#idk how i feel about the watercolor or edges stuff

[h-f-k]

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

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

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It’s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don’t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…  

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.  

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?  

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a  bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.  

But you don’t have it.  

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you  and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.

[girlofmanyfandoms]

The Angel and The Siren

A/n: Based off of anon prompt that I’ll post separately so y’all can see that! Ily anon, that prompt was just *chef’s kiss*. Also I got a lotta stuff to do, so idk if this is good or not (it’s not)-

Word count: 2000

Warnings: idk mate, executive dysfunction kicked in and this happened

Writing taglist: @everyonehasthoughts @imaramennoodle @bookwyrminspiration @holesinmyfalseconfidence @percabetn @an-absolute-travesty  @linhamon-roll @holesinmyfalseconfidence @linhamon2 @a-lonely-tatertot @loverofallthingssmart @vibing-in-the-void @clearlykeefitz

Linh dozed off to the side before jolting back to life. Marella shot her a concerned look, but she waved it off to the side. She had to fight through this. Sophie’s lips were moving, but all she heard was the distant calls of the wind mixing with the cries of dawn. Off in the distance, she saw a flareodon glide from the forest to the ocean, it’s beak gracing the water just enough to cause a beautiful rippling effect. Yet still, the colors blended and blended together, the world nothing but a watercolor painting fading away.

“Linh!” 

“I’m alive,” she blurted out. 

“Yeah, I almost couldn’t tell,” Tam muttered, grunting as he helped her up from her near-fall. “You nearly passed out.”

“I’m fine,” Linh reassured him, putting a great deal of her weight on her brother’s shoulder. “I just... need a breath of fresh air.”

“You should probably head home,” Tam suggested, though it was obvious he was restraining himself. “I’ll update you when I get there.” 

Linh had an amused look playing on her face. “Tam, I’ll be alright, I’m just tired. I’ll take a walk and see how I feel, okay?” 

“But-”

“I’ll go with her,” Marella offered eagerly. She flushed, and began to correct herself. “Just to make sure she’s safe.” 

Linh’s face lit up and she grabbed her hand, grinning from ear to ear. Her guardian angel had arrived. “We’ll be safe!” Marella called before dragging Linh out of the house and down the porch of the vacation home.

They drew closer together, Linh examining Marella’s features in full. Oh, she was an angel alright. Her eyes held a sort of fiery determination that dared anyone to approach her, yet showed the upmost sympathy for those who struggled like her. For those who were weak and beaten down before they were strong and built up. Sunlight cascaded onto her, making her blonde locks swirl through the air like flames from a newly made campfire, warming everyone around her. Like a halo. 

Marella blushed and glanced to the side. “Is there something on my face?” Linh shook her head and leaned on her a bit, pulling her into a side hug as they approached the shoreline of the tropical island hideout. “You just have a pretty one.”

Marella scoffed. “You’re talking?”

“Yeah, I am.” Linh waded into the water, letting the tides bring her underwater, just to the point where her face was above water level, hair floating around her like thin sheets of sea foam. She sat up slowly, and started swimming farther from shore, stopping to beckon Marella. Follow me, the gesture called. The beautiful siren waited patiently, a strand of hair in her face with her head at a slight tilt making her look both shy and innocent, and sly but deadly. The angel was entranced, so she kicked off her boots and followed without hesitation.  

When Marella got close enough, Linh held her by the waist, ordering the water to surround them like walls. She pulled Marella close and guided her in a sort of slow dance, letting the tides carry them. Linh’s movement were fluid, and Marella followed her lead, trying to focus on mimicking her movements rather than her heart threatening to explode in her chest. 

Deep breaths, she thought to herself. She’s just doing this to keep Tam and the others off her back. Linh hummed, resting her forehead on Marella’s shoulder. “I wish there was something we could do about this.”

Marella panicked. She couldn’t have meant what she thought, or rather hoped, she meant. “This meaning...”

She broke their link, bobbing up and down with the waves, gesturing around her in a vague, fragmented manner. “All of this. The Neverseen, the Treaty with the other Intelligent Species, my parents, the matchmaking system. Everything. I didn’t ask for this. I just wanted to live my life, just like everyone else. But now the adults are cowards and force a group of teenagers, two of which were banished from their society for years, to save the world. I just-” She paused, her voice cracking as she looked towards the sky to blink back tears. “I just want to be a kid. Is that too much to ask?”

Even Linh, with her sweet and innocent front, was breaking. She was crushed, and broken, and in pain, and it tore Marella’s heart into pieces. “I’m so sorry. I-if you don’t mind me asking, what was that like? Like, what happened before you got banished?”

“I was a kid,” Linh smiles sadly in reminiscence. “An unhappy one, but a kid nevertheless. But when I got to Exillium... I became a monster.”

“You’re no monster.” Marella frowned. “And didn’t the group say that they feared ‘The Shade’ because he was protecting ‘The Hydrokinetic’?”

She chuckled in response. “That’s what they wanted you to think. The others were scared of Tam, definitely, but not before they were scared of me, and not for the same reason.”

Marella raised her eyebrows, daring to swim a little closer and lean on her a bit. “Care to elaborate?”

“I guess it would help to let something out.” Linh bit her lip in thought. “And... if there’s anyone I would want to tell first, it’d be you.”

She breathed for a moment, her action syncing with the swells of the ocean. “I got banished a week after the floods. We were going to Councillor Terik to see if there was any potential that would ‘save us from our fate.’ Terik said that he wanted us to meet with Quinlin and Livvy first, to view our records and check if we had any medical issues. We also had to go shopping for clothes, makeup, accessories, anything to make the two of us look different, like we were born separately. But since we both manifested relatively young, and we hadn’t gotten into Foxfire yet, we couldn’t control ourselves.”

“And that’s when the flood happened?”

“No,” she laughed. “If it were that simple, we wouldn’t have been banished. No, what happened was a combination of neglect, stress, panic, and misfortune.”

“So...”

“So something wasn’t supposed to be there, and we freaked out, and our powers crashed together and ripped the barrier open even further than it was getting.”

“It was already breaking?” Marella asked.

“It was old,” Linh shrugged, though from the way she was examining her damp clothes for lint, it was clear that the siren had told a white lie. She crossed her arms and looked down, presumably in guilt and shame, though most likely to fight off the wisps of pain and trauma that clung to her with a vengeance, like a ghost of who she once was. 

The angel was conflicted, but decided to take up her own strategy. She extended her hand. “Let’s get farther away from here. See what the jungle has to offer.”

Linh hesitantly accepted it, the walls descending slowly, soon at peace with the rest of their surroundings. A pulsing of emotions ran through her, a symphony from a past life. It confused her, but despite the vapor clouding her mind, she was able to make one clear thought.

Her hands fit perfectly in mine. Linh shook her head vigorously to clear it of those irrational ideas. She’d learned the hard way what getting close to someone cost. “What are you thinking then?”

“You said you’re stressed, right? Like you can’t be free?”

She nodded, eyes narrowing.

“Let me show you what freedom looks like.” Marella let Linh guide the two of them to shore, releasing all of the water trapped in their clothes and hair back into the environment. Doing an awkward hop to get her boots back on, she raced into the jungle, using her momentum to launch herself onto the nearest tree, managing to get her arms around the lowest branch. She swung her body up and let one arm hold her, using her other hand to aid her in letting out an ear-piercing summoning whistle. 

In a moment, the flareodon that had been circling the island landed on Marella’s arm like a hawk. Marella waved Linh over as it preened. “See? He’s free to go wherever he likes and do whatever he likes when he wants to do it; he’s got no calls of the sea binding him to a workbench and no looming duties of the hearth to dedicate his life to. And what does that make him?”

“A freelancer.”

“Free, Linh. That’s the key word. He’s free. And you will be too. You just have to have faith.”

“I wish I had that.” She sunk down against the tree opposite to hers, fiddling with a ridiculously large leaf that had fallen from a nearby plant. “And maybe there is some for you. But I’m a twin, and a previously banished one at that, and my life will be dictated by some stupid matchmaker trying to match me up with a stupid ‘powerful’ man that I’ll never love!”

The flareodon was startled by the quick escalation of her volume and took off. Marella, however, drew closer. “Is there a reason you know that you’ll never love that man?”

Quit the wishful thinking Marella! But still, her heart held hope.

“It’s based purely off of genetics,” she whispered, her voice betraying her.

“Linh, come on, I know it’s something deeper,” Marella insisted, bringing the girl to her feet. She diverted her eyes, refusing to even look up. “Answer me, please.”

“You know, you’ve got a lot of fire in your soul, Mare,” Linh murmured. “It’s admirable. But I think back and I analyze and there’s not a single thing like that about me. All I do is pretend to be an innocent little girl just to drag people down with me. There’s nothing admirable about that.”

“Hey, no one talks about my Linh like that, got it?”

My Linh? their minds screamed in unison. On one end, Marella’s cringe scorched at the edges of her mind. On the other, Linh was drowning in the overwhelming feeling she never dared to feel. Hope. Yet again, in the distance, she heard the wind throwing itself upon the raging waves. Though they weren’t raging anymore. They were systematically crashing together, a docile beat not so foreign to her combining with the whistling of the tree leaves to form the melody she longed to sing all along. Home. This is it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable-”

Linh tossed her leaf to the side, standing up with newfound confidence. “You didn’t. You don’t have to apologize for anything. In fact, I should thank you.”

Marella laughed nervously. “There’s nothing to thank me for.” She looked around for a change of topic. “It’s getting late, you should head home. Tam said he’d check up on you, he’ll get worried if you’re not there.”

“Tam worries no matter what.” Linh shook it off. “And besides, I don’t want to go home alone. I like... being around you.”

“I like being around you too,” Marella flushed. She glanced to the side and picked up a fallen hibiscus that was still intact, quickly braiding it into Linh’s hair. “There. Now you can have a piece of me wherever you go.”

Linh smiled sweetly, pulling Marella’s collar towards her and pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I think I’d rather have all of you,” she breathed softly, before stepping back and holding her crystal up to the Sun.

“Thanks, babe!” she called, a smirk proving her pride as she stepped into the light.

Marella touched her cheek, in shock from the confession, as goosebumps travelled up her arms. Her other hand frantically searched her pockets for her leaping crystal. Biting her lip, she glanced to the side, having to squint as the sun began its journey to the other side of the world. Surely the crew wouldn’t mind if she slipped away too. Besides, there was something more important. The siren called. 

[aliciameade]

Fade Into You - Ch. 1

Title: Fade Into You (Chapter 1 of 5) Author: aliciameade Rating: T Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Tip for newlyweds: send a wedding invite to every billionaire whose address you can find because it's a 50/50 chance their assistants just send you a perfunctory gift without ever wondering who the hell you are. Or: Beca had a really bad terrible idea when she got tired of being broke in New York. 

Also on AO3 and FFnet, but I probably can’t link there idk.

Beca wasn’t prepared for how expensive it was to live in New York City. Sure, she’d done her research; she knew it would be costly, but just how costly it was was wreaking havoc on her bank account. Rent, transportation, groceries, household necessities and the very rare luxuries like a concert or theater ticket here or there to keep her sanity had her living paycheck to paycheck. Even bringing two roommates with her to cram into the tiny Brooklyn studio didn’t help her live any more comfortably (considering only one of them chipped in for rent).

Of course, it probably helped her afford to eat.

Whatever. The point was that it was not quite the life she envisioned for herself once she landed what she thought was a Big Job.

But at least she had her friends.

“Why do I have so many cousins? And why are they all getting married?”

Beca watched Chloe sitting at their tiny dining table on Sunday afternoon (if you could even call it that) as she tossed aside a just-opened fancy envelope and what Beca assumed to be a wedding invitation. As far as she could remember, it was the fourth Chloe had received so far that year. “How many cousins do you have?”

“Sixteen. And I’m the baby of the family so they’re all either married or about to be. And here I am.” She gestured at nothing specific and sighed. “I can barely pay my share of the groceries. I can’t afford to go to all these weddings so I need to send something off their registry, but I can’t afford that, either.”

“Weddings feel like a ploy to get free shit from everyone you met once in your life,” Beca said as she watched Chloe stress out. “Like, congratulations on deciding to spend your life with one person. Why do I have to reward that?”

“It’s like an expectation. You either have to go to the wedding or send a gift. Or both!” Chloe slid her chair back from the table and took the two steps needed to get to their bed which she threw herself on a bit dramatically. “I’m just going to elope.”

She liked being on the same page as Chloe. “And miss out on all the free swag?” Beca said as she nudged Chloe’s foot with her own.

“I don’t want to be part of the problem!”

“Okay, okay!” Beca laughed. “So elope. Must be nice, though: send out a bunch of invitations to people you know won’t come and get a bunch of free stuff in return.”

“I know,” Chloe mumbled into her pillow. “It’s so messed up.”

A devious thought slid through Beca’s mind and she paused the music she’d been playing. “I need a new Keurig; ours is going to die any day now. I can feel it.”

Chloe turned onto her side to look up at Beca. “What does that have to do with anything?”

She closed her laptop and slid down to lie next to Chloe, eye-to-eye. “I have an idea. But before I tell you, I blame it entirely on Amy’s influence.”

“Why Amy?”

“You’ll see. Now hear me out. What if we sent out wedding invitations saying we’re getting married in, like, Fiji where no one we know can afford to go, and set up a wedding registry somewhere.”

“Beca, that’s, like, fraud. No wonder you blamed it on Amy.” Chloe frowned at her. “And no one would believe we’re getting married anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not even dating!” Chloe said with a laugh. “And you don’t even like girls!”

Oh. Right. There were those little details that the people who would make sense to invite to their wedding would know she and Chloe weren’t together. Not to mention the giant elephant in Beca’s mental room that she was actually very into girls and very, very into Chloe.

Except literally no one in her new adult life knew either of those facts about her. The bisexual thing was weird to bring up unprompted at this point, and when she started dating Jesse in college, everyone just assumed she was straight and made it even weirder to try to correct.

And the Chloe thing, well...that was all sorts of messy and complicated.

“Okay, first of all, a person can fall in love with someone who’s not their usual...type, so anyone who says shit about that can fuck right off.”

Chloe seemed a bit surprised by her declaration but waved for her to continue. “And the fact that it’s me?”

She had to stop herself from saying, “It’s everything.” Instead, she said, “We’ve basically been living together for six years. I don’t think it’s that far-fetched.”

Chloe was quiet for a moment, thinking, and then a slow smile spread across her face. “Beca Mitchell, you devious little devil. You actually think this could work.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it? If Aubrey was getting married in, like, Fiji and you couldn’t afford to go, you’d send her something off her registry, right? That’s what you just said.”

“I would never miss Aubrey’s wedding,” Chloe said earnestly. “She’s my best friend. And she wouldn’t miss mine, either.”

“Okaaaaaay,” Beca drawled. “So we don’t invite our current friends. Or immediate family. Cousins, old coworkers, and friends from high school.”

“Can I invite Mrs. Higgins, my 8th grade choir teacher? She was my favorite teacher.”

“Yeah, I mean as long as she won’t try to show up—wait. You’d actually do this?”

“You’ve had worse ideas.”

“Have I though?” Beca shook her head. “This is dumb. Forget it.” She put away her computer and rolled out of bed. “I’m going to Target if you need anything. I’m out of conditioner.”

“I don’t think I do, but I’ll come with you.”

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

When Beca came home from work late on Monday, Chloe was laying in bed, laptop propped on her thighs. She was intently focused on whatever it was she was doing and didn’t look up at Beca’s entrance.

“Hey, weirdo,” Beca said as she kicked out of her shoes and pulled her own computer out of her bag to toss it onto the bed while she changed into comfy lounging clothes. “What are you doing?”

Chloe ignored her for a few more seconds before tapping the trackpad with particularly notable resolution and sitting up. “Hey!”

“Yeah, hey,” Beca laughed. “Seriously, what are you doing? Caught up in an intense Pinterest spiral?”

Chloe shook her head. “Come here; I want to show you something.”

“Is this going to be puppies or something dirty?” Beca knelt on their bed and walked her way up until she was sitting next to Chloe. There was no telling what Chloe had up her sleeve whenever she told Beca she wanted to show her something.

“Neither. Look.” She turned her screen toward Beca.

“What am I looking at?” she asked after a few seconds. “Because that looks like a wedding invitation with our names on it.”

“That’s what it is.”

She looked at the invitation on Chloe’s screen again and then looked at her. Chloe was biting her lip and almost buzzing with excitement. “And why is that a thing that exists?”

“I made it!”

Beca rolled her eyes. “And why did you make it?”

“We need invitations if we’re going to invite people to our wedding.”

“That idea was terrible! I told you to forget it; how much time did you spend on this?” She grabbed the computer away from Chloe so she could zoom in on it. The stationery had been painted with watercolors. It was quite pretty and one Beca wouldn’t be opposed to choosing for her actual wedding.

“A couple hours. I went with a silver and sage palette. I don’t think we’re a couple who has pink in their wedding.”

“Yeah, no,” Beca said, only half-listening because her brain was pretty hung up at the moment seeing the words ‘The Wedding of Beca and Chloe’ in script. “No pink.”

“I just put Fiji because you mentioned it yesterday but we can pick something else. And a date. Oh, and we’re registered at Amazon and IKEA.”

Picking a wedding locale and date with Chloe? Sure. Cool. “Wait. You already registered us?”

“Well, no, not yet,” Chloe scoffed as if Beca’s question was absurd. “That’s what’s on the registry cards that go with the invitations. We need to make our registries together next weekend.”

“I’m not sure if I should be concerned or proud that you’re so willing to go along with my terrible idea.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Chloe said with a shrug.

Beca was pretty sure a lot of bad things could happen like someone showing up to a non-existent wedding. Then again, all they’d really have to do is apologize and explain that the wedding was called off last-minute and point out their would-be guests would now have a vacation in Fiji without wedding activities to inconvenience them.

“Several things come to mind,” she said as she returned the computer.

Chloe elbowed her. “Okay. We need this to be far enough in advance that it doesn’t feel shotgun, but not too far that everyone can rearrange their schedules for it.”

“So it’s like I forgot to send out the invitations like I said I would and you found them in a box two months after they were supposed to have gone out?”

Chloe looked at her, holding her gaze. “That sounds exactly like something you would do.”

“And we should have it on, like, a Wednesday so it’s super inconvenient. With no holidays around it that people can use to save vacation days.”

“I feel like you’re a secret evil genius,” Chloe said as she flipped through the calendar on her computer. “How about October 2?”

“Perfect.”

They then spent more than an hour Googling Fiji and wedding location options. It took so long because they kept bickering about the venues; Chloe loved one but Beca hated it. Then Beca loved one and Chloe hated it. Every fifteen minutes or so, one of them would remind the other this was all fake and it didn’t matter, and the other would argue that it still had to seem real. They’d finally settled on a resort located on the edge of a rainforest that had more than enough amenities for a destination wedding.

“Well?” Chloe asked when she finished entering the details on the invitation. “Good?”

Beca stared at the screen and what they’d created inviting recipients to their wedding. It made her a little queasy so she swallowed hard. “Perfect.”

They ordered a set of one hundred invitations, response cards, registry cards, and envelopes for it all and agreed to split the expense equally.

“Did we seriously just do that?” Beca asked as she put away her credit card. “That shit is nonrefundable. We just burned five hundred dollars.”

“Think of it as a down payment on my new dinette set.”

“Your new dinette? Pretty sure that’s going to be ours, babe.”

Chloe cocked an eyebrow at her. “Babe?”

Beca blushed. “Wedding fever. Shut up.”

“You’re adorable,” Chloe said with a laugh as she grabbed Beca by the chin to give her a shake. “Careful, or I might marry you for real.”

She blushed even harder, her heart getting lodged in her throat. “Yeah, right, dude.”

“We’ll see,” Chloe said with a wink before hopping off the bed to leave Beca behind, heart still pounding. “It’s my turn to make dinner. What do you want?”

~~~

~~~

“How many names do you have so far?” Chloe asked from her lounging spot lying backward on their bed, feet rocking back and forth next to Beca.

Beca looked at the spreadsheet on her computer; she hated spreadsheets. Loathed them. But Chloe created one for their wedding invitation list so she could have Staples print the addresses on the envelopes once they arrived. Had they planned ahead like actual would-be brides, they’d have had the list ready to import when they ordered the invitations to let the printer do that. But alas. “Thirty-six. It’s hard to figure out who makes sense to invite to my wedding but wouldn’t actually come.”

“If you can get to forty, I can make up the difference.”

“I should invite the CEO of BFD; it’s not like he’d ever come. I’ve never even met him. He’d probably pick one of the expensive gifts, too.”

Chloe sat up quickly and Beca tried not to think about how strong her abs must be to do that. “Beca.”

“What?”

“You’re a genius.” She sat forward so suddenly Beca had a fleeting [stupid] thought that Chloe was about to kiss her but all she did was turn around to sit next to her and look at the list on Beca’s screen. “But don’t add him; I don’t want to put your career at risk. Put your douche boss from Residual Heat instead; there’s no way he’d come.”

“O...kay,” Beca said as she typed his name. She’d have to look up her old studio’s mailing address later. “But why am I a genius?”

“We can invite a handful of CEOs and tech bigwigs who won’t know whether or not we work for them. We send it to their office and their assistant will just buy something off our registry without bothering to look us up.”

“Should I be concerned that your mind is this twisted?” Beca asked as Chloe commandeered her laptop to open Google and start searching.

“Did you forget this was your idea to begin with?”

She watched Chloe pull up the address for the headquarters of Apple. “A little ambitious, don’t you think?”

“Are you kidding? The bigger the company the bigger the chance we get a ‘declines with regret’ and you get that Ableton Push you think I didn’t see you add to our Amazon registry.”

Beca grumbled under her breath to hide her guilt. She’d gotten a little click-happy the other night after a couple beers and added a few non-traditional items to their list like high-end mixing equipment and the new Xbox.

“I’m just going to pick ten companies from the Forbes 500. Let’s see what happens. And now you don’t have to come up with the rest of your list!”

“Sounds great,” she said with a tight-lipped smile.

Something in her gut was telling her they were taking this much too far. But that new Ableton was so, so pretty…

~~~

~~~

“Becs, honey,” Chloe said when Beca opened the door to head to work.

Beca turned, patting herself down to make sure she had her keys and phone. “What’s up?”

“Don’t forget to mail the invitations.” She smiled at Beca and pointed at the shoe box on the table containing their pretty little scams. Amy had stuffed the envelopes for them last night and was naturally agreeable to their little business venture. They’d obliged her request to add an absurd inflatable bounce house to their list as payment for her help as long as she promised to never try to set it up in the apartment.

Beca was pretty sure Amy had her fingers crossed behind her back when she agreed.

She picked it up and rapped her fingernails on it. “Are you sure we should do this? I feel kind of guilty.”

“We got our list down to eighty-nine people we barely know—or don’t know at all. It’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, okay,” Beca said with a nod, though being told not to worry didn’t magically erase her concerns. “You’re right. I’ll see you after work. It’s my turn to cook, so text me what you want and I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

“I’m totes going to be the one who actually cooks in this marriage, aren’t I?”

“Trust me; it’s for the best. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, sweetie!”

~~~

~~~

Beca dropped the stack of thick, fancy envelopes into the outgoing mail drop on the corner by her subway stop on her way to work, and that was it.

The deed was done.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

Three days later...

When Beca came home from work she found Chloe at the table but she wasn’t sipping her usual tea and wearing a smile at Beca’s return.

Instead, she was visibly nervous, her arms crossed and eyes fixed on her untouched tea.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Beca asked and moved to sit across from her. “Are you okay?”

“Promise you won’t get mad?” Chloe said in a small voice, eyes refusing to meet Beca’s.

“It’s hard to promise that when I don’t know what’s wrong, but I’ll try. What’s going on?”

Chloe closed her eyes and sighed. “My parents got one of our invitations.”

“What?!” Beca almost launched from her chair; she gripped the edge of the table to stay put and she saw Chloe flinch at her outburst. She tried to lower voice when she demanded, “How?”

“I checked the spreadsheet because I know I didn’t put them on it.” She sounded on the verge of tears. “But it looks like it got corrupted, like it combined with my Christmas card list.”

Beca’s blood ran cold. “My dad’s on your Christmas card list, too.” She’d barely finished the sentence when her phone started ringing in her pocket. She could hear Chloe’s text alerts almost non-stop from where her phone sat on her bedside table. “Who else ended up on the list?”

Chloe closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Beca pulled her phone from her pocket; she already knew. She didn’t even bother looking at the screen as she swiped the screen to answer it. “Hey, Dad.”

“You and Chloe are getting married?!” he crowed into the phone. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner? Oh, Beca I’m so happy for you both; you’re perfect together!”

“We’re not—wait.” She straightened. “Huh?”

“I knew it was only a matter of time.”

She looked at Chloe across the table who was oblivious to what her father was saying. She seemed to assume it to be terrible the way she was hiding half her face behind her hand. She looked miserable.

“Yeah…” Beca replied. She felt bad; this was all her doing and now Chloe’s going to be humiliated having to tell everyone in her life that she tried to do something dumb. Or that her fake relationship failed. And all her cousins were getting married… “We’re...really happy.”

Chloe’s hand fell and her eyes went wide. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“And I’m so happy for you. The date is going to be tough for me to get away in the middle of the semester, but there’s no way I’m going to miss my little girl’s big day. Is there a block of rooms reserved for guests? Should I just give your name when I call?”

“Um, no. Sorry. We...we splurged on the trip so we couldn’t lock down rooms for everyone.”

“Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of the rooms. It’s the least I can do. I’ll call the resort and give them my information.” It was Beca’s turn to cover her eyes. “Thanks, Dad. That’s so generous.”

“Anything for you and my soon-to-be daughter-in-law.”

“Thanks. Listen, I just got home and Chloe and I have a lot to talk about. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sure, pumpkin.”

Beca ended the call and set down her phone with a long exhale. “Shit.”

“What happened?” Chloe asked sounding as sheepish as she did excited.

“He’s...going to pay for everyone’s rooms at the resort for our wedding.”

Chloe blinked hard and sat back. “What?”

“He thinks we’re perfect together. And he wasn’t surprised at all. Well, he was surprised by the wedding. Not about us being together.” Which we’re not. “What did your parents say?”

Chloe cleared her throat. “They offered to pay for the rehearsal dinner and the reception.”

“What?” Beca said with a barked laugh.

“They’re over the moon for us. Asked what took us so long.” She looked like she wanted to disappear into her chair, which was a unique state for Chloe to be in.

“But you didn’t tell them it’s fake.”

“Did you tell your dad it’s fake?” Chloe countered. “No, you didn’t. You just went along with it.”

Beca sank into her chair, too. “And now our parents are ecstatic we’re getting married.” There was a lot to unpack with that fact and all that came with it. Chloe’s texts were still chiming and a minute later, Beca’s started up, too. “Seriously, who else got invited?”

With a sigh, Chloe slid a piece of paper across the table. Printed on it was a spreadsheet set up just like what they’d made to send to Staples, except it was a mish-mash of their distant cousins, millionaire executives, and people they actually knew. Their parents. The owner of the vet clinic Chloe was interning at.

Aubrey, Emily, and the rest of the Bellas.

“Oh, my God, how did this happen?” Beca said with a groan as she crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the trash can. (She missed.)

“I told you: I don’t know! All I can think is that my files were named List1 and List2 and somehow they got combined or maybe I didn’t delete everything from one of them before I saved it.” She reached across the table and grabbed Beca’s hands. “Beca, I’m so, so sorry. I’ll take care of everything. I’ll let everyone know it was just a prank gone wrong.”

Beca was about to agree when she remembered how excited her father sounded. “Your parents were really happy?”

Chloe managed a sad laugh; she still looked on the verge of tears and Beca couldn’t blame her. She felt like she might cry herself. “My mom said she was starting to get worried you were never going to propose.”

“Oh, my God,” Beca said, blushing hard. “She didn’t even know that we were dating. Or, that we weren’t dating. Whatever. What did you say?”

“I told her I asked you.”

“You proposed to me?!” Beca scoffed. “As if you would! I would totally ask you to marry me before you even had a chance!”

Chloe blinked at her, her worry and sadness starting to fade into a soft smile. “You would?”

Beca realized what she’d said and shook her head. “Nevermind. I should have looked at the envelopes before I dropped them off.”

“You didn’t have a reason to. This isn’t your fault.”

“Except that it was all my idea?” Beca said with a crooked smile. “You’d think Amy would have realized they were wrong when she was stuffing them. She knew the plan.”

Chloe sighed and let go of Beca’s hands to run her own through her hair. “Something tells me she knew they got messed up.”

“Why would you think that?”

Chloe shot her a look.

“Because it’s Amy. Right.” She sighed, too. “I need a drink.” Beca stood up and headed for the fridge, the top of which held their liquor collection. “What do you want?”

“Whiskey, neat,” Chloe answered as she pushed aside her tea.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

~~~

~~~

They waited until they were both two whiskeys in before they agreed to get on Skype with Aubrey.

“This is how you tell me you two are a thing?” Aubrey said as she waved the invitation in front of her camera. “A little warning would have been nice.”

“It all happened so fast, Bree,” Chloe said. “I guess living together in such close quarters...well, it brought some things to light.”

It was so convincing that Beca almost believed her. Except she didn’t know why they were lying to Aubrey. Not wanting to immediately disappoint their excited parents was one thing, but going along with it with Aubrey… She nudged Chloe from her spot next to her where they sat closely in bed so they could both be mostly in frame and threw her a look she hoped read, What the hell are you doing?

Chloe just winked at her and slipped her arm behind her to wrap around her waist and pull her closer.

“Well, as disappointed as I am that you didn’t think to tell me, I’m thrilled for you both.”

“You are?” Beca scoffed.

“Why wouldn’t I be? You two are good for each other. And I know you’ll take care of my best friend.”

Beca had to fight hard to not blush. “Yeah. Well...that’s the plan.”

“So, Fiji? I’ve always wanted to go! Do you have a wedding planner? And Chloe, I can’t believe you haven’t asked me to be your Maid of Honor yet! We made a pact!”

Chloe cleared her throat. “Right! I was getting to that! I’d love it if you’d be my Maid of Honor.”

“What are you doing?” Beca muttered from the side of her mouth.

“Asking my bestie to be in our wedding,” Chloe muttered in return.

“I’d be honored!” Aubrey said with a bright grin. “Now you have to let me take over the planning. You can’t do this all by yourselves. Put me in touch with your contact at the resort and I’ll take it over. What have you arranged so far?”

“Well, we could barely get the invitations out without trouble…” Chloe started and Beca elbowed her. “So we haven’t really had a chance to get going yet. We haven’t even put down the deposit to reserve the space yet—”

“Don’t say another word,” Aubrey said with her hand up. “I’m going to take care of that as my gift to you both.”

“Thanks, Bree. That means so much.” Chloe grasped Beca’s hand and pulled it up to kiss it.

Beca just stared at her in shock.

“Right, Becs?”

“Uh, yeah. Right. Thanks, Aubrey,” Beca offered. “We gotta go, though,” she added, desperate to end the torture.

“Okay. Remember to send me that info and I’ll send you the confirmations once I get it taken care of this week.”

“Totes. I’ll text you later.”

“Perfect. Have a good night, you two!”

“Bye!” Chloe chirped and Beca offered a weak wave as Chloe disconnected the call.

“Oh, my God, Chloe, we can’t keep this up!” she said as soon as the screen was blank. “What are we doing?!”

“Everyone’s so excited for us; I don’t want to disappoint them.” Chloe turned a little to look at her and she was so close Beca could see the different specks of light and dark in Chloe’s eyes. “We’ll tell them soon.”

“Aubrey’s going to spend money on this. We can’t let her do that.”

“I’ll wait a few days to send her the info and then we’ll just tell it’s off.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

~~~

~~~

Not two hours had passed when both their phones chimed with a group text from Aubrey to the two of them. Chloe was taking a bath when it came in so Beca opened it and read it aloud so she could hear it.

“Was too excited! Looked up the resort info and got it booked. Oh, my God. They said they didn’t have any record of your interest—gee, I wonder why—and the day was already booked for some corporate retreat but I got them to move it for the wedding. Of course she did. Good thing you let me take care of it! You might not have had a venue. Damn it, Chloe!”

“Well, it’s not my fault!”

“Then whose fault is it?!”

Nothing but silence followed from behind the shower curtain.

(Chapter 2)

[thedeviljudges]

Daddy Billy? Serious daddy Billy? Serious daddy Billy turning into a fluffy bear for his princess, Steve?

uhmm, so like i’m so sorry this took ages to get to, but!!! it’s finished, and this is a bit long. although, i really don’t think this is what you had in mind?? just know that i love this; i love this kinda stuff, and i should probably redo this prompt bc this wasn’t exactly what i was going for; it just kinda happened??/f jasldkf idk, but here ya go, babe.

The window to his studio overlooks the whole of New York, and Steve doesn’t miss the way the wind curls into the room like smoke, thick and heavy from air polluted by busy streets and the life of people.

There’s sirens in the distance and the honking of late cars – they’re always there in a place like this, too loud when he’d moved in, but a comfort that lets him know the world still spins. Steve might even hear the distant rattle of voices on a warm, breezy day if the flat wasn’t several stories above floor level.

Deeply, he breathes, inhales air and fresh paint. His fingers are stained blue and green, crust under his fingernails from the hours he’s spent in his studio trying to transfer the images from his head onto a canvas. Soft strums of music fill the room, too, mostly drowned out by city life, but the distinct violin and flute are pitch perfect alongside the orchestra he loves to listen it for concentration.

As Steve picks up a brush, he hums, dips it into the paint and smears it across the canvas in gentle strokes. Sometimes- and only sometimes, does he know what he’s painting. He likes his landscapes well enough, people, too, but often, he likes freehand, knows that it’s child’s play when he does it, as if he’d dipped his fingers into the paint and willed tacky into existence.

It’s still a form of release, though. It may not be anything special, but it cuts his anxiety right in two when he needs it the most.

“You’ve been in here all day?”

Steve jumps, watches helplessly as the brush slides across the canvas in an indecent stroke only to fall out of his hand onto the floor. “Fuck,” he says, climbs out of his chair, reaching for the brush. He delicately places it onto the table, the one that holds all his supplies, his brushes, his paints. He’s even got clay and watercolors, colored pencils and markers he’s still testing out because the texture runs different; the liquid is thinner, and Steve’s determined to understand the variety. “You could’ve made a noise, you asshole.”

“Forgive me for walking through my house.”

The tone is sharp, unexpected, and when Steve looks up, Billy’s leaning against the threshold of the door with a pinch in his brow and a curl to his lip. Steve’s not sure what’s caused it, thinks back to this morning when Billy smiled as he’d leaned over the edge of the bed to kiss Steve goodbye. Thinks maybe he could’ve left something out of place, then wonders if maybe something else has crawled up under Billy’s skin and settled there.

“Right,” he answers, not knowing what he could follow that up with. The tension is thick now, heavy and unsure, and Steve knows it’s one of those moods, the kind that isn’t deliberate because Billy’s only holding back his feelings like that’s the right thing to do.

Might have to coax it out of him, then.

Billy’s brow arches, pointed like he’s waiting for Steve to snap, and at that, he rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “You’re going to come sit down,” he starts, sees the way Billy’s eye twitches after being told what to do. “Sit. Down.” Then, he nods at the chair, turns and pulls open a few drawers until he’s sorting out a set of clean paint brushes.

When Steve turns around, he runs into a solid chest, Billy bracing his hips with the palms of his hands. He’s warm even through Steve’s clothes, a weight he’s missed all day. “Princess is getting a little too big for his britches,” Billy says, blue eyes amused as Steve attempts to wiggle free. He knows that Billy’s cornering him for a reason, for a fight, for maybe a good fuck to avoid the problem at hand, but if there’s anything Steve’s learned about Billy, it’s that his instincts to please win out every time.

“Daddy’s getting a little too serious,” he counters, tone like the edge of a knife. He smiles, makes sure Billy knows that he knows and that Steve’s only going to make him work for anything more than a deep kiss.

It takes a moment, but only that, for Billy to sigh, takes a step back, then another, until his hands are no longer on Steve. He almost looks disappointed, but Steve knows Billy’s insides burn brighter than any star, and if he can’t have his way now, he’ll certainly get it later.

Billy sits down, sort of plops into the seat with a huff like he can’t believe Steve’s making him do this. Really, Steve doesn’t have a clue what he’s intended, but he does have paints and stained hands, clean brushes and white canvases that take his mind off of the bullshit his brain conjures. Billy’s never one to join Steve on his quest, complains too much about the paint fumes and that there’s no point to this if I can’t draw jack, Steve.

Billy’s more of a reader anyway, the study a life of its own with the shelves extending from floor to ceiling. It’s how Billy usually relaxes when he needs it, if he’s not busy coaxing an orgasm out of Steve – which he very happily enjoys – but this time, Steve reaches for Billy’s palm, pries his fingers open and sets a single brush in his hand.

“I trust you know what to do with it.” Steve nudges Billy’s fingers, closing the hold around the wooden stem of the brush. Then, he glances at the canvas from underneath his lashes, back and forth until Billy’s frowning.

“You mean you’re not going to give me a lap dance? I sat down for nothing?”

Try as he might, Steve can’t contain his smirk, tilting his head like he’s talking to a child. “You haven’t earned that yet,” he says, cupping the underside of Billy’s jaw in a tender gesture of affection, only pulling away to grab the other chair he keeps in the corner of the room. “Show me what you got, pretty boy.”

“You using my lines on me is not doing you any favors,” Billy says, narrowing his eyes. He’s pretty good at reading Steve – they’re both good at reading each other now, but sometimes Steve still pulls one over his head, likes when Billy’s games slip from his control, right into Steve’s.

“Just paint, Billy.” And then he waits, stares at the other man until Billy’s grumbling under his breath. The brush rotates between his fingers, Steve watching as he attempts to find a comfortable grip before hovering over the paints like he’s scared to touch them, like he’s never seen them before.

“Weren’t you working on something?” he asks, let’s his arm fall down, elbow to his knee. He glances at the paining, half of it covered in paint, the other half white, and the one lone streak that wasn’t intentional. If Steve could give it one ounce of personification, it’d be the way it mocks him as it lies drying.

“Nothing’s as important as you,” he replies, turning his gaze away from the eye sore – though in actuality, the whole canvas is, but that’s neither here nor there – to continue staring at Billy, watches the way the corner of his lips drag into a frown, realizing that there’s no way around Steve’s stubbornness.

Billy blinks, still doesn’t look impressed and says, “You’re being a brat.”

Petulance is a word Steve would use to describe Billy sometimes, so used to snapping his fingers and people crawling on their knees for a moment of his time. His job – though more like his position – gives him that luxury, and Steve hates to admit that maybe he’d fallen for it too until he realized just how much he could bat his eyes and turn Billy into a puddle of putty. “Didn’t start it, babe.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were,” Steve insists, gives a quick point to the project as if that explains it all. “So, now you’re going to paint me a picture.” It goes quiet then, the music in the background filling the room, the city outside rumbling as if it wasn’t listening to their conversation.  

“You know I can’t paint, princess,” Billy attempts on more time, just one moment of reprieve. Steve doesn’t understand why it’s so difficult to follow simple instructions, but then again, he’s dealing with a man in a fortune five-hundred company who’s never rolled over for anyone in his life.

Except Steve, but even then, that’s not something Billy easily admits to. It isn’t out of weakness, per se, and Billy loves showing him off to all his friends. As if Steve found objection in the question the first time Billy offered because he hadn’t, but more to do with the fact that Billy and emotions have never gone hand in hand. Like pulling teeth, Steve’s been on the brink of frustration too many times, knows the reason, knows Billy’s past, but still doesn’t wholly understand.

So, out of playing stubborn, Steve shrugs. “Does that look like a masterpiece to you?” Failure has welcomed him too many times; Steve feels like maybe that’s the root of a much larger problem. The career he’d aspired for left no room for positive affirmations, not until he’d struggled for a few years and finally booked a gig big enough to have offers roll in, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deal with his fair share of personal torment over whether all he’s good with his posing.

Steve likes his looks well enough, uses that to his advantage more often than he’d like to admit, but that alone isn’t fulfilling as the time spent in between painting and creating something much more than an image.

He frowns, holds disdain in his eyes because some of the colors have muddled together in a particularly ugly shade of brown. Not what he was going for, but it’s not like he can’t start again. That’d always been a lessoned learned.

“You know anything you do is good enough.” Billy’s eyes are on him now, intense and blue under the streams of sun that shine through the window.

It makes Steve suck in a breath, reminds him of all the reasons he loves Billy’s attention on him. “Not the point,” he croaks, definitely not disillusioned with the idea that Billy knows how he affects Steve. “But thank you anyway. You’re stalling; now get to it or-”

“Or what?” Billy says, the arch in his brow back.

Steve plucks the brush he’d been using off the table, dips it into a shade of blue – bright like the sky and similar to Billy’s eye color; he’d never admit it, but it’s why he bought it, felt like maybe the deep reds and shades of purple he loved the most could use the contrast even though it never really matched.

He’s sure there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, hates how he’s always slow in understanding what his subconscious already knows, but Steve only dabs the canvas in the corner, knows Billy’s looking at what he’s doing, only to surprise him by lifting the brush to slide it down the side of Billy’s cheek. “That’s my favorite color on you,” he says. “For future reference.”

Billy stills, gone rigid by the gesture. The flick of his tongue is what gives him away, that he’s not mad but agitated with really? Did you really?

“If you get paint on this suit-” he says, voice dropping low.

“You’ll what?” Steve taunts. “Spank me, daddy?” And just as he says it, like a slow motion shot of a film, paint drips off Steve’s brush and lands right on the lapel of Billy’s suit jacket. Bright blue paint on a deep brown suit don’t really go together, but Steve is reminded, if only briefly, why he loves color theory so much. “That was not planned.”

He shrinks away, wide-eyed as Billy dabs the paint off with a finger, slides it across the canvas in front of him because Steve doesn’t have a rag nearby, and there’s no sense in it anyway. There’s a dark spot on the suit, and it’s going to be a bitch to remove.

“Wasn’t it?” Billy rubs his thumb and forefinger together, that maybe if he does it long enough, the rest of the paint will wither away. Instead, it just leaves the tips tacky and stained like Steve’s.

“No,” Steve replies, dumps his brush into the dirty cup of water he keeps only in case he runs out of clean brushes. It hardly happens because Steve has enough sets that he can wash and dry a pair without waiting to use them. “You should’ve taken your clothes off before coming in here.”

Now the tables have turned, his argument weak across the tongue. Billy certainly picks up on that with, “Is that so?”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I?”

“Billy,” Steve whines, flush gradually fluttering across his cheeks.

“Hmm. See, that’s not my name, baby. Not when you have to beg.”

“Who says I’m begging?” But he’s not confident in that question either, pointed out by Billy’s lazy smirk.

“Well, if you’re not,” he pauses, thumbing the bristles of the brush in his hand, “then I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I did this.” Billy then takes the paint brush and runs it straight down Steve’s forehead, between his wide brown eyes and stops just as he reaches the tip of his nose.

“That’s-” Steve falters, feels the cool breeze twice as much as the paint sits wet upon his skin.

“Not fair?” Billy’s brows raise, amusement hidden in the corner of his eyes, significantly lighter than when he’d entered the room. It’s a better look on him, as Steve takes him in, gently touching the tip of his nose, definitely checking that one line had been given to his painting and now another sits between his eyes. Billy must read his thoughts, pushes further by emphasizing his tone lighter and nowhere close to Steve’s. “Didn’t start it, babe.”

He makes a split second decisions - not even that, really - by dipping his fingers directly into the yellow paint, flicking them until little dots dance across Billy’s skin. “Then finish it.”

It happens within seconds. One moment Steve is propped up on the edge of his chair, perfectly pleasant in sharing his space with Billy upright, and the next he’s sprawled across the floor. His brush rolls across it, left to be found later, and his paints - including the canvas and the water - splash around them. It’s in this moment that Steve’s grateful Billy replaced the carpet with tile, but even then he winces until Billy’s got four fingers - all stained with paint - running down the curve of his neck.

“Gladly,” he say as he reaches forward, attaching his lips to the side of Steve’s neck that isn’t covered in paint. He nips, and he sucks until Steve’s wriggling from beneath him. His cock fills quickly, doesn’t take much when he’s around Billy anyway, and he lets him know by rutting against his thigh, soft little presses until Billy reaches for his hip to hold him still. “I’m thinking,” Billy says, slipping two fingers just past the waistband of Steve’s sweatpants. His cock jumps, the anticipation curling in his chest, but Billy moves no further. “That I probably shouldn’t let you cum.”

Steve swallows a noise of disappointment. This isn’t what he’d intended, had really hoped for more of a conversation of intent and resolution than Billy pinning him against the floor on the off-chance that maybe he’d get to come.

But now that he’s here, he’s shameless enough to admit his will power doesn’t proceed him. “Please, daddy,” he emphasizes this time, latching onto Billy’s tie to pull him down into another heated kiss. His tongue is rough against Billy’s, sliding past his teeth, tastes the cigarette smoke and mints, the cleanliness that lingers because Billy knows of nothing else.

Immediately, whatever tension was left lingering in Billy’s body, simply dissipates. Steve feels the extra weight of Billy on top of him as he relaxes, as he pushes Steve’s sweatpants down to expose his cock. Billy takes him in hand, rough at first with the callouses against his palm, but it’s a discomfort that makes him twitch, makes him grind up into the palm of Billy’s hand seeking more, seeking a release he knows will be quick.

Billy thumbs at the head of his cock, breaking away from Steve’s kiss to latch onto the underside of his jaw. Blurts of pre-cum swell at the tip as Billy slowly rubs it down the length of him.

Steve always gets embarrassingly wet, generally likes to use his slick to fuck his fist, and Billy knows this, too, because he’d watched Steve once, made him sit on the couch in broad daylight just so he could stroke himself to orgasm with only the touch of his hand. Billy’s blue, wanton eyes were the only thing he’d seen as he’d fallen over the edge.

So, this isn’t an exception, not when Billy takes him fully, strokes up in one swift movement and too slow - agonizingly slow - to calm the desire in Steve, to make him wet, to make it easier. He whines low in his throat while Billy smiles against the curve of his shoulder. The linger of a kiss remains as he pulls away, stares at Steve and tells him, “Fuck my fist, princess.”

There’s no hesitation from Steve, doesn’t crow over the tile against his back, hard underneath the tarp, and he doesn’t complain about how his pants restrict him from opening his legs wider, can’t use his feet as leverage to give a good thrust.

Instead, Steve’s movement’s are limited, sloppy and uncoordinated. Billy’s seated in desire, curled around Steve’s side as he tightens his fist, releasing it a moment later only to repeat the torture of not giving enough until Steve catches his wrist, holds him there.

The corner of Billy’s mouth twitches, reads Steve’s eyes as they beg, until he releases Billy in the hope he’ll listen. “You’re awfully haughty,” Billy whispers, though the thick of his voice gives away just how little control he has over it, how little he cares that Steve’s pushy when usually it’s the other way around. “Should let you take care of yourself.”

Shaking his head, Steve licks his lips, gives a particularly enthusiastic push of his hips before he tells Billy, “I’m too much of a sight to behold.”

With that, Billy squeezes around Steve’s cock, thumb curving just underneath the head until Steve’s hissing. Billy hums again, has a fond look on his face as he says, “You are, my darling. Watching you makes my day.” And then he’s shoving Steve’s shirt up, releasing his length for only a second to do it, sliding his hand down, down until he’s back stroking, quick sessions of his fist accumulating pre-cum, meeting the sharp thrusts Steve gives.

And then- then Billy’s lips are lower on his skin, as his shirt bunches up against the line of his collar. Billy gives a rough command, says, “Now cum or I won’t fuck you later,” then licks across the bud of Steve’s nipple, swirling his tongue until he gives a particularly hard bite that sends Steve’s head reeling, has his cock blurting thick strips of cum across his tummy, towards his chest.

He’s loud when the moan escapes, as Steve cries underneath Billy’s torture, feels his toes curl, limbs shaking. Billy presses kisses across the middle of his chest, laps at the cum that’s landed that far before taking Steve’s other nipple into his mouth despite the fact that he’s already cum. His hand is gentler now in his strokes across Steve’s cock, eases him through the after affects of release and only steps off when Steve whimpers, squirms away from sensitivity.

“You’re always so unfair,” Steve says after he few breaths, catches how easy it is to fill his lungs after the rise of his heartbeat.

Billy smiles, rests his chin on Steve’s chest lightly. The thick of his lashes make him look bashful, Steve staring down the bridge of his nose for a clear glimpse. He thinks, sometimes, how unfair it is, that all the small, pretty things about Billy always add up into one big picture of beauty, often made him wonder how he ended up here like this with a boyfriend who loved him good, fucked him good, too.

“If anything’s unfair,” Billy retorts, “it’s the fact that you got off, and I’ve yet-”

“Do you want me to-”

Billy’s quick to shake his head, places his cum-covered hand on Steve’s shoulder, which stops him from moving. “Told you I’d fuck you later. I meant that.”

“Like you also meant to snap at me?” Steve asks without a tone of regret. He slides his fingers across the back of Billy’s head, sinking them into his hair, rubbing his scalp with the blunt of his fingernails in light scratches. Steve looks away then, hates to be the bitch that ruins the mood, but he had intended for the issue to be addressed.

Besides, Steve might’ve been cookie-cutter perfect for a good chunk of his life, and that might’ve changed after years away from home, but the one thing that hasn’t left him is wanting to know the truth. No bullshit; no lies, Billy, he remembers telling him. You cheat, and we’re done.

It’s been years since that conversation, and they’ve never held each other to anything less. This is still no exception.

Billy sighs, turns his head so he’s ear is pressed against Steve instead. “Shitty day at work, that’s all,” he says, tired seeping through the vibrato. “Shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”

There’s no reason to be mad, and Steve’s not, continues to sweep his hand through Billy’s curls, across the top of his head until he’s pulled away the tangles, and Billy’s eyes are fluttering closed.

“You do know I’m always down for a good, hard fuck if you ever need to let your frustrations out, Billy,” Steve eventually says when the silence stretches. “I’ve told you that, and I’d much prefer having my ass pounded than you angry and sniping at me.”

“Fuck, how’d I get so lucky.” Billy’s arm curls tight around Steve’s waist, warm and pliant. Steve can feel the rise and fall of his chest, maybe even feels Billy’s heart hammering away from another slight, like they’re all adding up until Steve finally penalizes him for it. He won’t; Steve will admit he’s stubborn, but he’s not scornful. Especially with Billy.

“You really did,” Steve says in agreement, lets the two of them rest there for what feels like ages, lets the music play and the paint dry and the wind breeze through the window until his back grows sore. “C’mon, babe.” He nudges Billy, almost would’ve guessed he fell asleep if it weren’t for him stirring underneath the shake of Steve’s palm. “Let’s get you into bed.”

Billy sits up, reluctantly, turning to help Steve with his pants, helps him stand. His suit is ruffled, has paint on it in random places. His hair’s a mess from Steve rucking through it, but he looks more than content, looks soft, at least, and much more like the person Steve likes to spend his time with.

Rough around the edges has always been, and will always be, Billy’s forte, but Steve enjoys this, too. Enjoys it when Billy sweeps him into his arms, presses their foreheads together, then kisses him softly. Enjoys it when Billy is sincere, when he tugs on Steve’s hand as he nudges a foot in the direction of their bedroom.

“I’ll buy you new paints,” he says absently as they walk down the hall. Steve regrets not cleaning anything, but the bed looks more than inviting, and more importantly, he knows Billy needs the sleep as he clings to Steve, hugs him from behind. Billy’s lips are delicate against his temple, hands caressing Steve’s hips.

“Good,” Steve says, finally urging Billy to untangle their limbs to sit down. Steve helps him off with his shoes, his socks, lets Billy remove the rest of his clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers.

With his legs spread wide, Steve slots himself between Billy’s thighs, lays his hand on wide shoulders. “I’ll hold you to it.” And then he’s cupping Billy’s cheek with the palm of his hand, kissing him softly because once is never enough. 

Soon, Steve’s balance fails him, the two of them falling into bed in the middle of the afternoon just because they have the time, just because they can, and just because Steve’s missed the way Billy curls around him when they’re together.

[tenacioussheepalpaca]

@xyloophones tagged me and !!! eeep :D okay! let’s do this!

rules: answer 30 questions and tag 10 people

# following: 272

# of followers: 30!! n like idk where yall came from but owow. (waves noodle arms of appreciation \o/ hiiii) :3 thank u n feel free to say hi! I’m always up for making friends :)

average hours of sleep: Pfft!! i’m terrible at this. If I’m stressed it’s maybe 4 hours minimum mandatory for functioning even if i can’t force my brain to turn off very well, but on weekends it’s more like 8-ishh?? Weekdays tho sometimes it’s 2 or maybe 6 you just never know... help.,,, no one should’ve let me become an adult

lucky number: 2

instruments: violin (love it. it’s a great stress reliever and fun way to annoy the neighbors. no I do not feel like sherlock when i play at random hours. who said that? yea yea okay so maybe I do a lil bit...)

what are you wearing: black button down, maroon scarf and some slacks. still in work clothes and can’t wait to put on some pajamas n eat some spaghetti for dinner

dream job: English teacher in foreign country ✨

dream trip: RUSSIA!!! GOTTA GO SOMEDAY! Learned the language n everything and for some reason it’s had a special place in my heart since high school. darn visa process n paperwork. maybe this summer?? 

birthday: Mid October :) Right after the leaves change colors. Imma be 23 this year yipes!

height: 5’6”

gender/pronouns: she/her

other blogs: started 2 but don’t have time for them regularly just yet. gotta get settled in my job more but it’s in the works! got one based on my thesis project that’s got me super jazzed and I think it’ll be pretty cool. This one is mainly for stuff I really like/enjoy :)

nicknames: nope, never had one but I’d like to think one day I may earn one.

star sign: Libra??? this never made sense to me but there you have it? i am a confused. but also kinda like the fortune cookie-esque advice I get related to this. 

time: 8:04p woo! procrastinating somethin awful so internet here i come!!

favorite bands: AAAACKKK?? everything??? honestly my fav music ranges from classical orchestral scores to hard punk rock to grunge to pop to club and rap and 1940s swing bands and classic 1980s and nightcore and acapella covers???? soo? I’m literally the worst person to pick for DJ bc it’ll be aAALLllll over the place...

favorite artist: i LOVE pretty much anything in watercolor or impressionist style or related to my fandoms but def the fav has to be Degas bc, yeah his art inspired me soo much growing up and i had posters of his paintings clipped out of my calendars to hang up around my room for the longest time

favorite tumblr artist: OH MY GOSH SO MANY PLS DONT MAKE ME LIST THEM

song stuck in your head: “Can’t go on without you” by Kaleo, “You’re not there” by Lukas Grahm and “Friends” by Marshmello and Anne Marie (bouncing among the three but there’s ALWAYS a song going in my head...)

last movie you watched: Megamind!! just can’t help but rewatch. good memories. i know almost all the lines by heart n it reminds me of family

last show you watched: Violet Evergarden!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! UGHHH YES I love this show so much right now and it is my new obsession <3 reminds me a lot of Saber from the Fate series and I love where it’s going storywise :D!!!!

why did you make your blog: ummm????? I didn’t know how tumblr worked so I just? kinda?? signed up?? and started finding stuff i liked? just out of curiosity so idk what i want it to be really?

what do you post: AVERYTHINGGGG!! If you’re here. You get a taste of my fandom feels and random musings and a lil bit of everything else... soo hehehe. I mostly talk in tags too so an actual post is pretty rare... :) 

last thing you googled: Rupert’s drops exploding bc a fic mentioned it and honestly who doesn’t like exploding glass??

ao3: :) one of these days I’ll figure that out too.... but rn, nope.

do you ever get asks: nope! but feel free! i’m pretty unreachable during weekdays but I’d be happy to get back to ya on the weekends :D

how did you get the idea for your url: autogenerated bc i’m a derp and couldn’t think of something and this sounded interesting and a lot like the family jokes we’ve got going at home soo ye. I’mma make it mine. :)

favorite food: Apple pie

last book you read: akdlfjd does fan fic count???? (it absolutely does btw and I have several going rn) last physical book i read was Blood Lure by Nevada Barr which i lifted from a youth hostel book exchange about 5 months ago. I don’t really have room for physical books with my current living situation but I love them SOO muCH. they are my precious.

top 3 fictional universes: Lorein Legacies,  Edge of tomorrow, and DC comics bc of my batboys <3 :3 (I fall in love with so many stories this was Really hard to choose so there you have it!!!)

Woot woot!! We made it yall! Didn’t think 30 questions would be that long, but here we are :D 

Ya don’t have to do this if you don’t want to but i’m tagging: @screamingatanemptyroom @cherrymaphanji @crazybowtielover @darkstarsshinetoo @magicdreamsandmusic

[ckcz]

100 questions ask game

I was tagged by @mysmoldarkfictionalsons <33 I tag @surelance @spacemcclain @k3ithkogane @bobaphichit and @angst-in-space and all my mutuals/followers :D!! You don’t have to do it but seems like a nice way to know ny’all better :’) 

1: When you have cereal, do you have more milk than cereal or more cereal than milk? more cereal!

2: Do you like the feeling of cold air on your cheeks on a wintery day? what is a wintery day all I feel is humidity and tears

3: What random objects do you use to bookmark your books? random receipts 

4: How do you take your coffee/tea? Coffee- cold!!! with a like 2 spoons of cream and a LOOT O sugar 

5: Are you self-conscious of your smile?

My laugh mostly but I guess they’re similar?

6: Do you keep plants?

Yess my home balcony has many 

7: Do you name your plants? No??

8: What artistic medium do you use to express your feelings? Drawing drawing painting but not digitally? like sometimes I just take a watercolor paper and attack it with a paintbrush to vent

9: do you like singing/humming to yourself? I can’t hum! idk why so I singgg

10: do you sleep on your back, side, or stomach? stomachh

11: what’s an inner joke you have with your friends? A beach potato flew around my room and a skeleton wants to bone me

12: what’s your favorite planet? ....earth...??? But I guess the next would be Saturn <3

13: what’s something that made you smile today? This little boy bumped into me and I went ‘ouch’ and he did this little gasp and held my hand I wanted to steal him

14: if you were to live with your best friend in an old flat in a big city, what would it look like? I have a feeling it would be really warm and fuzzy and a cupboard full of ready made soup powder cause I love soupp

15: go google a weird space fact and tell us what it is! If a baby was to be born in space, it would probably be born all deformed 

16: what’s your favorite pasta dish? ??? I’m uncultured

17: what color do you really want to dye your hair? red and brown highlights just tbh but If I was allowed to be crazy, dark purple <3

18: tell us about something dumb/funny you did that has since gone down in history between you and your friends and is always brought up. well I apparently spray painted ‘sex’ in neon orange in the school bathroom in my old school and I once did this complicated dab dance in front of the class nobody lets me forget it 

19: do you keep a journal? what do you write/draw/ in it? Oh yes I have a lovely black faux leather book and I just write random things that happened in the day or fanart ideas!! surprising amount of matt holt doodles

20: what’s your favorite eye color? Light brown or grey ugh I could melt 

21: talk about your favorite bag, the one that’s been to hell and back with you and that you love to pieces. I don’t really have one?? but I do have this samsung laptop bag that has literally been with my like everywhere

22: are you a morning person? YES i love four am

23: what’s your favorite thing to do on lazy days where you have 0 obligations? drink cold coffee, lie on the bed and send stupid selfies to my friends

24: is there someone out there you would trust with every single one of your secrets? yes <3

25: what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever broken into?

In my old school there would be the fourth floor where people aren’t allowed to go and I was just curious okay and I looked inside and a shitload of mirrors??? i have no idea

26: what are the shoes you’ve had for forever and wear with every single outfit? this weird ass pink sandals that say new york city on them

27: what’s your favorite bubblegum flavor? strawberry I guess?

28: sunrise or sunset? SUNRISE <3

29: what’s something really cute that one of your friends does and is totally endearing? This one girl randomly uses her pointer finger to just *flipflopflipflopflipflop* the tip of her nose and then she like blinks twice its so fucking cute okay

30: think of it: have you ever been truly scared? No 

31: what is your opinion of socks? do you like wearing weird socks? do you sleep with socks? do you confine yourself to white sock hell? really, just talk about socks. they succ. no? NO!?? yes. socks are weird even the word is weird I dislike them

32: tell us a story of something that happened to you after 3AM when you were with friends. not much to say sadly but this one time on a sleepover we got bored staying awake so we went to the neighbouring 24/7 store and got icecreams and then fell sick it was nice

33: what’s your fave pastry? I guess a.. brownie? I’m not that into baked stuff?

34: tell us about the stuffed animal you kept as a kid. what is it called? what does it look like? do you still keep it? didn’t have many wasn’t attached to them...

35: do you like stationary and pretty pens and so on? do you use them often? yeS YES YES

36: which band’s sound would fit your mood right now? I think? U2 for some reason

37: do you like keeping your room messy or clean? clean... :( but im weak

38: tell us about your pet peeves! people not closing the door

people stopping your music to talk to you

people putting a babY ON THE PHONE TO TALK TO ME

39: what color do you wear the most? greyyyy i love wearing grey

40: think of a piece of jewelry you own: what’s it’s story? does it have any meaning to you? i have this one pretty crystal pendant that i bought on a roadtrip i love it 

41: what’s the last book you remember really, really loving? simon vs the homo sapiens agenda

42: do you have a favorite coffee shop? describe it! the starbucks at the mall? Its ceiling is covered in pipes and stuff for the electricity or heat or whatever but it has really comfy couches i love it

43: who was the last person you gazed at the stars with? My dog.. but a person? I guess this girl in my apartment who I sometimes just roam around with

44: when was the last time you remember feeling completely serene and at peace with everything? last summer

45: do you trust your instincts a lot? No not really I seem to think about consequences a lot more lately but if I’m feeling it, yES

46: tell us the worst pun you can think of. what’s up? - The ceiling.

I HATE THIS WITH MY ENTIRE BEING PEOPLE WHO SAY THIS SHOULD GO TO HELL AND BACK cause im mericful

47: what food do you think should be banned from the universe? tomatoes. die

48: what was your biggest fear as a kid? is it the same today? leaving for college. No

49: do you like buying CDs and records? what was the last one you bought? idk i dont

50: what’s an odd thing you collect? bookmaRKS i have like 200 of them

51: think of a person. what song do you associate with them? never come back again by austin

52: what are your favorite memes of the year so far? cowboy hat!

53: have you ever watched the rocky horror picture show? heathers? beetlejuice? pulp fiction? what do you think of them? I don’t really care too much?

54: who’s the last person you saw with a true look of sadness on their face? my mom

55: what’s the most dramatic thing you’ve ever done to prove a point? yell ‘kavya is a bich’ into the school on the third floor 

56: what are some things you find endearing in people? when it’s people i LIKE? them

57: go listen to bohemian rhapsody. how did it make you feel? did you dramatically reenact the lyrics? that song was my childhood so I love thhsdkjhsjkd just sang along

58: who’s the wine mom and who’s the vodka aunt in your group of friends? why? I’m wine mom! S is vodka aunt bc it just fitss

59: what’s your favorite myth? apollo and hyacinthus

60: do you like poetry? what are some of your faves? I guess? I like phenomenal women 

61: what’s the stupidest gift you’ve ever given? the stupidest one you’ve ever received? I gave a potato and received a small mirror that said -u r bootiful- on the back

62: do you drink juice in the morning? which kind? nahh

63: are you fussy about your books and music? do you keep them meticulously organized or kinda leave them be? my bookshelves are BEAUTIFUL ilovethem and I just have my music playlists so??

64: what color is the sky where you are right now? pastel blueee

65: is there anyone you haven’t seen in a long time who you’d love to hang out with? yes

66: what would your ideal flower crown look like? white flowers <3

67: how do gloomy days where the sky is dark and the world is misty make you feel? aweSOME i have a special playlist for days like that

68: what’s winter like where you live? its rainy

69: what are your favorite board games? TERRA MYSTICAAAA and jenga

70: have you ever used a ouija board? nahh

71: what’s your favorite kind of tea? I don’t really drink tea?

72: are you a person who needs to note everything down or else you’ll forget it? YES OMG

73: what are some of your worst habits? my hands always get too excited so I fiddle a lot and tend to tear the edges of pages

74: describe a good friend of yours without using their name or gendered pronouns. the most reflective pretty eyes I’ve seen. has the best heart in the whole word. literally the embodiment of good and pure

75: tell us about your pets! HER NAME IS AMBER SHE’S A SHIHTZU I WOULD DIE FOR HER AND IF YOU HURT HER I’LL KILL YOU SHE’S THE BEST THING IN THE WHOLE GODDAMNED WORLD

76: is there anything you should be doing right now but aren’t? writing an exam tbh it doesn’t count though

77: pink or yellow lemonade? pink I had it once I liked it a lot

78: are you in the minion hateclub or fanclub? *walks away* don’t include me in your shenanigans

79: what’s one of the cutest things someone has ever done for you? So I was about to leave my old school right? last day was over, finals were done, and the reality that I would lose all of them was just settling in. so I think my mom noticed I was depressed and she called up ALL of my friends in my group of pals and they came over even though they live all so far away and I was editing percy in a video and they just hugged me from behind I laughed and yelled i miss them

80: what color are your bedroom walls? did you choose that color? if so, why? everything is purple I have purple wardrobes and walls and doors and yes. I did choose this color? Because I wanted blue but I also wanted pink at that age so I mixed them in and decided on purple!

81: describe one of your friend’s eyes using the most abstract imagery you can think of. water at zero gravity

82: are/were you good in school? Yesss

83: what’s some of your favorite album art? I love michl’s art? And Eden’s 

84: are you planning on getting tattoos? which ones? Maybe two! Idk I’m just a young potato I’ll see to it later

85: do you read comics? what are your faves? I guess! I love asterix&obelix and tintin and I love omg check please and sharp zero 

86: do you like concept albums? which ones?

I listen to some of my dad’s so pink floyd’s I guess

87: what are some movies you think everyone should watch at least once in their lives? The lion king movies and Fantastic Mr. Fox

88: are there any artistic movements you particularly enjoy? Im too asleep for this 

89: are you close to your parents? yeah

90: talk about your one of you favorite cities. I LOVE KUALA LUMPUR its’adjabjkabkjadsbjaksd

91: where do you plan on traveling this year? NO WHERE i’m going to get a 10 cgpa and kick school in its ass

92: are you a person who drowns their pasta in cheese or a person who barely sprinkles a pinch? CHEESEEEEEEEE

93: what’s the hairstyle you wear the most? two pony tails!

94: who was the last person you know to have a birthday? this old friend of mine

95: what are your plans for this weekend? study for finals 

96: do you install your computer updates really quickly or do you procrastinate on them a lot? pretty quickly

97: myer briggs type, zodiac sign, and hogwarts house? INJP, capricorn and I’m a slytherin!

98: when’s the last time you went hiking? did you enjoy it? last summer with my family and yeah

99: list some songs that resonate to your soul whenever you hear them. any Eden song tbh I just scream and now that Jo reminded me I’m crying to little wonders 

100: if you were presented with two buttons, one that allows you to go 5 years into the past, the other 5 years into the future, which one would you press? why? five years into the future I’m just too scared to go through everything that happens in the next five

[comicteaparty]

April 25th-May 1st, 2020 Creator Babble Archive

The archive for the Creator Babble  chat that occurred from April 25th, 2020 to May 1st, 2020.  The chat focused on the following question:

What is your warm-up routine before you write or draw something related to your story?

Page, Rambler Extraordinaire!

Honestly? I don’t have a formal warm-up, but I definitely like to have my fingers all warmed-up and ready for lots of typing! I really need to get in the mindspace for the particular image/idea being portrayed, though.

LadyLazuli (Phantomarine)

1) Seek out music that matches the energy of the page, 2) Draw some circles/spirals/hatchmarks to loosen up, 3) Pick the easiest thing on the page and finish it first to build momentum, 4) Repeat Ad Infinitum

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

-listen to music from my playlist -read some fanfics -watch YouTube videos from my subscription -get some tea -stretch/workout -wear my comfiest clothes

CalimonGraal(Fenauriverse)

i'm also another one that listens to music before doing story stuff. (sometimes either is a favorite song/song i'm obsessed with atm or one that matches the current scene)

Eilidh (Lady Changeling)

I usually reread my comic so far and listen to some music I associate with it to get me in the mindset and excited for it

eli [a winged tale]

I have a warm up character to go to! Usually I try for some gestures before getting right back to the panels. It gets the rustiness out of the way for me!

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Ooh I love your warm ups, Eli!

eli [a winged tale]

Thank you! It’s easier for me to get into a routine when I have something fun to draw first (with zero expectations)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I don't always need a warm up, but doing panel borders for HoK makes for an excellent warm up. It gets my brain switch gears to comic mode. Music is great, but I only turn it on for important moments (or illustrations outside of comic). There are certain moods that... recur in important moments in my story, and I have playlists for those. e.g. 'sad emotional intimacy'

eli [a winged tale]

I love how music influences our work! I would love to hear all your playlists if you have them easy to share

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

ooooh @eli [a winged tale] i like the motion in your warmups! They're very fluid and nice to look at @keii’ii (Heart of Keol) Keii, I agree with separating playlists for moods! I usually just group them all in my favourites and mentally search for them

DanitheCarutor

Gosh I'm one of the most boring people. Lol I don't have a routine, I don't need one since I'm always in comic mode. Like, all I ever draw is comic pages. I don't have a script or anything that requires writing, so no need for a warm-up for that. I just jump right into it.

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Sounds like you live on the edge which is the opposite of boring 8)

eli [a winged tale]

^

DanitheCarutor

I dunno, it would be cool to do warm-up drawing. That would sure help for gesture/color/anatomy practice. I just don't have the time, a page takes about 4 days to finish without outside distractions, so I have to get to work right away.

eli [a winged tale]

If you can jump right in, that’s great! For me otherwise I just stare at the inks and wish it would colour itself

DanitheCarutor

Ffff I'm like that with dynamic shots where the perspective points are off the page, and I have to tape scrap paper to it, and sometimes my ruler isn't long enough. Working in a traditional medium can be such a pain in the ass sometimes. Lol

This panel is a good example.

Top view perspective lines went way off the page, I hate it.

Anyways, that's my complaint for the day.

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

When I draw warm ups. This was of my 'for practice' comic art. I wanted to practice the vertical scroll storytelling. A lady gets her purse string cut, and the thief runs off. Whenever I want to figure out action scenes, I do little character interactions. It helps me learn more about certain character behavior(edited)

eli [a winged tale]

Nice! Practice comics are great!

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

yeah it's really good too!

it's also a great way to possibly have new stories/series

kinda like.....brainstorming, but applied

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Thank you Eli, Shadow. I try to combine my knowledge of storyboarding, since vertical scroll sequences, are similar to that in some regards.(edited)

Holmeaa - working on WAYFINDERS

I.... Don't do warm up. I just... Start drawing(edited)

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

dang Holmea you living the risky life

that's brave

Holmeaa - working on WAYFINDERS

I am pretty sure of my skill. Should I warm up?? Could be super to start warm ups! I check my mail, find out how we are doing online with our comic and just begin to draw. I guess since I have done it professionally as a 2d animator, and there is not really time to warm up, that I have learned to just start

FeatherNotes(Krispy)

I do warm ups for everything! though what I define as warmups depend on each creator. For me, it begins with stretches and sketching, ill doodle things i need to get out of my head so i'm not distracted by those ideas- they usually involve studies, certain character interactions, or thumbing out pieces I want to tackle later! I may sure to draw everyday to flex that too, so its also important to be able to relax those creative muscles with some pre-work!

also! my warm ups vary with what medium i work in. if Im working in watercolours, i practice fine pencil work and get my lines as loose as possible. when it's comic (so mainly inking) i do what I described above with character studies and what not

kayotics

I’m really bad at remembering to do warm ups. I should.... actually do them more, but the time I have dedicated to drawing is usually pretty limited

Deo101 [Millennium]

Because I usually finish off whatever I had been working on the day before, warmups for me are kind of the process of starting a new piece. All the sketching and thumbing to get my next idea out work pretty well for warming me up, and then I feel ready to go by the time I'm needing to do things like lines. I also get music going that fits the mood of what I'm working on, like lots of people seem to do! I also need to remember to do stretches more :/ And I usually get myself some kind of drink, tea or something, to keep me company while I work ;)

Joichi [Hybrid Dolls]

Sounds like you are pretty busy, Kayotic. Yeah warm ups can be a good practice before diving into a big illustration

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Weirdly I don't think I've ever done warmups for illustrations. Only comic work!

Probably because illustrations, I just do them whenever I feel like it, so my brain is already ready (i.e. I don't start if my brain isn't ready)

whereas comic... I can't just wait for my brain to get ready. I need to keep updating it.

Page, Rambler Extraordinaire!

Pro-tip: if you decide to not do anything and procrastinate, you don't have to warm-up!

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

hmm, can't say i've really tried warming up for art before, but i've heard it can really help! What are you guys' art warm up routines?

Deo101 [Millennium]

For me it's just kinda mindless sketching til I hit what it is I wanna be doing

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Make panel borders (not really a routine though, at least I don't think it is)

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

When I do watercolor, I usually don't do warm ups unless I'm planning from thumb-> sketch ->color thumbs and figuring out local colors for watercolor then doing my watercolor flats from there

Deo101 [Millennium]

Instead of staring at a blank screen and waiting, making little circles or scribbles or drawing like. Some arms or something til, eventually, my brain thinks we're working and then it's like "ah yes! Here we go!"

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

but digitalllyyyyy I shoullddddddddd

my brain when looking at my comic: "aight time to do the thingy lmao"

Deo101 [Millennium]

If I've already got a sketch waiting to go I can jump right in though

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

idk, I should but my time is usually limited so I haven't done a warm up in a while lmao.

now I have the time, I probably would

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

ohh i see

like some quick sketches

i see how that can help- whenever i'm figure drawing or drawing people in a cafe or something my later ones are always better

how is making panel borders a warm up? don't you have to do that anyways?

Deo101 [Millennium]

Lines with intent! Doesn't matter what the purpose is, same kinda thing as drawing a bunch of straight lines in a row or practicing ellipses a bit

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

It's something I can do with my brain turned off. While I do it, it wakes up the comic-making part of my brain

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

oh ye

Deo101 [Millennium]

Which I'd encourage doing things like drawing a ton of ellipses or straight lines, it gets your hand into the groove so you can draw stuff right the first time

Do I do it often? No But I do encourage it

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

ah i see keii

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

So for me, the panel borders can function like a warmup without being a "ritual." Kinda like if you're... say... hiking, walking from your parking spot to the trailhead can be a warmup even if it's not a ritual and is necessary anyway

Tuyetnhi (Only In Your Dreams!)

ooo that's an interesting way of putting it

... man I really should consider warm ups often. I have been touching my sketchbook less and less so lmao

I do find making small thumbs and coloring them in relaxing for me, not sure that count as a warm up but its something I like doing when planning out watercolor illustrations lol

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

Relaxing/chilling/ "reward after a long day" arting is also an interesting topic, though not 100% suitable for this week's question...

I find it interesting how a lot of people seem to like, make cute ship doodles, whereas I uhhh

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

lineart is the easiest for me to do though. I don't have to think much about it

maybe i should like line a page as warm up?

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

I'll drop some examples in art share in a bit

Eightfish (Puppeteer)

ooh please do(edited)

keii’ii (Heart of Keol)

That sounds like a good idea! Worth trying

Feather J. Fern

I actually read in a artist self care comic "Draw Stronger: Self Care of Artist" that you are supposed to stretch and stuff before you art so your body is warmed up for long periods of sitting. Things i draw before getting into main art, the one line challenge where you draw something using one line, gesture drawing warm ups, and always becuase it's something I recently been doing, is drawing a thumbs up on a page that I can erase later or keep in a sketchbook as in like "Good job "(edited)

Cap’n Lee (Flowerlark Studios)

I don't have a warm-up routine before I sit down and draw / write comics. Besides making a cup of coffee before I dive right in. (edited)

sssfrs (JOE IS DEAD)

I don't follow rules

snuffysam (Super Galaxy Knights)

i don't really have any warm up routines. it helps that 3d art is less physically demanding than drawing. during/after my work, i try to look away from the screen and relax my eyes every so often, but i can't think of anything i specifically do before working.

Erin Ptah (BICP | Leif & Thorn)

Another dive-right-inner here. I mean, I do loose pencil sketches before putting down lineart, but it's not like a separate warmup drawing before the real one, it's just the start of the real one.

If my brain isn't in "comics mode" and I need to get a page done...I find a nice secluded spot, sit down with the blank sketchbook, and stare at the empty paper until ideas start clicking into place. Unrelated sketches would be a distraction at that point -- same as checking twitter, just one more excuse for my brain to focus on something other than the page.

Used to do the seclusion in local restaurants( whether it's a nice place or just a plastic fast-food table), but obviously that hasn't been an option for a while :/

varethane

My warmup is working eight hours at an unrelated job l-lol

eli [a winged tale]

Haha aw that’s a mood

Miranda

Oh boy do I feel that

shadowhood (SunnyxRain)

oh that got real