he feels so weak suddenly. “Baby! Don’t close your eyes, you can die- please stay with me” you were practically slapping his face to keep him awake as you help him wear his pants.

Everything happened so fast the moment you see his nose bleeding nonstop. You and Ruka rushed him to the hospital as quickly as you can. You were alone at the waiting lounge as Ruka takes care of everything Yuta needs to stay in the hospital.

All of your friends weren’t picking up because maybe they’re sleeping and tired from practice. But one person picked up and made his way to the hospital and brought you some clothes as soon as he can.

“I’m sorry Jaehyun, I didn’t know anyone else to call. I cant just simply call my family” Jaehyun was holding you close and comforting you as you cry for a whole hour. After changing to clean clothes, Ruka called you in to talk to Yuta. While Jaehyun is hesitating to come with you, “Jae, come on its okay. He’ll be happy to see you”

You were happy to see Yuta completely awake and smiling once you opened the door and entered the room with Jaehyun. You sat beside Yuta and kissed him on the forehead, “the sex was so good, you made me bleed” he joked around making all three of you laugh and you tear up again. “What’s happening to you?” you weren’t sure you wanted to know but you do know it’s nothing good.

“I’m fine baby, no need to worry” of course he will not tell you what’s going on because he didn’t want to make you worry. “Thank you Jaehyun. For being with her” Jaehyun nods at him and pats Yuta’s arm.

Suddenly your excitement for prom is replaced with worries for Yuta’s health. He needs to stay in the hospital for a week, and that covers prom. “We’re still on for prom right?” you were laying with him on the hospital bed as he shower you with kisses. If there’s anything he hates more than anything, that is making you disappointed. “Of course” you kissed him back, making him blush. “Can’t wait to see you crowed, Prom Queen” even though that’s not important to you anymore, you just nod and rolled your eyes on him.

He did got out from the hospital a day before prom, leaving him with only a day to rest. Ruka got him a nice tux that fits him really well, and you on the other hand tried to forget things that happened last week that completely ruined your prom excitement.

After working so hard on your hair and makeup, you finished getting ready just in time for your friends to pick you up. But Yuta is not yet here, when he’s supposed to be here already an hour before your friends arrived. “I think you guys should go, I’ll wait for him a little longer. I’ll see you there, okay?” you wave goodbye to your friends as you wait for Yuta on your porch.

You called Ruka to ask about Yuta, hoping maybe he just got problems with his tux. “Hey, Ruka uhm, is Yuta still there?” his answer broke your heart. The excitement was replaced with worries again, you called Yuta’s phone a hundred times but he never picks up.

A car parked in front of your house, hoping it’s Yuta. But it’s not, it’s Jaehyun. He drove to your house because he was worried, “What’s happening?” he worriedly asked. You were still trying to call Yuta’s phone, still no answer.

“Come one y/n, I’ll take you to prom” Jaehyun offered, but as much as you wanted to accept his offer Yuta’s excitement from the other day, flashed in your mind and you know you can’t go.

“I can’t Jae, thank you and I know you mean nothing but kindness. I’ll wait for Yuta here, he will get hurt if I go without him” Jaehyun didn’t really want to leave you but you made your choice.

The moment Jaehyun left, your tears finally fall. You were crying when your mom gave you a blanket and invited you to go wait for him inside. “I’m fine, thanks for the blanket” you were so hurt to even move. And you’re not hurt because he ditched you to prom, you’re hurt because you can’t reach him and you’re worried for him. A lot of things may have happened to him and that’s what worries you.

A week later, Ruka met you after school and told you that Yuta is finishing high school through home study under your school’s supervision. “He’s still part of the school, I’ll convince him to attend graduation. But,” something bad is about to happen, you thought. “he wanted me tell you that, he’s breaking up with you” and that’s it. You burst into tears after hearing the bad news. It was so hard to breath, hearing those words from Ruka and not directly from Yuta. But you trust Yuta’s decision and maybe it’s for the best. With a heavy heart, you hugged Ruka goodbye and left without another word.

You tried putting up a big smile during graduation and hugging everyone you knew all throughout high school, except for one important person. A week after graduation, you left for college. Still with a heavy heart but you wanted to move on and have a fresh start.

Ten years later

It’s impossible to forget your first love specially if that someone made an impact to your life. You’re sitting on the very spot where you met Yuta remembering how you were charmed by his smile. Mouthing the exact same words he told you before introducing himself first, ‘You should try using soft pastels, they’re more easier to blend’ smiling after you realised you’re completely a fool for still dwelling from the past.

You shrug it of and decided to go back to your high school reunion, maybe people are already looking for you. You stood up from the bleacher, “hi” and you almost fell from where you were standing and the person in front of you is to blame.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m sorry” you told the man that it’s okay and you should get going, not even bothering to look who he might be. It’s weird that the man isn’t letting go of your hand, “Excuse me. I need my hand-“ your heart beats fast like the moment you first saw him. Nothings changed that’s for sure, except his hair color.

“Yuta” your eyes were full of tears but you were smiling the whole time. He pulled you in for a tight hug, holding you close like how he used to. It feels like a dream, you thought. A dream that you never want to end. Catching up with lost time, you spend the night with him forgetting about the high school reunion and watching over the same blue sky you used to look at years and years ago from his room.

He’s now an owner of a popular art gallery in Japan, which you happened to know about. “No way! You own that place, I went there just last year for work” he nods, and told you he knew. And he can’t believe you’re standing inside his art gallery. “I got scared. That’s why I didn’t talked to you” then you remember, on that day you were supposed to meet the owner of the gallery, “That’s why we talked to your secretary instead of the owner… which is you” he was nodding the whole time like a fool. It’s fun laughing the whole night not minding the time, he’s the same man you fell in love with.

“We missed prom because I was busy getting high” he suddenly blurted out when the both of you was silent.

“I went to your house I saw you waiting for me outside, crying because I ditched you” he’s wrong, you were crying that time because you were worried sick. But you saved your explanation for later, for now you just wanted him to explain his part.

“And I know I’m ten years late but, you look beautiful in that red lipstick. And oh! That dress on you, Mmm! I was admiring you from a far, and you were perfect” there he is again, making you laugh “and me I was high that time and I couldn’t ruin your night even more. I cant ruin your life even more” he reached for your hand and kissed it like he used to.

“That was my breaking point. After I finished the home study program, I begged my mom to put me in rehab, I want to be better for you. As always y/n. But as I got better I figured maybe you forgot about me already so I focused on getting better for myself. Went to college, had a job and now this. All better. Never want to go back” he left you speechless again, but he deserves to know the truth.

“Im sorry Yuta, I didn’t know. But for the record I was crying because I just wanted to see you that time. It doesn’t matter if you were high as a kite. I couldn’t care less about prom. I was waiting for you until the sun goes up and you never showed up. I was blaming myself maybe, I didn’t loved you enough thats why you left”

“No no, don’t say that. You were more than enough” tears never stopped falling from your eyes and Yuta hated seeing you cry. So he kissed you on the lips for the first time again for so many years. You rest your forehead on his, taking time to process everything that’s happening right now. Completely aware of what’s running in your mind right now he suggests to take things slow before coming back to each other’s lives again.

“Take all the time you need. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll never leave again”

................................................. Masterlist

Thank you for reading if you get up to this point hihi. Million thanks to every reader like you.

I had a hard time finishing this fic because the word count is originally, 9k+ and I’m not sure if my readers are up for that long fic... because I usually post fics that are 6k max long. But I guess it is what it is.

Hope someone enjoyed this fic huhu

#nct-writers #nct yuta #nct yuta smut #yuta smut #yuta nakamoto x reader #yuta nakamoto smut #nct angst #nct yuta angst #yuta angst #nct smut #nct aus #nct au #smut

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vesuvian-american-fics · 3 years

Text

Something Entirely New Ch 14

Nothing But The Sound Of Paint Brushes

You and the crew go painting with a shy amazonian painter, named Rayna. (AO3)

Words: 1,741

“Morning sleepyhead.” Asra croons, stuffing his nose into your hair and nuzzling your neck close. You had wondered why you felt extra weight dipping into your mattress this morning, and that familiar warmth of Asra’s body embracing yours. You hum in delight, giving Asra an affectionate squeeze.

“Morning indeed. How’d you sneak in here?” You ask playfully, indulging his cuddly desires as you through your leg over his waist to pull yourself that much closer to him. A mix of tangled limbs and hushed voices raspy from a long night's rest. Mornings like this with Asra weren’t uncommon back at the shop but what’s new is the sound of clanging dishes in the kitchen, rather, not any kitchen noises made by Faust. Instead, now it’s Muriel, making a quick breakfast of eggs and tea.

“You looked so cute sound asleep I couldn’t resist sliding in next to you.” He hummed taking an exaggerated sniff of your hair, the scent of shampoo he bought for you clinging to your tussled locks. You pat his shoulders signaling to him that it was finally time to crawl out of bed and give Muriel some company.

“The food smells good as always.” You commented, pulling on some clothes for the day and padding over to the washroom to brush your teeth. Asra nodded in agreeance before you listened as he glided down the stairs. The muffled conversation between Asra and Muriel brought a smile to your face.

When you entered the kitchen Muriel was just finished setting the table and pulling out your chair, you smiled at the man before placing your hand over his in silent thanks. He blushed as he nodded to you, motioning to your chair for you to sit. Your morning together was spent the same as it always had been, eating, listening to Asra chatter about his dream the night before and getting excited about the day ahead in town.

“Today we get to paint our little vases!” You exclaimed, clapping your hands together. You loved to paint, especially on mornings you secretly kept the shop closed longer than you should have when Asra was away. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you always thought, it gave you time to slow down and take a breather while running the shop alone.

Muriel offered a small smile before he cleared his throat to speak.

“You’ll have to help me again, Y/N... if you don’t mind.” He stammered out. You could tell he was working on building up his confidence with the way he spoke to you lately, it was a welcome change. The way he walks with his back straighter, he always has a small smile plastered on his lips, he keeps his eyes on yours instead of bouncing around the room to avoid you. It was like watching a flower’s petals unfurl and open up to let the sunshine in. Beautiful.

“Of course, Muriel.” You reply, smile growing just a bit wider. Asra was pouting playfully.

“Help me too, Y/N!” He said, he was already a natural when it came to paining. He was more stylistic and abstract with his work while you loved to dabble in realism. You and Asra shared a laugh before you pressed a hand to his knee.

“Yes, of course I can’t leave you out Asra~” You coo. You stood from the table, missing the way Asra deflated at the loss of your touch. Muriel silently chuckled at the drop in Asra's shoulders when you left. Muriel stood and the three of you deposited your dishes in the sink and left for town.

...

“Howdy you crazy kids!” James called from the door of his shop waving the three of you over. Asra greeted the man and you all stepped inside the pottery shop to see your vases.

“Vases lookin’ pretty darn good if I do say so myself! There’s a lot of love put into these pieces, even an amateur can see it!” James comments fondly, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly as his smile deepens. Asra grins from ear to ear, marveling at the near finished look of the vases.

“They’re perfect!” He sighs dreamily as he inspects your work. You couldn’t help but chuckle at Asra’s excitement, he was always a delightful person but this is a type of glee you haven’t seen in a while. Not unless you come home with his favorite food, blue tongued skink.

“We still have to paint them.” Muriel added, his voice was deep and flat but the faint smile on his lips was noticeable, he was happy too.

“Oh yes yes! Don’t let me hold you all day again! Go on next door and get to paintin’ these beauties! Shoo shoo!” James chortled, ushering the three of you out the front doors and right through the next shops doors. He chatted a bit with the owner before he shook your hand roughly shooting you a wink and heading out before you could even give a proper goodbye. You smiled wistfully as his short form staggered back to his own shop, the walls were thin and you could hear him greeting new customers every now and again.

The painting instructor was the polar opposite of James. A tall slender woman, long wavy strawberry blonde locks fell graciously down her back, she wore a long flowing dress that pooled at her feet with a bright shawl pulled over her shoulders, accented by a large sun hat that sat atop her head. Much like her body, her face was long and slender was well, a thin but beautifully sculpted nose right above a small mouth, large tired looking golden eyes with long blonde lashes. She was freckled, blushy, her voice was small and mousy and she stuttered quite a bit. You could tell she was awkward but it seemed her confidence lied with her work.

Her paintings were astounding, by the looks of it she could paint in just about any style or medium. Realism, abstract, paint splashes, oil paint, acrylic, water color, pastels. It was awe inspiring.

She nodded silently towards a long table set to the back of the room, offering the three of you a small smile and bow. She shuffled quickly out of the room and into what you imagined to be a tea room or kitchenette of sorts. She reappeared before you soundlessly with three steaming cups of tea.

She whispered, “I recommend acrylic paint.” She slid a box of the paint onto the table before placing three jars of water to rinse the colors, and finally fresh brushes to use. Without another word she glided across the room to sit herself in front of her large easel and continue with her own work. It was quiet, save for the sound of the morning breeze rolling through the room and rustling the lady’s plants and wind chimes. The three of you silently decided to keep quiet as well, it was comfortable and serene. Everyone at peace and creating art. Muriel would look to you for advice and you would point to whichever paint you thought would look best. He’d always nod in response, almost a bit too formal and serious for what was being discussed. He wanted his succulent to be perfect, and evidently, he imagined you were the best person to help him create that.

Asra would nudge your elbow and ask you opinion on his ideas for his vase.

“More purple? Or more gold?” He’d whisper, feline like eyes never leaving his brush as it danced along the hardened clay of his vase.

“I think there's enough purple Asra.” You’d respond trying to stifle your laughter, he’d exhale hard through his nose at your words before he got back to painting. You shook your head at him playfully before you continued your work. You admired the quality of the paints the instructor acquired, it was smooth and silky as all good paints should be. She had rare paints that she wasn’t afraid to share, due to the fact she bought all of her supplies in bulk. The rest of the morning was spent sipping tea and painting in near silence.

When the three of you finished, you noticed the painter's owlish eyes watching you over her easel. The sound of your paint brushed dripping into your water jars for the last time must has signaled to her that you were finished and ready to leave.

“Finished?” She asked in a hushed tone, eyes bouncing between the three vases. Asra's loud and bright with a mixture of lavenders and royal purple decorated with golden stars and constellations, yours was a solid color mixed with a milky white as his heavy cream had been poured directly into the paint, one that would go lovely back at the shop, it wouldn’t attract too much attention but it wasn’t bland either. Just your taste. Finally, for Muriel, he wondered if against the tans and gold of the desert would a sky-blue pot go well? You agreed and that’s what he did, not giving it much else thought. If you said it was a good idea, then it was the best idea.

“Lovely work. It’s darling.” She said, smile spreading and the apples of her cheeks tinting pink. She ushered you all to the doors and instructed for you all to let your pots dry in the window sill at home for a day and they’ll be right as rain.

“I’m sorry. I never caught your name, ma’am.” You mentioned just as you were stepping out into the early afternoon sun.

“My name? O-oh is Rayna. Have a blessed day.” She said and slipped back into her house before you could reply, you smiled before you bowed at nothing in particular and the three of you head back home to place your vases in the window.

“All the quiet made me sleepy...” Asra yawned, stretching his arms high above his head as he walked inside.

“Let’s have a lazy day in.” He whined, already heading up to his bed without another word. You chuckled at him before you heard Muriel’s stifled yawn from behind you.

“Alright, lazy day it is!” You say, dashing up the stairs to throw yourself into bed. Muriel stumbled behind you before he curled up in his own bed and the rest of your day was spent napping. A content smile remaining on your lips.

#something entirely new update #the arcana #the arcana game #asra #muriel #asriel #Muriel x reader #asra x reader #muriel x asra x reader #fluff #the apprentice

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heli0s-writes · 4 years

Text

i need a forest fire*

My submission for @jalapenobarnes‘s writing challenge. Congratulations on your milestone, Saran! Thank you for hosting! 🧡

Nomad Steve/Reader & the prompt is hiraeth- a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

The title is from James Blake’s song of the same name. 🧡

I'm also double-dipping in the smut prompts with talking dirty over the phone. 1.7k. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

“I miss you.”

“I know.”

“No… I miss you.”

He chuckles and leans his head onto the headboard of yet another motel dwelling-- their stay for the week before they continue to another city, another assignment. Can’t plant his feet anywhere yet. No roots to grow for a while. No sun to warm him.

“How’s it been?”

“Fine enough. Same as usual, gotta keep moving.”

You’re thousands of miles away—disembodied voice in his ear that reminds him of home and his bed. Reminds him of the imprint electrifying his nights—the briefness of a new thing. The wonder of a good thing. A love that sprang slow over time, caught fire overnight, burned to ashes too quick.

“How are you?”

“Mm. Fine enough.”

He hears the squeak of a door, the click of a deadbolt, and the extra chain latching on top. Then, a mattress too noisy to be yours. A familiar ritual now, when you want the little bits of him that he can afford to give. A motel some distance from the compound, always a new one with every call because you’re too careful to make mistakes. Too careful to accidentally give him away.

It makes him smile to pretend that the two of you might be in the same place, sharing the same creaky fucking bed. Maybe breaking it in—breaking it apart.

Steve grits his teeth. Hisses discreetly, but not discreet enough.

“What’s that sound for?”

“Just— in bed. In a bed.”

“Not my bed.”

“No,” he laughs, “Wish I was, though.”

“Remember the last time you were there?” Rustling as you settle down and Steve does so as well, slipping his legs beneath paper thin covers. Imitation—imagination—allowing a domestic fantasy.

He considers it-- maybe half a year ago now—and suddenly his cheeks light up. He could easily give out one of those noises again— have you catch him red-handed dreaming of splayed thighs at the edge of the mattress. Him on his knees, one hand in his lap, practically drooling and a mess from the cheek down.

“You’ve got a beard now, huh? What’ll that be like between my legs?”

Oh, hell.

“Baby…” Steve grinds his skull against the wood, shivering at prickles down his spine, “Baby… Christ. You can’t say that.”

“Are you sharing a room? Are you sharing a room?”

You fucking tease. You would like it if he was sharing a room, just so you could provoke him stupid. Jesus, Steve’s the criminal now but you’ve always been a goddamn minx if he’s ever known one. Whip fucking smart, though, and it broke his heart when you suggested that he’d need someone on the other side, that it’ll be okay, Steve, I won’t punch you too hard.

And he only loved you more when you did punch him too hard. Loved you harder when you gave him coordinates to the Raft, the codes, the blueprints lifted from Ross’ files.

He had one last night then, in your room, before it’d inevitably be ransacked and searched—bugged to hell because Ross only trusted you as far as he could throw you, even if you played all your cards right.

It’s why you catch the bus to motels with a burner phone inside the lining of your jacket. Create nonsensical rotations of locations. Schedule calls without a linear time frame. Sometimes a month, sometimes longer. It’s why he misses you so goddamn much.

“Steve…” A drawl of his name that lets him know exactly what you want of him.

“I’m not sharing a room,” he says cautiously, like a warning, “But Sam’s right next door. And it’s paper thin here.”

“You better be quiet then. You’re not Goody-Two-Shoes Cap anymore, are you? Don’t you wanna try phone sex with your girl?” His chest tightens, throat going dry at your tone, at the way you say your girl, at the possibility of phone sex—as daunting as it is exciting.

“Okay, yeah, sweetheart,” Steve shudders, reaching into his sweats because he can’t say no— he’s already half hard, anyway. Itching for it. “Yeah. You can have me. H-how do you want me?”

“Touching yourself, to start.” A sigh in your voice. He closes his eyes, swallows thickly, imagines your breath over his lips, imagines the way you pepper kisses across his chest. “I always liked watching you do that, pretty boy.”

Steve groans, stroking languidly, building himself up, focusing on the way he can just barely hear the hum in the back of your throat. “You’re pretty.”

A giggle then, snapping him out of his trance and heat overtakes the top of his head. Ugh. He’s not good at this. Being laughed at during sex—regardless of how disembodied—never a good sign. “Fuck,” He grumbles. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like it, Steve; I like you.” Just like that, he’s breathless again. “Hm, wanna know what I’m doing, pretty boy?” And his breath may never come back.

“Remember those little satin panties I wore? Ribbon ties on the side… and you pulled them off with your teeth?”

Of course he does. Delicate lavender and shimmery soft. By the time he dropped to the floor they were already wet in the middle—pastel going rich purple. Your chest-- heaving as you leaned back on the sheets, his hands on the thin skin of your knees, stretching willing legs apart.

Steve catches his cockhead with the crook of his finger. Grunts quietly into the receiver.

“Baby, are you wearing those?”

“Uh-huh, just for you.”

“Are you touching yourself—ah—thinkin’ about me?”

“Every night.”

Fuck. Jesus Christ, you’re bad. He’s gonna blow his load and the call’s only been five minutes.

“What—” another shuddering breath when he grips a little too hard, “—what do you think about me doing?”

You sigh again, whimper like a little punctuation, sheets rustling. “I think about your tongue and how wet you make me,” and your voice is so low, so needy, “I wish you were here, Steve. Touching me all over.” And the picture in his mind of you, so pretty and open, wild at the mere memory of him—

“When you get back,” and there it is, egging his own fist on to match the pace of a subtle and steady sluiced-up rhythm, your fingers working over, inside, back out, twisting and turning. “When you get back, Steve. I’m gonna let you know just how much I miss you.”

He’s hot all over, chasing the ghost of your doting kisses, the phantom touch of your skillful hands. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“Yeah? You gonna let me make you feel good when you get home?”

“Yes—yes.”

“Keep going. Think about me riding you, baby. Slow at first, how you like, taking you a little bit at a time. You’re always so hard.”

Always for you, yeah, he is. And as much as he loves tasting you—as much as he could spend eternity and a half blessed between your thighs, dedicated to those noises you make when his tongue slips over your clit—his fingers knuckle-deep inside—the way you move on top of him is another sacrament altogether.

Steve jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder—neck cramp tomorrow be damned—and uses both hands. Forgets for a little that you’re not quite there.

Slow, like you said, at first, listening to your recital, the chorus of his breath an applause.

“Now, faster.”

And he’s lost in the roll of your hips, one hand on his chest, the other gripped tight around his shoulder, nails carving crescents into his skin because you need an anchor. He’s lost in the way his heart pounds the sharper the cuts because it means you’ve let yourself go. How you scramble for his fingers next, lacing them through yours, squeezing him there and everywhere.

And oh, how exquisite you look with that sheen of sweat across your chest. Hovering over him like a goddess and fucking him like a wet dream.

“Baby,” red lip pulled pale between his teeth, hands working in tandem—imitation and imagination constructing a well-oiled machine in your absence. “Baby, fuck. Miss you on me—miss you fucking me. God--”

“Yeah? Gonna come?” You’re panting, too, noises high and obscene, the background echo of your hand growing more frantic and unrestrained. “Me too, pretty boy. I want to do everything with you—have all of you. Your hands, your mouth, your cock.”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “I wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. He’s barely finished rucking down his sweats, pulling up the hem of his shirt last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids. He’s spilling out, over his fist, up his clenched abdomen, entire body tight, panting heavy and hard as he tugs at himself a few more times, breathing and listening, heart still clobbering against his ribcage when you whimper one last time.

The comedown is aching, then. His eyes flutter open. Heat smothered cold and lonesome like those ashes. His neck hurts. His heart hurts.

“Steve,” and he hears it in you, too—the same ache, the same want. Like at the end of every call you’ve made to him in the past six months.

“Steve,” you say again, “It’s okay. You’ll be back soon enough. You’ll have me then. Every night if you’d like.”

Of course he would, but he can’t voice it now, not in all this dark, not when the pain is bubbling up in his throat, not when he loves you so much he can’t stand to worry you with its sound.

“Look on the bright side, you lawless fugitive. Least you know how to have phone sex now. Cap would never.” He laughs at that, happiness like tinder sparking fast from a flame. “You’ll be home soon.”

Home. Home. A place with his bed and his girl. Planting his feet down safely. Growing roots in that rich, soft soil, sprinkled with ash. Tended to by the warmth of your touch.

“Yeah. I will,” he says, and the fire chases away the dark.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #reader insert #fanfiction #marvel #mcu

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bosspigeon · 3 years

Text

one for sorrow

Pairing: Gen, M!Detective/Mason Word Count: 3483 Summary: Juniper Fenn reflects on memories, nursery rhymes, loneliness, and wanting to be wanted.

Just a little (uh... kinda big, actually?) character study for my soft boy, Juni! It wound up a lot more emotional than I originally intended, but I like having this insight into his character.

CW for (implied) deadnaming, misgendering, coming out, and in the last portion a non-graphic post-sex scene with some allusions to said sex ahfdsjh.

One for sorrow, two for joy.

He thought the needle would hurt more than it did. He closes his eyes and looks away, and the artist gives him the hairy eyeball when he clutches at Tina’s knee, like she’s afraid he’ll jump off the bench and bolt for the door. He wants to ask if that’s happened before, but he thinks he’s made enough of a fool of himself so far.

“You sure you’re good?” she asks, giving him an out. Somehow, that just strengthens his resolve.

He takes a slow breath and nods, closing his eyes.

He hears the buzzing, and when the machine first touches skin, he almost jumps, but he’s more worried about looking like more of a baby than he already does than he is startled, so he bites his lips and forces himself to holds still. And it does hurt, but not like he thought it would. He squints one eye open to watch the progress of the first line over his skin. He expects to be repulsed, like when he’s having bloodwork done, and he has to look away from the needle going into his arm. But this is different, somehow. Doesn’t make his stomach turn.

“This is the quietest I’ve ever seen you,” Tina teases, when the first wing has taken shape. He almost jumps again, but he manages to contain it to a twitch. He’s going to tip the artist as much as he’s able after this is done, just for dealing with someone as fidgety as him.

He chews at his lip. “It’s… I dunno. I wouldn’t say it feels good, but it’s kind of soothing, in a weird way?”

She leans over, watching, and the artist gives her a bit of a look, so she backs up again. “Have you told your mum?” she asks.

He snorts out a laugh and looks away, back at the stencil on his arm that will soon be filled in with black feathers and ringed with flowers. “Of course not. She’d probably kill me.”

“She doesn’t like tattoos?” Tina tilts her head, watching his face like she’s waiting for him to start whining about how it hurts. She’s always been the tougher of the two of them, and he’s got no illusions about that, so he’s sort of proud of himself for keeping his cool—as much as he’s got anyway.

He shrugs the arm that’s not under the machine, and wonders when he’ll get his next tattoo. He’s already got ideas for more, and knowing that it’s not so bad as he was worried it would be is exciting. Not to mention, it’s something that’s just for him. Not for anyone else. He’s… never really done anything like this before. “I don’t know what she likes, but I doubt she’d approve.”

She sucks her teeth and he squeezes her knee again when she gives him that soft, sad look she sometimes does when his mum comes up in conversation. “What’s it going to be?” she asks suddenly. Tina’s a good friend, changing the subject before he can get moody about it.

“A magpie,” he says softly, looking back down to watch the lone bird slowly taking shape on his skin.

Three for a girl, four for a boy.

He asks what happened to all the pretty paintings around the house when he’s ten, because they disappear sometime after one of Mum’s visits, when she seemed more distant than usual. Maybe she hopes he won’t notice, but he misses them immediately. The house is too bare without them, it feels so lonely. It’s always been lonely, ever since Dad passed, but the bare walls make it even lonelier. Mum brushes it off, of course. He’s used to it at this point, so he doesn’t push her, but he’s also stubborn, so he goes looking. He’s even more determined when she tries to shut him up by replacing them all with clean, impersonal prints in neat little frames. He finds them in the attic, tucked away in a box, each one slipped carefully into a protective sleeve or folder and wrapped in tissue paper. He finds a dreamy matted watercolor of him as a baby, fat and freckly and smiling with no teeth, and he has to take a minute to sit down and cry as quietly as possible before he can start going through the rest. There’s a folder of scrawled pencil portraits, too. He finds one of Mum sitting on a pier, peeking back over her shoulder with her hair blowing in the wind. She’s smiling. He can’t remember the last time he saw her smile.

There’s a self portrait that makes him laugh through his tears, because the reflective surface Dad seems to have used as his mirror is a Christmas ornament, so his face is distorted, one eye huge, his tongue out, drawing himself drawing. He keeps that one for sure, and a few of the other ones he thinks he can get away with. An oil pastel of a wooden swing dripping with honeysuckle, a colored pencil drawing of the library, a few studies of people and plants and animals, and another watercolor of the three magpies, sitting in a juniper tree.

There are three magpies painted on his bedroom wall, from back when it was his nursery. Dad painted them right after he was born, before they brought him home from the hospital. They’d waited until he arrived to know what his gender would be. Of course, he went and messed that up, like he did most things. Sometimes he wonders if Dad would be disappointed, or if he’d think it was funny.

They used to be above his crib, and then his bed when he outgrew that, but he moves his bed to the opposite side of his room when he’s fourteen, and covers them with a poster. He thinks for sure Mum’s going to give him an earful about it, but he’s surprised she hasn’t tried to cover them up herself. He supposes it’s not really an issue, since when she is home, it’s not like she spends any time in his bedroom.

And then he's sixteen, and he’s been practicing his watercolor for years at this point. Sometimes, he creeps into the attic when he’s got the house to himself, rifles through Dad’s paintings, studies his style for as long as he can. He’s been old enough not to need a proper nanny for years now, though someone comes to check up on him frequently and make sure he’s got food and necessities, but beyond that he’s got plenty of time alone. He sits in the attic until he's sore from the wooden floor, trying to think of how Dad’s hands might have looked while he worked, the speed and angle of his brush strokes. He doesn’t think he can find anything new at this point, as many times as he’s snuck up here to look at Dad’s work, but out of the blue, he finds what might have been a really nice landscape, if it weren’t marred by fat little handprints in bright yellow and green, as if he’d smeared his hands across the palette the second Da took his eyes off it, and slapped them down in the middle of the paper. He comes back to it a lot, when he spends time in the attic, because when he looks at it, he swears he can hear what he imagines Dad’s laugh sounded like, his voice calling him a little menace with all the fondness in the world.

And then he’s eighteen, and he’s alone on his birthday. Mum calls, tells him she loves him and she would come and visit him later on, so they could do something together, but she couldn’t take the day off. She tells him how proud she is of her daughter being all grown up, and he winces, but keeps his mouth shut.

And then he maybe gets a little bit drunk, drags out his paints and brushes, rifles through the portfolio hidden carefully in the back of his closet, and finds the painting with the juniper tree and the three magpies

He takes another shot to steady his nerves, and paints in a fourth.

Five for silver, six for gold.

He shouldn’t be surprised Mum doesn't come to his graduation, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. She’s busy, she’s always been busy, she’s been busy since he was a toddler.

He was stupid to believe anything he did would be important enough for her to bother with. To believe that he could matter to anyone enough.

Tina’s stepmum had more foresight than he did, inviting him along to her and Tina’s celebration dinner at a fancy restaurant out of town, and he has to take a minute to cry in the bathroom after they proudly present him with a messily wrapped gift and a card that practically explodes with glitter when he open it, but he can’t even pretend to be annoyed because it has his name in it, and while he's trying very hard not to break down crying in public, Tina hugs him so tightly his spine creaks and tells him she couldn’t have wished for a better brother.

When they drop him off at home, his eyes are still red and a bit wet, he’s full of good food and affection, and he’s smiling like an idiot in spite of the fact that he can’t stop sniffling. The heavy sterling silver magpie skull charm rests against his collarbone, the weight comforting in a way he can’t hope to put into words. He'll never forget Tina’s dewy, smiling eyes as she clasped it around his neck and told him proudly, “Now you’ve got two.'"

He falls into bed holding the charm, reluctant to take it off, but knowing he should put it somewhere safe before bed. He exhales a happy sigh, laughing a bit wetly to himself.

And then his phone vibrates in the pocket of his slacks, and his heart seizes in his chest.

He doesn’t have to check the ID to know who it is. Nobody ever calls him, and his eyes flicker anxiously to the pressed dress in its plastic garment bag still hanging untouched on the back of his closet door. He’d given Tina the expensive name-brand heels for her own graduation outfit, because even if he did want them, he couldn’t walk in the damn things anyway. Lucky for him, they wear the same size shoe.

He takes a moment to calm his breathing, but that means he has to fumble to answer the call before it ends, and he winces when he sees two more missed calls in his log. “Mum!” he blurts, his voice instinctively pitching higher. “Hi! How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she tells him easily. “I’m sorry again I couldn’t make it today. There was a—”

“A big project, I know,” he finishes. It’s always a project, or a trip, or a meeting. The details are always scant, but Mum knows how to make it sound big and important and in need of her attention. He’s tried not to be bitter about it, but there’s always been a part of him that wishes, for once, she’d decide he was important enough to need her attention. “It’s okay, Mum.” It’s not, it never was, but it would be selfish of him to tell her that. She’s got enough to worry about.

“Well, I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten, so I had a gift delivered. It should have arrived today.”

He bites back a sigh. He wonders if it would be easier if she had just forgotten. If it would hurt less than knowing she always made the decision not to see him. “Oh, I’ll go check!” he blurts, trying to inject as much enthusiasm into his voice as possible. He rolls out of bed and heads for the door, poking out to check the mailbox. Of course, inside there is a slim, rectangular package, wrapped in tidy brown paper. The address and names are printed on stickers.

He takes it inside with the phone tucked against his shoulder, weighing the box in his hands. It’s light, and he wants to be excited about whatever it is, but he’s suddenly drained from the day, from crying and laughing and crying some more.

The dining room, somehow, has always felt more lonely than anywhere else in the house, and he’s never been able to figure out why, but he puts the package on the table and starts picking at the neat wrapping. Mum is quiet on the other end of the phone, waiting, and Juni wants to break the odd silence, but can’t even begin to think of what to say. He wishes he didn’t bite his nails, because it takes him way too long to break into the pristine paper, and inside is a long red jewelry box. When he lifts the lid, there is a delicate gold necklace resting on a soft velvet pad, understated and objectively lovely, if not really his style, but it’s the note that flutters out of the box that catches his attention. His eyes skim the note, expecting her usual platitudes that he sometimes wonders if she has someone else type for her.

I am so proud of the woman you’ve become.

His breath leaves him in a painful, strangled rush, his lungs squeezing tight in his chest. And before Mum can speak, he blurts "I can't take this," trailed by a ragged sob.

“Of course you can,” she says gently, kindly. “I know how you get about expensive gifts, but really, it’s no trouble—”

His head fills with screaming static when she calls him what she’s always called him, what she doesn’t know better than to call him, because he’s never told her. He’s never had the chance, it’s never been the right time, it felt wrong not to do it in person, but whenever he sees her in person he feels like he shouldn’t waste the time with her by bringing up something so…

“My name is Juniper!” It explodes out of him, louder than he’s ever been with her, and it stuns her into silence. “I’m not your daughter!” he cries desperately, “I’m your son. You can’t be proud of the woman I’ve become, because I’m not a woman!” He sounds insane, he knows he does, shrill and frantic, but his heart is hammering so hard he feels dizzy, the walls are yawning wide around him, the dining room feels huge and so empty and so bleak. He’s never felt more alone in this dark, quiet house he’s spent his entire life rattling around in than he does in this exact moment, and it’s suffocating. His phone drops from shaking fingers onto the floor, and he drops with it, curling into a ball and struggling to remember how to breathe, dizzily hoping he won’t need to go scrambling for his inhaler. His fingers clench so tightly around the heavy silver charm he’s almost worried he’s going to snap the simple leather cord, but he needs to ground himself or he feels like he’ll dissolve entirely.

He hears Mum calling the name that’s not his, and when he finally manages to fumble his phone with nerveless fingers, he winces seeing the screen is cracked. “I’m sorry,” he sobs weakly, his eyes burning with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He can’t even be sure what he’s apologizing for, but he knows he has to, especially when he slams the end call button and buries his face in his knees so he can cry alone in the dark.

Seven for a secret, never to be told.

Juni’s skin is starting to get clammy, but he’s too comfortable to move. Eventually, he’s going to have to, if for nothing else than to get up and get cleaned up, but for now, he’s happy, if a little chilly. He nuzzles into the soft curls dusted across Mason’s chest, and lets his eyelids fall to half-mast, just open enough to absently count the freckles hidden under the chest hair, inevitably lose count, and start counting again. Mason smells good, cooling sweat and sandalwood, and dozy as he is, it takes a moment for Juni to realize he doesn’t really smell like smoke at all anymore. His room doesn’t smell lke smoke, either, he realizes. His heart thuds hard behind his ribs.

He gets distracted when a shiver rolls over him, the chill suddenly overwhelming against his sticky skin, and he curls further into Mason’s chest in an attempt to leach some of his warmth.

Mason clicks his tongue, and Juni’s whole body stiffens, worry zinging into his gut to rattle around there like a bird in a too-small cage. Mason shifts underneath him, and he starts to roll away, to apologize, to get out of his hair, before a strong hand clasps the back of his neck.

“Hold still,” Mason grunts, sitting up and patting around for the edge of the blanket. He pulls it out from under them both, which almost sends the detective rolling off the bed against his will this time, but Mason's hand shifts down to spread across his lower back and hold him steady until he can get them both tucked underneath.

He flops back against the pillows again, one arm tucked under his head and the other loose at his side, and slowly, cautiously, Juni crawls his way under it. The hand lands on his hip and squeezes, and Juni settles his head back on the vampire’s chest just in time to hear the pleased little rumble there. He flushes down to his chest and bites his lip, distracting himself by petting at Mason’s chest hair.

And then he pokes his flat, brown nipple and says, “Boop!” on some stupid impulse, and giggles like an idiot.

Mason scoffs and rolls his eyes, but shifts so that Juni’s thigh hitches up over his. “Keep that up, sweetheart, and we’ll be going into round two sooner rather than later.” Juni can feel the truth in that statement against his thigh, and he blushes so hotly he knows Mason can feel it at every point their bodies are touching. He might be approaching supernova levels of heat when Mason smugly adds, “Well, round two for me. Three for you.”

He hides his face in Mason’s chest with a long groan. “I’m going to explode,” he declares. “I’m going to collapse like a dying star.”

Mason laughs, sharp and startled and shockingly bright, and Juni’s head shoots up so he can see his face. His hair is a mess, but of course it still looks amazing, hanging around his face in loose, sweat-damp spirals. His vulpine grey eyes are crinkling at the corners, even his sharp nose wrinkling in a way that makes Juni’s heart almost stop. And his mouth, usually either pinned into a scowl, or twisted into a sly (and stupidly attractive) smirk, is curled into a smile, breathtaking in its open softness.

God, I love you, Juni wants to cry, his heart pounding in counterpoint to the desperate, silent declaration he traps behind his teeth by digging them into his lower lip so hard he’s almost afraid he’s going to make himself bleed. And it doesn’t stop. I love you, I love you, I love you drums in his chest, hums through his blood, and when Mason catches him looking, he reaches out to push the tangled forelock of curls hanging in Juni’s eyes out of his face, cupping his cheek to pull him into a kiss. Juni shivers and braces his hand on Mason’s chest, feeling the vampire’s heart thumping there, steady and stable and achingly familiar. His own matches it beat for beat, and thankfully his mouth is too occupied for the pulsing plea of love me, love me, please love me to spill out. So he dives into it, clings to it, and when Mason breaks away to let him breathe, Juni buries his mouth against the arch of his throat instead, presses messy kisses to his collarbones, his chest, his shoulders, throttles the words before they can escape him and pushes them into touches instead. Touches can’t damn him the way words can.

There’s a soft, shameful part of him he ignores like he always has that whispers to him that maybe, just maybe, if he pours enough of himself into every kiss, every touch, that the words will finally be understood. That the weak little part of him he buries deeper and deeper every time it cries out will finally be seen, and answered, and cradled tenderly in someone’s strong, freckled hands.

But until then, it will sit there in his chest under lock and key and ache, like all his secrets do.

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 36

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers

The passage of time was a difficult thing to judge by the moonless and sunless sky. There were no clocks in your quarters either, which only made the matter more confusing.

The adrenaline was still running high in your veins when you focused on finding any traps or hidden passages in the rooms Loki and you had been sent to. Everything felt new and strange, and you still couldn't quite wrap your mind around the fact that you'd successfully left the Earth.

You wondered if you were the first human to ever walk the Edge.

"Is it night already?" you finally voiced your confusion to Loki, looking over the opposite wall.

There was not much to inspect in the living room, since it barely contained any furniture. The walls there, for all you could tell, had nothing suspicious about them, except for the remarkable carvings made directly into the stone. They mostly consisted of nature and beings similar to the High Prince you'd already met. The poses seemed mostly symbolic, but it was difficult to guess the meaning behind them without any knowledge of the Edge's culture or history.

There were some other carvings, too, but you couldn't look at them for too long. There was a strange discomfort when you tried to focus on the details of figures that seemed to have too many eyes or limbs or were shaped in ways flesh should not be able to bend. There was a depth to some of them that made you carefully brush your hand over them to make sure they were actually flat. The only thing you felt then was the chilly cold of the stone under your skin, and nothing close to the drowning depth of the outlines on its surface that seemed to drag you into the void. It was a similar feeling to the dizziness you tried to fight around the Prince.

"It's the closest thing to night the Edge has," Loki said. He extended his hand over the chimney in the bedroom, using his magic to detect any irregularities. The Edge was not a place that would welcome foreign magic, and it made using it difficult. He felt himself growing tired every time he used it.

"How do you know?"

"By the light. Violet means night, then it changes to blue around morning, and then shifts into orange near afternoon. As far as I'm concerned, there is no noon or the concept of hours as we know it, but the day lasts for roughly 24 hours, so for my own personal use, I divide it that way."

"But what casts that light?"

You groaned as you pushed a heavy table out of the way to inspect the floor. You had watched too many movies on Earth to make the mistake of not checking each and every tile.

"Nothing. The Edge simply… makes it."

Loki winced, putting his arm down. The chimney seemed to be normal. He had lost track of time too, but a few hours must've passed since your arrival. It was a comforting thought to know the place you were supposed to spend the next few days was a rather safe one, but Loki couldn't shake off the feeling they might've missed something.

He walked over to the corner you almost finished inspecting.

"What do you mean?" you asked, glad to have a conversation to fill in the strange silence in the rooms. Even through the large windows, there was no sound of birds, insects or any other living creature on the other side of it.

Loki leaned on the wall.

"The Edge is… not entirely made out of matter, as most worlds are supposed to be. Atoms, I think they’re called on Earth. Magic makes up around half of the Edge, and only leaves so much for the matter. It's a unique trait, not seen anywhere else in the known universe. It's a fascinating thing, and there are a lot of theories circulating around about its origins, but that would take too much to properly dive into. To put it simply, the Edge is one of the places where intent shapes reality. Some natural laws that we take for granted might not apply to this place at all. Like the lack of sun or the moon, for example. Or the breaches."

That was certainly an interesting concept to think about in the middle of almost-a-night.

"Every answer I get only creates more questions," you admitted, finally leaving the floor. The passage of time might have been difficult to measure, but your body was slowly catching up to all the hours it lived through since waking up in the morning on Earth.

"I've had centuries to study every scrap of information Asgard's libraries held about this place," Loki shrugged apologetically. "I wouldn't outright call it an obsession, but my interest in the Edge was great enough to accompany me during a lot of sleepless nights."

"Don't say it like I'd ever shame you about it. It's good that at least one of us knows vaguely what's going on. I won't be able to catch up on all that, but I have to know more if we actually plan to investigate this murder. I don't think we can treat this case as a typical one."

Loki winced again, crossing his arms. He sat down on the huge bed. "I have no idea what's going on. It took Asgard so long to finally install an ambassador here, and now he's murdered along with a lord? It makes no sense unless someone was fond of yet another war."

"Would it be so strange? Wars are waged all the time."

You fell onto the soft mattress next to him with a delighted sigh. The covers were divinely cold under your cheek as you rolled on top of them.

A small smile played on Loki's lips as he watched you. "That's true, but the Edge has no means of winning it. There is no army here, no one to even draft in one."

That made you freeze mid-roll. "The Edge is empty?"

"No, but-"

"You know what? You look like you're about to give a lengthy explanation, and I can't focus right now because of this bed, so how about I take a quick shower and you tell me about it all during it?"

"Do you want me to join you?" he asked with mischief in his eyes that made your knees a little more shaky than usual.

"Maybe later, you naughty god. We'll have all the time we want once you tell me, precisely, how deep of shit we are in right now."

Your hand patted Loki's arm briefly before you made it towards the large bathing chamber. You left the doors creaked open, so he sat next to them, with his back to the wall. The murmur of running water filled his ears, but he didn't turn.

A single greenish wil-o'-the-wisp played between his fingers as he recalled the tales he'd read as a kid.

"The Edge is not an empty place, but it is far from having a society. It's mostly made up of individuals of various races and origins, that have nothing in common except that they live in the various parts of the Edge. The only exceptions are the 'lords' I've already mentioned. They look as the High Prince or the Queen, and dwell around the places of power, like this palace. The names might be confusing, because they certainly are not a ruling party. There is no ruler of the Edge, the lords simply have… a duty to fulfill."

"Which is?" you asked over the sounds of the splashing water.

"To die."

The water stopped. "I don't think I heard you right."

"Their duty is to die, and in doing so, restore the magic-matter balance that is so fragile in this place," Loki explained with his heart heavy.

The greenish light moved along his fingers, jumping from one to another like a living creature. Even such a simple spell was distorted by the powers raging under the calm surface of the edge of the universe.

"There are three lords chosen for that purpose - the King, the Queen, and their child. Those are titles, for their names no longer matter once they're chosen. They are the strongest of lords at the time, which makes their connection to the core of the Edge extraordinarily strong. Which is why, when they fade one after another, all the magic and the matter they've been, feeds that core and brings back the balance. Right now, the King is gone, the Queen is fading, and when she's dead, most of the breaches you've seen from the window will be fixed. For the time being, of course. Until another one is needed."

"Does it… have to be them?"

There was uneasiness in your voice that Loki couldn't blame you for. He remembered his own shock when he had discovered the truth all the centuries ago.

"No," he said. "But because they are the strongest, their connection is the greatest. Many more weaker beings would have to die in order to replace just one. But don't be sad, love. The lords think of it as a great honor and are grateful for restoring the balance to this shattered place. It is not a world, after all. It's just a state of things on the verge of the universe."

"That's… sad."

"It is."

Loki put out the little light. It felt off in the violet radiance.

The water splashed as you washed off the events of the two worlds, so different from each other. Without the words to fill in the silence, Loki had to forcefully steer his mind from conjuring images fitting to what he'd been hearing.

Loki cleared his throat. With nothing to focus on, his gaze involuntarily kept falling onto the crack you left the door with. It was only there in order to hear him talk, he knew that.

It was not for lurking. Definitely not.

Right?

Overanalyzing every moment of the conversation previous to that, Loki didn't even notice when the sounds changed. He was only brought back to reality by the soft steps and a thrilling sight of two barely covered legs passing right next to him.

"What?" you shrugged, noticing the look on his face. "I forgot my clothes."

The pastel blue robe rode further up your thighs as you crouched next to Loki's bag, searching in its depths. You didn't seem to be in a rush.

"And people say I'm the villain," he shook his head with a smirk he couldn't stop.

"I've got absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you don't," Loki eyed the glistening skin, not yet dried completely. The aroma of whatever oils you'd used teased him every time he breathed your scent in.

He noticed you staring at him with a smile that told him all he needed to know.

"I'm going to repay you one day," he promised, standing up from the floor. "Slowly, and meticulously."

"I hope so. But for today, I think you need to prepare for that lovely murder."

Loki cursed, walking into the bathroom and closing the doors firmly behind his back. He cursed again under the shower cold enough to rattle even his teeth.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki laufeyson imagine #i love loki #marvel #mcu #enemies to lovers

138 notes · View notes

hhoriginalworks · 3 years

Text

read it and weep | g.w

warnings: language, unedited

Hogwarts viewed the Weasley twins similarly, but also so drastically different. They were identical to the grouping of freckles on their bums-something everyone had seen after they mooned Snape- and yet, George wasn't the showstopper twin. Sure everyone loved him as much as Fred, but everyone knew that Fred had some undeniable charm that made him stand out just a millimeter more. George drew the crowds in, but Fred was the one who blew them away. George was the one to spike butterbeer with firewhiskey, but Fred was the person who would convince the most sensible Ravenclaws and meek Hufflepuffs to chug it.

It was a small difference, but for twins who had been viewed the same for so long, it seemed to be enough of a difference. It didn't change whose business it was because it was both equally theirs, but it changed who said the most catching phrases and who drew up the marketing strategies. It was a well-oiled machine of laughter and fun-filled jokes until it wasn't. Until George was thrown into fame for being a Weasley and the only remaining founder of a joke shop that reminded him of everything that fame cost.

Now, the world viewed the Weasley twins in very drastic ways. They viewed one alive and the other lost honorably to the war.

George hated it all- the pity, the title of being the alive twin, feeling like he was letting down Fred by keeping the shop boarded up, and even worse, all of the flowers. He was knee-deep in roses, pansies, peonies, and ever so dreaded, calla lilies. He frankly wanted to burn them all.

"Aren't these, lovely, George," Angelina hummed, trying to lift the spirits of the apartment above the shop. Angelina started to make her visits a daily thing, and she hated that she agreed that George seemed to haunt the apartment more than Fred.

"Not really," George sighed, tossing the pastel peonies into the trash. "If I get another floral arrangement, I'm going to burn the entire flat down."

"Okay then," Angelina replied, taking a deep breath in an attempt to gain more patience with the redhead. She loved George, but he had been in this state of pessimism for months now, and all she wanted was to yell at him. "Well, if you hate them so much, why don't you visit the flower shop across the street and ask them to stop sending them."

_______

You were up to your ears in orders for tombstones, for surviving family members, for family members that are reconciling after realizing how short life is, but mostly, for George Weasley. It was good for business you guessed, but you missed orders for wives that didn't know about their husbands' romantic surprise, for children that got brilliant marks, for birthdays, really, for anything but George Weasley.

The words of condolences weighed you down, the tear-stained paper messages tore at your heart, and the thought of all the people who were lost to the war killed you with each positioned flower. Flowers were always something you loved, but now they were tainted with tears and memories of children's screams.

"Hello?" The echos from the front room were enough to nudge you out of your dreary thoughts.

"We're- we're closed," you called back, touching your hand to your wet cheek.

"Well, I need to talk to the owner," the voice bit back with less hesitance and more bitterness. You wanted to scream that closed meant you didn't have any obligation to help him, but you didn't. You closed your eyes and pushed yourself away from the flower arrangement table and towards the front room.

"What do you need?" You asked, your eyes still partially closed. It would be a lie if you didn't admit to doing it to show the customer you were tired and done with the day.

"I need the flowers to stop."

You opened your eyes, somewhat shocked and offended by his word. "Excuse me- you want me to do what?"

"To stop- I don't need them. They are crowding my apartment, and to be quite frank if they don't stop, I'll have to start burning them." The redhead was lanky and tired-looking. He was as pale as a ghost and looked just as haunted.

"I-I- don't understand, sir," you attempted, your customer-friendly facade starting to fade as the redhead rolled his eyes. "What is your name?"

"George Weasley, and what's yours? Are you the manager? Can you do something to help me or not?" His words were drowned out of the sound of your own thoughts streaming through your mind.

"Oh." With all the orders for the infamous George Weasley, you had promised yourself to say something reassuring to him if you ever saw him in person. Yet, all you could manage was 'oh.'

"Can you just stop them? I don't need flowers- I don't need bunches of stupid plants that just die after a few days. Just stop them, okay?" George looked as though his facade was starting to slip too. Something about the way he begged you made your eyes well with tears and your heart to stop.

"I'm y/n, and I want to help you resolve this issue, but I can't stop sending them," you replied, shaking as you conjured up a list of all the orders you still had to finish for him. "They already paid for your flowers-"

"They aren't my flowers because I refuse them. I don't want flowers. I don't understand what you don't get about what I'm saying. I want my brother- I want Fred. Flowers do nothing to fix this fucking hole in my heart. They are worthless- they- they-"

"They are all anyone can do," you interrupted, taking a step closer to George. "You think that people don't want you to have your brother back? Flowers are the language of love, of guilt, of hope, of grief. People just want to show you that they are hurting too."

"By drowning me in fucking roses, lilies, and ugly arrangements that just shrivel up in a matter of days? You just want to make a quick buck," George argued back, running his hands through his hair.

"I resent that statement, sir. I pour my own love and grief into those arrangements. I handwrite those notes from people who are just trying to reach out to you. I-I cast my own enchantments on those flowers to ensure that they only die if the person who receives them hasn't read the card within a matter of days," you shouted back. "You haven't even read what people are trying to tell you?"

"No, because I don't need their pity," George yelled back, his voice starting to crack.

"George, I miss seeing you at family breakfast on Sunday. Mum is a mess without both you and Fred. You said you liked the daisies I picked and placed on the table. Sending these to remind you that you still have a family waiting for you on Sunday. Ginny." Your voice shook as you read out one of the messages that touched you the most. "George, I'm sorry I told that joke. I'm sorry that it wasn't me. I have so many sorrys to say, but I can't get myself to write them all. The only thing I've ever done right by you is when I took the blame for ruining mum's white hyacinths. Please write to me- Percy."

"Stop it," George plead, his anger melted away and his voice raw with sadness. His words tore you to piece, but you continued because so did the words that so many people wrote to him.

"Weasley, you were always a troublemaker. Never quit even when I told you it was gonna land you in detention, cleaning after the Hippogriffs. I know you're a strong one, so don't quit on us. Sending you some ivy from my hut and some of those fancy roses. Hagrid," you continued, your voice stronger as your cheeks became caked with tears. "People don't know how to reach out to you, so they send flowers because flowers mean something. You mean something to them, and nearly all of those arrangements are shared memories. You can't burn them like you're burning the bridges of your friendships and families."

"I-I-"

Silence filled the small shop, and distance formed between you and the redhead. Perhaps it was the notes you had recited or the fact you finally let yourself feel the grief you were surrounded in, but you felt everything had changed.

"I hate being surrounded by flowers that are just attempts to save others from grief too, but they mean something those who sent them. I- I'm sorry, but I can't stop sending them," you whispered, wiping your cheeks dry.

George seemed just as changed, his anger and bitterness stripped from him, only to leave behind the fact that he felt alone and guilty. "Can you do something for me? Please, um, y/n."

"Sure," you breathed, straightening out the front of your shirt.

"Can you help me order some flowers for my family and friends?"

You smiled- an honest smile that wasn't weighed down by sadness. "I'll help you make some flower arrangements for your friends and family, George."

#holyhead-hufflepuff archive

14 notes · View notes

suntrastar · 4 years

Text

abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!! chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it.

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors.

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself. The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on.

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath. “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

45 notes · View notes

1-800-roflmao · 3 years

Text

Wash Day Delight Pt. 3

Rating: General Audiences

WARNINGS: None

Fandom: Undertale (Video Game)

Relationships: Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Papyrus (Undertale) & Reader, Papyrus (Underfell) & Reader

Characters: Papyrus (Undertale), Reader, Edge (UF Pap), and Mentions of Other AU Skeletons

Additional Tags: Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader Is Not Chara (Undertale), reader is poc, Reader has curly hair, Undertale Monsters on the Surface, Friendship, Wholesome, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I'm Bad At Summaries, Not Beta Read, Romance if you squint, Subtext, Let Papyrus be Sassy, Edge Is The Unwilling Dad Friend, Idiots in Love, Fluff and Humor, Slice of Life

*I was vague with reader's scent on purpose. Some of use love coconut milk or oil or Shea butter, but it's not universal. I like Manuka honey blends~

And it's always the bra that get ditched first!

PREVIOUS || FIRST || NEXT

“So, what took so long with Mrs. Ida?” She had just finished locking up the house and they were now descending the back staircase. It had been a mad dash to get finished and out the door since she flustered Papyrus in the bathroom. If it was petty vengeance for teasing him, she didn’t know, but he had threatened to carry her out in a much similar way to how he does with Sans if she didn’t “MAKE HASTE.” Needless to say, she hadn’t been given a moment until now to inquire what had happened earlier that evening. “I was startin’ ta wonder if you’d gotten lost…” she mumbled, her tone giving away just how worried she had been despite trying to joke it off now. She could hear him lightly click his teeth in acknowledgement.

“Mrs. Ida Had Not Driven Here,” he started and she arched a brow before chuckling as it clicked. How had she not considered a woman of Ida’s age might not drive? Would it have been presumptuous to have asked though? “She Had Said She ‘Caught’ A Cab, But Not Literally,” he was rambling a bit, but she wasn't complaining. She lifted her gaze from the paved pathway they were walking along and up to her friend. She could hear an edge of bashfulness to his voice as he admitted the old woman taught him about “euphemisms.” His retelling was quickly veering off into a tangent, ranging from complaining and praising the many different facets of language to pondering if it was worth getting his brother some study materials. He griped it was a fifty-fifty chance to either improve his jokes and puns, or make them so much worse.

“Oh, I think it’d be worth it!” she piped up, looking away as he cut off his rant and directed his gaze down at her. She didn’t need to look at him right now. She could very easily guess his expression and just knew those sockets of his were narrowing as he sent her a suspicious look.

A beat of silence then “THEN I WILL LEAVE SANS ALONE.”

She fought back a giggle, “Aw, c’mon! Don’t you want his puns to be up to your standards?” She tipped her head back as she directed a cheeky grin his way.

Papyrus just huffed, crossing his arms over his chest which was now missing the pastel sweater from earlier. He had taken it off before they left the house to reveal his “Jog Boy” top. “IT IS OBVIOUS YOU ARE HOPING FOR THE OPPOSITE!” he rebuked, “AND DON’T EVEN TRY TO ARGUE. I KNOW YOU TOO WELL! BEST. FRIEND.” He emphasized those last two words like it was the most solid evidence to ever exist.

With a little defeated shrug of her shoulders, she blew a raspberry his way. “Fiiiine,” she drug out the word, “But you know you love his jokes and puns anyways.” A frustrated noise hissed past his teeth as he shamefully agreed. “Soooo, going off that logic…” she started, a devious curl to her lips and twinkle in her eyes as she moved in front the skeleton. “Wouldn’t you love his jokes EVEN MORE if they got WORSE?” she pushed, brows waggling as she watched Papyrus freeze, his mind working through what she just said. Once his mind finally wrapped around her hypothesis, he gripped his skull, falling to his knees, and let out possibly the most anguished, dramatic scream. Apparently, he couldn't find fault with his human friend’s absurd logic.

○●○●○●○●○

The temperature outside had dropped once again in such little time and despite the slight chill, she couldn’t feel any of it. It would be a miracle at this point if she could. No, she’d be thankful to as it would mean she wouldn’t be having the workout from hell right now. Maybe she had teased him a wee bit too much.

“Paaaapiiiii!” she griped, surprised she could even get out a whine that long considering she could barely catch her breath, “I said! I was-!” What was supposed to be an easy jog had turned a into suicide run. “SORRY!” Papyrus was behind her setting the pace and any time she slowed too much, he would pinch or smack whatever part of her he could reach at that moment. So far, her left butt cheek had felt the brunt of it along with her upper thighs.

“FOCUS! CONTROL YOUR BREATHING, HUMAN!” he snapped, ignoring her plea, and she wondered briefly if maybe Edge had snuck up and taken her normally gentle friend’s place. A pinch on her elbow had her picking up her pace and focusing on the now. She had already learned she wasn’t allowed to look back, plus it didn’t help any with balance or keeping pace. “LOOK! THERE IS YOUR GOAL ONLY A FEW MORE STEPS UP AHEAD!” Curse him for not even sounding out of breath. She knew these skeletons don’t technically need to breathe, but at least huff a bit or something in sympathy here.

Papyrus had not been lying though. Just one more block down was the gym, or as she thought of it: her salvation. Zeroing in on the building that was getting closer and closer, she focused on her breathing to bring it down from frantic pants to something more disciplined: slower and deeper. It was a strange feeling as her mind calmed. Heh, maybe her old coach had a point when he said the human body can do a lot more than the mind thinks.

“START SLOWING DOWN,” she gratefully followed the order and began easing her pace, but aware of him behind her still setting the pace. She supposed one day she would be grateful to him for not letting her come to a dead stop. Today, in this moment, she wasn’t as the slow ease of the pace was almost as tortuous as the marathon she had been forced to run. “WE’VE ARRIVED. YOU CAN REST NOW.” He didn’t need to say it twice as the young woman nearly crumpled before the doors of the gym. Bent over with hands on splayed knees as she sucked in air like it was going to get away. She could feel a large hand rubbing her back and was aware that Papyrus was saying something, possibly praises or encouragements, but she could barely hear over the rush of blood, her pounding heart that seemed so much louder and next to her ears, and her puffs that were thankfully slowing as she caught her breath.

○●○●○●○●○

Papyrus felt just a little guilty as he watched his friend recover from their run, but not enough to apologize. He kept rubbing soothing circles onto her hunched back. “AMAZING WHAT WE CAN ACCOMPLISH WHEN WE PUSH OURSELVES,” he gently pushed at her spine, encouraging her to straighten it rather than bowing. He had a feeling she wasn’t hearing a word he was saying, but continued to sing her praises as he opened his dimensional box and took out a bottle of water. “LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE! YOU ALREADY HIT YOUR HEART RATE GOAL FOR TONIGHT AND WE CAN WALK BACK,” he cracked the cap on the bottle. He couldn’t hear her gasping for breath anymore, but she was still hunched over. “COME ON, WE STILL-”

“I THOUGHT I RECOGNIZED THAT UNCEASING CHEER,” a new voice cut in, one he recognized as well. Looking up from his friend, he spotted the pricklier version of himself leaning out the doors of the gym. Edge’s narrow sockets stared the two of them down, but he felt no ire from the other, just curiosity and some irritation.

“OH, WELL HELLO, EDGE,” he greeted as cheerfully as he could despite the mounting confusion he was feeling. He could feel his friend tense for a moment beneath his hand before relaxing again. Her heart rate had slowed to normal by now, but had picked up just a bit at the mention of Edge. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” If he remembered correctly, his fell counterpart usually didn’t work out this particular day, or at least not at night.

Edge only huffed as he finally stepped fully outside and marched up to his doppelganger. “WHAT DO YOU THINK?” he snipped, arms crossed as he came to a stop just a few feet from the two.

Oh, how hard Papyrus’s eyelights would have rolled if he had them. “OH, I DON’T KNOW, BUT SINCE YOU ASKED SO NICELY!” he started, hand lifting to tap a phalange against his chin in feigned thought. “AHA! YOU HAVE FINALLY DECIDED TO VISIT THE CHIROPRACTOR WHO WORKS TONIGHT AND GET THAT ATTITUDE STRAIGHTENED UP!” he declared with utmost confidence, somehow managing to sound sincerely elated in a way only Papyrus could.

A silent staredown ensued as Papyrus just kept smiling brightly in feigned innocence. He could see that Edge wanted to be mad at him, but couldn’t hide that little proud quirk of his sharp fangs. The moment was broken as his friend brought attention back to herself with a poorly smothered laugh.

○●○●○●○●○

She had been quiet through the entire encounter. Hearing Edge’s voice after just wondering about him during that hellish run had her wondering if she had somehow summoned him with just a single thought. She took a moment to pray to whatever gods or deities were out there to take mercy on her. She would hold back on the teasing and being a little shit, just no more torture tonight. Maybe if she stays real quiet, she could avoid getting Edge’s attention and lessen her chances of irreparable damage.

That all went out the window as a little snort pushed past her lips. Leave it to Papyrus to sass one of the pointiest, scary-looking monsters around. “I need to know where you get that audacity from,” she didn’t bother trying to contain the laugh anymore as she straightened up with a roll of her shoulders, “I could use some of it.”

Both skeletons huffed at that, but it was Edge who spoke up first, “YOU HAVE PLENTY OF IT ALREADY, BRAT.”

Papyrus nodded along, “ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING YOUR BEHAVIOR TONIGHT.”

She pouted, parting her lips to argue, but froze as Edge had uncrossed his arms with an appraising look sent her way.

“OH? AND JUST WHAT HAS SHE DONE?” Edge questioned, voice full of amusement as he watched the human between them shake her head and send a pleading look to Papyrus. She was begging with just her eyes for him to not throw her under the bus. No such luck as he began filling Edge in on all her teasing and poking fun that night. He decided to add on that she had been running late at that.

Throughout it all, Edge was prowling closer and closer until he was practically invading her space. He must have already been working out when they came since she could smell something spicy, like cinnamon, with just a little musk wafting from him once he was close enough. Usually he was very keen on making sure his scent was barely noticeable, especially after the first time she commented on it. It hadn’t been a bad comment. It smelled quite nice, just like now, but since then she only got lucky to get a whiff here and there. As much as she wanted to take a step back, she stubbornly kept eye contact and straightened up even more.

“BUT SHE DID RUN ALL THE WAY HERE. NONSTOP,” Papyrus had finished his recount with her most recent accomplishment. She let herself feel proud as she watched Edge’s cruel smile soften just a bit with awe and pride. With how close he was though, she could practically feel the rumble as he hummed thoughtfully.

“Then I Guess She Has Earned Forgiveness,” his voice should not be allowed to be at that volume. It still had that scratchy quality to it, but the low volume just increased that damnable rumbling that was causing warmth to bloom in her chest and hopefully not on her face. “BUT,” she gulped as that cruel lilt returned and he leaned in, “WHY STOP THERE?” No. “I THINK IT’S TIME WE HELP OUR FRIEND LEARN WHAT HER NEW LIMITS ARE. AREN’T YOU CURIOUS, BRAT?” No, no she was not.

In a last ditch effort to get out this, she leaned to look pleadingly at Papyrus, but he wasn’t even paying her any mind as he seemed to be pondering something. One foot was tapping as he rested an elbow in the palm of his opposing arm’s hand. A water bottle was pinned between his arm and chest. A distal phalange tapped away at his temple as he hummed. Sockets squinted for the few moments he took to think it over. Hope bloomed as he finally looked to them with that signature toothy grin of his. “GREAT IDEA, EDGE!” How quickly hope shattered.

○●○●○●○●○

~THREE HOURS LATER~

○●○●○●○●○

“I hate you both…” the words lacked energy and any true vitriol. She couldn’t even muster the energy to feel any shame or shyness pertaining to her current predicament. She was now aware of muscles she never knew she had and she was sure the next morning would be hell. Would she even be able to move tomorrow? These two had done just what they promised and pushed her to find new limits, but the cost was her ability to pretty much function on her own. Her legs were like jelly and her arms were just barely listening to her. Her core wasn’t putting up a fuss right now, but she knew it was coming. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too bad as the two had made sure she drank water, stretched, and did cool downs.

Papyrus had taken pity on her when he saw her physical state and insisted he carry her. He had won despite her stubborn efforts to stand and walk in the locker room afterwards. Edge had even chided her, telling her to quit being fussy, and just accept the help or crawl. She doubted he would have actually let her crawl out the gym.

“We Know You Don’t Mean That,” one of her tormentors answered with a far too jovial tone. The other just snickered off to her left and feeling contrary, she turned her face the opposite way, which ended up with her pretty much nuzzling into Papyrus’s neck as he was currently carrying her piggyback. Rather than looping his arms under her knees and holding her that way, he had gone with braiding his fingers behind his back and letting her pretty much sit on his palms. His arms kept her legs pinned to his sides. He was bent forward slightly which kept her from having to hold on as tightly and instead just lay against his back.

An indignant huff was the only answer she graced them with. She could feel Papyrus’s little laugh more than hear it as it caused her to bounce gently on his back. Meanwhile, the smell of sweet mint and citrus invaded her senses from where her face was tucked. It was honestly a little unfair how these skeletons could smell so good after a hard workout. She hoped she didn’t stink…

A sharp distal poked her shoulder and stubbornly she ignored its owner. The pokes continued until finally it was just stabbing into her already sore flesh and she gave in, rolling to face the sharp skeleton once more. To her surprise, a banana was currently being held right in front of her face. It had already been partially peeled. She blinked and it was still there. “A banana?” she mumbled, mentally slapping herself for stating the obvious.

Edge snickered, “AT LEAST THAT MUSCLE IN YOUR HEAD IS STILL SOMEWHAT VIABLE.” His humor had always been drier than the Sahara and now was no exception. Any witness would have thought he was beating a dog that was already down.

“If you’re talking about my brain, it’s actually made of fat,” she replied, just as dry and resting her cheek against Papyrus’s shoulder. For a skeleton, he was surprisingly comfy and his easy pace was gradually rocking her to sleep. Said skeleton made a noise best described as a “SNRK!” not long after what she said. Edge had only released a drawn out sigh. At least one of them appreciated her humor.

“JUST EAT THE DAMN BANANA, YOU BRAT,” he moved it closer insistently, looking and sounding very much like a tired mom trying to get her child to eat the last piece of broccoli on their plate.

A pause then, “No.”

“NO?”

“No.”

“WHY?”

“Where did you even get a banana from?”

“I HAD IT.”

“So, you just carry around a banana all the time?”

“NO, YOU DISCOUNT KAOLA.”

“Awww, and here I thought I was an upgrade.”

“QUIT TRYING TO DIVERT THE CONVERSATION AND EAT IT.”

“Fine… but only if you tell me why I should.”

Edge sucked in an unneeded breath as he nearly vibrated in irritation. He took a moment to calm before gritting out, "FINE." She was just a little impressed he had an answer. “POTASSIUM IS SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD FOR EASING AND PREVENTING CRAMPS. BANANAS, I READ, APPARENTLY CONTAIN IT. THUS EATING IT SHOULD HELP YOU BE LESS OF A USELESS LUMP TOMORROW,” he explained, concise and leaving no room for argument, “AND QUIT YOUR LAUGHING, CREAMPUFF. YOU’RE NOT HELPING THE MATTER.” Her sleepy, tired brain processed the information and found no fault. A memory of an old movie where the parents were shrunk and the kids were left on their own came to mind as she remembered it mentioning something about bananas and potassium as well.

“Okay, you win,” she conceded, chuckling quietly as the scarred skeleton sighed in relief. Edge had far more patience than most give him credit for. At one point in the past, he would have just shoved the fruit in her mouth or just stormed off, but now he was willing to put up with the back and forth. Maybe he actually enjoyed banter? Earlier, he seemed to be proud of Papyrus’s sass.

Sleepy and not thinking, she leaned forward and took a bite of the banana. It was just at the right ripeness she noted as she chewed contentedly. She didn’t notice how quiet either skeleton was or that they had come to stop before a black classic Ford Mustang.

○●○●○●○●○

Edge’s mind had blanked as he watched the scene play out. This human, rather than simply taking the fruit from his hand and eating it normally, had instead leaned forward slowly and carefully. There was a little sway to her movement, a little shake in her arms as she curled her fingers tighter in to the Creampuff’s shirt to steady herself, and he instinctively brought up his free hand to hover near her just in case. “WATCH WH-what you...” his words faded out as she finally reached the fruit and took a small bite. To top it off, she was doing that absurdly cute little wiggle and hum that human women seemed to commonly do when they ate something they liked.

“I Can Just Feel The Cavities Forming…” he grumbled under his breath, diverting his eyes from her and her adorable display before a blush could rise. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his doppelganger sending him a sly look and he didn’t bother suppressing a growl. It was cut off as he felt her taking another bite. “WOULD YOU JUST HOLD IT?” he snapped.

“But I’ve got to hold on,” she had mumbled in reply after swallowing her last bite, “And you told me to eat it. You didn’t tell me how.” He resisted the urge to pinch her nose for that smart remark and just sucked in a deep breath before slowly releasing.

“She Makes A Good Point,” his softer counterpart imputted.

Edge could only level a deadpan stare on his duplicate, “NOT. HELPING.” Papyrus had the nerve to laugh and the woman resting against his back giggled as she bounced due to it. Shaking his head, he fished his keys from his black joggers’ pockets and unlocked the driver’s side door. Before he got too far, he pushed the banana into the young woman’s hand with a quick order to hold on to it since he needed both his hands. He swiftly put down the seat so the back seat could be accessed. While he was sure Papyrus wouldn’t mind her riding in his lap on the way home, he didn’t think he could take anymore public displays of affection tonight. No matter how platonic they are.

“Alright, Get In The Backseat,” he ordered as he moved to the side. He pinched at his nose ridge as he watched Papyrus move to get in the back with her, “NOT YOU. HER. JUST HER.” There was no room for argument and no matter how much the Creampuff looked like a puppy that just had its treat stolen, he wasn’t giving in. Thankfully, the woman’s little head pats she placed on his skull seemed to appease him. Wait, how was she- oh. He held in a snicker at the ridiculous image she presented. She had freed up one of her hands by holding the banana in her mouth, while her other still gripped at his shirt. A good sign she had some of her strength back at least.

○●○●○●○●○

Papyrus had at first been annoyed at the thought of Edge butting in on their hang out time, but had warmed up to it rather quickly. Plus, Edge had informed them that he had missed his usual work time session the day before due to an emergency at his restaraunt. It truly was coincidence. It had been fun and having Edge there kept him from going soft on her tonight. It was honestly amusing how she’d gripe and moan and beg, but would push through through the sets and exercises anyway. He’d seen a new side to her as Edge decided to poke at her pride during weight lifting and she had lifted more in that deadlift than he could have ever expected. She’d said it had been fueled by “pure spite” at that moment and not to expect it as the norm. They had new bars set and she’d be less peeved at them when she saw how far she had come along.

Afterwards, it had been decided they would take Edge’s car back to her house, rather than parting ways. While he wasn’t feeling it nearly as intensely as his companion currently resting on his back, he had been pushing himself as well to be fair. Edge, being as observant as ever, had noticed. He couldn’t argue against the logic that it wasn’t a good or safe idea for an exhausted monster and person of color to walk home this late. By now, Sixth Street should be bustling with life and sometimes a few strays wander down teh other streets. They’re not always trouble, but why risk it?

With her this close, he was surrounded by her scent. Mostly her hair products, but he could smell the musk of her sweat as well and sweet lotion. It wasn’t bad, but he knew not to comment on it either way. He was sure she could smell him and he just hoped she didn’t mind. She hadn’t pulled away at any point or complained so maybe he was safe. He kept one gripe to himself about tonight. At this moment, if she had kept her hair down, those curls would be touching his face and neck. A sorely missed opportunity.

Her and Edge had bickered most the way and he had valiantly tried not laugh, only to fail in the end. It was just such ridiculous little diatribes. It was all so cute, Edge included, but now they had reached his car and he’d have to put her down.

She was currently petting his skull in an effort to comfort and it was working. Her cheek still rested against his shoulder with her lips wrapped around the banana, just holding it in her mouth. Her free hand that wasn’t gripped his shirt had stopped the gentle petting motion and now just rested her palm against the top of his skull. He could feel one of her fingers just rubbing in a slow circle. Now, that just isn’t fair-

“I WILL HAVE DUSTED BY TIME YOU TWO DECIDE TO FINISH WITH THIS,” his doppelganger snipped with an irritated huff and jerk of his hand to the back seat once again. “EITHER PUT HER DOWN OR I WILL CONFISCATE HER MYSELF,” he threatened, his already sharp sockets narrowing further as his sharp teeth tipped up at the edges.

Papyrus didn’t know if he should be impressed the other had not threatened to just leave them or flustered at his counterpart's subtext. He would leave those thoughts for later. For now, he crouched down carefully and with Edge’s help, they helped their companion off his back and into the seat. By the time he made it around the vehicle and settled into the passenger’s seat, Edge was already seated in the driver’s side and in the rear view he could his friend eating with ease. He called her name and she looked up curiously, still chewing her last bite, “Do You Need Require Any Water At The Moment?”

She just shook her head and swallowed her mouthfull, “Not unless that water is part of a shower.”

“A Shower Does Sound Nice Right Now,” he agreed. He could hear Edge grunting in agreement as he turned the key in the ignition and put the car into gear. The engine roared to life and the dash board lit up, showing off the upgrades Edge had done to the classic model. It wasn’t long before they pulling out the spot and onto the road, heading back to her little abode on Eighth Street.

“Human,” the sharper of the two skeletons called and glanced into the mirror to check if she was paying attention, “Hopefully, You Do Not Plan To Work Tomorrow After Tonight.” It should have been a question, but it sounded more like a command.

“I Have To Agree With My Cousin On This,” Papyrus piped in as he saw her looking like she wanted to argue. She pursed her lips as he kept talking, “You’ll Be Dreadfully Sore Tomorrow Most Likely.”

“And I wonder whose fault that is,” she didn’t hesitate with a little click of her tongue. Papyrus atleast had the shame to wince, but beat down the guilt as their driver sent him a sharp look. A look that said don’t back down.

“No Matter Who's At Fault Here,” Edge started, coming to a stop at a four way and putting on his blinker. Sharp red eyelights lit in his sockets and locked with the young woman’s gaze in the mirror. “Your Body Still Needs Rest. Doing Anything Other That Tomorrow Would Only Be Punishing Yourself For No Good Reason,” he scolded and gave her a moment to nod and voice her understanding before extinguishing his eyelights.

The rest of the car ride was void of chatter as Edge put on some soft music and his passengers fought off sleep. One because the trip was too short to provide a decent nap and would just result him being groggy. The other because she was now responsible for an empty banana peel and she’d rather not drop it on any part of this vehicle that felt far too expensive for her to be sitting in.

○●○●○●○●○

Finally, Edge was pulling the black Mustang over and parking just infront Papyrus’s red Ferrari. She swears these two just visiting the area raised property values. She scooted closer to Edge’s side as he got out and started putting down the seat. Once it was down, she took Edge’s offered hand and let him help her out. She was happy to see she could stand again, but that didn’t say anything about the stairs she needed to climb. Even ground was one thing, but an incline… she may be crawling to bed after all.

“Do You Think You Can Make It OR-?” her sharp friend started to question, but let the rest hang for her to fill in. Despite how prickly he could be, he was honestly a sweetheart once you earned his trust.

“Well…” she trailed off as Papyrus cleared his nonexistent throat and made his presence known once again. One glance at him and she felt like smacking herself for almost forgetting. “Oh right, Papi, you left your sweater inside,” she laughed, “You’re lucky, I could use another comfy sweater to add to my collection.” There were a few of the skeletons whose sweaters she’d love to steal; namely, the lazier of the brothers had the prime specimens.

Papyrus just shook his head, “Maybe Asking Nicely Would Get You Better Results,” he adminished.

Is that so? “Pretty please, can I keep your sweater?” she went for it with a hopeful smile, which was quickly dashed as he cackled softly with a dry “NO.” She could even hear Edge snorting as he stifled a laugh behind his fist. If she had the energy, she’d whine a bit, but her bed was calling her. Turning her attention back to Edge, she nodded, “Thanks for joining us tonight. It was fun.” After a moment, she added one last thought, “You should join us more often.” She meant it. Even if the workout had been harder than she was used to, it was nice to have someone who knew how to push her buttons and get her to push herself.

Edge’s sharp visage softened just slightly and he sent her an appreciative smile, nodding. “Maybe I Will.”

○●○●○●○●○

It had been a blessing that Papyrus needed to get his sweater from the apartment as she had nearly crumpled going up the stairs. The poor skeleton had been fretting about her something fierce and ended up just carrying her up the stairs as watching her struggle had apparently been too stressful. It had taken plenty coaxing and reassuring that she would be fine and wouldn’t be completely helpless on her own. He’d made her pinky promise to not shower or bathe tonight as he didn’t trust her to not slip and fall or fall asleep and drown. He’d ordered her to bed immediately and she wasn’t arguing. That had been an order from the heavens.

She’d wasted no time after sharing a hug goodbye and he was on his way down the stairs to lock up and draw her curtains. She’d shed her clothes like a snake once she had stepped foot in her room. A trail of clothes, starting with her bra and ending with her socks and shoes now stretched across her floor. She didn’t bother finding a night shirt and simply face planted on her bed with relieved sigh as the cool sheets and comforter kissed her bare skin.

She wasn’t too worried about going to bed sweaty. She’d decided on the way home to have a wash day tomorrow. It’s been due, but now with this workout, it was definitely needed. She could just enjoy pampering her body, hair, and scalp. A nice little spa day. She could change and wash her sheets then as well, so no harm done.

Her phone buzzing from somewhere in her room barely registered with her. It wasn’t until it buzzed a few more times that she forced herself to sit up and look around her dark room for the infernal device. It needed to be plugged up anyway now that she remembers. Spotting the phone on the floor near her abandoned clothes, she slid off her bed and scooped it up. Tapping the screen, she winced as it lit up and quickly lowered the brightness.

No longer in danger of being blinded, she saw the notifications from earlier that she had forgotten to check and a few new ones. Some were junk, but most were messages from friends, family, and one for work. She would reply to the work one tomorrow when she has a fresh mind and it was a decent hour. She rolled her eyes good naturedly as she opened a message from Papyrus.

Papaya: REMEMBER TO REST TOMORROW. GOOD NIGHT!

Papaya: WHY ARE YOU NOT SLEEPING?!

Papaya: PUT DOWN THE PHONE AND GO TO BED!

Papaya: I KNOW IT’S A DIFFICULT THING TO DO WHEN YOU HAVE A TXTING BUDDY AS GREAT AS ME!!

Papaya: BUT YOU MUST.

A little snort burst past her lips as the messages kept coming in, all along the same note. She tapped the little text box and sent him a quick little message:

Flooffie: Pot calling the kettle black

Flooffie: XP

Closing the convo as she saw him typing, she breezed through the rest of her texts. She sent quick little replies where needed, but most turned out to be bad puns and one liners from the jokesters of the family. Coffee had sent her a cute little doodle he had made her with a note saying he’d like to see that hairstyle on her. It was cute. She sent him a couple heart emojis and a thumbs up. She could type a thought out reply tomorrow. Switching her phone to silent, she plugged it up and crawled back into bed. It seemed her head had barely hit her pillows before sleep swept her under.

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scratchbandicoot · 4 years

Text

Based on this lovely lil thing

He swears on all the comedy shows he’s ever watched, this would be the exact moment where things would freeze frame, record scratch, and insert corny line, like, “Hi, I’m Steve, you’re probably wondering how i got here-“

And normally, in a situation like this one, it wouldn’t at all be the case. Baking is like, a seriously mundane thing a lot of people do. Mostly housewives, grandmas or kids with their parents but it just so happens that Steve is the one doing the baking right now- and it should have gone without a hitch. So, 20 minutes of digging into the cabinets of his mom’s cook books- he began. He wanted it to be good, not a cop out box of mix because making it from scratch makes it more special. And it’s a fucking cake; how hard could it really be?

Apparently super fucking hard actually. Because what should have been a completely mundane, simple task that takes like 40 minutes tops- Steve was left with this. Referring to the absolute disaster that is his kitchen. There’s like, 8 eggshells scattered all over the countertop- one somehow ending up on the floor and another on his knee. There is a spilling bag of sugar on its side creating a hectic little pile that leaks onto the stove top- (Thank god for his parents expensive ass glass-top stoves.) Somehow he managed to spill olive oil around the sink when the recipe doesn’t even call for it- and to top it all off there is flour covering every inch of the kitchen and himself. The apron he has on does absolutely nothing, the powder covering his pastel blue cashmere button up- and he’s sure he somehow managed to get flour on places where the sun don’t shine. He’s three hours 45 minutes deep at this point and he knows he’s literally about to cry. He can feel his eyes burning with frustration and a huge lump tightening his throat with the threat of unshed tears. How did he get to this point? Well, lets backtrack.

It’s Billy’s birthday tomorrow . Steve has always done something special on Billy’s birthdays- even though he is like, super weird about gifts and being given things. Seriously, last time Steve gave Billy just a dumb little birthday card with snoopy dancing, and text that read ‘a big-smiling, fun-having, great-feeling birthday’- his nose srunched up like he had to sneeze and he gave the most awkward thanks followed by a back pat that- felt so absolutely “hiya pal” that Steve cackled out loud to the point he was in tears. Billy just burned red and sputtered all irritated, “Stop fucking laughing, Harrington.” Guy just cannot handle shows of affection.

This though, was a little more special. A little more personal than a rinky-dink peanuts birthday card- because billy really loved confetti cake. It brought back memories of his mom; how they used to bake the cake together on his younger birthdays, and how much he really missed it. Nothing could really beat the warmth of those memories, or the fondness painting Billy’s face when he recalled them- but goddamit- steve was gonna try, was trying, his actual best. He even convinced Keith that he’d take his next Saturday shift if he let him off the hook today to do this. His nonna had baked with him when he was young-like, 6- so he figured he’d pick it back up. Which was so not the case here. It’s safe to say he is more than a little rusty. So rusty in fact, that his old bike that he got for his 12th birthday that sits in the garage decaying and untouched, had absolutely nothing on him right now.

The first try was peppy; with a shimmy of hips and a waving whisk to the song playing from the sound system in the living room, and Steve thought genuinely that he did it right. He might have, maybe, with the recipe, but the lump of coal that was pulled out of the oven indicated heavily to the opposite. The smoke in the kitchen made Steve cough and gag, having to open up all the windows along with the screen door. The second attempt was a different outcome. Terrible, but different. A cake with singed edges and a liquidy inside that stuck to the pan and got scraped out with an uncermonious plop into the garbage. Mush, really, something akin to the texture of apple sauce. The third attempt Steve really focused, he swears, but that just ended up with a cake that didnt even rise and he was back to square 1 before he knew it with a beautifully new sense of defeat.

So, before he had an actual mental break over a goddamn cake he knew 7 year olds could make better, he called up Ms. Henderson for help. The lady is practically a god when it comes to baking and he really does not know how she does it. Whips out cookies and tarts and cupcakes like it’s going out of style.

“Hmm...oh! Sweetie, I think it might be the cornstarch. It sinks to the bottom of the pan if you don’t add baking soda- did you add baking soda?”

Steve glances at the forgotten unopened box of baking soda leaned against the stoves backsplash. He slaps himself mentally.

“Um, no. No i did not do that.”

“Well then, that’s it! You simply forgot a key ingredient is all. Not a big deal in the slightest.” Ms. Henderson was always very sweet to steve. Maybe because Dustin had become a little brother to him, but she never ever made him feel dumb. Always assured him mistakes are simply human.

“Right, right, yeah. I’ll add that. Thank you Ms. Henderson.” Steve goes to run a hand through his hair but is met with the headband pulling Steve’s hair from his eyes.

“Its Claudia sweetie, you know that.” Steve could hear the smile in her voice. She makes him feel better.

She gave a few more tips, how just white sugar might dry out the cake when used too much and using brown sugar will make the cake’s texture fluffier. He thanks her and hangs up with a sigh. Back to work.

He follows each step meticulously, following Claudia’s directions to a T and slips it into the oven; prays to god that this will be the last time he tries this. He’s only got one egg left and the overly sweet assortment of smells is starting to make him nauseous. After 45 excruciating minutes, Steve huffs and pulls out the cake. It looks... actually it looks like a cake. He smiles crookedly- holding his breath as he slips the cake onto the tray. It comes out in one piece, albeit lopsided, Steve whoops. He finally fucking did it- the cake actually looks like a confetti cake- and Steve is just so fucking proud of it, already going in to make the frosting before theres a ring at the door.

He frowns, wiping the flour on his watch head. It’s midnight- 12:07 am. Jesus christ, he started this at 7 pm, he didn’t even realize-

He hurries up to the door trying to wipe off the flour and make himself semi presentable. The door swings open and it’s Billy. He’s holding a six pack of Natural Light and a smirk that warps into a surprised raise of his eyebrows at Steve’s current state. He’s sure he must like he just ran a drug cartel or something.

“Hi, pretty boy.” Billy says as he walks in, checking Steve up and down. “Whats uh, whats up with your threads? Look like you jumped head first into coke or got real personal with Frosty the Snowman”

Stve rolls his eyes. His breath catches when he sees Billy start walking to the kitchen. He runs and blocks Billy in the doorway.

“You can’t go in there.”

Billy frowns, “What, you actually got drugs in there or somethin’?”

“No- you just- you can’t go in there. Not allowed.”

“Cmon baby whatcha got in there?” Billy starts to nudge past him; never was good at waiting.

“Wait, no- Billy- don’t-“

Billy takes in the state of the kitchen with a confused look and low whistle before his eyes land on the unfrosted confetti cake sitting on the kitchen island in all it’s lopsided glory. He freezes.

Steve waddles up behind him; following his gaze as he chews on his lip.

“I’m sorry, didn’t have time to make the frosting. Wanted it to be a surprise.” Steve scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly.

Billy’s still just standing there, and for a moment Steve is afraid he overstepped. That he was hijacking a moment from Billy’s mom that was only okay to do if she did it. He tries to get a read on Billy from his side profile since Billy is only turned slightly towards him but he can’t. A few more seconds of Billy standing there- and what Steve hopes is stunned silence- before Billy quietly murmurs,

“You made me a confetti cake?”

Steve holds his breath after a strained little, “Yeah.” The unshed tears from earlier are threatening to fall again, “You said you loved confetti cake, and that it made you happy. Wanted to make you happy.”

Billy spins on his heel fast, catching Steve’s face in his hands and lips with his own. Steve’s heart bursts and jerks a little with the surprise. It’s a chaste thing, just a press of lips, before Billy pulls away.

“You’re so... you just...” Billy trailed off and it was, like, a huge thing for Steve in that moment. Billy? Speechless? Steve never thought he’d see the day. It makes his face heat but his heart full and he beams.

“I’m... what?” He draws out.

“Fuckin’- somethin’. You’re somethin’ else.” Billy tugs him in by the waist and uses the other hand to swipe at the flour on Steve’s cheek. He looks so goddamn fond it makes Steve’s heart rate skyrocket.

“Is it okay?”

Billy hums, “It’s so okay. So much better than okay.”

He presses sweet little kisses to Steve’s lips and Steve can’t stop smiling.

“Well,” he says between pecks, “I wanted to do something special.”

Billy hums again, kisses trailing pepper like to his cheeks, his forehead, his nose and now down his neck.

Steve fights down the urge to shiver as he wraps his arms around the other’s shoulders. But-then he feels a wetness at the crook of his neck and makes a soft concerned noise at the back off his throat. He tugs Billy gently off and is met with blue, glassy eyes. Billy was tearing up.

“Thank you.” Billy says wetly, gently, before hugging Steve tight. “God- i- thank you.”

Steve smiles sweetly, hands going into Billy’s hair. He doesn’t ask because he doesn’t need to. Knows that this is Billy being happy, knows that this isn’t bad, knows Billy. Loves Billy.

Steve pokes Billy’s sides- grins, “Happy birthday, baby.” And punctuates it with a kiss.

#my writes #harringrove #billy x steve #steve x billy #harringrove fic #drabble #stranger things #steve harrington #billy hargrove #ahhhh i wanted some soft n sweet fluff #thank you for this idea #scratch writes

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dachi25writes · 3 years

Text

Chapter One: Up North

AEGON I

It felt surreal.

Blond hair and violet eyes– just like his own– stared vacantly into the ceiling. Pale skin, translucent in the fluorecent lights.

Just a nightmare, any minute now he would wake up in the station, have some of that tasteless but nutricious space food, don his spacesuit and go out to the surface of the moon to collect data he would later send to his father…

His dead father who seemed to be staring right through him, body stiff as the metalic table he laid on, his lashes still frosted, lips blue.

What was he thinking? Going up to the North like that without proper equipment or a guide of any kind, it was not like him at all, but maybe things hadn’t gone as he planned, maybe he had been forced to–

Aegon turned around just as his sister apologized for his distracted behavior and signed for the body to be discharged so it could be sent back home. Gods, it had been almost 6 years since he had last seen Dragonstone, he remembered the salty air and ashen grey sand so cool to the touch you could lie there even on the hottest summer day.

[[MORE]]

The memory was enough to make him smile, wan and melancholy for he did not– could not - forget the circumstances in which he was going back.

Rhaenys touched his arm, gently almost tentative “C'mon Egg, we have to go”

He nodded and walked along, she was very diferent from the sister he remembered, not taller though he coludn’t be sure with the heels she was wearing but the way she carried herself was diferent. She used to slouch, father always tried to correct her posture. Rain never cared to try though, she still slouched a little, it was only noticeable in a slight bend of her shoulders, but that didn’t take away from her overall air of confidence, she didn’t have much of that back then; most shocking of all, her hair was long, she really hated long hair would chop it off herself if mom refused to take her to the hair saloon “It’s been a long time”

She sighed “ I know”

"Where’s mom?”

“She’s back at the hotel I did not think it would be right to bring her here”

He nodded, of course she couldn’t bring mom to the body deposit, Rhaenys would never risk to upset her “How- how did she take it?, about Dad I mean, did you tell her yet?”

As soon as they were out of the building Rhaenys opened her purse and got out a cigarette and a lighter, she offered him one but he refused waiting for her answer as she put the cigarette between lips, gave it a long drag and exhaled the smoke slowly.

“Of course I told her” she answerered at last “C'mon Egg, I’ll give you a ride I parked just around the block”

He nodded and followed “And how did she take it?”

Rhaenys shrugged “She took it well all things considered, said we should have visited Dad some time and other stuff, you know how she is, but I think she is looking forward to seeing us all again”

He grabbed her arm “You called them?” he couldn’t belive Rhaenys! she was family but them… if they came at all it would only be to gloat.

She raised her eyebrow at him and shook his grip with ease “Didn’t need to, it’s all over the news, also from what I know Mr. Connington called us, well he sent this really long e-mails but you get the idea, didn’t you get one?”

He shook his head , dumbfounded “I don’t know, I really haven’t got the chance to catch up. Mr. Connington commed me at the station and I just had to get here” actually he never even expected to see Rhaenys here. He hoped she would at least go to the funeral, Mr. Connington was arranging at Dragonstone, but this… He felt anger claw at his belly, like oil on a sizzling pan the heat thretened to jump in every direction, he held it in, gods he was so out of shape.

Breath in, 1, 2, 3… Exhale. Keep focus.

And it passed.

Rhaenys studied his face, really seeing him for the frist time since they had started talking

"Fuck Egg you look like shit!”

He shrugged but felt self conscious nonetheless, Father had always insisted to always keep a good image for the Academy’s sake. He ran a hand through his short buzzcut, and dragged it all the way down to his face, he was so, so tired.

The car was a small old looking thing of a vibrant orange color, Rhaenys opened the passanger’s door for him as if he hadn’t enough strenght to do it himself.

“Where you staying at?”

"Well as I said I haven’t really–”

“ 'Kay so that means you are coming with me, we rented a room with two beds but I guess mom and I can share,it’s just a night anyway.”

He had half a mind to protest but he was just too tired to go around town looking for some place to stay so he just stayed silent.

Rhaneys started the car and soon enough they were at some cheap-looking but cozy motel called “Winterfell” which wasn’t surprising at all , he had seen at least 10 different stores with the same name since they left the morgue, according to his sister everyone had the Stark fever around here and wanted to be part of the ancestral noble house.

“For real” she said between giggles “I pulled over for some gas on the way here and the guy at the station told me he was a distant relative of the Stark, but not only him the hotel clerk, the barista at Manderly’s and they all say it in this really secret conspiratorial way. It’s kinda sweet really, now I get why Robb insisted we should do a roadtrip here, I can practically see his smug face when he mentioned he was an actual Stark”

Her laugh stopped, and became a bitter sigh.

Aegon wished he could say something but he knew he would most likely say the wrong thing and he just wasn’t up for a fight.His sister parked and proceeded to rest her forhead on the steering wheel, brown curls obscuring her face.

“Sorry Egg, I just can’t help thinking about Robb when we are here. He was always talking about Winterfell and I just-”

“It’s fine” he tried to be nonchalant about it but he felt uncomfortable, he had never been particularly close to Robb, he did like him though. Robb was one of those people you inevitably admire, but after he died everything went to shit at the Academy, everyone blamed Dad for it even Rhaenys, Aegon had been the only one that stayed after that. He knew it was pretty shitty to blame Robb for dying but if he hadn’t maybe…

“God I am such a jerk” Rhaenys lifted her face enough to look at him “I haven’t even asked if you have talked to Sansa or–?”

“I haven’t” he pressed his mouth into a thin line, he didn’t want to talk about this with Rhaenys now or ever really. “You know what? The space travel is really catching up on me so I better go rest like you said”

He opened the door and practically slammed it shut when it dawned on him he had no idea of the room number and he had to wait for Rhaenys. Fuck! just after he had stormed out of the car like a broody asshole(Jon’s asshole face flashed briefly in his mind), the day couldn’ t get worse really.

Fortunately Rhaenys let him save some dignity and got out of the car calmly as if nothing had happened but in her eyes so alike mom’s he could see worry.

"Sorry Egg, you know I am an idiot sometimes, we should go rest”

He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t, not really, not even after she left did he ever thought that, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

She led the way to a simple room decorated in pastels with two identical beds, matching night tables and a very stiff looking couch where his mother sat reading one of the romance novels she loved so well.

As soon as she saw him she got up and enveloped him in an embrace he immediately returned, they parted after a while but she stayed close enough so he could smell her characterístic orange scent, she caressed his face.

"You look so much like your daddy”

Aegon searched for a trace of emotion in his mother’s eyes to know at least someone was grieving as much as him, but her eyes were dry and he remembered that even if his mom felt any pain for her husband’s death she couldn’t be able to express it. Maybe the only thing he resented his is dad for.

“You must tell me all you have done in this years, your sister and little Nym have kept me so busy I haven’t got the chance to visit you and dad.” she made him sit beside her in one of the beds, her soft hands patting his face and squeezing his arm, it made him feel comforted in a way he hadn’t in years “I hope you made him get out of the lab once in a while, Rhaegar needed someone to force him to rest or he would simply drop exausted which of course was never safe–”

"Mom” Rhaenys interrupted putting a hand on mom’s shoulder “Aegon has just arrived and has barely slept I think we better let him rest”

"But look at him dear, your brother looks like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in years.”

That made him genuinely smile, gods, he really had missed mom “I’ve been eating just fine, I just need some sleep”

“Aegon you can’t sleep like that, you should at least change into your pajamas”

“Well I didnt bring any change of clothes” he confessed rather ashamed. It wasn’t like him to be so unprepared.

"Such a careless boy! Rain we cannot let him like this, we should go out to buy your brother some clothes and food”

Great, now mom was treating him as a 6 year old child.

“Ok, mom just give me a minute I need to call Daeron and Nym to let them know we are at the motel”

His mother nodded, and Rhaenys got out of the room with her cell in hand.He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Rain was a mom now, much less that he was an uncle. He had seen photos of ‘Nym’ when she was a baby and another one of a toddler dressed like Princess Jonquil from that animated movie, but he had never met her.

“Nym has been dying to meet you” As always mom guessed his thoughts.

"She has? I wasn’t sure that Rhaenys talked about me or the Academy”

Mom smiled sadly “Oh, Rain doesn’t talk about the Academy, but about you of course. You are a superhero to Nym, protecting the world from the alíens and meteorites, that girl is obssessed with space, she is always saying that when she grows up her uncle will take her to live with him in space”

He felt a warm feeling wash over him, more than ever he wanted to return to Dragonstone and meet his little niece. That would be nice, he figured, a quiet normal life where he could play with little Nym, of course first he had to investigate what dad was doing in the Wolf’s Wood on his own, he was the head of the Academy now, well he would be if there was an Academy anymore.

Rhaenerys entered again, she had a smile on her face. “Daeron said he and Nym will meet us tomorrow in Dragonstone, I was worried about not being there for her frist flight but her dad says she is very excited”

“I am looking forward to meet them” said Aegon at last, he wished so desperately to have his family back especially now.

"They do too” she replied with a soft smile “Mom, we should get going. Egg you should try to take nap until we come back”

He said he would, and he did try. As soon as they left he took off his shoes and laid down on the bed to the left. It was stiff and smelled way to much of air freshener, but he had been living in a space station for 2 years now so this was more comfortable than he expected. Still he couldn’t fall asleep, as soon as his eyes closed he thought about dad and his mysterious death.

Frustrated, he decided to watch TV to drown out his thoughts. He regreted the decision almost immediately, on the screen appeared a flash of red hair. He almost laughed at his own hopelessnes, there must be a thousand woman in Westeros with that same hair color, and even if he knew them all he would still wish it was Sansa.

The woman turned around and it was her. Sansa. She had grown taller and impossibly beautiful, statuesque and regal were the words that came to mind to describe her.She became an actress, he knew that much. It seemed she was at some red carpet event. His finger thumbed the button to change the channel, he didn’t want to see her, but suddenly a reporter came down on her like a falcon on his prey, and asked her about father’s death. Her brow furrowed, she looked around as if trying to gather if this was some kind of twisted joke, her eyes filled with tears, still she politely excused herself and went back to her limo.

She cared.

His heart skipped a bit, and this time he did laugh. Gods! He felt a fool. Sansa had made her feelings for him very clear on that last note she left him…

When the hosts of the show started talking he finally turned off the TV. He grabbed one of the pillows underneath him and covered his face with it no matter what he did his mind made up diferent scenarios for their reunion each more farfetched and unsatisfactory than the last and like that he fell asleep.

#night watch academy #chapter one #aegon targaryen #rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys martell #tua au!#fandom: A song of ice and fire #my writing

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

Text

Survey #354

“swimming through the void, we hear the word / we lose ourselves, but we find it all”

The last time you washed your hair, did you use conditioner? I never do. My hair is naturally pretty oily, and conditioner just adds oil to it. Do you prefer light or dark jeans? Dark. I never liked light-hued jeans. When you listen to music, do you generally sing along, or just listen? I almost always just listen. Do you have any of your exes as friends on Facebook? Yes. Who was your first love? Do you ever miss that person? My first "real" boyfriend. I always do to varying degrees. How many cars are parked at your house right now? Just one. Do you have any Italian ancestry? No. Do you prefer water to be ice cold or at room temperature? The colder, the absolute better. I can barely stomach drinking water that isn't cold, like literally. Has anyone ever told you you’re a control freak? No. Do you know anyone who has gone missing? If so, were they ever found? I don't think so, anyway. What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten? A certain hot sauce on the wings I used to get at Buffalo Wild Wings. It was close to the top of their little heat rating thing. It made me feel awful, and yet I enjoyed it still?? I think it was an adrenaline thing. I only get medium sauce now; I'm more interested in enjoying my food than feeling like I'm eating fire. Do you need to talk to someone? I'm ready for my therapy appointment honestly, but it's not 'til the start of June. Mom and I both don't want to go through the process of finding a new one, so I've chosen to just suck it up and wait. Is something confusing you at the moment? I'm always confused with myself and my feelings. When was the last time you had a real deep chat? Real deep, I'm sure that would've been during PHP. Who did you last see on webcam? My former group therapist. I miss him a lot and really wish he could treat me outside of the program, but he doesn't do that. :/ What’s your best friend’s pet’s name(s)? Doris, Martha, Crowley, Little Dot, Jane Marie, Buster, Beesly, Winter, and I believe only one of the fish is named: Raisha. Have you ever taken a picture while laying in the grass? No. Who’s your favorite Disney character? Dory, probably. Have you ever deliberately tried to get someone drunk? What the fuck, no. When was the last time you used a pay phone and who were you calling? I've never used one. Do you like being kissed on the neck? Whoa now buddy, we better be kind of serious by then for you to do that because it doesn't end "well" lmao. Have you ever had sex with someone you weren’t dating (but had feelings for) in the hopes that they would ask you out later? I almost deleted this question because I didn't want to answer it, but I try to leave more unique ones in, so... whatever. I haven't. But I would for "somebody." What’s the most you would be willing to spend on a good bra? Ugh, my relationship with bras is a hellish one because NONE FUCKING FIT ME CORRECTLY. Mom's tried so, so many places, so many different stores online and in-person, and even if the bra fits in the front, it won't go around my back comfortably. I guess my body is shaped weird, I don't fucking know, because I have literally ZERO bras that don't aggravate me. At some point, I'm going to some woman Mom knows who can size me properly and therefore buy some that don't piss me off. All that to say I'd actually pay more than the usual, but not a ridiculous price. Do you have any of your teachers’ personal cell phone numbers saved in your contacts list? My old Physical Science teacher, who is actually now a very close family friend and our landlord, is in my phone. Do you ever stalk peoples’ personal blogs, even if you don’t know them very well? No. What’s one thing about today’s generation that you just can’t stand? How ungrateful they can be. Be honest: how do you feel about abortion? I am pro-choice. Is there anyone you currently want to reach out to? There's a lot of people, actually. Old friends I miss. What is your favorite piece of art you own? It... sounds cocky, but it's probably the drawing I did in high school of Pyramid Head and the Halo of the Sun intertwined. I worked my fucking ass off and I'm extremely proud of it. What’s the one thing you apologized for this month? Hm. Probably just something minor, like bumping into Mom or something when passing her. My favorite color is ______? Pink, specifically pastel pink. I wish I had _____? A job. What did you buy today? Nothing. What has challenged your morals? Life, my dude. Live and learn. What made you pick up the last book you started reading? It's the sequel to the last book I read. What about your life concerns you the most? Concerns me, my physical health, especially just how weak my legs are. I'm terrified of them continuing to deteriorate. What do you find particularly offensive? Would you say you’re easy or difficult to offend? I cannot fucking stand the misuse of the word "retarded." Like just keep your damn mouth sewn shut if you have the audacity to say things like "hurr hurr this driver is retarded." ANY mental illness/condition is NOT to be mocked. Onto the next question, I'd say I'm more towards difficult to offend. It really depends on the topic. What was the last series you finished watching? Do you have any plans to begin another? I re-watched Fullmetal Alchemist w/ Sara. We're working on Avatar: The Last Airbender too, but I won't resume watching it again until we can do it together. What is one way in which you are different from a year ago? What is one way in which you are still the same? Well, I weigh a lot more. .-. I gained back almost all the weight I shed since quarantine started, and I'm forever fucking furious about it. I'm the same in most other ways. If you could learn about anything without the stress of grades or cost, what kind of classes would you take? Uhhhhh meerkat behavior? Idk. Name a song you’ve listened to today? I've got Halocene, Lauren Babic, and Violet Orlandi's cover of "Aerials" by System of a Down on loop right now. It's fucking gorgeous and so mesmerizing. When you were younger, did you have a swing set or a playhouse in your backyard? We had a small playhouse with swings and a slide. Is your mall nice? GOD no. You better accept the possibility of getting shot before you walk in there. There's nothing that cool at all there. Do you have a Sonic near you? If so, what’s your favorite drink from there? Yeah. I love the strawberry slushy, and the Reese's Blast thing if KILLER. Will you be voting in the presidential elections next time around? Yes. How do you feel about chocolate-covered strawberries? GOOD. STUFF. Did you ever stop having feelings for someone and then started having those feelings again for them? I think so. Do you hate the last guy you had a thing with? No, he's my closest guy friend. To whom did you last give the finger? Probably some idiot that ran a red light. I'm sure it happened in the car, whenever it happened What was the last musical instrument played in your presence? I've got no clue. Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream? No, I hate the texture difference. And just sprinkles in general. Honestly, have you ever crashed a party before? No. Do you know how to do the moon walk? No. Has anybody ever told you that you have a good singing voice? Yeah, but I beg to differ. Onion rings or french fries? French fries. I'm not a big fan of the other. Has anybody ever described you as a heart breaker? Nope. Has anybody ever told you that you talk too fast? When I'm excited, yes, it happens sometimes. Who is the best cook that you know? Uhhhhh idk. Which meal throughout the day do you skip the most? I don't really skip meals. What’s the largest amount that you can juggle at one time? I can’t juggle at all. What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid? Swings. I'd dash to those at recess to try to actually get one. Do you know how much you weighed at birth? How much? All I know is six pounds, no clue on the ounces. Which aspect of your daily routine takes the most time? What do you do? Sitting my ass at the computer, really... I don't exactly do much. Do you enjoy buying gifts for others, or could you do without this? It feels sucky of me considering whenever I do get someone a gift, it's because Mom is letting me use her money with me being without an income, BUT I still do LOVE the process of thinking of something meaningful for those important to me and hopefully seeing them love whatever I got them. I cannot wait until I actually can do that regularly. What is one thing you are expected to do, if anything? Take care of my pets. How do you tend to view driving? Monotonous or entertaining? I hate driving because you're in a speeding box of death, man. I do really want to start working towards my license though; I've long since reached the "enough is enough" point. But first I need new glasses so I can actually see five feet in front of me. Do you enjoy talking about music with others? Yeah! Is acting something you enjoy? No. I'm too awkward about it. When do you feel most accomplished? When I finish a big art pierce. Do you think Manwich is amazing or completely gross? I like 'em. Just messy, which I'm not a fan of. How many best friends do you have? One. Are you a smoker, drinker, pothead or none of the above? None of the above. If you have your ears pierced, when did you get them pierced? I don't remember exactly, but I was a kid. Do you own any exercise machines? No. I wish. On Facebook, do you have people listed as your siblings who aren’t really your siblings? Nah, but I used to do that. Have you ever drawn or painted a self-portrait? Painted, but only because it was a school assignment. Who was your last voicemail from? I don't get voicemails because mine isn't even set up. Have you ever been falsely accused of something serious? No. Did you ever set up a lemonade stand when you were a kid? No. When was the last time you spoke to someone in a different language? Not since I was taking a test in high school for my German course. My teacher was a Germany native, so she was a total pro and fun to learn from. Have you ever received an anonymous gift? No. Have you ever camped out somewhere for an event the next day? No. That's always sounded miserable to me. When were you the saddest in your life? 2016 was fucking miserable. Do you know anyone, personally, who is in an abusive relationship? Are you? I don't know if it's abusive, but it's toxic and dysfunctional as HELL. I don't know WHY she keeps going back to him, I feel awful for the woman. I'm definitely not, 'cuz I wouldn't tolerate that shit for half a second. If you have siblings, have they moved out or do they still live with you? They've both moved out by now. Have you ever gotten searched by the cops? Yes, as a safety protocol with mental illness stuff. Do you like fried rice? Yes. What was the last thing you drank? Would you believe me if I told you I have water right now?

#survey #surveys #questions #lyrics: ''aerials'' by system of a down

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the-roanoke-society · 4 years

Text

i was working in the lab late one night...

when my eyes beheld an eerie sight...

welcome to the final post of horror aus for halloween 2020! i hope you all enjoyed the ride. i apologize for not having everything ready on halloween like i originally planned. remember that the inbox and dms are always open for questions, comments and concerns. if you missed them, here are parts one, two and three. all warnings still apply, so be forewarned.

i know things are scary right now. but to quote the infamous n. gaiman: fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.

take it from me when i say that we outnumber the monsters of this world--and more importantly, take heart.

click below the cut if you, too, like doing the monster mash (no offense but it is kind of a graveyard smash...)

there’s bloodstains beneath the carpet - a ∆ au inspired by the super, co-starring technical officer drake and @agents-of-virtue's agent annabelle

it was a new start. for both drew and matthew. a new city, shining with opportunities and adventure. they had no shortage of hope--but maybe did have a little shortage of cash.

all the same, the knox-edwards boarding house wasn’t that bad. grimy and with a level of grunge akin to a garage band circa 1995, sure, but nothing unbearable.

but as drew was stuck in the hallway holding up their couch, matthew trying to figure out who needed to pivot and in what direction in order to not have furniture stuck in the doorway, he overheard it:

“what? another one? are you serious?”

two people were walking down the hallway, and they didn’t look to be much older than himself, or matthew. a man and woman, close together, as if they were conspiring.

“wait, drew, i think i got it, turn left a little bit--”

“as a heart attack. that makes it four people in three months. i’m telling you bekah, something fuckin’ weird in goin’ on here. people don’t just up and vanish from their own homes, and--oh!”

“drew! are you listening to me? turn it left!”

oh shit. oh shit. don’t act like you were obviously eavesdropping, maybe they didn’t notice...

“drew!”

“hi!”

welp. all right. be cool.

“uh--hello!” but he yelped when matthew unexpectedly let go of the couch, and it landed on the ground with a hard thud.

but drew was still processing what he heard. four people in three months? what did that mean?

mini soundtrack sampler includes: rockwell, ‘somebody’s watching me’ + absofacto, ‘dissolve’ + barns courtney, ‘99′

won’t you cut me down? - a second chances au inspired by seven in heaven

joan, normally, wasn’t so forward. at least, not a society-thrown event where multiple agencies were represented, and especially not when he knew lilith was around and not above reprimanding an agent in front of god and everyone else in the room.

but he’d had quite a bit to drink.

the evening was winding down.

and josie... josie was breathtaking.

he couldn’t help it.

“joan--joan!” she laughed as he turned her, taking her elbow and leading her down a hallway close to one of the larger coat closets. “what are you d--”

her voice cut off abruptly to the tune of joan’s mouth on hers, and the closing of a closet door.

joan didn’t stop to think about how this particular door wasn’t room he distinctly remembered. he was tipsy and enamored and his wife consumed his senses. he didn’t care.

but he did care a while later, after they’d made themselves presentable again and opened the door to a manor that was much, much quieter than he was expecting.

and josie felt it too.

it was an odd sensation, to feel that he’d stepped out of one place and into another entirely.

josie asked quietly, “where... where did everyone go?”

mini soundtrack sampler includes: jack white, ‘i’m shakin’‘ + konrad old money & sleep steady, ‘rage’ + k. flay, ‘blood in the cut’

my hands are growing colder - an inverse functions au inspired by eli

ginny knew erik wasn’t broken. she would rather have faced down a demon or some unholy thing sprung out of the gate than ever describe him like that.

but he was--unique.

beyond the understanding of most medical doctors, at least. even aly and caroline were struggling to treat his symptoms. it was like he’d become allergic to everything around him over the course of just a few days. his symptoms were sudden, severe, and left her nervous.

it wasn’t just allergies. she knew that. and if she had to seek help outside of the society, then so be it. all that mattered to her was seeing him brought back to health.

and late one night, during a despair-fueled search through some files in the archives that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years, she found a name: dr. isabella horn.

the fact that lacey, who’d been overseeing the roanoe medical wards for ages, hadn’t heard of her, should have been a warning.

but desperate times call for desperate measures.

the next day, they were on their way to a facility in the middle of the midwest--though ‘facility’ wasn’t quite the right word. it looked more like a mansion, with nothing but wheat fields all around as far as they eye could see. the horizon was only broken by the occasional oil derrick.

and they were surprised when they had to be buzzed through pressurized, completely sterile chambers to even get inside.

but there, right at the front of the welcoming committee, was a woman with dark eyes, and an easy smile.

“good afternoon! you must be ginny and erik, welcome. i’m dr. horn.”

but ginny didn’t trust her grin.

and that should have been the second warning.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: stevie wonder, ‘superstitious’ + the killers, ‘when you were young’ + the revivalists, ‘wish i knew you’

i saw your bones on the road - a pastel goth au inspired by the silence

meli would look back on it and realize with no small sense of irony how loud it was when it began.

the screaming, the terror. how she blasted her spotify on her furious drive to guiliana’s house in the blessedly quiet suburbs, eyes constantly searching the sky. she knew that the responsible thing to do would be to listen to the coverage on the radio, but honestly? she’d heard enough. she had more than half a brain, and she knew exactly what to do.

get her girlfriend and head--okay, maybe she didn’t know exactly what to do.

but giuliana was smart. they’d figure it out together.

the government didn’t know what they were, exactly. nobody did. meli only knew that they were calling them vesps.

it was a word that she mulled over frantically. linguistics was always a welcome distraction. she thought she’d heard it before, but all she could think of was the latin vespere. it roughly translated to ‘from the evening,’ or ‘from the night.’

from the dark.

perhaps that was an apt name.

the sunset had painted the sky in shades that were obnoxiously beautiful given the circumstances, and her jeep lurched in protest as she abruptly slammed the gear shift into park in the glow of guiliana’s porch lights.

in the distance, she could hear shrieking--but not that of human beings.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: mourning ritual, ‘bad moon rising’ + twenty one pilots, ‘ride’ + royal blood, ‘trouble’s coming’

waiting for the vultures - a time traveler’s husband au inspired by the houses october built

it had been dara’s idea.

“oh it’ll be fun! think about it, italy and the states celebrate halloween with way, way different aesthetics. think of this as getting a sampler of how america does it,” she said, sitting in silvano’s lap, charm volume as far up as it would go.

and he agreed. “all right--okay. a grand adventure across the country hitting as many haunted houses as we can.”

“geez, try not to sound too excited.”

he murmured into her shoulder, “i’m mostly excited to spend time with you. but if a road trip through october is what you want, then that’s exactly what we’ll do.”

he was rewarded with kisses peppered all over his face and a very excited dara dragging him excitedly to best buy to pick up a camcorder. “what? of course we need a camera! if we record everything then it’s like--i don’t know. like it’s ours. we can go back to it whenever want, and we can show all our friends the cool places we saw when we get home!”

dara hadn’t known then.

she didn’t know it would start with one lone figure in a clown costume standing in front of the rv like he was going to charge at it. she didn’t know that they would end up surrounded, followed. abducted.

it had been dara’s idea.

and she would never forgive herself.

mini soundtrack sampler includes: van halen, ‘runnin’ with the devil’ + the 1975, ‘if you’re too shy (let me know)’ + afi, ‘miss murder’

#seraphim speaks #∆#agent bracken #technical officer delta #agent annabelle #technical officer drake #second chances #agent nephilim #agent ainsel #inverse functions #technical officer alvinne #technical officer theta #pastel goth #agent agave #agent colombina #the time traveler's husband #agent pantalone #agent umbriel

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imaginesbymk · 4 years

Text

PINK + WHITE.

—CHAPTER TWO ; THE GREATEST CITY IN THE WORLD.

summary: teresa’s permanent resignation from the peaky blinders leads her to a whole new chapter of working in an art museum. but little did she know her best life would be butchered some time later when her former lover tommy shelby gives her no choice but to return to the peaky blinders after they make new enemies, with the leader, of all people, being the man teresa fell in love with one night after a wedding reception back in post world war; luca changretta.

pairing: luca changretta x OC x tommy shelby

tags in this chapter: swearing (in a different language), and i *tried* to add some fluff because luca’s charming teresa and just smoothly asking her out on a date *spoiler* but yeeee

[ chapter index / meet my oc / wattpad link ]

1919.

BEFORE ART DECO became a widespread aesthetic, Teresa instead promoted the wonders of oil landscapes. And yes, Luca Changretta paid a visit to the Penarth gallery that day. It was him and two of his relatives that tagged along to the day's trip, walking behind him. People would assume Luca had business to attend to, meetings were always important as he kept a tight schedule, but he couldn't help but squeeze in an ounce of leisure.

It started with marble floors and art, and Luca silently wishing to himself he could reserve the entire museum for himself. All he needed was to simply request for one.

As for Teresa, she strolls around the floor after finishing up paper work in her office, and enjoyed the privilege to look around as part of her job, when she entered the same section Luca and his men were strolling in, the space of the renaissance.

"This one's my favourite." Teresa faced the tall man, and he perked up when he noticed a woman had caught onto a gaze. He noticed the dress she wore for the job, and her ID pinned on her chest. "It just speaks to me, eh? I'd like that hung in my home, where I can walk pass it every morning. Don't tell me. It's worth almost a million pounds?"

Teresa turned to what he was looking at. Indeed, the piece were a lot of people’s favourites. It just couldn't belong to anyone, unfortunately.

"Oh, I believe this painting isn't for sale," she smiles apologetically.

"I see. I'm more of a theatre man, anyway. But where I'm from, art speaks to our souls, and this painting deserves a spot here, truly."

Teresa studied him from head to toe. His suit looked new and clean, including the two other men accompanying him while they kept their distance a few feet apart looking around. All three of them wore pressed suits with hats to match them, and neither of them looked like they were from Penarth.

"Would you like some tea while I send a tour guide over your way?" Teresa asks politely, hoping to satisfy the handsome man's visit.

"That's kind of you. But I prefer having you show me around instead. You happen to be more passionate to everything here more than the actual tour guides."

It's not like she would get fired for being a tour guide for the day, but that wasn't technically her job by the hour. Teresa holds account for activity coordination, fundraising and selectively hand pick artwork and design from various staff members.

But hey, what the hell. She blushed. "Right! Well, you can ask me anything. I grew up reading art history books and wishing to paint just like every artist credited here." She eyed him again, now clasped onto curiosity over the mysterious man. "What's that accent?"

"I'm American," the man tips his fedora, lowering a smile down at her. "From the greatest city in the world."

"New York." He didn't even need to say it. A lot of people love New York, anyway. Plus his accent kind of gave it away.

The man nodded. "We get a lot of you Welsh people back there quite often."

"When I was in college I visited New York," she pointed out.

The man raised his brow. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was a year after the Titanic sank to the bottom of the ocean, before the great war. So count me as lucky."

"I could of met you," he said. "Where were you? Brooklyn? Had to deal with liquor business there." Which that reminded him he had a meeting in a couple hours.

"Had to visit someone in the Bronx," Teresa nodded while noticing the men approaching Luca from behind like they were attached to him. "Well, Mr. New York, welcome to Penarth. And welcome to the Penarth Art Gallery. Your visit is greatly appreciated.”

"Grazie . . . Miss Tour Guide." Thank you. Italian-American, then. Teresa smiled, so intrigued by this man as she kept observing him looking around.

"Well," she smiles humbly at the three men. "Let's start, shall we? You've all seen the renaissance, but how about Pablo Picasso..."

It switched afterwards. The atmosphere, the attitude, the comfort. And she was quick to notice while she spoke the whole time, the men listening to her, often times just letting her words enter through one ear and out the other. But Teresa was smart. He didn't quite keep his distance from the art as it was a rule, and stared down at the labels of all the paintings Teresa introduced, studying it in a way that had nothing to do with admiring, but more likely guessing the pricing.

Teresa gradually realized the man is just using his American identity as his own privilege into getting a personal tour around the gallery instead of gathering with different guests. She jumped one step ahead to know he would later ask for private access to hidden artworks that aren't placed public to the museum for the next few months in hopes of buying them.

"None of the art here is for sale," Teresa grew confident in her tone. "Art should never be in the hands of Americans who have no business being in a gallery to begin with."

The man shot his eyes toward her. "Do you have any idea who you're talkin' to, Miss Tour Guide?" his voice lowered until it no longer sounded friendly as before.

"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. New York," Teresa folded her arms.

"You should be."

"Guests come here to feast their eyes on the subject of emotions, dreams and tragedy, not for buying them."

"Well maybe," the man leaned a bit closer. "You should reconsider handling things around here, because one day someone will take away your paintings, you'll walk in here dying inside every time you walk past an empty space on the wall where your personal favourites used to be hung."

"Basdun." Teresa wasn't afraid to insult the man in Welsh, too.

"Very unprofessional to insult a guest, no?"

"Luca," one of the men moved closer behind him. "Non ne vale la pena."

"Mi sto solo divertendo qui, Matteo," Luca responded while he smirked at Teresa.

The other man chimed in. "Non puoi vincere. Lei è una pistola."

"Okay, basta," the man, Luca, rolled his eyes back a bit when he turned to his attention to the men behind him. He looked at Teresa again while telling them, "Lasciami con lei."

"What does that mean? What did they say to you?" Teresa demanded, confused. "Did they insult me in Italian?"

The men leave, Luca and Teresa remaining inside the empty section of the gallery, with pastel landscapes surrounding them.

"Actually, Miss Tour Guide. I hope you can spare five more minutes of your time."

"Teresa Griffith."

He nodded. That was easy. "Miss Griffith, allow me to explain myself. This art gallery you own, it's a shame nothing here is for sale. Imagine how much money you'd be making selling Van Gogh's Starry Night at an auction, or that disturbing painting of that naked man eating a little boy."

"Saturn Devouring His Son."

"Yeah that. The first painting that I fell in love with was the School of Athens, my mother showed me that one. Then it was the sculpture of Pietà. I even visited the Louvre."

"So have I," Teresa shrugged.

"Anything to do with the tragedies or emotions that you speak of, that comes to my eye. Amore is one hell of a blueprint for painters."

"Your point being?"

"I'm what you call a businessman, and I was actually nice enough to give you constructive criticism." Luca faced a self portrait painting while he spoke.

Teresa shook her head, hoping something—anything, would come up so she would no longer have to deal with this man's nonsense. Whatever he was doing, it was probably stalling. The two men that were with him were probably thieves and that this man was just charming her away so she would be to blame after it's all over.

Or maybe he was just being a nuisance on purpose. "I don't need you to tell me how to run a gallery, and it seemed to me it was more of an attack rather than providing constructive criticism."

"Well, that was part of the plan. I make you use your time on me as my personal tour guide just so I could be with you," Luca says, eyeing down the use of colour of the portrait. "And to ask you if you were free tomorrow night."

There it was, the point. Teresa was more than ready to smack the hell out of a total stranger before she could get ahold of authorities, but she could now barely hold a steady breath. The room suddenly felt still, even the temperature to keep the air tight drew goosebumps on her skin. Were her ears clogged, or was this man that was at first giving her a hard time, asking her out on a date?

"I'm sorry?"

"I’m Luca Changretta, by the way." He took off his fedora hat so he held it against his chest. Dark hair, slicked back. "A whole half hour has gone by, one more and you get paid another forty bucks."

"Well," Teresa bit her lip. "You came off as if you were only here to buy my workplace, and what makes this workplace the way it is. I don't know you, and I don't think you'd want to take me out."

"Why is that? You keep a tight schedule? So do I."

"It's not that. I mean, I do. But I think you'd grow bored of me within the first hour of spending time with me.“

"Like I said, Miss Griffith. I'm a lover of theatre. We met half an hour ago and I’m far more interested in you than what makes your workplace the way it is,” he shamelessly repeated her words. ”And I plan on taking you out to the grand theatre to see the performers put on a show, a moving painting. To me it's New York's grimy perspective, but set here in Penarth.”

Teresa tensed up when she felt her cheeks flush a bright red.

"Whaddaya say?" Luca smiles. "One date."

After all, she booked Monday off tomorrow to get a head start on coordinating future events, but maybe she’ll use that freebie to see a show with a handsome man.

“Sure,” she nodded.

+ pls be mindful that my pinch of knowledge of italian in this chapter/story overall isn’t gonna be fluent, so pls bare w/ me! —mk.

#pink+white #luca changretta fanfic #luca changretta x oc #luca changretta #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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