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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

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When He Sees Me // Benedict Bridgerton

Request: Hey! I've just finished reading all of your Benedict fanfics and it's like, "let me have more!!!" *-* Could you maybe write something where the reader and Ben meet at Mr Granville's house? Where the reader is lower class and mocks him for with his lord manners, and eventually they get along well and all that? And he falls in love with her but she's just a seamstress and is scared he fetishizing her poverty and the "starving artist" lifestyle... Thanks in advance, love your writing xxx - anon.

A/N: Thank you so so much! This is such a sweet message. Thank you for requesting something from me; I can only hope I have done it justice. This is a really long fic, I know that - it really did get away from me. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy and I hope you are all well!

Title: Waitress - When He Sees Me

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and nudity, making out, amorous activities, light voyeurism (very light), class divides, pining, mutual pining, fluff, light angst, humour, Bridgerton family feels. HAPPY ENDING.

Word count: 6.8k (this is so long, I am so sorry)

“Bridgerton!” Henry Granville calls, a large smile spreading across his face as he spies Benedict by the front door. “I was hoping you’d make it.”

“Here I am,” Benedict laughs, spreading his arms wide in evidence.

Granville chuckles, grabbing a glass from a nearby tray and handing it to Benedict who takes a healthy sip immediately. “Come,” Granville gestures, “Let me show you around.”

Benedict follows the man he already classes as a friend. He hums at the appropriate time, eyes dancing around every room he is taken into, taking in the numerous pieces of art and the growing number of people.

Finally, Granville leads him to a room bathed in studious silence. Five people stand in the room; four stand behind easels – the picture of concentration as brushes scratching on canvas is the only sound in the room. The fifth person stands proudly before the back wall; posing elegantly, a lady stands completely naked save for an apple held delicately in the palm of her hand.

“This is Ariadne, our life model for tonight,” Granville introduces, smiling at the model without an ounce of care that she stands naked in his living room.

“Ariadne,” Benedict nods, doing his best to look anywhere but her naked body. He wasn’t usually this awkward around women, but the last thing he expected tonight was a life model. His usual influences for art came from clothed members of the public.

Granville takes a seat at an easel, studying Ariadne with great care before picking up a thin brush. As he runs it through the nearby oil paint, he calls to Benedict, “Join us!”

Benedict shakes his head, heading towards the door. Granville nods understandingly; it was a lot for a person’s first time at a soiree such as this. “Another time perhaps,” Granville says as Benedict leaves the room.

Closing the door, Benedict leaves the artists to their muse. His fingers twitch for his sketchpad, thinking of the images he could create; he had seen the empty seat in front of a spare easel, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit down and create the art he saw in his mind. Another time, he thinks to himself.

He turns away from the door where his attention is immediately tethered to a couple across the hallway.

The couple are in the middle of an embrace; connected at the mouth with hands beginning to wander clothing. The stays to the lady’s dress are loosened, the relieved gasp quickly swallowed by her partner’s mouth. Hands continue to wander; moans swallowed by joint mouths. It’s a sight to behold even as the position is changed; the woman straddling her partner, beginning to move her hips to the rhythm of music only they must be able to hear.

Unable to tear his stare away from the couple, Benedict feels his mouth drop open at the impropriety before him.

“Come now, Mr. Bridgerton,” A feminine voice teases, “Surely you’ve seen worse.”

Benedict bristles; unhappy with the tone of her voice and the accusation lightly punctuating the air. “Not that it is any of your business, but I have seen worse.”

Her eyebrows fly into her hair, clearly not expecting the rebuff. Benedict represses a smile at the expression on her face; his eyes dance around the hallway, not knowing where to look without fear of landing on the amorous couple. Benedict had never been one to shy away from love and lust and where it can lead you, but he had never been witness to such an event. The last thing he needed for himself (and his family) was to be classed as a voyeur.

“Follow me,” She announces, crooking a finger at Benedict before walking away.

Helpless and out of his comfort zone, Benedict follows the nameless lady. His eyes pour over her figure as he walks behind her like a lost puppy; her dress is finely made, the fabric clearly new. Benedict keeps his eyes fixed head, refusing to let his gaze drop any lower as she opens a door, standing to one side to let him enter first.

The room is adequately sized; enough room for a fireplace already blazing, a couch big enough for two and a small table and chairs. It’s comfortable; the room is well lit from the candles around the room and the large fire.

The well-dressed lady follows Benedict into the room, leaving him standing in the centre as she heads towards a drinks cabinet. She grabs two glasses and a decanter of liquid that Benedict cannot decipher. Scotch, whisky, brandy – all three would fare him well at this point.

Wordlessly, she hands Benedict a drink. A knuckle’s length of amber liquid swirls in the glass, lit up by the roaring fire. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Benedict starts, “You know my name, but I do not know yours.”

She smiles; eyes crinkling from the force of it. “You can spy a Bridgerton by the colour of their eyes,” She snorts, shaking her head at the ridiculousness of it, “I’m (Y/N).”

Benedict bows his head; the very picture of gentlemanly politeness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

If possible, (Y/N)’s smile grows larger, trying her hardest to repress the laughter bubbling inside of her. “This isn’t your usual scene, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict shakes his head. “I’m a friend of Henry’s and call me Benedict please. After being witness to the couple outside, I think we can forgo formalities.”

Laughter escapes her mouth, powerless to help herself. Benedict frowns at her reaction, but (Y/N) waves a hand in apology. “I remembered your face,” She offers in explanation, “You mentioned that you had seen worse, but you still looked so scandalised.”

Benedict huffs, crossing his legs, sipping at his drink before answering. “I didn’t know what to expect from tonight. Henry is an artist! I just never expected that.”

“We’re all artists, Benedict, in one form or another. We’re practically bohemian.”

“Does that happen often?” He asks, nodding towards the door where Benedict holds no doubt that more clothing will have been lost between the enamoured couple.

(Y/N) lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. “More often than not. The intimacy that is required with art combined with the amount of alcohol consumed tends to lead to such things.”

“Have you ever taken part in such things?” Benedict asks before realising the extent and implication of his words. “Forgive me,” He coughs, “I’m not usually so forward. You don’t need to answer.”

“No, I don’t think I do,” (Y/N) answers honestly, amused at the lack of filter from the Bridgerton. “Why don’t I ask the next question?”

“Please do,” Benedict responds, loosening the cravat at his neck, deciding to take it off altogether.

“Tell me,” She begins, eyes on the skin now bare to the room, “Do you prefer paints or pastels?”

“Neither,” Benedict answers, “I prefer graphite or charcoal.”

“Interesting…”

“Is it?”

“It is! But I cannot think of a reason why.”

Benedict snorts, draining the last few amber drops in his glass. Silent for a moment, Benedict hums before asking, “Do you draw?”

“Heavens no,” (Y/N) responds, “I’m a talented seamstress, but landscapes and watercolours are not for me.”

“Then why are you here?” Benedict asks; the words unintentionally sharp. He cringes before offering (Y/N) an apologetic smile.

“My friend invited me,” (Y/N) defends, “You met her earlier.”

“I did?”

(Y/N) nods. “You did. She was the life model you were trying your hardest not to ogle.”

Benedict flushes; heat spreading from his neck to his cheeks – partly fuelled by the alcohol in his system, partly fuelled by the knowledge of being caught out. Benedict clears his throat, unable to hide his embarrassment. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed.”

(Y/N) smiles widely. “They didn’t, but you don’t make it habit to frequent such parties. It was clearly a shock to your system.”

Benedict exhales with a laugh; all the while wishing he had another drink in his hand. “I’m not new to art,” He confesses, “But I am new to this… environment.”

(Y/N) leans forward in her chair; her eyes sparkling in the dim candlelight. A coy smile crosses her lips and Benedict idly wonders what she would taste like as she asks, “And what do you think of this new environment?”

Benedict drags his gaze away from (Y/N)’s mouth to look her in the eyes. Evenings like this are something he could quickly get used to so long as he had her company in the early hours of the morn. A wicked grin spreads across his face as he answers, “With your company, I’m fairly certain that I could come to enjoy this new environment.”

“Only fairly?” (Y/N) murmurs, sipping at her drink before continuing, “I think we’re going to have to turn ‘fairly’ into an absolute.”

Benedict tips his head to one side, wondering whether it would go against societal customs to offer his hand in marriage after only knowing someone for an evening. The thought lingers at the back of Benedict’s mind as he replies, “I have complete and utter faith in your ability to do such a thing.”

(Y/N)’s answering smile has Benedict wondering about marriage for a second time in less than two minutes. What would be the appropriate time to ask someone for their hand? He thinks. A powerful enough thought that Benedict has to look away from her; desperate not to ruin a newly budding friendship.

The clock strikes one; the chimes making (Y/N) jump as they ring through the tension-filled room. A sad sigh leaves her lips as she stands, placing her glass on a nearby table.

“I’m afraid I must go,” She declares, biting her bottom lip, lingering in front of the Bridgerton.

Benedict rises from his seat, his voice close to wobbling as he murmurs, “Must you?”

(Y/N) smiles wistfully. “Not all of us have family money, Benedict. I have two dresses to finish for tomorrow evening and I need to sleep.”

“Will I see you again?” He asks, unable to keep the hope from his voice as his mind spins all sorts of fantasies of their next meeting.

(Y/N) nods; Benedict’s heart soars.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Benedict Bridgerton. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Benedict replies a second too late. She’s gone and Benedict is left to wondering how many seamstresses there are in London.

-------------

If Benedict was thinking logically, he knew that there wasn’t thousands of modistes and seamstresses across London. He knew that the number was much closer to hundreds, but to him that was still too many. He thinks back over the interactions from that night, examining the conversations, trying to find a hint of whether (Y/N) had given him the address of her shop. The more he cross examines, the less evidence he finds.

At this point in his investigation to her whereabouts, Benedict was no longer thinking logically. He was thinking with his heart – desperate to see her again so soon. He didn’t want to have to wait until another party where she just might show up. No, he wanted to see her in her own environment where Benedict had no doubt she would flourish.

He makes himself wait three days before beginning the task of tracking her down. His first port of call was to Henry Granville, asking whether he knew anything of the lady accompanying the life model. Henry knew of her by face, but not much bar her first name. He leaves Benedict with a word of encouragement and a promise of another party soon; Benedict thanks the man heartily, knowing that Henry had tried his best.

However, it left Benedict in a predicament that meant he had to bring in reinforcements.

“I need your help,” Benedict pleads of his dear sister, Eloise Bridgerton a day after starting his hunt for her.

“Whatever for?”

“I need to find someone… a friend.”

“A friend?” Eloise asks sounding very much as if she didn’t believe a word leaving her elder brother’s mouth.

“Am I not allowed to have friends?” Benedict asks of his sister, exasperated at her curiosity. Eloise raises a single eyebrow, and it isn’t a minute later that Benedict begs of his sister, “Please do not tell mother.”

The laughter that leaves Eloise lasts for the next three streets, her chuckles grating on Benedict’s nerves. “Where did you meet her?” Eloise eventually asks, much calmer now that she had gotten the laughter out of her system.

“At Mr. Granville’s if you must know.”

Eloise doesn’t answer; she casts her gaze across her brother’s face, reading eh expression there and the hopeful look in his eyes. Whoever she was, she had done a number on her brother for him to be this desperate to find her.

“Why not wait for the next party?”

Benedict huffs, “She may not go to the next party, then I would be back at the beginning.”

Eloise falls silent again. She watches her older brother, watches how he fiddles with his fingers – a nervous tic he’s hand since he was a boy apparently, it happened more when he was itching to reach for his sketchpad in an attempt to keep his mind quiet.

“She’s really made an impression on you, hasn’t she?”

Benedict sighs, peering up at his sister as he calms his hands. “Please?” He asks quietly, not daring to voice the beg any louder than it needs to be.

Eloise reaches across the gap between them, covering Benedict’s hands with hers. For a moment, he isn’t the elder brother but a man in need of help. “I’ll help you, Benedict.”

“Thank you,” He replies; the relief in his voice evident as his whole body relaxes.

-----------

The tightness in his chest that has plagued him for the last week lifts as soon as his eyes land on her. She hasn’t seen him yet; too busy with another client gushing about their latest dress. (Y/N) looks flattered as she takes in compliment after compliment and Benedict can see why; she is clearly a talented modiste. If it didn’t raise suspicion on his end, he would suggest his mother come here instead of the seamstress just off Grosvenor Square.

The customer soon departs leaving Benedict and Eloise the sole clients in the shop. (Y/N) brushes down her dress, collecting herself before greeting her newest customers.

She freezes when she finds the tall stature of Benedict Bridgerton in and amongst the countless mannequins of her shop. Plastering on a polite smile, she steps forward, “How may I help you today?”

Benedict remains frozen; his stare solely focused on (Y/N). Eloise steps forward, nudging her brother in the side with her elbow. Eloise smiles at (Y/N). “From my brother’s reaction, we have found who we were looking for.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m in the market for a new dress,” Eloise states, elbowing her brother once more.

“Yes!” Benedict coughs, brought out of his stupor, “Eloise needs a new dress.”

(Y/N) glances between the siblings; the awed expression on Benedict’s face combined with the knowing smile on Eloise’s doesn’t settle her nerves. Instead, it heightens them. (Y/N) turns to Eloise, flashing her a friendly smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, could I borrow your brother?”

Eloise snorts. “You may keep him if that helps.”

(Y/N) laughs, covering her mouth before grabbing Benedict’s hand, leading him to the back of the shop. “What are you doing here?” (Y/N) questions; her eyes wide as she closes the door behind them. This was a conversation to have in private; not one to be had in front of Benedict’s sister.

“Accompanying my sister to buy a new dress for an upcoming ball,” Benedict replies smartly, his tone innocent as he applauds himself for asking Eloise to join him on his mission.

(Y/N) fixes him with a flat look, not believing a single word leaving his lips. Benedict flounders for a second before smiling bashfully at the seamstress. It wasn’t often that Benedict was left speechless, but (Y/N) reduced him to such manners.

After a moment, Benedict sighs, deciding honesty to be the best policy. “I wanted to see you again.”

(Y/N)’s face softens at Benedict’s confession, unable to fend off the growing fondness for the Bridgerton. If she was being honest with herself, (Y/N) hadn’t stopped thinking of the man since leaving Mr. Granville’s party.

Just as quick as the fondness set in, so does the worry on Benedict’s behalf. Gesturing between them both, (Y/N) offers Benedict a sad smile. “Nothing can come of this, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“What do you mean? Call me Benedict, you did the other night.”

“There were no class lines the other night,” She all but cries, “Outside of Mr. Granville’s home, we cannot be friends, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict,” He emphasises, “To you, I am Benedict. Not ‘Mr. Bridgerton’.”

“Benedict,” She whispers, giving in to the pleading look in those blue eyes of his.

“Why can’t we be friends?” He asks quietly as if scared to voice such a question louder out of fear of the response.

“You’re the son of a Viscount. I am a seamstress. Outside of my making dresses for your female relatives, where do our paths cross socially?”

“I want them to cross,” Benedict protests almost childishly, crossing his arms as if they were the personification of the budding relationship blooming between (Y/N) and himself.

(Y/N) laughs without humour. “Think of the fallout, Benedict. You would lose friends and contacts. I would be reduced to the rumour of a mistress and lose clients.”

Benedict purses his lips; trying to find fault in her argument but he comes up empty. Class lines were so rigidly drawn in current society and Benedict knew that (Y/N) was more than deserving to be thrown to the vicious rumour mill of London ton.

“What about Granville’s parties?” Benedict offers as a solution. “You say we cannot socialise so openly so let’s meet there with every party.”

“You would go to that extent to win my friendship?”

He nods. “I had the most fun the other night than I had in a long time and I have a very strong feeling it was down to you. You say we cannot be friends so openly, so this is the next best thing. Do I feel go about keeping you a secret? Not particularly, but London society can be unforgivably cruel, and I’ll be damned if I see you suffer at the hands of it.”

(Y/N) blinks rapidly, ridding herself of the tears that grew throughout Benedict’s impassioned speech. “Mr. Granville’s it is, then.”

Benedict smiles; relief flooding his system at your words of agreement. Impulsively, he takes your hand, squeezing it once before letting it drop. The very action sets his veins alight with emotions he has not felt in a very long time, but he doesn’t not let them distract him as he whispers, “I’ll send a messenger with the date and time of the next soiree. Will I see you there?”

“You will,” (Y/N) murmurs, “I promise you.”

Benedict flashes her a handsome smile before returning to the front of the shop, knowing full well he has been too long to be acceptable.

Eloise greets him with a superior smile. Crossing her arms, she asks, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Turning back to face the back of the shop, Benedict smiles to himself. “Yes, I think I have,” He answers, offering Eloise an arm, departing the shop once and for all.

-----------

28th April, 9pm. Mr. Granville’s home. I hope to see you there.

The missive arrives not four days later. (Y/N) reads and rereads the small piece of paper, memorising Benedict’s elegant handwriting. Anticipation curls in her gut making it hard for her to focus on the task at hand; she had three dresses to finish all for next week. If she didn’t focus now, nothing would get done. She would end up wasting the evening by daydreaming of a Bridgerton and their handsome smile.

She hadn’t expected him. He had entered her life so suddenly. After their initial meeting, she hadn’t expected to see him again; had accepted that it was a one-off meeting that Benedict would soon forget, soon taken with the newest fascination in his life if he wasn’t married off by the end of the season.

That didn’t happen. Instead, he had shown up in her shop with his sister in tow. He had begged for a friendship, to see her again. He kept surprising her at every turn, kept startling her when she least expected it.

Yet, she knew she had to be careful. Not only of her heart, but of her reputation. If the two were caught and things misunderstood, it would not be Benedict to suffer. It would be her; she would be reduced to rumours of impropriety, labelled a ‘fallen woman’ whilst Benedict would most likely suffer a harsh word from his mother and a clap on the back from his brothers.

Society, in general, was cruel. London society, however, was punishing when it wanted to be.

--------------

The 28th April rolls around quickly. (Y/N) losing herself in her work, sewing until the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning to ensure that the gowns are ready and that she is free enough to attend the party.

Stepping out of the carriage, (Y/N) steadies herself for a moment, taking a deep breath to settle the butterflies exciting her. She felt ridiculous, letting herself be this affected by the man after only one meeting. Yet, he had shown up at her shop, after searching for her for however long.

(Y/N) felt in two minds. On one hand, she wanted the friendship of Benedict Bridgerton for the simple fact that he was entertaining. On the other hand, she despised the idea that she may be a project for the man – their opposite places in society becoming a barrier between them.

The atmosphere in Mr. Granville’s house is heady as (Y/N) enters the premises; the party very much in full swing as she sheds her shawl and leaves it on a side table. She smiles at those she recognises, waving quickly at Ariadne who she finds modelling for many artists once more. Ariadne smiles back but doesn’t move; her eye on a particular artist, a female she knew she would be going home with that night.

(Y/N) shakes her head fondly at the antics of her friend; having known Ariadne for years and loved her proclivity for men and women. (Y/N) admired Ariadne’s lack of shame for who she is, who she wants to be. She doesn’t let the law stop of her from loving who she wants to.

Arriving at the door she entered through last time, (Y/N) hesitates, feeling unsure of herself. A small flash of doubt lances through her mind as she reaches for the doorknob; how long was this going to last before Benedict got bored? How long did she have with the man that was no doubt going to change her world?

The very thought haunts her as she enters the room, finding Benedict in the same spot as last time. He stands when he sees (Y/N) standing the doorway; his suit elegantly rumpled as if he had been sat there for some time. His blue eyes sparkle in the dimly lit room; the only light coming from the fire in the grate. His smile brightens as he takes in her appearance.

“You came,” Benedict breathes, his voice relieved as if he was worried that she may not attend the party after all.

“I promised you I would,” (Y/N) replies, taking the offered glass from Benedict. Their fingers brush and (Y/N) tries exceptionally hard to ignore the jolt of electricity that passes between them. Friendship, she snipes to herself, nothing more.

“I know,” He whispers, “But I’m glad all the same.”

Something in (Y/N) melts at the stark honesty of his words; she found herself being knocked off her axis and it was only their third meeting.

“I have to know,” (Y/N) starts, her voice amused as she takes a seat across from the brunette, “How many shops did you go into before finding mine?”

Benedict averts his gaze, distracting himself from answering by taking a long sip of his drink. “Too many,” He eventually answers.

“You don’t know the number?”

“I know the exact number, I could even tell you their names, but I hesitate to tell you.”

“You have to tell me now,” (Y/N) prompts, leaning forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table. “Please?”

Benedict sighs a war-weary sigh; acting as if (Y/N) had worn him down to his very last nerve. With a light blush dusting his cheeks, Benedict admits, “I visited close to fifteen shops with Eloise before finding yours.”

“Fifteen?!” (Y/N) all but shouts, laughter soon falling from her lips as rain would fall from the sky. The very sound sets Benedict’s heart racing within his chest making him wonder whether it was going to run right out of his chest any moment.

“Eloise was very grateful when we found you. She despises dress shopping.”

“Yet she went to fifteen dress shops with you in order to find me.”

“She’s my favourite sibling, but don’t tell the others.”

“How many do you have? I’ve heard of the famous Bridgerton brood but never focused long enough to find out how many children there were.”

“Eight of us in total,” Benedict laughs at (Y/N)’s gasp, “We’re named alphabetically too. My father used to joke it was so he could keep track of us easier.”

“A wise idea,” (Y/N) murmurs.

“He was a wise man,” Benedict states, thinking of his departed father with a keen sting of grief. It didn’t matter how long his father had been gone, the wound would never heal. He would miss his father until his very last day on this earth; Benedict would spend the rest of his life trying to emulate Edmund Bridgerton’s life lessons.

A pensive silence descends only for a moment before (Y/N) asks, “Why did you look for me?”

The blush returns to Benedict’s cheeks. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you again?” He asks sheepishly. He had prepared himself for such a conversation but having it in real life was no comparison to the fantasy in his head.

“Why did you want to see me again? Why not wait for the next party?”

“I wasn’t sure you would attend the next party,” Benedict reasons, “And I really did want to see you again.”

(Y/N) smiles bashfully, ducking her head as his words wash over her. She fiddles with the stem of the glass in her hand before taking a long sip; the worries from earlier had returned with the conviction behind his words. She had to know; if she didn’t ask him, she would never know and she would never be prepared for the day he would inevitably grow bored and move onto the next project. “Can we be honest with each other for a moment, Benedict?”

“I thought we have been so far.”

(Y/N) smiles despite herself. Schooling her face into a mask of polite interest, she tries to cover the concern and worry steadily rising in her gut. “This isn’t a saviour moment for you is it? Befriending a poorer seamstress, getting to know her before eventually getting bored?”

“I haven’t thought of it as that for one moment.”

“You haven’t?”

“I haven’t, but the fact that you have says more about my character than I care to admit.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” She hurries to say, worried about losing the friendship that had only just begun and scared of hurting Benedict’s feelings.

“You haven’t insulted me,” Benedict promises with a small smile.

“I can’t help but worry,” She admits in a small voice.

“I would socialise with you in public, but you made such a sound argument the other week that I couldn’t find fault. You’re right, it could lead to all sorts of trouble, but I want you to know that I do not have a saviour complex. I just enjoy your company.”

(Y/N) relaxes, sagging further into the chair as she lets herself breathe freely since the worrisome thought entered her mind. Now that it was out in the open, she could smile more without worry. “I enjoy your company too,” She confesses, “You’re quite refreshing.”

“Refreshing?” Benedict asks, sounding close to laughter.

(Y/N) rolls her eyes at the older gentleman. “Yes, refreshing. I deal with meddlesome mothers and droll daughters all day. You make me laugh… it’s refreshing.”

“I’m glad I can provide refreshment,” Benedict laughs, his smile wide with his happiness.

Happy smiles are exchanged as the worries leave (Y/N)’s mind. She was wanted here by the man sat across from her; he had no plans to leave any time soon. For now, her mind is settled and as she raises her glass to the Bridgerton across from her, she briefly wonders whether her heart would soon be settled too.

------------

The friendship continues for weeks; neither of them the wiser to their growing feelings for the other. If they are, they remain silent, not wanting to disturb the status quo but rather, pine from a distance.

They continue to meet at Mr. Granville’s, sneaking away to their room where they talk for hours about anything and everything.

At one point, (Y/N) manages to convince Benedict to bring his sketchpad with him where he fills pages with drawings of her. She doesn’t realise it; she doesn’t know that the small sketch of hands holding a champagne flute is Benedict’s study of her.

Time passes and they become attached to the other; saving pieces of information and stories of friends and family for when they finally get to see each other. The time they have together filled with laughter; the class lines that separate them outside Mr. Granville’s home practically invisible as Benedict chokes on his drink at the scandalous nature of (Y/N)’s story, unaware such language could leave such a woman.

It’s easy, it’s natural. It’s all Benedict has to fill his time between the mind-numbing balls and luncheons set up by his mother in order to find him a wife. Little does Violet Bridgerton know that Benedict has found someone he would devote the rest of his life to but whether she would be willing, whether she loves him as wholly as he loves her is another matter entirely.

--------------

He starts to haunt her dreams from their very first meeting. The colour of his eyes combined with the brightness of his smile chased her from sleep much faster than she would have liked.

Sitting up in bed, she rests her chin on her knees, feeling the helplessness that often accompanies the swift descent into love.

In the short time she had spent in Benedict’s company, (Y/N) had to admit that she had fallen head over heels for the brunette. Sighing heavily, she tries to pinpoint the exact moment her feelings turned from platonic to romantic but finds herself unable to do so. At this point, she cannot help but wonder whether she had fallen for him the first instance she saw him. He looked so out of depth in his perfectly pressed clothes; it was adorable.

(Y/N) runs a hand across her face in an attempt to dispel the lingering tiredness but to also ride herself of thoughts of the man who had so readily captured her heart without knowing he had done so.

How could she explain this feeling? Her heart refused to calm in his presence, beating away in her chest as if ready to take flight. Benedict smiled in her direction and her mind ceased to form coherent thought. She didn’t tell anyone how in the darkest hours of the night, she stretched a hand across the empty blankets of her bed, imagining what it would be like to have Benedict lie next to her. Would he snore? Was he an early riser or did he prefer to sleep in?

Such questions would travel the expanse of her mind until the birds began to announce the arrival of a new day. Her mind creating daydreams that left her heart aching in her chest when she came back to earth, reminded harshly of the barriers that divided them.

What scent did he prefer? Did he favour scotch or brandy?

Endlessly she tortured herself with such questions. Spinning fantasies in which she woke up every morning with Benedict by her side. She would wake to find him already watching her, as if in disbelief that she would choose to love a man such as him.

A single tear escapes (Y/N)’s eye as she forces herself back to the present. Eyeing her small rooms, (Y/N) thought that she should be fortunate that a man such as Benedict Bridgerton would give her the honour of his much requested time. It would do her no good to fall in love with him now.

Straightening up and running a hand through her sleep plait, (Y/N) vows to rid herself of her feelings for the second eldest Bridgerton.

However, as the vow is sealed, a small voice in the back of (Y/N)’d mind casts doubt on her ability to do such a thing.

----------------

“Eloise has been asking after you,” Benedict comments; choosing the line of conversation for this section of the evening. At this point, they’ve been at Granville’s home for hours, covering all topics of conversation conceivable. (Y/N) had updated Benedict on Ariadne’s clandestine love affair with a daughter of a prominent member of His Majesty’s Navy to which Benedict spent over an hour trying to guess which officer and which daughter. (Y/N) delighted in announcing his incorrect guesses.

“How is she?” She asks, feeling a distant fondness for the woman who had shown up in her shop so many weeks ago.

“Distracted if I’m being truthful,” Benedict murmurs, “Her hands are always covered in ink. I think she has an admirer.”

“And why shouldn’t she?” (Y/N) demands, crossing her arms. “Eloise is a beautiful young woman. Any man would be lucky to have her.”

“She’s turned down the last three marriage proposals so I’m curious to see what type of man has captured her attention.”

“Siblings and their nosiness,” (Y/N) admonishes though there is no heat behind it.

“I want what’s best for her,” Benedict defends.

“I know you do,” She whispers, fondness for the man sitting across from her surging through her. It leaves her quiet; it leaves her breathless as she fends off the heart racing, stomach turning affection she feels for the second eldest Bridgerton.

Benedict closes his eyes, kicking up his heels and resting them on the table. A happy, content smile crosses his lips as he lets himself enjoy the moment they find themselves in.

I could do this for the rest of myself, (Y/N) thinks to herself, I could sit with him for the rest of my life.

It’s with that thought that (Y/N) knows she has broken the vow she made only a few days ago.

“You’re different tonight… quieter. Is something the matter?” Benedict asks, a note of concern in his voice.

(Y/N) shakes her head, refusing to look the man in the eye. Instead, she focuses her gaze on her glass, swirling the liquid around as if it were the most fascinating thing in the whole world.

Benedict sighs, reaching across the table, taking her glass from her hand and placing it on the table in front of them. He stops himself from covering her hand with his; that is a luxury for couples. As much as Benedict wanted more, he would settle for being her friend.

“You can tell me anything, (Y/N),” Benedict murmurs quietly, breaking her resolve clean in half.

“I broke my vow,” She whispers, voice close to breaking.

“What vow?” Benedict asks, panic beginning to rise internally. “Are you promised to another?”

“Nothing like that,” (Y/N) reassures, “I broke a vow that I made to myself which somehow makes me feel worse. I would rather I broke a promise of marriage.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

(Y/N) sniffles, wiping a hand under her eyes before laughing humourlessly. “A few nights ago, I made myself a promise and it seems that I am unable to keep such a vow.”

“Would you tell me that vow?”

(Y/N) sighs, seeing no point in lying to him. “I vowed that I would rid myself of my feelings for you.”

“And have you?” Benedict asks warily; he needs to know whether he has a chance to love her the way he wants to. He wants to be her everything; he wants to kiss her goodnight and then kiss her good morning hours later.

She shakes her head; wisps of hair flying loose from her updo. “I don’t think I ever really tried. I don’t think I want to lose my feelings for you.”

“I don’t often make grand declarations, I don’t believe in over the top displays of affection,” Benedict begins; his eyes fixed on her face, on every movement of her lips, “But I love you, (Y/N). I love you and if I need to, I will make a grand declaration, I will shout it from the rooftop of Buckingham Palace.”

“Please don’t do that!” (Y/N) gasps, an amused smile on her face. “I love you too, I love you with everything I am, but aren’t you worried?”

“Worried?”

“Of the fallout? It could never work, Benedict. See sense, please,” She pleads; eyes wide.

“Why wouldn’t it work? We love each other, surely that should be enough.”

“It is enough for me, Benedict,” She reassures quickly, “But it isn’t enough for the rest of society.”

“Why do you care what they think?”

“My entire business relies on such things, Benedict! Whether I earn an income over the season is down to what the ton think.”

“It is so easy to get lost in the wealth, the titles and the balls,” Benedict whispers, “You bring me back down to earth; remind me that I could happily live without the grandeur because I would have the love of the woman I have come to adore.”

The words have her argument crumbling into ash before her. There was no arguing with that; he was prepared to live a simpler life with her.

“You would do that for me? Live a simpler life?” She asks because she has to know; she has to know that she isn’t something he would come to regret in the weeks, months, years that pass. She couldn’t live with herself if he harboured any resentment towards her for his loss of societal ties; the very thought terrified her.

“Darling,” Benedict states, “I would give it all up for you. As long as I have you, I do not need the life in London and everything else that comes with it. We can live in the country; I have a cottage there that I am sure you’re going to love.”

“What about your family?”

“They’ll love your almost as much as I love you.”

“They won’t hate me?” She asks, voice timid as she thinks of the matriarch of the Bridgerton family, knowing she was not a woman to cross.

“They could never.”

(Y/N) begins to nod; slow at first before growing more rapidly with a smile breaking out across her face. “Okay,” She breathes, “I love you, Benedict Bridgerton. I’m not scared anymore.”

Benedict gathers her in his arms, finally getting to hold her after dreaming of such an action for so long. Better than his dreams, he thinks to himself as he glances between her stare and her lips. Silently, she nods, smiling softly as Benedict takes that final leap, pressing their lips together.

(Y/N) sighs against his mouth; a noise he could happily hear for the rest of his life. Her hands grasp the lapels of his jacket, pulling him even closer. She feels like heaven against him as Benedict continues to taste the remnants of her drink on her lips.

Her hands leave his jacket, reaching up to card through his hair. (Y/N) tugs lightly at the dark brown locks, smiling into the kiss at the sound of the low groan in the back of Benedict’s throat. (Y/N) loses herself in the feel of the man against her; all hard lines and muscles, he feels like a Greek god and she a mere mortal getting to experience the heady passion written about in epic poems and plays.

Desperate for air, but not desperate to leave the arms of the man she loves so wholly, (Y/N) breaks the kiss. Panting, Benedict kisses her lightly once, twice, three times before pressing his forehead to hers. A moment of peace before the rush of the future began.

Boundaries, divides, lines really meant little when you had found the one who truly saw you.

****

Bridgerton Taglist: @heloisedaphnebrightmore @dreaming-about-fanfictions @janelongxox @now-its-time-for-a-breakdown @aspiringsloth20 @wallwriterstuff @magicalxdaydream @darkestbeforethedawn16 @gryffindors-weasley @spideysz

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagines #Bridgerton #bridgerton imagines

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gaitwae · 3 years

Note

Ohh! Can you write something for thor where you comfort him after the snap and he sometimes comes over at your place to sleep because he can’t sleep alone and cries to you ineedsomeangstplease

Warnings: mentions of the snappening/blip/thanos being a jerk.

Summary: Above!

Word count: 781

Tags: @make-me-imagine @thorfanficwriter @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @natandersonnla @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @frostedgiant @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @amwolowicz @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021 @lilyofthesword

Thor would sometimes come over. It was just a thing. It happened. It wasn’t a big deal, and it wasn’t anything uncomfortable for you. Sometimes, he just needed to keep nightmares away.

He never said the words “nightmares,” exactly, but just said, “They’re only dreams... Anyway, I brought a keg!” and then run into your living room to avoid the real reason he had stopped by.

The two of you weren’t exactly involved, not the way that Tony or Steve or Nat would probably guess. The love between you, it was unspoken and stayed that way. You didn’t need verbal confirmation that Thor trusted you above anyone else, and he didn’t need you to say the words “I love you,” when just being there for him said it already.

Chaste kisses were exchanged at the door, and that was about as involved as you two got.

You and Thor had bonded over the past three years, since the Snap, since the Blip. You could tell your friend was just as raw has he had been, but he was learning to take care of it.

His hair grew out over time. His belly was softer, but he was watching his nutrition. Something about “A healthy body leads to a healthy mind.” Often, he would bemoan and complain about how his once godly six pack looked flabby, but you assured him a little skin was nothing to worry about. He was doing great. He was at least trying. You reminded him that brushing your teeth once a day was better than not doing it at all.

Thor would smile, take your hands, and pull you into a hug. It wasn’t the real problem, the belly fat, but it was a different way to say you loved him.

More often, Thor would come over at night. It was usually after the clouds rolled in that you knew he was having a hard time dealing with the reminders of Loki, of Heimdall, of the other half of Asgard he couldn’t save... Of the half of the world that didn’t exist anymore.

He would come knocking on your door like the sky was falling. You knew the drill. You grabbed whatever blanket you could and brought him inside, petting his hair and taking him to the bed. He would grip you tightly, sobbing into your shoulder and talking about how he wished the hurt would go away, how he was so grateful for you, how he should have told his brother he cared more often.

Eventually, Thor only came to your place to sleep. He moved his things in. He kept his belongings next to yours and he was a decent roommate. He couldn’t sleep without you. He needed to know you weren’t some sort of trick his mind had conjured up. He needed to know you wouldn’t disappear.

It was taking time, but Thor was gradually loosening up. His fear was melting away. He took to doing Midgardian things, even some (to the neighbors, possibly to you) odd things, like putting peanut butter on pancakes and drinking tomato juice out of a coffee mug. He would pick up painting and charcoal drawing. When the Avengers needed him, he would still save the day. He would feel like a hero again. Like he was worthy, again. You told him how he was always worthy, no matter what.

“Funny,” he would muse, “Jane used to say that, too... But it was always after a night together. Never over pancakes and peanut butter.”

He never spoke of Jane after that. He just held your hand and told you, just before bed, how you were his hero. Never “I love you,” just “You’re the finest warrior,” “You’re the bravest,” “You save me every day, my darling.”

Until one particularly bad nightmare.

He hadn’t had one in months. The thrashing was what woke you. You turned over, pulled him out of bed, and gave him some soup or hot chocolate to calm him down. He was shaking like mad. He wouldn’t tell you what he had seen, but he wouldn’t let you go too far without knowing what you were up to.

“Be careful,” he would tell you in a grave voice. He would search your eyes with his big, red, wet ones. “I love you. I can’t lose you.”

“I love you, too, Thor,” you said honestly. “Now, please... Let me take care of you, you big baby. Drink your cup and let me get some movies.”

He nodded. “You always know how to make me feel better...”

“That’s because I’m yours,” you teased. You kissed his forehead. He leaned into you, sighing deeply.

“Thank you for being mine.”

#thor x reader #thor x y/n #thor odinson #thor of asgard #thor prince of asgard #prince thor #gaitwae writes #requests #asks #mcu #marvel #thor mcu #mcu thor #thor #thor x reader comfort

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vindicatedvirgil · 4 years

Text

art is (not) dead / analogical

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

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

[masterlist]

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#amanda writes sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #analogical #ts analogical #romantic analogical #ts virgil #virgil sanders #ts logan #logan sanders #ts sanders sides #sanders sides #art critic logan #painter virgil

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t4twolfstar · 3 years

Note

Bestie,, do you think any of the golden trio era people make art and what kinda? 👀

(My answer to does ____ make art will always be yes bc I think art is an infinite number of things and everyone engages with it in some way but: )

Yes!!!! This was so fun to think abt again thank you sm for asking this I’ve never thought abt it before!!!

Ok so I’m thinking more so first about how they’d make their art

Like Ron was encouraged to make and play and express himself in big messy colorful ways as a child without shame, where as I think hermione’s childhood art experience was there insofar as it was making her a “well rounded child” but she wasn’t very loose and free about it.

Harry of course was not encouraged or allowed to create and when he tried/started to he was extremely rigid. Not able to just make forms or shapes but needed to be making something so for that reason he made functional objects if he was dabbling in ceramics or woodworking. He made what he needed. But he’s surprisingly good as realistic rendering bc as a kid when he couldn’t draw he would study objects and figure out what shapes make them and he’d look really hard at something until he could see the shades of green and purple in the human face or the splash of teal under hedwigs wing.

Ron was loose and free and non objective and abstract with his art. With the chaos and innocence of his household I like to think of great big collaborations between the family, little to no emphasis on form and technique and realism. You know how in the princess diaries the painter mom throws ballooons filled with paint across the room at a canvas? Yeah. That. Everything’s a canvas and everything is a medium with which to create in that house. He’d make sculptures with no function but all process and aesthetic. Ron just has fun and focuses on color and shape and movement and feeling. He would LOVE viewer participation. Put a charcoal painting up and lay out a pile of erasers and let the viewer go to town. Put up a canvas and paints and brushes in a public space and let people play. Put up a complete painting and let people paint over it. He revels in creation.

Hermione like Harry is bad as loosening up. She’s a perfectionist and doesn’t understand why youd make sculptures with no purpose. Why does it look like a vase if you can’t use it? She would be confused about creative liberties. The apple in the still life is actually an inch to the right why did you draw it there? Why did you paint the background blue it’s purple? There’s no green in the human face, Harry. She’d loosen up and learn from the others as they all would. She’d make political art. Installations and statistic based pieces. She starts to understand vessels that don’t function when she makes this art bc you don’t need a vase to hold flowers when the point you’re trying to make is about oppression. The fork doesn’t need to function to make a point about food inequality. Some pieces might be participatory in the sense that the viewer supplies additional statistics through engaging with the piece like this

#I also wanna add that I think hermione would be really bad at drawing #like she tries to draw the whole thing at once instead of the shapes that make #up the thing then is frustrated when it looks wonky #!!!!! so fun #OH YOU SAID ERA #NOT JUST THE TRIO #IN THAT CASE I HAVE MUCH MORE TO SAY #art post #long post #golden trio #oc #hp hc #hc #harry potter #hermione granger #ron weasley #text post

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rokutouxei · 4 years

Text

burnt pancakes, sweet syrup

part 2 of: atelier heart

ikemen vampire: temptation in the dark theodorus van gogh / mc | gen | 2857 | [ao3 in bio]

some of my favorite (imagined) scenes in between chapters of Theo's route. no direct spoilers in this one :)

to all those who are experiencing his route for the first time today, I hope you have an enjoyable stay in his story!

Of all the residents in the mansion, it was Theo who felt most like danger.

Who reminded you of gunpowder.

You wouldn’t call yourself the best judge of character, no, of course, but there was something about him that hounded you from your very first day at the mansion. The brief and curt introduction, the look on his eyes, his set jaw. You didn’t need to get any closer to get much of a sense of what kind of person he was.

In fact, you didn’t really want to, not when you’ve been thrown a hundred years into the past, into an era you do not know, into a country that isn’t yours, in a world that doesn’t seem like where you’ve come from, where everything is just a little bit different from what you know.

You had enough in your hands as it is. A sourpuss smart-mouth hounding you shouldn’t be part of your agenda here.

And yet it still is.

Almost inevitably–like all the fated things.

(one.)

It started with the day you burn the pancakes the first time you tried to help Sebastian with breakfast duty.

…Well, you didn’t burn them black, just a little more… say, toasty than what would have been preferable. You have a billion excuses in your head already: you’re not sure how to work this kind of stove, there’s something about the oil, the ingredients are different in the 21st century–but none of them make it out of your mouth, because Sebastian gives you this look that will say more than any length of speaking will do. You half-attempt to answer back quietly; a little cringe, narrowed eyebrows, awkward grin, wrinkled nose. You wipe your hands on your apron like doing that washes you of your culinary crime.

Your already-exhausted teacher sighs through his nose and scrapes off the remnants of your… little tragedy into a clean plate, having deemed it to be unfit for breakfast. You pout a little as you set it aside–arguing in your head: it’s just brown, this is still edible, you’re just being picky, Sebastian–but before you can turn back to see how Sebastian’s doing his “better cooked” versions of it, you hear the sound of the kitchen door opening.

Sebastian doesn’t turn–“I can usually tell who it is by their footsteps.” “You can what?”–but you do, spotting Theo standing by the doorway.

“Bonjour, Theo,” you greet, and he makes a small sound of acknowledgement as he turns to get something from a cabinet hidden out of your sight. A small jar or bottle? You don’t quite see what it is before he hides it in his pocket. “Early day today?”

“Personal business,” he answers, rather curtly–it used to make you jump, but you now know that’s just how he is. He turns to regard you and inevitably spots the lonely plate on your side of the counter.

He’s about to swoop in to get it (with a kind of targeted gaze you thought only birds of prey could have) so you push it aside, earning a little tch from him. That shocks you quite a bit–it’s just pancakes! and burnt ones too!–that it makes you stagger back.

Sebastian’s voice is steady as he says, “If you could wait a moment, Sir Theodorus, these next ones will be ready in a few.” The butler doesn’t even turn to face either both of you, but you know he’s watching you both carefully in his peripheral vision.

Theo’s frown deepens. “What’s wrong with these ones?” he asks.

For a moment, victory tastes gold in your mouth, and you’re just about to throw the entire plate at his face with a fork and maybe match the gesture with evil laughter, if only to prove Sebastian wrong. The statement seems to be enough to garner the butler’s full attention, turning to Theo with genuine shock.

“Sir, the–”

“This is fine. I have to go,” Theo quickly quips. “Hondje. Get me some syrup.”

He snatches the plate from your side quickly, takes a fork from the drying rack, his coat fluttering slightly from the sudden movement as he takes a seat on the small prep table inside the kitchen. You just stare at him kind of dumbly, because now, in that different light, the sun pouring through the open windows, the plate of pancakes looks… pathetic at best. Maybe Sebastian was right about it being unsuitable for breakfast.

“Hondje,” he calls you again, this time his tone deeper.

You zone back in. “Huh?”

“Syrup bottles do not walk on their own.”

You frown on instinct, but knowing that that only makes you target for more teasing, you straighten your face into a clumsy kind of laughter. “Oh, yeah, haha, okay,” you say, half-absentmindedly, reaching up toward the cupboard where you’ve been told the pancake syrup is. (And, to your absolute horror, realizing that the entirety of that cupboard is filled with syrup bottles. How much does a house of 12 need?!) You place it on the table and step back.

You don’t know what distracts you and keeps your eyes on him as he eats…but since you won’t dare ask yourself, you sit with the insecurity that settles at the bottom of your stomach: that he’s eating something that’s half-assed, something you could have made better; that he’s eating something you’ve made, and it had to be those semi-charcoal pancakes.

—not that he can taste whatever burnt (or not-burnt) bits there are with the sheer amount of syrup he’d poured onto the plate.

“What the f—,” you say, pausing at the last syllable, unable to continue. Perhaps it was for the better that he had thrown in an absolute tsunami worth of syrup onto the charred pancakes, but still…

He looks up at you with eyes posing a challenge. You can nearly hear his voice saying, have something to say about it? And you’re a smart person, at least to some degree, you’d like to think, so you don’t take it: just watch him finally close the bottle and begins to slice his meal. The pancakes are so drenched it drips syrup all the way from when he lifts a piece up from the plate to when he finally puts it in his mouth.

But, oh.

The small smile that tugs at the corner of his lips makes your heart stop.

Oh, ever so serious Theo, frown eternally sketched onto his face–is all it takes to get him to loosen up a small stack of burnt pancakes drowned in a stroke-inducing amount of syrup?

And just as you’re about to look away–staring any more felt like invading into a space that wasn’t your own, like he was having some sort of private moment with his diabetes overload pancakes–he wipes off a stray drop of maple syrup that buds at the corner of his lip with a thumb, before cleaning it with his tongue. You pretend not to be entranced.

When he catches you staring, you turn away with a yelp, cheeks burning like the pancakes you were just making.

(two.)

Whatever it was that happened in the kitchen that day only seemed to make things worse for your heart whenever Theo is around.

Which annoyed you, if you were to be entirely honest. He was so insufferable, with his stupid smug smirk and the way he acts like he can have control over everything, calling you mutt or bait like nobody’s business… you aren’t supposed to feel good about being more than a little affected by him being around.

And yet you are.

You are, on the day that you catch him in Vincent’s room, going through the canvases stacked by the wall. They’re looking at the artworks talking about current trends in the art scene, and when Theo lets out an unwarranted burst of praise for his brother, Vincent pats him on the head. The little blush on Theo’s cheeks and the shy grin on Theo’s face makes you stop in your tracks, standing at the doorway with a tray of some cake that now looks too bland in comparison to their sweetness.

You are, on the day you join him drinking with Arthur downtown, at a local bar, after a long day of having been teased for his being too blunt, too mean. You don’t know the reason for it (yet) but you know the intentions now, so you’re less intent on needing to soften him, really. (It was only just amusing to see him try so hard.) When Theo “passes” the test, he runs Arthur’s royalties dry by ordering top-shelf and putting it all under the author’s now too-long tab. Theo has a different kind of meanness to the ones he cares about, and you wonder if he knows it shows.

You are, on the days that you join him for work and get to see how his expression changes when he gets in the zones. The wonder that fills his face, lets it glow, the contentment with every completed sale, every satisfied customer, and the young, obscure artists’ otherwise would have been kept away paintings hanging on the lavish walls of patrons. You’re entranced by the stars in his eyes.

You are.

And maybe, you are not just a little affected by him being around.

Not that you’ll tell that to his face.

(Not that he needs you to tell him.)

(three.)

The streets of Paris glow with a soft lavender light after the late afternoon shower; the cobblestone streets shimmer in what’s left of the rain. The avenues are unfamiliar, the names just vaguely intelligible with your French. There is much to learn about 19th century Paris, and even if you’ll only be here for a month, you plan to make the most out of it.

So in a way, when you’re out at town, you’re always multitasking. You’re doing a grocery run with Sebastian but also observing the kinds of food there is in the market; the kind of clothes people are wearing; the architecture; the way people talk. You’re with Theo to head to a gallery but you’re memorizing the details around you, burning them into your memory, like you could crystallize them in your mind and bring them with you back home: the uneven cobblestone paths under your low-heeled shoes, the clack clack clack of horseshoes down the street, the rickety sound of wheels, the music playing.

You’re not paying attention to where you’re going, watching someone play a violin for a small crowd of children on the street when you collide against something–warm; someone!–with a muffled “Oof!”

“Pardon!” you call out, only to look up and see who it is. “Oh! Theo.”

“Do you never watch where you’re going in the time you’re from or are you just–”

“Shhh!” You say, a finger against his mouth. In a millisecond you realize how rude it is, so you take it back and hide your guilty hand behind you. “I was just enjoying a little violin. Don’t be so grumpy.”

“Why don’t you go closer and watch, then?”

A pause. “…I should be going back to the mansion,” you say, looking up at the sky dousing the streets in a lovely lavender shade. “I just wanted to listen while I was passing by.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “You don’t seem like you want to go home.”

You don’t know what gives you away, but you figure it’s because you’re walking the opposite direction to where the carriages usually are. Besides, Theo always says you’re easy to read. You grin awkwardly up at him. “19th century France is quite interesting…?” you offer by way of explanation.

Theo used to be rather opaque to you, everything hidden behind a light-proof curtain of a façade. But you’d like to say you’re getting better at reading the man, watching his expressions change by minute amounts as he considers something in his head.

He sighs. Rather overdramatically, too. You catch that. “My errands are done for today. I’ll come with you so you can stay out here a little longer.”

France at night is still pretty dangerous, after all. “You will?!” you ask, rather surprised at the generosity. (Though perhaps you shouldn’t be.)

“It’s normal to take your dog for a walk, no?” he quips back, and you jut your tongue out at him in retaliation. It makes him smirk, and that makes you laugh, and so begins your little tour of Paris on foot.

Not that you’re doing so much touring as walking next to Theo as he takes the long route around town through the most interesting bits of it. And not just the famous destinations like the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, no, but even the tiny details, down alleys with colorful banners, a lively little cafe–“Aww, too bad that it’s full.” “We can go some other day.” A beat. “Really?!” “…Stop that.”–churches, museums.

You don’t notice time passing by, really, until the streets are deep into darkness, the sky a beautiful indigo littered with stars. You walk two steps behind Theo, looking upwards to the heavens. You don’t notice when he stops walking until you bump shoulders with him.

“Whoops,” is all you can muster, as he looks at you with a kind of condescending look.

“You should really watch where you’re going, god knows where you might end up in,” he says drily, and you don’t know if he’s talking about you ending up in this century in the first place or something else. You don’t get the chance to ask him about it though, because he takes your hand in his, now, while you’re walking along the riverside, like an adult would hold onto a child, or maybe, perhaps, possibly, you don’t dare hope, could be, like a lover would…

You get so distracted by the warmth of his palm in yours, feeling the heat like summer sunlight seep in the crevices of your bones that were longing for home, that you barely feel the chill of incoming rain.

(four.)

To others, Theo seems invulnerable. No gaps in his armor, the one he wears every day, in front of everyone he meets. But eventually you know better than that.

Kintsukuroi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery—you take the shattered pieces and put them back on with lacquer dusted with gold. The sites of breakage no longer a site of shame, but instead places one proudly carries; becoming even more precious, even more treasured now that it has gone through the act of having come apart, to come back together.

Moonlight pierces through the windows, silver on the floor of the atelier, illuminating Theo’s sleeping form. In your mind, you see where the golden veins run.

(five.)

On the night he breaks your heart, you dream of burning.

A flash of lightning strikes a dead tree, setting it bursting into a mesmerizing, orange-yellow flame. Smoke easily climbs out of the trunk, a deep gray that you feel like you’ve seen somewhere else, felt somewhere else. You stand there across a barren field as the lightning strike–long gone–has left this bundle of tree set ablaze, one which will soon be ashes.

It smells like fire everywhere.

The thing is, fire doesn’t really smell like anything–though it does smell like what it’s burning. Wood, fuel, dried paint.

Flowers.

When you wake up, you are cold, the other half of the bed is empty, and the sun hasn’t risen.

You pray it is all just a dream, but don’t dare go back to sleep, just lie there with a lifetime of what ifs tucked underneath your pillow, framed by your hair.

But that’s okay.

Because Theo can show you the worst of him, but you know better.

Because you've seen the best in him.

Because Theo is a tsunami of syrup on burnt pancakes.

Because Theo is low, cruel laughter laced with love.

Because Theo is walking around Paris in the late afternoon.

Because Theo is dreaming of sunrise: even when the night is darkest right before it.

And one day, you’ll wake up in bed with Theo by your side the day after the door has closed on the both of you. The streets of Paris will glow with a soft lavender light in the early dawn. The both of you will be tucked in familiar-smelling sheets, that distinctly-Theo scent that makes you feel home. On that day, there will be no turning back. On that day, there is only now and forever. And it’ll be messy like his hair sticking up in odd places and the remnant of drool white against the corner of your mouth, but it will be warm, the embrace of Theo’s arms around your torso, like he’s holding you together the way you have built him back from his broken pieces, and it will be sweet, much sweeter than anything you’ve ever tasted your entire life.

It will be worth it.

An eternity of syrup-flavored kisses shared over breakfast.

in the atelier: quai de la seine, edouard cortes

#ikevamp theo #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire theo #fic #atelier heart #burnt pancakes sweet syrup

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tbartss · 4 years

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🌗 Is night or day better for drawing? 📐 Whats your favorite kinds of lines to draw? 🙃 Which is easier: faces facing left, right, or front view? ✏️ Do you prefer traditional art or digital to relax?

🌓 is night or day better for drawing?

Usually it very much depends on the artist. Some people are nocturnal and have most inspiration or motivation at night to draw, so I think it differs from person to person :’)) for me personally, I swing between the two all the time so there’s no telling really haha

📐What’s your favorite kinds of lines to draw?

Favorite kinds of lines? Hmm from the ones I’ve tried I really like the thin lineart style since it kind of forces me to be more detailed and not leave things up to the mask of the thick lines, but I also really enjoy the kind of sketchy pencil lines and the inky ones that kind of thicken a lot depending on pressure (so it’s like a mix of thin and thick)... damn that was a lot haha didn’t think I had this many thoughts on it but yea :’))

🙃 Which is easier: faced facing left, right or front view?

Definitely faces facing left haha it’s always my go to position when I first start just to loosen up my wrist because, since I’m right handed, the other directions kind of require a bit more flexibility than my disused stiff hand is used to lmao but I enjoy the other directions too and I try to differ the directions for finished pieces so that I don’t grow too comfortable

✏️Which do you prefer traditional art or digital to relax?

Before my iPad, I used traditional drawing as relaxation since my computer felt too final, like it felt like I HAD to produce something to post if u get what I mean. Plus it was always a hassle to turn it on and turn it off and everything and it was just easier to draw in my sketchbook. Plus if I wanted to try something new I always did it in my sketchbook first

But ever since I got my iPad that’s all I’ve been using, so for practice and references and sketches and all kinds of stuff I just use my iPad now. Although I have thought about using my sketchbooks again for painting and gesture drawing with pens and charcoal practice etc. so yea relaxation wasn’t so much digital or traditional for me as it was accessibility :’))

#asks #thank you for asking anon!! didn’t know I had this many thoughts about art lmao #anyway I wish you a very nice evening :’))#ask meme

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paisley-print · 4 years

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CHAPTER THREE: THE STARVED

CHAPTER ONE: THE HUNTER / CHAPTER TWO: THE HUNTED

Synopsis: Their feelings of resentment only grow after they take lodging in a pub. The two of them struggle to find common ground.

Note: Ya’ll ain’t gonna like Ino in this....maybe Din too. I think there needs to be friction before they start to come around to one another.

“You’re bleeding” Din’s voice was full of concern as he reached over to brush the hair from her face.

Ino moved away instinctively….. though she wished she hadn’t. He pulled his hand back immediately; the gears turning in his mind.

They spent much of the day walking in silence. As much as she tried, Ino could not keep her thoughts from wandering.

She replayed the encounter repeatedly in her mind. Each time getting high off of the adrenaline, the memory still provided. She could still feel the way his hand took hold of hers. Strong, warm, probably smooth from being protected by leather all day. She shivered at the thought of his arm wrapped around her too. What she wouldn’t give to be held by him again. To have his unexposed hands roaming her bare skin. Warm, curious fingers feeling every inch of her-

“How’s your head?” The Mandalorian asked after what seemed to be an eternity of silence.

She needed to stop this- she needed to focus. Her lust for him was not based out of reason, but rather out of need. They had denied her touch for so long she was unaware that she was starving. Now, with even the smallest taste, her body would not stop demanding more. Perhaps she could make him do it one more time, provoke him to- no. It was thoughts like these that we’re going to lead to her demise. She was too smart to fall victim to such base desires when more pressing matters were at play.

“Yes” she responded, then suddenly realized what he had asked her. “It’s fine, thank you. A scratch.”

He stopped in front of her and tilted his head a little. Ino knitted her brows at him, then glanced to the side awkwardly. God, that silence made her uncomfortable…. “So are we just going to stand here?-”

“I wasn’t supposed to touch you,” he said.

“Hmm?”

“I wasn’t supposed to touch you” he repeated.

He almost sounded…. upset? With who? Himself? Perhaps he likened that order to whatever custom bound him to his suit.

Ino gave a polite half smile. She was terrible at navigating situations of high emotion; any display of it just embarrassed her. “Yes, well, I won’t tell.”

He paused for a moment, “I’m sorry if-”

She started walking away from him before he had even finished speaking. The light of the village acted as her guide. “Hurry along” she spoke to him as if he had been one of her droid servants back home. After a moment, it was clear that he was not about to follow her. She halted her step. “Unless you rather me stand here until the sun rises while you snivel about your feelings?”

His silence was enough of a response for her. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

Din trailed a little ways behind as she pushed forward.

The village was a common waypoint for many traveling between the two largest cities of Atlas. Although it was small, it was bustling with people. Strings of lanterns hung from buildings and cast the street in a warm amber glow. The villagers didn’t notice them at first, but soon enough there were dozens of people staring slack jawed at the pair. Atlas’s lost princess escorted by a Mandalorian. It was a story not soon believed by anyone unable to bear witness to it. Ino held her head high and stepped lightly on her feet as she passed by; all the while her stomach was tied in a tight knot.

Acquiring lodging was not hard. The owner of the inn was happy to give them the largest suite they had……. Ino was starting to realize how the Mandalorian found her so easily. She would definitely need to change her appearance next time she fled. As soon as Ino was inside, she walked into the bedroom and locked the door behind her.

A plan needed to be made… the wind blew the smell of the pub next door into the window. Suddenly the room was filled with the comforting aroma of vegetables swimming in butter and meat roasting over charcoal. Holy hell, she was hungry.

Ino cringed as the door creaked open. Carefully, she peaked out into the little sitting area they had. The Mandalorian was sitting on the couch, arms folded, seemingly staring straight ahead….. although it was more likely he was just resting his eyes beneath the helmet. Ugh, so unnerving, she thought bitterly.

She slipped through the cracked door and was about to leave when a voice came from behind her.

“Where are you going?”

“To the pub- to get food. Would you like me to pick up some oil for you to drink?”

“I’m not a droid. ”

Ino suppressed a smile. “Pardon me- easy mistake.”

He stood from the couch. “Have the innkeeper send someone for you.”

She kept her hand on the handle of the door. “They are not my servants, therefore I will not bother them with such silly tasks.” She pulled the door forward at the same time Din’s hand shot out and stopped it.

Ino whipped around to face him, features twisted in anger. “And what? You’re going to zap me with that little stick of yours? You forget that I have power over you now. Balthar will kill you if he finds out you put your hands on his bride.”

The Mandalorian was as unwavering as stone. This made her even more irate. She looked him square in the face, her voice dripping with venom as she spoke. “I have spent all day taking orders from you. And I am sick of it. You do not deserve to be near me. Most do not get within a hundred yards of me without dropping to their knees and worshiping the very ground I walk on. Yet you come along, a dirty drifter from some backwater planet, and have the audacity to force me into submission. You don’t have any power here- so start showing me some respect. You can start by taking this off while you're in my presence-” she lunged forward and attempted to lift his helmet.

Two hands found their way to her arms and yanked them down. He swiped at her legs with his foot and brought up against the wall. His one hand kept both wrists pinned behind her back.

“I’ll take my chances” he said smugly

She struggled against his hold on her and screamed as loud as she could. She was yanked backwards from the wall while his free hand came up to cover her mouth. She used this to her advantage, taking one of his fingers in her mouth and biting down as hard as she could. As soon as she felt his grip loosen, she darted towards the door. She had not made it ten feet before feeling a sharp tug on her hair. Fingers curled in a fist around the base of her scalp and locked on to a sizable chunk of her gold locks. She screamed again and flailed her arms in an awkward attempt to land a punch. It did not work. He made her follow alongside him- her feet doing a weird side step over one another while she struggled to match his long strides.

The door to their suite was slammed closed with such a force it knocked the painting from its nail on the wall. Glass shattered and dispersed along the hardwood. A part of her reveled in the fact that he was angry - it had meant that she had hit her mark. This was short-lived, however, when she realized where he was taking her. He had pulled her into the bedroom and swung open the closet door. In one swift motion, he had let go of her hair and used one hand to push her forward- sending her stumbling into the tiny dark space. The door was shut before she could even make it to her feet.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!

She pulled herself up and banged on the door as hard as she could. It didn’t move at all. He must have used something to prop it closed from the outside. She let out a frustrated cry and continued to throw blows at the door until she was out of breath. Not a single sound could be heard from the bedroom. Was he even there?

Ino decided to plead with him anyway, he was capable of feeling. He had just proved that to her. If only she could gain his sympathy…. there might be hope for her yet.

“I’m-” she sighed “If the stories that they told me as a child are true, then I believe you are a good man. Balthar is a tyrant who raped and murdered my sister for not giving him an heir. I will endure the same fate if you deliver me to him. You are the one who forced me out of hiding. You are the one who caused me to fight.”

She took a seat on the floor.

“This planet had been under the rule of my ancestors for generations. Balthar’s father and a group of noblemen took arms against us. Their army of mercenaries used our people as their weapon. Entire villages were leveled overnight- reduced to smoldering piles of scorched soil. Thousands of innocent lives taken in his unceasing pursuit of control. The king, my grandfather, yielded to him in order to save lives. Upon abdication my family was forced into servitude where we remained as slaves….. spoils of a war we never attempted to fight.”

She let her head fall back against the wall and shut her eyes. Their long day’s journey had hit her all at once. “We would have stayed that way if it wasn’t for Balthar. As soon as he came to power, he was pressured to produce an heir. He tried many a time but could not - cursed, some say. The people of Atlas believe that only royal blood can produce heirs, so he took my sister. He used her - beat her, the letters she wrote to my mother……”

Ino felt as though she could cry, but the tears would not form.

“After a few years of trying, it was decided that the reason my sister was unable to have a child was because of her ‘impurity’. Another man had touched her before her marriage and because of that the gods branded her infertile. I was born out of desperation - both from my father’s hope of regaining his land and Balthar’s need to have a son. Balthar feared his next bride would also end up corrupted, so he took extreme measures to guard my purity. They ripped me from my mother’s womb and placed me in chambers where I stayed locked and guarded my entire life. Save for festivals when they paraded me around and displayed me like a trophy for the capital. All my life I have been raised by droids - they fed me, washed me, clothed me. I-”

No, she couldn’t say that, she couldn’t make herself that vulnerable to him. She assumed he must know that he had been the first person to touch her in many years. To say it would seem distasteful.

“I will be wed to Balthar upon my return to the palace…… Please, I am not looking for anything more than for you to release me.”

She paused. The open window in the bedroom allowed the noise from outside to drift in. Somebody was singing in the street.

“I am not sure what he is holding over your head but I can promise you whatever it is I can do my best to help.”

Why was she even trying, nobody was listening?

Slowly, she surrendered herself to sleep. Lulled there by the melody floating up from the street below.

#the mandalorian #mando fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #mando x oc #game of thrones inspired #friends to lovers

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cami-chats · 4 years

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Out Tonight

Fandom: Shadowhunters

Pairings: Clary Fray/Isabelle Lightwood (mentioned Raphael/Simon and Jace/Magnus)

Warnings: None (some drinking but like, they’re at a club)

Clary knew that it wasn't actually the end of her incredibly short-lived relationship with Jace that led to Izzy insisting they got out dancing that night. It was Izzy after all, and this was little more than an excuse to dress up for her. And to strong arm Clary into dressing up too, since Isabelle claimed she was hiding an absolutely gorgeous body under her 'hipster layers'.

She didn't argue too much-- about going out, not her clothes because her clothes were fine-- because clubbing meant dancing with Izzy, and drinking with Izzy, and at the end of the night, making out with Izzy. To be honest, she was more excited about kissing Izzy tonight than she'd ever been for a previous relationship, and maybe that should have clued her in that she was lesbian years ago, instead of realizing it yesterday when she broke things off with Jace. Especially considering that she and Isabelle had been getting drunk and making out on and off for two years now. But whatever, it was better late than never (according to Raphael, Simon’s new boyfriend).

Clary showed up at Isabelle's knowing that the only thing she'd be allowed to retain would be her boots. Sure enough, Isabelle opened the door, looked her up and down, then dragged her inside. "It's a good thing you came early."

"I don't look that bad," she muttered.

"You always look good Clary, but you could look great if you stopped sabotaging yourself."

"Excuse me?" Clary asked, a little offended.

Izzy huffed. "You're trying to attract women, and yet you're wearing a man's shirt?"

"Uh." Clary look down at her shirt, double checking that it was the one she'd picked out earlier. Sure enough, she was still wearing the bright blue v-neck that clung to her. "It isn't?"

"It's a man catching shirt, Clary. Some women like boobs, but it shouldn't be the focus on this outfit." Isabelle started rummaging through her closet, and she pulled something out with a triumphant shout. "Here, wear this," she said, tossing it at Clary.

"This is a shirt."

"On me it's a shirt. On you, it'll be a short dress."

"I'm not that much shorter than you."

Isabelle was too classy to snort, but her expression said it all.

"Oh shut up," Clary said, shaking out the shirt/dress to its full length. "And turn around."

Izzy rolled her eyes but turned. "Normally I'm willing to deal with you and your baggy sweaters with paint and charcoal stains, but we're going to Pandemonium specifically to get you laid, so you have to show some skin."

"We're trying to get me laid? I thought we were going out dancing. Wait- did you say Pandemonium?"

"I did."

"Izzy, what the hell? We'll never be able to get in there, I don't think it matters how much cleavage you show the bouncer."

"Relax, would you? It's all taken care of." There was a note to her tone that Clary didn't trust. If she didn't know better, she would swear that Isabelle was mixed up in something illegal with the number of places she could get into.

"Isabelle..."

"That's not relaxing. I will pull up that Zoolander song if I have to, don't think I won't."

"When did you watch Zoolander?"

"Simon showed me, back when he was still in love with you but thought he liked me." God, that had been an interesting time. Clary was very happy with her birth father in jail for trying to kidnap them, but the journey to get here had been so damn stressful. She never would've met Isabelle, Jace, or Alec without it, but that was a weird way of looking at the situation.

Clary huffed, muttering something about friends conspiring against her under her breath. "Fine, I'm dressed. I hope you're planning on looking like a fucking sex goddess so that we don't look completely ridiculous trying to get in there."

"That isn't relaxing either. I told you to relax." She looked Clary up and down, a pleased smile on her face. "See? You look totally fuckable. Give me a minute to get changed and then we can go."

Clary didn't feel too bad about watching her change because Izzy didn't give a shit about how much skin she showed. The guilt mostly came from the fact that Isabelle thought they were friends and didn't know that Clary was harboring feelings for her.

Izzy didn't look much different from how she normally dressed, in Clary's opinion. The difference between her street outfits and her club outfits was all in her makeup and the way she moved-- according to Isabelle, at least. Clary thought she looked totally gorgeous either way.

Instead of getting in line, Izzy strode right up to the bouncer and smiled. "Lightwood, party of two." She had one of her hands in Clary's mostly so Clary couldn't run away-- which she'd tried so many times before that Isabelle didn't give her the opportunity to even think about it anymore-- and when the bouncer lifted the rope for them, she dragged Clary right through.

"How did you get your name on the VIP list?"

"I know someone," she said, smile widening.

"But-"

"Don't worry about it!" Izzy said, having to raise her voice as they got closer to the music. "C'mon, I'll buy you a drink. What're you feeling?"

"Something fruity!"

Izzy nodded, clearly having expected that. Clary didn't know why she even bothered to ask when every single time, the answer was the same. Clary liked the drinks that came out with fruit, a straw, and a violently pink color. Izzy, for some reason, liked vodka mixed with a soda and she never cared which soda it was, as far as Clary could tell.

She dragged Clary over to the bar and placed their order. Someone gave Clary a lingering look, and Isabelle raised an eyebrow pointedly, as if to say 'see? fuckable'. It was hard to be too excited about it though, when all she wanted was to get to the part of the night where Izzy's tongue was in her mouth.

The drinks were placed in front of Izzy, and she picked them both up, handing Clary's to her and staring until Clary rolled her eyes and took a sip. "Happy?"

Izzy put a finger on the bottom of the glass and tipped it up, meaning that she wanted to Clary to keep drinking. "You need to have fun!"

Clary glared at her and started gulping it down, stopping when the glass was half empty.

"Good start! Now drink the rest and let's dance!" Izzy had already finished hers and was now staring at Clary in anticipation.

Clary sagged a bit, but this was how their nights out usually went. Izzy gave Clary however many drinks she thought she needed to loosen up, they danced, sometimes Clary would dance with other people while Isabelle had another drink, sometimes they'd get another drink together, it just depended on the night. Clary finished her drink, and Izzy pulled her out to the dance floor, where they stayed for a few songs.

This time, Clary was the one to drag her off with a quickly shouted explanation of, "I'm tired!"

Izzy was smiling at her, arm around her shoulder. "Okay!"

They were off to the side-- or as much to the side that you could get in a club-- and Clary was wondering if she could get away with asking Isabelle to leave. She'd phrase it like a girl's night out instead of wanting to get away from the loud music, and Izzy would probably say yes. She opened her mouth to say it, then paused. She still didn't know how Izzy had gotten in here, and if she'd spent a lot of money to get them on the list, then it would be a waste to leave so soon.

Izzy's grin widened as she spotted someone over on the couches, and she said, "Come on," as she started walking over to them. When they got close, she raised a hand in greeting. "Magnus!"

One of the men lounging on the couches straightened and smiled brightly at her. He had far more style than Clary could ever have, and even though she didn't like men, she knew he was absolutely gorgeous. The way he was looking at Isabelle was only happy, nothing ulterior, but that didn't mean anything.

Clary's heart sunk as she realized he must be the reason they'd gotten in. Izzy had friends everywhere, but if they were looking at each other like this, it probably went beyond friendship. She tried to keep her disappointment from showing on her face, but she'd never been the best actress.

He got to his feet in one smooth motion. "Isabelle, darling," he said, walking over and kissing the air over her cheek. Somehow, when he did it, Clary didn't feel the need to roll her eyes; it felt-- dare she think it-- genuine instead of a pretentious, dickwad move. God it was no wonder Clary couldn't catch Izzy's interest for more than a single night if this was the sort of person she was competing against. It just fucking figured that Izzy's type in more permanent partners was glamorous-- what Izzy was and Clary definitely was not. She couldn't even irrationally hate Magnus because then he turned to Clary and said, "You must be the friend Isabelle always talks about. Clary?" If he'd said it like he wasn't happy to meet her, this would be so much easier.

She nodded numbly, and he stuck out his hand.

"Magnus. I've heard quite a few good thing about you."

"Can't say the same," she said, more than a little out of it as she shook his hand. A second later, she realized how rude that sounded and blushed bright red as she took her hand back. "I- I mean-"

Magnus laughed, waving her stuttered attempts at an apology off. "It's fine. If she told you anything good, it would be a lie." He winked at Izzy, and Clary blushed harder, which she hadn't thought was possible. She was pretty sure she hadn't turned this red since that time she'd come home to find Izzy riding someone on the living room floor. She really really hoped she wouldn't have to see her and Magnus do anything like that, because just thinking about it was enough of a kick in the nads.

"Thanks for letting us in, Magnus. Clary and Jace broke up yesterday, so she needed a good night out."

"Happy I could help. Speaking of that little golden boy..."

Izzy laughed. "Yes, he's single now. You already have his number, you know."

"Hardly the point when he thinks I am uninterested."

"Not my fault he doesn't notice you flirting."

Clary frowned. "Are you two not together?"

They both shook their heads.

"Oh."

"Aww Clary, you thought I fucked my way to the top. I'm flattered that you think so highly of my abilities, but no, this time we are solely friends." She turned back to Magnus. "How about coffee tomorrow? We can make it a double date. Sort of."

"Nothing before eleven, and I'll be there."

Isabelle nodded and gave him another hug. "I'll text you. See you tomorrow!"

"Nice to meet you!" Clary said, and they walked away. Once they were far enough away, Clary asked, "Double date?"

"You and me and Magnus and Jace, too if I can convince him to come."

"So, you and me would be there as a date?"

Izzy paused. "It doesn't have to be like that, that's why I said it's sort of a double date."

"What if we uh, made it a double date? Like, officially instead of 'sort of'."

"What?" Izzy asked, but it was a I-didn't-hear-you what, not a I-can't-believe-you-suggested-that what.

Clary got up on her tiptoes and Izzy bent down a little so Clary could talk directly in her ear. "We should date! You and me, for real."

Izzy didn't move for several long, heart wrenching seconds. "You sure that's what you want?"

"Absolutely!"

When Izzy pulled back, she had a breathless grin on her face. "Awesome!"

"Great!" Clary said, knowing that she didn't need to, but too happy to stop herself.

#shadowhunters #clizzy #clary fray #isabelle lightwood #fanfic #my writing

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forasecondtherewedwon · 5 years

Text

On the Subject of Your Subject Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E/NSFW Word count: 5717

Spideychelle Week Day 6: College AU

Summary: MJ's spending her summer taking yet another art class, but it's not about the college credit, it's about the practice. She's considering how to fix a sketch when she overhears some classmates discussing their work. While the work might be their own, MJ hears enough to know that the subject most certainly is not. It's time for this art studio wallflower to stake a claim on Spider-Man.

MJ was very observant. It was one of the two things that had remained constant as time went by (faster all the time, she swore)―the other being the boyfriend she’d had since her junior year of high school. Right now, she was hoping it was the observing thing that was going to eventually get her a job. Oh, she was sure that the boyfriend could get her a job if she asked, but it would almost definitely require crippling overtime, a wardrobe full of metal, and a readiness to go starry-eyed with hero-worship at the mention of the name ‘Tony Stark.’ Or at least that was the cue she was getting from him. The boyfriend. Peter.

But the job, yeah. So, what she was doing didn’t exactly look like laying the foundation for steady employment right now, like, per say, but between the three years of college still ahead of her, bursaries, and some additional bankrolling from her mother the doctor, MJ was going to use art school to turn her detention caricatures into a career.

Something she’d observed since starting college was that not everybody wanted to be there. MJ found it totally disturbing (if not occasionally warranting a pity laugh) that so many people either barely showed up for classes or only showed up; in her opinion, the former were fledgling adults still acting like children and the latter were today’s youth already clocking in and out like weary middle-aged suits.

Meanwhile, she couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t get enough studio time. Couldn’t get enough of her ideas on paper. Enough charcoal under her fingernails. Enough standing behind a canvas until her feet ached, or curved with feral possessiveness around a drawing pad on her lap. Enough lines drawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn and redrawn.

So MJ had completed year one (her mom bought a very fancy cake that they ate with their feet up on the coffee table at home, using forks which neither of them could absolutely confirm were clean, since between an on-call doctor’s schedule and a student’s, nobody had exactly been on top of loading and emptying the dishwasher) and enrolled in a summer class. It was figure drawing, which, yes, she’d already taken as it was a mandatory class―arguably the class upon which all other art classes depended―but while figure drawing had finished with MJ, MJ had not finished with figure drawing. She felt that it was impossible to overlearn the basics, plus the professor she’d had the first time around had been a dick. In fact, MJ believed that there had not been a bigger dick known to humankind since Michelangelo got up close and personal with David.

The summer prof was a marked improvement. Less ego, more encouragement. More understanding, less likely to make MJ want to flip her easel and ram one of its legs up their… Warhol. And with fewer students enrolled during the warmer months, there were fewer classes running, and therefore more studio time, which she took gleeful advantage of, with a territorial staking-out of the best spot in the room and the nasty glare she sent towards people who were too friendly. She was gleeful on the inside.

Was that boyfriend mopey about her choosing the art life instead of spending her summer with him? Absolutely not. Peter had his own thing going on (this was how MJ downplayed the daily saving of lives). Besides, they found ways to see each other. Like how she bought the famous Spider-Man a hot dog in Central Park after he turned one end of the skipping ropes for a couple of kids playing Double Dutch. Or how he scared the bejesus out of her while she was painting alone in the studio and glanced around to see what was throwing a shadow on her canvas (just a dork waving at her through the window―a window on the fourth floor).

They had to be careful when Peter was in the suit; it wasn’t really safe for any of those freaks (‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes,’ or whatever) to make potentially skulking bad guys aware that they had less-than-super friends, kids, girlfriends, etc. Lucky for Peter, MJ was incredibly good at careful. It was worth it for the rest of the time that they got to be together without the suit.

The suit wasn’t her problem at the moment though. There was no article of clothing (pioneered by Tony Stark or otherwise) that was her problem. Actually, the lack of clothes was the problem, because she was hesitating, hand hovering over a nude sketch that she wanted to fix. MJ squinted. She just couldn’t see how. A trio of bohemians across the room sent up giggles like scattered pigeons and MJ closed her eyes in irritation. She opened them and stared at the sketch. Yeah, maybe she could stand to watch something else for a while.

With a little subtle angling, she created a line of sight to the other girls. Looked like two of them were clustered around the easel of the third. They were teasing her. Ah, but this particular student―MJ had observed―liked to be teased. It wasn’t the common mocking of the scholarship kid or the uninventive, elementary school, lunch money shakedown. It was that sunny, sticky teasing that left extroverts flushed from all the attention. Yuck.

MJ watched the three friends, studied their postures and dynamic. Everything was food for art. Reading their body language might help her sort out her difficulties with this sketch. She assessed them with her ears as well as her eyes; art might have been a largely visual experience for the viewer, but for her, shaping a piece in ways that could never be understood in the passing sweep of a gaze, it was multisensory. Peter might have taught her a little something about that. He claimed that she had her own enhancements, even without the super-biology.

From their words and the giddy pitch, it was obvious that they were tackling the same type of project that MJ was: a nude. She directed her face downward, towards her page, as she rolled her eyes. Art models were just people, not porn stars. Students at this level should really understand that, MJ felt. Giggling over a bared breast or the muscular indent of a man’s ass was amateurish.

She rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug off the judgement. Ok, maybe these three were inelegant twerps, but who said twerps couldn’t be art? If Dalí could find inspiration in a loaf of bread, then MJ could see how she progressed with a vapid, unoriginal muse. As long as her own work didn’t turn out derivative, the girls could present as clichéd a scene of immaturity as they pleased. MJ listened harder and let her grip loosen on her pencil. The lines would come when she was ready.

“You didn’t,” Girl One insisted.

“Of course she didn’t.” Ooh, bit more of a petty tone from Girl Two. “She just wants the attention. She can’t get the grades, so she’s hoping to cause enough of a scandal that her work is noticed and somebody pays big bucks for it. Who gives a fuck about a degree when some dude drops a million and puts you on the map?”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that big of a deal,” said The Artist Herself. MJ blinked a few times in case any of that false modesty was airborne, keeping her eyes free of the irritants her ears couldn’t help but admit.

“Everyone’s going to freak,” Girl One squealed effervescently.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t stay quiet instead? Just keep this piece for myself or… maybe give it to him?”

“You can’t! This would be, like, a cultural phenomenon.”

Don’t get ahead of yourselves, MJ thought wryly.

Girl Two snorted, earning her a moment of approval from the observer.

“But no one’s even going to know it’s him,” the skeptic argued.

MJ frowned. All of their models this term had been female. Sure, it was reasonable that the artist could’ve had someone else pose for her―either professionally or casually (though MJ didn’t have that kind of relationship with any of her friends)―but it sounded like the girl’s plan A was to submit her piece as part of her coursework. That didn’t add up. Their instructor preferred that the students work from the same subject, one that the professor themselves was familiar with so that they could properly assess the fidelity of the rendering.

“They’ll know by the title,” The Artist Herself asserted.

“You’ll still have to give him a face, Mel.”

“It’s kind of avant-garde this way though, right?” Girl One’s comment was plenty chipper.

“It’s a copout,” Girl Two stated. “If you really slept with him and you’re prepared to tell the tale, you can’t just call the thing ‘Spider-Man in Repose’ and leave it at that.”

They carried on with their playful chatter, but MJ’s hearing had fuzzed out. What they were saying―that this art bitch had nailed her dork of a boyfriend―was impossible. She didn’t need to endorse the ridiculous claim by actually asking Peter if it was true. No, MJ wasn’t heartbroken or confused, she was angry. Didn’t they, any one of them, consider Spider-Man’s privacy? The respect he had earned as a public figure? He wasn’t just a mask, or a picture of that mask on a souvenir t-shirt. This would be libel if Spider-Man’s real identity was known to the general public. Little kids needed to see their hero on the morning news helping old ladies across the street and rescuing animals from burning buildings, not as the subject in some horny coed’s mediocrity.

“―it seriously. This is probably the only case where people are more interested in seeing a celebrity’s face than his dick.”

The pencil fell from MJ’s fingers and she didn’t pick it up, more focused on controlling her expression so she’d look unaffected if any of them glanced over.

“Sandra, stop,” Girl One twittered.

MJ supported the sentiment, if not the tone of voice. She lifted her foot and deliberately stomped on the end of her pencil, snapping the point. Uh oh, it looked like she’d have to go to the supply room to find a sharpener. It was located through a door half a dozen feet behind the other girls. Convenient for sneaking a look at whatever was on that canvas, which would enable her to come up with a tailored plan to fix this.

She began with a loud sigh and a forlorn look at her broken pencil. Again, not trying to be quiet, she pushed her sketch aside and crossed the room. The girls were still talking. Maybe they hadn’t forgotten MJ was there. Maybe they were crossing their fingers that she was a shit-stirrer. A patient zero for the gossip they were hoping to benefit from spreading. She circled around them and darted into the supply room, swinging the door only partially shut while she rattled a box of pencils before coaxing as much noise as possible out of the most ancient-looking sharpener she could find.

“Would you do him again?” Girl One asked.

“If she says no,” Girl Two cut in, “then she’s definitely making it up. Who the hell would hit-it-and-quit-it with Spider-Man? Especially if he’s that ripped under the suit.”

MJ crept to the threshold and looked in their direction. The Artist Herself shifted from one foot to the other, contemplating her own work, and MJ finally got a look at the unfinished painting. In its technical aspects, it was fine. Not accomplished, not garbage. So, better than she’d been expecting. It just wasn’t Peter. Even without a face, it wasn’t Peter. Peter was ripped―not that these people knew that, or ever would―but this wasn’t his body as she’d come to know it. Which was extremely well.

Grinning, MJ hurried back to her sketchbook and flipped it shut. Watching the girls from a different angle had made her consider a new approach to her block with her work in progress, but that wasn’t what propelled her out of the studio. She had an amazing idea.

\\\

“I don’t see how this solves the problem,” Peter said. “It still generates Spider-Man gossip.”

“But if it involves me, no one will believe it,” MJ emphasized, grabbing his shoulder. “I’m background noise in that studio. I’m furniture, Peter. I’ve never tried to be the center of attention and we can use that.”

He narrowed his eyes, but she could see the trust in them, like always.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’re just confused because this is a plan and those are foreign to you.” She gave him a sad smile and released his shoulder with a consoling squeeze.

“Hey―what? I-I plan,” he said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Yep, this was the body of her Spider-Man, not that generic canvas Adonis.

“You’re impulsive and adaptable. You can think on your feet in the middle of a fight, but, babe, you don’t plan.”

“But what about―”

“Peter.”

“There was that time I―”

“Peter.”

He sighed.

“Ok, when are we gonna do this?”

\\\

The research was really only two steps: showing up on campus at different times to learn when The Artist Herself (and co.) normally arrived, and figuring out how to unlatch one of the large studio windows. Both of these elements fit extremely easily into MJ’s schedule.

The friends’ interest in the Spider-Man portrait seemed to rise and fall and rise again; frequently, they actually worked on their own pieces instead of gossiping. Ok, instead of only gossiping. They still gossiped. Whenever it wasn’t about the unfathomably unrealistic Spider-Man affair, MJ drowned them out with headphones and made progress on her sketch.

She gave it a week―the recon―because that was a standard length of time and the mission felt more scientific that way. Ugh, these were Peter’s words. Her head was full of Avengers vernacular these days, all mixed up with a spectrum of graphite hardnesses and the names of a couple dozen French landscape painters. That was how MJ really knew her body wasn’t going to one day reject Peter like a mismatched blood donation. He’d become part of her mental vocabulary, and that was her sanctuary.

She hustled him through the propped-open window and into her physical sanctuary, the studio, on a Friday. Midmorning and the light was clear and white. The room would transform around 4:30pm when a hot afternoon glow inflamed the space through westward-facing glass, but this earlier, crisper light was good for a lot of things. Uniform illumination across textured sheets of watercolour paper. Fidelity of oil paint colours roughly blended and scraped with a palette knife. Minimal shadows cast as Peter’s feet, saran-wrapped into his Spidey suit, landed on the wood floor. With heavier footfalls, thanks to her black combat boots, MJ led him to the supply room and shut them in.

“Cutting it a little close,” she complained, glancing at her watch.

“I was on my way,” Peter said, gesturing widely (what kept MJ calm was the knowledge that his superhuman agility would make sure he caught anything he knocked over before it hit the ground), “and then there was this guy trying to grand theft auto a flour truck out in front of this bakery.” He pointed like the bakery was hiding just across the room behind the industrial-sized jugs of linseed oil. Peter deflated, mind snapped swiftly into the present. “Long story short, the bakery owner promised me free bagels if you wanna go after.”

MJ nodded, trying to tame her fond smirk. She would’ve loved him just as much if his biology had been totally garden-variety, but Peter in the suit―eyes of his mask widening as he relayed his latest crime bust―was adorable.

“After.”

“Ok… ok, great.”

Peter attempted to lean casually into a stack of collapsed easels, which squeaked loudly across the floor, threatening a noisy topple, before he jerked upright and steadied them. The way he’d never gotten calmer about her saying yes to a date was pretty adorable too.

“So, when are they―”

MJ heard the door to the studio bang open and slapped a hand across the mouth area of her boyfriend’s mask. Her palm didn’t actually obstruct his words, but the action silenced him. He tensed at her side as they tilted their heads, listening. A more minor part of the mission―dammit, plan―had been for MJ to make sure there were enough easels, brushes, and various other tools of the trade out on and around the counter that spanned one wall of the studio; the last thing she and Peter needed was an unsuspecting audience member striding into the supply room. Oh, those girls would know they were in here, but it wasn’t going to be by accident.

“You don’t think they’ll leave when they hear us?”

MJ shivered―Peter’s lips were right against her ear. She hadn’t heard him peel up his mask and lean in. Turning her head slightly, she tried to respond just as softly.

“Not these three. They’re shamelessly curious.”

“You’re sure?”

God, her face was getting hot. He was just talking to her. Talking at a whisper. Fine, it was kinda sexy, though there were things besides his last-second questioning of her brilliant plan that she’d rather have heard in that voice.

“You didn’t see the painting,” MJ reminded him.

“Yeah, there’s that,” Peter allowed.

They waited a few minutes longer, enduring the insignificant chatter and grating laughter coming from the studio. MJ tried to keep as still as Peter. Gradually, the human sounds lessened and were replaced by the glop of a brush through too much paint, the hiss of that same brush across a taut canvas. She looked at him and nodded.

“We’re starting?” he murmured.

MJ turn away from the door and smacked the center of his chest, turning the Spidey suit into a slack mass that Peter reflexively caught in his elbows before it could fall all the way down. She raised her eyebrows. Peter let the suit drop.

“This isn’t very romantic,” he complained quietly, yanking his feet free and piling the suit on the lid of a large tub of gesso.

“Yeah, well, we can’t exactly do this with the suit on.”

“The mask?”

MJ assessed his face, everything below his nose uncovered.

“I think half-off is fine, in case they barge in. The lower part of your face isn’t very distinctive.”

She twisted towards the door once more. At this point, they were supposed to be past discussion. Peter really didn’t understand the concept of planning something in advance, even when they had planned this in advance.

“Again with the lack of romance,” he griped, suddenly pressed up right behind her. Immediately, MJ’s heart was pounding more fiercely.

“Trying to be practical, nerd.”

Her voice didn’t come out overly stern, not with Peter’s hands touching down very lightly on her hips.

“But what do I always say when we order pizza and you try to get me to choose between bacon and ham?”

“You don’t need that much meat on a pizza. It’s high in sodium.”

His sigh ruffled the hair hanging in a loose ponytail against the back of her neck.

“No, that’s what you always say. What do I say?”

Pressing her palm to the door, MJ let her eyes slide closed. One of Peter’s hands had ducked under the hem of her shirt. She felt the side of his thumb skim her abdomen.

“That you prefer both,” she replied.

He made a low agreeing noise, flattened his palm against her for a second, then rotated his hand to unbutton her jeans. There was a surge within her. Peter always turned her on, but this was a fresh excitement. Subtly, MJ pressed her hips forward. She heard him breathe harder. His other hand moved from her hip to grasp the waist of her jeans while he unzipped them. She could feel it. She could feel him behind her, rising and thickening. Dipping his hands into her undone jeans, Peter nosed her hair out of the way to kiss her for the first time since they’d entered the room, on the side of her neck.

“I think I prefer both too,” she said.

She felt his teeth as he smiled and pushed against his crotch in response. His groan was abbreviated to a grunt when he clamped his mouth shut; the clench of Peter’s jaw bumped her throat. MJ grinned to herself and rolled into him again. There wasn’t any hesitancy as his fingers pried the thin elastic edge of her underwear away from her skin and plunged one hand beneath it. She gasped aloud and the fact that they were doing this for a reason came back to her. That didn’t mean being overheard had to be the only reason.

Because MJ knew it was one of Peter’s weaknesses, she grasped his wrist, slowly smoothing her hand down to lay flat on the back of his, and urged it further. He panted, kissing her neck, more loosely this time. Reaching up and back with her other hand, she toyed with the little flick of hair at back of his neck, right where it started to curl if he went too long between haircuts―exposed below the peeled up mask. With a shudder, Peter stroked a finger through her increasing arousal. Her hand tensed on his. A subtle widening of her stance wouldn’t be quite so subtle to the guy whose super-senses allowed him to notice the tiniest details even when distracted, but so be it. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know how she wanted him to touch her.

She turned her head, disengaging Peter’s before bringing him back just as quickly with a thorough kiss. Continuously, MJ’s fingers stroked his hairline. Goosebumps spread across the back of his neck.

“Let me know,” she said in a teasing voice, pausing to lick his lower lip, “if I’m being too romantic.”

Peter’s lips smiled against hers.

“And you tell me…” His mouth remained open, questioning almost, as he traced her opening with the tip of his finger. MJ exhaled roughly. “…if I get too practical.”

With that, Peter withdrew his hand (she would not admit to actually fucking whimpering in disappointment), grabbed her hips, and spun her, forcing her back against the door. The resultant thud was followed by confused-sounding voices from their prey in the studio. Exhilarated more than panicked, MJ looked her boyfriend sternly in the eyes of his mask.

“We need to make more noise, now, before they come to investigate,” she murmured.

Appearing to barely make contact with his fist, Peter forced another thump out of the door. MJ rolled her eyes, heartrate dropping.

“Not like that. They’ll just think somebody’s locked in here.”

“Like what then?”

“Like… sex-type noises,” she said, gesturing vaguely before folding her arms around his neck, fingers back to playing with his hair.

The only problem with Peter’s improvising was that he didn’t give her enough time to check him out―wearing nothing but his boxers and folded-up mask―before he did it. He just stepped close and snatched the jeans and underwear down her legs, then cupped his hand between them. MJ panted in surprise and reawakened desire. It wasn’t loud enough. They both knew it.

Necessity was supposed to be the mother of invention, but she figured the smirk on Peter’s face right before he stroked his finger inside her was necessity’s other child. MJ sighed in pleasure and paired it with a look that said, about time, nerd. Though he dug in deeper, he would only curl his finger slightly, making her hips wriggle and, consequently, bump against the door.

Shit, there were footsteps heading their way. Peter had it handled―MJ flushed retroactively at her mental double-entendre―pressing another finger into her and hooking both firmly. She let out a genuine wail.

From the other side of the door, a hysterical giggle.

MJ didn’t care what they said, just that the girls stayed in the studio―that was vital. Rather than straining to hear the specific words constructing the scandalized tone, she pulled Peter closer. Running a palm down his chest, she had him faintly trembling before she suddenly grasped his erection through his boxers. He groaned loudly enough to send a prickle down MJ’s spine. Now the listeners would know there were two people in here, instead of a lone pervert masturbating to the sight of uniformly sharpened coloured pencils. (She did enjoy being surrounded by beautiful new art supplies, just not in a way that made her want to go American Pie on them.)

Biting lightly along Peter’s jaw (so maybe she thought the lower part of his face was more special and alluring than she’d implied), MJ released her hold on him, only to sneak her hand inside his boxers and grasp him properly. He was hot and pulsing in her palm, breath muggy on the side of her face. It intensified her pleasure. She stroked him, steady and torturous, and eased down on his fingers as Peter continued his own motions.

“You’re getting me so wet, Spider-Man,” MJ breathed.

Peter tilted his head away.

“Louder,” he said.

She kissed him before taking a good look at his parted lips and the pink of his cheeks, delicate as a watercolour wash. Peter interrupted her study.

“They should hear you say it,” he prompted, glancing down to where he fingered her. “So they know you’re in here with him. Me.”

Gradually, still grinding down on his hand as he kept a fixed momentum, MJ grinned.

“Would it really be for their benefit, or yours?”

Peter looked up immediately. His gaze slid from one of her eyes to the other. Suddenly, he jabbed his fingers more insistently. MJ gasped and automatically squeezed her fist, making her boyfriend lurch closer.

“Let me see you for a minute,” she said. It stopped being a request as she pushed his mask up herself.

He raised his free hand, trailing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, then slapped his palm to the door, making it (and her heart) jump. Biting down on her lip, she tempered and tenderized her excited smile.

“Just say it,” Peter demanded, brown eyes molten.

Letting her head tip back and hit the door, MJ repeated herself at a much higher volume. That got the girls in the studio talking again.

“Better?” she asked Peter, looking him square in the eye. He shook his head.

“I didn’t like that one either.”

His thumb went to her clit and she rubbed while he held still, fingers unmoving inside her.

“Suggestions?”

MJ was trying for nonchalant. The truth was that she couldn’t manage a full sentence, not at the moment, not while a tingle like static charge was building, climbing her body from the location of Peter’s thumb. He gave her a kind, very normal, Peter sort of smile.

“Say it to me.”

Locking eyes with him, MJ rotated her wrist, caressing up and down his length. She saw his jaw clench.

“You’re getting me so wet, Spider-Man.”

Peter exhaled evenly.

“Condom?”

“Front pocket.”

First, his hand went from the door into his boxers, gently unwrapping her fingers from his dick with an expression of great sacrifice on his face. Continuing to gaze back at her, Peter pushed his boxers off and nudged them away with the side of his foot. MJ lowered her eyes to sweep his body, but when they came back up, she discovered he hadn’t quit looking at her. With another trust-inspiring smile, he knelt. Dextrous fingers retrieved the condom from her jeans. Peter kissed her hip, her inner thigh, before helping her out of her boots and clothing the rest of the way. Only her thin t-shirt stayed on, and he could probably feel her nipples through that, especially when he straightened up and lifted her by the backs of her thighs. MJ’s hand met his against her leg and she took charge of the condom, opening it and then unrolling it on him.

“Already feels good,” Peter told her. She kissed him for a lengthy minute in exchange for his honesty. And for his desire for her, currently standing rigid between them. “M,” he whispered fervently as their mouths parted.

Her inner thighs clamped to his hips as she shifted, angling herself. Ready. He was careful not to hide his grin as he tugged the mask back down over his eyes and nose. Peter’s expression became focused as he followed her guiding hand, delving into her. Already too worked up to receive him slowly, MJ used her legs to draw him all the way in, although it stopped her breath. When she inhaled, the sound in her ears was of someone surfacing from a deep dive.

“Spider-Man,” MJ said, loud, clear, hungry.

Peter thrust.

“Oh, Jesus,” she gasped, though she’d only ever found religion in paintings; angels―good and terrible―in unearthly detail, or obscured by heavenly backlighting.

Her boyfriend spoke to her like mindreading was part of his lunchbox assortment of superpowers.

“How would you paint me,” Peter asked, begging while he commanded. Another thrust, deeper. She clung to his shoulders.

“Haloed,” MJ panted.

Surging forward, he kissed her messily. She did nothing to bring order to the kiss, tongue twisting and tumbling with Peter’s, moaning lustfully into his mouth. He rocked his hips even harder when MJ clawed her fingers into his hair beneath the mask and took a good grip. She didn’t know anymore if they were noisy, couldn’t count how many times his driving thrusts tested the strength of the door. Every breath shaky, MJ rolled what felt like her entire body. She sweat―the room’s circulation was poor and the day must have been getting hotter―and Peter’s hand smoothed greedily over her hip and up to her waist, under her t-shirt.

His other hand supported her, the grip on her leg soft yet strong, and MJ was confident, throwing her hips down onto his, caught by a solid prod and the best feeling in the world. Peter bucked faster and her hand clamped to the back of his neck, the other sticky on his shoulder. Formless, desperate sounds left her mouth, giving up on the kiss, and convinced her boyfriend to reach between her legs and manipulate her clit in tight circles.

“Spide… Spi… Sp…”

MJ climaxed, yanking Peter’s torso to hers, and squeezing her eyes shut. Things were blurry, even inside her head. Holding tight to thighs that felt only distantly like her own, Peter strove through a final handful of thrusts, ending in a completion that heaved MJ’s limp body into the door one last time. They waited it out, the calming. She wanted to tell him that he was her hero for not having weak human arms, which might have been worn out by the sex and set her bare ass down on the supply room floor (ew), but she prioritized breathing. There would be other opportunities to make the nerd blush.

Peter exhaled forcefully after a little bit.

“Are you good? Do you wanna stand?” He pulled back, swiping hair away from her face. Damn ponytail had been too loose.

“Yeah.”

MJ’s feet touched the floor and she stepped around Peter. That was when her legs forgot how to be legs and she tripped over a massive roll of bubble wrap. The jolt woke her up, but it was Peter’s quick hands that caught her.

“Now I’m good,” she said, a little giddy.

“Ok.”

Peter’s hands backed off, but his arms stayed extended towards her.

“Relax.” Her voice probably wasn’t sarcastic enough to hide how sweet she thought he was being. “If I need rescuing while I put my pants on, you’ll be the first to know.”

They dressed quickly―meaning MJ did her best, skipping her socks (they went into her pocket), while Peter stood there, already in his full Spider-Man suit. Yeah, if her outfit was a single sausage casing, she’d be fast too. She assumed the condom had made it into the large trash can, alongside pencil shavings and her classmates’ scrapped ideas.

“Show off,” she mumbled.

“Hey, I don’t want to keep the bakery guy waiting. I have a lot of respect for the schedule of a man who wants to give me free bagels.”

MJ couldn’t see the smirk on his face since he’d pulled the mask down, but she could hear it.

“Yeah, yeah. Go out the window and I’ll meet you two blocks down, like we planned.”

Peter nodded and she let him hold the door for her as they stepped out into the studio. Looked like the audience had hung around. Applause would’ve been nice, MJ couldn’t lie.

“Until next time,” she told Spider-Man, ignoring the others for a moment.

He did a lame little salute that she was definitely never going to let him do again before bounding to the window and scrambling out. Maybe it was smoother than a scramble, but she was suffering from the lameness of the salute.

“How’s the painting going?” she asked The Artist in a tone of colossal disinterest once Spider-Man was out of sight.

Before the girl could answer―or maybe she couldn’t, all three of them did look pretty stunned―MJ strolled to the far end of the studio and collected her sketchbook and pencils, tucking them into her bag. The trio continued to stare at her as she leisurely returned and circled behind them to scrutinize the artwork for herself.

“Huh,” she said, and headed for the door.

One of them―Girl Two, if her memory served―managed a few words.

“Was that…?”

MJ turned back to them, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

“Yeah.”

With a ridiculous feeling of power, she approached them again and pointed at the painting of so-called ‘Spider-Man.’ Her finger made a circle in the air in front of not-Peter’s crotch.

“You haven’t been generous enough here,” she critiqued. “I’d drop his name from the title, if I were you. The inaccuracy gives the whole thing away. Not that any of you will ever get the chance to see for yourselves.”

This time MJ didn’t pause on her way out, just called back, “Have a super weekend,” and let the door bang behind her.

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livayl · 5 years

Text

The warmth of comfort that kindled a desire (Par 1)

I actually needed two weeks of building courage to post this because part 2 did slip into the 18+ category. But in this part you´ll only have Marya and Amaziah both exhausted and coming down ill, comforting each other. At least as far as that goes with those two. ;) A little warning for a general description of war in the first paragraph, just skip that one if you want to. And don´t worry, the story is not violent or sad.

And as always, please only re-blog it to other kink blogs, thank you. :)

The silence was one often heard after a long fought battle. Once the seemingly eternal clash of weapons, the song of blood and steel, had ended. When no more magic split the atmosphere with thunderous lightning bolts and all consuming flames. As soon as the last gigantic foe fell, the earth trembling one last time in fear as the ground is crushed by it´s dead weight. Once all crying had stilled, the last breath was choked and even the bravest heartbeat deceased, this was when the silence became more deafening than the loudest roar.

And so their army marched, shrouded in screaming stillness. Ice cracked sharply underneath heavy set steps. A victorious return that still seemed to be too much of a loss.

Dawning had tinted the snow deep lilac and painted the horizon a blazing orange-red. A fiercely smoldering sun rose from its slumber to awaken the coming day still wrapped in haze. The few trees and abandoned houses they passed where still no more than black silhouettes in front of the glowing skyline that shadowed their surroundings with twisted black shades. It was an eery yet appealing atmosphere that Amaziah would have enjoyed if not for the pungent stench of war and ashes that lingered even after leaving the battlefield long behind. Hugging her whole body tightly like an old lover resistant to be left unattended. Her magic; as destructive as it was: The only love she once thought of being exhilarating in all its clashing emotions had now turned to drain her deeply. Carving a big hollow space where it once could almost be described as all pervading. The turns her mind took made her snort derisively and silently chide herself. She really must be tired to indulge in such foggy nonsense instead of keeping watch properly.

"Are you unwell?" A whispered voice asked as a small, gloved hand gently came to rest on her armor clad lower arm. Amaziah swore that she could feel good intentions melting into her like a pleasant warmth radiating through the icy metal trapping her skin. May it be the moments own kind of magic or her wishful imagination.

"Forgive me, just lost in thought. But you seem cold and exhausted, Love." She answered upon looking down, gently tightening the grip around the small figure seated in front of her. Maryas head titled back just enough to shift her hood and release a curled, lustrous mass of hair into the open. The ever present wind entangled those silky wisps even more, making them dance and waft around a shockingly haggard looking face. The still dim light made it hard to tell but Maryas usually bright blue eyes seemed veiled and unfocused with eyelids at half-mast and lashes breathed on by frost. They also were unusual shiny, almost feverish and deeply embedded into the lilac shadows surrounding them. Her face appeared to have lost its color completely, hovering in between flowy coppery waves like a pallid ghost dappled in freckles. Full, paled lips slightly parted under a rosy-tinted, very sniffly nose. Her body slightly swayed, if to balance out the wyverns fast pace or out of exhaustion was hard to tell.

"I do? You should look into a mirror yourself more often." Marya said, her normal melodious speech all rough around the edges. Her body unconsciously pressed closer to the Archmages front, longing for comfort. "Oh I would for sure but there is always this angry, terrifying face that keeps staring back. It is haunting me." That made Marya laugh despite the circumstances which rapidly turned into a rattling coughing fit. "Ugh. Now that was scary too..." She breathed, still panting, and shivery huddled deeper into her coat. "Here, let me try something..." Amaziahs strong yet delicate, already bare fingers gently plucked the fingertips of Maryas fine leather gloves to slowly undress her trembling hands. She could not help but to shudder a little more as her once sun kissed skin was exposed to a sharp frostbite inch by inch. Compared to the exquisitely soft, always warm dragonskin Amaziahs own seemed rough and cold when she entwined their hands with each other. Yet, how cold could a woman be that had defied the searing blaze of a dragon just to defend others. And to give out wonderfully warm clothes, too apparently.

Marya startled a little as a prickling sensation started to spread from her hands up to her arms. It was not unpleasant and seemed vaguely familiar. She concentrated hard enough to recognize her veins resonating with the well known, almost erratic, seething pulse which infused the battle mages body. One that could be as feeble as a freshly ignited candles flame dancing in a breeze, only to grow to a burning, all consuming blaze within a heartbeat should the winds turn. For a second it felt like an overwhelming wave erupting through a bursting volcanoes crater. It flooded her with almost unbearable heat that took her breath away only to lessen to a slowly flowing stream of constant warmth not unlike magma- albeit less deadly. The Archmage; a hardly controlled force of nature. Not that this was something unusual.

"Forgive me, that did not go entirely as planned." "Oh so you did not want to ignite me?" "Mhmm not today at least, no. Does it feel fine now?" Maryas focus went inward once again. The steady flow of magic had now unfurled throughout her whole body. It felt like floating in silky hot healing water with one of those bubbling bath soaps. Of course no one ever would add one of those to a healing basin. Though it should have been something worth consideration. They were perfumed nicely and felt so fizzy and- really really tingly? Tickling her almost too much to enjoy- "apTSCHIh!-ISSCHuh!- hah-ITSCHiiuh! Ihhh-s it supposed to tickle my nnnh-nose?" The sensation had peaked too fast for her to unwind her hands from Amaziahs grip and had left her no choice but to sneeze openly down her lap. "That tickle seemed to be rooted somewhere else." Amaziah replied, still reluctant to loosen her grip despite Maryas increasingly desperate efforts to squirm out of it. "Whah-hah-TSCHih!- hdt~TSCHIU! -apTSCHIEW! What a shame. I thought- hii-IIISCHHiuuh! you found a new battle strategy. SNNFFFff please let go of my hands." "But then you´ll be cold again." "Spitting all over the place is not much better!" Amaziah unwillingly agreed to free one, but not without a ridiculed glance down her still blood stained armor. She wrinkled her brow at that thickly clotted mass of charcoal frost-giant-leftover still coating her whole right side. "I've been splattered with worse today." She paused while Marya cleaned her nose with a gurgling blow that ended with a pair of raspy coughs. "You could try to sleep a little. We will reach the outpost before mid morning and as much as I already despise it, I´m sure there will be plenty more in need of your services."

There had been more indeed. Not enough to be numbered as plenty but a sufficient amount to reduce her still battle deprived mental and physical resources to a shaking, almost nonexistent core. Marya could almost feel Amaziahs worried gaze burning through her back as she had finally been dismissed to retreat to their shared tent. Her mind was drifting in and out of a fevery blur, only vaguely aware of the outstretched arm behind her. She was carried on heavy legs that felt numb with exhaustion, one wavering step after the other. Suddenly, her complete range of vision seemed to loose fight against an ever present, approaching darkness that had patiently lurked in the corners. Focus blackening and eyelids barely lifting anymore, everything so heavy as if smeared with glue, she realized: I´m about to pass out.

When she regained consciousness it was mainly through the slightly irregular rise and fall of her pillow. But pillows did not move or breath. Right? Nor should they feel that solid. She blearily rubbed her face deeper into the thing she recognized as a shoulder connected to a small yet soft curve she knew all to well. Her hand was placed above a slightly hollow, firm belly that contorted in rhythm of every hitch. And there, under a mutually used cozy blanket, was that protective grip on the small of her back she had come to appreciate.

Marya also realized that faint, but oh so familiar smell of bergamot paired with a deep underlining of sandalwood that finally teased her out of that fuzzy warm place her mind must have hidden in. That she was able to discern it also confirmed that she felt much better. Less the stuffy, achy and overall exhausted mess she had been just a blink of an eye ago. Eyes still closed she was still wondering how she had managed to retreat to their shared bed when the former light, yet recurring hitch suddenly accumulated to an urgent gasp. Which then accumulated in a single, violent and full-bodied attempt to stifle what hardly could be contained. The action, while relatively quiet, shook her as well and made her rip open her eyes as she needed to steady herself.

"Woah. Gesundheit!" She exclaimed as the surprise had chased away any afterthought of drifting back to sleep again. Amaziah, who obviously still struggled to compose herself, just looked at her. All teary eyed, disheveled and maybe more than a bit embarrassed. "Apologies." "No worries." Marya giggled as she draped first herself and then the blanket back over the Archmages body. "How do you feel? Did the potion work?" Amaziah asked. "Much better actually. Was I unconscious for long?" "No, a minute or two at best. But you've slept for a few hours, which I am really glad for." "Were you able to sleep, too?" Marya then asked, growing increasingly worried at the heat radiating off the Archmages usually cool body. Now, upon close inspection, there were also lots of tiny, gleaming beads of sweat glistening on her feverishly hued skin. "Mhmm... I did not feel tired." Amaziah replied elusively. "Also, I had to resume my likewise infinite war with the oh so dreaded paperwork" She added, chin nodding to her side where different scrolls and books littered the otherwise unoccupied half of the bed. "Did you at least have a potion? I could brew you one." Marya offered. She was readying herself to get up again but was swiftly and very decisively hindered with a smooth pull and an even softer kiss. "No. Potions are for those who are in need of them. And you still have to rest." "But you are ill, too!" "Hardly." "Of course. As much as I enjoy cuddling with you, your clothes are about to be drenched in sweat. And you almost threw me out of the bed with that sneeze a minute ago!" "I did not sneeze." "Oh? Then that suppressed monstrosity was a seizure. Which is even more worrying. And- ooh look, it is about to happen again!" To that the Archmage almost frantically shook her head, whether in denial or to ward of the inevitable did not seem too clear. Her flaring nostrils, increasingly deepening inhales and knitted browline did speak a much more obvious language though. As did the suddenly handkerchief-clad hands that flew up to cover a harsh sounding: "Huh-EESCCCH-AH..." quickly followed by a rushed, hastily muffled and messy "HEHIIZSSSCH-ue!" that rattled both of them. Amaziah could not help but to cough and blow productively in the aftermath. When she was finished the effort left her nose red rimmed and still vaguely shiny with fluid. "Ugh- I am disgusting, forgive me." The Archmage mumbled, nose already crinkled and twitchy with a newly rising discomfort that made her sit up and turn away. "No, you are ill." Marya soothed and hugged her Love from behind. "With me that-..." Amaziah stopped and raised a vaguely trembling hand towards her lower facial regions. There it came to rest securely caged around her mouth with a thumb and forefinger already hovering around each widened nostril. She felt each slight expansion tremble against her fingertips as the next inhale reached a sudden crescendo. Her grip tightened in a fruitless attempt to squelch her stubborn nose into submission that ended with a painfully held back, entirely unsatisfying release. Quickly followed by an almost agonized groan. "Excuse me...With me that amounts to the same thing, I´m afraid."

#my fic #my oc #elves #Marya #Amaziah #snzfic #sneeze #cold #female

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pillowfluffs · 6 years

Text

Pillow Fort!Changkyun

Pairing: Changkyun X Reader (gender neutral) ft. Wonho and Kihyun

Genre: fluffffsssss

Summary: You come home after a long day of work to a surprise you didn’t know you needed ;)

Author’s note: I hope you guys like this! I had a lot of fun writing this, as well as everything I write uwu And as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

The sky woke up moments ago, bringing light to the world once again. The sun rose as a canopy of gold, bright amid the blue, bidding the stars to take their nightly rest. Darkness surrendered and every color changes from tinges of charcoal to vibrancy. The sky began to glow like a Summer peach, peeking through the curtains of the bedroom, painting the walls with the rich pastel colors. Changkyun and you laid peacefully deep in sleep with his arm wrapped around your stomach and your back to his bare chest. The sound of deep breaths filled the room with a comfortable silence, only to be disturbed by the blaring alarm of your phone going off on the small nightstand to the side of your bed. You were suddenly pulled out of your sleep by the vexatious sound of your alarm, making you dread this day already. This past weekend, you had one of the most tranquilizing weekends with Changkyun: the two of you stayed home, barely went out into the cold world, spent time reading, taking pictures, taking a bubble bath together, which just led to hugs and kisses. It was a weekend you never wanted to end, but here you were listening to the one thing that told you that your weekend was over. You reached over from your snug position in Changkyun’s arms, shutting off the alarm before waking Changkyun. It was too early for your liking, but you had to get up and go to work, leaving Changkyun home by himself.

You carefully rolled onto your other side and looked at him. His features were much softer in sleep, seeming much more at peace. The edges of his raven hair covered his eyes a little, but you could still see his long lashes through them. You wanted nothing more than to just pull the blanket over your shoulder and curl up into the curve of his body, but as life demanded, you had to go. With little energy to even keep your eyes awake, you reached up feeling his honeyed skin with his natural warmth blooming into your hand. “I don’t want to leave,” your voice was barely audible as you made yourself leave him, beginning to sit up and get out of bed.

A firm grasp was latched onto your wrist pulling you back down to bed. Changkyun had laid his arm out, catching you so you were now trapped in his arms as well as his legs since they were now wrapped around your own legs. “Then don’t,” he said lowly, feeding the side of you that wanted to not go either. “Stay with me.” He opened his eyes, looking into yours, mesmerized at how the vibrant colors from the sunrise outside made a captivating background as he now looked at you. “Hm?”

As much as you wanted to nod, closing your eyes and holding Changkyun back to sleep yourself, you had to resist. “I have to go to work.” You pouted, sounding more like a whine than you wanted. You reached up to unlatch his arms from you, but he tightened his grip, refusing to let you leave him.

“No~ The bed will be cold without you here,” he was being saccharine with you, especially at this moment, giving you gentle touches, lightly drawing shapes against your back and arm. “Stay with me~” He gave you a playful nudge, hoping you would stay with him one more day. You resisted the urge to lean in and just kiss him and going back to sleep, but you had to be responsible now that you were an adult.

“Kyun, I have to go,” you sounded negative. “I have to go now or else I’ll be late and I’ll be in even more trouble than I already am..” You pushed your hand against his chest, feeling his warmth once again. You began to see him clearer and clearer as the sun rose higher, brightening the room.

“Why are you in trouble?” he asked light-heartedly, loosening his grip on you.

“My manager and I recently got closer by talking more, but I didn’t think we were that close, but she did so she invited me to have a spa day with her this past weekend because her boyfriend recently broke up with her. They were together for like two months, but it was devastating for her. I obviously didn’t go because I spent the weekend with you and she said it was fine because she invited other people, but apparently she didn’t. At the end of the day yesterday, C/N texted me and told me that she was upset with me, so I gotta go or else it’ll get worse.” You took this moment as he listened to your story, moving his arms off of you, but you leaned back down, pecking his lips.

“Ah, Y/N,” he exclaimed, realizing what you had done, but didn’t want to move to catch you; you had to go, so he had to let you go. He laid, adjusting his position so he watched you walk to and from the bathroom and the closet, getting ready, beginning to doze off. He closed his eyes, letting the sound of the water running lull him back to sleep. You always got ready at a fast pace, even faster than he did, but it made things easier for the two of you.

You finished getting dressed in your business attire, preparing for the long day you knew you were about to go through. You stepped from the bathroom back into the bedroom once again seeing Changkyun was on his back with his body turned at an angle with the blanket up to his waist as he slept peacefully. You had a clear view of his face, seeing it in a brighter light from the sun. You knelt down beside the bed feeling the soft carpet against your knees, resting your chin on your arm as you took in the small details of Changkyun’s face. “I’m going now, sleep well.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead with your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat faintly.

“Come back to me soon,” he said half asleep, holding your hand on his clement chest giving it a squeeze before he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

“I will,” you whispered, bringing the blanket up, covering him more. “Sleep well.” You got up feeling his hand trying to hold onto yours, but you slipped away, quietly shutting the door behind you. The hallway was lit up with the soft colors of the morning from the various windows as well as the skylight in the stairwell. You descended down the stairs, hoping you could beat the traffic on your way to work, but now that you were a little behind, you doubted it. As you reached the bottom of the stairs, your phone vibrated, making your heart drop, hoping it wasn’t your manager who just texted you about being “late.”

Kyun: I miss you ;(

You smiled at the message but continued your way preparing to leave for the new week. The kitchen was the brightest place, letting the sun’s early rays into your home. You quickly brewed some coffee/tea before you swiftly put on your jacket and shoes leaving. The cool morning air woke you up, making you feel as fresh as ever, which was a nice touch even though you might have to face the wrath of your manager once you get to work. The neighborhood was as silent as if it was the middle of the night at this early time. You got into your car, feeling the cool leather from the low temperatures at night against your skin. You turned the key to your car, waking it up from its slumber, turning on the radio as well to listen to some music. Normally when you drove, Changkyun sat beside you in the passenger’s seat using his phone and the bluetooth to listen to his car ride playlist he had created after the two of you drove to the beach once.

You drove through the streets, fortunately being behind the normal heavy traffic which always made you a bit late to work every time you were caught up in it. All you could hear in those moments were the sounds of various car horns honking all around you even though it did no justice to the traffic. Your workplace was quite a ways away, so at least, again, you had some tranquility before the storm. You turned up the radio hearing the weather broadcast chime in after a song.

“Good morning listeners!” The host was always so bubbly, sometimes it annoyed you and made you want to just turn off the radio at times: their voice was just always too chirpy and bright this morning. You were a night owl: you disliked mornings and how bright things were at times and how most of the year, morning dew was on everything. “On today’s broadcast, weather may be sunny now, but be prepared for heavy rainstorms later today!”

“What? No way,” you spoke to yourself glancing outside as you drove, drowning out the voice of the weatherman on the radio forecasting the rest of the week’s weather. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky; only the pale blue sky and the sun. “There must be some mistake..” At least you hoped it was a mistake. The company you worked for wasn’t too big so there wasn’t an official parking garage for employees so cars were out in the open and of course for your luck, you had nothing to shield yourself from the rain. “Welp, hopefully, the rain won’t be too big or it’ll be done by the time my shift ends..”

Changkyun laid as if he was a statue, laying on his side now hugging your pillow in his arm with his face nuzzled into the plush thing, filled with your natural scent. Although his eyes were quite heavy, feeling low in energy, he was unable to fall under the sandman’s spell now that you were no longer with him in bed. The faint sounds of cars driving outside as well as birds singing their morning tunes filled the silent room.

His mind buzzed with thoughts and moments the two of you had shared this past weekend, reminiscing in the sweetness of you.

He began to come in his senses, his mind slowly waking along with him. He laid on his side, reaching towards you only to feel the soft fabric of the bed to his dismay. The sun shone into the room, giving him a warm welcome to the world once again. The blanket covering his body fell into his lap as he sat up, yawning, exposing his bare upper half. Waking up was one thing, but now that he actually had to get up, it made him wonder if staying in bed and falling asleep once again would be the best plan of action. After a moment of sitting there staring off into space, he finally moved, turning in his spot at the bed, bending down to slip on his black pajama pants as well as put on an oversized white long sleeve he had stripped off last night before getting into bed.

He dragged his feet over the soft carpet towards the bathroom, rubbing his eyes awake to remove any last bits of sleepiness. The cool water like a slap to his face as he washed it, beginning his day. He gently stepped down the stairs, beginning to smell the sweet goodness of whatever you were making, assuming you were making breakfast. He walked towards the kitchen, seeing you standing at the stove wearing a pair of his pajama pants as well as one of his white shirts which were baggy on your figure. You stood at the stove, humming sweetly to yourself as you held a spatula in your hand, waiting for the french toast to toast. He snaked his arms around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Good morning~” he chimed, pressing kisses to your cheek and neck. “Smells good, what are you making?” He rocked the two of you back and forth on his feet resting his chin on your shoulder.

You rested your head on his shoulder holding his arms in one of your hands as the other held the spatula. “French toast,” you said. The sun shined beautifully into the kitchen and with the help of the walls, it made everything seem even brighter than normal. You flipped the french toast, seeing a perfect shade of golden brown, letting the sound of the sizzling fill your ears.

He couldn’t explain it but Changkyun felt an overwhelming amount of happiness spread through him, making him sway you harder, taking the spatula from his hand, putting it on one an empty plate. He began to sing, turning you around, twirling you in the kitchen, singing a tune the two of you knew like the back of your hands. The two of you began to sing happily out of the blue, dancing in the kitchen as if there was no tomorrow. He twirled you around, holding your hand in one while the other was wrapped around your waist holding you close.

“Are you okay?” you laughed after things had calmed back down and hen two of you had returned to your original position, but now Changkyun held you in a more intimate way.

“Can’t I just show you my love?” His words were honeyed, but you couldn’t help but feel suspicious. The two of you ate breakfast, listening to soft music from his phone. You were showered in compliments from Changkyun, observing him since you hadn’t really seen him act this affectionate before; only when he was very sleep deprived did he show the side which adored you and you were a living heavenly being to him. Now that he was fully awake and well rested, you couldn't help but let faint suspiciousness dawn over you.

Changkyun laid there in bed, letting the memories of this past weekend play in his head like a movie, remembering his most favorite parts. He sighed, wishing he had held onto you tighter, making you really not leave for work.

As much as you enjoyed the sound of rain, you despised the pouring downfall at the moment. You wanted to wait it out, hoping the heavy downfall would lighten up but alas you were already almost half an hour late and with no umbrellas or anything in the car, you had to make a run for it to the front entrance. You were for sure going to get wet; since you were late, there were no good parking spots close to the entrance. You got your badge to enter the doors ready in hand as well as your coat and belongings you needed for the day. You took a deep breath before you sped out of your car, running towards the glass doors feeling your clothes being drenched in a matter of seconds. You stuck your badge at the sensor, which normally opened the doors opened instantly, but nothing happened. “This can’t be happening right now.” You tried again continuously trying to get the sensor to work. There was no overhead protection so here you were late to work, standing in the thunderous rainstorm the weatherman had predicted en route here. Fortunately, the security at the front desk saw your predicament, making his way over to you, prying the glass doors open.

“Ah, sorry about that, the storm knocked some things out in the building. Computers have been flickering so hey, there’s a chance you might get to go home early.” the security guard flashed you a smile before you returned the smile, making your way to the elevator with your shoes squeaking as you walked. “Oh, elevators are out too. What floor do you work on?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, making it knot. You worked in a twenty story business corporation and you were already late. “This day really couldn’t any better, can it?” you thought to yourself. “I work on the top floor..” You trudged your way grumpily towards the stairs, beginning the ascent. “I’m gonna die; my manager’s gonna kill me..” You pouted to yourself. At this point, you began to regret coming into work today; you should have listened to Changkyun and stayed with him. “I could have been sleeping with him right now,” you sighed.

You walked up the stairs after what felt like an eternity, but luckily, your clothes had dried a good amount on the way up but now all you were was cold and you had an inkling you were most likely going to get sick from this. Your hair was damp, making it obvious to everyone you were stuck in the rain. You entered the entrance to your floor, feeling the normal hum of business, hearing the occasional phone call as well as the quiet voices of your coworkers. “I wonder if he’s asleep..” you thought as you made your way to your desk littered with little knick-knacks you had brought from home to make you feel comfortable. You hadn’t spotted your manager, but you saw her mark. All employees had two bins, one on each side of your desk: one for the paperwork they had to do throughout the day or week and the other for finished work. There was literally a two almost three-inch stack of packets of paperwork you had to go through and on the top was a heart-shaped sticky note on top. “Finish these by today~” A note from your manager. As much as you wanted to just go up to her and tell her that she was being a child with this, you resisted that urge so you wouldn’t have to go through anything like this again.

You draped your coat over your chair and placed your belongings onto your desk, beginning the work quietly, trying to get as much done as fast as you could. Today was the start of your miserable day, and you could’ve avoided it, but on the bright side to you, once you got it done, it was done and in the past.

“Oh, Y/N, you’re here.” A familiar voice had popped up, [pulling your attention from the mountain of your work. It was your coworker who had texted you. “You have the luckiest timing.”

“Oh, good morning C/N. How do I have the best timing?” You glanced back to your work, refocusing once again.

“M/N left and took the day off. She said she was too sad about her breakup still so she said she won’t be in but we don’t know for how long. What she did say was was that this was your work and she expects it all to be done by the time she comes back.” You could hear how sorry your coworker felt for you now seeing the amount of work she had given you. “Do you want me to help? It looks like you could need it.”

“As much as I want to say yes, I should do it myself,” you sighed. “She invited me over the weekend to have like a spa day with her because we had been getting closer by just talking more and I didn’t go and just spend it with Changkyun,” you said without looking up. “I should get her a gift before she comes back... Anyways, thank you for the offer. I’ll just get as much done as I have to today.”

“Good luck, but really, if you do need the help, you know where my desk is.” She gave you a sincere smile, giving your shoulder a squeeze.

“Thank you.” You sighed, preparing yourself mentally for the work and most likely stress you were about to go through.

Changkyun sat in the kitchen now with his pajamas on once again, slowly eating a bowl of cereal, scrolling through his phone in silence, though his mind was thinking about the day and what he could do alone now that you were at work. He had no plans and neither did the group, but he didn’t really want to go over to the dorms; he just wanted to stay home. He contemplated what he could do: write lyrics, play video games on the computer, watch tv, read, sleep again, but all these things he wanted to do with you. It wasn’t until he was about to eat the last spoonful of his cereal until the idea hit him: build a pillow fort for you.

He thought back to Saturday evening after dinner, the two of you had watched movies and you had asked to build a fort with pillows and blankets so it would become like a mini home theater, but much more comfortable. As fun as it sounded to him too, he decided not to and the two of you just ended up enjoying a movie on the couch sharing a blanket. You sounded so excited, suggesting all these things and additions to add to it. Your eyes literally lit up when you mentioned the idea to Changkyun, but faded away after telling you no.

He pulled up notes on his phone, listing the things you had mentioned you wanted to add in order to make it a perfect fort. Soon, Changkyun had grown excited himself now that he had a self-given mission and he was determined to make it memorable for you.

Throughout the day, you had pushed through your work, trying to get it done as fast and efficiently as possible. Changkyun had been silent with you, making your curiosity rise even more since he had messaged you every now and then with messages like asking you how you were doing, how you were feeling. The main thing got you through the day was your messages to Changkyun which were sent one after the other every few half hours or hours. You messaged him answering to the things he would normally ask, the food you were craving, what you wanted to do with him was just eat and sleep and watch movies.

Changkyun resisted the urge to message you and you didn’t help by messaging him, but to him, he enjoyed everything since he was determined to make you happy. He adored seeing your smile and if his doctor had told him he only had ten minutes to live, he would only wanna see your smile and hear your laugh in those last ten minutes.

The day had gone by faster than it felt, but what made it worse was that you could feel your energy depleting. You were about a fourth of the way done with your work, but it was technically busywork rather than the official business work where you, most of the time, had to make numerous phone calls. In the middle of the shift, you finally caved, asking C/N for help to which she was happy you finally asked. The two of you sat at your desk, catching up on some things, wondering what you had missed on your day off on Saturday. You always liked C/N’s personality and just how she was as a human in this world. There weren’t many people you had met who were as open-minded as her.

Changkyun wore his white shirt with blue jeans with the front of his shirt tucked in and his hair parted and lensless glasses as he loomed down the aisles of the craft store looking for some fairy lights you had mentioned, but not the normal ones: the super tiny LED ones that were coiled together on chicken wire. Those were your favorite and no one really had them; to you, it felt like your own secret little cool thing. After walking around the entire mostly empty store, he was able to find what he was looking for, tossing about two bunches of them into his basket. Leaving the store, it dawned at him that he didn’t have enough muscle to rearrange the living room, which only left him with one solution.

He sat in the car with the radio playing quietly in the background with his phone pressed to his ear. “Hey, are you guys doing anything? I saw that Hyunwoo, Hyungwon, and Jooheon went to the show and Minhyuk was at home, so are you two available?” He hoped they weren’t because if they weren’t, life would be significantly harder for him from this point on. “Yes! Thank you. I’m on my way home from the craft store so meet me at my house now?” he paused. “Okay, thanks!” The drive home was quite relaxing to Changkyun; everything was going his way so hopefully, it was for you too.

You now sat alone at your desk now that C/N’s shift ended. The two of you got through a great deal of your pile together, but you still had about the amount you had on a normal day where you weren’t in trouble. A low grumble sounded from your stomach making you realize you missed lunch since you were so caught up in finishing the work, you didn’t want to waste any time. But now that food was on your mind, you began to think about foods you hadn’t had in a long time, which made you crave those foods even more. You paused in your work, grabbing your now nearly dead phone now, sending Changkyun a message asking him what he wanted for dinner, but then told him what you craved. Just as you hit send, the screen to your phone blacked out, dying. Now you really were cut off from Changkyun, but you weren’t too bummed since your shift was nearly over.

Changkyun arrived home, setting the things inside on the kitchen table so they were ready for use after forming the actual fort itself. Just as he was about to read your text, the doorbell rang, signifying their arrival.

“Hey, welcome to our abode.” Changkyun opened the door, allowing Wonho and Kihyun to enter. The two members took off their shoes, wearing loose comfortable clothes.

“Hey, what do you need?” Kihyun asked. The light mixed with Kihyun’s brown hair made it seem a golden brown.

“So, Y/N and I spent the weekend together and at one point, they wanted to build a fort in the living room so we could watch movies, but I had to say no to them. Today was their first day back to work and I wanna do this to make them happy.”

“Wow, our Changkyun has grown up~” Wonho cooed, pinking the younger one’s cheeks. “Well, we’re here to help. What do you want us to do first?”

“I wanna rearrange the furniture, but I’m not sure in what way to rearrange the couches or chairs to make a good fort. Can I leave this to you guys? I need to pick up some food for Y/N before she comes home.”

“Leave it to us, we’ll make sure it’s sturdy.” Kihyun gave a thumbs up, waving Changkyun off as the two of them made headway to the living room while he set off to the kitchen for his phone. He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed his phone, feeling a weight lift off his chest knowing he could trust those two to make it nice.

Y/N: hey, what do you want for dinner? Because if you’re down with anything, then can we please get food from R/N? I’m really hungry and I may have forgotten to ea-

The message was cut off, but Changkyun got your message. Now on the topic of food, he realized he hadn’t really eaten lunch since he was on his “missions.” He quickly searched up the hours and directions to R/N since it had been a while since he had gone or taken you there. “Hey do you guys want food from R/N?” he called to the two as they were moving two of the three couches the two of you had. At this point, in this time of day, the clock was ticking for Changkyun. It was the hour around the evening where most people would get off work and head home.

“Mm, could you get us what we usually would get from there?” Wonho huffed out as he settled down the couch, inching it closer towards the semi-structure they had done.

“Okay.” Changkyun put on his shoes and grabbed a bomber, about to head out when he paused. “Could you guys also do me one more favor?”

“What is it?” The two paused what they were doing and looked at the younger one.

“If I’m not back by the time Y/N is home, which I think the fort would be done by then? Could you lead them upstairs to our bedroom without letting them see the living room at all and then tell them that I told you to tell them to shower and dress into the comfiest clothes they have. Then, they can only come down when I call their name. Is that okay?”

“We really are cupid today,” the two chuckled seeing the softer and sweeter side of their maknae. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure of it. Now go get our food!” They made a shooing gesture with their hands, seeing Changkyun out before continuing their task at hand.

“Changkyun ran to his car, getting in as the rain fell harder. He sat in the dampened sound of the rain, scrolling through his phone before he began driving, making headway towards the R/N, which wasn’t too far, but was still a good distance away. He drove in silence, growing excited himself to see the happiness on your face. Seeing you happy was enough happiness for Changkyun - you were more than enough for him, and he was always grateful to have you in his life. You had visited him, bringing him a lunch around time where the guys were in the process of making a new album and he just couldn’t formulate the right words to express the feelings he wanted others to feel when they heard his words. You raised his spirits when he felt like he sunk to rock bottom, but you had sunk yourself down, meeting him, and pulling him back up.

Your eyes strained as they continuously looked at papers today, keeping themselves down, not resting. You were determined to not let your manager’s childishness get in the way of your work as an adult. Many of your coworkers buzzed by you, low on energy and made their way down the stairs, out the building, and back home or elsewhere to recharge. You had about two maybe three more pieces of paperwork to go through before you could finally go home to Changkyun. It felt like the busy work was never going to end and it just made the day feel like the longest day ever. You never really dreaded work, but this was the first time you despised it.

Changkyun sat at a table as he waited for the orders of food put in, though the restaurant was busier than expected, meaning it would take even longer than usual for the food to come. It was a dimly lit restaurant which gave it very romantic vibes/ brightly lit, giving it a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Changkyun had brought you here on the first date, remembering everything so vividly. You even surprised him by saying yes to the date since he felt insecure and shy. The two of you sat in a booth, sitting across from each other, chatting, getting to know each other, giving birth to something new Changkyun didn’t even think could grow to something like this today. Flushes of people came in and out of the restaurant, eating food, carrying out, but Changkyun knew it was only a matter of time before you would get home. At this rate, you really would be getting home before he did, but he trusted Wonho and Kihyun to keep their promise.

Wonho walked around the brightly lit living room to make sure the fort was secure and comfy as Kihyun was inside, placing the tiny fairy lights on the upper corners in the roof of the fort, making sure they weren’t too bright and they didn’t disturb the movie if it played. It had been about an hour since Changkyun had left to go get the food.

“I’m done out here. Are you done in there?” Wonho squatted near the entrance of the fort, peeking into to Kihyun putting in the batteries to the fairy lights, allowing them to flicker to life, giving the dark fort a nice, romantic atmosphere around it. “Wait, I know what to do now. Come out and see.” Wonho went to turn off the living room ceiling light, letting the small fairy lights slowly twinkle as they faded off and on, making it seem much more magical.

“Woah, Y/N and Changkyun are gonna love this.” They stood there adoring their work, taking pictures of it. “So, now we gotta wait for Y/N.” The two made their way to the door, only to stop when they looked outside. “I think we can wait inside until we see them come out of their car?”

“Yeah, that should be fine,” Wonho agreed as the two looked at the gentle downpour.

You rushed with the little energy you had left, writing the final things down before sticking it into your pile of finished work. A massive weight lifted off your chest as you took a breather and rubbed your eyes, leaning back in your chair. The office was practically empty, except for the occasional few coworkers who worked overtime for the extra pay. Without a second thought, you grabbed your belongings and began to head out; now that you were making headway towards the exit, you felt lighter after every step out. All your thoughts were out the window: at this point, all that mattered was that you were done with the day. You pressed the elevator button, completely forgetting about this morning, but to your surprise, the doors had open - the elevators were functioning. You couldn’t help but think this was a fateful sign that things were finally starting to go your way.

You rode in silence down the elevator, figuring the smooth jazz music they played wasn’t playing. Even though you got a lot of sleep this past weekend, it felt like it was nothing compared to the tiredness you felt now. It felt like you could just sleep for hours and days, but you would still be exhausted when you woke. You exited the building, feeling the cold air hug your face as you made your way to the car across the empty parking lot. The roads didn’t sound too busy, which meant you could get home faster to Changkyun. You couldn’t help the curiosity which took over you since you had heard nothing from him at all today. There were many possibilities of the things he could have done today: play video games on the computer, hang out with the boys, worked in his office on music, head to the studio, countless things.

You began to drive home on the wet asphalt from the rain that the weatherman had predicted this morning. The streets were only somewhat crowded in the area your work was, which made things simpler for you. You turned on the radio, listening to the music louder than normal, but at this point, you just wanted energy to feel better after getting through this stressful day. You could feel your hair was a mess and all you wanted to do was to shower, eat, and sleep. You were ready to collapse. Your commute home was significantly shorter than your commute this morning and the shorter the time it took for you to get home, the better.

Changkyun sat alone at a table near the door, ready to get the food and to just leave. At this point, he knew you were most likely on your way home since your shift normally ended around this time at the latest. He scrolled through his phone one last time before a waiter approached him with his bags of foods. “Thank you,” he said before he parted for the journey home. The rain had stopped fortunately so the drive was a bit easier- actually, significantly easier since he was mostly sitting in traffic, barely going a mile per hour. “Great,” he said to himself with one hand on the wheel as the other leaned against the window, allowing him to rest his head against his hand.

You turned into the familiar neighborhood, pulling into the parking into the driveway. You sighed in relief as you turned off the engine to the car, grabbing your things you had put into your passenger seat. As you were approaching your house, you were met with the two familiar figures of Kihyun and Wonho who came out the front door.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?” You gave them a small hug.

“We have a mission from Changkyun and you must do as he says.” They smiled. “So please bear with us. I’ll take your stuff and we must blindfold you ‘cause Changkyun has arranged a surprise for you and its in the living room, but he doesn’t want to see it yet,” Kihyun said, reaching for your belongings from you.

“What is it?” You asked feeling even more curious as before. Wonho walked around you, gently using one of Changkyun’s ties as a blindfold. “Is he not home?”

“We can’t tell you what the surprise is of course, but he went out to get more things for your surprise. Please follow us~” Wonho took your hand, wrapping it around his arm so you had better balance and he could catch you if you fall.

Wonho walked in front of you, leading you carefully, making sure you wouldn’t trip over anything at all as Kihyun followed behind holding your belongings, to which he placed into the kitchen table and chair. He followed behind once again as Wonho began leading you up the stairs. “Changkyun wants you to shower and then get dressed in the comfiest pajamas you have, but after doing so, you cannot leave the bedroom until you hear him call your name. Is that okay?”

“I guess so. If it’s for the surprise then I’ll just do what he wants,” you laughed a little as you carefully went up the stairs you normally would’ve run up. The two of you led you to your shared bedroom, sitting you on the edge of the bed and letting you take off your blindfold after closing the door and leaving you to do your own thing at this point. “What could he be up to?” you thought to yourself as you began grabbing your pajamas which, once again, was one of Changkyun’s shirts which were baggy on you. You began showering, letting the warm-hot water wash all the stress and everything, just wash off of you. You calmed down even more as you just let the water go over your body, settling back down now that you were home. The warm-hot water brought a whole other level of relaxation over you, erasing all the negativity from today. Sooner than later, you got out of the shower, hugging yourself into the warmth of your towel and put on Changkyun’s shirt. You trudged from the bathroom, drying your hair, and plopped onto the bed, laying down. You didn't move around too much except keep your head down constantly, now feeling the soreness in your neck as you laid on your back. You closed your eyes as you waited for Changkyun, resting them now that you had the time. You felt a stinging sensation on your eyes now that they were closed, realizing you had been straining your eyes all day.

Changkyun pulled into the driveway, parking next to your car and swiftly grabbed the food and made his way inside the house, more excited now that you were home. He handed Kihyun the bags of food, allowing them to grab their meals and going since they had plans tomorrow. He wished them goodbye before he calmed himself down, and made his way upstairs, changing his own plan. “Y/N?” He knocked on the door before he entered, finding you almost asleep on the bed, sprawled all over the place. His heart swelled at the sight of you, but he knew that this was nothing because in a few moments, you were about to feel even happier; he could feel it. “Y/N~” he cooed as he leaned down next to you, resting his head on his arm as he admired the small details on your face he always adored.

You blinked your eyes open, turning to the side and just instantly wrapped your arms around his body upon seeing him. You clung to him like a child, feeling better by the moment. He wrapped his arms around you as well, shifting his body so you laid on top of him. “Ready for your surprise?” He playfully nudged you, pushing the two of you up so you sat on his lap.

“Mmhm,” you hummed with your arms and legs still against him. “You didn’t have to do anything for me.” You yawned.

“Welp, I did. Come on, let’s go downstairs.” The corners of his lips curled upwards as you began to pry yourself off of him, holding his hand. “Close your eyes?” His voice was soft, making you even more tired.

You did as he requested without a word, hugging his arm and clung close to him as he slowly led your downstairs. You felt the soft carpet against your bare feet as well as the fabric of the clothes he wore. He stroke your hand with his thumb as he held your hand, hearing his heart race in his own ears as he approached the fort, bringing you to the front of it. You were maneuvered through the living room but soon came to a stop. You could feel Changkyun’s body pressed against your body from behind with his arms wrapped around your torso. “Ready?”

“Yes~” you said drunk from the sleepiness. It was the first time you ever came home this tired, which astonished you yourself.

“Open,” he whispered into your ear.

You opened your eyes to the most magical sight you ever saw: a pillow fort constructed with the couches, made to look and feel as comfortable as the bed, small fairy lights like the ones you once told Changkyun you wanted to buy made the fort itself sparkle. The lights in the living room were off, making the small lights, slowly twinkling create a perfect atmosphere. You were speechless at the sight before you, forgetting about the sleepiness you felt moments before. You just stood there frozen, taking in the beautiful sight before you.

“Do you like it?” Changkyun rested his head on your shoulder, looking at your face.

“I love it!” You turned, bringing Changkyun into your arms. Be hugged you back, holding you just as tight, content knowing that you were happy.

“Good. Oh, wait. Go in the first and wait for me really quick. I need to get your second surprise.” He sat you down before he ran off himself, grabbing something making a rustling sound, getting louder as he approached. “You hungry?” He set down the dinner you requested on a small coffee table he pushed before the entrance of the fort and turned on the TV, playing your favorite movie. The night was continued with the two of you eating, being physically close to each other, watching the movie the two of you had seen multiple times, but always felt something new watching it.

“I don’t deserve you,” you pouted as you laid against Changkyun, watching the movie. “What did I do to deserve you?” you asked.

He looked down at you, holding you closer. “You were you,” he smiled.

~~~~~

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#changkyun #changkyun imagines #changkyun scenarios #changkyun x reader #monsta x imagines #monsta x scenarios #mosnta x x reader #pillowfluffs #lim changkyun #monsta x #monsta x oneshots #monsta x x reader #i.m #i.m x reader #i.m scenarios #i.m imagines

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idioticimagination · 6 years

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The Queen of The Sky | The 100 | Part 7

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Pairing: Bellamy x Reader Rating: M Fandom: The 100 Word Count: 1,863 Summary: Three years ago Y/N, queen of the tribe known as the Ladrones, was sent to the ground as punishment for her crimes. Now the dropship has just arrived along with 100 delinquents. Among which there are many familiar faces. Several stories to be told. Will Y/N’s dark past unravel for all to see? Will her secrets finally be shared with the world? Will the queen of the sky cause sunny days or stormy nights? Is she a villain? Or just the goddess they needed?

The fog didn’t seem like it wanted to pass. Darkness surrounded us, and the only light we had left was that of the moon. It reminded me of when I first came to the ground. I didn’t have many choices for shelter besides a small cave that was close by to where I had crashed.

I sat in front of the seventh mural I had made. My small cave that I called home was consumed in darkness as acid fog passed by outside. I snacked on the berries I had found earlier in the day. My small stick, covered in charcoal and mud, rested in my hand. I had made several changes to my cave since I had first called it home. I had a comfy makeshift bed, a small crate I had found was filled with loose junk I had collected, my many gadgets, fabrics, and experiments littered the floor, and the walls were almost fully covered in my murals from top to bottom. I had discovered how to make a paint like substance using flowers, berries, and plants that I had found. I had a painting of my old home, the ark, I had one of the woods, one of a waterfall I saw, there was one of my crash-landing site, but I don’t like looking at that one. But my latest one was one of the night sky, next to my self-portrait. I smiled. Perhaps there was beauty in this hell.

I scrunched my nose at the memory. Hopefully, that cave will never be found. I left it a long time ago. It just sits now, somewhere in the woods, collecting dust.

I took a glance at everyone. They were all asleep. I looked at Atom. He was out cold. He won’t be waking up for quite some time thanks to the drink I gave him. His legs were in horrible condition. The skin was covered in burns. His flesh raw and blistered. The cloth of his pants were rolled up to his knees, but some pieces remained attached to his skin. The only way to treat that is if they removed the burned skin by hand. He won’t be able to walk back to camp. Someone would have to carry him. I gave him a pitiful look.

Bell seemed to be in peace. He kept tossing and turning before he finally fell into a deep slumber. He snored. Loudly. I’m surprised Charlotte hadn’t woken up.

I turned to look at Charlotte. She kept stirring. Her body moving back and forth in sudden movements. Her face contorted as tears streamed down her cheeks. She was sweating, blonde strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Her cheeks were rosy, and she kept mumbling.

I walked closer to her trembling form. I knelt down beside her. I tried to soothe her. My hand ran up and down her arm as I whispered to her. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay,” I shushed.

She started to cry more and more. Suddenly she jolted up with a shriek of agony. “No,” she screamed. I wrapped my arms around her as she held onto me tightly. She was shaking as she cried into my shoulder. My hand ran down her hair as she sobbed. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, her voice muffled against my cloak.

“Does that happen often?” I heard Bell ask as he got up, clearing his throat. He rubbed at his eyes, a yawn escaping his mouth as he made his way over to us. He knelt down beside me as Charlotte lifted her head up to look at him. She nodded.

“What are you scared of? You know what? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is what you do about it.” I looked at Bellamy, curious of what he was going to say.

“But... I’m asleep,” Charlotte said as I let go of her. She went back to where she slept and sat up.

“Fears are fears. Slay your demons when you're awake, they won't be there to get you when you sleep.” I arched my brow at him. Where was he going with this?

“Yeah, but how?” Charlotte asked.

“You can't afford to be weak. Down here, weakness is death, fear is death. Let me see that knife I gave you,” Bell said. Charlotte pulled the knife out of her pocket and gave it to Bellamy. “Now, when you feel afraid, you hold tight to that knife and you say, ‘Screw you. I'm not afraid.'”

Bellamy handed the knife back to her. She gripped it tightly before repating the words that Bellamy taught her. “Screw you. I’m not afraid,” she said, her voice shaky while her hands trembled. Bellamy gave her a look, knowing she could do better. She repeated the words, this time with much more confidence.

Bellamy smiled at her. “Slay your demons, kid. Then you’ll be able to sleep.” He got up and turned back to his little corner of the cave.

She looked at me with a sadness in her eyes, clouded with fear, but she seemed calmer now. She nodded and decided to go back to sleep. I turned around only for a hand to grip onto my wrist. “Miss? Will you be here when I wake up?”

I looked at Charlotte with pity. “I don’t know, Charlotte. Maybe. But I have friends I need to check up on once the fog clears. I hope you understand,” she nodded with a sad smile.

“Will I ever see you again?” I tilted my head at the question, thinking over my answer.

“Perhaps,” I paused before continuing, “but if you’re ever scared, if those demons get too strong, and you decide you need some backup, I’ll be sure to be the first one by your side.” Her sad smile turned into a grin. Her eyes finally closed with a smile on her lips as she started to fall asleep. A soft snoring could be heard.

The fog dragged on as I got more and more tired. I sat down by the entrance of the cave, but I was far enough from the opening that the fog couldn’t get me. My eyes drooped down only for me to shoot back up in an attempt to stay awake. It felt like I was yawning every 10 seconds.

I looked around the cave. Charlotte was in a peaceful sleep. Atom was still unconscious. I looked to where Bell was only to see that he wasn’t there.

“Hey,” he said from behind me. I flinched as my hand shot up to my mouth to keep myself from waking everyone else up. My other hand raised itself to my chest as I panted. Bell let out a small chuckle. “Go get some rest,” he said as he sat down beside me.

I shook my head, but my exhaustion was obvious. I yawned as my head fell onto Bellamy’s shoulder. The lids of my eyes drooped down much to my dismay.

It felt like seconds had passed, but when I awoke to a scream of agonising pain, the fog was gone, and the sun had risen. I looked to where the scream had come from. It was Atom. Bellamy sat beside me looking like he had just woken up too. Charlotte rushed over to Atom in a panic. I quickly got up.

I took a look at Atom’s legs. A panicked look must have been painted onto my features. Bellamy looked at me worried. I walked over to Bell, and I gestured for him to follow me. I led him away from Atom and Charlotte so that we could talk in private.

“He won’t be able to walk. His legs are badly infected. I don’t know if he’ll make it. If anything, you,” I took a deep breath, “you might have to amputate him. Before the infection spreads.”

“Amputate him?” Bell asked in disbelief, “N-No! We can’t do that. We don’t have the supplies for that. We don’t have the skills for that. We-We-” he said. I looked away from him. The truth can hurt sometimes, but often it is necessary.

“Then you need to let him go.” Tears collected in Bellamy’s eyes. He shook his head at me. He turned his back to me to hide his tears.

“No, I can’t,” Bell said, “Please. There has to be another way,” he begged. “What am I supposed to tell O?” I shrugged as I bit my lip. “There has to be something. Please! Is there anything that you can do?”

“I’m sorry, Bell,” I said. Bell composed himself before we went to check on Atom.

Bellamy told Charlotte to wait outside for us. Before Bell could break the news, Atom spoke. “I know. It’s alright.” Bellamy shook his head as tears came to his eyes once again. I looked away feeling tears of my own threaten to spill.

I took deep breaths as Atom continued to speak. “I can’t go any further, Bell. Every time I move my legs even if it’s just an inch, I feel this unbearable pain. I can’t go any further,” Atom said trying to keep calm, “We need to face the truth. It’s alright. I’ll be alright. I’ll be able to see my parents.” I swallowed the lump in my throat as I handed Bell a knife. Bell looked at me in confusion.

“He won’t feel anything. The blade is coated in the same numbing herb as the pain killer I gave him was made of,” I explained, “It’ll be quick and painless.” Then we heard footsteps. I looked up to see Clarke at the entrance of the caves.

“I heard yelling,” she said as she walked towards us.

“He’s in pain,” Bell said through sniffles. Clarke knelt down beside Atom. “I can’t do it,” Bell said as he looked at me, handing me the knife. I took the knife from him as I knelt with Clarke.

“Please... just end it,” Atom said as he looked at me, “It was an honor to meet you, masked maiden,” he laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. I nodded at him as I expressed my gratefulness to have met him too. He laughed lightly at me before looking at Clarke, “I’m ready.”

“Okay, I’m gonna help you alright?” Clarke said as she ran her hands through Atoms hair. She hummed a tune a calming tune as she looked outside of the cave.

I looked at Clarke as she opened her palm to me asking for the knife. I gave it to her as I joined in her humming. It was familiar tune; I knew it, but I didn’t know where from. She pierced through Atom’s neck as Atom remained calm.

He started to choke up on his blood, and I let a single tear stream down my cheek. His eyes finally closed in peace as his body, once tense, relaxed and loosened. He went slump as I looked up at Bell.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I looked back at Atom. If I had just gotten to him a minute earlier he would have been fine. My entire reason for coming here was to keep them alive, and I failed.

Tag List:

@the–real-wombat @jodiereedus22 @captainam-erika-trash @superflashallen @ilovelyai

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agapaic · 6 years

Text

[fic] chance encounters

lance x lotor

tags/notes: student/teacher, sculptor!lotor, art school au, semi-prologue to an artist!au fic @uneballe-unmort and i have had in the works for the best part of a year; see her beautiful concept art here. (thank you to @mondoboia for all their italian help, and for @akumamomo and @bowldeepfannish for their very sweet offers!)

synopsis: lance gets a helping hand in an art store in rome.

read on ao3

Lance meets him for the first time in an art store three streets away from the Tiber. The walls are terracotta and the shelves are floor-to-ceiling and made of wood bent from years of use, and he’s blond and marvelous and Lance thinks he’s fallen.

The struggle comes first—the meeting after. He learns later that the struggle was observed and noted, and perhaps, he thinks later, it was all in his favour. The meeting, too.

The struggle is this: the store is small and Lance’s list is huge.

The battle grows inside him for a while before he has to concede to needing help. Spanish, he knows well and can let run off his tongue like a river bursting its banks. Italian comes instead like a leaking faucet, stop-start and quavering. Arrogantly, he thought he would get by with a couple after-school classes, a scant few conversations with an Italian kid in their freshman year, and four hours of Duolingo on the plane.

He learns how to order food and make hazy remarks about the weather. He doesn’t learn how to ask where the vine charcoal is kept or what acrylic pigment they’d recommend. Most of it is easy: a new sketchbook to replace one he filled at the airport, a set of gouache paints that are begging him to spend his poor student’s allowance on, and a few tubes of cadmium acrylics because Rome was yellows: sun-dyed fountains and narrow alleyways and yellowing cobblestones and ochre manor houses on the Hills and monuments lit up at night against blue-black skies.

A city of sepia, Lance thought, hot air on his face through the taxi’s window en route to his apartment.

Lance combs the aisles now, arms heavy with supplies, stomach grumbling. He’d been up before dawn for the sunrise, perched on the balcony with a canvas Hunk had lent him. Evenings were cool, days stifling and hot. The city glowed in the mornings, unshuttered windows gleaming like a goldsmith’s cast, the river opulent and glittering, sunlight soaking the waking streets. Rome was an aching beauty Lance hadn’t been prepared for.

‘Rome?’ he’d been asked. And then: ‘You won’t know the place until you can breathe it.’

It was in the air to begin with, like pollen scratching in his throat, a woman’s perfume on the stretch of a wrist, the carried scent of a florist’s open window. Lance’s lungs aren’t full yet.

The store here smells of oil paints and heady turpentine, pine canvas frames and ashy charcoal, wood varnish and chalk dust, Conté and the vapour of hot glue, the dampness of sugar paper and bitterness of linseed oil. Lance’s fingers itch for a sketchbook, a palette of acrylic, the watercolour pencils in his rucksack.

He urges himself to focus, and takes another look at his list.

He received it via email a week before his flight. The class requirements are reasonable, but Lance still wants to wince. He packed a week’s supply of clothes and three month’s of art supplies, and there are still tools his professor has requested him to buy. Barely a week in and a good chunk of his savings are already gone, long nights spent back in his brother’s Varadero autoshop that seem wasted now.

He’s looking for a chalk pencil when he hears the shop door open. It’s a warm Wednesday morning, the store empty, sunlight streaming through dusty front windows, but the new arrival brings with it an animated response from the cashier like an ‘ON’ button has been pressed. Lance is far back in the store, overhead lights dim and few, backed up by books on Renaissance architecture, Bartolini, palette knife techniques, and human anatomy. He’s eyeing an impressionism-versus-modernism text when he hears the answering voice.

It’s low and male and liquid, and Lance’s ear isn’t good enough to pick up any words. The glimpse Lance gets through a shelf of coloured card is alien—a wrinkled, cotton skin rolled up at the elbows, a show of tanned, vascular forearms, and then his hair. White-blond and startling. Real enough to be unnatural, unnatural enough to be fake, tapering at the waist in a fishtail plait.

Lance edges closer for a look, breath held, while the customer and cashier participate in eager discussion. They’re oblivious to his watching. Closer, more attentive, he catches a few words—school, Florence, exhibition. The rest blend together too muffled for his ear to snare, too rapid for his mind to translate.

By the time Lance has grabbed his bag from against a yellowing, second-hand book pile and weaved his way to the front of the store, the man has gone.

Lance feels a pang of disappointment.

The cashier is an aging woman in her fifties, grey hair cut close enough to show the shape of her skull, striking peacock feathers dangling from low lobes. She greets Lance with a good morning and Tutto ok? and Lance finds himself immediately brought up against a barrier.

‘Uh,’ he says, trying to loosen his tongue, which now feels heavy and immovable in his mouth. ‘Tutto benne… Ma non ho un…’

The woman stares at him, and blinks once.

This is where the struggle begins. His phone is already dead, battery wasted on photos of steam rising of the Tiber as the sun rose, and he’s pretty sure his mother’s battered 1980’s Italian phrasebook won’t cover chalk pencil.

The cashier picks up a tablet lying beside the register. ‘Vuoi tradurre?’ she asks him. Lance takes the tablet, embarrassingly grateful, and opens up the web browser.

‘Don’t bother with that,’ comes a voice as Lance is navigating to Google Translate. ‘You’ll never find what you’re looking for.’

It takes a second for Lance to realise that the voice is in English, clipped and British, something else muddled in there too. It takes another five for him to register the face: pointed, devastatingly aristocratic, some masculine Mondragone brought to life, an Apollo without the rounded cheeks, a Corti Lucifer without the wings, unbearably humanised, and yet barely human at all.

‘What is it you need? I’ll translate.’

We have the same eyes, Lance thinks.

‘You do speak English, don’t you?’

It’s the same again, but now it feels like he has no tongue: empty mouth, empty mind, empty lungs.

He breathes in Rome.

‘Yeah. Sorry. You scared me.’

The man looks him up and down. ‘Sorry. I was under the impression you saw me from over there.’ A gesture towards the back of the store. Embarrassment draws blood to Lance’s face, and suddenly the sun is hotter and brighter and the supplies in Lance’s buckling arms are threatening to fall on the floor. ‘Do you need books?’

‘Supplies,’ Lance says. ‘Chalk pencil. Vine charcoal. Watercolour sketchbook in A4.’

The man arches a pale brow, then turns to the cashier. His translation is almost seamless; he pauses where Lance had, lists only three things. But then there’s a comment Lance doesn’t catch, and he wants to flush harder when the peacock lady tilts her head at him, considering.

‘Pensi usi gli acquerelli?’ she says, saying something about watercolours. ‘Sembrerebbe il tipo.’

‘Già, probabile,’ the man replies. He looks back at Lance, who’s tugging at a wisp of cotton unravelling from the pocket of his jean shorts. ‘Leave your things on the counter and follow me. I’ll show you to what you need.’

Lance follows, and stares at the broad width of the man’s shoulders, the fit of his grey chinos, the wandering flicker of his fingertips as they trail along shelves like a knowing, familiar caress of lover greeting lover. Hello, sweetheart. Lance’s eyes linger on the inside of the man’s wrist, the small patch of grey matter clinging to his artery.

Clay.

‘You’re a sculptor?’ Lance blurts out, and the image fashions itself in his mind with rapid ease: the swift brush strokes of his usual style in neutral acrylic, ordained to the shape of an artist at work, hair plaited to his waist, bare skin layered in his own medium, building a self-image, life-size, with his own hands. The Sculptor. Creator or created?

The Sculptor glances over his shoulder. ‘You know more Italian than you let on.’

Lance points a finger. ‘The clay on your wrist. And behind your ear. It would be rude of me to pretend not to speak a language.’ Rude to talk about someone in another language in front of them, too.

If the man catches the intention behind Lance’s words, he shows no outward sign of embarrassment—or remorse. Lance is trying to remember seeing a single glimmer of expression on the man’s face. Even with the woman—someone he seemed close with, familial, even—there had been nothing.

‘You’re observant,’ he tells Lance.

‘Maybe you’re just messy.’

A quiet snort. The quirk of a lips. It’s something. ‘Maybe. Try sculpting life-size and then tell me that.’

Lance doesn’t. ‘D’you work here?’ he asks instead.

‘I’m freelance. My studio is a short walk away.’

‘Studio,’ Lance says, impressed. ‘What are you working on?’

He stops so suddenly that Lance nearly walks into him, and the toe of Lance’s sneakers kick into the back of his ankles.

‘You ask an awful lot of questions,’ he says, before Lance can apologise, barely ruffled by the contact. He gestures at the shelving. ‘Your chalk pencils.’

The choice is limited, and the variation in price even more so. Lance reaches out—

‘Not that one,’ the man says. Lance looks down. The Sculptor’s cool fingers are curled around Lance’s wrist. He moves Lance’s hand slightly to the right, a marionette without strings, and the touch is so light it barely exists. ‘You’ll want this one.’

‘Right,’ Lance says, keeping his voice level. ‘Sure.’

Chalk pencil nearly breaking in half in his clenched fist, he follows The Sculptor again to the vine charcoal. It’s near the books; Lance must have passed it twice already during his own trailing. He glances between the three boxes of charcoal, bunched twists of coal like rush plants, reaches out—

It happens again.

‘This one.’

Lance turns on him, irritation mixing inside him with something heady. ‘Are you going to correct every choice I make just so you get to touch me?’

Lance’s voice had been too loud; the natural silence of the art store turns awkward.

The Sculptor blinks at Lance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and sounds genuine. ‘I use my hands so often with clay, it’s… I forget that people can’t be moved like that sometimes.’ He shrugs affably, spreads his hands, a humbling facade. ‘If I’m honest, I’ve been working on my piece so long I don’t remember the last time I touched anyone.’

Lance’s fingers press absently at his wrist. The touches weren’t heavy enough to leave a mark—weren’t heavy enough for Lance to be sure either one had been real—and the words replay in his head. I don’t remember the last time I touched anyone. So innocent, so expressionless that the slight quaver between The Sculptor’s pale brows transforms his whole being into a tortured one. The starving artist, left to ache. Lance doesn’t know what context The Sculptor meant it in. He hopes his guess is the right one. Hopes, desperately, that it isn’t.

You don’t need to be that honest, he could say.

Instead: ‘People can be. Moved. Like that.’ Lance clenches his jaw. ‘But, really, permission. It’s a thing, and it’s appreciated.’

The Sculptor inclines his head. ‘Understood. But take my advice: I’ve been to half the art stores in Rome, and I’ve been coming here for three years. The quality is unrivalled. I know the products. Their clay suppliers are over four hundred years old.’

‘Must be well-known,’ Lance says. He tugs out his supply list from his pocket. ‘My professor told me to get everything from here too.’

‘Professor?’

‘Art major,’ Lance explains. ‘Summer intensive programme. On scholarship,’ he adds proudly. ‘I have a project due on the first day. Rome’s cityscape in any medium.’

‘I see. The Colosseo and Fora Romano in watercolours?’

Lance looks at him shrewdly. ‘I can’t tell if I’m insulted, but I was thinking December’s starling migration over the Tiber. Charcoal.’

The Sculptor raises a brow again, and rests his spine against high-stacked trays of monochrome pastels. They’re secluded here, dust specks like fireflies, and the shelving is barely shoulder-width apart. It’s first-date material, nosing into the nooks and crannies of old art stores and second-hand book shops. Brunch in Trastevere, a sun-shaded stroll up to the Capitoline, merenda in the nearest piazza, sunset and a bottle of white from the Gianicolo. The fantasy unravels easily in Lance’s mind, a ball of wool rolling across tilted floorboards he has to let unwind. He can almost taste it—the crisp wine, sunblushed tomatoes on bruschetta, pink lips. The words play again and again in his head. I don’t remember the last time…

Lance knows why they echo. He doesn’t remember the last time, either. His freshman year of art school? Summer vacation back in Varadero between sophomore and junior year? Between school and oil paint smudges and late nights at the campus bar and later nights at a canvas, curled over a sketchbook, cramped at his dorm desk, Lance doesn’t remember the last time his body bent itself in any way for another person but for art.

‘It’s hard to catch movement in charcoal,’ The Sculptor says. ‘Especially if you’re unused to it.’

Lance reigns his attention in. He lifts his chin slightly. ‘I think I can handle it,’ Lance says, spinning the chalk pencil between his fingers.

Blue eyes meet his own, a half challenge when he asks Lance: ‘Do you speak from experience?’

The chalk pencil stops, and Lance holds it still in his palm. ‘I like to try new things,’ he replies, and feels the build of something. It feels like a word on the tip of his tongue, or an image he can only realise in his head once its on paper. It feels dangerous—too dangerous to let linger. He clears his throat, points down the store’s aisles with the box of vine charcoal. ‘Watercolour sketchbook?’

‘Follow me.’

Lance does.

They find the sketchbooks near the windows, only three left, stacked under packs of loose watercolour paper and an overhanging roll of brown craft paper.

‘Sometimes you have to do a little digging,’ The Sculptor tells Lance, an odd look of mischief in his eyes as he kneels on the shop floor, the boyish pleasure of treasure unburied where ‘x’ marks the spot. Lance watches as he tugs a sketchbook out from beneath the stacks and blows the dust off its cover, inspecting it. There’s a small circle of dirt on his suit pants when he stands, brushed off with a hand, and he hands the sketchbook to Lance.

He says, ‘Yours, I believe.’

Lance takes it, and looks at The Sculptor’s hands, wondering what they’ve created, and says, ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

There’s a silence short as a blink.

‘Excuse me?’

Lance winces, stumbles over the rest of his words like tripping over bracken on a forest floor. ‘Or wine. Whatever you want, really. I just figured… with you helping me with all this—the translating, the supplies… I’d like to thank you.’

A blond strand of hair has escaped The Sculptor’s plait, and Lance watches him tuck it behind his ear, a bizarrely youthful gesture, some vulnerability exposed that Lance doesn’t feel qualified to have seen. He can’t make out The Sculptor’s expression, eyes downcast, the apostrophe at the bridge of his nose returned. Lance can’t help the way he feels himself looking at the man: hungered and awed, like taking in a museum piece. The urge to touch, having to settle for looking with starving eyes.

‘That’s… a decent gesture of you,’ The Sculptor makes out eventually. ‘Really. But I seem to have given you the wrong sort of impression.’

Lance straightens. He says, ‘If you’re not into guys I’m gonna eat the damned charcoal soon as I buy it.’

The Sculptor chuckles. Rainwater on copper pipes, low like a pebble dropped in a well ten feet deep. Lance wants to climb down after it, cuts and bruises welcome, and hold it in his palms.

‘It’s not an issue of sexuality,’ is all The Sculptor says, neither confirmation nor denial. His eyes flick to Lance’s face, dart across the panes of his face, the ‘v’ of his neckline. ‘There are other matters to consider.’ The Sculptor inclines his head, some token gesture of tinged, soft-mouthed regret. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘Yeah?’ Lance asks. ‘Like what?’

The Sculptor just looks at him. ‘You should pay.’ He angles his head towards the front counter. ‘Rosa will think I’ve carried you off to have my way with you amongst the easels.’

Lance’s pulse thuds in his throat. ‘Why would she think that?’ he asks, playing along.

‘How should I know?’ The Sculptor lies easily.

Lance wanders after him to the register, helpless to do anything but follow. He imagines Hunk seeing him now, the exhaustion that would settle into him, Lance’s fancies like fleeting whirlwinds, like a swarm of locusts shredding everything in its path, suffocating and entire—easy to lose oneself in and never come out.

Lance knows he’ll pull himself out of this one by the end of the day. A few beers back at the apartment and a pizza from the restaurant below them and it’ll be done. A drunken haze of indulgence, a wetted palm, and it’ll be over. A blush of fondness to look back on by the end of summer. Lance lets himself accept that truth now, wears it around his shoulders, a weight of resignation.

At the counter, Rosa has her eyes narrowed on The Sculptor, disapproval set into the lines of her hawkish features.

‘È tutto?’ she asks Lance, drawing her eyes away from the man at Lance’s side. The Sculptor has an elbow resting on the counter, quizzical smile toying at the edge of his mouth, the relaxed posture of someone ready to be exacted into art—someone used to being looked at.

‘Sí,’ Lance replies. ‘Grazie.’ He looks at the Sculptor. ‘Thank you. Again. You’re… sure about that coffee?’

‘Very sure. There’ll be plenty of time in the future.’

Lance tilts his head, confused. ‘We’ll be lucky to catch each other here again.’

The Sculptor smiles. ‘I don’t think so,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you in class, Lance.’ To Rosa, he nods. ‘Ciao, Rosa.’

The store owner makes a disapproving, shooing gesture. ‘Vattene, Lotor.’

Lotor laughs as he walks out the art store, the sound chiming with the doorbell, good-spirited and wonderfully wicked. It freezes Lance in his place, halfway to tugging out his wallet, and every moment from the past hour runs in his head like tickertape, faster and faster with every second until it’s a montage blur of disastrous events. The flirtation, the coffee invitation, the open worship of Lotor’s features that feels adulterous now.

The Sculptor, he’d called him in his head, stupidly and terrifyingly naively, some nameless beauty Lance was eager to forget by sunset. A foreign Michelangelo Lance thought he would never see again. Hoped, almost, to save himself the embarrassment of his own fawning—his own crush that would develop too rapidly by summer’s end. A few subsequent chance encounters in the art store, a coincidental stroll through the Piazza Farnese, Lance’s accidental discovery of the man’s studio. Personal fantasy would have urged it along with a rapid, awful descent.

But there will be nothing accidental about this. Their meetings now will be orchestrated and scheduled and graded. Lance feels degraded, and humiliation streaks blood through his cheeks and blooms across his torso.

Lotor, he hears, again and again as Rosa presses away a look of regretful pity.

Lotor Daibazaal. Graduate of Lance’s college with one of the highest grades ever achieved. Perfector of his work with a dedication that had made Lance ache with envy for years. Creator of a beauty that was painful in its realism. Founder of the coveted Daibazaal Summer Programme in his studio in Rome, an offer synonymous with future success.

And Lance’s teacher for the next three months.

The agony of the revelation was exquisite, and Lance could only wonder how beautifully Lotor would be able to capture Lance’s realisation in marble.

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#voltron #vld #lancelot #lance #lotor #my fanfic

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