#i pass by the museum of modern art every once in a while and just sigh wistfully every time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

talesofealdancynedom · 2 years

Photo

Raven Queen Odette, drawn as her parents; I gave her a wardrobe update.

37. The Second Chance (chapter 4 - Palace of Memories 4/4 ) part 8. Stories of Dreams.

none

Fredrick and Merriam couldn’t stay on the ranch she once called home. Time had passed, and they were no longer a part of this place. They were brought back with few clothes, and forgotten names. Accumulating cats, while doing house chores. Odette had yet to visit Merriam and Fredrick; For someone who dearly missed her parents, to the point she’d move time to be have them, she sure wasn’t with them. They knew their time to move on had come, when Odysseus walked into their cabin.

“I want you to go to the Raven Gate in the Capitol. That palace is a museum of restored things; Odette might be there if she’s feeling sentimental. Additionally, we need this place for my son’s stupid performative wedding.” He explained. Merriam and Fredrick cringed, remembering the dryness of their purely ceremonial union. They hadn’t realized they were True Loves then. It was a terrible day; Fredrick having buried his parents, and Merriam torn from her dreams. Odysseus saw them wilt at the mere mention of nuptials. Fredrick changed the subject, by requesting the money to oblige him. Odysseus slapped tickets to the Capitol, and museum, into their hands.

“The old and new, awaits you.” He chuckled.

Merriam was appalled that her Raven Gate was in a state of upheaval. It was requested by the state, and stood in the city square; Now forming an unattended magic ‘forest’, full of frustrated fey and Common Folk. What crimes against magic occurred after her murder? The people acted like they forgot the city was enchanted; Like they forgot about her.

Merriam and Fredrick looked around their old home, which now hosted their old things on display. It was surreal to see people fawning over their used personals. There was also art, linages, clothing, and more; Each with accurate, but easily misinterpreted, plackets about the nation’s history. Merriam and Fredrick found it mildly amusing, to see modern families coo at emphatically worded descriptions of their daily lives. The galleries had just opened on a work day, and the visitors were people taking children for an outing. Beneath the educational front, the castle was still itself; Local grey granite, with only the tiles made from The Grand West’s famous black marble. A sanitized version, of what felt like home.

Fredrick was bewildered to see his favourite tunic untouched by time. To see the crown shimmering on display dumbfounded him. His neck hurt remembering it’s heft. The golden circle of gryphons with peridot pears, was strictly ceremonial.

“Look Merry!” Fredrick pointed to their shoes. She was looking at a painting of him. Fredrick approached curiously.

“I don’t remember getting this one done.” He tilted his head.

“I commissioned it shortly after your passing. It was hung with your forefathers in this very ballroom. It’s always been here, unlike these glass cases. Did you know our daughter kept me in one in? In the Shadow Veil? Where is she even? I swore Icthya and Odysseus were onto something...” Merriam jittered. She was furiously petting Nihten. Fredrick leaned in.

“Thank you. It dapicts everything I love. My colours from going dark, strawberries, roses, and my most comfortable clothes. Oh, and look; The painter didn’t even know how to do cats right.” he smiled.

“Yes. All sweet things. Just like you.” Merriam flirted.

As they moved down the room, they examined the linage on the wall. Fredrick pointed to himself, Eatheltwein, and followed it down the wall to Odysseus and Morgan at the end. It named every prince, princess, and Queen; Except Merriam. Beyond its comprehension, they moved into what was once the study wing.

Upon the best lit hall, where the windows overlooking the castle’s layers; Each hosting a courtyard, that trailed to the main steps. Merriam and Fredrick could see the now sprawling city. Even The Raven Gate sitting in the main square, as it always had. Merriam looked behind her, as a family walked buy; Also admiring the view. She went still. There were five perfectly lit tapestries. One for each of her knights. The eldest, white knight Sir. Holly, had his flag poised to indicate he was following, not leading, into a battle. Their eyes and hair were their given colour: White, red, green, yellow, and blue. Thus, indicating they’d already gone dark, after returning from a quest with Merriam. The quest she returned from, only to find Odette gone.

“Oh. Our knights. The men I lent to you. We were all good friends…” Fredrick sighed. “You must miss them more then I.”

“I do. But I can’t help but to remember their Happily Ever Afters. Do you change your mind about staying ignorant, Fredrick? Do want to know what happened to them? Take solace in knowing they passed after a beautiful life?” Merriam whispered. She had a tinge of jealousy. Fredrick took a breath and nodded. The smooth threads of the restored textiles glowed. Glittering knots, depicting vines, horses, and vibrant colours. There was a sign telling people not the touch the ethereal weaving.

“Sir. Holly, the white knight, died shortly after you. He had retired far to late; At the age of ninety!” Merriam smiled; Her posture perfectly poised. Still a queen in nature, as she methodically examined the fine work. Fredrick warmed to se her smile.

“The red Knight, Sir. Apple, actually retired after the formation of parliament. He Start a knight’s school in North Point. Do you recall that he always had a squire?” She chimed. Merriam drew their attention to the youngest knight, pulling a bow upon a dun horse.

“Speaking of which, one of his student’s! The Yellow Knight, Sir. Marigold, left our guard to teach paladins to respect for magic. I wonder if it actually worked, given the stubbornness of wizards.” Merriam pondered. Fredrick looked at Sir. Holly further, he felt something was off about the set.

“The Green Knight, Sir. Rosemary, went to help immigration and trade at Boarder Town, by Francia. His love, The Blue Knight, Sir. Sage, lived the rest of his days defending and serving this palace.” She concluded. Merriam felt uplifted recalling her companions; But Frederick looked confuddled.

“But, where are you? They should be following you. I gave them to you for quests. They travelled the world, and bravely faced all manors of magic. Fine men. Not the brightest, but the dearest and Nobelist.” Fredrick nagged. Merriam held her breath. She knew why her scroll was gone. Merriam was there when it was sewn. Ever since Odette resurrected her, Merriam had no trace.

“As all other mages of the time, I suspect they removed all word of me. How scandalous it would have been, for their peace bringer and queen was of such taboo talents. Those upcoming wizards would surly not admit it. That’s how I died Fredrick. I gave into them like all the other mages. I fought them off from the gate without my fairy robes. A creaky grandmother, awaiting her mortal destiny. Before that, there was a time I wanted to disappear. Now, I don’t know.” Merriam said. It stung. She changed her mind; Merriam wanted her mage journals read. She didn’t like being noone, feeling alone in this palace again. Her knowledge as a Seer, could’ve helped someone if she’d kept them on the ranch.

“You should be with them.” Fredrick interrupted.

“I know.” Merriam exhaled slowly.

“No, I mean there’s a little note. I think it indicates that you’re scroll is being restored by a collection holder. Morgan maybe?” Fredrick said, looking to the right. A smile appeared on Merriam’s face, further cheering her husband. That boy must’ve connected the dots while they were at the ranch.

They sat in the garden sampling fruit they packed. They’d seen the whole palace, and now felt anxious about Odette. Merriam looked around nervously; The fountain was worn, yet all the same plants were there. People had painstakingly kept the yard as it once was. Fredrick noted the same golden geese swam in the pond, and how Odette and Eatheltwein would sing to them. He then looked up to the second-floor windows; The dormitory wing. Odette’s windows overlooked the back courtyard, as she wanted a room that opened to a walkway. Odette may have had her True Love’s Kiss with the Raven King on that balcony. Merriam turned her attention there too. She felt the pain of the day she came home to a missing child. A child she never wanted, but couldn’t help but love. Merriam remembered how she used to sing to Odette, in many languages, even though she hated music. Despondent, the pair returned to watching the families eating in the garden.

However, they were unable to resist looking back once more. Merriam turned to see a lady that looked much like her, all in white. Odette smiled sweetly at her mother.

“Odette! Come down here this instant!” Merriam scowled. When Odette shook her head, Merriam got up, and ran into the castle, up the secret stairwell, and tor into Odette’s room. She tripped over the bungee cord keeping people out of the recreated space. Fredrick followed suit. Luckily, this room had carpets over the stone floor, breaking their fall. Odette gasped, and helped her parent’s up, only to receive a tight embrace.

“I’m so mad.” Merriam sobbed.

“I’m sorry. I was scared to talk after realizing my error. Remembering you, after meeting Morgan, reopened the hole where my lost childhood should be. But it is not my place to decide-”

“No Odette, I’m mad I have to make it work. I would be a hypocrite to defile your efforts to save me. Despite my wishes, I cannot blame someone for loving. I cannot deny my daughter her happiness.”

“Well, I’m mad you forgot to visit us, after bringing us back!” Fredrick grumbled. “Apologize for this abuse of spell-craft; Which is not even your worst crime here.” He snapped. Fredrick was seldom angry, causing his wife and daughter to flinch.

“How dare you grow up without us. Couldn’t you have waited a little longer to requite the Raven King’s love? Or at least told us? Visited before loosing yourself? Before I died.” Fredrick crumbled.

“Father… I, I admit I lacked maturity, when presented with True Love’s Spell. I had no clue the Shadow Veil would fade my memories. I’m sorry father. There is no way to undo this. I brought you both back, without consideration of your lives’ after doing so. I dare say I’m terribly impulsive.” Odette confessed. The family huddled a little longer, unsure what to do next. Comforted, Fredrick had more questions:

“Does this mean we have living grandchildren? Can we meet them?” He said. Odette smiled yes. She helped them up, walked outside, and pointed to the golden geese in the fountain, and a silver phoenix on a turret. Then she pointed to four-winged opalescent ravens by the trash bins.

“Those are the princesses I actually bared. The princes’ however, are unruly and kept in a Death Tree. As much as I love them, but the grinding noise their corvid skulls, while consuming flesh, is ghastly. They could fey and men. Though my youngest is sweet; He lives with people who bring him trinkets and roadkill.” Odette said. Fredrick had mixed feelings; Merriam was full of curiosity.

“I’d love to meet him once we’re settled!” Merriam smiled.

The family spent the rest of the day looking around the changed city. Odette stood out with her fey like appearance. The Raven King imbued her with his kingdom when they kissed. It didn’t seem to bother her parents much.

“Mother and father, what will we do next? I still have to be Queen, but you now have a lifetime to live. You had dreams before me, correct?” She inquired. Fredrick and Merriam knew the traps of creating goals and plans. They stalled, looking at the Magic Administration building; It attracted tourists due to the fact it is made of green stone, and much bigger on the inside.

“Do they have pubs with cats? Like you pay to get an ale, and sit in a room full of socialized healthy kittens to pet?” Fredrick contemplated. Though his wife and daughter shrugged, there was in fact, one five blocks away.

“This place gives me an idea. Two can play at these wizard games.” Merriam said, pulling Fredrick and Odette into the administration building. She walked in confidently, and stopped suddenly in front of the reception desk. The three of them waited patiently for the wizard to put down the phone. Looking up, the lady froze before Merriam’s demanding presence, and crow like garbs.

“Hello, I’m Mage Queen Merriam Craweleoth, and wish to speak to a leading wizard. I need to confirm my identity.” She announced. The wizard nodded, and reached for the phone again.

“Once that is done, I have a proposal; I see this magic city, sprawling from the Raven Gate I created, is in disorder. You might benefit from a mage’s presence. So, tell me wizard, instead of murdering me, how about you tell me how I can help?”

TABLE OF CONTENTS --->

<--- PREVIOUS

#art #tales of ealden cynedom #fantasy #short stories #merriam #Odette #odysseus #raven king #Illustration

0 notes

featherfur · 3 years

Text

Museum Bonding

Characters: Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng

Warnings: Blood and arguing, Modern Au, Sometimes You Just Gotta Punch It Out

Words: 4.5k

Summary: Wei Wuxian wants his brother and fiancé to get along and decides to leave them alone at a museum. It works, but it takes a few punches and a near heart attack for Wei Wuxian. Apparently, punching fiancé's is a family tradition.

Read me on Ao3, Ko-Fi is on Sidebar

“Wei Wuxian you need to come get your fiancé this fucking instant.” Jiang Cheng’s voice hissed through the phone as Wuxian put it to his ear.

With a soft sigh, Wuxian grabbed a spoon and continued his stirring before he bothered to answer Jiang Cheng’s begging. Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan were supposed to be bonding while Wuxian helped Yanli finish cooking. He’d only been gone for two hours and apparently they were already at each other’s throats.

“Chengcheng, please, what did he do? You know you can’t treat him like me, he and his brother aren’t like us.” Wuxian hummed, thinking about the well-mannered Xichen fondly. They really were so much more lowkey in their arguments.

“I hate you, I hate you so much and I hate him… We’re… bonding and I don’t like it.” The way Jiang Cheng howled it into the phone, Wuxian would have thought he was being actively killed rather than just wandering around a museum.

Wuxian laughed so hard he dropped the spoon onto the floor and had to fall back against the counter. He tried to stifle it with a hand to his mouth but it did nothing to stop the flowing giggles.

In the other room Yanli gave him an alarmed look but that just made the giggles turn into wheezing. Even Jiang Cheng’s angry growling in his ear did absolutely nothing to help cut off the endless stream. He tried his best, he really did, but this was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard out of his brother and he would remember this for years.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s voice came through the phone, sounding almost as distressed as Jiang Cheng and the laughter only increased.

“Wa-wait…” He wheezed, fumbling around for the spoon and taking the second to grab a clean one to suck in a few breaths. They sounded so upset at getting along, what was Wuxian supposed to do?

“Okay, okay, I’m… I’m back.” Wuxian still snickered to himself as he started stirring again at Yanli’s pointed look. Pregnant and missing her husband was not leading to a happy Yanli and Wuxian did not want to be the one at the bad end of her disappointed face.

“Can I please come stay with you?” Lan Zhan said, and if it was anyone else Wuxian would have said it was a whine but of course his amazing Lan Zhan would never.

Suppressing another round of laughter, Wuxian shook his head and smiled at the pan instead. Was it cheesy of him to still be so excited and fuzzy-feeling whenever Lan Zhan said anything about being with him? Yes. Would Wuxian ever stop? Nope.

“Lan Zhan.” Wuxian finally said, trying his best to use a stern tone that definitely wasn’t working. “Jiang Cheng, you two are supposed to be bonding. Why is that so bad?”

The phone scratched and made a shuffling noise before Jiang Cheng’s voice came back.

“Did you know your fiancé loves art history?”

Wei Wuxian nodded to himself, wondering why that was a big deal. Was Jiang Cheng just grumpy that Lan Zhan knew more about the paintings? Or maybe Lan Zhan had corrected the guide, that had happened the last time they’d gone together.

“Xichen is a well known artist, I’d be more confused if Lan Zhan wasn’t interested in it-”

“Did you know that your brother loves art history?” Lan Zhan’s voice cut in and that was news to Wuxian.

“Uh, no? Jiang Cheng hates it, he failed three art classes in college. Had to get a job and everything to pay for them because his mother wouldn’t pay for them.”

“I didn��t-” Jiang Cheng’s voice cut off and Wuxian just knew his fiancé was giving Jiang Cheng a glare of absolute loathing for daring to lie even if it was to get along with Lan Zhan. “Wuxian, I did not fail three classes.”

Jiang Cheng’s voice dropped into the lowest hiss as if someone was going to crawl out of the walls with his mother to yell at him again. It had not been a good two years and even Jin Zixuan had been trying to offer Jiang Cheng money to just take a different elective so he could pass. Jiang Cheng, like usual, had been too damn stubborn to admit defeat and had just re-taken the same classes even when his parents had cut the college fund.

Wei Wuxian understood not wanting to admit to that, especially when the Jiang name held prestige in the fashion industry, and if it was anyone else then Wuxian would be happy to lie. Not to Lan Zhan though, never to Lan Zhan.

Wuxian opened his mouth to inform him of just that, when Jiang Cheng cut him off with an embarrassed confession.

“Tell your perfect fiancé to stop looking at me like that… I didn’t fail the classes, I didn’t want to graduate yet and have to go into the business so I lied and said I failed them. No one looked at my transcripts, I took a different class each time, I didn’t realize you actually believed that bullshit.” Jiang Cheng confessed sullenly and Wuxian wished he was standing beside him so he could kick his ass.

“You what?” Wuxian howled at the phone, dropping it onto the counter and pressing the speaker when Yanli ran into the room in a panic. “You tell Yanli-jie what you just said right now.”

“No wait- She’s going to be ups-”

“A-Cheng.”

“Fuck.” The phone went silent and Wei Wuxian wondered what silent conversation Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng were glaring out. If it wasn’t for the fact that Yanli was now in this, he would be driving over there just to watch it go down.

“Okay… fucking… You remember when Mom kicked you out? You left and you said ‘don’t be a pushover when I can’t protect you’.” Jiang Cheng started and Wei Wuxian wailed dramatically, smacking himself in the face.

“I meant don’t let Jin Zixun talk shit, I didn’t mean… Lan Zhan, smack him for me! Twice!” There was a moment of almost audible mutual glaring. “Jiang Cheng, oh my god, oh my god. This is why she hated me, I turned you into a disgrace.”

“Shut up, I have two Master’s degrees from it even Jin Zixuan only has one.” Jiang Cheng shouted back before shuffling came over the phone and Wuxian realized Lan Zhan was probably shoving him out of the quiet museum.

“Enough yelling,” Yanli sighed softly, “A-Cheng, what are you talking about?”

It took a moment but finally Jiang Cheng’s voice came through at a much softer tone.

“I… wanted to get back at Mom for kicking Wuxian out, and I wanted to major in Art history anyways. Dad said that I had to go into business to take over Lotus, the only difference for the degrees were three classes so I just… Did both of them. Told Mom I’d failed to make a point, I’m perfectly fine at fucking up my life without Wuxian in it. Wait, why am I even having this conversation?”

“That backfired real fucking quick didn’t it.” Wuxian growled, he could see Jiang Cheng’s wince and the stubborn set to his shoulders.

How could his little brother be so stupid? He could have just done classes on the side, there was no need to get back at his parents. Wei Wuxian never held that against them, never! If he’d known it was all a stupid childish grudge that caused Jiang Cheng to get kicked out of the house for two years, he would have dragged him back and apologized himself.

“Shut up, I loved those classes! The only part of college that was fucking worth it. Don’t give me that look Lan Wangji, not all of us get to do what we want with our lives.”

“I did not give you a look-”

“You did, it’s the same fucking look you give me every time you see me. Like you have no fucking clue how your perfect precious Wei Ying came to be so amazing with me as a brother, like you’re disgusted with having to see me exist or fuck up-”

“I have not once-“

“Hey hey! You two stop it, both of you now. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, can you please walk away for me?” Wuxian barked into the phone, trying to be louder than their arguing but he had no idea if either of them even remembered that he was still there.

“-give a fuck if you hate me, you’re-”

“I have never said that I-”

“He’s my fucking family and I-”

“Wei Ying is-”

“Lan Zhan! Jiang Cheng! Come on you two please stop fighting, guys I swear I will cry.” He tried again but the growling didn’t stop for even a second.

“-I don’t care! Who do think gives a damn about you-”

The call ended with a rather concerning cracking and Wuxian’s head fell directly into the cupboard. Even the pain wasn’t enough to get him to actually concentrate, what just happened?

One moment they’re getting along, and apparently bonding to the point that both of them were actually worried and now they’re screaming at each other because of a lie that wasn’t even involving Lan Zhan! A lie that was completely and utterly Wuxian’s fault for pissing off Yu Ziyuan and somehow convincing his brother to go insane by trying to tell him to not let Jin Zixun kick him around.

“Jie…” He turned to her, eyes wide and hopeful. She would be able to tell him what to do or atleast what was going on. Right?

Even Yanli looked completely taken aback, her mouth moving soundlessly. They stared at each other, both trying to figure out how to fix this.

Atleast when Wuxian had punched Jin Zixuan he’d been fourteen, not twenty eight and in public. Was this going to be a tradition? Was Yanli going to sock Jiang Cheng’s future spouse?

The front door creaked open with a soft call from Jin Zixuan and they both snapped back to themselves.

“A-Xuan, I need you to drive A-Ying to the museum. I have to keep the food from burning.” Yanli said immediately, grabbing the spoon to stir before things started to burn. Jin Zixuan’s face came around the corner looking rather like a kicked puppy at the lack of greeting.

If it wasn’t a matter of life and death, Wuxian might have actually thought it was cute. But it was so he didn’t care and simply grabbed his arm to drag him out. Yanli was too far along in her pregnancy to be running after the two so Wuxian didn’t mind going alone anyways.

“Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan got into a fight,” Wuxian finally explained as he shoved his feet into his shoes. That got Zixuan’s attention and he picked his keys up again and let himself be pulled out after a quick declaration of love towards Yanli’s stirring form.

“A fight? I mean Jiang Cheng I understand, but Wangji?” Jin Zixuan looked even more bewildered than Wuxian felt, but that didn’t stop him from freezing until he’d scowled Jin Zixuan into a mumbled apology.

“Just… Just get us there and we’ll explain everything over dinner.”

Wuxian tried to call Lan Zhan the moment he was in the car, tapping his feet anxiously against the bottom of the floor. For once, Zixuan didn’t bother to complain about it and just drove a little faster when the phone reached voicemail.

“Are you sure it was a fight? Don’t give me that look! Wanyin has a temper but he doesn’t just attack people… That aren’t you.” Zixuan amended and Wuxian hid his face behind his hands with a loud groan.

That was true, Jiang Cheng had a temper but he’d also been running Lotus LLC. for years and knew how to keep himself calm. Which meant that either Lan Zhan had said something truly unforgivable (for Jiang Cheng atleast) or Lan Zhan threw the first punch.

Wuxian couldn’t even say that it was impossible, Lan Zhan was more than a little overprotective of him. If Jiang Cheng said the wrong thing or it sounded like the wrong thing…

“Oh my god I’ve ruined my family a second time.” He said desperately, wanting nothing more than to just be home, preferably in the arms of his fiancé.

“Hey, hey, if something happens it’ll blow over eventually.” Zixuan said awkwardly before a very hesitant and flat hand patted Wuxian’s head. “Right? Family no matter what, even if you break someone’s nose, I said that before right? Remember you hated me and now you don’t.”

“Oh god Jiang Cheng’s going to break Lan Zhan’s nose and he’s going to hate the rest of my family.” Wuxian cried, pressing his hands firmer against his face so he didn’t actually start sobbing. If he was the reason why the love of his life hated his family then Wuxian would never be able to forgive himself or feel like he deserved to look at any of them.

“No- I… No you don’t hate me, and I don’t hate you and I’m making this worse.” Zixuan cursed tried to squeeze Wuxian’s shoulder comfortingly before he focused on the road, trying to figure out when he started actually caring about Wuxian and his partner.

Dark hair took up most of Jiang Wanyin’s vision as he blinked rapidly, the tears still pricking at his eyes. He tried to sniff but agony just shot up his nose instead and he groaned angrily.

“How bad is it?”

Lan Wangji’s hum did nothing to assuage his fears but a second later pale eyes met Jiang Wanyin’s and the man nodded.

“It’s not broken.” Lan Wangji finally said, carefully pressing a few more napkins onto the bloody mess. Jiang Wanyin swatted his hand away and moved to hold it himself, tilting his head to follow Lan Wangji’s movements to the bench beside him.

“You,” Jiang Wanyin started with a bump to Lan Wangji’s shoulder, “have a hard fucking head. Welcome to the family.”

Lan Wangji bristled like an angry bird before he blinked and realized that Jiang Wanyin was grinning at him. He was trying to be friendly.

Lan Wangji quietly reminded himself to tell Xichen just how much he appreciated having a mentally sane brother.

“I’m sorry I broke your phone.” Wangji finally said, looking down at the shattered screen in Jiang Wanyin’s hand.

“Don’t worry about it, I broke yours too when you fell on it… Wuxian’s going to have a heart attack though.”

Lan Wangji winced at the reminder, Wei Ying was incredibly attached to both of them and the last thing he’d heard was Lan Wangji headbutting his brother. Then he winced again at pain rocketing across his face, and reached up to tenderly press against the freshly bruised skin on his eye.

“Oh, right, lemme see.” Jiang Wanyin didn’t bother to wait for permission, just reached over to turn Lan Wangji’s face over.

It took every ounce of Lan Wangji’s patience not to headbutt him again, but after taking a punch to the face it really wasn’t worth it. Besides, if Wei Ying came over while Wangji was fighting his brother it would make things that much worse. He could barely fathom that not even fifteen minutes ago he and Jiang Wanyin had actually started to like each other and now they were both bruised and bloody.

“I didn’t hit hard enough to worry about cracking your skull, so you probably don’t need an X-ray, but if it stays a sharp pain I’d go in anyways, or if you can't move your eye.” Jiang Wanyin said knowledgeably, Lan Wangji wondered how he knew so much but at the same time he didn’t really care about that right now.

“Are you saying that you pulled your punch?” Lan Wangji said blankly. That punch had hurt, and Jiang Wanyin had pulled it?

“Of course I did, If I didn’t you’d be on your way to the hospital with a broken nose and a cracked eye. I grew up with Wuxian, do you really think we never got into scuffles? Got to the point, Dad signed us up for classes so we’d punch other people instead… Never stopped us though.” Jiang Wanyin said fondly, dabbing at the still bleeding nose and leaning back into the bench now that his examination was over.

“Why would you fight your brother?” Lan Wangji was aghast, of course Wei Ying had told him about some of the fights he’d gotten into when he was younger, but he’d never realized how physical he meant. He couldn’t even imagine punching Xichen, or, heaven forbid, Xichen punching him.

“Why wouldn’t I? Oh right, you were raised properly.” It didn’t sound sarcastic so Lan Wangji didn’t react. “Sometimes you just get pissed off and you have nothing else to do but to tackle your idiot brother until Jiejie comes over to help. Don’t look at me like that, Wuxian broke my arm, twice. And the second time wasn’t even my fault.”

Jiang Wanyin’s head turned toward him with an almost evil mirth.

“You got grown-up Wei Ying, I got feral Wei Wuxian. Do you know how many times that little shit would pick fights then bolt back to hide behind me when he realized he was out-sized or out-numbered? Another reason we had to take defence classes, even if we were outnumbered, if we had each other’s back we weren’t going down easy. This way we stopped coming home bloody.”

Again Lan Wangji didn’t say anything, just sat quietly and watched the park in front of them as he thought. Wei Ying had told him multiple times that Jiang Wanyin wasn’t like Xichen, they communicated differently. Lan Wangji had assumed that meant that he was probably more like Nie Mingjue but atleast Nie Mingjue could compliment Nie Huaisang to his face instead of half hearted insults.

Wei Ying said they were bonding, and they had nothing to do until Wei Ying arrived so perhaps…

“You said… You lied for him?” Wangji finally asked, wondering if it counted as an attempt at friendliness.

The laughter drained from Jiang Wanyin’s face immediately and his lip curled slightly like he wanted nothing more than to bare his teeth. If he was looking for another fight Wangji wouldn’t give in a second time, that would only hurt Wei Ying more. Yet Jiang Wanyin’s voice was soft and strained like he was forcing himself to speak and it was painful.

“Mom kicked him out after a fight with Dad. She wasn’t really mad at Wuxian but she couldn’t do anything against Dad but she knew kicking him out would hurt him. Jiejie was already living with her husband and I was off to college so she couldn’t actually do anything but yell over the phone. So when the opportunity to rub it in her face that Wuxian was the reason I was so good in classes showed up, I took it. Wanted to hurt her for hurting him.” Jiang Wanyin’s face slipped into a mask of guilt and shame, even two years out of college and the full owner of Lotus he still couldn’t believe he’d been so shitty to his mother. She’d only wanted the best for him but he wanted his family together and when one went missing he cracked the connections to the rest of them. In the end Yanli was the only one he talked to all those long years of college until the beginning of his last semester when Wuxian returned.

“Your parents cut you off?”

“Of course they did, wasn’t Mom though. She thought I was sick or just rebelling, which I was, but Dad was pissed. Still surprised he even remembered I existed once I left the house.”

“You paid for college yourself?”

“Eh? No, I got a scholarship in the first place, parents paid for my business administration degree and the school paid for my art history degree. Do you think I’d be so good at design if I couldn’t pass an art class? The extra scholarship meant I needed another year and a half of school unless I wanted to stuff it all in at the same time. Kept me out of the house long enough for that idiot to come back… Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have gone.”

Lan Wangji couldn’t stop himself from frowning as he looked at the man avoiding his gaze. He really couldn’t get a read on him, which in itself wasn’t that strange he didn’t get most people, but Jiang Wanyin had literally just told him something even Wei Ying didn’t know and Wangji still didn’t know what was going on with him.

He wanted to put Jiang Wanyin firmly in the ‘I only accept they exist when Wei Ying asks me too’ but he couldn’t help but remember the hour and a half prior when they’d been debating painting styles from the 18th century, it had been almost as much fun as speaking with Xichen over painting archetypes. Now he also knew that Jiang Wanyin hadn’t wanted Wei Ying to leave and waited for him to return to the family. As much as Wangji wanted to hate him for all the arguments between the brothers and for not fighting his mother to keep a roof over Wei Ying’s head, he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel it.

“... I..” Wangji started, mentally chanting ‘this is for Wei Ying’, “I do not hate you.”

“Oh that’s a relief.” Jiang Wanyin said sarcastically but he didn’t glare so Wangji took that as a good sign.

“Earlier… When you said no one cares about Wei Ying and I-”

“I meant the gay thing, Wuxian’s always so touchy about it like I didn’t have to share a room with him for thirteen years and hear him when he saw Nie Mingjue for the first time. I thought you were arguing about that.” Jiang Wanyin said so flippantly that Lan Wangji actually felt bad for head butting him.

“Wei Ying is not a disgrace to you or anyone else.”

“I don’t care about that. Who gives a damn about you and him?”

As Wei Ying would say: Oops.

“I see how fighting works now.” Wangji said with a nod to himself. After throwing a few punches, they were both now too tired to argue in the same way and could only listen and communicate. That made a lot of sense even if Wangji would prefer that Wei Ying never need to throw a punch ever again.

Jiang Wanyin gave him a wide eyed look before he barked out a laugh and shook his head as he stood.

“Uh Huh. Sure you do, atleast you and Zixuan will have something to bond over. Wuxian really did break his nose when we were fourteen.” Jiang Wanyin was still smiling at that and Lan Wangji realized he would never understand anyone in his husband’s family. Not really.

“... Xichen has a painting that was recently added to this museum’s collection.” Wangji said, wondering if the olive branch would be taken. They’d started arguing and debating on every painting and hadn’t even managed to get halfway through the actual museum before they’d both had the panicked realization they had started to like each other.

Jiang Cheng gave him a narrowed eye glare before he tossed the bloody napkins away and shrugged.

“Let’s go see it, who knows when Wuxian’ll show up.”

Half an hour was how long it took and Wuxian nearly screamed when he saw them.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, your face! Jiang Cheng, how could you- Chengcheng your face?!” Wuxian had gasped, holding onto Lan Wangji’s jacket and looking more horrified then the time he’d watched a documentary where the fox ate a rabbit. “You two! How could you- I cannot believe you two- Why are you both looking at me like that?”

Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji shared an amused glance, keeping quiet over Wuxian’s admonishing. Jiang Cheng passed over the drink he’d been holding to Wuxian’s hands and successfully distracted him from his staring.

“Your fiancé has good taste in coffee.” Was all Jiang Cheng said, walking toward Jin Zixuan instead and leaving the dramatics for the one who signed up for it.

“Your brother has rather interesting ideas on color theory.” Lan Wangji said to Wuxian, his lips only twitching into a more fond smile at the hand waving and bewildered look on his fiancé’s face. “We have bonded.”

“You… broke each other’s faces.” Wuxian cried, holding the drink in one hand so the other could cradle Wangji’s cheek and gently stroke over the unbruised skin. “I’m so so so sorry, Lan Zhan, I didn’t realize he’d punch you or I never would have left-”

“There’s no need for apologies,” Lan Wangji said pointedly, gently reaching up to take Wuxian’s hands and press a kiss to the fingertips, “besides, I hit first. It was a misunderstanding. It has been cleared up. I believed him to be looking down on you, he believed me to be ashamed of my relationship with another man.”

“You two.. You two are never allowed to bond again. If I wanted you to punch each other I would have sent you to Huaisang’s brother’s gym to box it out.” Despite his words, Wuxian had relaxed considerably and spared a glance over his shoulder towards his brother. “So… You don’t hate him?”

“No. I do not understand him, but I know he cares about you. That’s all I need to know.” Wangji said with another kiss to his fingertips.

“That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard… Well other than when you confessed, and when you proposed, and when you say my name and-”

Wangji shook his head, shutting him up with a kiss that Wuxian was more than happy to reciprocate.

Jiang Cheng glanced at their disgusting affection and then the very awkward looking Jin Zixuan.

“... Go ahead.” He finally said with a suffering sigh. In seconds, Jin Zixuan was in his face, carefully checking his nose. The moment they’d found out that Yanli was pregnant Zixuan had devoted himself to all forms of emergency medical training just in case anything happened to their baby. In doing that, though, had somehow unlocked his need to use that towards anyone he considered family.

“Okay it’s not broken, and Lan Wangji… I’m sure Wuxian has that handled.” Jin Zixuan said after glancing at the couple and Jiang Cheng really couldn’t blame him.

“Why are you here anyways?”

“A-Li yelled at me to drive Wei Wuxian here.” He said pathetically, like there couldn’t be anything worse in the world than Yanli yelling at him. And he was right.

“Hmm, we should probably call her and tell her that we’re not dead. I broke my phone and Lan Wangji’s.” Jiang Cheng said, holding out his hand for Jin Zixuan’s phone. Jin Zixuan looked like he didn’t trust him but a moment later he gave in and passed it over.

“Uh… I hope you two are getting along now.” Jin Zixuan said, trying for an awkward smile. “I’m glad my family is getting along.”

“You’re not good at this.” Jiang Cheng said bluntly and Jin Zixuan shook his head rapidly.

“No I’m not. Please call A-Li, the stress isn’t good for the baby, and I mean all three of us.”

“God, I hope I die alone.” Jiang Cheng sighed as he clicked on the contact and started to herd Jin Zixuan out of the gallery before the two behind them started getting handsy.

#Jiang cheng #Wangxian #The untamed #mdzs #Lan Wangji #Lan Zhan #Wei Wuxian #Wei Ying #Jiang Wanyin #MDZS Fanfic

17 notes · View notes

somethingimworkingon · 4 years

Text

Zanele Muholi, Tate Modern

Walking into the Zanele Muholi exhibition at Tate Modern is like discovering another country.

In 2017 Muholi’s ongoing self-portrait series, Somnyama Ngonyama/Hail the Dark Lioness, was exhibited in London’s Autograph Gallery. In press reviews and posters on the tube that autumn, the images were unmissable and unmistakeable: stark black and white photographs of an impassive face crowned with Brillo pads or clothes pegs, festooned with vacuum cleaner hoses. At the time, Autograph wrote, the artist: “uses her body as a canvas to confront the politics of race and representation… Gazing defiantly at the camera, Muholi challenges the viewer’s perceptions while firmly asserting her cultural identity on her own terms: black, female, queer, African.”

Fast forward to 2020, and Tate Modern’s major Zanele Muholi exhibition. Visiting hours at the museum flicker in and out of existence as we navigate COVID lockdowns – now you can come! No, wait, sorry, you can’t. Try rebooking for a month’s time.

When I finally squeaked in, in early December, I expected more Dark Lionesses. I had a vague idea that Zanele Muholi was a bit like a South African Cindy Sherman.

I was wrong.

This exhibition shows the breadth of Muholi’s practice, of which the self-portraits are just one strand. The range and energy of the work is astounding. Especially given that in 2012 their studio was burgled and five years of work on hard drives was stolen.

Another mental adjustment: Muholi’s pronouns are they/them/theirs.

Born in Umlazi, South Africa, in 1972, at the height of Apartheid, Zanele’s father died when they were a baby and their mother, Bester, a domestic worker, had to leave her eight children for employment in a white household. Zanele was brought up by extended family. They started working as a hairdresser, then studied photography at Market Photo Workshop in Johannesburg, graduating in 2003, and going on to be awarded their MFA in Documentary Media from Ryerson University in Toronto in 2009.

On returning to South Africa they started to document the lives of the LGBTQI+ community.

Aftermath (2004)

The exhibition opens with a group of deceptively gentle images. In the first, Aftermath (2004), a torso is cropped from waist to knees, hands modestly clasped in front of Jockey shorts, a huge scar running down the person’s right leg almost like a piece of body art. In another, Ordeal (2003), hands wring out a cloth in an enamel basin of water placed on a floor. A third image shows a cropped, seated figure, again waist to thighs, hands folded in their lap, plastic hospital ties around their wrists. These pictures have a softness and beauty which completely belies the fact that their subjects are all survivors of sexual violence and “corrective rape”.

As the caption to the last picture, Hate crime survivor I, Case number (2004) explains, “Corrective rape is a term used to describe a hate crime in which a person is raped because of their perceived sexual orientation or gender identity. The intended consequence of such acts is to enforce heterosexuality and gender conformity.” This horrific practice is by no means unique to South Africa, but the term seems to have originated there – feminist activist Bernedette Muthien used it during an interview with Human Rights Watch in 2001 – and its effects on the community resonate throughout this exhibition.

Ordeal (2003)

They don’t, however, dominate. While the exhibition starts by showing the evils of intolerance of gender nonconformity, Muholi goes on to reclaim, elevate and celebrate that same nonconformity.

With Being (2006 – ongoing) we move on to photographs of naked bodies entwined – again tightly cropped, again soft black and white, but now without outside interference. They are sensual, personal, and owned. A series of portraits of two female lovers, Katlego Mashiloane and Nosipho Lavuta (2007) switches to colour and full figures. The couple sit entwined, laughing: they kiss, and bathe side by side standing in an enamel basin, in a warm, defiant echo of the scene in Ordeal (2003) across the room.

Katlego Mashiloane and Nosipho Lavuta, Ext.2, Lakeside, Johannesburg (2007)

The series Brave Beauties, started in 2014, is “a series of portraits of trans women, gender non-conforming and non-binary people. Many of them are also beauty pageant contestants.” The queer beauty pageant is many things: a celebration – and redefinition – of beauty, a declaration of independence by contestants, a challenge to “heteronormative and white supremacist cultures,” and an attempt, as Muholi puts it, “to change mind-sets in the communities [the contestants] live in, the same communities where they are most likely to be harassed or worse.”

Melissa Mbambo, Durban, South Beach (2017). Melissa Mbambo is a trans woman and beauty queen, Miss Gay South Africa 2017

Roxy Msizi Dlamini, Parktown, Johannesburg (2018)

Akeelah Gwala, Durban (2020)

These portraits are made collaboratively, Muholi and the subjects choosing clothing, location and poses together. Some of them, like the picture of Roxy Msizi Dlamini (2018) have the quality of a classic glamorous studio shot. Others, like Akeeleh Gwala, Durban (2020), posing in a bikini against a scruffy brick wall in what seems to be a deserted brick alleyway, are a reminder of the vulnerability of the subject. Akeelah Gwala’s “Testimony” in the exhibition catalogue says: “I am 24 years old. I am a transgender woman. Growing up was very difficult because your parents think this is a boy… I was raped when I was 16 years old…” The rapist, a well-known pastor, threatened Akeelah’s family, forcing them out of their home. Akeelah refers to Muholi as “Sir Muholi” and says, “I have taken part in several beauty pageants. I perform because as a Brave Beauty, it is important to be visible and make others know about us and respect us as human beings.”

Miss Lesbian I-VII, Amsterdam (2009)

The theme of beauty pageants also features in the series of self-portraits Miss Lesbian I-VII, Amsterdam (2009), where Muholi casts themself as a beauty queen, an early identification with the wider community prefiguring Brave Beauties. The 2009 series brings together several of Muholi’s themes: the beauty pageant and the fashion/fashion magazine world; who gets to perform and who gets to watch; who gets to choose what beauty means? And, as an aside that may sound trivial but isn’t, kitchen utensils as headgear.

As the exhibition unfolds, we discover other projects. Muholi describes themselves as a visual activist, and they have a large network of collaborators, including the collective Inkanyiso (“Light” or “Illuminate” in isiZulu), a non-profit organisation focused on queer visual activism. We see images documenting marches and protests, weddings and funerals, and “After Tears” – gatherings held after burials to celebrate the life of the lost loved one.

Nathi Dlamini at the After Tears of Muntu Masombuka’s funeral, KwaThema, Springs, Johannesburg (2014)

Death is a constant presence in Muholi’s community and work. The largest space in this exhibition is given to Faces and Phases (2006 – ongoing), a collection of portraits – 500, and counting. The images “celebrate, commemorate and archive the lives of Black lesbians, transgender and gender non-conforming individuals.” People appear more than once. Some spots on the walls are empty, marking a portrait yet to be taken or a participant no longer there. One wall is dedicated to those who have passed away.

Not only is this a powerful and moving project, it’s an extraordinarily beautiful set of pictures. As are the last works in the show, the series that started in 2012: Somnyama Ngonyama, Hail the Dark Lioness.

In this work, Muholi has darkened their skin and whitened their eyes, and composed the picture in the manner of a classical, perfectly-lit studio portrait, posing with found objects as “costume” – a footstool as a helmet, say. There is so much to unpick in these images – references to colonialism, Apartheid, to the politics of race and representation, to femininity and “women’s work”. Muholi presents us with a kaleidoscope of views of injustice, equal parts beautiful and brutal. The photographs were created in different parts of the world, at different times, combining what could almost be witty accessorising with intense cultural and political commentary.

Quinso, The Sails, Durban (2019)

The intellectual focus of every picture is slightly different. Zamile, KwaThema (2016) shows Muholi draped in a striped blanket, as used in South African prisons during Apartheid. In Quinso, The Sails, Durban (2019) Muholi’s hair is adorned with silvery Afro combs, a symbol of African and African diaspora cultural pride. In Nolwazi II, Nuoro, Italy (2015) their hair is stuffed with pens – a reference to the “pencil test” whereby, under Apartheid, if a pencil pushed into a person’s hair fell out they were “classified as white”.

Nolwazi II, Nuoro, Italy (2015)

As mentioned above, Muholi calls themselves a visual activist rather than an artist – though galleries, like Tate Modern, might beg to disagree. Walking through this exhibition, I came away with the impression that their work is on the intersection of art and documentary photography – but also that everything is documentary: everything is story telling, and bearing witness, and the place where “documenting the community” and “expressing oneself as an artist” is continually blurred.

Maybe it’s not just like discovering a new country: maybe Zanele Muholi is showing us a whole new world.

Zanele Muholi is at Tate Modern until May 31, 2021

#zanele muholi #tate modern

96 notes · View notes

fishmongeringstudies · 3 years

Text

six: wandering the city while waiting for a train that'll never come, you stop to wave at a dog on the street only to realize you have mistaken a crumpled bag of mcdonald's for a chihuahua

i almost slipped and died in the shower today. luckily i didn't, because i read somewhere that slipping and dying in the shower makes it a little hard for you to finish writing a manuscript for a novel fictionalizing the events of your freshman spring semester that's definitely going to become a new york times bestseller in about four years' time, but i came pretty close. for a moment i had my hand on the wall and my legs splayed like a barbie doll stuck to a stripper pole and the matchbox world behind the shower curtain was slipping steadily south and heading lower still. and then i caught myself.

several minutes later i heard scuffling beyond the pale, soapy shower curtain and thought there might be someone creeping on me. if someone was creeping on me i had an idea of who it might be, which made the prospect all the more likely and infinitely more convincing inside the grapefruit-sized thing i called my brain. then i heard the clap of god's hands in an ashen sky, and i knew. this was no man made disaster-in-waiting. it had begun to rain.

it didn't rain for long. five minutes at best, two if my grasp on the spatial-temporal continuum is worse than i'd imagined (this is very likely; the stars pass me by faster than i can count them these days), but long enough that anyone who happened to be outside when that first teardrop fell from the sky got a little wet. a little fucked up, if you will, which, hey. good for him. he deserves to get a little fucked up.

but i get carried away. please excuse my personal grievances. this is not a lament, it is a swimming pool. full of tiny colorful fish which flit around at its bottom, chasing strands of sunlight like children on a playground.

the weather forecast says it'll rain again tomorrow, and maybe the day after, too, if the world stays sad enough to let it happen. it makes me nostalgic. when i left in february monsoon season was in full swing, tearing trees from their roots with big meaty hands and making every fleeting boring moment into the kind of gray sunday afternoon on which i imagine the directors of romantic dramas like to shoot break-ups. rain in singapore looks different. it's not a bucket full of water, it's a room. a blue room against a silver sky. your socks stuck to your ankles with the kind of grim determination that makes you almost a little sad to peel them off, to toss them in the washing machine behind the kitchen. there's a little balcony behind the kitchen in the house you left in february, with a washing machine and a ledge for sitting on and a dryer that doesn't work. you used to go there when you wanted to check on the restaurant across the street. from here you can make out the round, blue-rimmed tables that attract students, biking enthusiasts, three am brawls between red-faced european men and their red-faced european friends. if there's noise on this side of the street, it's probably coming from there.

summer. summer reminds me of home. so far i've been telling people that the association is a bad one, and it certainly isn't a lie, but it's not a whole truth either, if one believes in the matter of whole truths to begin with. i'm starting to think maybe there are only skim-milk truths, clotted cream truths, 0% fat yogurt truths. truths that change shape when you aren't looking. we aren't looking most of the time, after all. we're very busy people. all of us. we're trying to change the world.

and for what? who are we trying to save? do you want to live forever? that's the goal, isn't it. i mean it's definitely mine. i won't blame you if the concept of death sits on your shoulder like a fourth generation ipod touch with a broken home button, whispering really fucked up shit into your ear when you're alone. i mean it definitely does for me.

puzzle-girl is in new york now, last i checked. good for her. i hear new york is full of lights and electricity and car exhaust. maybe one day she will learn that friendship isn't an emergency help-line. probably not. my friend thinks she will, thinks we'll come back around in our junior year and everyone will see us stuck to each other again like two grotesque modern art pieces drilled back-to-back into a museum exhibit wall only with a firm mutual understanding of what boundaries are, but i have my doubts.

once someone told me with the kind of half-fake half-genuine smile that makes you wonder if AI technology has advanced far enough to mimic the complexities of stupid hormonal teenagers with really bad interpersonal issues after all that i was blooming. coincidentally all the flowers on campus had suddenly decided to poke their heads out of the dirt like babies busting their way out of refrigerators, guns blazing, hearts shot to pieces, so it's not like he was completely bullshitting me. he was only ninety-eight percent bullshitting me. the two percent is why he comes up in my writing as often as he does, all this time later. like i think he was ninety-eight percent clown but two percent circus, two percent red-nosed reindeer trying to unionize behind a striped curtain, two percent something real. or at least i like to think that way. i'm a writer. we have to pretend there's something to write about. or else what will we write about?

so yeah. one time someone told me i was blooming. at the time i was embarrassed. and then after the story put an abrupt end to itself i was madly obsessed with the idea of flowers jutting out of cracks in the earth, gold pouring forth from blood-wounds, poinsettia eyes, whatever, whatever, and then the flowers started wilting. standing on the path outside my dorm i was like what the fuck? why the hell is everything dying? it's been like three days, god, what are you guys made of, tissue paper?

i was talking to the flowers. which died in spite of my indignation, so that's one for nature, zero for me. good for them. see you next spring, when things will, hopefully, be different. i don't have a plan as much as i have a dream i'd like to see walk into reality on three legs and a pitchfork. but it's a good dream. i promise.

the sky's clear as glass now. it's so bright i could probably stick my hand up there and stir vigorously and then an angel would emerge from the ether, rubbing her eye sleepily with the back of her hand. that's the kind of clarity i'm talking about. making metaphors about christianity-clarity. i am lonely and my dreams are full of beautiful people-clarity.

that's a lie-clarity. loneliness is, as mentioned in a previous installment of the meandering car accident i call this blog, a choice, and i'm too lazy and full of my own slew of interpersonal issues to commit to something like that. but summer is new, and it's like i'm getting used to the body in my basement all over again. how do i step around it, how do i make sure i don't look at its face? and its eyes, oh, those eyes. how terrible. how full of absence.

there will be exactly two hundred students on campus when summer move-ins are finished next week. this school has a population of nearly sixteen hundred. what are we doing?

research. academia. learning a new language. road trips. plane trips. horse riding lessons. research. academia. learning a new language. relationships. spaceships. building a ladder to the moon.

it feels like the sun never sets sometimes. the hours slide into one another like tectonic plates beneath the surface of the world and yet the sky remains just as it looked this afternoon, milk-white and pale as death. a hot summer wind blows and sends the clouds careening sideways into each other, and yet from this distance nothing changes. drop a body in a bathtub and nothing changes. beat someone up and nothing changes. survive thirteen weeks of bad mistakes and then worse ones, midnight mistakes, thursday evening mistakes, the kind of mistake you don't think you'll ever be able to write about, and still nothing changes.

they say there's always a silver lining but what if i want fur instead? let's say i want a fur-lined sky with fur-lined clouds and a little heart-shaped toy that makes a sound when you step on it. let's say i want to be fifteen again. the sky doesn't care. it still looks like a damn sky. the sky doesn't do things out of sentimentality.

it's just kind of there. today i'm just kind of here. today we're all alive. good for you. good for me. good thing my hand was on the wall when i slipped in the shower, so i could get out and dry my hair and then sit down in this shitty weird-smelling lounge with my laptop with the cracked touchpad and my cool elmo slippers, and tell you about this solitary life on mars.

05.26.2021

#i just realized i put my mask on inside out. luckily i have been alone in this lounge for thirty minutes and it is a new mask #so minimal damage has been done but shame on me anyway. i will go reflect in the shame corner now

26 notes · View notes

hansolmates · 4 years

Text

jeongguk; a royal exchange (02)

feat. the rom-com college!jeongguk x princess!reader au no one asked for

she’s the man!au where the princess impersonates her brother yoongi in order to finish his degree on time while yoongi is thrusted into princely duties. jeongguk is in the mess purely through room arrangement.

notes: p.2 is a straight up roll of pure crack and fluff. lil sexy for like .2 seconds. super self indulgent and inspired by the princess diaries. princess is stressed the whole time and we live to see her suffer

w.c: 7.1k

01, 02

“I’m sure this is probably the hundredth time you’ve heard since you’ve landed, but welcome to Illyria! The palace welcomes you to your new home away from home.”

“Ho-ly,” Jeongguk slaps a hand in front of Taehyung’s offending tongue, in case swearing is forbidden on royal territory. Wouldn’t want their scholarships taken away over Taehyung’s potty mouth.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoseok, sir?” an exchange student from a university in New Zealand (yet Korean-born, ironically) pipes up, “why does the infrastructure of the building look like that?”

The student is referring to the ravines of gold metal that stream the walls of the palace. While the architecture is classic, the sheen of the metal definitely gives it an air of regality.

“Good question, Namjoon. The castle is wired and designed after our main export, Illyrium. The element was discovered in the early 1850s in what is now the ruins of Oros,” Hoseok quips brightly, patting the stone affectionately. “It has a conductivity percentage of 106% percent, more than silver. It is also quite durable.”

Namjoon’s deep laugh echoes throughout the pavilion, “I was just asking because it makes the castle so beautiful. Thank you.”

Jeongguk takes the time to snap more pictures of the castle, switching between his Sony and his phone. He zooms in on a low balcony overlooking the terrace they landed from. A figure rolls into his shot, stumbling barefoot with a ruby silk robe swishing between steps. You’re tired, sleep-laden as you clutch a snow white mug between your two hands, leaning your elbows against the metal bearing. You’re staring at nothing and everything, glazed over your backyard that seems to stretch on for eons.

“You’re right,” Jeongguk marvels at your visage between his lens, “absolutely beautiful.”

“Can I please get a better assignment, Jimin?”

“Your highness,” Jimin frowns, following after you, “you love teaching the exchange students, what has changed?”

“Exactly, Jimin,” you sigh, stopping in the middle of the hallway. Jimin’s nose nearly bumps into yours, “nothing has changed. I teach students every quarter, the same subjects every time. It’s not to say that I don’t love teaching,” you exhale, blowing into Jimin’s honeycomb bangs, “but can’t I have a more challenging assignment? Conversing with dignitaries, renovating the town square, I’ll even do culinary!”

Your poor secretary squeaks, pushing up his rose gold iPad to carve some distance between you two. “You-you know those jobs aren’t suitable for a Princess,” Jimin cuts himself off once he sees your eyes soften in defeat, “b-but! I’ll see if Hoseok would be willing to take on another class? And maybe we could arrange a presentation to the King in regards to your proposals?”

“Right,” you smile sadly, folding your arms and stretching the tight blazer your mother forced you in, “as if another Google Slideshow will impress him.”

Jimin squeezes your shoulder, as if he could tell you all the things he could never say through body language. “Showtime’s in two minutes, your highness.”

You nod, making haste to the large double doors that lead to the main living room. Normally, the scholarship program’s presentation is done in the throne room, a big show of bravado and an ego booster to your family. However, this particular class is entirely post-grad and under ten students, so you figure they were placed in a more intimate area for the sake of comfort.

Jimin pulls a lint roller out of nowhere, careful to catch every bit of dust that dares meet your presence. You tug uncomfortably at your collar, and give the signal to the door bearer. You fight the urge to flinch at the usual bombastic announcement.

“Introducing, the Princess of Illyria!”

The students and staff are bowing when you enter, and you send a look to Yoongi, who only offers you a lazy smirk. It’s a look you’ve feared since childhood, an explicit tell that he knows something you don’t. Nevertheless, you tack on a smile, standing in front of the ten students who are still dutifully lowered. You have to hand it to them, the undergrads would already be turning heads to get a peek at the princess.

“You may rise,” you voice floats. As mother always said, your voice must replicate a dandelion seed, bouncing in the wind.

The student directly in front of you elevates, a pair of doe eyes taking his sweet time to appreciate the view.

Jeon Jeongguk gives you a lazy smirk, mirroring your brother’s. The smile evaporates from your face, taking in the handsome man that you lived with for two months over two years ago. His eyes have certainly not lost their spark, but his hair is trimmed and showing off his forehead. A Sony camera wraps around his neck, held tightly by a strong pair of hands. He’s even dressed brightly, wearing a navy blazer over a plain white tee and a pair of dark jeans. Something twinges in your heart when you see that a familiar pair of black combat boots remain.

Jeongguk is the first to break eye contact, deciding to at least pretend to care about Hoseok’s presentation on the flatscreen. An overplayed video about Illyria’s history drones on, while Hoseok and Jimin are exchanging schedules in between. You’re sure that Jimin is passing on your word about choosing not to teach this quarter, and now it’s personal.

This urges the students to take seats on the couches, while staff floats around with various pastries and refreshments.

Your family takes their respective seats, and you fight the urge to pinch Yoongi as you hiss, “You knew about this?”

“Surprise,” Yoongi sing-songs, munching on a linzer cookie. “I handpicked all the students.”

“Couldn’t give your sister a heads up?” you snap hotly, making sure no one was looking as you pop a whole cream puff in your mouth.

“Sorry,” Yoongi leans over the shell of your ear, “Your hot ex-roommate is here, just wanted to let you know before you eat the dessert table.”

You mouth a fuck you, taking a stab at him under the table with your heeled foot.

After Yoongi’s not-so-subtle reveal of each other’s identities in a crowded Chinese restaurant two years ago, you’ve since cut off all contact with Jeon Jeongguk as you resumed your life as Princess of Illyria. Simultaneously shocked, but not surprised due to the obvious hints of suspicion, Jeongguk had forgiven your lie and allowed you to leave in good spirits. You remember leaving him at the front door of your dorm, hugging you warmly and bidding you safe travels.

It confused you, because it would've been easier to leave if Jeongguk had gotten angry at the complete breach of trust and kicked you out.

Hoseok is now presenting a slideshow of the intended schedule and itinerary for all students. You’re now glaring at the back of Jeongguk’s head, trying your damn hardest not to shove three brownies in your mouth in the presence of guests. Your tiny dessert spoon picks pathetically at the measly crumbs, and Jimin is urging you to smile from his position opposite you.

“And as always, our lovely princess will be conducting our class on Modern Illyrian Anthropology and will be organizing your field studies!” Hoseok practically shouts across the room, where you’re sitting wide-eyed with your family. You feel Yoongi reach over to dab the crumbs off your lips, enjoying your suffering.

You shoot a look at Jimin who was supposed to take care of things, and he gives you a pained expression that reads don’t fire me.

With a tight-lipped smile and feigning ignorance to Jeongguk’s interest in you teaching, you reply to the expectant students, “It’s always a pleasure to teach, I promise to not bore you with Illyrian history, that’s Hoseok’s job.”

“Hey!” he scrunches his nose, then turns to the students who are hiding their giggles, “Better get on her good side if you want a nice field assignment.” he warns good-naturedly, giving you a mock glare.

You suppose giving Jeongguk a field assignment far, far away from the castle.

After the long-winded presentation and a handful of brochures, the royal family is escorted out to retire for the day. As the youngest in the family you're the last one to leave.

Out the doorway you hear Taehyung utter, "That's her? What a babe!"

As to not arouse suspicion, it takes longer than anticipated to get a private moment with Jeongguk. No one but Taehyung and Jimin know of your circumstances, and it is to remain that way due to the fact that you and Yoongi committed fraud, royal or not.

Jeongguk is a quiet student, surprisingly. Choosing a seat by the window, he spends most of your classes doodling and looking out the pavilion. As stimulating as Namjoon and Irene’s questions are, you’re a little disheartened at the fact that Jeongguk has made little effort to talk to you, even if it’s as impersonal as classwork or office hours.

Today Hoseok’s teaching, and that gives you ample time to work out where you want to assign the students for field study. You’ve shaken off Jimin for now, and you’re currently roaming the halls with your phone, checking off your schedule.

Called the Museum of Modern Illyrian Art for Namjoon … check.

Sent staff to the villa in prep for the kiddies’ weekend getaway … check.

Sent e-vites and physicals to the Genovian royals … next.

Find a quiet corner to stress cry before 2:30—

A hand flies out of nowhere, grabbing your waist roughly and throwing you in a small room. The hand clasped over your mouth swallows your scream as the door shuts tight.

The captor turns on the singular lightbulb, grinning at you like a madman. “Hey Princess—what the fuck!”

You grimace, putting down your switchblade that was dangerously close to Jungkook’s jugular. “What the hell, Jeongguk! I could’ve killed you!”

“Dang, princesses are something else nowadays. Where on your body are you hiding knives?” Jeongguk marvels as if he wasn’t ten seconds away from being dead!Guk, patting down your lavender pantsuit in a way that’s highly inappropriate. “What are you, Ty Lee?”

“Self-defense secret,” and under your breath you add, “and Mai’s the one who hides knives. Ty Lee’s the acrobat.”

The grin easily returns to the tall boy’s face, burnt eyes shining against the naked bulb. This is the most emotion you’ve got out of him since classes started, and it’s doing nothing to ease the butterflies in your stomach. “So, come here often?”

“To the storage closet?” you snort, “not particularly.”

“And where’s a place I can go that you do come often?”

“My office hours,” you deadpan, “in which you haven’t visited, by the way. As a friend and as a teacher, I’m insulted.”

A low whine erupts from his throat, and he leans against the shelves, long arms spread across the three-ply toilet paper. “But your little secretary’s always there. It’s awkward when we’re not alone. I don't know if I should act like a friend or a student. Speaking of, where is he?”

“Ah, Jimin’s getting Starbucks.”

“Lit, can you tell him to pick me up a pink drink?”

“No,” but you send a text to Jimin anyway. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I’m supposed to be coming back from the bathroom,” he air-quotes, “AKA, running around the palace until I can corner you.”

You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your blazer.

“Are you annoyed at me?” and for a second, Jungkook’s eyes betray a hint of vulnerability. “Am I being too forward? Or do you not want to catch up? I don’t know, I figured you’d be excited to see me but you’ve just been so busy.”

“Jeongguk,” you put a hand on his shoulder, ceasing the rambling. He opens his mouth to add more, but you squeeze his bicep. “I’m not annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at the situation. I’ve missed you,” you offer him a shy smile, and he returns a small, hopeful one in return, “but you’re right, it’s been really busy with the usual duties and I’ve been a little on edge with keeping things together without letting any secrets out.”

You’re also confused as to why you’re still harboring feelings for him, but that’s another secret you keep to yourself.

“Well, your duty is doo-dy.” Jungkook huffs, but is placated by your confession. “Don’t worry Princess, I’ll think of something.”

A knock startles the both of you, and Jeongguk squeaks, brandishing a plunger in defense. With a dainty finger, you push the plumbing tool back to the ground, as the knockings did not stop.

“Ohmygod—am I going to be beheaded for kidnapping the Princess?” Jeongguk panics and checks his phone, realizing his bathroom break turned into a straight up game of hooky. “Do you guys still behead? I mean if you’re pulling out knives from who knows where—”

“Guk, relax,” recognizing it immediately as a code between you and your brother, you swing the supply closet open.

Yoongi looks between the two of you, gauging the situation. When he notices that no, you two did not just romp between the 3-ply and were in fact only talking, he huffs. “Losers,” he mutters under his breath, hiding a grin as he leaves you two to splutter.

It’s already well over twenty minutes past your class time, but Taehyung just wouldn’t shut up.

You can’t blame him, he’s thrilled that you managed to snag him a field study with your personal couture designer. He’s lit up like a good boy on Christmas eve, getting his present early. He’s gushing about how excited he is to use authentic Swarovski crystals and rub noses with the fancy fabrics.

“I’ll make you the perfect dress for the upcoming gala, Your Highness.” Taehyung’s vibrating in a manner you never imagined on a human before.

“Thank you,” you reply awkwardly, “I’m sorry, but what gala are you referring to?”

He shrugs, “I’m sure there’s a gala you have to go to sometime. I’ve just always wanted to say that, makes me feel special.”

“Tae,” Jeongguk is sitting on your desk, heels bumping into the mahogany. With a stiff jerk of his head, Tae’s lips morph into an ‘O’ and he finally gets the hint, bowing to you and scurrying off.

“Y’know, his fashion’s kind of eccentric.” he nods over to the excessive fur lining on Taehyung’s slippers, “I’d make sure your designer keeps a close eye on him.”

“And what do I owe the pleasure of your presence,” you click, “twenty minutes after class?”

Jeongguk has the audacity to roll his eyes, rolling his head back to crack out the stiffness. “The chamber choir, really?” he exhales, dropping the itinerary you spent the better half of your nights preparing.

You raise your eyebrows, “What? It pertains to your major.”

“For the past six years all I've done is eat, sleep, and breathe music,” he says, and you’re suddenly reminded that you had a glimpse of that version of Jeongguk two years ago. A slave to the music, as much as he loved the subject, it sometimes felt like a tether that weaved far too deeply under his skin. “Can’t my field assignment be something different? More eclectic?”

“Do you have anything in mind?”

“In fact, I do.” Jeongguk lolls his head to the side, chestnut bangs falling softly. “For my field study, I want to shadow the Princess’ duties.”

You slam your hands down, standing up so you’re nearly nose-to-nose with the young man. “Are you crazy? Do you want Yoongi and I to get caught?”

“Listen, I’ve thought about it all throughout class—”

“—what? You didn’t listen to my lecture?—”

“—and today in class you mentioned that you graduated with a Master’s in Public Affairs, because in fact I always listen to you,” Jeongguk presses a finger to your lips when you try to cut him off, “and lo and behold, one of my minors was in public affairs! What better way to get more experience in the business when I have the master right in front of me?”

“I don’t know, Guk,” you try, mulling through all the possible situations and horrors that could occur because of it.

“Princess, we’re killing two birds with one stone!” Jeongguk pleads, giving you the puppy eyes, “not only do I get a far better field study assignment, but it’s far better because I get to spend more time with you!”

You hate how absolutely weak you’ve become under his gaze. In the span of less than three weeks, Jeon Jeongguk has re-entered your life like he never left. He wanted to spend time with you. The selfish part of your brain says you wish the same. Who are you to deny such a simple desire?

“Fine,” you spit out, putting up a front and pretending to be annoyed, “but you better not get all huffy around Jimin.”

He shrugs, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Worth it.”

“You’re different,” Jeongguk states bluntly, actively ignoring the way Jimin tries to push between you two. Jeongguk continues to press into your shoulder as you weave through the gardens. You’re picking flowers for a specific theme arrangement and pattern. A diplomat from Spain is coming and he is bringing her young daughter. You've heard that she’s recently taken in interest in constructing flower crowns.

“Well, two years can do that to a person,” you reply airily, dropping a tiger lily in the wicker basket Jeongguk insisted on carrying.

Having Jeongguk follow you around like a duckling is fun, to be frank. Jimin is no longer hyper-focused on you, forcing him to spread his attention between you and your overly-attentive student. Jeongguk can’t attend every single one of your events because some of the information’s sensitive, but when he does it makes your job feel less of a job and more like a fun group project.

Like when you and Jeongguk would stumble in the farmer’s market every Sunday morning, hungover but aching to fill your bellies. You two were walking zombies, forcing yourselves out of bed to feed yourselves. But it was always fun because you were together, whenever it was Jeongguk’s turn to pay, you’d sneak in more KitKats for yourself. Whenever it was your turn, Jeongguk would smuggle more cartons of banana milk.

“No, no. It’s not that,” your friend admonishes instantly, “your personality’s still the same, even though it was Yoongi-fied. Your heart hasn’t changed,” you turn your head sharply towards a field of carnations, concealing your flush. “I mean, you’re more confident.”

“In other words,” Jimin pipes, looking up from his iPad, “an air of regality.”

You scoff, putting a hand on your hip and looking expectantly at the two boys. “You’ve changed too, Guk,” you reason, shaking your head. “Old Jeongguk wouldn’t be wearing white dress shirts and shoving princesses in closets.”

“You shoved the princess in a closet—!” Jimin starts, having half a mind to cancel the field study all together.

“Well, Old Jeongguk didn’t have a chance to really get to know you,” Jeongguk twirls a baby’s breath between his fingers, tucking it in-between your ear. “That’s New Jeongguk’s job.”

“So, you’re the Princess’ head of security,” Jeongguk tilts his head to look up at the slightly taller man, his visage covered by a pair of shades. The bodyguard is never really present, only when citizens enter the castle or you’re out of town. “You know you’re inside, right?”

The man only slightly inclines his head to acknowledge Jeongguk’s prodding. Hmph, he looks like a talker.

“If you’re her head of security,” Jeongguk leans closer, trying to avoid any further attention to his conversation, “do you know where she hides her knives? Because sometimes she wears those tight pencil skirts and I can’t help but wonder—”

“That’s classified.”

“Alright, where do you hide your knives—”

“Also classified.”

“Jeongguk,” you relent, sliding your footrest next to your throne, “leave Seokjin alone and come here, please.”

You can’t blame him. It’s always been a pastime of yours to ruffle Seokjin’s feathers, but you must admit that meeting with citizens is a long and frankly, boring process. The routine is fairly simple, the citizen bows and offers something for the table, and in return you lend your ear and offer assistance if possible.

“For your table, Your Highness,” the next citizen bows, carrying a foil-lined tray filled with fresh baked bread.

“Smells delicious, Bertrand.” you beam, ripping open the tin to snatch a hot slice off the top. Rosemary and thyme are egg washed atop the brown bread, and you proffer a piece to Jeongguk, as you could imagine the poor guy is as antsy as ever. “And may I introduce you to my student, Jeon Jeongguk? He’s studying my diplomacy for his field study.”

Bertrand tips his head, “Lucky you, she’s a true leader.”

Jeongguk nods shyly, nibbling on the crust. “Truly an honor.”

Jeongguk offers to bring the gift to the table with the other offerings across the room, and you nod, conversing lightly with Bertrand. His worries are simple enough, he feels pressured by a catering request from an Illyrian Duke, and wishes to serve a party fit for a royal. In resolution, you offer to send a palace chocolatier and chef to help with the preparations. Jeongguk returns to his seat next to yours just as Bertrand leaves. He pulls up his iPad, feigning notes that he should be writing while observing you.

The next citizen hobbles over, holding a large ivory wicker basket covered by a beige tarp. “For your table, Your Highness,” they bow, “I hope you like omelets.”

If you weren’t on the throne with an audience of one-hundred, you’d be delivering a very confused expression, coupled with panic. “May I?” you inquire, forcing a smile as you lift open the tarp.

In the basket there are two small jars of marmalade, and one huge chicken sitting fat and proud that its skin overflows between the gaps of the wicker. Its head twitches in your direction, barely turning because its neck is hugely bulbous with excess weight. Its beady little eyes mock you. It smells fear.

“Her name’s Dixie,” the citizen supplied helpfully.

“Holy shit,” Jeongguk whispers next to you, but not soft enough for it to not echo in the throne room, “Dixie, you are a thick chick.”

“Jeongguk!” you exclaim, which causes the whole room to reverb at your shrill cry.

Of course the chicken has to freak out, flapping its wings and freeing itself from the confines of its package. The animal dives for you, and you press yourself as much as you can against the throne. Jeongguk knows no bounds, throwing himself in front of you to catch the large bird. Feathers weave unto his umber tresses as the bird meets gravity, Jeongguk unable to calm down Dixie.

It’s more or less a wild goose chase (chicken chase?) after that, Jeongguk follows Dixie down the platform and around the throne room. The citizens and staff are clutching their stomachs in laughter, endeared by the young man following the chicken. Jimin is laughing and slapping Seokjin’s shoulder, his face breaking in an unabashed smile.

And you can’t help but laugh along with them, trying to smother your giggles by covering your face with a silk fan. You peek over the thin fabric to see Jeongguk looking especially concentrated on his mission. It wasn’t like the chicken was going to escape the throne room because the doors are closed, but surely it will be a workout as Dixie’s a trooper and isn’t going down without a fight.

“Don’t worry Princess, I got this!” Jeongguk’s voice reassures you from the far edge of the throne room. He’s taken a break, but the glint in his eyes show he’s committed to catching Dixie as she scuttles in circles.

He flashes you a breathtaking smile, all gums and pearly whites as he runs a hand through his wavy locks. Your smile falls slightly, and you clutch your fan tighter at the realization. Oh, you are besotted.

“Hoseok’s had me on my back about teaching a full class before your weekend getaway but I’ve long decided,” you lift your chin haughtily in a way only princesses do, jutting out your lip in confirmation, “that you should enjoy the time you have here. Summer’s almost over. You all should get a headstart on your packing so you can get to the beach early.”

Your class erupts into hoots and hollers, the Powerpoint presentation about the minerals of Illyria long abandoned. Two months have already passed, and in a couple weeks they’ll be saying their goodbyes. A twinge of sadness hits you as you relish in your students’ happy smiles. As each semester passes, each group leaves something behind you’ll never forget. This summer, as much as you taught them, you’ve learned a lot from them as well.

Students are already starting to pack up, but Namjoon’s butt is firmly planted in his seat, raising his hand. “Sorry, I have a question.”

You smile goodnaturedly, already used to his usual spiel. “I can email you the Powerpoint and we can go over whatever you want on Monday.”

“Ah, no. I was wondering if you were coming with us,” Namjoon mutters sheepishly.

You’re surprised, even moreso when Irene and Yerin insist that you should go. “Yes, you have to go!” Yerin bounces in her seat.

“Oh,” you blush, “I can’t. I don’t normally go on these things, wouldn’t it be weird to have your teacher at your party?”

“Hell no!” Yerin gasps shamelessly. It’s one thing you liked about this class, after class is over, they always managed to make you feel normal. Maybe it’s the closeness in age and education, but they remind you so often that you’re still young. After all, they weren’t Illyrian, and while outside of class they put on the whole shebang for you, it didn’t take long for them to get comfortable around you. “We can show you what real college life is like! We can roast barbeque on the beach and tell scary stories!”

Taehyung snorts, already halfway out the door, “I’m sure the Princess doesn’t wanna see you shitfaced in the ocean.”

You placate Yerin with a small smile, “I have to work after this, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Namjoon walks up to your desk as the rest of the students file out. He runs the spine of his journal along your desk, “Prince Yoongi and Hoseok will be there too, if it makes you feel any better. Hope you can come.”

The room is soon vacated, leaving you and your Star Student alone.

“‘I’ll see what I can do’, really?” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, plopping himself atop your desk. Your eyes snap to the way the dark denim cords around his thighs, and you make a deal of slamming your laptop shut. “C’mon, of course you wanna come. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Not really,” you admit. “I used to really like spending the weekend at the villa. I loved getting to know each class and know what it feels like to be like you guys,” you downplay yourself, stuffing books and electronics in your briefcase. “But ever since we roomed together two years ago, I can’t bring myself to go anymore. It’s not the same when you’ve actually had a taste of it.”

Jeongguk’s eyes soften at your confession. You could feel that he wasn’t prepared for your honesty, and you don’t blame him. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I leave in two weeks, you know.”

“I know.”

“Can you at least try to come, for me?”

You lift your head up to reach his eyes, looking equal parts nervous and vulnerable. You’re suddenly thrusted back to two years ago, cornered in your dorm room where Jeongguk was upset at the thought of hurting him, lying to him. You didn’t want to hurt him, or yourself.

But as Jeongguk’s large hand reaches across the desk to your smaller one, you don’t think to pull away.

“Your Highness!” Jimin interrupts the two of you, and Jeongguk snatches his hand back with a glare. Jimin ignores him, looking breathless as he leans against the door of your classroom. “Your 3 o’clock is ready. We have to hurry if we want to get through the crowd.”

With one last look, Jeongguk excuses himself, brushing past Jimin with a gruff “Bye, Princess.”

“Today’s not your day to meet with citizens,” Yoongi mumbles next to you, looking disapprovingly at the way you wait for the next citizen to approach you.

Seokjin holds the crowd off as you converse with your brother, who looks ready to leave to the villa. He’s dressed in a plain white t-shirt, foam slides and baggy slacks. If it wasn’t for the family crest proudly presented on his right breast pocket, he could easily be mistaken as the average citizen. “Mother insisted,” you reply shortly, growing more irritated by the second.

“Really?” his brows disappear under his bangs, “because from the way she said it, you were looking for work.”

Caught, you turn away from his watchful gaze. “I have a problem, okay?” you say stiffly, “I needed a distraction.”

“Alright,” Yoongi shrugs, leaning close to your ear to murmur, “where’s the dead body?”

You slap his arm, “Yoongi! I didn’t kill anybody!”

“At this rate, it looks like you’re wasting yourself away.” Yoongi replies bluntly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “C’mon, Loverboy was all pouty in my room not too long ago. Don’t disappoint him.”

With that, Yoongi turns on his heel and walks off. Citizens bow at him like dominos as he exits, your break definitively over.

Whatever is blooming between you and Jeongguk, is and never will be fair to the both of you. In your eyes Jeongguk isn’t the type to settle, not relationship-wise, but life-wise. He wanted to grow and cultivate his art, and taste freedom every step of the journey.

You weren’t freedom or growth, and you could only hope he realizes that before you become too selfish.

“Your Highness?” you break out of your reverie when a young woman your age looks at you shyly, “My name is Wendy. I didn’t get anything for the table but, I got you a caramel macchiato.”

She brandishes a venti iced caramel macchiato, condensation dripping from her fingers. Your face lights up, accepting the caffeinated drink. “I really needed this!” you perk up immediately, taking a sip and letting the cool flavor soothe your tastebuds. “Thank you, Wendy. What is it that you request?”

“Advice,” she admits, a blush creeping from her neck. She looks down at her work boots, caked in grime. “I’m an engineer who works in manufacturing Illryian technology.”

“We are eternally grateful for your service to this country,” you reply evenly. Engineers are highly revered in your country, as your economy is dependent on their brilliant minds.

“But I have fallen in love with a man who is under my station, and wishes to find work elsewhere,” she bites her lip, her eyes growing glassy. “I haven’t told him my feelings yet, however I’m also worried for my family who finds men like him to be unworthy of an engineer like myself.”

“Ah, bound by duty and expectation.” you reply grimly, “a rock and a hard place, huh?”

“Yes, forgive me for my crassness. I felt as if you would understand my predicament.”

Putting your drink down, you reach for her hand. Oil and dirt cake her fingers, and she attempts to pull away as to not soil you, but you hold on tighter. “Tell him how you feel, Wendy.” you whisper, a conversation so intimate it’s only proper it be for her ears and her ears only. “Whether he leaves or not after you tell him is his decision. However, I assure you it will hurt far more if you don’t give yourself a chance.”

Her voice cracks, “But what if it doesn’t work out?”

You start to feel a little teary at her candor, and you run a thumb over her palm. “Then you’re one heartbreak closer to happiness. Nevertheless, you are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.”

Wendy finds the strength to squeeze your hand, and you belatedly realize that if this piece of advice was personified, it’d be slapping the shit out of you.

“You came!”

Hopped up on bitter caffeine and potential regrets, you stand in the living room well past midnight, party in full swing. Jimin trails behind you sans iPad, feeling lighter in a pair of trunks and a black tank. A playlist of Namjoon’s organizing is blasting from the surround sound, coupled with the flatscreen television projecting an intense lap of MarioKart. Irene and Taehyung are shoulder to shoulder, concentrating on getting that Mushroom Cup. The sliding doors that lead from your villa to the beach are cracked open, wide enough to hear the conversations the other students are exchanging.

It was always nice to have your villa occupied like this. Less empty, more familial.

Yerin is the first to greet you, throwing her arms around you and smelling like seasalt and vodka. She’s drenching your clothes, clad in a yellow polka-dot one-piece. “This weekend’s gonna be killer,” she whispers in your ear, causing the hairs on your neck to rise. For a petite thing, she really wastes no time cutting to the chase.

You detach yourself, holding up a bag of pastries. “Snagged some munchies for your inevitable drunk crash,” you smirk, placing the container on the kitchen island.

Yerin gapes, red tinted lips mouthing an ‘o’ at your language. “You’ve been hidin’ out on us, haven’t you Princess?” Yerin then brushes past you, ready to get her fingers on the confections. You’re over her shoulder, pointing out both Illrian delicacies and pastries she’s familiar with.

After Irene snags the Mushroom Cup they’re joining you at the island, lips coated in powdered sugar and jam. The girls laugh when some powdered sugar gets into Taehyung’s hair, Irene patting him a little too hard on his bangs.

“You’re here!”

You whip around to see Jeongguk sliding the glass doors hurriedly, bare feet slapping across the tiled floor to reach you. He’s dripping wet, ocean water rivering around his body. Your eyes can’t help but follow the flow of the cool liquid, finding purchase between the planes of his chest and honeyed abs, glowing from the heat.

Three years of your life were spent studying preparation and execution for war or nuclear threat. Unfortunately, at this very moment you feel way more prepared for war than Jeon Jeongguk standing in your villa, looking like that.

Instead of the usual pleasantries, you hold up a leather wallet. “You left this in the classroom,” you chide.

It’s a baldfaced lie. Somehow, Jeongguk’s wallet had conveniently ended up in your office between reams of paper. The bastard himself has the audacity to feign surprise, coral lips gaping in relief. “Wow, Princess. Totally not a ploy to get you to come here.”

“Right.”

“Give it here, I’ll drop it off in my room.”

“Wait, wait!” you hold up both your hands, centimeters away from Jeongguk’s pecs. You’re nearly eye level with them, and you force yourself to look up at his smug face. “You’re dripping wet on the tile! Your feet still have sand you heathen! Do not get our carpets dirty!” you hold the wallet to your chest protectively, “where’s your room?”

He tilts his head adorably, droplets flecking from his slicked back mane. “Third door on the right.” he doesn’t dare to argue with your sudden passion to keep your villa clean.

You nod, “go enjoy the water. I’ll be right out.” You don’t give him a chance to reply, kicking off your sandals as you reach the cosier part of the villa. Soft carpet meets your toes as you pad off to the guest bedrooms.

Jeongguk managed to snag the corner room, albeit smaller, it’s a single with a full mattress. You see his Superdry backpack open on the floor, its bottom worn with the white lining peeking through. Despite only arriving in the afternoon, his fresh scent is palpable. You drop the wallet on his desk, and you notice that his laptop’s still on.

The Macbook Pro glows confidently, his screensaver revealing a photograph of you on your balcony.

“Snooping around, Princess?”

You whip around, seeing Jeongguk appear fully clothed, running a towel over his hair. He is no longer dripping water or sand, but he still smelled like salt and fire. He nonchalantly closes the door behind him, taking a seat at the foot of his bed.

“You know it’s illegal to take unsolicited pictures of royalty, right?”

“And who should I answer to, hm? The Princess?” he teases, face blooming from the fluffy white towel.

You’re not upset about the picture, he knows that. But there you sit, slumped over his desk, looking forlornly at his picture of you.

“I’ve locked the door,” Jeongguk pipes up, looking at you worriedly. “Yoongi mentioned that the room’s are soundproof. He said you looked upset today. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

The room feels smaller, swallowing you whole. You’re tired from today’s events, both emotionally and physically. Jeongguk is having nothing of it, reaching between the two of you to pull the arms of the desk chair, wheeling you between his thighs.

“Jeongguk,” you start, “why weren’t you mad at me when you were right? Right about me hiding something from you.”

His brows furrow, “You made a sacrifice and protected your brother. Why would I be mad at that?” he says honestly, “sure, I was upset at first. Who wouldn’t be? But you did it out of love.”

You smile wanly, knowing that there wasn’t going to be a chance that he’d be upset at you. It was out of your devices. “I wanted you to be mad,” you admit, wringing your fingers between your skirt, “it would’ve made it easier to leave.”

“It would’ve, wouldn’t it?” he replies, his voice cotton soft. “After you left, Yoongi wouldn’t let me talk to you on the phone. Said you needed time. But I got him to tell me stories about you, stories that made me realize that I missed getting to know you.”

It’s then you feel the weight of today express itself onto your cheeks, the wetness dampening your skin. You feel his thumb brush away the tears.

“Tell me,” Jeongguk requests softly, “tell me what you really feel.”

You let your head collapse in his hands, relishing the warmth and comfort it brings. “I feel hurt. And confined.”

“More,” Jeongguk bids, his other hand squeezing your thigh, “let it out, Princess.”

You are a strong, intelligent, beautiful woman. Don’t let your fears reject that.

“I miss acting like fools at the grocery store, falling on top of each other half-asleep.” Everything tumbles out shamelessly, like a waterfall. “I hate how frustrated I am when you call me Princess, because while it is my title, it turns me on in the most devastating way when you say it.” you drop your head in the crook of his neck, embarrassed to see his reaction. “I want to laugh with you, hold you, I want you, so badly. But I want you to be happy, to make music and art, and travel the world to find your muse,” you shake your head, pushing yourself away from him. “I feel so stuck here, I can’t hold you back when you’re free and—”

“That’s enough bullshit,” and he’s kissing you, a clashing of teeth that has you sensitive and reeling. His hands grasp your cheeks, and you’re stumbling in your chair as the wheels make moves on their own. You squeak against his lips before you’re wheeled back to the bed. Hot hands pull you forward to teeter your body onto the bed, keeping you in place.

The man in question breaks apart, but close enough that his lips brush against yours when he speaks, “I’ve never kissed a princess before,” Jeongguk says wryly, cupping your cheek, “but if you make one more gripe about freedom and your stupid self-righteousness and I’ll stop.”

A pure, unprepared whine escapes your lips, shame be damned.

“You’re my muse,” he plants a kiss on your forehead, “I bothered Yoongi for weeks, working tooth and nail for that scholarship,” a kiss on both your nose, “you’re what it means to feel free.”

And that’s all it takes for you to surge forward, toppling over him until he’s pushed against the headboard. Capturing your lips with his, you catch droplets of saltwater and a flavor that’s so distinctly Jeongguk, feeling high off the taste.

Your skirt rides to your waist, your underwear damp from the ocean and arousal. You straddle him, feeling so unbounded and free as Jeongguk lets you do what you’ve both wanted to do. With a roll of your hips Jeongguk grunts, forehead pressed to yours. “Princess,” he rasps, meeting your thrusts, “we have until Christmas to do this, no need to rush.”

Wait, Christmas?

Jeongguk grins, kissing away your surprise. For now, you’ll ignore the burn between your thighs. “Before we left today, Yoongi and I asked the King, your father, if he would consider extending my scholarship for a full semester. I mentioned that Yoongi and I had some unfinished projects from undergrad,” he pecks your lips, “and he’s going to help me produce a full album for my final thesis.”

“That’s amazing!” you cheer, pulling him into a hug. “I’m so proud of the two of you!”

“Mhm,” he nuzzles your neck, pressing featherlight kisses to your skin, “can’t produce anything without my muse around, so I’d say Illyria is the perfect location.”

Your fingers thread into his damp locks, and you feel your heart swell with happiness. Here, under the gaze of the beautiful boy who wanted to offer you his heart and his world, you felt free.

extra.

It takes the strength of both your hands to pull Jeongguk in the storage closet, but it isn’t like he’s putting up a fight anyhow.

“Come here often?” you drawl, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Impressive,” he chuckles, “usually it takes you an hour to shake Jimin off ya. It’s only been thirty-five minutes.”

“I just wanted to show you something funny,” you pull up your Instagram, and play the featured video. While it was posted weeks ago, it started to pick up traction after Yoongi liked the post this morning. Jeongguk is dashing around the palace, sweating bullets and cooing “c’mon Dixie!” to the sprinting chicken in the throne room.

“You’re viral!” you giggle, “you put Illyria on the social media map!”

Under the lowlights, it’s still easy to see Jeongguk’s skin has gone placid. “If I ever hit it big, that shit better not haunt me,” he groans into your neck.

“Please,” you roll your eyes, “every famous person has a backstory. Aubrey Graham had Degrassi and the Yodeling Wal-Mart boy–”

“Are you really gonna compare your boyfriend to the Yodeling Wal-Mart kid? Tell me what you really came here for,” And like a teenager, Jeongguk reels it back in, winding his hands around your waist. He gives you bedroom eyes like it's a session of Seven Minutes in Heaven, “so, we’re gonna make out or what?”

#jungkook #jungkook fic #bts fic #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jeongguk #jungkook fluff #kpop #kpop fic #kpop fanfic #jjk #royal au #college au #bts x reader

464 notes · View notes

yawnjunie · 4 years

Text

so you’re the artsy type, huh ❦ cbg (1)

Genre: fluff, university au, crack (get ready for a bad take on comedy)

Pairing: broke artist!reader x art sponsor!beomgyu

Word count: 7k

Summary: After spending way too much time chasing after an impossible dream, you weren’t too sure you wanted to continue with your lifelong passion— art. One eventful day at the museum steered you onto a road full of twists and turns, and you unexpectedly found yourself wading deeper into murky water with your new employer.

A/N: a huge thank you to @noiaeu and @halohyuka for being my beta readers! anyways here is a long overdue fic that was a 20k+ word monstrosity but is now a series. happy reading!

— blu and struz

You tapped your feet absentmindedly against the grimy tiles of the cheap burger chain as you waited. The atmosphere that usually felt bustling and welcoming now felt stuffy as your stomach churned each passing second. The waitress walked past your seat as she served the customers behind you, the fragrant aroma of the burgers on her tray prompting a vicious growl from your stomach. Sighing, you checked the time on your phone: 8:52pm. Scrolling past the inactive conversations with your “friends” (you didn’t really know what to call them because you tried to ask them out and got rejected; you’d kept those conversations anyway because you were too attached to them), you sent a quick message to a number you wish you didn’t need to text today. Without a second thought, you picked up your belongings and left the small burger shop.

Thank goodness, you knew just the perfect place to drown your sorrows in.

You called for the nearest taxi to the small food shop by the name of Mrs. Lee’s Mandu House.

“What happened this time?” A stout lady with an apron asked, peeking her head out of the kitchen, setting down a large bowl of dumplings in front of you. She made her way to the condiments shelf. “Kimchi?”

“Yes, please. I got stood up again.” You grumbled, stuffing a large dumpling into your mouth ravenously. Then, speaking through mouthfuls of food, you continued. “Maybe I should just stop trying altogether. Change my major to agricultural studies and move to the countryside while I’m at it.”

Food had never tasted so good! The savory filling of the dumplings literally melted in your mouth, and soon the blaring sound of the old AC and the sound of the kdrama from the TV had just blended into the background. It was nice not having to listen to anything.

“Aw, don’t say that.” The woman replied as she set down a pot of kimchi and a plate of kimbap on your table. The friendly ahjumma took her seat across from you and set down a bag of melon seeds. “Trust me, it’s going to be hard. You’re just in your first year of college! You’ll get there someday.” Then, she continued on to tell you about other people she knew who had it harder than you, but all that faded into the background noise, along with the AC and the TV. That sentence was the only thing you heard, and although there weren’t any lemons in the soup, everything that you ate suddenly started tasting sour. Sometimes, even the best food cannot drown out the bitterest words.

You’ll get there someday.

Foomp. You flopped onto your bed with a small grunt as your back met the soft mattress. Throwing off your glasses to the side, you massaged your eyeballs and then looked at the ceiling. It was grey. The same grey that you saw before going to sleep at night, the very same grey that greeted you when you awoke in the morning to another unexciting day. The more you stared at it, the more the popcorn ceiling looked just like a grey mass with a few monotone specks here and there.

You were always told to look to the future and stop dwelling on the past. And that was a long shot, given that all you saw in front of you was a blurry ceiling.

What is this feeling? You let yourself sink a little deeper into your mattress, lazily shifting your gaze to the left, where you saw your huge Gabriel Garcia Marquez poster taped to the wall. Solitude. Looking back, you supposed that was how you’d been living your life thus far.

Doing jobs here and there, never really achieving anything big.

Single as hell.

It was days like this that made you feel not quite sad, but just really demotivated. A reminiscent smile flickered on your face as you turned your head to stare at the wall, unto which the light that peeked through the overcast sky cast a faint shadow. Words like “lonely” and “outcast” didn’t mean a thing to you. The fact of the matter was, you didn’t have anyone, and the universe sure didn’t put an effort to sugarcoat that fact.

Rolling lazily to the edge of the bed, you finally sat yourself up. You walked over to your desk, pulled out the wooden chair, and turned on the lamp. Then, you took a moment to tie up your hair before looking down at what was lying under the spotlight of the lamp.

Amidst the blizzard of eraser shavings and the familiar scent of freshly shaved wood stood the lead outline of a girl. Shoulder-length hair up in a high ponytail, a soft, rounded nose, chapped lips, and blank, unsuspecting eyes with dark circles hanging below them. Looks like she’s never seen a day of joy in her life. Looking into the mirror standing to the left on your desk, a very tired girl with a dark face stared right back. Dusting off the eraser shavings into the trash bin next to the desk, you commended yourself for the superb self-portrait.

At the insistence of the tightness in your right wrist and the crick in your neck, you set the pencil down and extended your arms to stretch your back. When your eyes fell upon the drawing once more, a wave of disappointment washed you back onto the shore of frustration. Yet another addition to the ever-growing pile of wasted white paper. A part of you argued that art was not a waste, which was true enough. Art made by you, however, was a different story.

What happened to me? All that time, effort, and energy never really amounted to much. After all, you’d only seen the world in black and white. It was as if someone took a giant paint tube and squirted an awful lot of grey paint everywhere.

After all, who’d ever heard of an artist who couldn’t tell orange from blue?

–––

Even the song playing in the background mocked you with every word.

♪ I see trees of green,

red roses too ♪

♪ I see them bloom,

for me and you ♪

♪ and I think to myself

what a wonderful world ♪

You glanced around tiredly as you saw your classmate’s boyfriend carry a stack of canvases for them. For someone who, one: saw the world in grey, and two: had never gone on a date, the world was anything but wonderful. You felt your eyelids drooping despite the hard, wooden stool jutting into your buttcheeks. Drowsily, you turned your gaze to your art pieces. Noticing the other students coming in to set up their pieces, you straightened up your back and set your bag down on the stool. You took a deep breath and swung your arms nervously in an attempt to garner a sense of purpose and hope. You got this! You whispered encouraging phrases to yourself under your breath, smiling at the students who bothered to greet you first.

Today was your first time participating in a student exhibition. Although it was quite unconventional for first year students to be showcasing their work in the advanced exhibition, your teacher had been nice enough to make a spot for you. Well, it was more like you practically begging her to consider you, because of your current family situation. You terribly did not want to sound like that broke college student™, but sometimes, a little bit of courage to fight against the stone cold reality was useful. And of course, Ms. Kim, being the benevolent soul she was, granted you special rights to participate.

This year, the exhibition was being held in the empty room at the Museum of Modern Art. Attendance of the students was optional, but a good handful of them came, hoping to get a professional review, or even a sponsor for their art. The moment you walked in, you held your breath—the entire room was empty, all six surfaces painted white. It was the brightest room you’d ever been in, yet the temperature seemed to drop 100 degrees.

It’s fine. This time, things will be different, you told yourself in an attempt to shake off the dread that settled in the pit of your stomach. Fifth time’s the charm, after all.

It may have been your first time participating in a college exhibition, but you’d participated in countless art competitions as a kid. You were like a wildfire, and there was no award for a competition you entered that you didn’t win. Now, it felt like you were back to base one. After all, who has that easy of a life? Those days of your easy childhood life were long gone.

You tried not to think much as you sat uncomfortably next to your paintings. For the first hour or so, you made a point to look each passing person in the eye, a wide smile plastered on your face. The second hour, the corners of your mouth started to twitch beyond your control. By the third hour, you found yourself staring at people’s shoes more often than their faces. As the minutes ticked by, you kept your eyes trained intently on the floor, mouth pressed firmly closed. Glancing around the room, you tried to take your mind off of your worries. But you couldn’t help but be envious of your classmates, who were getting noticed by the professional guests.

That’s okay, there’s always next time. Guess today just wasn’t my day.

It was beginning to feel like no day was your day. A warm sensation pricked at the corners of your eyes when a voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Ma’am, excuse me.” A woman in a worn out blue outfit approached your stand.

Being as desperate as you were, you hastily wiped away your tears from all the yawning and slapped a smile on your face, mustering up the peppiest voice you could manage. “Hey! How can I help you? As you can see, I work exclusively in grayscale, and I mostly do portrai–” “Miss–” the lady interrupted, “it’s closing time. Could you please pack your things?”

Upon processing the sight of the tattered mop in her hand, realization hit you like a truck, and not just any ordinary truck— it was a Belaz 75710 filled with 496 tons of rocks and sharp glass. That was a fun fact you stumbled upon while scrolling on Instagram; the fact that you somehow retained this useless information made you silently curse yourself. Your smile was frozen in place as you gave a series of curt nods. “Oh. Okay, I’ll start packing.”

The kind woman nodded back and started to walk away, but stopped and turned just a few steps away. “Don’t feel too down. Sometimes, life just doesn’t go the way you want it to. It’ll get better, trust me.”

“Yeah.” You replied coldly, not bothering to mask your sadness. Attempting to muster a small smile in gratitude for her kind words, you gave her a thumbs up before she left the room. It kind of hurt, getting pity from the janitor. But in a way, you felt a little comforted. At least you knew you weren’t the only person struggling. Robotically, you placed the canvases onto your utility cart one by one, then started folding up the easels. When the janitor’s footsteps had faded away, the only thing disrupting the silence was the rain.

Plip. Plop. With the accompaniment of the beating of the raindrops on the rooftop that rang in your ear like a dull symphony, it only seemed natural for your tears to fall. And this time, there was nobody to interfere with your sob session.

And on that afternoon, in the empty art hall, you cried your heart out. There was only one question that gnawed at the back of your mind relentlessly, like a famished dog on a bone twice its size. Should I just give up on art? The thought of it just made you cry even harder. Art was your everything.

From the moment you’d grasped the thin body of the paintbrush on your doljabi, you’d fallen in love with art. Throughout your childhood, you’d spent your days drawing. From drawing on plain computer paper to painting entire murals on your bedroom walls - you did it all. Everyone was sure you’d become an artist when you grew up. You’d even kept a money jar by your bed, which you’d used to store money for new art supplies and eventually, art school. You were happy. You had a good eye for color.

Thunder crashed outside as that memory resurfaced in your mind. Back then, you drew like there was no tomorrow when you could see colors. Until the world became dark when your colors, your precious colors were taken away. And the world remained dark ever since. They all pitied you, sending a sigh your way in condolence for your loss. You didn’t need or want their pity, of course. All you’d ever wanted was an answer, a reason to why they left your eyes.

You wanted to blame it on something, but what could you do? Every night you prayed, praying desperately for your colors back. But every morning, the ceiling remained grey. So did the sky when you walked to work. Pushing your shabby cart with a loose wheel down the hallway full of eccentric art pieces, you didn’t even spare a glance at them. Well, other than to avoid being noticed by the few people who were still in the museum, to which you hid your swollen face in the opposite direction and choked back your sobs. Well, what can you do now, y/n? It’s not your first time participating in an exhibition anyway. There’s probably someone out there having it harder than you, so suck it up! Everything will be better once you get back home…

Just when you were nearing the entrance of the museum, you heard a different pair of footsteps from your own behind you.

“Hey.” You jumped out of your skin at the tap on your left shoulder. Caught by surprise, you found yourself stumbling backwards into your cart. You lost your footing and down crashed your rear end. By attempting to hold onto the cart handle for balance, your art pieces now seemed to fall in slow motion, the cart suspended in the air as your mouth hung open in horror. You reached out to grab it, but unfortunately, you were an aching 2 centimeters short of saving your artwork. The cart toppled on top of your canvases with a comical crack, wooden splinters flying everywhere. The empty utility cart squealed defeatedly as it toppled to its side, a loose wheel still spinning.

You felt your head spin even faster, as you grew increasingly frustrated by your inability to comprehend what had just happened. Holy shit.

Strewn across the floor, battered and broken, lay hours upon hours of your time, your hard-earned money, along with the last strains of your hope of becoming an artist. F*ck!

Eyes wide and mouth agape, you turned to face the perpetrator of the tragedy.

This is the part where he apologizes and promises to make it up to me, then gives me his contact info and we go on a date and he falls for me and we live happily ever after. Or so you hoped, you thought. The thought was so ridiculous that you could have burst out into laughter if it hadn’t been for the fact that the fruit of your blood, sweat, and tears was now a bunch of broken wood and torn cotton on the floor. F you and your last brain cell, y/n. Get yourself together and snap out of it. You were convinced that you were so sleep deprived from your K-drama binging session this morning at 4am that you’d convinced yourself that you were living the next episode.

Chances were low that the two of you would get together and live happily ever from an offense like this, but even so, he would have to compensate for the damages somehow. Now that you came back to reality, you realized that you couldn’t even make out what the guy in front of you looked like. “Okay, but what if he’s like, your next patron or something.” You don’t know if you muttered that out loud, but your odd behavior was really annoying you today. Shut up, it's not like he's Song Kang! Stop it! Nevertheless, you bet on the Balenciaga slides that he was wearing that he would pull out a business card the next moment.

You stared into the boy’s eyes expectantly and he met your gaze. You felt your pulse quicken as he opened his mouth to speak, eagerly awaiting your compensation. Hello hello, my next patron. This is the moment that marks my upgrade to a better life.

“I am so, so sorry about this.”

“You should be.”

As he spoke, the boy pulled his cap lower and threw on his hood. “Not just about me breaking your paintings, but also this.” Dammit, what have I gotten myself into?

And then he bolted.

🏃 💨

“Wha– hey! Where do you think you’re going?!”

He slammed his body against the glass door and ran into the rain while you followed in close pursuit. However, after a few wobbly steps, it occurred to you that you weren’t exactly dressed for the occasion, so you took off your heels and continued the hunt barefoot.

Still, even under normal circumstances, you weren’t much of a track star. Wearing a blazer with suit pants and no shoes wasn’t helping your chances either, and the weather didn’t seem to plan on making things any easier.

The two of you ran through the heavy rain like cat and mouse. Clenching your teeth and your fists, you chased after the boy. He ran about two blocks before you caught up to him. As your calves grew sore, you considered hurling one of your heels at him.

The boy slowed down for a couple of seconds, looking around frantically. Mr. Kim.....! I told you to wait for me out here—!

Heaving a sigh, he turned around and began to run in another direction. And although he'd hate to admit it, today was one of the days where he had no choice but to admit that his choice of footwear today was a fatal flaw.

Somehow, despite the odds against you, you weren’t the one who ate the pavement. The boy tripped over the curb and slammed into the sidewalk, bellyflopping straight into a gargantuan puddle. Those Balenciagas did not help him run through the rain very well. You laughed in triumph and squatted next to his almost-lifeless body.

“Gotchu now, you jer–”

Boom! The world went white for a second, illuminated by the blinding clap of lightning. In an instant, the downpour increased tenfold, the raindrops now feeling like bullets against your skin.

“Okay, maybe this isn’t the best place to have a conversation.”

–––

The two of you trudged through the rain—or, more accurately— you dragged the boy through the rain, your grip on his hoodie sleeve iron-tight. When you finally reached your car, you opened the passenger door and he went in obediently. From an outsider’s point of view, you might’ve been mistaken as an undercover cop. In fact, you were sure feeling like one as you apprehended the criminal.

You went around to the back and opened up the trunk, where after rifling through months' worth of empty bottles, fabric bags for shopping, and a variety of other car junk, you finally found your stash of somewhat clean clothes. After careful consideration, you chucked a worn hoodie and the swimming shorts you’d worn to the beach last year over the seat. Just in case, you also tossed your first-aid kit over. You threw your heels in and swapped them for a pair of nylon flip flops before slamming the trunk closed.

You went back to the passenger’s side and opened the door. Taking in the figure of the drenched and bleeding boy, you kind of felt sorry for him. Which was stupid, considering he had just wrecked your life’s work and made a run for it. You tilted your head back and sighed, trying to sort your thoughts out.

With all of your best art pieces now reduced to splinters, it was a cold, hard fact that you weren’t going to get a sponsor. Besides, even before they’d been smashed into smithereens, nobody had been willing to give you a chance. The probability of you finding a sponsorship was like the graph of the height of a ball thrown from a cliff at sea level, or the number √-1. It was not just in the negatives, but it was also imaginary.

Taking a sharp inhale, you talked as quickly as you could. “Listen. I’m going to go get what’s left of my art from the gallery. Just change your clothes and patch yourself up, then you can leave.” You paused to dig out a few crumpled dollars from your wallet, which you promptly threw at him.

“Here, take this to get a taxi. I don’t know how far you live, but that’s all I have. Don’t get me wrong– I still think you’re a massive schmuck. And there’s nothing you can do to fix the damage you’ve caused.” Despite your best effort to remain composed, your voice cracked a little at the end. You stopped talking before you were to break out into tears again.

Without waiting to hear what the douchebag had to say, you slammed the door closed and strode through the rain back to the gallery, where your pieces still lay broken on the ground where you’d left them. A part of you was hoping that maybe, by some magic or miracle, the whole thing had been a dream, and nothing really happened.

But reality was as cold as stone, and you were powerless to change it. So, as you always did when confronted with the unchangeable, you picked yourself up and carried on, struggling against the current.

By the time you wheeled the broken canvases back to your car, the boy was long gone, all traces of his presence vanished except for the dampness of the left side passenger seat. You buckled on your seatbelt and tuned into your favorite radio station, then sped off into the summer storm. The storm, your artwork, it was all so out of the blue– well, in your case, grey.

The situation on the freeway was like a stuffy nose: irritated and congested. In fact, it would’ve been faster to moonwalk down the road. To make matters even worse, instead of music, the radio station was streaming ad after ad. Is this even legal? Exasperatedly, you tuned into a different station, then another one, but to no avail; all of them were on ad break.

It was frustrating enough that the gallery was a complete flop, not to mention that your best art was demolished in a hit and run and that you were sitting soaking wet on a leather seat stuck in the middle of traffic. Now, even the radio had turned against you. You shut it off and sat in silence.

Thump. You sighed and leaned your head back against the seat, willing the migraine that was building up in your head to f*ck off. After craning your head to check the backseat one more time, to your vexation, you found that the asshat hadn’t even bothered to close the first aid kit.

Muttering obscenities under your breath, you reached for the kit, cracking your inflexible spine 4 times in the process. You rummaged through its contents, straightening them out, counting how many were left, and you were about to slam the lid closed when you saw the note.

XXX-XXX-XXXX

“Well, gee, that’s REAL helpful.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at the ten numbers scrawled on the note. Your half a brain cell told you to quit being stupid and toss that note out the window.

The rest of your stupid self told you to call it. I mean, why not? You cursed yourself for how your brain worked– or rather, didn’t work– sometimes.

You licked your lips in brief contemplation before punching in the numbers in. The person on the other end picked up immediately.

“Hello, welcome to Papa John’s Pi–”

You hurled your phone into the backseats and ripped the note up, throwing the scraps into the air like confetti before continuing the wearisome ride down through the rain.

–––

It took an eternity, but you made it back to your apartment, where you promptly crashed onto the couch. As per usual, you spent the rest of your waking hours scrolling through baking videos, even though you had neither the ingredients nor the time to be making any of the confections. At around 8pm, exhausted from crying and the events of the day, you dozed off without having a bite of the frozen pizza that’d just finished baking in the oven.

Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt! Your dreamless slumber was disturbed by the vibration of a string of text notifications and the glow that lit up the dark ceiling. Still half-asleep, you blindly felt around for your phone and attempted to read the message through bleary eyes.

It was from an unknown number.

Rubbing your eyes to clear out the nasty gunk, you sat up and read the message again, this time with clearer vision.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] Hello, sorry for ruining your paintings today. I will make it up to you.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] Thanks for bothering to call, let’s meet at this address to talk about your compensation. My parents can’t know that I did this so it would be great if you could keep this a secret :(

What the f*ck. You muttered under your breath, eyes half shut. Did I call anyone? In your half-asleep state, you didn’t bother to recall. For a second, you considered blocking the number. But just in case this was just one of your dumbass friends who changed their number, you decided to give that person a reply.

[You] hello? is this papa john’s?? i would like a cheese pizza

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] oh sorry the voicemail was a prank for someone else

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] i’m the guy from the art museum earlier, remember

[You] okay why do you have my number

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] because you called me

[You] right. okay, what do you want

[You] unless you want to pay me back for all those damages back there, no i am not interested in anything else sry i’m a very busy person you know

You hesitated a second before pressing the send button. You’d just sent a lie; in fact, you weren’t really that busy. Apart from your part time job at the boba shop, you were actually quite free most of the time. During the summer, at least. In fact, your screen time had gone up by 42%, your daily average now totaling to a whopping 12 hours. After a minute or so of silence, you threw your head back onto your pillow and let out a loud sigh of relief. Peace at last! It also made you quite happy that the person who texted you was in the least, not some weird scammer.

Ping! You celebrated too soon. Reaching for your phone groggily, you read the new message.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] okay then i was going to ask if you were free tomorrow

Am I being asked out? You squinted at your bright phone screen in the dark. You might have been nearsighted, but you weren’t illiterate in pick-up lines.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] i want to return the clothes you lent me

[You] it’s fine, you can keep that

Oh good, he was talking about the clothes, not anything else. Your millisecond of relief ended quickly when he sent another message.

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] oh also it would be great if we could meet up anyway? i want to talk to you about something that i had been meaning to say for a while

Oh, god. I knew it wasn’t just about the clothes. Lonely as you were, you would shoot yourself in the foot if you got into any relationship without landing a stable job or having any money. Scoffing amusedly, you stared at the screen as he continued to type. But dating someone like this? Never in a million years. Turning over to your other side, you thought about the many ways you could reject him.

[You] no sorry :(

[XXX-XXX-XXXX] we should set a date at the cannoli restaurant to talk about your compensation costs. i’m extremely sorry for ruining your beautiful artwork, and i know that my apologies will do nothing to change your current situation. since this is my fault, i’m willing to pay any amount you request (and i’ll pay to the best of my capabilities)... i’m assuming $50,000 would be enough to cover the costs for most of the damage? if monetary compensation doesn’t work for you, we can discuss other forms of compensation as well.

[You] i know it may not seem like it but i’m actually caught up in too much work to have time for dating anyone. you see, it’s just that i have lots of work on the side so i can’t really spare time at the moment. please don’t take this personally haha i’m sure you’ll find someone,,, like i don’t know how to say this but yeah…..you don’t wanna be w someone like me, it’s me not you

Huh? Just as you sent your message, another message popped up before yours. And if your life had a background narration, this very moment would have been “and in that moment he knew. He fvcked up.”

Fml.

With just one single message, you perhaps have ruined the only god-given opportunity to turn your life around ever. He’d just offered you money to cover the costs of your broken paintings... now that you thought about it, he could even be your patron! You couldn’t even get a patron even if you went out of your way to look for one on Craigslist, pestered Ms. Kim for any news from the Art Teacher’s Association, or even begged random people on the street in hopes one out of the million people would be willing to promote your art. Now, someone was asking to compensate you with tons of money, and you’d just rejected him in the most embarrassing way possible.

[You] oh shoot

[You] i mean wrong chat, uh can you please stay on hold, i will get back to your compensation offer, yeah i will see you at the restaurant sometime thanks

XXX-XXX-XXXX is typing…

You did not bother to see what he had to say. Hurtling your phone onto your carpet, you let out a guttural scream of “I AM SUCH A DUMB@$$$” before pulling the strings on your hoodie tightly. And for the second time that day, you cried.

———

Leaving behind the upsetting events from a couple of days ago, you listlessly shuffled through the entrance. It was Saturday morning, and that meant groceries. The local Asian market was one of your favorite places to be; breathing in the familiar blend of spices that hung in the air was a cathartic feeling. The corners of your lips were turned slightly upwards as you bent to grab a basket.

First stop was the meat section, where the bugged-out eyes of dead fish followed you as you walked down the aisle. Cooking raw animal flesh wasn't really your thing, so you simply picked up a package of pre-cooked chicken and went on your way.

Next came the produce section where you felt up all the tomatoes, only bagging the ones that felt the right amount of firm and soft. You also added a pack of bok choy and mushrooms, perfect for cooking up a lazy soup.

Now that you were nearing the end of your expedition, it was time to head into the best part of the store: the snack aisle. Sometimes, when you were feeling more down than usual, you would blow the whole sum of your weekly grocery savings on off-brand shrimp chips and chocolate banana Pocky. One by one, you were doing all the things your mom had told you not to do when you moved out, from coating the entirety of your insides with nothing but sodium and sugar to shifting your sleep schedule by 15 hours.

What was next, the-no-dating-boys-until-you’ve-gotten-your-Master’s-and-have-a-7-figure-job rule? You scoffed and rolled your eyes. Even if your stomach was totally trashed and your sleep schedule was nonexistent, you would never let yourself fall that far.

As you stepped foot into the chips aisle, you beheld the holy grail. From Hello Panda to rice crackers, wasabi peas to Yan Yan sticks complete with a chocolate dip, cream wafers to dried seaweed, you were in a sea of temptation. Being that broke college student™, you just gulped and kept walking. I can just feast on these goodies with my eyes.

Your initial plan had been to just walk through the aisles to admire and drool over snacks you knew you couldn’t afford, but you were stopped in your tracks when you reached the instant noodles section.

At the end of the aisle, the shelf was bare except for a single lone pack. Even from a distance, you recognized it, all right; there was no mistaking the outline of your favorite instant ramen brand. 신라면. More like 神라면 (it’s more than just spicy noodles— it’s noodles made by the gods) you thought, eyes already tightly clutching at the packaging from 5 feet away.

From many a sleepless night of binge-watching third-rate rom-com dramas (though you cringed thinking back on it, this was an integral phase of your dark “past”), you knew where this was going–– but you weren’t going to sit around and let yourself fall into some overused trope. You gripped your basket tight as you swiftly made your way over to the shelf, just about setting a world record for speedwalking with a basket.

Sure enough, if you had been one second slower, you would’ve been ensnared in a sticky situation. Just as you were snatching up your prey like the pterodactyl you were, another figure was rounding the corner. Another broke college student™, it seemed, judging by the state of their hoodie, which was pulled over their messy hair, the strings tied in a bow to make sure the hood wouldn’t fall. Even though their face was concealed by their hood, you could see their reaction as they connected the dots from the bare shelf to the ramen pack in your hand.

“Hey–” they started, reaching towards you, but you promptly dropped the pack into your basket, spun on your heel, and noped out of the aisle before you could be confronted. You felt sorry because you could sympathize with their situation, but you were in no place to be kind to others. Not in this dog-eat-dog world. To survive, you’d have to stay on top of the food chain.

You were about to fall in line when you remembered that you were all out of Sriracha sauce. You could deal with giving up your Pocky and shrimp chips as long as you had your favorite condiment in stock; no matter how down you were, scrambled eggs with a heaping squirt of Sriracha always took you up to Cloud Nine. If you were going to leave something behind, it would never be the Sriracha sauce.

After grabbing a bottle from the condiment aisle, you scanned the checkout desks for the shortest line. Luckily, a new checkout desk had just opened on the left, so you scampered over and placed your basket onto the counter. The clerk was a kind-looking old woman, but was surprisingly agile for her age. As you waited for her to bag the large span of items that belonged to the grandpa in front of you, you opened up your phone to check your budget. You eyed the message app with two unread messages temptingly before going into your bank app. This was a lucky trip~ thankfully ramen isn’t too expensive. Even if it wasn’t on my grocery list, a few cents won’t make too much a difference. I think I can spare enough to get a Pocky next time.

At long last, the grandpa shuffled away with his cart filled with some veggies, a thick stack of newspapers, and an unusually large stash of rice crackers. While the clerk scanned and bagged your items, you continued to fiddle with your phone until she cleared her throat.

“Would you like a single receipt, or two separate ones? Because there’s a divider between your items.”

“Excuse me?” “You and your boyfriend. By the way, you guys look really cute together, especially with your hoodies~ are you on a date?”

You spun around only to come face to face with the broke college kid from the ramen aisle. Well, that’s awkward. The cashier must have been blind or deaf (or both) because you didn’t even interact with that boy. You stole glances of the customer through your peripheral vision, trying to see what he looked like. Hmm, do I know him? He looked uncannily familiar. Just then, another realization dawned on you. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad one. Your expression quickly changed from one of confusion to one of pure shock.

Surprise, surprise. It was the douche from the art gallery. And he was wearing your old hoodie.

“I-I don’t know him.” Before he could open his mouth to say anything, you quickly looked away, feigning ignorance. Unfortunately for you, the old clerk had seen much in her day and your little ruse wasn’t going to slip past her that easily.

“From the flushed look on your face and the stammer in your voice, I’m pretty sure you do. And I’m sure he would agree, wouldn’t you, lover boy~?”

And… cue to the horrified look on lover boy’s face. The conflict that was playing out in his mind showed on his face; he knew that if he answered this wrong, he would be facing your wrath.

“Uh, well, the thing is…” He shot you a nervous glance, but your features were stone cold. At a total loss for what to say, the boy just trailed off and turned his eyes to his basket. Following his gaze, you looked over his items and immediately recoiled in disgust.

Not a single leafy green (grey) in sight, no meat, no rice, not even one of the food groups necessary to sustain life. Strawberry ice cream mochi, Taiyaki, strawberry Melona bars, Choco Pies, strawberry Hi-Chew, strawberry Chocorooms, strawberry Pocky–– it seemed that strawberry was a recurring theme among his groceries.

Even though the sheer amount of sugar made you gag, a pang of jealousy flashed across your face. That was the life you’d longed for ever since you finished high school: living off of nothing but sugar and carbs, looking like a bum and not giving a damn about it, just chilling.

Unfortunately, with the number of failures and setbacks that stained your past, a carefree life was something you could no longer afford.

“Yeah, okay, we’ve met,” you cut in, saving the boy from the tricky situation. Skeptic, the clerk stared into your unblinking eyes for what seemed to be a solid 15 seconds before shrugging and handing you your groceries. You snatched up your fabric bag and went on your way, walking fast. The color in your cheeks was probably the same as a tomato. Your least favorite fruit.

Why him, of all the places? Why, universe? Where did I go wrong? You were about to drop dead from embarrassment. As you closed your eyes, you could see your tombstone: “Rest in Peace y/n, died alone and patron-less.”

However, what you didn’t know was that your day was about to get worse. A whole lot worse. It all started when you felt a familiar tap on your left shoulder. I swear– You took a deep breath in and let it out slowly to compose yourself and answered without turning around.

“What in God’s good name do you want. And why are you wearing hobo clothes.” My clothes, you realized, a tiny bit weirded out.

“They’re comfy,” he pouted, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his newfound hoodie as if to show off. “Anyways, how come you didn’t check your phone earlier?

“Oh, uh,” you felt the pressure in your head rising as you recalled how you threw your phone down in embarrassment and cried. “Sorry, I was feeling kinda down because a certain someone sorta trashed my life’s work and my only chance of being successful in the industry, sooooo yeah. My bad.”

Sniff. You looked up, startled, only to find that the boy in front of you had tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. His mouth was clamped closed, but his bottom lip was quivering and his eyebrows were turned up, resembling a small child trying to keep himself from bursting into tears after falling and scraping his knee on the pavement. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

Well shit. There were two ways you could go about this: one, let your superego do the talking like a good person and prevent the boy from having a total meltdown in the middle of the sidewalk. The second was letting your id run rampant, taking full advantage of his feelings of remorse and overall just being a jerk. Maybe you could be distant and lacking in empathy, but you weren’t an asshole because you wanted to be one.

“Listen, I’m sorry for calling you a schmuck. A schmuck would not have bothered to keep in contact and a schmuck would not be on the verge of tears out of guilt. ...I accept your apology.” You were going to say that what he did was unforgivable, but you decided no to say that. After a pang of guilt jabbed into you, you bit your lip and softened your tone.

“I know you feel bad, but you don’t need to cry; there’s no way to turn back time. So instead, let’s move forward and keep looking up. I’ll start.” Smiling slightly with a tilted head, you held out your hand. “Hi, my name is y/n. I know that we’ve technically met, but this is the first time we’ve met met. So, nice to meet you.”

He wiped his tears away with the butt of his palm and tried to return the smile, though his was more watery. “Nice to meet you, y/n. I’m Beomgyu.” You noticed the corners of his lips curl upwards in a small smile as he took your hand, shaking it firmly.

There was a pause of awkward silence as you let go of his hand, wiping your sweaty palm on your sweatpants. Well that was the most awkward introduction I’ve ever had in my life. Clearing your throat, you spoke again to clear the tense atmosphere.

“About my compensation.”

#moacabin #txtarcadianet #txt fanfiction #txt scenarios #txt fluff #beomgyu #choi beomgyu #beomgyu fanfiction #beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu fluff #okay this is ... awkward #it's been an eternity since i first started writing this #i don't even think this is that good of a fic LOL it's just lots of crack #but anyways i hope you enjoy this story so far !!#it would be great if i could get some feedback about how it's going so far haha

44 notes · View notes

tired-eyes-cold-as-ice · 4 years

Text

Head Over Knees

pairing: Willie/Alex (Julie and the Phantoms)

summary: It was supposed to be a lovely afternoon... until it wasn't. Or that one time Alex had an existential crisis over his knees.

warnings: None but there is a very brief mention of Willie’s death (as in one line)

words: 1109

notes: Quick question - can you feel your knees? My roommate asked me this exact question recently and we both had an existential crisis over it, except I also made a Willex fanfic out of it. Written in one evening, very dumb but very cute, hopefully it’ll make you smile <3

you can also read this on ao3!

--- --- ---

It was supposed to be a fun, carefree afternoon. Willie had finally convinced Alex to let him teach him how to skateboard and while Alex was still hesitant, he was looking forward to spending time with his boyfriend. It was supposed to be fun and jolly. That is until said boyfriend decided to absolutely destroy his life for the foreseeable future with one abhorrent, stupid question.

They have been at it for a couple of hours now—at the local skate park, making sure to avoid the more crowded areas since kids passing through them constantly turned out to be quite distracting, though it didn’t take long for Willie to realize that the source of the problem lay elsewhere.

“I just don’t see how this is safe I mean you literally died doing this.”

“You cannot expect me to do that! Human feet don’t work like that!”

“The ground is so uneven how am I supposed to stay on this thing?”

“I’m too tall for this, Willie.”

After another unsuccessful attempt at trying to stay on the board long enough for it to be considered riding, Alex kicked up the dirt in frustration and turned to Willie, who was silently cackling to himself. He did genuinely try to teach Alex at first, but at this point, it was all purely for his amusement.

“Can’t we just accept I’m never gonna be a cool skater like you and move on? We’ve been doing this for hours. I can’t even feel my knees anymore!” Alex whined dramatically, hoping for a fond eye-roll from Willie and an offer to go hang out and watch a movie or something.

Instead, Willie gave him a pointed look and it the most deadpan of voices asked a most despicable question that would haunt Alex for all eternity:

“Can you usually feel your knees?”

---

It’s not that Luke and Reggie weren’t expecting to find Alex in the studio. They just didn’t expect to find him lying face down on the sofa, eyes wide and expressionless.

Exchanging confused looks, the pair slowly made their way closer, approaching the sofa cautiously.

“Hey, Alex? You okay, bro?” asked Luke gently, shooting Reggie another concerned look when the blond didn’t respond.

Reggie cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something when he was suddenly cut off by Alex mumbling quietly from where he had now buried his face in one of the pillows.

“Can you, guys, like… feel your knees?”

Both boys stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Um, what—?”

“Can you guys…” repeated Alex as he sat up slowly, looking up at the confused pair. His eyes were wide and desperate. “Can you feel your knees?”

After exchanging even more confused looks, Luke turned back to Alex, chuckling nervously as his eyes darted between Alex and Reggie.

“Dude, we're ghosts, we can’t feel anything.”

Within a fraction of a second, Alex's expression turned from desperate to despondent. He briefly glanced down at his knees, then back up at the guys and poofed out.

As they stood there, staring at the spot where their friend was just sitting moments ago, Reggie turned to Luke with a panicked look on his face.

“Should we feel our knees?!”

---

After spiraling for a couple of days, Alex figured that the next best thing would be to pose this dilemma to a living person, considering they can actually feel their body parts. Unfortunately, Julie was having absolutely none of it as she had an assignment to finish, so he decided to ask Flynn—a decision he’d soon come to regret as Flynn replied that she can and that they feel squishy.

Utterly broken and devastated, Alex found himself standing in the museum. They were supposed to meet up at the Orpheum later, but Alex knew his boyfriend too well. They were changing the installations again and Willie could never pass up the opportunity to jump over some modern art.

The boy in question was sitting on one of the concrete benches, fiddling with the wheels on his board and humming under his breath. It took Willie a moment to notice the blond but once he did, his whole face lit up with the brightest of smiles and he jumped up from his seat to greet Alex with a hug.

“Hot dog! What are you doing here?” He asked, eyes twinkling with excitement as he pulled away, though his face fell seconds later when he saw the look on Alex’s face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Alex shuffled over to the bench and sat down, gesturing vaguely to his exposed knees with a look of despair on his face. Squishy?

Willie gave him a confused look before realization hit him. “Oh! Alex, are you still worried about the knee thing? I was just joking, come on.”

Alex stayed quiet, staring down at his knees. Could he ever really feel them? Were his knees even real?

His trance was broken moments later by Willie suddenly appearing between his legs, kneeling down on the floor and looking up at Alex. He pressed a soft kiss to one of Alex’s knees and smiled up at the boy brightly.

“Could you feel that?”

Alex stared at him dumbfounded, a rose tint in his cheeks.

“I- uh...”

Willie grinned and quickly kissed the other knee as well before resting his head on Alex’s thigh and looking up at the blond lovingly. “How about that? Could you feel that?” he asked, still smiling.

At this point, Alex was completely red in the face, heart pounding.

He cleared his throat. “Um, yeah... Yeah, I could feel that.”

Willie grinned in response.

“Then I guess you can feel your knees as well.”

He pressed another quick kiss to the side of Alex's thigh and stood up, offering the blond a hand to help him get up as well.

As they stood there hand in hand, two ghosts in the middle of an empty museum, Alex finally caught himself thinking not about knees, but rather about how in love he was with the boy beside him, stupid questions and all.

---

Alex gets over the knee thing pretty quickly after that, but Willie never lets him live it down, of course.

He mainly uses song puns to remind him every once in a while.

“I can’t feel my knees when I’m with you, hot dog.”

“Alex, can you feel your knees tonight?”

“I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my knees—oh come on, sing with me!”

Alex pretends to hate it. He wants to hate it, but he can’t.

He loves him too much.

“Hey, Willie?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m head over knees for you.”

24 notes · View notes

fromashescomephoenixes · 4 years

Text

Sirius Black’s Day Off

author’s note: this is a collab of 80′s movies with the lovely @probably-peeves@thegrxywitch @flymyhp @quadrupledeckertaco @shaynawrites23 please go check out what they wrote for this!

word count: 2.6k~

summary: imagine ferris bueller’s day off.... but with sirius!

****

"Rise and shine beautiful!" Sirius sprang up, flinging my curtains open. The reddish gold morning sun greeted me. In my opinion, it seemed angry and pushy but many might call it 'gentle' and 'beautiful' I knew better.

"No," I grunted. I placed the pillow over my face to block out the sun, and Sirius's loud announcements. Who really knew what he was up to?

"That's the spirit, now I'm going to transfigure some nice yellow warts on your face and you have to cough occasionally. Okay?" Sirius continued bounding around the room before finally leaping onto my bed and planting a kiss across my cheek. I tried to shove him off, but my morning fog finally cleared enough to let me remember why I loved Sirius: it was an adventure every day with him.

"Fine,"I sat up rubbing my eyes, and gave Sirius a morning kiss. "Good morning," He leaped off of the bed, happy to have completed a succesful mission.

"Fantastic! So I'll transfigure us both to-"

"No," I said again, thinking a bit about this plan. Whatever it led to, we certainly would not be taken siriously if we both showed up to Madam Pomfrey with a bizarre illness at the same time. "We need to go in separately or she'll get suspicious."

Sirius nodded, considering.

"You're right!"

"I always am, love," I winked as I pulled on my comfiest trackies. "So are you going to take me to breakfast if you got me up this early?" With a cough, Sirius fell dramatically on to my bed.

"I can't, I'm sick!" he cried, practicing his fake illness.

"Breakfast in bed it is then!" I decided, as I summoned a house elf. Over jammy toast and Beatles tunes, Sirius explained his idea.

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." He began. Of course this was going to be a dramatic monologue. When wasn't it with Sirius? I brushed the toast crumbs from my lips as he spoke, excited to here the rest of the plan. "And so, today we are going...." He paused and appeared to be doing some difficult mental math.

"Actually, it would be quicker for me to say where we aren't going!"

"How are we doing this with classes though?" I frowned. Clearly Sirius had banked on me asking this question, and he began to preform various charms which were set to give me an extremely ill appearance in the first class of the day.

"I am excused from class due to a death in the family." He said much to happily, and I recalled that one of his pure-blood supremacist great-aunts had died recently.

"Sorry for your loss?" I said trying to hold back giggles at his jubilant behaviour.

"Don't be!" He shrugged, "Anyways, you'll be sick. And we'll call Remus out with some message from a teacher once I pick you up!"

"Remus is okay with this?" I was incredibly confused now. Typically Remus steered far away from anything which would cause him to miss classes due to his... unique.. schedule.

"Once he knows I'm sure he will be!"

"Famous last words my love, famous last words."

****

Midway through charms, I noticed a couple of strange glances coming my way. I paused my readings about The Art of Life in Inanimate Objects and looked around for anything that was causing these looks.

I quickly figured it out as I realised multicolored spots were popping up all over my arms, and I realised slight puffs of steam were currently exiting my ears. Godric Sirius. Madam Pomfrey was going to have some issues with that one.

"Professor Flitwick?" I raised my hand and waited a moment for him to notice.

"Yes Ms. y/n!" He responded in concern.

"I think I need to see Madam Pomfrey,"

"Yes, right away!" He agreed in his high pitched voice. I raced into the hall with my bag and bumped into Sirius straight away. He pulled me into the nearest secret passage way.

"Oh bloody merlin, my charms actually did work!" Sirius exclaimed, sounding extremely surprised at their success.

"How do we make them un-work?" I begged, uncomfortable at the site of pulsing pustules that were spotting my arms.

"I don't know y/n I think the multicolored look kind of suits you!" He smirked, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine." I crossed my arms. "But no kisses until I'm back to normal," I challenged smugly. A horrified look crossed Sirius's face, and he quickly got out his wand. After a few muttered spells, I was good as new.

"Thank you darling," I kissed his cheek softly before stepping into the corridor. He blushed and quickly followed me. Pulling out a piece of scrap parchment, aka the Marauder's map, we expertly dodged Filch on our way to Remus's classroom.

"You go in," Sirius suggested, quickly forging a note if needed. Given it was the arithmancy teacher, I was sure it wouldn't matter. She was usually too focused on the topic to break away from it.

"Pardon me?" I knocked lightly on the door as I came in. "Professor Binns requested I borrow Remus for a while, he needs quite a lot of help with something." I carefully laid the foundation for a long absence to be suspected of Remus. He was currently eyeing me suspiciously, no doubt seeing right through my preformance. I threw him a wink and he simply rolled his eyes.

As we got into the hall he checked his suspicion.

"So, I'm guessing Professor Binns doesn't need my help?"

"Ah, you are smart!" I said in feigned surprise. Remus's lips twitched, nearly smiling.

"And where's Sirius?"

"Proving your smarts again!" I teased. "He's right round this corner, in the Hogsmeade secret passage." I whispered and tugged Remus into the hidden tunnel. That was where our adventure truly began. Huddled between the stoney walls of yet another secret passage.

"So!" Sirius clapped his hands together softly, before letting one hand fall down to hold mine. "Where do you guys want to go today?" I looked at him in amazement, as I had thought we'd be going to Hogsmeade at most.

"We're leaving Hogsmeade area?" I clarified. I glanced at Remus, and saw he shared my expression of shock. Sirius nodded with a glow of glee in his eyes.

"That we are!" He announced dramatically. I giggled while hushing him, sure that Filch would somehow here through the stone wall. Remus shrugged, unsure of where on earth he'd like to go.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, suddenly remembering one of the wizarding villages I'd heard about. "What about Pitlochry?" The small scottish town actually had a thriving wizarding community living right under it's very nose. It's actually where the famous wizard, Michael Scot, spent many years.

Remus's eyes lit up "Oh yes! Let's go there!" He agreed, eager to see what is said to be a beautiful town. Sirius was ecstatic, and jumped at the idea as well.

“Well?” Remus asked, trying to sound slightly bored with the lack of adventure he’d been forced to miss class for so far.

“Well what?” Sirius asked, glancing up from the Marauder's map he had been studying while we discussed where exactly to visit.

“Well how are we getting there dummy?” I grinned with a hint of mischief.

“Hey! You’re my girlfriend, you don’t get to call me dummy!” Sirius yelled indignantly.

“On the contrary darling, it’s one of my special privileges!” I smirked. “Like this!” I gave him a quick peck on the lips, and then raced raced down the passage with a smirk.

"We could apparate?" Remus suggested, but I shook my head slightly. Despite passing my test, I freaked out about trying it with anything farther than a couple of feet away.

"Perhaps use the Floo?" I thought out loud, hoping this would be the chosen idea.

"Or," Sirius began with a gleam in his eye, "We could use my motorbike." Sirius's cherry red motorbike had been bought last summer, and was currently stored in Hogsmeade. It was practically begging to be used. There was just one little snag:

"It's not like it flies or something," Remus shook his head with a small smile. "It would take ages to get to Pitlochry on it!" Sirius's smile grew all the wider. I could practically predict what he was about to say, but I wasn't sure I'd be able to believe it.

"Ah, but my friend, it does fly!" He exclaimed triumphantly. My eyes must have been boggling out of my head, because I simply could not believe it. For some reason it was perfectly logical that magic could give me pulsing polka dots all over my skin, but complete unbelievable that it could make a motorcycle fly.

****

"Wheeee!" I shouted gleefully as we soared through the clouds. Remus also looked like he was loving it, especially since he got the beautiful view out of the side car. He laughed along, as Sirius grinned proudly. As we began our descent, I wrapped my hands slightly tighter around Sirius's waist.

"Be careful!" I gasped as we pointed towards the ground. It was fairly terrifying to be staring straight down to the ground. I pressed my forehead against Sirius's back.

"Alright love?" He turned slightly, a note of concern in his voice.

"Yep," I squeaked while taking a few deep breaths. I was a Gryffindor. I was brave. I was completely fine with being a few thousand feet off of the ground.

****

After many impromptu loop de loops, we finally landed in Pitlochry. My feet sunk into the soft snow, and I felt more grateful than I’d ever admit to be back on the ground again.

“Where to first?” Sirius clapped his mittened hands together in anticipation.

“The museum!” Remus suggested straight away. I nodded, thinking it would be fascinating to learn more about Michael Scot.

The museum was filled with fascinating Latin texts, of which a few had been transcribed into modern English. I perused these before following Sirius into the next part of the museum.

Remus stayed outside once he caught a glimpse of the starry sky. I patted his back gently, attempting a comforting action, before I went in.

The room was a doom filled with a moving mural of the night sky. The only difference was that it had been painted here directly by Michael Scot during his time studying astrology.

“That’s you!” I pointed up to the star Sirius as I took the real Sirius’s hand. “I think I like you better as a star,” I joked, leaning on his shoulder.

“Well you get the best of both worlds here then, because I’m a star as well as me!” He responded, overestimating his rockstar career for a moment.

“You’re my star,” I smiled softly towards him, and we walked back to Remus. I caught Sirius redden slightly before grinning.

****

On our path back to the main wizarding village (hidden from the view of muggle Pitlochry), we came across a small scrimmage of community quidditch. After preforming a few warming charms, we stood and cheered for each of the teams.

"Here snitch-y snitch," Sirius started to call, as if attempting to make a dog come to him. I grinned and joined in,

"Who's a good snitch?" I shouted, and surprisingly, the snitch seemed to respond. It veered towards us and whizzed right over the head of a chaser into the hands of Sirius.

An astonished look filled his face, and both the teams swooped over to congratulate him. After a series of pats on the back and handshakes, we finally excused ourselves and continued our walk to the main village.

We spent the rest of the morning wandering through various shops filled with owls, and potions, and parchment until eventually all of our hands were a bit too similar to ice blocks.

****

“Shall we duck in here?” Remus nodded towards the busy restaurant.

“M’lady,” Sirius bowed and opened the door for me. I giggled and passed elegantly through the door frame.

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug of Butterbeer, and breathed in the sweet, ginger scent. The band was playing a recent Weird Sisters release, and I tapped my toe to the beat.

As the chill wore off, I relaxed into Sirius’s arm which he had wrapped around my shoulders.

“What’s next?” I asked eagerly.

“Going back to Hogwarts?” Remus begged in a tired voice.

“Oh come on! You’ve had a great time Moony!” Sirius slugged his arm, with friendly affection of course.

“I have,” Remus admitted with a sly grin. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned about our grades!” I did see his point, it was NEWTs year. But a little break never hurt anyone!

“Please Moony, your grades are of the least concern. You probably have three O’s and an E or something,” Sirius waved his hand, brushing away Remus’s concerns. Remus looked down bashfully, telling me that Sirius had guessed nearly right.

“Plus Slughorn’s been a real dragon in potions lately,” I recalled the terribly involved animagus potion we had to create last class. Fortunately I was paired with Sirius, which made it ten times easier.

"Fine! Get outta here Abe!" Our cheerful banter was interrupted by the shouts of the lead guitarist of the band that had been playing during our lunch. It would seem that the lead singer had quit for some reason unknown to us. The two other band mates looked shattered, despite their previously amazing performance.

I nudged Sirius. Of all the people I could think of that might be able to help this situation, he was the best fit.

"You should go up there!" I encouraged him. I saw a rare flicker of doubt cross his eyes, but with a friendly smile from Remus and I, he seemed to gather his courage.

"Yeah," Remus nodded enthusiastically.

"I promise to remember you both when I'm famous," Sirius shot us both a winning grin before heading up to the stage. We watched him whisper to the abandoned band members for a moment, who eventually looked enthusiastic.

We heard the energized strumming of a few opening chords, and Remus and I began to tap our toes in time. The song seemed to ring a bill, but I wasn't entirely sure where I'd heard it.

"Well, shake it up, baby, now!" Sirius began to sing. I grinned, realising it was the exact song we had eaten our breakfast to. Pausing to listen for a line or two, I saw how the energy of the quiet pub room changed. Gradually, it came alive. Sirius's energy was contagious. He nodded up to him, and I ran up.

"You know you look so good," He winked, grabbing my hand and giving me a quick spin. As I spun around, I noticed Remus inviting another girl close to our age to dance. And I spied an elderly couple doing a small shuffle together. Something about this tune just brought people together!

After pulling out my finest dance moves alongside a singing Sirius, I collapsed back into my seat and chugged the rest of my butterbeer.

"Merlin," I grinned with a bubbly happiness towards Remus. He grinned eagerly back.

"Don't tell Sirius," He teased, "But I have actually had a fun time today." He admitted slyly.

"I'm glad," I nodded. "I have to hand it to Sirius that this was a pretty fantastic day off."

#Sirius Black #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fluff #sirius x reader #sirius x you #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #hp fanfic #hp one shot #collab #ferris bueller's day off

16 notes · View notes

muertawrites · 4 years

Text

Aphrodite Kallipygos (Zuko x Plus Size Reader) [Modern AU]

Summary: Zuko takes up an art class as part of his therapy and ends up falling in love with a woman who’s a work of art in her own right.

Word Count: 3,500

Disclaimer: There’s a scene in this fic where a couple of thin girls engage in some rude behavior and are criticized in a few none-too-kind words. I want to make it very clear that this scene does not reflect my views of thin people or body positivity - these characters are meant to be a metaphor for greater culture and its strict, unrealistic views of what women should look like.

Author’s Note: I hate rom coms but after writing this fic it dawned on me that I would be excellent at writing them. Also, this one goes out to all my art hoes out there. I geek out pretty hard about art history in this one.

Speaking of which, I reference real-world cultures within the structure of the Avatar universe in this one as well. Something I like to do when I zone out is think about which actual countries would belong to which bending nations; my heritage is primarily from the British Isles, and what with liths like Stonehenge and the hella castles hanging around out there, I think we’d be earth benders - same with cultures like the ancient Egyptians and the Pueblos. I also love the idea of Pacific Islanders who can bend both water and lava, and Incan air benders, and I really wish the idea of global cultures as benders were explored more in the Avatar universe.

Have I mentioned that I’m a massive fucking nerd?

~ Muerta

Zuko never considered himself much of a creative. When he thought about it, he realized that that part of his life had never really been explored; his father always pushed him to focus solely on his bending and combat skills, never allowing even the consideration of other practices or hobbies. As much as Zuko was passionate about the martial arts he'd mastered, he also came to learn that he never had a choice in being passionate about anything else.

“I think you should take an art class,” his therapist suggested. “It would be a good outlet for you, and one that isn't directly influenced by your family.”

“I don't think I've ever drawn anything, though,” Zuko admitted. “I wouldn't be any good.”

“It's not about being good,” his therapist explained, “it's about exploring things that weren't available to you in your youth, freedom of expression. Consider it - there's a shop in this neighborhood that offers classes.”

She handed him a business card adorned with an array of different art styles, from delicate watercolors to bright, bold cartoons; it read, “classes for everything” in a cheerful, clearface font.

Zuko shrugged and pocketed the card. A week later, he was enrolled in a basic studio art course.

He arrived for his first class embarrassingly early, passing under the bell of the shop’s front door twenty minutes before it was scheduled to begin.

The building that housed the shop looked to be older than the rest of the neighborhood around it; the storefront was tiny, with crowded shelves lining each wall and tables and racks wound throughout the center of the space, creating a maze that led to the checkout counter. The room’s ceilings were high, supported by beams in a dark stained wood that matched the floor below. Paper mache sculptures and handmade lanterns hung from the rafters, and the simple, antique plaster walls were decorated with paintings and sketches, likely given by the shop’s clientele. From somewhere in the back, a radio sang folk music, accompanied by the hum of an electric fan.

Zuko wandered through the labyrinthine merchandise displays until he reached the register, where he was met with the single most beautiful sight he may have ever laid eyes on.

You stood behind the counter, leaned over a textbook with a pencil in hand, tapping it back and forth over the pages; you bit your lip in concentration, a few strands of your hair falling loose from the messy knot atop your head and over your cheeks, though you were too focused on your reading to care. An apron bearing the shop’s logo was tied around your waist, emphasizing your body's dramatic curves.

To Zuko, you were gorgeous. He couldn't place what exactly about you allured him; all he knew was that his pulse had quickened to a near dangerous pace.

You looked up at him when you noticed you were no longer alone, flashing him a kind, somewhat distracted smile. He nodded curtly, too nervous to do anything but stare.

“Can I help you?” you greeted him politely.

He cleared his throat, his voice coming out a pitch higher than normal as he spoke.

“I'm here for the art class,” he told you.

You smirked a little, peering down to check the time on your phone.

“It's a little early,” you said. “I was just about to start setting up. You could help me if you want? So you're not so bored while you wait?”

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.”

You grinned, waving him behind the counter and through a door to the back room. To his surprise, what he expected to be a minuscule stockroom turned out to be a space larger than the actual shop, lined on one wall with massive warehouse windows that poured late afternoon sunlight into the room. Metal shelves and boxes lay haphazardly about, mixed in with a scattering of easels, pottery spinners, canvases, and other art supplies. You directed your guest to a stack of chairs in the corner, instructing him to line them in a half circle in an empty portion of the room while you placed the easels.

“So, do you have a name?” you asked, attempting to make conversation that could drown out the repetitive radio drone.

“Zuko,” he introduced himself.

You stopped what you were doing, fixing him with an awed, slightly amused gape.

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered.

He blushed, nodding.

“Oh spirits, I'm sorry I didn't bow!” you exclaimed, dropping into a low curtsy. The gesture was mixed with equal parts mirth and genuine respect; Zuko was unsure how to respond, his heart flickering as he watched you.

“I heard you were living somewhere in the city,” you continued after making your own introduction, setting an easel in front of each chair he positioned. “Not into the whole royalty thing?”

Zuko shrugged. He focused on his work, too nervous to look you in the eye.

“Just weird going back there,” he told you. “I don't really want taxpayer money going to making sure I live above my means.”

You leaned against the last chair he set down, smiling warmly at him.

“That's very respectable,” you responded. “Thank you. Y’know, as someone who pays taxes.”

Zuko chuckled softly as you handed him a bin of art supplies, instructing him to set one of each item at every station. He did as he was told, stealing glances at you whenever he was sure you weren’t looking.

“So, uh… do you own this place?” he asked, fumbling over his words.

“Oh, no, this is my professor’s shop,” you replied. “I just work here part time.”

“You’re a student?”

You shook your head.

“Nope. Graduated last year. I work days at the history museum downtown. I also give art history classes here, and help out with the ones Professor Cong teaches.”

“Oh.”

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say.

“... They teach a different type of history just for art?” he asked after a moment.

You laughed, covering your mouth to muffle the sound and apologizing, giving him a little nod as you collected yourself.

“Yes. Some people even get whole degrees in it,” you giggled. “Not that it’s a useful field to learn anything about.”

Zuko shrugged, trying to shake off the embarrassment of sounding stupid in front of such a cute girl; little did he know, you found the question beyond endearing.

“It sounds important,” he contested. “I’ve been meeting historians from all over the world to correct all the propaganda from the past hundred years. It never occurred to me that I would need different historians for art.”

You smiled at him, meeting him where he stood and handing him one of the sketch pads from your bin. His cheeks pinkened, his eyes darting away from yours as he took it and mumbled a “thank you”.

“I like you, Firelord Zuko,” you decided aloud. “My classes are on Wednesdays. You can come if you want - free of charge.”

Zuko nodded, swallowing heavily as he met your gaze once again.

“Thank you,” he replied. “I appreciate it.”

You laughed a little bit, taking his now empty bin and returning both to their place on a nearby shelf. The shop’s bell rang from beyond the threshold and you went back to the front counter, telling Zuko to take a spot wherever he liked. He sat in the front row; wherever he thought he could be closest to you.

For the next five weeks, Zuko attended not only his studio art class, but your art history class, showing up early to each lesson so he could spend time alone with you. Despite the fact that you invited him to sit in, he paid the fee for the second course, not wanting you to go without the extra pay for your work - he found a doodle of a turtle duck on his seat the next time he showed up, the fuzzy little penciled duckling telling him he was a terrible listener, but thanking him anyway (with a heart scribbled in beside the words).

With your guidance, Zuko learned that there was much more to art than just vibrant colors and pretty decoration. Everything in art, it turned out, had significance, each piece and work holding insight into the people and cultures who created it; you spoke passionately about the art of the Egyptians, who used specific shapes and colors in their imagery to tell stories beyond the written word, about the mysteries of prehistoric structures that revealed how early humanity was much more sophisticated and interconnected than considered at a glance, about the symbols that translated and influenced across centuries to shape how each nation, each culture, portrayed themselves into the modern world. He found himself hanging on every word, falling even more deeply enamored with you with each moment he spent with you.

It didn’t take you long - what with the easy, pleasant conversations you shared before classes - to discover that Zuko lived relatively close to you, only two stops away on the local metro. Knowing this, you often saw each other on the days you weren't at the shop, meeting at the station between each of your respective neighborhoods and having coffee or dinner in one of its many cafes, talking about anything and everything and managing to pass several hours together in what seemed like the blink of an eye. You loved being with Zuko, finding the more you did it, the less you wanted your rendezvous to end; you thought about him all the time, getting all kinds of giddy whenever he crossed your mind.

On one of your extracurricular excursions, you and Zuko wandered around the local high street, marveling at the different streetside vendors and dreamily window shopping behind the glass of the upscale boutiques, doing little more than enjoying each other’s company. It was a hot day, and along your way, Zuko stopped at a coffee stand to get you each something cold to drink.

A pretty young woman in line in front of you eyed you up and down, her gaze flicking from between you and Zuko with disgust. She jabbed her slim, graceful elbow into her equally as flawless friend’s side, whispering something in the other woman’s ear as they both glared at you, sniggering cruelly behind flat stomachs and angular, willowy frames.

You sneered at them, making a point of hooking your arm within Zuko’s and pressing your much wider hip against his, the poison of the encounter sinking into your skin and infecting your thoughts. Zuko noticed your change in demeanor immediately, steering you away from the scene as soon as your drinks were served.

“You okay?” he asked, still holding tight to your arm.

“Fine,” you quipped, biting back tears. “Just a couple of pretty bitches proving how fucking hideous they are on the inside.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Zuko halted, pulling you to the side of the street and out of the way of traffic. He lay a hand on your shoulder, the firm, able grasp of his palm somehow making you feel even worse.

“Someone would really make fun of you?” he wondered, outraged and incredulous. “Why?”

You shook your head, smiling defeatedly as your lower lip quivered.

“People have made fun of me since I was a kid, Zu,” you told him, speaking as if he should’ve just assumed it. “I’m fat. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

“So?” Zuko replied. You were so shocked, you physically leaned away from him, raising your eyebrows. “Yeah, you’re fat. That doesn’t mean you’re not pretty. I… I think you’re really pretty. Gorgeous, even. You’re beautiful.”

You blinked at him, taken aback. He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his eyes never once leaving yours.

“... Did I break you?” he tried after a moment, sounding concerned that it was a genuine possibility.

You laughed, shaking your head in feverish disbelief, attempting to clear the confusion that fogged your battered brain.

“No, I just… Nobody’s ever called me pretty and fat before.”

Zuko shrugged.

“Both are true,” he told you. “I like your body. You look like one of those Greek sculptures. Of the goddesses.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any sign of dishonesty or patronization; all you found looking back at you was the clumsily genuine man you were quickly falling in love with.

“... Have I ever told you about Aphrodite Kallipygos?” you asked.

Zuko shook his head, as confused as you had been a few seconds ago.

“She’s a statue of Venus,” you explained. “She’s got her dress raised up over her backside, and when they found her originally, she didn’t have her head; the guy who restored her sculpted it so that she was looking back at herself, admiring her body. There’s even a whole folktale about a pair of brothers who fell in love with two women because they had, like, beautifully fat asses and the town built a temple dedicated to Venus and her butt. The name literally translates to ‘Aphrodite of the Beautiful Buttocks’.”

Zuko chuckled, raising the hand at your shoulder to cup your cheek.

“See?” he said. “Men have worshiped thick, juicy butts since the dawn of time!”

You laughed, your cheeks turning bright red as you buried your face in your hands, leaning forward to rest your forehead on his chest and further hide yourself.

“Zuko, oh my god,” you breathed. “Promise me you’ll never say that out loud in a public setting ever again, please. You’re the fucking Firelord for Tui’s sake.”

Zuko chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you tightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, still grinning. “Made you feel better, though.”

You pulled away from him, affectionately punching him in the shoulder. He laughed, gasping at you in mock reproach before pressing a finger into your side, shocking you with a burst of static electricity; you cackled as you jumped away, sticking your tongue out at him.

Zuko felt a rush of lightheadedness as he watched you, savoring the sound of your laugh and the radiance of your smile. It was then he realized he was in love with you.

The next studio art class focused on model drawing - more specifically, a nude model. Zuko, having been raised in what was arguably the most reserved family in the world, was nervous about the idea of having to sit in front of a stranger for an hour, not only staring at their naked body, but immortalizing it in graphite on a page.

He was mortified when he arrived at the class and found you sitting in the corner, wrapped in nothing but a silk dressing gown.

As you climbed the platform you were meant to model on, your limbs rattled. You began to question your sanity, wondering what you thought you were doing offering to pose for the class, what kind of statement you thought it would make. You faced enough judgement from others about your weight with your clothes on - what the hell did you think they would do when you stood before them completely naked, every bump and crevice on full display for them to gawk at and criticize?

You glanced to the side at Professor Cong, seeking some sort of assurance or comfort from him; he, being the seasoned professional in his mid-sixties that he was, sat reclined in a chair in his Hawaiian shirt and flip flops, scrolling totally undisturbed through Pinterest on his phone. Honestly, you expected no less - his obtuse reactions in the face of the awkward and uncomfortable were basically a superpower.

Taking a deep breath, you untied the knot holding your dressing gown together and let it fall, slipping gracefully from your shoulders and to the floor. You assumed a comfortable, classic pose, purposely facing yourself away from the man whose eyes you could feel searing into your back.

Zuko’s breath hitched as he watched you undress. Though he only saw the full of your body for a moment, he was captivated. The swell of your breasts and curve of your stomach sent him into a dizzy spell, his mouth going dry and his skin heating with a noticeable flush. The rolls of your back, the ripples and divots along your thighs and rump, the stripes etched into your skin like the veins through a granite block, he drank in every part of you, moulding every detail with a focused hand as he sketched. He made note every scar and beauty mark. Once or twice, his mind drifted towards the salacious, imagining how your body would feel beneath his, soft and supple, releasing exalted breaths and enraptured moans, your nails dragging down his back as he drove you closer and closer to infinity…

He inhaled sharply, snapping himself back to his work. You were Venus, Minerva, Diana - a goddess among men. He would gladly spend the rest of his life worshiping you.

The moment the class ended, you gathered your dressing gown and made a beeline for the employee bathroom, getting back into your clothes as quickly as you could physically manage. The experience of nude modeling wasn’t nearly as harrowing as you expected it to be; you actually found it kind of freeing, being able to show yourself to a room full of other people and come out of it unscathed, in fact feeling quite beautiful - what had you nervous was the fact that you’d have to face Zuko immediately after the fact, seeing as you took the train home together after classes. His was the only opinion you cared about, and you wanted nothing more than to convince yourself that he hadn’t judged you as harshly as the self-hatred brainwashed into you made you believe.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Professor Cong stood in front of one of the empty easels in the back, smirking at the drawing the student had left there.

“Your boyfriend left you his piece,” he teased.

You blushed, glaring at him as you approached and snatched the sketch from his hands.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you tried in vain to defend yourself.

Professor Cong just chuckled.

“I’ll believe that when I see evidence to the contrary,” he replied.

You looked down at the paper in your hand and felt the breath drain from your lungs, your heart and stomach soaring into your throat.

Zuko had drawn you in the image of Venus, your body draped in gossamer fabric and your head turned over your shoulder, eyes cast downward and lips slightly parted in a blissful, ethereal expression. In the corner of the page, he’d written “Aphrodite Kallipygos” in his sweeping handsome script, beneath which was his signature and the date. You’d never once seen yourself look so beautiful, let alone in the eyes of someone you loved so fiercely.

You swallowed hard, rolling the drawing and securing it with a hair tie from your bag before exiting the shop through the back, knowing Zuko would be in the alley waiting for you.

“Hey,” he greeted you when you appeared through the storeroom door. “Are you okay? You looked really ner-”

You interrupted him by throwing your arms around his neck, slamming your lips into his in a desirous kiss. It took him less than a second to recover himself from the shock of the action and curl his arms around your waist, pressing his body against yours and lifting you every so slightly off the ground, kissing you just as hard as you kissed him. When you parted, you were breathless, your cheeks fiery red and your lips swollen the color of vermilion. Zuko smiled at you, one side of his mouth curling up slightly higher than the other.

“So you liked it?” he asked.

You laughed, nodding.

“Zuko, I loved it,” you gasped. “I love you. I think I loved you as soon as I met you but that sort of thing is really cliche and stupid to admit.”

Zuko chuckled, raising his hand to your cheek and kissing you again, his lips soft and tender this time around. You sighed happily into his mouth, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the feeling of his body sharing the same space as yours.

“I think I loved you the moment I met you, too,” Zuko confessed, his nose grazing against yours as he pulled away. “But you’re right. That sort of thing is really stupid and cliche.”

You giggled, tugging gently on the collar of his jacket.

“Come on,” you prompted him. “Let’s go back to my apartment. You’ve already seen me naked; we need to make it even.”

Zuko laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you out of the alley, his side pressed firmly against yours.

“Fair,” he agreed. “But if you want me to pose for any art, you’ll have to sign some paperwork. I’m still Firelord, you know.”

📚 table of contents 📚

✨ join me on patreon ✨

{ subscribers: @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @celamoon @omgwhattheeven @i-am-not-a-thot @fandomtrash1616 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @just-another-romantic @berkeliums @eridanuswave @oleander-in-the-wind @kinismanditory @lammello @peppermenty @theawesomefactor123 @loganrwebb @ijustwannabecanadian @a-hopeless-fan @softvv @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @pearl-stonecutter @crazy0t @commander-rex @kittyddandnyla @abbyarchie @smol-grandpa @nonbinary-rogers @themanwiththemetalarmsdoll @witchywrter @canibea-whore-yet @fuckwhateverfuck @eridanuswave @duh-dobrik @sum-stuff13 }

73 notes · View notes

self-proclaimed-chaotic-good · 4 years

Text

Night at the Museum | Adam Milligan x Reader

Prompt: Family

Fandom: Supernatural

Words: 2230

A/N: Wasn’t feeling well for a few days (still don’t but oh well), so here’s yesterday’s story prompt. This is a continuation of [True Winchester Fashion]. I’ll have today’s prompt up later.

The cases were getting more confusing with each passing day. One incident looked clearly to be the work of a vampire, the next is a witch, and another a werewolf. All in one town in the span of two weeks. Sam and Dean gathered in Adam’s apartment, their things scattered on the medium sized Ikea dining table.

Adam had been checking up on you every now and again, and you appreciated it, which was why he was the first person you thought of when something bad happened again. You had been working in the museum after hours when you heard noises coming from one of the exhibits under construction.

“Larry?” you called out to one of the security guards in the walkie talkie.

“Everything alright, (Y/n/n)?” Larry asked.

“Yeah, just thought I heard something from the west wing.”

“I’ll check with surveillance and have someone stick with you until you go home if you want.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“No problem.”

You went back to finish sorting through the bookstacks, a small hand radio softly playing nineties music on one of the desks.Twenty minutes later, you were finished with one large stack and deciding to call it a night. You checked your phone and realized how late it got. Looking sound, you had assumed that one of the security guards were guarding the library entrance, but no one was there.

“Larry?” you said through the walkie talkie. You waited, hearing nothing but static. “Larry? Bill?”

You grabbed your things, stuffing a thick and old leather bound book in your bag, and clutched the walkie talkie close to you as you closed up. With every sound or movement you thought you saw in the corner of your eye, you would try to contact the security guards again.

Whenever you had seen these types of situations on screen, you always thought of how foolish that person was for being in a building after hours, alone at night. But, you had always felt safe in the museum. The staff was friendly and the security guards were caring and protective. The fact that none of them were answering was worrying. You thought back to the night that your friend died, your heart racing in your chest as you try to make one last call out before leaving.

“Larry?” you tried again as you made your way towards the exits.

You waited. Static. Then tried again. There was an echo of your voice from a walkie talkie nearby. You turned, but saw no one. You squeezed the walkie talkie, pressing the button one more time without saying anything. You heard the noise again, looking around the dimly lit room and spotted the walkie talkie lying on the ground next to a pool of dark liquid.

You forgot to breathe as you rushed out of the building, your back feeling vulnerable as you jogged to your car. Your hands shook as you tried to unlock the doors and climbed in, locking them again as soon as you sat down, then started the engines.

This was a small town, so you had always tried to stay out of trouble or else the entire town would know about it. Meaning, not once had you gone above the speed limit, in fear that your parents’ friend and classmate gave you a ticket and then they would never stop bringing up the one ticket you ever had and how you disappointed them. This time, however, a ticket and frustrations was not as scary as the possibility of getting murdered.

Once you were locked away in your apartment, you sat in your bathtub and called Adam.

“Hey, everything alright?” he asked.

You let out a long breath, wanting to steady your heartbeat. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why this is happening,” you whimpered, “I didn’t know what to do, I just… i needed to talk to someone to calm down.”

“Okay, we can do that. Do you wanna talk about what happened?”

A hot tear rolled down your cheek as you tried to make sense of the past events. “I think… I think something happened to the security guards at the museum. I panicked. I didn’t get a good look, but I just wanted to get out of there as soon as I could. Am I being silly?”

“No, of course not,” Adam assured you, “Listen, I’m in contact with those feds that came by that night at the bar. I’ll go speak to them and see that they can look into it, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks, Adam. I’m sorry for bothering you-”

“You’re not bothering me. I want you to be safe.”

“Okay,” you said softly. “I, uh, I’m gonna call a coworker and see if she can notify the police of what happened. Can you… can you come over?”

“Yeah, sure. Just text me your address.”

Adam hung up, clenching his jaw as he pictured you at home, too afraid to even go outside after what’s been going on around town. You didn’t deserve to deal with all of this. Whoever or whatever is killing people will have to face the Winchesters for what they’ve done.

He walked out to the living room and slumped down in a chair next to his brothers. Sam noticed his tired expression, wordlessly passing a can of beer to him. Adam nodded in thanks, popping it open and taking a swig.

“What’s up?” Dean said, looking up from his laptop screen.

“Something’s going on at the museum and I want to go and check it out,” Adam said.

“What, like a Night at the Museum thing or like a new contemporary modern art exhibit with canvases that just have random splashes of paint worth thousands of dollars kind of thing?”

Adam frowned, thinking back to cases in the past few weeks and how they were connected. You were always nearby when they happened. He stood up and grabbed his jacket and car keys.

“I don’t know. The police are heading over there right now. I’m gonna go and check on (Y/n).”

“Right. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Dean teased.

“So do everything except eating healthy?”

Adam shut the door behind him before Dean could retort. The oldest brother shook his head.

“What an asshole. Where the hell does he get it from?”

Sam gave him a pointed look, then turned his attention back to his research as he cleared his throat.

Sam and Dean had arrived at the museum, flashing their badges and speaking with the sheriff. They had found one surviving security guard who was knocked unconscious while the rest who were on duty had been killed.

“Anyone else was here during that time?” Dean asked the museum’s director.

She shrugged. “Usually some curators, conservators, and one or two archivists. Everyone’s been working hard to get the new exhibit up and running, which is why we usually have more than one security guard on duty.”

“Exhibit?”

The director’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. We’re doing something fun this year and diving into myths, legends, and magic. These stories have contributed to our history and we’ve wanted to do something different. We even had a few donors who’ve had records and items from the Salem witch trials-”

Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look. “When did these donors come in?” Sam asked.

She tapped her chin and hummed. “About two weeks ago? Oh, dear. You don’t think someone would kill for these items, do you?”

Sam offered her a reassuring smile. “We’ll figure out who did this. In the meantime, I suggest postponing the exhibit.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Mind if we check the exhibit? You know, just to make sure nothing was stolen.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Follow me.”

The director led them to the back where they stored the items and displays, leaving them for a moment to retrieve the inventory list. Her heels echoed through the spacious warehouse until she reached the back. She frowned at the list, going back and forth between the opened crates.

“Oh, dear, there’s something missing,” she muttered, “Oh, I see. It must have been one of the historians or the archivists. Usually they’d make a note of it, though. They know not to leave the building with any of the items here.”

Dean asked for the list, which she readily handed over. She pointed at the missing item, a thick leather bound book with a metal lock on it. He flipped through the pages, looking for a picture of the book before handing it back.

“Are there cameras in the warehouse?”

Adam pulled up in front of your building, double checking the address and apartment number. He climbed out and immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Be careful,” Michael said to him, “There’s something here. Get to your friend quickly.”

“Why do you think they’re all after (Y/n)?” Adam asked, speed walking towards the steps.

Michael paused for a moment. “There must be something they’re not telling us.”

Adam knocked on your door and waited a beat. He could hear shuffling on the other side of the door followed by two locks clicking open. You poked your head through the door, opening it wider when you saw that it was Adam. He walked in, watching as you relocked the door and made your way towards the couch.

You slumped against the arm rest, burying your face in your hands. “This is all my fault,” you mumbled.

“What do you mean?” He slowly sat next to you, eyes scanning the room before looking back at you.

“I knew better than to take the book, but… I don’t know what I was thinking. It was almost like it was telling me to take it. Because of me, Rachel is dead. And so is Larry and Billy.” You rubbed your face hard, tears falling out before you could do anything about it.

“(Y/n)), start from the beginning. What book?”

You got up on shaky legs to retrieve your bag from your room. Reaching over to your desk, a bang from the window startled you. A shriek escaped your lips, heart threatening to follow after. Adam rushed over, wrapping a protective arm around you. He narrowed his eyes at the window but saw nothing. He led you back to the couch where you handed him your bag.

He unzipped the bag and pulled out a heavy leather bound book with a padlock holding it closed. In closer inspection, the leather material may not be leather at all, just that it was dyed and weathered to look like it. With one quick look, Adam could easily identify it as some kind of grimoire.

“Where did you get this?” Adam asked.

“The museum,” you said, wrapping your arms around your knees as you curled up again, “The director needed someone who spoke Latin to help translate some of the pages. The historian that usually does it is away, so that left me, though I can’t translate quite as well as the historian, the director insisted that I translate it as soon as possible… Now that I think about it, it seems all ridiculous. I don’t know why I listened.” You shook your head. “I guess I was too scared of losing my job, but I didn’t really realize until I translated the first few pages how dangerous it was.”

“What does it do?”

“I didn’t think that it was real! I just thought… I didn’t know…”

“(Y/n),” Adam said more gently.

You took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. “It… apparently it has a spell that draws in all creatures within the vicinity, as if it was a beacon. It sounds crazy-”

“(Y/n), trust me. This is not crazy.” Adam inspected the book before putting it down on the coffee table. “Those feds that you met at the bar a couple of nights ago?”

You nodded.

“Well, they’re my brothers…. And they’re not feds. They…. My family comes from a line of hunters,” Adam began to explain.

“Hunters are quite different from brewery owners,” you muttered, trying to lift your mood up.

Adam chuckled. “Yeah, they hunt everything that goes bump in the night and then some. They’re the best at what they do and they’re looking into what’s been happening around town. They can help you with the book, (Y/n).”

You huffed out a laugh and shook your head at the situation you brought yourself into. “That’s great, but is there anything else that you failed to tell me?”

Adam looked down and smiled. “The, uh, the notes from micro lab? I didn’t need them. I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.”

“Adam, if you’re lying to make me feel better about endangering the entire town-”

“I’m serious!”

There was another thud at the window closest to the living room. You jumped, your eyes immediately landing on that cursed book lying among your stained coasters, ripped envelopes and spare rubber bands. The cursed book that started all of this. It shook with each thud that hit the window, a tall dark shadowy figure standing on the other side of the curtained window. You covered your ears as Adam stood, quickly texting Sam and Dean to hurry over.

“Don’t worry, (Y/n). I won’t let anything happen to you.”

#WritersMonth2020 #adam milligan x reader #adam milligan #supernatural #supernatural imagine #SPN #spn imagines #adam winchester

56 notes · View notes

notagamersdey · 3 years

Text

The Dream

Painting by: Henri Rousseau

Photo (2021) and Story By Tyler D. Ortiz

Rating: T

Word Count: 2k~

Warnings: bad language, panic attacks

A/N: So this story is inspired by the Pedro Pascal episode of the podcast Talk Art (31:14-34:15). Go check that out if you want to hear some fun stories by the hosts and pp.

Summary: Matias, after losing his chance to act in a popular TV show, is taken to the Museum of Modern Art by his sister where he realizes he has nothing to lose.

~~~

Today, I’m supposed to meet my sister Lyanna here at East Village Pizza. She said it was a special treat for getting my first “big” role on Law & Order. When I told her the news, she had jumped up for joy, squealing my ear off. It wasn’t a big deal, just another job for the bills, but she was adamant that this job was a life changer. She’s says that about every job.

I came to the pizza parlor early, grabbing my favorite seat in front of the window. We normally sat here when we came because it gave us the perfect view of cold, angry New Yorkers. I had ordered our pizza, waiting for her to arrive when my phone starts to buzz.

I open it up and put it against my ear, holding it with my shoulder, “This is Matias.”

“Matias, I'm sorry to tell you…” Fuck, “…but we’ve decided to go in a different direction...” It’s the fucking casting director, droning on, saying those same fucking words, “You have wonderful talent.,” “You didn’t fit the director's vision.,” etcetera. Etcetera. ETCETERA. It's all movie-talk for “You weren't good enough.”

Grabbing the scruff behind my neck, I slammed my phone shut and stuffing it into my jacket pocket. What the hell was I going to do now? Three hundred bucks – gone in an instant.

“Here’s your order, Sir,” A waiter places the small pizza in front of me, and you know, today was one of the rare days I was able to scrounge enough money to afford the luxury of a decent slice of pizza, and now I can’t even enjoy it.

“God dammit,” It’s moments like these when memories of my father came hit me like a freight train. He used to berate me about goals and aspirations, telling me, “It’s never going to happen, Matias,” and “It’s not a job. You won’t get anywhere with that.” In high school, I used to constantly fight with him, telling him my dreams were achievable. That I would succeed as an actor. He would laugh in my face; tell me they were unobtainable. I mean... Maybe he was right.

Now, I’m living in one of the most expensive cities with over 300,000 dollars in debt, 40 bucks to my name, and a dead-beat waiter job at Planet Hollywood that barely pays for food let alone the bills. I have no back-up plan, no emergency fund. I just had my bachelor's degree in acting, which won't pay for shit.

I shake my head. My neck and back start to ache, an oncoming migraine sitting on my temples.

Matias, the fuck do you want to do that for?

Matias, you’re not good enough.

Matias, you will always be alone.

I stand to leave, throwing the untouched pizza in the trash on my way out the door. The cold winter air bites at my nose when I step outside. I pull my scarf up closer to my neck and make my way down East 9th Street.

Leaving the restaurant doesn’t help. Hopelessness rushes over me like a tsunami. The texture of the wool sweater underneath my jacket scratched annoyingly at the exposed skin on my wrists. It’s a cold wintery day but I feel incredibly hot underneath the layers. A nervous sweat builds underneath my beanie. Everyone’s staring, I know it. They know I've failed yet again. They know I’m just a naïve child.

His voice repeats in my head like a tornado siren, yelling, screaming at me, “You will not survive.”

You will not make an income.

You will not have healthcare.

You are setting yourself up for failure.

…You will die- My phone starts to buzz again. I really want to fucking ignore it but if it’s Lyanna, she’d have every cop in the city on my ass within the hour.

“Hey.” I cough, trying to clear my throat. Act normal.

“Mat! I’m sorry I’m late, I’m-” She sounds like she’s running.

“Actually, Sis, I left…” I stop in the middle of the pavement, getting shoved and cursed at by the impetuous crowd around me.

“What? Why?” Her concerned voice seeps through the phone. Suddenly, heat shoots up my back. She’s going to be upset.

I move off to the side, leaning up against a wall of graffiti, “I didn’t get the job after all.”

I hear her let out a breath, “Different direction?” She asks, knowingly.

I nod, “Yea... said I could act the part, but I didn’t fit the type of Latino they were going for... whatever the hell that means.” I spit out, bitterly.

“Means they’re bigoted.” I can hear the annoyed twinge in her voice.

“Yea... probably...” Lyanna stays quiet. “Hey... So, I’m not really up for doing anything... Can we just go home?”

“Umm...” She hums, clicking her tongue, “No.”

“Lyanna...” Please.

“No, no, I’m serious, I know you. Once you get home you're going to sulk in your room for days. Let's bypass the self-pity and go have fun. Take your mind off it.”

I’m silent for a moment, feeling my anxiety subside as I focus on her words, “What do I get if your wrong?”

“A fresh slice of cheese pizza to replace the one you probably threw away...” She laughs, “Now, how ‘bout MoMA?”

“Sure… MoMA sounds good.”

I’ve always found it difficult to find the Museum of Modern Art. The only way anyone would be able to tell where this museum was is with the three bright red banners hanging off the side of the building holding their acronym in an even darker shade of red. This was basically every building in New York so, of course, I pass right by it. Lyanna managed to catch me before I got too far. She runs up to me and immediately linked her arm into mine.

“Hey stranger, took you long enough.” She greats, warmly.

“You know how it is.”

“Oh common, where’s that smile? We are celebrating!” She starts to pull me into the museum, warm air painting my face when she opens one of the doors.

“Celebrating a failure.”

“Celebrating life.”

We walk in and are bombarded with hordes of people packed in front of every corner of the room. It's as if every single person visiting New York had decided that they would all collectively visit the museum on this specific day. Maybe they were having an event. People of all shapes and sizes were packed in front of each art piece, creating a thick barrier preventing outsiders from looking in on their beauty. In the corner of the room is a balloon man handing out replicas of Jeff Koon’s Balloon Dog to children. I clench my teeth at the disgusting sound of rubber and latex rubbing together. I feel a hot prickling in my neck at the sight of a child squeezing the neck of their bright metallic green Balloon Dog, another child on the edge of crying as she violently hit her blue Balloon Dog onto her stroller seat.

Someone bumps into me. I feel myself tense up. Don’t touch me. I take my arms away from Lyanna, hiding them in my pockets. Lyanna looks up at me, “Hey, are you okay?”

Fuck no,“Yes.”

“You sure? You seem tense,” she raises her eyebrow.

“No. No... I'm good... There’s just.” Act normal, “A lot of people.”

“Well, if you’re sure...” Everyone is breathing my air - of course I’m not sure. “You wanna start off this way then make our way around?” she asks pointing to her left. I nod.

She guides me to the fifth floor, to our first painting. Shes pushing through the crowds so we could get a closer look. It’s a dark painting with a black, shadowy silhouette of an elephant trudging on an upwards incline. The air around him grey, as if he was pushing through a sandstorm. He is struggling to get to wherever he was headed. I’m suddenly pushed closer to the struggling elephant. Lyanna snaps at someone behind me. A balloon pop’s. A child's scream echo around the room. The dark clouds surrounding the elephant fill my edge of my vision as my eyes zoom into the lonely elephant. My throat begins to close. My heart hurts. A voice in my head whispers “You’re dying. You’re dying.” in a joyous chant. I try to breathe but nothing can get through. My hands prickle. My chest stutters. The elephant fades. Only the shadowing and silhouettes of people fill my vision. I still feel the pain in my throat, as I try to breath in air.

Lyanna speaks but her voice is muffled. The darkness that had overtaken my vision slowly fades away. I sit up straight, feeling the soft leather beneath me, becoming aware of my surroundings. We are in different exhibit. It's completely empty. I shift, feeling the leather bench beneath my finger tips. The silence is soothing.

“You feeling better?” Lyanna sits next to me with a cup of water in her hands, causing the leather beneath creaked.

I close my eyes. God. She grabs at my hand but I pull away. Please go away. I can feel her eyes burning into my soul. It’s unbearable. I turn away from her. Please go away. She grips at the cup tightly. The crunch of the cup is excruciating.

“Matias.” She attempts to grab my hand again. I see it coming from a mile away. Like in slow motion. The closer she got, the more I dreaded the contact.

“Fuck! Stop! Can you please just give me a God damn minute?” I stand up trying to get away.

“What is happening?” She’s mad. You’ve ruined everything.

“I don’t want to be fucking touched, Lyanna. Just stop. Stop everything. Leave me alone.” I’m staring at the floor. If I look at her, I’m going to lose it. Shameful. Embarrassing.

“I’m only trying to help.” You’re an embarrassment.

“You’re not!” She’s going to never going to forgive you.

“Okay…” She stands slowly, “Let’s relax for a moment… I’ll be back in a few minutes… Just text me if you need anything.” I don’t say anything while she walks away, the sound of her shoes fading. I sit back down onto the chair, head in my hands.

I take a few deep breaths, focusing on the ground beneath me. The floor is smooth, my hair is soft and messy, the pressure of my elbows on my knees grow. My eyes leave the floor only to be met with a flood of green. A naked woman waking up on a large red couch in the middle of a jungle. Light green paints the leaves towards the bottom of the canvas and becomes darker going up towards the sky. The bright flowers burst up in different directions as the moon peaks through the canopy. The woman is surrounded by hidden animals. I spot a few hidden tigers, a white bird on the top left, a person hidden in the shadows playing an instrument, a few monkeys in the trees and an elephant beyond the trees staring back at me. It was a paradise. So sure of herself, she sits there facing away from me as if she has nothing to lose. She sits unafraid of the world around her.

I can’t relate. I’ll never get my chance. I’ll never not be afraid. I continue to stare at her, trying to understand what she may have done differently. Maybe she kept going. Maybe she stopped caring. Or maybe someone gave her a chance. Whatever she did must’ve worked because she continues to sit as if she has nothing left to lose –

“Henri Rousseau’s The Dream,” I jump. Lyanna stands on my right, staring at the painting with a hand on her hip, “Most people hate this painting.”

“I don’t see why…”

“Eh… Everybody has their own opinions…” She approaches cautiously, “Do you feel any better?”

I nod. “S-sorry,” I look back to the painting, “I just needed a moment to myself.”

“Don’t apologize… I should’ve… I don’t know, been more mindful, I guess.” She sits down next to me. I can see her hesitate before she puts a hand on my shoulder, “Are you going to be okay?”

I don’t answer at first. I look back at the painting. The Dream she called it. Maybe, this was the woman’s dream. Maybe she is like me. Our chances will arise. She strives towards her peace with nature around her as I strive for success in the asphalt jungle. Just as she has nothing left to lose, I, too, have nothing to lose. We are the same.

“Yea… I think I will be.”

~~~

Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think! Let me know if I missed a tag or a warning.

Masterlist || Taglist Form || Youtube || Redbubble

Till Next Time!

-Dey

#my writing #short story #short fiction #inspiration #talk art #henri rousseau #The Dream #Pedro Pascal #tw panic attack #Museum of Modern Art #I could taste the pizza #new york #original writing #original story #original fiction

5 notes · View notes

buzzdixonwriter · 4 years

Text

Tears In The Rain

I've seen things you people wouldn't believe…All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.”

-- Blade Runner (David Peebles & Rutger Hauer)

The radar screen manufacturers -- RCA, GE, and others -- started jonesin’ for cash when the end of WWII dried up all that sweat & easy military materiel money.

Commercial consumer television existed before WWII in England, the UK, and Germany but it was a super-expensive technology confined to a few very wealthy homes in a few select markets or in Germany’s case, public venues such as beer halls.

Radar screens and TV tubes were basically different applications of the same thing, so the radar tube manufacturers shifted their production to TV sets pitched to post-war consumers as the must-have status symbol.

Problem: Said TV sets needed something to show and while there was live national network and local programing, most early stations filled their air time with old movies / cartoons / serials / comedy shorts.

That was the cultural gestalt I and other boomers grew up in during the 1950s, an era when much of the on air media dated back to the 1930s.

I’ve always been more culturally observant and curious than others in my generational cohort, and while they blandly / blindly watched Bugs Bunny and Popeye and Betty Boop and Our Gang, I was asking my parents and grandmother and aunt about the odd details I saw in old media (it didn’t hurt that we had a beautiful art deco edition of Collier’s Encyclopedia that my grandparents acquired in the 1920s in the house as well).

As a result I knew far more about the Depression and Prohibition and war rationing and other major cultural events and touchstones prior to our generation than did most other boomers.

When our history and social studies textbooks finally introduced these topics in junior high and high school, I was already intimately familiar with them.

As a result, I fell in love with the Marx Brothers and continue to love them to this day.

And while I watched and re-watched The Three Stooges, once I discovered Laurel and Hardy I left Larry, Moe, Curly, Shemp, Joe, and Curly Joe behind.

But the thing is, to fully understand and appreciate and know and love the Marx Brothers, you have to understand the pop culture of their era.

The same applies -- to a lesser degree -- to Laurel and Hardy.

The key difference is that The Three Stooges are pure physical mayhem: There is nothing to understand.

They are imbeciles who inflict pain on themselves and one another, and while far, far inferior to Groucho / Harpo / Chico or Stan & Ollie, they will outlast them.

Anybody from any era or any culture can access The Three Stooges, but if you don’t understand a “gat” (short for gatling gun) is 1930s slang for an automatic pistol, then Groucho’s line upon seeing a automatic in a drawer with a pair of derringers -- “This gat’s had gittens” -- is absolute gibberish.

Likewise Laurel and hardy require some understanding of how American cultural values functioned in the 1920s and 30s; if you don’t get that, a lot of their humor is lost.

Our Gang / Little Rascals ages better because kids are kids and much of what they do is universal.

But even there much of their references have to do with the Depression or WWII rationing and scrap drives and if you don’t grasp that then those jokes zoom past you.

The situation isn’t confined to pre-WWII media, either.

The Marx Brothers and Laurel & Hardy might possibly be recognized by the current generation as something their parents and grandparents watched, but the Ritz Brothers are forgotten by all except those who specialize in comedy / pop culture history. Wheeler & Woolsey are even more obscure, and Olsen & Johnson obscurer still, and if you’ve ever heard of Lum & Abner my hat’s off to you.

And holy shamolley, those are just the comedians we’re talking about. There’s a whole universe of pop culture lost as fans of old B-Westerns die off, not to mention minor pop stars of music and small movies in the 1930s / 40s / 50s.

Silent movies have virtually disappeared from pop culture today; they are things of the past, historical artefacts.

Thanks to the Internet Archive and Project Gutenberg and Comic Book + and Digital Comics Museum and other sites, literally tens of thousands of hours of old radio shows and countless pulp magazines and comic books and other media are available, but who accesses them today except the truly die-hard genre fans or the pop culture historians?

Why morn their passing?

As Theodore Sturgeon famously observed, isn’t 90% of everything crap?

Yes, it is.

But that doesn’t make it any less of the cultural gestalt, the zeitgeist of the era than the few timeless gems that shine through.

. . .

As pop culture historian Jaime Weinman points out, the boomer generation -- the late 1940s to early 1960s -- offered a particularly fallow time for pop culture.

We enjoyed access to previous generations of pop culture, brought to us in curated form. Even if those curators were costumed local cartoon show and horror movie hosts, we got at least some understanding of what led up to our own generation.

Weinman observes that because of technical broadcast reasons, only a few avenues fell open to new programming -- and that new programming could be rerun again and again to fill in gaps in local stations’ air time.

It created a generation with remarkably deep pop culture roots, even if relative few members of that generation were aware of them.

We were, to some degree or another, aware of a vast library of older pop culture media and icons and idioms.

Ironically, this began changing in the late 1960s, slowly at first, but coming full flower in the mid-1970s as music cassette recordings allowed us to create our own playlists off radio shows and record players, and cable TV stopped being something for the hinterlands and started penetrating urban markets, thus literally uniting the country with first dozens then hundreds and a virtually infinite number of channels and streaming options.

But the real nail in the golden age of pop culture’s coffin was the introduction of home TV recordings and time shifting, meaning we no longer needed to wait for curated programing but could watch what we wanted when we wanted.

Despite a wider range of options, older material became less and less popular, and the lack of curation is a big part of that.

With nobody to supply some sort of context -- even goofy horror host context -- older examples of pop culture became less accessible.

The newer generations look less to the past, more to the future.

. . .

As I’ve written before, endings fascinate me.

Right now I’m seeing a generational shift with the boomer generation’s pop culture rapidly fading to be replaced by Generation Z and the generations to follow them.

I look at the boomer era and wonder how much will survive.

Very little, I’m afraid.

And that includes losing some of the best our era had to offer.

For example, how many people today know of The Firesign Theatre?

In the mid-1960s through the early 1970s, they performed absolutely brilliant satirical comedy on radio and recordings. Their album Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me The Pliers received a Hugo nomination for best sci-fi drama presentation of 1970.

I still laugh when I hear their recordings -- but I laugh because I lived in that era.

Their humor relies heavily on topical subjects and the counter culture of the late 1960s-70s. They were very much a Southern California phenomenon…and thanks to radio and TV and movies of that era, that culture permeated the entire country.

But that era is gone, and now when I listen to them I laugh, but to use a specific example I laugh because I know who Ralph Williams was and what he meant to Southern California pop culture in that time.

You don’t get that, you don’t get the joke, and the brilliance of The Firesign Theatre’s humor is lost.

Like tears in the rain.

. . .

Cheech y Chong will survive, because like The Three Stooges, their appeal lies in their basic stupidity.

True, many of their routines make contemporary pop culture references, but material like “Dave’s Not Here” is timeless.

You don’t even have to get the drug references to find it hilarious.

Conversely, the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers will fade.

As characters, they are of a particular time and place: Hippie dippie San Francisco.

They can’t survive transplantation, as was demonstrated in their last few stories.

Now there’s an animated series that brings them from the swinging 60s to to Trump 20s and it just doesn’t work.

The creators Don’t Get The Joke.

I don’t blame them for failing to get the joke, but updating the Freak Bros. would be like updating the Marx Brothers.

It can be done, but only badly.

. . .

Music will always have musicians and buffs who will track every obscure item they can find, but a lot of the best and most innovative work will be forgotten by mainstream culture.

This is because in many case, the best musicians are way ahead of the rest of their field, and their innovations are only made palatable by others who take them up and reinterpret them in a way to make them accessible to contemporary audiences.

Frank Zappa, as much as I personally love him as a cultural icon, will fade fast after the last boomer dies.

Basically, he didn’t make singable music.

There are a lot of brilliant innovations in his work, but his lyrics are so idiosyncratic as to be impossible to cover.

That, and a lot of his lyrics and subject matter would not be comfortably acceptable today.

Yeah, when he did it he was trying to make a satirical point, but when modern audiences hear it, they don’t hear the sharp commentary on the culture of his time, they hear songs that seem to glorify sexual violence and racial bigotry.

Most of the people who decry so-called “cancel culture” today are hypocrites trying to justify their own offenses, but there will be creators and components of pop culture who simply aren’t going to make the cut.

I can show you on paper why radio’s Amos And Andy was a brilliantly written show.

You’re not going to get modern audiences to accept white actors doing blackface…or black voice.

Zappa is acceptable today because there are still enough people who get the joke.

When we’re gone, so are most of his songs (his instrumentals hopefully will live on).

. . .

Quentin Tarantino’s star is already starting to set.

His copious dropping of the n-bomb seemed daring and edgy in the early to mid-90s now seems boorish and tiresome.

People don’t want to listen to that, and how can you make them watch what they don’t want to watch?

The Hateful Eight might endure since it gives a sorta context for its racial animosity, ditto Django Unchained, but even they will be problematic due to Tarantino’s Red Apple universe -- a world similar enough to ours to be mistaken for it at first glance but ultimately completely different.

Inglorious Basterds will ultimately fail the history smell test by audiences who will perceive it as wildly inaccurate.

Once Upon A Time In Hollywood probably has the least problematic elements in it, but it too is so firmly set in a specific time and place that only those who lived it can truly appreciate it.

When we’re gone, who can follow the pop culture breadcrumbs that lead us through the movie?

Tarantino is a brilliant writer / director, and film students in the know will study his movies to see how he pulled them off…

…but they’re going to move far past him.

(He may enjoy a revival 50 years from now, the way certain film makers get rediscovered a half century after their deaths. If so, it will be by people able to see past the pop culture references to the real story beneath.)

. . .

Roger Corman and other exploitation film makers aren’t going to as welcomed once the boomer generation departs.

Boomers see them as transgressive artists, tweaking the nose of so-called respectable society.

New generations will see they as creeps who exploited violence and sexism.

(And we shouldn’t mourn its loss; most of it is soft-core pornography. But there were a few shining moments that shine only if you know the context, and that is fading fast.)

. . .

Superheroes probably won’t die out just as Westerns never completely died out, but like Westerns their audience is rooted in a very particular time and place.

I mentioned B-Westerns earlier; once upon a time there were literally dozens of B-Western stars, each with their own face base and merchandising and movies…

…and now there are no more B-Westerns.

We remember Roy Rogers because he’s culturally referenced elsewhere (and Gene Autry because he left a great big museum in his name).

B-Westerns’ success was based on fulfilling audience expectations, essentially giving the same thing they’d seen before, only slightly different.

Superheroes have degenerated into that.

In their current form, they’re deconstructions based on what a previous generation’s pop culture produced.

The superhero market has been supersaturated in the past and collapsed before.

This time when it collapses it will take along countless near-identical characters and storylines.

What emerges from it will be as different from the current iteration of superheroes as The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly was from My Pal Trigger.

. . .

Likewise, if James Bond is to survive, there will be a drastic retooling of the property.

It is possible; Sherlock Holmes has been retooled often.

The original Connery Bonds, the ones we consider to be “iconic” will eventually be viewed as an embarrassment.

The world and its attitudes are changing, and while there will always be room for heroes, audiences will be a bit more discerning about which heroes they want.

The attitudes of the original Bonds will not fly with future generations.

. . .

Finally, one prospect that will make it into the future, though not necessarily on its own strengths, no matter how significant they are.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 has skewered pop culture via bad movies since 1988.

Supported by a legion of fans, there are several books and websites that annotate all the references found in the various MST3K series.

Scholars 500 years in the future will thank these fans and researchers for their efforts.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 and its various annotated spinoffs will be the Rosetta stone of 20th century pop culture.

It will provide a context to make the jokes understandable, but more importantly than that, it will open a window into what people were thinking and feeling in the last decade of the 20th century.

It and the films it spoofed will be studied with near Talmudic intensity (you think I jest; I do not). They’ll provide insight that will help future generations and cultures understand this one.

#Once Upon A Time In Hollywood #Wheeler and Woolsey #Lum And Abner #The Ritz Brothers #The Firesign Theatre #The Marx Brothers #Laurel And Hardy #Frank Zappa #Olsen And Johnson #Our Gang #Little Rascals #The Three Stooges #Groucho Marx #Harpo Marx #Chico Marx #Stan Laurel #Oliver Hardy

12 notes · View notes

finneve · 4 years

Text

Dreamland- part 1

Summary- after being convinced to visit a 1940s’ themed night, Steve Rogers falls in love with one of the performers. but jealous rears its head when he sees Bucky there one night.

------

He had wanted to go back, return to what he knew. Finally, to be with the woman he loved. But as he stood on the street where Peggy lived and watched her embrace with her husband, Steve Rogers knew, this time truly held nothing for him anymore. Steve knew he could never live with himself if he were to ruin a happy marriage.

So, he returned to the future, his future. The warm embrace of friends and to the world he had helped save so many times over. Though, he didn’t miss the questioning look he got from Bucky when he had reappeared on the time travel platform only mere seconds after his departure. Bucky had been surprised to see him again at the lakeside.

“What happened?” he asked later when the pair were sharing a drink back at the compound. “Ah, she was happy and in love with someone else,” Steve admitted. “she got married,” Leaning back Bucky let out a low whistle.

“Sorry man,”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve half laughed. Perhaps it was a silly dream to begin with, to think he would be able to go back and slot perfectly back into Peggy’s life. Buck didn’t press any further for more information and for that, Steve was relieved.

Steve resigned himself now to a quieter life. The mantle of Captain America passed onto Sam. In all, Steve was glad to be rid of it. The pressure to constantly uphold truth, honour and justice was a burden lifted from his shoulders, when he gave Sam that shield. While he had been sad to part with it, he knew Sam was the best man for the job. He would still help the team of course, but from more of a logistics point of view. Finally, he was free, but to do what exactly?

Suggestions were made, some jokes at his expense. About the need to get laid or find a hobby. Like collecting fast cars or various properties, like some weird dragon’s hoard. While the idea of driving a nice car did appeal to him, Steve couldn’t see the logic in owning multiples of anything.

“Man, maybe spend some of that money you got stockpiled,” Tony had decried one day. The man had been trying to convince to get into vintage luxury cars, or even some that they could race around a track and waste time and money on.

“That bank account would be looking very healthy these days,” Sam joked, “all that interest from 1945, you’d be a rich man even without stark’s money,”

“Yeah I guess,”

Steve didn’t like the idea of spending money just cause he could. A childhood of being told to save every penny and the depression era combined did wonders for his spend-thrift attitude. No, that money would stay in the bank for now.

It had been Natasha that made a more reasonable recommendation.

“Hey,” she called after him. They had just stepped out of a meeting. Slowing down, Steve allowed her to fall into step beside him.

“Look there’s a place in the city that might help with your nostalgia blues,”

“What the museum?” Steve scoffed. The blond man scratched at his chin in slight annoyance. Not that he didn’t like the museum, but he was sick of seeing that memorial to him as Captain America. While it had been aimed at informing the public about the heroics of him, the Howling Commandos and their wartime exploits, now it just felt empty. Littered with half-truths and faces long gone from this world. It had become an unwanted reminder of what he had lost all those years ago when he was frozen in the ice. Steve knew Bucky too had mixed feelings about it, as it still said that he was dead.

“No, idiot,” though she insulted him, Natasha grinned.

“A club downtown, I think it would be your vibe,”

“What’s the point if I can’t get drunk?”

“The general aesthetic,” the woman just shook her head at him. Snatching up his phone she set about putting her plan in motion.

“There, I put in the address to your phone, it’s a good place for a drink and to relax,” and with a wink the former assassin spun on her heel and strutted away. But the thought of going to some dive bar to get his rocks off was just so unappealing. No there is no way he could go.

However, in the quiet of the night, nightmares haunted his sleep. The flashbacks of Bucky falling from that train, the horrors of wartime Europe, having to say goodbye to Peggy before hurdling into the icy Atlantic, it all swirled through his mind. The replay of falling to stop Thanos, losing Buck again, it made he want to avoid sleep. In in those moments after he wakes in fear that, he pulls up the address of the club on his phone. “Dreamland”, the clubs’ name seemed very poignant right now, giving his troubles with actually sleeping. What could be the harm in checking it out at least once? Rubbing at his eyes Steve shakes the enticement from his head.

But still, he puts it off. Going to the place Nat had suggested. Not wanting to give in to the temptation of nostalgia. Still the nightmares persist. Every night he wakes in cold sweat, showers and proceeds to walk the somewhat quiet streets. Something to keep the nightmares at bay. He wandered more and more.

Again, he looks at the address. Hmm only a street away, he thought pensively. Maybe a quick look and a drink wouldn’t hurt. At least then when Natasha questions him over it, he can say it just didn’t work. But as he stood before it, suddenly the pieces fell into place. At the top of the arch, a bright neon sign. In cheery pink, the word “Dreamland” glowed.

A cabaret club?

“You’ve got to be joking Nat,” Steve voiced his thoughts. Loud enough for an older woman hurrying past to give him a quizzical stare. A burly bouncer sat aside the door. The mountain of a man looked Steve up and down.

“The show’s nearly over pal,”

Steve just shrugged. Even only a few moments of respite would be heaven-sent. He paid the admission and finally entered the club. Down the rabbit hole of a corridor. Soft coloured lights shimmered off the wall as he moved further in. The clamour of the club carried out to his ears.

A decent sized room opened before him. Steve rubbed at his eyes, a wave of shock creeping over. Nat had been right, of course. This unassuming place appeared to be an almost exact replica of old club from the 40s’. Art deco stylings had been made. Soft warm lights illuminated the space well. What looked to be a fully stocked bar crowded much of the back wall. Waitresses dressed like cigarette girls bustled around taking drink orders and selling other items, like candy or chewing gum. From the stage the swinging, soulful notes of jazz reverberated around the room. A real jazz band rather than music that was blared over a speaker system. A nice touch, he thought as he slid up against the dark wood bar.

“What can I get you honey?” the barmaid’s toothy smile was sweet enough.

“Ah, just a beer, does matter which,” he shrugged, setting down enough bills to pay for said beer.

“sure thing,”

Upon its arrival, Steve took a swig of the beer. He nodded his thanks. Maybe he should have brought Bucky, he would have gotten a kick out of seeing this club done up like it was 1941. The music had kicked up as two dancing girls pranced around the stage, to a cheery jazz tune. Though Steve wasn’t sure of the actual song. They were a pretty sight. Big smiles and glimmering eyes shone brighter still as they twirled and danced their set. Their red costumes dazzled and gleamed up under the bright stage lights.

Taking the empty table, Steve sipped at the beer. Argh, the craft beer was not worth the price. But he sipped again, after he had just paid ten dollars for it, even though the alcohol won’t affect him. The beer in his hand would not make him feel so out of place amongst the other patrons.

As he sat, nursing the beer, Steve allowed himself to glance around the room. Nat had been right. This place truly felt as if it had been plucked straight out of time and thrown back down, unchanged, untouched in the last 70 years. How easily this could have felt like cheap imitation. Unnoticed by the modern eye but The art deco stylings on the wall continued around the whole bar. Plush velvet booths had been pushed back against the walls and set with a singular soft light. The rest of the open space before the stage was scatted with tables and chairs, creating an almost amphitheatre around the performance space.

Even a thin haze of smoke emanated around the space, giving off that dreamlike quality to it all. Briefly he wondered where the smoke came from, as Steve was positive you could no longer smoke cigarettes indoors. A machine perhaps. His best friend would enjoy this, a brief glimpse back in time. Bucky would utterly indulge in the spectacle, drink in the ambience of it all. Be glad to be reminded of the times before they shipped off to the war, until memories of what happened after plagued him once more.

His fingers picked at the label on the beer. A minor way of venting frustrations that really didn’t alleviate anything of the feelings Steve had swirling around his mind. But he sipped at the beer once more. He might as well stay until closing and then continue with his insomniac walking.

The final notes of music played out, as the girls dipped into a bow. A table of men down the front whooped and cheered for the pair as a smattering of polite applause rippled out from those closest to the stage. Steve took another swig of the beer. He allowed himself to wonder what the next act would be, if it too would be a poor attempt to capture past nostalgia. The din of the other patrons rambled and pitched the time between the acts came to an end.

The red lighting altered, filling the room with a cool blue hue. Soft tones of a piano filled the air as the crowd fell into a collective hush. Even the rowdy men at the front table had fallen into hushed whispers. Looking back at the stage, he wondered what act would get such a reaction from the gathered crowd.

As if out of thin air, there she appeared, alone on the stage. Agape, Steve barely heard the announcer call her name. he couldn’t help but stare at the vision before him. Soft hair perfectly coiffed and curled, soft plump lips painted a deep red. Clearly an effort to make her into a siren of the 1940s had been made.

Slowly the piano was joined by a mellow tune of a trumpet and string instruments harmonise along. Slowly as the music warms up the woman on stage began to sing. Unexpectedly Steve can’t tear his eyes away. The sweet dulcet tones that spilt from her, struck him to the core. He couldn’t move; but sit transfixed on 1940’s dream. On how the silk of her dress fell over her hips, how soft and inviting her skin seemed to be as it shone under the bright stage light. Through the steady beams of light, the soft material appeared almost see-through. It made her look otherworldly and gorgeous. Delicate in a certain unspoken way and to Steve’s utter shock, it stirs him.

She glides over the stage, floating like an ethereal being. Steve leans forward, gaze fixed on this utter vision. Her tour of the stage stops almost directly in front of him. A smirk graces her features. Her eyes piercing as if into his very soul, making him come undone with just a look. Her hips bopped to the soft melody, as she twirled back to the piano.

Her own gaze didn’t waver or falter, even splayed out over the piano. She eyes him with subtle curiosity. Still that smile beamed off her. Her form pushed off the piano, allowing her to take centre stage once more. The final beats of the melody rung out from the band as her fingers grazed over the mic stand.

“Dream a little dream of me,”

As her song finishes and her voice cooed the last few notes, she eyes him again and with a sly wink, she smiled. To an eruption of applause, the vixen did bow. Before exiting, her eyes scan over the room before seeming to land on him. Even from his seat, Steve could see they were the most brilliant shade of (y/e/c). A wink, a smile. She bounced with a girlish grin before disappearing off the stage. An eruption of applause still followed her.

Dumbstruck, Steve still stared after her, to the place where she had vanished from sight. Instantly his mind was racing. As his eyes darted around the bar, a million questions seem to flood his brain, all clamouring to make it impossible to answer a single one. Who was that singer? Why had it taken nearly a decade to hear about this place? Had he been under some rock since waking from the ice? What was her name? My, how that was an important question. Steve had to know her name. Oh, how he wanted her all for his own.

55 notes · View notes