#also i hate that i always make the canvases so tiny like where is the quality i dont see it

[wordsgenerate]

*glares*

#original #painting on 1 layer is fun but the colors get so muddy sometimes #also i hate that i always make the canvases so tiny like where is the quality i dont see it #eye contact #eye strain

[wheelsup]

the taming of the shrew | two

if i be waspish, best beware my sting

after some setbacks, penelope is willing to do anything to get you back on board. but has spencer already ruined things?

A/N: hello! im so sorry that this posting schedule is super inconsistent. the more i thought about this chapter, the less i liked the more technical aspects of it. but! i hope you enjoy to plot aspect of it nonetheless <3 thanks for reading!

category: fluff, slow burn series, spencer reid x fem!reader

wc: 4.4k

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Since that phone call with Penelope, she’d been over nearly every night for a week with plates of treats and onslaughts of apologies. Each time she came knocking, you told her there was no amount of persuasion that could change your mind. And yet the following night, she’d be there, a new type of pastry in hand and a new set of reasons why Spencer was worth the trouble.

First, she brought blueberry muffins and reasoned that deep below that prickly exterior, he really was everything she promised –– sweet and caring. But that must be deep, deep down. Like, The Lost City of Atlantis, deep down, because you didn’t expect it to surface any time soon. 

Then, she brought fudge brownies and explained that his behavior wasn’t personal –– he was getting snippy with everyone lately. And while you maintained that anybody would have a hard time getting along with Spencer, you were absolutely positive that it was now impossible for you. 

Quite frankly, it wasn’t just Spencer who was unwilling to play nice. You hated him. More than you’ve ever hated a stranger. 

You wished him a lifetime riddled with minor inconveniences that would drive him to the edge of insanity. You wanted him to miss all his trains by just a quarter of a minute; close enough so that he could see it leave the platform, knowing he almost made it on. You wanted him to constantly feel like he was about to sneeze. You wanted his socks to be perpetually wet, and if he should happen to put on a dry pair? You hoped he stepped in a puddle.

That was all you could think about as you laid out on your couch, munching on one of Penelope’s lemon bars while she paced around your apartment. She kept going on and on advertising Spencer to you. As annoying as it was, she was also saving you a ton on groceries that week. 

For the most part, you filtered her out. Not a single word that came out of her mouth was believable anymore, especially not when she was talking about Spencer. Despite what Penelope thought of him, you saw in him what she refused to accept. 

As her speech came to a close, she looked at you like she expected a response to dignify her prattling. 

“Give it a rest, Penelope. He’s a lost cause,” you laughed dryly. “He doesn’t need –– nor does he want –– anyone in his life.” At the very least, he definitely didn’t want you. 

“Yes, that’s the problem!” If you’d been listening to her, you would’ve heard her saying the same thing. “He doesn’t want to date!” 

Your head just about exploded when she said that. 

There had been countless, fruitless conversations about this, and all along she saw the gaping hole in her supposedly airtight plan?

“If he doesn’t want to DATE, then WHAT was the point of this?!” Your fingers pressed the bridge of your nose; you suddenly felt a headache coming on. Funny how it always happened around the time of day that Penelope came to visit.

Penelope stopped pacing. She stalked over to your couch, picked your legs up by your ankle, and moved them to make space for herself. You begrudgingly sat upright as she took her place beside you. 

“Because he’s not himself anymore. He’s not open like he used to be. Not to the people who care about him the most, and certainly not to the world.”  

Penelope toyed with the hem of her dress, distracting herself from her quivering lip before pressing on, “Spencer Reid has always wanted love. And it’s not right that he no longer believes he can have it.” 

You hadn’t seen Penelope look so desperate until now. It was concerning. Because what could make her look so hopeless? What could make Spencer so hopeless? 

“Penelope, I don’t know what’s wrong with your little friend, but… there’s a lot more bubbling inside him than you’re letting on.” 

She chewed up the insides of her cheeks, wincing to herself at your incredibly accurate claim. 

“You are hiding something, aren’t you?” You narrowed your eyes on her. You were no detective, or whatever exactly her team did, but she was just awful at concealing her thoughts.

“It’s not my story to tell,” she murmured. 

She could already feel herself about to give it away and doubled down her mental defenses against it. Focusing extra hard on keeping Spencer’s privacy intact. If only you knew her track record with secrets, you’d be proud of her for staying quiet this long.

“What isn’t your story?” 

“That his girlfriend died last year.” 

She spilled it before she even realized what she was saying. You’d just asked so nonchalantly that she forgot she was talking aloud. Penelope turned purple, terrified now that the whole truth was out there. 

You couldn’t even take satisfaction in the fact that your trick worked. You were just as mortified as Penelope, and if you weren’t already sitting down, you knew you’d need to. You assumed there was something deeper going on with him, you didn’t think it was a dead girlfriend. That was some Nicholas Sparks shit. 

“He pretends like he’s fine but I know he’s not. And if he found a way to move on, maybe he’d start feeling as okay as he claims to be,” she sniffled before snot could run from her nose, tears lining the rims of her eyes. “I know I should’ve given you the full picture, but I didn’t think you’d go for it if you knew…” 

You were too floored to process it all right away. This added a whole new layer of complicated to an already uneasy arrangement.

“Well, I know you’re right about one thing. I would’ve said no.” 

She gave you a set of pleading eyes, praying you’d see where she was coming from. 

“I know,” she whispered defeatedly. “But maybe... now that you know, you can understand why he acts out the way he does.”

“Penelope, I can’t just… make someone move on, or –– or get them to believe in love! Especially when it’s fake.”

How on Earth did she expect you to pull that off? Did that guy from A Walk to Remember move on when Mandy Moore died? You hadn’t seen the ending of the movie, but you assumed not. 

“I’m sorry, this is just… a lot bigger than the favor I thought it was ––”

“What if I could return it?” she cut in. The gears in her head started to turn, figuring ways to patch up the holes she made. 

“There’s nothing I need from you.” 

That couldn’t be true. Penelope looked around the room and it didn’t take her long to think of it.

“I can help you sell your art,” she tempted, gesturing to the scattered canvases. “You make all your income from this, right?” 

You didn’t want to give any fuel to her fire, but you nodded. “What if… what if you didn’t have to settle for local buyers? What if I told you that you could make way more money selling them to the whole world?”

You chortled at her idea. 

You were a local artist, through and through. Your art got put in local galleries and sold to local buyers. Nothing more, and that was fine with you. You realized it a long time ago that it was just a pipe dream to think you’d be more. 

“I’m serious! You could get a separate painting studio, and stop living in one? Huh?” She wrapped her hand around your shoulder, waving the other in the air, urging you to picture it with her. “Imagine this: a kitchen that’s separate from your living room. A bed, inside it’s own four walls, and more than twelve feet from where you cook your meals.”

Pushing aside her so blatantly insulting your apartment, if that were a possibility, you’d want nothing more. But it already sounded foolish and you hadn’t even heard how she planned to pull it off. 

“Penelope, I’m fine where I am. I make the money I need, and that’s... it’s fine.”

She gave you a pointed look. “You know, I can hack all search engine results to make sure you are what comes up first anytime someone enters the word ‘painting’, right?

An airy chuckle left your lips. Of course she could. You patted her thigh twice and stood up, prompting her to follow you to your door –– hopefully, so she can show herself to the other side of it. “Still no, Pen.” 

“Just take some time to think about it!” Her voice carried through the wood as you shut it on her.

*

There was this one bench in Kenilworth Park – the one that overlooks the crystal clear pond – that you’d always been able to rely on to fix any problem.

There was hidden magic in the bushes that sprawled out from the edges of the water, surrounded by spiky green blades of overgrown grass. A simplicity you loved in baby ducklings paddling into the tiny body of water, swimming close together so they don’t get lost in, what seems to them, a whole ocean. And clarity provided by the freshest air in the world, under the shade of the big oak trees on a late summer afternoon.

But at the present, none of that came close to being enough.

The artist’s block started off as a minor inconvenience, but without your permission, had stretched into weeks of steadily declining motivation. Each new idea felt even worse than the last, and you were acutely aware that there would come a point where you’d officially hit maximum capacity for how awful they could get.

Still, that didn’t seem to light a fire under you. You happily coexisted with the blank pages of your sketchbook. Staring down at them, laying open on your lap in their stark-white glory, you felt like you were playing a waiting game. If you stared long and hard enough, maybe they’d flinch. 

Unfortunately, you never got to find out who won, because your phone rang inside your pocket. As if the caller had interrupted an incredible genius at work (which couldn’t be farther from the truth), you hastily raised the phone to your ear, slamming your sketchbook shut.

“Hello?” Your voice wasn’t as kind as it could be for someone with nothing better to be doing. Two seconds later, you learned who was calling and came to regret it.

“Hi, This is Rebecca from District Arts, calling with a message from Andre ––”

“Oh, hi!” you tried to walk back your previous tone, straightening up in your seat and pitching your voice higher, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting to hear from him!” 

While Rebecca intimidated you, Andre happened to be your closest friend at the gallery. He worked closely with the artists to curate their collection and help them make sales. 

“Does he want to sort out what to set the opening bid prices at for my new pieces?” A handful of days ago, you sent him pictures of your new work and were waiting to hear his thoughts. You’d always been able to trust his opinion, and a vote of confidence from him might be just the thing to inspire you.

“Uhm…” There was a criminally long pause on the other side of the line, ended by Rebecca’s weary inhale. “Unfortunately, we’re calling to inform you that your pieces will not be included in the next rotation.”

For a minute, you weren’t sure what to make of what she said. You’d never heard those words before.

“What – what do you mean?” you laughed nervously. She probably misspoke. Perks of friendship aside, Andre always included you in sets. 

“Ugh, let me just get him…” her voice faded away as she put the phone down. 

That wasn’t exactly the reassuring statement you were looking for. In the time it took for the call to switch hands, your confusion finally melted in. And then quickly boiled into anger.

The District Arts gallery changed their entire collection every two months. The pieces shown accepted rolling bids throughout the full eight weeks, finally selling at the end of term to their highest offer. After that, the pieces got taken down, sent to happy new owners, and the entire gallery reset with entirely new works. 

So if you missed one rotation, that meant waiting two months to get back in.

“Andre, how am I just cut from the gallery!” you barked before he could get a word in. If he didn’t like your work, he could’ve just said so. 

“No one said that ––”

“Okay, let me rephrase.” You pinched the bridge of your nose, something you found yourself doing quite frequently lately, and took a deep breath in and out. It was seemingly just for show because it did absolutely nothing to calm you down. “Why wouldn’t you put me in the next set? I’m in all of them!”

“I know you are!” He sounded just as upset. “It’s just that… we give you the biggest space we have, because you always manage to fill it up. But this time… I’m not so sure you can.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you scoffed. “What makes you say that?” You asked that, but you knew.

“You’ve only finished three pieces… I’m worried how you’ll deliver seven more before we set up.”

“But… it’s four weeks away, I could do ––”

“And it took you four weeks to make what you have... I’m sorry. We couldn’t take that gamble.” 

He took your silence as an opportunity to turn off the work talk and speak, just friend to friend. 

“You know that I trust you and I’d hold that spot if I could. But, I also know what you’re going through right now, and… I don’t know, maybe letting yourself rest would be a good thing?” 

Your heart paused. By, “knowing what you’re going through”, you assumed he didn’t mean the little artist’s block.

“If you’re implying that I can’t do my job because of what happened with Cyrus –”

“I’m not, I’m not....” he backtracked as quickly as he could. “But take another look at the paintings you showed me and tell me if they feel like you.”

Even if he was right, you wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You wanted to beg that you didn’t need that big space; you were willing to downsize and just turn in the three that you had. Even if they got shoved into the corner where hardly anybody bothered to look. You just couldn’t afford to go two months without the income. 

But even with tears beading up, you realized that the gallery couldn’t afford it either. They needed to bring in money and you couldn’t do that for them this time. So they were right to go to someone who can.

“Right,” you sniffled, recollecting yourself so he can’t hear the shakiness in your voice. “I understand. It’s a big risk, like you said… It’s for the better.”

Andre tried to thank you for being understanding and spewed some sort of encouragement. The words flew over your head. You managed to toss in a few ‘mhmm’s and ‘sure’s at the right places to coast you along until the call finally ended. 

As soon as it went dead, you dropped your phone to the side and brought your hands to your face, rubbing them furiously over your cheeks. Your fingertips pressed hard into your eyelids, trying to forcibly reabsorb the tears threatening to spill. 

It almost worked, until you tried to breathe. 

A full sob escaped in that one gulp of air and you succumbed to it. But the loud crunching noise of some pedestrian walking over the falling leaves destroyed your sense of privacy, and you quickly wiped away all signs of your breakdown. The crunching stopped just short of your bench and on instinct you flicked your eyes up to see who the intruder was.

You did a double take. It was him. That fucking asshole.

He was standing there, looking dumber than you could even remember, with his hands in his coat pockets and a curious look on his face as he watched you cry. Tucking your sketchbook under your arm in haste, you made it a point to stand up with as much aggression as possible, rolling your eyes at him.

“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” you barked. “No need to yell at me this time.”

You bristled past him, barely refraining yourself from checking his shoulder as payback. You wanted to believe you were better than him, but it did sound incredibly tempting. He stood there for a moment before turning on his heel and following you.

“Wait,” he groaned.

You didn’t listen, neither stopping nor slowing down.

“I said wait,” he huffed as he caught up to you, popping up at your side and jogging along as you kept going.

“Yeah, because I need to listen to a guy who yells at strangers in bookstores.” 

Now that you’d brought up the elephant in the room, your feet started moving even faster, working double time to get you away from him.

Damn the fact that he had those long legs. He didn’t even break a sweat trying to keep up. He was inescapable.

“Well, if you waited like I asked, you would’ve gotten an apology for the ––”

“Gee, thanks!” you yelled, stopping for only a second to turn to him and give him a mocking bow of your head, hands clasped together like you were praising at his altar. “I was waiting with bated breath for that! Thank you, kind sir, for now my life can go on.”

“Look, I’m actually sorry,” he snapped. Then in realizing the irony, softened his voice, “I’m sorry for being rude. I was having a bad day… not that that’s an excuse.”

You stared at him blankly, just watching his mouth moving quickly and waiting until it finally stopped. 

“Did you need something?” 

“Did you… did you not hear what I just said?!” 

“No, sorry,” you smiled, voice sweet like sugar. “My ears filter bullshit. Wanna try again?”

He scoffed, looking away like he couldn’t believe you before stepping even closer. “What’s your problem?”

“Me!? The fuck –– what the fuck is your problem?” You turned and stormed off again, seething at his audacity. Spencer just couldn’t relent his annoying tendencies and followed yet again.

“My problem is that I’m trying to be nice, and you’re not letting me!”

You got a good, hard laugh out of that. “Okay, first of all, having to apologize for yelling at me and pushing me isn’t exactly the best starting point for the journey of becoming a nice person.”

“Like I said, I was having a bad day.” 

Under your breath, you muttered, “Well, I hope this one’s even worse.”

“Why are you such a ––” He stopped himself from finishing that thought. Even in his worst mood, he wouldn’t cross that line. 

But he didn’t need to finish it, you knew exactly where he wanted to take it. The soles of your shoes scraped against the loose gravel as you came to a grinding halt, ears ringing.

“A what?” You turned to face him, a sarcastic smile on your face growing wider as he started to shrink more and more. You got up close in his face, daring him to say what he really wanted to. So he could reinforce your belief in exactly the type of person he was. “A what?” 

Spencer pursed his lips and shook his head, refusing to say it no matter how much you challenged him. If he wasn’t going to have the balls to say it, you decided to take it upon yourself.

“Tell you what, you keep thinking about it and get back to me the next time you’re in a cunty mood.” 

The word he was thinking of was probably not as bad, but you had a habit of escalating things. Even if you took this one too far, you didn’t care. 

Before you tried to take off again, Spencer’s hand flew to your elbow. He tugged you back, forcing you to turn around and face him. He didn’t know his own strength; without any resistance, you came stumbling into his chest, at risk of falling over if it weren’t for his tight grip on your arm.

It took you a beat to push him away with both your hands on his chest, vocalizing your disgust for being so close to him. 

“Can you stop trying to disagree with me for a second? I’m trying to tell you that you’re right, I was being a… well, you know…” He avoided the word. Apparently ‘cunt’ was where he drew the line. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.” 

Your nostrils were still flared and blood hot as ever, but he made you pause. He looked sincere, if not a little tinged with guilt as well. You were suspicious of it.

“You saw me crying and felt bad, didn’t you?”

He laughed darkly. “Well, I saw you, yes. Did I feel bad? No.” 

“Oh, my God,” you growled, berating yourself for getting close to believing he might be capable of decency. 

“I’m joking! I’m joking.” He squeezed your elbow twice in earnest. “I did feel bad, but that’s not why I wanted to say it.”

“Okay.” You weren’t ready to give him a real smile, so you flattened your lips into a thin line and nodded once slowly, and left it at that. 

You still weren’t a fan, but the apology did dampen some of the resentment. Maybe he wasn’t the worst person alive. You’d settle for saying top ten most annoying, instead.

Minutes later, you came to the startling realization that he was still on the path, just two paces behind you. You flinched when you saw him out of the corner of your eye, not expecting him to still be here. 

“Uhm. Where are you… why are you still following me?” 

“I’m not. My car’s that way,” he gestured to the parking lot at the end of the long walkway. “I forgot my loaf for the ducks.” He didn’t mean to offer that information up, it just slipped out. He could practically see your smug expression coming before it even got there.

“You’re not supposed to feed bread to the ducks. It’s bad for them.”

“I don’t.” He didn’t care to explain this to you, but he couldn’t have you thinking he was any less competent than he really was. “It’s a special bread made from water and seeds that were ground into flour. It’s duck-safe.” 

“They make duck-safe bread?” Now that was something you’d never heard before. 

“No… I make duck-safe bread,” he said softly under his breath. 

You didn’t know how else you were supposed to react to that besides laughing wildly. 

“You make it?” He nodded like you were the crazy one here. As if he wasn’t the one spending his spare time grinding up seeds and baking loaves of bread for ducks, donning a frilly pink apron and oven mitts as he did so. At least that’s how you imagined it. “Why not just feed them the seeds?”

“Because, loose seeds will sink in the water and can potentially clog waterbeds and cause foreign bacteria growth in the pond.” 

“So you… hand-make the seeds into a little loaf of bread so it doesn't do that?”

He confirmed. You pondered silently for a moment, then absolutely had to ask, “You ever eaten the duck bread before?”

Spencer was caught off guard by that question. His cheeks deepened to a rosy color.

“Yeah, well, it was the house so…” he laughed nervously and stared at his sneakers. “It’s actually not too bad.”

You weren’t entirely surprised by that. You remembered what his grocery basket looked like, and given those same options, you probably would’ve tried the duck bread too. Still, you cracked the smallest of grins at knowing he makes bread for ducks. The one, sole redeeming fact you’ve learned about Spencer. 

You reached your car first, and Spencer stopped in front of it with you. 

“I’m actually sorry, you know,” he whispered once more, hand resting at the top of your car door as you opened it. He wasn’t talking about the incident at the bookstore.

“Yeah…” For a while you were so busy being angry at Spencer that you forgot about your own problems. 

He noticed your nose was still red around the edges, eyes still a little bleary. “Are you okay, by the way?” His voice was too soft, too genuine.

You shook your head no.

“Is there anything I can do?” You shook your head again. And then you had an awful thought.

You knew he was just offering to help just to say it, because that’s how people react when you say you’re not okay even if they don’t care. But there actually was something he could do for you… Something that Penelope could do.

“Uh, no but…” you fixed your hair and tucked it behind your ear, seamlessly switching to a flirtier voice. “If you still feel bad about the other day, you’re welcome to make it up to me.”

Spencer cocked his head to the side, unsure of how he could do that. 

“Hang out with me sometime.”

“H-hang out?” You could tell that it flustered him, even if he tried to play it off. He swallowed thickly, nose twitching and brows scrunched together.

“Relax, I really do just mean hang out.” You were lying through your teeth. He didn’t need to know that. 

As if he didn’t want to think about it for a second longer and just get out of this conversation as quickly as possible, he agreed without thinking it through. He didn’t even ask why an almost complete stranger would want to hang out with him. 

You stuck your hand out, expecting him to hand over his cell so you could put your contact into it. He rocked on the balls of his feet, watching as you input your contact and sent yourself a text on his phone.

“Hi, this is…” you read out your message as you typed, pausing at just the right place. “What’s your name by the way?”

“Oh-uh, I’m Spencer.” 

A devilish grin took over your face, hidden from his view while you were looking down at the screen. He was going to be easy to fool.

-

-

agh! im still not in love with how this chapter is turning out, but it came to a point where i just had to stop fiddling with it and just post it. any feedback or comments about this story is very much appreciated 💕

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#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid series #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid slow burn #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid enemies to lovers #criminal minds fic #mgg

[yyxgin]

🌃 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 || 𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠

☆ han jisung x fem! reader ☆

☆ GENRE: college au, best friends to lovers au, fluff

☆ SUMMARY: There’s only one thing that can help your stressed out mind when you have a week left to finish the most important assignment for your art class of them all, and that is the honey voice of your best friend. What a shame he’s too shy to sing sometimes.

☆ WORDS: 5k 

☆ WARNINGS: swearing and that is it me thinks

You hear the silent melody coming from your best friend sitting on the other side of the couch, quiet hums gradually flowing into coherent words as he mindlessly scrolls through social media on his phone, his low singing filling your empty living room as you take your eyes off your phone and watch him. 

He looks casual, just like always. The army-green hoodie looks about two times his size enveloping his body, the hood thrown over his head to hide his messy hair, sweatpants hiding a little bit of his foot as well as if to make him look extra tiny today. The song coming out of his mouth sounds similar, yet it still sounds new to you when you catch him randomly singing during the day on times when he forgets he doesn't want anyone to hear.

"It cannot wait, I'm yours-" his head snaps up to meet your eyes, immediately shutting up and looking back to his phone screen. 

"No, why'd you stop?" you whine, pouting. His voice is good. Too good, for never getting singing lessons and basically not even trying while he sings. 

"'Cause it sounds bad," he mutters, furrowing his brows.

"It doesn't." you firmly say, desperate to make your best friend believe your words in order to hear him sing more often. For some reason, his singing always managed to bring a sense of comfort into your heart. It felt like the sunlight shining at you in the cold days of winter, sweet and soothing for your freezing heart.

"Yeah, right," his cheeks flash pink, rolling his eyes. 

"You hear me singing all the time and I sound like a dying racoon, I really don't understand why you're so shy about it when you sound like angels coming down to earth to bless us all," you giggle, poking his sides.

He laughs softly at your compliment, shaking his head. This was how it usually went. 

He started singing out of the blue, you stopped everything you were doing just to listen to him, then he realised you became too quiet and stopped in the very second. 

"I wish you sang more. I like your voice," you point out, watching him flash an even deeper shade of pink as he shyly giggles at your confession.

"Sorry to break it to you, but I won't," he shakes his head in disapproval. It annoyed you, how he just never seemed to believe your words.

"But why? You never believe me when I tell you you sound good," you pout, furrowing your eyebrows and throwing your fists in the air in a sense of frustration.

"And that, my dear, is called not believing in yourself." he giggles, making you roll your eyes. 

"I don't get it," you sigh, standing up and moving to the kitchen, "anyways, I am on my way to paint the rest of the assignment I have for my art class, so if you don't want to sing me something, at least put some music on," you yell white putting your empty mug into the sink.

As you walk back to the living room with your art supplies you managed to snatch from the desk where you put them before, you hear the familiar sound of your bluetooth speaker turning on, making you sigh. And that's for your daily dose of Han Jisung's singing. You sit cross-legged at the ground, taking your paint brushes into your hand, hearing the song he decided to put on playing from the speaker. You recognise it being the one he was humming to himself just a few minutes ago, smiling.

"What is the theme anyway?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Nature," you roll your eyes, not really interested in painting trees the tiniest bit, but having to do it anyway, because you can’t just paint whatever you want and get away with it in your art class.

"So like, trees and stuff?" he teases you, knowing damn well how much you don't like the particular assignment in the first place.

"Trees, mountains, butterflies…" you ironically smile, blobbing a whole lot of green paint onto your palette, grunting, "and I wanted to be chosen for the showcase this year, but I guess we'll have to wait until the theme is not about rocks and rivers." you scoff.

"Oh please, you'll do great anyway," encourages you Jisung, "you can paint well even if it's just trees and mountains." 

"I'm not Bob Ross, Jisung." you mutter, hating the way the green paint looks on the canvas in the first place.

"Yes you are," he giggles, "you paint just like him." 

"Tells me the one who sounds like Mariah Carey but tries to act like he can't sing," you tease back, enjoying the way his eyebrows furrow at your comment.

"I can't do whistle notes yet," he smirks.

The car rides with Jisung were probably your most favorite. It wasn't for the fact that he doesn't drive too fast like most of your friends do, since as he said, he doesn't trust himself to slow down if he strats, but truth be told, that was also one of the reasons. But the main reason is, that you always get to hear him singing along to the radio, even if it's kind of difficult to hear over the loud music and the original singer. That doesn’t matter, though, because even the tiniest sign of him singing around you made you happy. 

He doesn't seem to care as he yells the words to Riptide by Vance Joy on the top of his lungs, sounding like the song belongs to him, parking the car in the almost empty parking lot at Michael's craft store.

"No problem. What even happened, anyway?" he furrows his brows at you, confused on why you suddenly hit him up out of the blue in the evening as you swore on your life you couldn't hang out because you have to finish that disgusting assignment for your art class.

"Thanks." you smile at him as you ubuckle your seat-belt and open the door to his car. 

"I fucked up on the painting and now I need to buy some new canvases," you grunt, rolling your eyes, "and green paint. A whole lot of green paint." 

He snickers a little as he walks by your side, quickly turning around to lock his car and bringing his attention back to you, "I am sure it wasn't even that bad in the first place and you're just over-reacting." 

"Yes it was, Jisung, you didn't see the disaster that painting became. I wanted to paint a bear and it looked like a degenerated pine tree." you blurb out, frustrated, as you take the shopping cart to your hands only for it to be snatched by the hands of your best friend helping you.

"Well, you could always say you wanted to be a little abstract," he grins at you.

"Yeah, sure. Miss Kim would absolutely kill me and I wouldn't get to the showcase this year again. Why am I majoring in art in the first place when I can't even get to the school's art showcase? That prick Minho got in three times already and he said he doesn't even like art in the first place!" you say, gritting your teeth.

"Why is he majoring in art, then?" asks Jisung, confused.

"Because he wanted a degree and he said it was the easiest major to pick," you roll your eyes. 

"Well, I mean that is kind of smart, I should have picked that instead of business-" 

"Jisung, you can't draw." you laugh.

"And? We were all born to express, not to impress," he waves his arms in the air, grinning. You laugh at his expression, facepalming as you reach for three containers of green paint from the counter and throwing it into the cart.

"If this is not enough of green paint, I swear to god I will kick something-" 

"Hey! Peace. Think of the pigeons. Rainbows. Sunshine," he recitates, motioning you to breathe deeply to calm down your nerves, giggling in the process.

"Fuck the pigeons! I tried to paint one yesterday and it turned into a fucking rock in the air!" you throw a fit, making him shush you as a few people turn around to see your distressed state.

"Calm down, woman," he says, putting an arm on your back, gently pushing you to the cashier, "it's just a painting. You'll do great, don't worry. You're just stressing too much." 

You grunt as you see another ruined canvas, throwing the brush onto the ground, muttering a quiet swear as you notice the paint on the floor, quickly taking a tissue and wiping it off.

"What's gotten into you? It's okay," sweetly says Jisung, once again sitting at your sofa and watching over you as you try to paint your assignment again. 

"It looks bad! Just look at it! I have a week left and I already ruined three canvases, at this rate, I won't be able to even finish it, I can only dream of getting to the showcase," you mourn, throwing yourself to the ground and hiding your face in your hands.

"You just have to take it easy, you're pressuring yourself too much-" 

"I've heard that already." you cut him off, growling. 

You lay there for a while, breathing heavily, collecting your thoughts. Once you manage to calm down, you sit up and look at your best friend watching over you on the sofa, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm just stressed out. I didn't mean to snap at you." 

"It's okay." he nods, seeing you taking the brush into your hand again and trying to fix the blob of paint that was supposed to look like a squirrel, much reminding you of your dear best friend sitting next to you. 

You feel a gentle grip on your hand after a few seconds, taking the brush out of it and putting it to the table. You furrow your brows and look at him, confused on why he is suddenly stopping you from your work, the contact of his skin on yours surprising you a little.

"We're done with painting today." he sternly says, stopping you.

"Ji, I have a week left to-" 

"That's a lot of time! Stand up, we're having a karaoke night." he grins at you, pulling you up to your feet, as he takes his phone laying on the sofa into his hands and connects it to the bluetooth speaker.

"I have no time to have a karaoke night Jisung, what even is that-" 

"Pick a song. Any song. We're about to sing our hearts out tonight and my mission won't be considered successful until your neighbours come to complain," he grins, giving the phone into your hand with his spotify app open already. 

You look at him dead serious for a moment before sighing and looking through his embarrassingly long spotify playlist called ‘bops only’. "Fine," you sigh, "but just this once. And if they call the police on us, you're paying the fine for disturbing the silent hours." 

"I didn't say anything about that-" 

"Blah blah blah, I can't hear you!" you giggle, putting on I will survive by Gloria Gaynor on full volume to cut him off, throwing the phone back onto the sofa as you prepare for your singing solo.

You sneak your arms around his neck, dancing and laughing in the process as you loudly scream the lyrics into his face. He smiles at the sight, content with the fact that he managed to cheer you up so quickly, putting his arms on your hips as he jumps up and down, joining you in singing once the song hits the chorus. 

And just this once, as his arms steadily hold your body and you throw a tantrum in your living room, he doesn't even care that you hear him sing as he knows you like to hear his voice. Maybe, just maybe, that was the reason why he suggested a karaoke night to cheer you up in the first place anyway.

"What do you mean you're not gonna be here on my birthday?" you pout from the ground, focused on the canvas right in front of you. 

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? But my mum really needs me to come help her with the atic, and you know how she gets when I refuse to come home at least once a month even though I constantly tell her I don't have the time to travel for 45 minutes just so she can see my face once in a while…" sighs Jisung, laying on your sofa so his head is now facing the same way yours does, and that is, your half-empty canvas.

"I know, I know. But does it really have to be on my birthday? You're going to be away for three days, and the showcase is on Friday…" you mumble, "if I get there, of course." you sigh.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, sounding genuinely concerned. It was currently Monday and your birthday was on Thursday, which meant you had four days to finish your art piece to submit it on the exact day of your birthday to see if your teacher accepts it for the showcase of the following day. And you're not even halfway done with your work! To be exact, you feel like you're gonna fail and to not have your best friend by your side to help you through your stress, you truly feel like you'll go insane.

"I know," you sigh, "it's okay. I guess I'll just… manage, somehow." you scoff.

"You can always celebrate with that friend from your art class, and we'll celebrate together on Saturday, when I come back. What was that kid's name again?" he furrows his brows at you, turning your way to see your focused face.

"You mean Hyunjin? No, thank you. He'd just want me to get drunk and I really don't need that the day before the showcase," you mumble, painting the leaves of the tree carefully, focusing on every single detail. Jisung always adored your talent. Everything you ever drew was a masterpiece in his eyes. He even kept the notes you gave to him in high school once when he was sick and you managed to take notes for him as well when you shared a Chemistry class, sneaking a few doodles on the sides when you got bored of listening to the teacher, "but that will come handy when I don't get in again, so I'll consider it." you roll your eyes.

"You will get in." he reassures you again, finding your eyes.

"I doubt that," you bitterly laugh. 

"Ugh, stop that already," he grunts, focusing on the canvas again, feeling relaxed just at watching you do your magic, but you throw the paintbrush on the table again at that exact moment and run your hands through your hair in frustration.

"What?" 

"It looks like shit. Again." you exclaim. 

His eyes go wide at the sentence, disbelief washing over him. Did you really think that?

"What the fuck? It doesn't! It looks amazing, trust me," he says, reaching his arms to you, taking you by the shoulder from his position on the sofa.

"I am so stressed Jisung, I feel like I'm about to go insane." you whisper, sighing.

You don't have to say more for Jisung to stand up from his position on the sofa only to sit on the ground behind you, sneaking his arms around your middle and bringing you close to him, gently rocking you in your position on the floor. You feel his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent as he quickly pecks your cheek and settles his head back onto your shoulder.

You hear him softly singing into your ear, the words filling your insides with gold as his voice feels like honey, calming you down from the storm happening inside of you like a brim of light. 

"And I see colors in a different way, you make what doesn't matter fade to grey, life is good and that's the way it should be," he sings softly, a wide smile appearing on your features with every next word.

His voice calms your nerves as you slowly relax in his hold, your bodies gently rocking to the rhythm of the song as it slowly ends and his voice grows quieter. 

He hated singing in front of people. 

But to see you smile, he would go as far as overcoming his biggest fears. Because when you need him, he will always be there.

"Jisung, I have no time for this, I already told you I need to finish the assignment-" you mumble as you sit in his car, his smiling face looking at you from the driver's seat.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning and I can't have you painting for more than an hour today because I feel like you'll break down if you do, so let's go. And you're already in the car, so there's no escape anyway." he explains, waiting for you to buckle in your seatbelt.

You just sigh and look out the window, biting down on your lip. If he keeps distracting you this much, you'll never finish the assignment.

You hear him softly singing along with the radio, careful not to disturb him in fear of making him stop, smiling to yourself as you let him drive you to an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night. You count the lampposts, the habit you grew to have since you were little, before they disappear and you're on a road shadowed by tall trees, the headlights of Jisung's car being the only thing illuminating the road. 

You recognise you're going up a hill, looking over at him, seeing him focused on the road.

As you reach the top, Jisung stops the car and gets out, you follow him as he waits for you by the door to the passenger’s side. 

As soon as you look around, you're amazed by the sight in front of you. You have a view of the city far, far away in the distance as you see the dell illuminated by the subtle glow of the moon sitting up in the starry sky. You watch the sight with an open mouth, awe washing over you as you just can't keep your eyes off the landscape in front of you.

"Wow," you breathe out.

You feel his hand gripping yours as he leads you to the edge of the hill, sitting at the giant rock there, pulling you down next to him as you watch the nature breathe in front of you. His hand doesn't leave yours as he speaks up after a while.

"You like it?" he asks, quiet enough to not disturb the atmosphere.

"Yeah," you whisper. You see him moving closer to you from the corner of your eye, his head leaning on your shoulder as he enjoys your presence.

"I wanted to show you this before I go, so you have a moment to breathe for a second before you throw yourself into the stress again," he mumbles, gently playing with the fingers of your hand.

"Thank you," you speak, breathing in the chilly air of the forest.

You stay like that for a while, just gazing over the beauty of it all, making you feel like the time stopped for the two of you only as you enjoy the seconds that pass. The full moon watches over the two of you, captivating you as you look at it with a feeling of delight. You hear his gentle voice in your ear again, singing softly and beautifully, sounding magical at the top of the hill, once again filling your ears with melody as your insides tingle. 

"Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars, and let me see what spring is like on a-Jupiter and Mars," he sings, voice tender and sweet, slowing down the tempo of the song on purpose.

"In other words, baby, kiss me," he sings softly, voice fading as his eyes move to your lips, the silence of the hill and the light breeze tickling your skin.

You feel your eyes wandering to his lips, nervously licking yours in the process. You see him hesitantly move closer to you, stopping halfway to see if you pull away, taking his other hand and resting it on your cheek. His breath fans your face as he moves even closer, nudging your nose with his, eyes gazing to yours, your trembling fingers squeezing his hand as if to tell him to go ahead, fluttering your eyelids close.

Once the moment finally comes and his shy lips press to yours, you feel yourself responding immediately, moving with him as the familiar feeling of the sun in your stomach greets you with full force, your other hand going up to rest on his neck. 

When he pulls away and rests his forehead against yours, you can't help but smile. His soft giggle fills your ears like music, your lips meeting his in a soft, quick peck in the instance.

"In other words, hold my hand," he continues, softly squeezing your hand resting in his lap, making you look at him, locking your eyes with his as he stares at you, gaze full of stars.

Han Jisung's always been your best friend. But perhaps tonight, you finally understood the fact that life feels sweet as honey anytime he's around you. 

In other words, you love him.

You toss and turn in your bed, tears silently falling down your cheeks on a Wednesday night. Jisung's left this morning and you didn't even finish doing your assignment. You had the whole day for it today without anyone bothering you, but turns out, you managed to hate the painting you did anyway. 

It just didn't look good in your eyes. It looked gross. Horrible. When you compare yourself to the other people in your class, you feel like your art is worthless. It always somehow managed to look bad. And everybody knew. 

You were the only one who wasn’t good enough to get into the annual art showcase in your three years of college. 

Did you even improve at all? 

You turn around in your bed, seeing your phone light up with a new notification, opening it and wiping your tears away in the process so you can see though your blurry eyes. 

'How did the assignment go?' there states, Jisung's name appearing on the message app, your insides automatically calming down a little at the thought of your best friend.

'Don't even ask', you shoot him a reply, sighing deeply to stop the salty tears from falling. 

'It's okay, baby' he replies instantly, your heart racing at the nickname appearing on your screen, bitterly laughing at yourself for acting like a schoolgirl when it comes to Jisung. When did your feelings even grow into something more in the first place? It seemed like it was that way from the start. Perhaps you were just too oblivious to notice.

'It's not. Didn't even finish it. Kicked it when I fucked up again and just gave up.' you type, already friends with the feeling of defeat and failure you've been feeling since the evening.

He doesn't respond for a while, making you think he fell asleep with the phone in his hand again, turning around in your bed to put the phone back onto your bedside table to try to fall asleep on your own as well, when a new message lights up your screen.

You see a voice memo appearing in your messages with Jisung, your heart thumping at the image of hearing his voice this late in the evening, quickly pressing the play button and listening to what he had to say.

"Hi, umm- I've never actually done this before, but I know you're probably feeling like shit right now and I need you to know that you are not a failure, because I know you feel like one right now," you giggle a little at the accuracy, his low voice making you feel things you didn’t even know you could feel before, "anyways, I need you to be kind to yourself tonight. And since I know you like it when I sing, here's a little something…" he mumbles into the phone, making your heart race.

"Here goes nothing," he softly laughs, and clears his throat, beginning to sing, "Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can't help falling in love with you," his voice feels soft through the speaker, your eyes welling up with tears again, but this time, they're of appreciation and pure love for the boy laying in his bed 45 minutes away from you, because you know just how nervous he must have felt to sing into his phone just for you.

"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you?" he finishes, his voice fading away, your insides melting. How did you get so lucky? 

"And now go to sleep. It's your birthday tomorrow, we don’t want you to feel sad on your special day. Good night, baby." he sounds, the nickname bringing another set of butterflies into your stomach. 

You wish you could do as he told you. But at that exact moment, you bring yourself to try again, you make yourself stand up from your bed and move to your living room as you take a new canvas with you, inspiration kicking you with full force, taking tubes of paint and a paintbrush into your hand as you begin to work on your assignment, trying again just one last time.

You stand in front of your painting, watching over it with proud eyes. The chatter of people around you is only a background noise in your ears as you smile brightly at the assignment you finished just the time the clock striked midnight on Wednesday. 

"Yaaah y/n, it looks so good," you hear the voice of Lee Minho call next to you, patting your shoulder.

You grin and turn to look at him, gratitude washing over you upon hearing the compliment. "Thanks." 

"I wondered when you're finally going to be on a showcase, I don't understand why neither of your previous assignments made it," he mutters, shaking his head, "but this looks great. It's original." he nods.

"Thank you, Minho," you only smile wider, the pride in you growing minute by minute, "yours looks great too, by the way. I like the colors." 

"Really? I hate it. I never hated a theme more than this," he huffs, "who the fuck thinks nature is entertaining to paint?" 

"I know, right? I had four mental breakdowns over it," you laugh, now that the suffering is finally over and you can breathe freely.

"Did you use reference for this?" he asks suddenly, pointing to the painting hanging on the middle of the wall.

"No, I did it from memory…" you mumble, sighing.

You watch Minho's eyes shifting somewhere behind you, grinning widely at something that caught his eye, prompting you to look that way only to be left in a state of absolute shock. 

The talking of the people filling the showcase gradually stops as they see Han Jisung holding a plate of a strawberry cheesecake with a single candle stuck to the middle of it, moving slowly not to make the light flicker die down, the grinning face of Hwang Hyunjin following his steps with a bottle on champagne in his hands doing grimaces at you from afar as a honey voice calls through the room.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear y/n," he looks at you, eyes big and full of love, as he finally reaches your figure in the middle of the room,

"Happy birthday to you!" he finishes, your soft giggles cutting through the hall as you move to blow out the candle and gaze onto the face of your best friend.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were coming in the evening!" you yell, throwing yourself into his arms. It was only three days, but you already missed him too much.

"I escaped," he laughs, his whole body shaking in the process as you pull away after a second, "I'm joking. I couldn't stay with my mother knowing I'm gonna miss your first ever showcase." 

You smile warmly at him, the people around you disappearing in the moment, only his figure standing out to you in the haze as he hesitantly moves over and locks your lips in a quick kiss. 

You ignore the howling of Lee Minho coming from your left and the loud 'Finally!!' from the lips of Hwang Hyunjin to your right as Jisung turns to your painting, smiling widely at the sight.

"It looks so real," he mumbles in awe, noticing the way his insides turn into a puddle of sweet joy as he recognises the night view of the dell he showed you on the night of your first kiss, instantly realising the way you must have painted it after he sent you the voice memo to sing you to sleep on the Wednesday night. 

"You inspired me," you grin brightly. 

"Don't say that." he shyly looks down on his feet.

"But it's true." you prompt.

He smiles lightly, shaking his head before locking your eyes again. 

"I just realised I left your gift at home. Look at me, wishing you happy birthday a day later and not even bringing you a gift to make up for it…" he mutters, stepping closer to you and putting an arm around your shoulder in the process.

"That's okay," you say, and you really mean it. You are the happiest you've ever been right now, feeling accomplished and with him by your side. You don’t need any other gift.

"Well, I have one thing in my mind that can count as a gift, though," he smirks.

"And that is?" 

"I can finally be your boyfriend. I mean, isn't that the best gift you’ve ever gotten?" he grins, prompting you to elbow him lightly in the ribs as you burst into a fit of laughter.

"You're such a dork, I swear to god…"

"But I am your dork, right?" 

You sigh, playfully rolling your eyes. "Yes, Jisung. You are my dork. Only mine."

#districtninewriters #kafenetwork #stayverse #stayracha #kpopscape #stayhavennet #stray kids imagine #stray kids au #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fluff #stray kids best friends to lovers au #han jisung imagine #han jisung au #han jisung fanfiction #han jisung fluff #han jisung best friends to lovers au

[13uswntimagines]

Learning to Love (Preath x Adopted Teen!Reader)

Request: could you do something where christen and Tobin adopt teenage r whose been through a lot and shows her how to accept love or something fluffy and angsty like that

Pt 2

Author’s Note: So this was really difficult for me to write for some reason. it’s also super long, but I wanted to include several learning moments. I’m going to put a warning on this for mentions of abuse, but nothing graphic. I hope you enjoy this! Send me Requests, Questions, or if you just wanna say Hi! Let me know what you think, your comments mean the world to me. 

You woke with a start, a cold sweat covering your entire body, your breathing heavy, and your brain trying to remember where you were. You clutched at the old hoodie you were wearing, pulling the collar to your nose and breathing in Tobin’s soothing scent. 

You had stolen the Thorns sweater awhile ago and never given it back. You found comfort in one of the several items that had become your own the 8 months that you had been with the women. 

You had immediately clicked with Tobin. Her overall laid back demeanor had set you at ease. Your mutual love of art always gave you talking points, whenever you actually felt like talking. But she never pushed, she was just as comfortable in silence as she was when you were conversing about art. 

It had taken you a little longer to become comfortable around Christen. She was the observant one. The one who always knew when you weren’t telling them the whole truth. The one who always pressed you to explain why you felt the way that you did, and at first that had unnerved you. She wasn’t pushy, but she had a way of getting you to open up that terrified you. 

You were like Tobin in the fact that you were never very good with words. You didn’t know how to articulate your feelings verbally, and the more… positive emotions confused you. Your parents had both been drug addicts, more interested in their respective highs than your actual wellbeing, or teaching you what affection was. You had only been removed from the home after your mother had tried to sell you to an undercover cop in exchange for drugs. You had spent the next 10 years bouncing around through the foster system, with each home only building on the scars that the last had left behind. 

Then by some miracle, you had met Christen and Tobin, who seemed determined to teach you about the happier emotions. The emotions that you didn’t understand. Hell, you had nearly jumped out of your skin the first time one of them tried to touch you. The going was slow, but it wasn’t in their nature to give up. 

You glanced at the clock, sighing at the blinking 4:40 that you found there. It was too early to be up, but you didn’t know if you could go back to sleep after your dream (memory?). You sighed, sliding out of bed and heading for the one room in the apartment that you knew could help you. The room that both women had made sure you knew was open 24/7 the moment they found out about your propensity for art. 

You were so engrossed in your project that you didn’t hear the door to Tobin’s studio open. She looked you over from the door, watching as you traced one of her canvases with a dark charcoal color. The painting before you was striking. A perfect rendition of a man's face over a cowering form. The only happy portion of the canvass was a warm red in the distance. 

“Hey kid, what ya up to?” She asked quietly, don’t her best not to startle you. You jumped anyway, dropping the paintbrush with a loud crash. 

“I’m sorry I- I-I didn’t…” you stuttered turning to face her, your cheeks very red. She held up a hand to stop you. She wanted to say that this response was unusual, but it wasn’t. Your go-to was to immediately apologize for whatever. 

“Slow down kid, we told you that you could use this room whenever you wanted,” She soothed, moving to stand beside you and rubbing soothing circles on your back. Your shoulders relaxed, and your gaze returned to your masterpiece. 

“Okay,” You breathed out. 

“It’s really good,” She said in awe, taking in the detail of the piece. Your lips twitched up slightly, and Tobin was glad you didn’t try and fight her on it. You weren’t used to complements without strings, and they were still teaching you to accept them. 

“Thanks, I couldn’t get it out of my head,” You mumbled, biting your lip, shaking your head slightly. You ran a hand through your hair, and Tobin resisted the urge to laugh when a red paint line followed the path of your hand. 

“Nightmare?” She questioned as casually as she could. Yes, she had read your file, but she wanted to hear about your experiences from you when you were ready. So far the only thing you had told them was that the man you kept drawing was father number 4. 

“Mmm,” You hummed back, tilting your head to the side. 

“You know you can always come to get me or Chris if you’re too scared to go back to sleep,” Tobin asked for what probably was the millionth time. You gave her a slight nod. People always said that but the moment you started asking for things, the moment you became more work than what you were worth, they would throw you away. 

There was a beat of silence between the two of you, and you felt the urge to finally tell her more about the painting. About why he was always so much bigger than you. You opened and closed your mouth a few times, trying to find the right words. Tobin shot you an encouraging smile. 

“Hey, you two breakfast-“Christen’s voice called out before you could divulge any secretes, before cutting itself off “whoa baby this is fantastic,” She said the second she saw the painting.

You pulled your lips into a tight line and nodded your thanks, grabbing her hand and pulling her into a hug. You buried your face in her shoulder, taking in gulps of her scent, allowing it to soothe you. She wound her arms tighter around you, running careful fingers through your hair. 

You had taken a long time to warm up to her, but you loved her cuddles, and this was a typical good morning gesture after a hard night. 

“Can I ask you a question?” Christen questioned softly, her and Tobin’s hands running circles on you back.

“Hmmm,” was your only response to her, not willing to leave your new favorite hiding spot yet. 

“You’ve told us about this part, but what’s this?” She asked, pointing to the bright spot that was a new addition to the image the women had become very familiar with. You had known this part was coming. It was part of your therapy, to explain some parts of the painting to them. It was difficult, but in the end, it helped. It made everything a little less scary. 

You but your lip in thought. Truth be told, you weren’t sure what the bright light was. 

“It’s-, I’m always trying to get to it. I know that whatever’s behind the door is… safe? That’s not the word, it’s more than that it’s… I don’t know how to explain it,” you stuttered out, furrowing your eyebrows in concentration. You were good at naming the negative emotions, but oftentimes the happy ones evaded you.“I don’t know what’s behind it, only that I need it,”  

“That’s ok baby, wanna come eat some pancakes?” Christen sent you a blinding smile, and Tobin Laughed as your face lit up. You loved pancakes. 

“Can I finish it?” You asked hesitantly. You hated leaving things half-done.  

“Yeah baby, come find us when you’re done,” Tobin nodded, patting your back before they both took their leave. 

You watched them go. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you knew they cared for you in a way you had never experienced before. 

****

Camp was an… experience, and meeting so many new people was frightening, but Tobin and Christen had kept their promise to always protect you. The team had been understanding about your aversion to touch and never pressured you to join in their shenanigans. They also gave you more people to draw. 

You sighed leaning back against the bench that was acting as your backrest, pulling your knees closer to your chest and digging your feet into the grass of the practice field. You rested the black sketchbook that had always been your companion on your knees, bringing it closer to your face. You held your pencil between your teeth, your eyes flicking between the fine lines sketched on the page and the two women who were depicted. You were sure that the realistic picture was almost done, but something was missing. Something you couldn’t put your finger on. 

“What ya go there kiddo,” Christen asked, stopping several feet away from you and gesturing to the space beside you. You sent her a careful nod, and she sat down a few feet away from you on the turf. 

That was one thing that you appreciated about the women, they always came down to your level to make you feel more comfortable.

“It’s Becky and Alyssa, but something’s not right,” You mumbled, scooting closer to the woman, who smiled softly at you. 

“I’m not a sketch artist, but I could check it out if you want,” She offered, bringing her hand up to rub your back. Her smile widened when you didn’t immediately flinch away at the contact.

 It was a slow process, but little by little they were showing you how nice human touch could be. You loved morning cuddles, but you only liked touches that you initiated. You bit your lip in thought and sent the woman a very tiny nod, before carefully sliding over the book. A small gasp left her lips when eyes landed in the pencil sketch.

“This is incredible,” Christen said in awe, her fingers running lightly over the near-perfect replicas of her teammates. You shrugged, your eyebrows furrowing. 

“Something’s missing, but I don’t know what. Like it doesn’t feel right,” You murmured, glaring at the sketch in frustration. The picture was missing the key element that would make it come to life on the page. You didn’t know what it was, so how could you add it?

Christen glanced up at you. You rested your chin on your knees, hugging your legs, knowing that there would be no way of completely getting out of this conversation. You didn’t typically bring up your feelings, and Christen wasn’t one to let that go. 

“Why doesn’t it feel right?” She questioned softly, bringing her hand up to gently smooth out the wrinkles in your forehead, and run her thumb down your cheek. You sighed and tilted your head into her hand just slightly. 

“It’s just…” you stuttered, trying to find the words to describe the women. It wasn’t just one thing. It was how their bodies always seemed connected, even from across the field. How their eyes always seemed to be on each other. How they touched each other with such care. “The way they’re so… drawn to each other.” You finished after a few seconds, shaking your head. It was so much more than that. It was an extremely deep connection that went beyond simple care. “I don’t understand how…” You trailed off, pinching your space between your eyes. 

Your sketch was missing the connection between the two. The ease they clearly felt with each other. The amount they… cared. 

“They love each other,” Christen responded gently, watching your reaction very carefully. Your lips formed an even tighter line. Your childhood had shown you that love didn’t exist, but the thing between the women was so defined. So alive and vivid. Could it be love?

“Hmm,” you hummed, pulling the book back towards you, scratching behind your ear. Maybe it was love. 

Tobin watched you from afar, her lips quirking up at how well you were doing with Chris. 

“She’s a little shy, but she seems to be doing ok with all of us,” Ash mumbled, standing beside her and watching your interaction. 

“Kid has had it rough,” Tobin husked out. How someone could treat a child the way you were treated, she would never understand. Hell, you had been removed from one of the foster homes for suspected poisoning, and you were petrified to eat anything you didn’t open yourself. Your file was as almost as tall as a toddler, and she wondered how you had slipped through the system for so long. 

“We don’t doubt that,” Ali said gently, rubbing Tobin’s shoulder in a soothing fashions 

“She seems pretty close to Chris though,” Ashlyn smiled when you leaned into Christen’s hand, the comfort you took from the contact obvious from the look on your face. 

“Sometimes,” Tobin shrugged. It was odd. There were moments where you were completely open with them, and then two seconds later you would throw all your wall up again. 

“She draws a lot,” Kelley pointed out, joining the three women in their observation of you. 

“It’s the only way she knows how to express herself,” Tobin hummed shrugging. 

“That’s not surprising,” Kelley said, and all the women turned to look at her. 

“she was probably punished for showing any emotions at all,” Ash added with a thoughtful look on her face, and Tobin nodded. She had seen the scars, both physical and mental. Though you hadn’t unpacked them all with them, it would be impossible to hide the marks that would be with you for the rest of your life. It was also something your therapist had told them both in the beginning. 

“All I know is that it gives us a way to start that conversation without making her too uncomfortable” Tobin shrugged. It was true, you wouldn’t tell them what was bothering you until it was drawn on a page. It was your process and that was ok. They were showing you that feelings were ok. “She’s come a hell of a long way,”

****

Your eyes traced the faces sketched upon the page, your eyebrows furrowing because there was something yet again missing. Your dinner sat untouched on the plate in front of you, as you were far too focused on your drawing of the two blond women. 

You felt the presence behind you before you saw her, and you didn’t mind. Yes, Emily was a little hyper, but she was funny and sweet, and you had known her and Lindsey longer than you had known most of the other women. You had gotten to know them on the many times you had accompanied you m-. Tobin. The many times you had accompanied Tobin to practice. The same went for Kelley. 

“Holy shit! Tobs was right, you do have some skill!” She exclaimed, placing two hands on your shoulders. You jumped at the contact, squeezing your eyes shut, dropping your sketchbook on the table with a thump. The noise lost in the general chatter in the room (though Tobin and Christen did send you a worried look from where they were talking with Alex and Kelley.)

“Disonny, remember we had this talk?” Lindsey said as she appeared on your other side, sending Emily a disdainful look. The women knew that you didn’t like surprise touches, it was one of the many rules that Tobin and Chris had given them. 

“Oh, right. Sorry kid. But like that drawing is fire,” Emily jumped back quickly, sending you a regretful look. She pointed to the chairs next to you, and you nodded with a small smile. 

“It’s not right…” You murmured, returning your attention to the drawing, biting your lip. 

“What do you mean, it looks just like us?” Lindsey asked, leaning forward to get a better look at the picture of her and Emily. You had drawn it during the tactics meeting. There was just something about the way Lindsey’s hand was placed in Emily’s back, and how Emily was watching her instead of Vlatko that had been irresistible to you. 

“It’s missing something,” You grumbled shaking your head. You missed the glance that the two women shared. They knew that Chris and Tobin were trying to teach you to open up about your feelings. 

“Like what?” Lindsey asked carefully. Placing a gentle hand on your back and rubbing soothing circles like she had seen Christen do about a million times. 

“It’s something about the eyes. They get this glint when you look at each other,” You said, turning to the two women. Your hands moved animatedly as you tried to explain the thing that you knew was missing. The thing that you didn’t have a name for, but you could see clear as day. The thing that you just couldn’t capture on paper. 

“It’s because we love each other,” Emily explained as gently as she could, and you tensed. As far as you were concerned, love was a myth. A thing people used to give others hope or to justify their despicable actions. Dads 3 and 9 had proved that to you with their twisted definitions, and all of the families that had packed you up and shipped you off had destroyed any understanding of the concept. To think that someone would have such a deep level of care for another, only expecting the same in return was mind-boggling to you. 

“Love doesn’t exist,” You huffed, turning away from Emily’s kind eyes, and running a frustrated hand through your hair. The women resisted the urge to sigh. This wasn’t an uncommon occupancy, but your absolute denial was still a little disheartening, as everyone was doing their damndest to show you differently. 

“You’re allowed to feel that way, but I’m going to disagree with you,” Lindsey murmured, carefully untangling your hand from your hair and holding it in her own. You tended to take out your frustrations on yourself. A habit, among many others, that the women were working to break. 

“How do you know you love her and not something else?” You questioned, staring at the two women. The let your challenging tone roll off of them. They knew you had some deep-seated beliefs and that it took time to change them. 

“I care for Lindsey so deeply that I would do anything for her,” Emily started, grabbing her girlfriends hand and looking at her with so much devotion it almost took your breath away. 

“I always want to be around Emily. I want to protect her and make her feel better when she’s sad,” Lindsey finished, an equally adoring glint in her eyes. What you would give to be able to capture those looks perfectly on paper. Do be able to do that look justice. 

“I don’t, I just-,” You stuttered, your eyebrows furrowing. You opened and closed your mouth a few times, trying to figure out what you were trying to say. Tobin and Christen were always trying to make you feel welcome to make you feel better. Could that be what they meant? “She makes you feel safe?” You asked hesitantly. 

“The safest I’ve ever felt,” Lindsey said solemnly, and Emily nodded her agreement. You glanced over to the table where Christen was sending you a questioning smile. You smiled back. 

Lindsey and Emily shared another look, realizing that your doubts about love had nothing to do with them, but were instead about how you were feeling about your moms. 

“That’s how they make me feel,” You mumbled, looking down, almost ashamed. Tobin and Christen had done nothing but try and get you to open up to them. To make you feel safe and comfortable, and you couldn’t get a grip and call them Mom or tell them that you cared about (loved?) them. 

“For the record, they have the same glint when they look at you,” Lindsey whispered into your ear, pulling you into a hug. You gave her a tiny, not quite believing nod. You wanted to believe her, but how could anyone love a messed up 13-year-old like you?

****

You woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in your hotel room bed. Your heart was racing so fast that you thought it might beat right out of your chest. You clenched your eyes shut in an attempt to rid the images out of your mind. To rid the smell of his breath, that evil glint in his eyes, or the pain he had inflicted on your lower half from your brain. 

“Hey baby doll, you alright?” Tobin’s sleepy voice broke you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you bit down hard on your hand to prevent the sob from leaving your lips. 

“Hey, Y/n are you alright?” She said, flipping on the light, which startled Christen awake. They both took in your shaking form. Your face was pale, and you were rocking back and forth in the bed. You stared unseeingly at them, almost as though you were in a different world. 

The two women immediately jumped into action, Tobin rushing to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and Christen slowly moving to sit beside you on your bed. Her hand came up to gently run circles on your back. 

“Y/n, baby,” She murmured, afraid that she would startle you more than you already were. Your eyes snapped to her and you shook your head rapidly, tears flowing freely down your face. You leaned further into her touch, collapsing in her arms. She pulled you closer to her, rocking you back and forth as you sobbed into her chest. Tobin ran a comforting hand through your hair when she returned, unwilling to coax you out of your hiding spot in her wife’s chest. 

She held you tight as if to reassure you that she was there, and she was never leaving. She and Tobin shared several worried looks, unsure of how to proceed. It was rare that you showed them any emotions besides happiness and frustration. They knew you had nightmares, but they had never been involved in the aftermath of one before. 

They half you between them, cooing soothing words and reassurances into your hair until your crying slowed. 

“Hey, baby can you look up at me?” Tobin asked softly, running the warm cloth over your features when you glanced up at her. You sighed into the touch, unused to the warm feeling that settled in your chest. 

“Can you tell us what’s going on?” Christen murmured into your hair, never stopping her comforting rubbing on your back or her rocking back and forth. You rapidly shook your head, returning to your hiding place. You knew that they had read your file before they adopted you, but reading a second-hand account of events and hearing it were two very different things. 

“Why not baby? It might help to get it off your chest,” Tobin pressed just a little, and she saw your shoulders deflate. 

“You won’t want me anymore,” You said so quietly into Christen’s shoulder that it was almost inaudible. The women gasped. 

“We will never not want you Kid” Tobin declared firmly, as Christen’s rocking picked up to ebb the tears that had started to flow again. 

A choked “Why?” left your lips, muffled by the soft material of Christen’s shirt, and you felt both women tense. You had been to hell and back, and you just couldn’t understand why the women hadn’t given up on you yet. Perhaps it was their competitive nature. Always wanting to overcome every challenge they face. But perhaps it was something else, the little voice in the back of your brain said. 

“Because we love you,” Christen whispered into your ear, and your tears increased. 

“You’re an amazing kid, and you bring so much light to our lives, despite all of the shit that you’ve been through,” Tobin added, wrapping her arms around both of you. You sighed into their touch. 

“Will you stay with me?” You whimpered softly. They made you feel safe, and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep without them. 

“Always kiddo,” Tobin hummed, pulling the covers back and allowing Chris to maneuver you had her underneath them before joining you. You sighed deeply, relaxing at the feeling of both of them. You felt so safe, so protected between them. You felt… something so much greater than care. Something that you had been avoiding. 

As you drifted off you released a soft “love you mom and mama,”. You missed the shit-eating grins that took over both women’s faces, as they had been waiting for this moment for 8 months. The moment where you would finally accept their love, accept their invitation into their family. But you did catch the soft “love you too baby,” that came from both women. 

Things weren’t perfect, but they were heading that way. Sure, it would be a challenge, but they would never give up on you. You were theirs and they were yours forever and always. 

#uswnt x reader #uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines #preath x reader #preath imagine

[honeyhan-123]

The Artist ~ I

Summary: When Steve meets the reader at an art class he immediately becomes enticed and maybe, just maybe, she can help heal his wounded heart.

Warnings: None for this chapter but smut will be present in later chapters

Pairings: Steve x reader, Steve x Bucky

AN: I meant to post this tomorrow but I realised today was Chris Evans’ birthday as well as @jtargaryen18​ who inspired me to start writing so I decided to post it early in celebration. This is also the first chapter of my entry to @that-damn-girl​ pride writing challenge. I would like to say a massive thank you to @imanuglywombat​ for the absolutely stunning moodboard and @magdaleneruth​ for being an awesome beta! 

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He couldn’t believe it. 

Even watching the flyer hang from the board on the wall with his own two eyes, Steve could barely remember the conversation with Nat that led to this moment as he was sat on a bench outside a classroom for the first time in eighty years. 

He hadn’t drawn seriously in decades, probably since before the Battle of New York. The rest had just been little doodles, here and there. Nothing really came from it. But here he was  standing in the doorway of a studio, ready for a life drawing class. 

Steve couldn’t understand the nerves racking his body—he was Captain America for crying out loud, he’s been in far worse situations than attending an art class. 

Why on earth couldn’t he bring himself to walk through a silly little doorway? He was pulled from his thoughts by a soft delicate voice. 

‘Excuse me...’ He was pulled from his thoughts by a voice, soft and delicate. His head snapped to the left, his jaw drifting slightly ajar as he took you in. ‘Are you headed inside?’ You were dressed casually, a warm jacket over what was clearly a man’s button down shirt and your jeans had little doodles on the rough denim canvass. Little splats of paint here and there coated the entire look.  Steve didn’t know quite why, but he was immediately enticed. 

‘I - uh, yeah. I am, sorry I’m in your way.’ He hastily moved out of the doorway, gesturing for you to enter first but you didn’t make a move as your eyes clearly sized him up and he was thankful he had pulled the dark blue baseball cap low over his brow. It wasn’t much in terms of a disguise but that paired with the thick beard that coated his jaw made it harder for the average person to recognise him.

‘Is this your first drawing class?’ You framed it as a question, but it was clear you already knew the answer.

He nodded a little sheepishly. ‘How could you tell?’

‘You just seem a little nervous. Don’t worry, though. It’s really not as scary as it might seem. I remember when I first signed up, I was terrified that someone would say I wasn’t good enough for the class. I could barely keep my hands steady. So, naturally, that turned out to be one of the worst drawings of my life but no one said a word. You have nothing to worry about - you don’t need to prove yourself here.’ 

‘Anytime, but if you are going to come in I suggest you do it sooner rather than later. Madame Maxine absolutely hates tardiness and it’s nearly seven.’ You gave him a small but genuine smile before you excused yourself, your hips swaying slightly as you walked through the doorway and over to an easel. 

He let out a sigh of relief when you’d left - it gave him some privacy to hype himself up and quiet the inner critic screaming his anxieties.Taking a steadying breath, he followed your footsteps and headed for an unclaimed easel towards the back as the rest of the class made idle chit chat, clearly all familiar with one another as they readied themselves for the lesson.

He rolled out his shoulders before sitting on the small stool, pulling his sketchbook and set of charcoal pencils from his satchel. It was a mixed media class and Steve watched in awe as some people set canvases up on their easels, their palets already covered with various colours of paint. 

He felt woefully underprepared with his worn leather bound sketchbook and collection of pencils, but it was how he had always drawn. His mother had barely been able to afford the splurge for real drawing pencils, nevermind paints or canvases. 

There was a portly man standing in the corner of the room stretching his muscles this way and that, and he figured this must be their model for the day. Most of the drawing Steve had done in the past few years had been of inanimate objects, it was much easier than asking one of his many busy friends to sit still for a few hours as he drew them. If he’d felt more in the mood for a portrait, he generally used photographs as a reference point, so having a real live model would be a nice change.

A few more minutes passed before an elderly woman entered the room. Her hair was grey and her curls frayed out in every direction from the messy bun she has tied it in. She wore a green and yellow bandana around her face keeping her hair away and a matching flowy dress with a dark blue half apron tied around her waist. Immediately, Steve knew this woman had to be Maxine. 

She clapped her hands together, drawing the class’s attention as she neared the front of the room. ‘Good evening, I am Maxine Winnefred and I will be your instructor over the next few weeks as we explore the human form. I recognise some of you from my Summer course focussed on the true form of still life in fruits and flowers, and I would just like to say it’s lovely to see you all again.’ She smiled as her eyes rested on those who must be the familiar faces. 

‘To the new faces in the room, there are a few things you should know about me.While I do understand everyone has lives outside of the art world, tardiness remains unacceptable as a hard and fast rule–especially where live models are concerned. Secondly, whether about your own piece or someone else’s, I will not stand for any negative thoughts. We are all here to learn and the only way you can truly achieve that is with a positive mindset. If you feel negatively about a particular piece of yours, you must think of it as a stepping stone. What did you do wrong? What can you improve on next time? The human form is incredibly complicated and it may take a while getting used to if you’re not familiar with it.’

‘Since you have all elected to pay for the entire course, if for some reason you are unable to make it to a session, I also run a Thursday night class. You must call me and let me know that you will be attending that class as I will need to make sure there are enough easels and stools. I will hand out my number at the end of class. Are there any questions?’ 

Although it had barely been five minutes, Steve could already tell he would enjoy this class, especially being under Maxine’s tutelage. She had a no nonsense air that was rare to find in the art world and despite this being a fairly casual, once a week type of get together, Steve knew she took her work seriously. She wanted all of her pupils to be their best. 

The room fell into silence as her eagle eye flickered around the sea of faces. When moments had passed in silence, she continued. 

‘This is Jerry,’ she held her arm out, becaning the man over. ‘He will be our first model. We will be drawing him for the first two weeks, once with clothes and once without, we will then move onto our next model and the same process will follow.’ Everyone nodded their heads in understanding but Steve felt his cheeks flush slightly. He had known that there would be nude models and he knew that it was all purely professional but still… the small kid from the forties never would have even thought about doing something like this. 

‘Right. Jerry,’ she clapped her hands again, eyes locked on just where her model would go in the scene. ‘If you could please get into position A, we can get started. To the class, we’ll have him sit for an hour and twenty minutes. Then another hour after that with a break in between. Somewhere in there we’ll have a vote on whether or not we would like to see a new pose or the same.’ Maxine checked the time as Jerry found his seating on the lone stool in the front of the room. Once he was in position, she prompted the class to begin.

Although he’d been wanting to avoid detection, Steve was deeply regretting choosing a seat so far from the front. On the surface level, his better than average eyesight would be acceptable - and yet, being the perfectionist that he was, he wanted to get up and close with Jerry. He wanted to be able to mark every tiny blemish on his skin, every line of sadness or laughter.

Steve sighed to himself before he picked up his HB pencil, getting to work on his main outline. He hadn’t been working long when he felt a presence at his shoulder, peering over at his work. He’d just finished the vague outline of Jerry’s clothes and the stool beneath him when she spoke. ‘Back in my day, it was considered rude to wear a hat indoors, Mr…?’

He had to at least try and hide his smile over her words, being at least forty years her senior. 

‘Just Steve.’ Quickly he swiped the cap from his head, placing it down in his satchel on the floor. ‘I’m sorry ma’am.’

‘That’s okay son, just don’t let it happen again.’ She gave him a small smile before setting off, perusing the pieces of the other artists and Steve got back to work. 

+

His neck ached from the awkward position it had been contorted to for the past ninety minutes. He could feel the muscles in his hand beginning their protest. It had been a long time since he’d drawn so intently and he wasn’t used to it quite yet.

He stood from his stool, stretching out his back as he did so, wandering over to the small table of refreshments after a few moments. He swiped a lemon biscuit from the tray, catching sight of you from his periphery. You were gesturing wildly as you chatted up an older fellow. Your face was the picture of sincerity and Steve couldn’t help but smile as he eavesdropped. 

‘One of these days you have to teach me your shading technique, Albert. The way you make a simple shadow have so much depth and colour is incredible,’ you gushed.

‘So long as you teach me how you do the detail work around the eyes. Whenever I try, they just come out looking blank!’ he shot back with a smile on his lips. 

‘It’s a deal.’ You held your hand jokingly Albert took it, shaking it vigorously as you chuckled. Feeling his eyes on you, your head quirked in Steve’s direction and you quickly excused yourself.

Steve tried to busy himself and pretend that he hadn’t been caught awkwardly staring at you but your footsteps were growing closer by the second.

‘So? How are you feeling, newbie? Not as daunting as you thought, huh?’ There was a small teasing smile playing along the corner of your lips and Steve couldn't help but laugh along with you. 

‘I really don’t know why I was so nervous, but what you said… Well, it really helped. So, thank you for that. I assume you took Maxine’s summer course?’ he asked, trying to make conversation.

‘Yeah, it was a fruit and flower class, plus I also took her winter human form class before that. I fell hard for portraits, so I just knew I had to take it again this year.’ Steve nodded in understanding, taking a class this way was the perfect opportunity to work on portraiture. ‘And what about yourself? I may have snuck a peek at your easel. You have an incredible eye from what I can tell. How did you capture such detail in only pencils?’

Steve felt his face heat as he took your compliment. ‘I’m honestly not quite sure, but I’ve had a lot of practice. Growing up, I was bedridden more often than not and my best friend used to come over and sit with me for hours. I probably know his face better than my own.’ He felt the familiar pang that echoed around his heart every time he thought of Bucky and those days that stretched into nights when all he would do was stare at the other man, trying to capture his beauty on the page. Steve forced himself to shake off the memories to try and keep his tone light. He hadn’t intended on saying something so personal but there was just something about you that made him want to let down his guard and that was dangerous. 

‘Really? You were bedridden?’ Your mouth gaped slightly and Steve couldn’t help but notice the way your eyes danced slightly down his body. ‘But you look so perfect now - I mean, uh. You look… You look very healthy.’

He smiled, trying not to laugh as dread coated your face. He’s reminded so much of the man he left behind all those years ago…the boy in the back of the car, driving through Brooklyn, although he had to admit, you were far cuter than he had ever been.

‘How long have you been painting for?’ Steve tried to brush the conversation away, he liked talking to you just as a fellow artist and he wasn’t ready for you to recognise him. ‘You’re very talented.’

‘Oh, it’s just sort of a hobby that I do in my spare time. I went to uni and got an Arts degree, but you know how it goes. It only gets you so far in the real world.’ 

‘If you’re not an artist, what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a secretary at a law firm.’ He nodded trying to maintain control of his thoughts. Being a secretary wasn’t a filler job for a woman any more. Not like it had been in his day. ‘You?’

‘Oh…’ The question took him completely by surprise and his mind went blank. He needed to think fast. ‘I uh… I work for Stark Enterprises. I’m on his PR team.’ Steve tried to justify it in his mind as it wasn’t a complete lie he was a part of the PR team. Plus, he couldn’t have said he was a scientist or something. It would have been clear he was lying if you asked him any type of even remotely science question. 

‘Ah, maybe that’s why you look kind of familiar. Are you a part of his press conferences?’ 

Steve nodded, feeling his throat start to tighten. He wasn’t ready for this to end. Call him selfish but he didn’t want this to end. For someone to treat him as he was, rather than who he was. He hadn’t felt so at home with himself, with someone else, in a long time.

He was saved from further interrogation by the chime of a bell. The ten minute break was up. The group had already opted to keep Jerry in the same reclined pose, so he quickly found his position and the class returned to their sketching. 

While Steve tried to keep his eyes focussed on his drawing, he couldn’t help the constant flicker of his eyes over to where to sat, paintbrush in hand, looking like one of the Greek Muses. 

He only prayed you were one of the merciful ones. 

+

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#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #apridec1 #marvel #mcu #steve x reader #honeyhan writes #q it up

[muertawrites]

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

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

Word Count: 3,500

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

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

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

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

~ Muerta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Zuko mumbled, “yeah, sure.” 

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

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

“Zuko,” he introduced himself. 

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

“Firelord Zuko?” you wondered. 

He blushed, nodding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a student?” 

You shook your head. 

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

“Oh.” 

Zuko paused, unsure of what else to say. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, seriously?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zuko shrugged. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Professor Cong just chuckled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you liked it?” he asked. 

You laughed, nodding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[delirious-and-slightly-murderous]

For the WIP ask game: please tell us something about Procrastinating Painter and exasperated but horny manager?

Hi Anon!😊 So glad you asked about this one.

So this is, at its core, a character study. 

A little tidbit of information about me: I am a master procrastinator. And not only when it comes to writing but in all aspects of my life too. I am lazy. If I can do it later, I will do it later. And I'll keep pushing it back as much as I can until I can't anymore. Thanks to this I've become a master at finishing projects with very little time and a deadline hanging like a sword of Damocles over my head. I work best under pressure. That's why I sometimes lose interest in my fics so easily. If I don't have a deadline it's very hard for me to get stuff done.

Soooooo, all this to say that one day, while I was despairing over my WIPs I started thinking about the different ways an artist or creator can deal with procrastination. And then, because every idea I get now mostly concerns or can be applied to Berlermo, I said to myself: But what if Andrés was a master procrastinator like me?

And BAM!

This thing was born. (Also I find it kinda ironic and hilarious that a character study in procrastination ended up as a WIP, don't you agree?).

So the basic idea is that Andrés is a moderately known and successful painter. He's not as successful as he could be because he's very particular and picky with his work and who he works for. So he only paints when he wants to and what he wants to. Which would be fine except that he is a procrastinator so his work is scarce.

Enter Martín, who is Andrés' best friend/agent and kinda friend with benefits. He is the one in charge of making sure Andrés gets stuff done even if the man in question does not want to. This means that Martín lives in a constant state of awe at Andrés' genius and talent, and also exasperation because of his laziness and inability to do what he's told. Also he is very much in love with Andrés and hates himself because of it.

So the fic in itself would cover the span of a month while Martín tries to get Andrés to work on an important commision for a famous gallery. From him we would see his struggle with perceived unrequited feelings for a man he feels he cannot fully come to understand. Andrés would procrastinate and we would see all his process and struggle with it. Until a couple days before the exhibition when Martín is about to kill Andrés, his genius strikes and he goes and produces a masterpiece (a masterpiece that may or may not be inspired by Martín).

So mostly it would focus on the art, the feels, the procrastination, and then the mad rush to get things done in time. (And I'd like to think I'd write it with a very oniric feel to it. Oh and also smut, so very like soulful and poetic smut. But well I don't think that's gonna happen.)

(Oh and also a happy ending where they end up confessing their feelings because I'm weak like that😁.)

So here have a snippet:

Martín started pacing and swore as he narrowly avoided walking into a bucket of bright red paint. 

The room was positively tiny and he still couldn't understand why Andrés insisted on spending all his time in it like some kind of recluse. The monastery was big enough to accommodate docens of people at one time but Andrés was happy to cram himself in the tiniest, most uncomfortable room he could find.  

He wondered how Andrés could live like that. The room was cramped, cluttered with books, canvases, sculptures and various bits of artistic trash. It looked like a museum's warehouse, if museums threw invaluable works in a warehouse without thought or care to what became of them. As he walked he deftly avoided discarded pieces of paper, empty paint tubes and old brushes. It was dirty, paint and dust covered every surface. The space not taken up by art supplies was used by a mattress on the ground shoved unceremoniously into a corner, a small coffee table and an enormous oak work table that seemed to be the centerpiece of the place.

Amongst all this chaos there stood Andrés, serene and unperturbed, unaware of his surroundings. With a brush on each hand and one clenched between his teeth. Before him a half painted canvas stretched like a vision of doom. The colors bleak and depressing. A mirage of untold horrors that sucked the life out of the area around it. The air seeming to grow heavier, dense and charged, stilted and dead. 

Martín could feel it in his bones, the emotions Andrés put into his work always expanding and resonating within him, turning him into a vessel for what Andrés couldn't say.

He was choking on an invisible weight and fought against it to unfurl his tongue from the dry cavern of his mouth and produce a sound. He knew the other man wasn't happy and that his intervention would only make things worse. But he had to shatter the looming tension before it swallowed him whole.

"Why don't you find another place. Maybe an apartment closer to the city."

Andrés didn't stop in his work but his shoulders tensed imperceptibly and the fingers of his left hand started drumming against the brush he wasn't currently using. He shook his head softly, his motions fluid and liquid. A delicate movement of silk floating in water.

"I'm not moving in with you Martín."

Martín closed his eyes, the bright hot pang in his heart a familiar caress at this point. He was like an addict, his feelings for Andrés a raging force that ravages his body and leaves him empty and aching. And still he willingly comes back for more, each time climbing higher with the knowledge that when he hits the ground it'll be more violent than before, the pieces impossible to pick up.

"That's not what I'm asking, you know it's not."

Andrés dipped his brush in a mug near his hand, washing out the dark paint, flicking the brush and creating a splatter of black bottomless dots, giving birth to a galaxy in the space that separates them.

"Don't ask things for which you know you won't like the answer."

Andrés' strokes become forceful then, the brush colliding against the canvas in an uncontrolled manner. The anger and frustration behind the movement captures Martín. He feels like a chick standing at the precipice. He can jump and take flight, taste the freedom and exhilaration of the wind rushing through his wings. Closing his eyes and diving not knowing if he's ready to fly the possibility of the deadly agonising crash a dark shadow at his back.

He was saved from having to make the choice by Andrés humming lowly in his throat.

"I love you Martín, but I'm not going to give up my life for you."

That familiar caress is back and the little chick is safely back in it's nest. The precipice dissolving and the unforgivable ground surging up to meet him, ripping him away in a manner more painful than any death. He shrugs, hunching in on himself, knowing the matter is closed and forgotten.

"Pass me my coffee." He demands, plastering a fake plastic smile on his face. While Andrés chooses to ignore the burning heat of things left unsaid that slowly melt the plastic away. Leaving behind a partially uncovered picture of a grotesque truth.

"I'm painting." Came the absent minded reply, the willful ignorance of man with a staggering lucidity of all the consequences of his actions.

Martín got up stretching legs that felt numb, forced to carry the weight of an unfathomable burden. He slowly walked towards Andrés, his steps the slow and lifeless cadence of the condemned, prolonging the inevitable in their approach to the gallows. 

He took his mug and took a long and deep sip of the liquid inside. He became aware of his mistake when Andrés turned to him with a steaming mug in his hand and a confused frown wrinkling his brow. 

Martín immediately opened his mouth, the dark paint water running down his chin like vomit, maring his shirt and staining skin and teeth. In the sickly pale light of the naked bulb, with the shadows under his eyes and the lingering hurt in his being, it made him look like a corpse throwing up thick and rotten blood.

Andrés laughed, the sound had a hysterically joyful quality to it, a discordant note in the gloominess of the room. It immediately invaded them, running through every crevice, every nook and cranny, injecting light and giving back the life that had been sucked out by the oppressing darkness.

The room changed completely, becoming bright and warm without suffering any real physical changes. It was infectious, contaging Martín and changing him from the inside out without his notice.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a comfortable silence. And the next time Martín stopped for a visit the room felt warm and homely, cosy and welcoming. He also found that the mugs had marker scribbles on them. One read 'Martín' the other 'Paint Water'.

It put a small smile on his face.

Well Anon, it's really shitty right now and needs a lot of polishing and editing, but I hope you enjoy this and that it doesn't disappoint.☺

#berlermo #I actually like this one a lot too #It's mostly me projecting my feelings onto Andrés and Martín #my feelings and insecurities #but well #i hope one day I manage to do it #and that it comes out good #but I'm not great with character studies #so 🤷‍♀️ #this might die a languid death in my docs #martin berrote #andres de fonollosa #la casa de papel #alternate universe #lcdp #procrastination #fanfic #ask game #ask

[pocketfulofrogers]

Color Me Yours

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Request:  hey babe, I was wondering if you would write a steve x reader one where she asks him if he would paint in her body just to pass the time, not in a smutty way and with some fluffy conversation between them.

Summary: You hate stakeouts almost as much as Steve does.

“Is this guy ever going to show his face? ” Steve asks for the- well you’re not exactly sure how many times he had asked the same question with varying levels of disdain and annoyance.  It was most likely around lunch that you had lost count and, at this rate, you’ll kill him before dinner.

Recon missions had always been his least favorite. Actually, he quite vocally despised them. The sitting, the waiting, the almost non-existent control over the situation. Small spaces made him antsy- put him on edge.

It’s hard to not feel for him, but then again you had both been locked up for days in a tiny, decrepit apartment with Hill as your only form of outside contact. The fact you had made it this far was something to be marveled.

He glares at the binoculars, and then you. “Let’s just storm the place and go home.”

When you roll your eyes, he pouts. “Steve, honey, there is nothing for us to do. There’s intel we still need, including the confirmation that we’re even in the same country as him, let alone on the same street.”

“Y/N.” He groans. “I let you take down that mercenary in Brazil so you could make it back for girl’s night. I don’t see why-“

“You know what- just-“ Your bag makes a loud thud as you pull it from the couch and drop it onto the table. Steve watches curiously as you begin to rummage around and is only momentarily caught off guard by the small bag you throw at him.

His curiosity turns to confusion as his picks through its contents. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He asks holding up a small jar of orange paint.

You lay his sketch book down on the table. “I don’t know, paint something for me. It’s supposed to be cathartic or whatever.”

He eyes you, notices the tightness in your jaw, your knuckles white from griping the back of the chair too tight. Results from being in close quarters for far too long, no doubt. Perhaps he had overlooked how much it was also affecting you.

“For me or for you?”

“Steve, I love you but you have got to do something before you drive me insane.”

“Fine.” He says, but his grin makes you nervous. “I have one condition.”

**

You hug the pillow beneath your head a little tighter. “What are you painting?” He’s quiet, lost in the task at his hands, so you decide to be patient- listening to the sounds of the busy street outside.

Something wet glides up the center of your spine leaving a cool trail and you shiver.

“Stop squirming.” Steve lightly scolds with a chuckle. “The best canvases are still.”

“It’s cold.” You mumble. “What are you painting?” This time a little louder.

“The day we met.”

He scolds you again when you try to turn and look at him, confusion creasing your brow. “Why would you put that day on my body? Not exactly my best moment.” You can hear the shrug in his laugh. “I was covered in blood, Steve.” He hums an acknowledgment. “I was literally on death’s door.”

“I wouldn’t say literally. You did make it into the lobby of the compound very much alive.”

You laugh again. “Yes, and then you had to carry me when I passed out.”

“Ruined my favorite dress shirt.” He chuckles.

“Exactly! So why that day? Why not that early morning in Venice the next month, or even that night in Ireland?”

“With the castle you broke into?”

“Such a good night.”

His laugh fades out into comfortable silence and you allow him to stay there. The gentle breeze cools the paint on your back and the warmth his body brings against your side is welcomed. Of course, you had rigged your computer to display the feed from the binoculars so Fury couldn’t say you had completely abandoned your post, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t an afterthought in the back of your mind.

“Do you remember what happened after you woke up?” He asks. “After they fished the bullets out and the transfusion.”

You try to think back, but honestly, it’s all fuzzy. There was pain, a very good pain killer, and then, if you’re not mistaken, tacos. “Not really, bits and pieces. I definitely remember the Natasha laying into me.”

“Well,” Steve starts. “This is about to get a whole lot more embarrassing for you.” Your obnoxious groan only motivates him to embellish some truths. “Yes, you did come in looking like you were quickly approaching death’s door, but somehow, you remained extremely defiant up until you were no longer conscious.”

Another stroke between your shoulder blades. This time you manage to remain still.

“I stayed by your side while you were evaluated and treated. Mostly so security would calm down. Your claims to knowing Nat weren’t enough for, well, any of us really.”

“Mostly?” You question. Another line down your side.

“A force of a woman comes bursting through the front doors, having passed all security measures despite losing several pints of blood, and I’m not supposed to be intrigued?”

“Touché. Continue.”

“You were just a few hours into recovery when I stepped away to update Stark. When I came back, you had already pulled your IV and were trying to put your clothes back on- I want to emphasize ‘trying’- muttering something about needing air.”

“I do despise anything that resembles a hospital.”

“Something you mentioned a few times that night. I took you to an upper level, let you sit under the stars. You told me a few stories that didn’t quite make sense about Nat, one involving a donkey, and then threatened to push me over the ledge if I didn’t get you tacos.”

“Well, I do really like tacos.”

He laughs. “I used them to bribe you back into your bed.”

You had been trying to track the movements of his brushes, but had been unable to discern the image on your back.

“So, what part of that story are you recreating? because if it’s me stuffing my face with tacos, Steve, so help me…”

“Maybe another day.” He teases. “It’s the sky from the balcony that night. You watching the stars wrapped in my jacket during one of the few moments you weren’t rambling.” He chuckles before falling into a more serious tone. “The moment I knew you’d become someone very important to me.”

He doesn’t chastise you for the shiver his admission sends through your body.

“I think I do remember something.” You start slowly. “It was early morning. You were adjusting the blinds when a SHIELD agent came in to hand you some folder, told you that you had been requested for something. I can’t remember what you said to me, but I asked you to stay. You did. I had felt so grateful for this unknown stranger showing me so much kindness. That’s when I knew I couldn’t turn down Natasha’s offers to come to SHIELD any longer.”

“I’m why you stayed?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, my love.” You laugh.

Glancing back at the laptop beside you, you notice the briefest flicker of movement on the screen. Facial recognition pops up and, suddenly, the romantic atmosphere is gone.

“We have confirmation.” Steve can’t tell if it’s disappointment he senses in your voice.

“Let’s get a move on, then. Sooner we get him, sooner we can go home.” He’s fully dressed, shield in hand before you’ve even gotten up.

You gawk at him. “I am covered in wet paint.”

His grimace is only slight. “Just put your suit over it, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He tosses your gear to you as you shake you head amused. “Stark is going to kill me.”

“Tell him to add it to my bill.” Steve smirks.  

#steve rogers x reader #Steve Rogers #steve rogers imagine #captian america #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #marvel #Avengers #paint me like one of your french girls

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker- Anger

very loosely based on Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington from Stranger things. 

TW: Please be careful! Explicit abuse, parental abuse (tony’s dad, Peter’s step dad), violence, Tony punches Peter in the face once, both peter and tony are being abused by their parents, unhealthy coping mechanisms, brief mentions of homophobic slurs, somehow a happy ending, high school au, just- be careful, my lovelies! 

Tony’s known pretty boys like Peter Parker his whole life.

They aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, and they are printed on paper: stick thin and flimsy. Two dimensional, boring, shallow, materialistic. They’re a dime a dozen back in Phoenix, and frankly, Tony wasn’t impressed with them there, so here, in this dreary little town where school spirit and pep leaks outside of the school’s hallways and into the streets, where popularity matters deep in the suburbs the same way it does in the classroom, Tony really isn’t impressed.

Pretty boys like Peter Parker are pretty, and that’s all they’re good for. A bit of eye-candy.

The bubbly-blonde, cotton-candy cheerleader who’s been assigned to showing him around the school, does so with an enthusiasm that’s borderline revolting. “There are loads of school clubs, you should totally join, like, all of them! Peter’s on the committee, and he’s so open to new ideas, if you think of a club just run it by him! He’d be so happy to! He also hosts these, like, killer parties! And it’s always open invitation, Peter’s house is totally lush, he has this huge pool and his parents are like, never home-“

Jesus Christ, it’s all so inane. Tony reaches for his cigarettes and the girl stutters to a halt as she watches him light it up right there in the hall. Her eyes are wide with awe- rimmed with arousal and wrongness. Tony resists the urge to smirk. It’s all so easy. Cookie-cutter town like this, where the most popular guy in school is on fuckin’ committees for school clubs, he’s not surprised that dark, slicked back hair, black-rimmed eyes and a cigarette will be enough to rework the social structure.

In fact, he’s sort of banking on it.

“Y-you’re not allowed to smoke in here,” she breathes in amazement, and Tony chuckles, fumes curling around his jaw.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He says around his cigarette, giving her a wink. “You gonna tell on me?”

She shakes her head, hair swishing with her promise, and when the tour ends- she races off, no doubt, to tell the food chain of the cafeteria what she’s witnessed.

* *

Maria cries that night, when Howard kicks Tony’s face so hard he can feel his eye bulge a little.

Tony wants to tell her not to cry. He wants to gather her into his arms and spit blood and say I told you he wouldn’t change just because we’ve moved states. He can’t change, mom. He won’t change.

He loves her for loving him. He hates her for not saving him.

He swallows down putrid blood and sleeps in his car.

When he wakes up, there’s fresh bandages tucked into his glove compartment, a packed lunch, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a post-it note that says (in handwriting that trembles) that maybe he shouldn’t come inside for breakfast. I love you, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Mom xx

* *

The rumour mill has been churning, and when he walks into school with his shiner, it just spins even faster.

People gape, a few, braver ones, flutter over, hovering, but not quite speaking.

Tony feels pretty damn good. It’s nice to feel handsome. Powerful. Nice to know that somewhere, he can exude a little control.

But to be King, there has to be a de-throning.

“You,” he drawls, slamming a locker shut and narrowly missing a freshman’s fingers. “Peter Parker, where is he?”

The freshmen swallows hard, shrinking into his neck. “Uh-uh- p-probably in the a-art rooms, T-Tony.”

Tony grins, and pats him on the cheek. The boy already knows his name. Everyone must.

Without another word, he turns and heads for the art rooms.

When he gets there, his breath catches in his throat.

Dappled in sunlight, twisting spirals of cedar hair, amber eyes and practically drenched in a golden aura, is Peter Parker.

He’s frowning at a canvas, and it makes Tony seethe.

Pretty boys like that are all the same. Oh, is his biggest fucking problem the fact he can’t decide what to paint? He certainly doesn’t have any money issues, not if the expensive shoes are anything to go by. The designer jeans, the pink sweater with the ruffled lace collar.

Tony hates him. Fucking envies him. The sight of him- so beautiful, so serene- so troubleless, he has everything. He has everything. No doubt two parents who adore him, a nice house, money, talent, beauty- a future. And everyone here adores him, fuckin’ thinks he hung the moon in the sky.

“You think you’re worth anything?” Howard sneers, jabbing Tony’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. “You ain’t worth a damn thing, sport. You’re worth shit.”

“Well,” Tony smiles, all mean and sharp at the edges, and feels a vicious sort of victory in the way Peter jumps.

Like he’s not used to be snuck up on. Like he’s not used to being scared. “Oh, you scared me,” the boy laughs, a blush on his cheeks, “you must be Tony-“

“You’re as pretty as they said you were.” Tony continues, because he doesn’t want to hear Peter’s sweet voice. Doesn’t want to hear another word out of his mouth. “Prettier, even. They don’t do you justice.” He trails his fingers across still-wet canvases drying on easels, smudging and ruining the paintings.

“Hey, I think- you’re not supposed to touch those,” Peter points out worriedly, pearly teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “You might accidentally-“

Tony moves so quickly it must look like he’s teleported. He backhands Peter so fucking hard, it’s so fucking satisfying, and the boy topples to the ground gracelessly.

There’s no movement for a long moment, before the boy lets out a strangled gasp, wrenches himself away.

Not far enough. Goddamn, he’s so weak. How can anyone be this weak? Tony knows to cover his head, to curl up in a ball, but Peter’s splayed out and defenceless.

Tony reaches down to grab him by the designer sweater, lifting him clear off the ground as Peter winces and recoils. The mark on his cheek is darkening rapidly, an ugly scarlet. “You run this school, Parker? You their precious king?”

“What? No! I…” there are tears sparkling in his eyes, he even cries like a Disney character. “I don’t- I don’t understand, please don’t-“

Begging never stops anything. Tony drops him and punches down in one swift motion, right onto Peter’s stomach- forcing all the air out of him, along with a pitiful whimper. “You ain’t king of shit, you get that, Parker?”

He doesn’t stick around for an answer, not that Peter could give one, with the way he’s wheezing, and he strides out; fingers streaked with paint and blood.

* * Peter doesn’t come into school the next day, and all eyes are stuck on Tony.

They’re not all as admiring anymore, but they are intimidated, and that’ll do. The girls still flock to him, the younger students still flee.

It’s easy to dethrone. History makes it look hard, but it isn’t.

“Liam’s throwing a party next week,” Cindy says over lunch. Tony’s sitting at the “popular” table. It looks like all the others, but the people there are substantially more attractive. He’s sitting where Peter usually sits, that much he can gather, and the students (his subjects) whisper with nervous fear. “You should totally come.”

“Maybe,” Tony murmurs, but he will go. Anywhere that isn’t home in the evenings. Anywhere else.

*** Tony feels good on Friday.

His dad is out of town on business, and he and his mom ate take out in front of the tv and didn’t have to worry when they spilt some on the rug.

He parks his beat up car in one of the teacher’s spots, and his entourage rush to greet him and update him on the gossip and prattle on about things he doesn’t give a shit about.

That is, until one of them says-

“Peter’s back in today.”

And that, Tony has to see.

He’s not technically in AP english, but he winks at the receptionist and she buckles like everyone does.

Peter sits at the front of the class, scribbling notes furiously, and looks entirely put together in a white chiffon blouse and green slacks. The bruise along his cheekbone is horrific. Darker and splotchier- there’s a tiny little cut above his left eyebrow- Tony doesn’t remember doing that, but that happens sometimes. He hits a little harder than he means to.

Seeing it is a weird feeling. It makes disgust well up inside him, something horrible and tortured screeches to be let out, and on the other hand-

He’s a king looking down on the enemy wounded.

Peter doesn’t look up at him once during the class, even though he goes out of his way to be annoying and aggravating.

The teacher kicks him out eventually, and when the bell rings, he waits by Peter’s locker.

The boy approaches cautiously. He’s alone. All alone. High school fans, so fickle, Tony tuts.

“Parker,” he grins, watching as Peter twists open the combination lock. “Finally decided to come back.”

“I guess so,” the boy says quietly, demurely, changing out his books. He has hard copies of everything, all brand new and shiny. They don’t look like the torn up, hand-down charity shop copies Tony uses.

Tony waits, but Peter offers nothing else. He feels too sharp around the edges, he feels like he’s shattering. “Well? Aren’t you gonna tell on me or some shit? I haven’t heard a word.”

“You want me to tell someone you attacked me?” Peter clarifies curiously, looking at him with huge, honey eyes. It’s like someone bottled sunlight. Tony’s winded by the sight of them.

“I-“

“What would that achieve?” Peter asks, blatant with honesty and genuine inquisitiveness. “It wouldn’t make you stop. It might get you suspended, maybe expelled, but then what? Not like you couldn’t come and find me outside of school. Then I call the police? Try to get you arrested for assault? You’d be released in a year anyway, and then what?”

Tony snarls, banging his fist against the lockers so loudly the entire hallway falls silent. He leans in and spits into Peter’s face: “How about some fuckin’ gratitude that I didn’t leave a mark, huh, pretty boy? Where’s my thanks?”

Peter doesn’t step away. He looks up and juts out his chin in a way that’s meant to be intimidating but is more endearing than anything. “Thank you.” He whispers. His lower lip shakes. “Thank you for what you did to me.”

“Don’t fuckin- stop cryin- get up! Get up!” Howard yells, hauling Tony to his feet. He stumbles, unable to stand, and Howard shoves him against the wall. “Fuckin’ ingrate, say thank you- thank me for taking the time to fuckin’ teach you!”

“Thank you,” Tony manages around a sob, sliding to the floor and bursting into tears.

Tony staggers back hard.

He’s not-

He’s not.

*** Pretty boy Peter is a bug under his skin.

Tony can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop wondering where he is, how he is.

Jefferson High is a huge school, but the fields and playgrounds are bigger, and that’s where students spend their time.

Tony finds Peter every lunch time, curled up in the big chairs in the library, buried in a book.

Sometimes he’s wearing oversized cream sweaters, sometimes when it’s hot, he’s in some fancy lace get up, and Tony eyes the smooth, soft skin on display. Sometimes he’s almost asleep, looks so peaceful and cosy (Tony wants to reach out and gently, gently touch) sometimes his eyes are moving so rapidly, his lips parted in exhilaration, fingers clumsy as they hurriedly turn the page that Tony would give anything to know what he was reading.

For Peter to tell him what interested him so much.

As it is, he doesn’t approach. Just watches from the shadows for as long as he can, before slipping out undetected.

He’s particularly good at that, thank years of practising.

The swarms that once worshipped the boy never hang out with Peter anymore, but oddly enough, Peter doesn’t seem to care, or even notice.

Tony can relate to that. Losing Cindy the air-head might actually be a relief. He’s tried to shake her off, but she latches like a leech.

Instead, Peter spends his time with a dreary-eyed girl. A girl Tony knows gets called dyke by the guys in the shower-room.

Tony doesn’t join in their bantering over jokes like that.

She’s cool, though, and clearly doesn’t give a shit. She’ll be something big when she’s out of here, and Tony wants to her see her succeed. Wants to flip on his television set one day in a few years and see her face.

When he gets home that night, he has the book Peter was reading at lunch tucked under his arm (the librarian too, is a sucker for his eyes).

Howard glares at him, kicks at him when he walks past like he’s a mangy mutt, but he makes it to bed and he flips on the switch, snuggled into threadbare sheets, and he reads.

*** Amidst the thrum of music, the boozy smell of alcohol, and lipstick on the back of playing cards, Peter Parker shows up to Liam’s party.

Tony’s halfway through a keg, but he’s not feeling the effects (so what? He’s built up a bit of a tolerance) and people are chanting King Tony! when he spots wavy brown hair and pretty pink lips.

He follows without even meaning to.

Peter’s face is healed now, back to as beautiful as ever. Tony heals fast too.

“Parker,” he greets, when Peter helps himself to punch. “You showin’ your face here?”

Peter smiles. “I was invited.”

That surprises him. “Really? Who’d wanna be seen with a nobody like you?”

“Liam and I go back.”

Well damn, not as fickle as he’d thought then. Anyway, the sight of Peter is thrilling. It’s troubling. “Get the fuck out,” Tony orders, because a rather large part of him wants to- wants to kiss-

“I was just leaving.” The boy corrects, turning away.

There’s a welt on his back.

It peaks out behind the strappy, vintage style blazer. But only just. It’s been cleverly covered up, if Tony wasn’t so familiar with the sight he’d never have spotted it and-

He reaches out, calls for Peter to stop- wait-

But he’s already gone.

*

It’s an obsession.

But it keeps him from the house. He drives around town slowly, cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth, arm hanging out the window of his car, and he coasts through fancy neighbourhoods, sees wholesome families praying before eating their dinner in their grand dining rooms.

He hates them.

He spots Peter’s pretty red Camaro parked in the driveway of an enormous house.

He parks around the block, comes back, and lingers.

It’s totally normal. The curtains are shut, but Tony can see enough. They have neat hedgerows, cultivated fox gloves, and a bird feeder out front. There are three cars parked neatly, Peter’s, a blue beetle, and a large jeep, all lovingly taken care of and gleaming in the evening light.

The kitchen curtains have charming little frogs on them, the mat out front says welcome.

He can’t have seen a welt on Peter’s back, because that doesn’t fit.

It fits Tony. With his beaten down house, lack of kitchen curtains, lack of prayers, his scratched up, junkyard piece of crap, his bruised knuckles and his split lip.

He’s wrong.

*** His mom’s been saying that Howard’s getting worse.

Tony zones her out. She says stuff like this all the time. Other times she says he’s getting better, then he’s getting worse, but she never does a fuckin’ thing about it.

When he staggers out of the house at three am, bleeding bad, throbbing all over, and he falls into his car- can hear his mother screaming, can hear Howard demanding him to get back inside, he steps on the gas and tails it.

He’s driving to the hospital, hardly able to see through the blood and the pain and the black spots dancing across his vision, when he crashes into a street lamp.

It’s not a bad crash. Another dent in many, he thinks, but he suddenly feels warm all over.

He’s cosy. He could fall asleep.

*** When he wakes up, he’s on a cloud. He’s floating on air.

He blinks and there’s a warm, gold light, and two, beautiful honey eyes.

He’s in heaven.

But that can’t be right, he’s a piece of shit.

“You got that right,” comes a chiding, slightly teasing tone, and he squints against the dimness to see Peter Parker above him, dabbing at him with white cotton buds.

Feeling seems to come back all at once. First, an ache that drags through his whole body, then the blinding sting of whatever hell fire Peter’s putting on his face, third, that Peter’s straddling hm, and it’s a really rather nice hot, weight.

“Mm, baby,” he groans, sliding his coarse hands up Peter’s bare, smooth thighs, “this is a pleasant surprise.” He bucks his hip a little, feels his clothed dick nestle between two plump cheeks. He gets a little burst of pleasure that’s such a fucking relief from the pain that he grinds upwards again.

Peter’s hand is firm on his chest, pressing him down into the bed, not cloud. “You’re hurt, Tony. One problem at a time please.”

Problems. Damn. He has a lot of those.

“Tell me about it,” Peter sighs. “I’ve parked your car at the drive-thru theatre. I left a note at the lamppost. I hope no one minds.”

Tony blinks, dazed, and watches as Peter tends to him. It reminds him of that film his mom used to watch all the time, the fuckin horrible one with the dancing and the singing and the monster.

Beauty and the Beast, his mind supplies.

Peter’s face isn’t pretty. It’s beautiful. Dimples and prominent cheekbones, lovely eyebrows and long lashes. He has freckles and a beauty mark on his jaw, perfect for kissing. His forehead is creased in concentration as he works on Tony’s face, his tongue resting on his lips.

Tony may not be in heaven, but he is looking at an angel.

“Do you really…” he whispers, reaching up a clumsy hand to stroke tenderly at Peter’s face. The boy doesn’t even flinch. “Did you really have a…a belt mark on you…”

Those eyes snap to him, a vulnerability come to light, a hidden truth revealed.

Then they darken, and look away. “You need to get your rest.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Tony croaks, eyes burning, “you’re perfect. It’s not meant to- not meant to happen to perfect people, only- only broken ones, like-“

“Nobody’s perfect,” Peter whispers wisely, dabbing cream onto his fingers, and then onto Tony’s face.

“Who does it to you?”

“Step dad,” Peter shrugs, “he never hits her, though. I think he misses his own son.”

“I’ll kill him for hurtin’ you, I swear,” he slurs, filled with righteous ire. Who could hurt such an angel-

“That’d be hypocritical.” Peter muses, opening a pack of antiseptic wipes and swiping at Tony’s temple. He’s good at this. He must be well-practised.

Tony drowns in self-loathing. “I’m a shit.” He hisses, “I’m a shit, I’m sorry, but my dad-“

“I understand.” Peter nods, fingers stroking through Tony’s hair. “I empathise. I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

“You might, though?” Tony urges, craning into every touch. “Maybe?”

Peter grinds down once, making Tony’s dick jolt with arousal. “Maybe.” He whispers.

*** Tony hates his anger management counsellor so fucking much.

But Howard hates him going, so Tony always shows up on time.

Peggy is patient and understanding, but no-nonsense.

When he shows up with bleeding knuckles and a jagged cut on his arm, she offers him a lemon sucker and shakes her head.

“He started it.” Tony hisses, taking a sherbet and sucking on it.

She doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t Peter, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would never hurt Pe- I haven’t ever hit Peter again.”

She’s silent.

He feels like a kid. He hangs his head on his chest. “I get so angry.” He whispers.

“And does violence make the anger go away?”

He nods, looking at her through tears. He cries so much nowadays. Peggy says it’s a good thing. “It turns it into power.”

Peggy looks at him, urging him to get there on his own.

“It’s not power,” he mumbles, lemon on his tongue, “I feel helpless.”

“We all do sometimes, Tony,” she smiles, and offers him another lemon drop. “I want to talk about your mom today. About the things you think she likes best about you.”

Tony wants to run and hide, but instead he sits and listens.

* Sometimes, when Peter reaches over to hold Tony’s hand, Tony yanks it away, his whole mood sours, and he storms out.

He always comes back though. Shame-faced, small, and he reaches out for a hug and Peter gives it to him.

He yells sometimes too. When he’s trying really hard not to, it slips out. Horrible things, things he doesn’t mean, things he wishes he could take back but he fears are going to hang there in the air forever.

He always cries afterwards, and calls Peggy.

Peter yells too, from time to time, when he’s fracturing a little, when Kurt presses where it hurts.

Tony holds Peter tight when that happens, kisses his hair all soft and gentle in the ways he never thought he could be, and promises that they’ll both do better. They’ll both be better.

Peter sees Stephen Strange, a counsellor on the other side of town.

Peggy thinks it’s a good idea for Peter and Tony to heal independently of each other, just in case they become a support system for one being, rather than two people.

Strange says you shouldn’t feel guilty for lashing out. Peggy says you should apologise if you’re sorry.

Peter kisses the hollow of Tony’s throat and says: “I want to tell you all the things I love about you.”

By the end of the forty-minute list, Tony has to cut Peter off, because he can’t hear him over his own sobs.

After a month of no violence, Tony’s greeted to Peter covered in flour and icing, holding a poorly shaped cake that says one month of peace is groovy baby.

They eat it in an old tent, camped out on the edge of town. The cake is disgusting, and Tony’s new favourite. 

They have sex in the grass and Tony kisses Peter’s new welt, and says that he deserves so much more than this.

That, if he likes, Tony will try to give it to him.

**

They have a modest house in a modest town. They have curtains with kangaroos on them, and no dining table- just a coffee table with bean bags in front of the television.

They have one nice car that they share.

They have friends.

They meet each other in the drive way, both on their way home from work, and Peter blushes when Tony holds out the bouquet of tulips. “Pretty boy,” Tony grins, as Peter buries his face in the petals. “I heard from a little birdie that it was your wedding anniversary.”

“Mm,” Peter giggles, “that’s weird. Me and my husband promised each other no presents.”

“Ah,” Tony sighs, drawing Peter into his arms, kissing him silly for the whole neighbourhood to see (not that they haven’t seen it before. It’s stupid and reckless but it’s a good town). “So, if we go inside, there’ll be no freshly baked cake on the counter, right? You didn’t sneak home on your lunch break to bake me something?”

Peter sighs. “Who told?”

“Becky. She can’t keep a secret, Pete.”

Peter laughs, and they thread their fingers together and head inside.

It’s not a perfect ending, but it’s happy. They fight, sometimes. They tremble. They remember things they wish they could forget. They break down on the side of the road. They spend nights in motels.

But those are fewer and farther between. And in the end, they always come home- to each other.

The cake is terrible. It always is. But Tony eats every single bite.

It’s the same recipe as the one Peter made all those years ago, after one month of no fights.

It’s stale and it brings back so many memories.

“Is it good?” Peter asks worriedly, putting the tulips in water.

Tony takes a huge bite, and shakes his head in wonder. “Yeah, baby,” he whispers, “even after all this time, it’s still really, really good.”

He thinks it always will be. 

#starker #peter x tony #highschool au #violence #abuse #tony hits peter #happy ending #parental abuse #dark howards #dark kurt #peter and tony get abused by their parents #fluff #rich peter #poor tony #stranger things inspired #homophobic slurs

[missorgana]

art’s in the detail

pairing: finn/poe dameron

fandom: star wars (sequel trilogy)

rating: general

word count: 3550

warning: swearing

summary: Finn might just be the model Poe's been looking for. (artist!poe au)

(i have now officially started on a project i’ve been wanting to do for a while, and this is the first fic of many! u can read about the series here if u want. as always thank you @nevillelongsbottom for helping me out ilysm. hope you enjoy this??!)

read on ao3

People.

On the many canvases, on the walls and scattered on the floor and on the easel in front of him, it’s all people.

It’s Poe’s favorite motif to paint.

He supposes it’s the unpredictable, unstoppable movement he finds appealing.

Or maybe he just likes to look at faces. He can look at a person’s face for hours if they’d let him.

He realises that might sound a bit weird.

Jess shrugs it off when he voices this concern to her.

She usually comes around his place in the weekends, at lunchtime, without ringing the bell, cause she’s known where he keeps the spare key ever since he moved in 4 years ago.

She laughs upon seeing him, always teasing his ‘poker painting face’, but lets him work in peace.

Poe feels her presence behind him, quietly watching the canvas.

“Someone you know?” Jess asks him today, sipping her coffee. She’s brought one for him as well, which he’ll drink in a minute, or five, he just needs to finish this first.

“I saw her in the street,” he tells her, not shifting his gaze, “So this is purely from memory. I wish I had a model.”

Now Poe’s worked with a couple of models in the past, but the problem is that he’s not that great at reaching out to people, which is why Jess might as well be his manager at this point.

She’s found models for him, god bless her, but most of them were professionals.

He’s assured Jess a million times that there’s nothing wrong with professionals, obviously.

They’re trained. Sometimes too trained for Poe’s vision, though.

He once asked this woman, an old high school friend of Jessika’s, if he remembers correctly, to think of when she was most angry in her life, and channel that.

She had looked at him like he was insane.

“You can get one. I’ve gotten you several ones.” Jess answers him. There’s a quiet snark in her voice, but it’s the same old discussion as always.

Poe finally puts the brush down, turns around to look at his best friend, “I know, I mean-” he shakes his head at himself, “Sorry.”

Jess smiles at him fondly.

“I just want something more real. Not that models aren’t real. But someone who hasn’t been trained. Someone… raw.” he explains, finishing it off with a dramatic shrug.

She crosses her arms in front of her, “So. You want someone who’s not a model. Why don’t you approach one of those people you see on the street?”

Jess takes another sip of her cup, nodding her head towards his current project, and Poe’s eyes widen.

“Are you crazy? I can’t just approach strangers.”

“I approach strangers.”

“That’s online.”

“Is there a difference?”

Poe struggles to find an argument, sighing defeatedly, smiling despite Jess’ victorious laughter.

“You’re impossible.”

“You tell me that every day.” he answers her, shaking his head at her fondly.

Jess simply nods and clicks her tongue.

Then, after a glance at her wristwatch, straightens up a tiny bit. She always does that when she wants him to go out with her.

“May I lure you out of your cave to have lunch with me?” she questions, already moving towards the door.

And as much as Poe doesn’t feel like going through crowds today, he stands up and searches for his coat. He supposes other human interaction besides his best friend will be good for him.

Jess beams, as always, claps her hands in victory, and Poe laughs at her, “It’s not like I have a choice, do I?”

“Of course you do,” she says while holding the door for him, “It’s a mere suggestion.”

“I could just order takeout, you know.”

“You always order the same. You know a varied diet is important.”

Poe raises his eyebrow at her, “Didn’t know you cared about my health so much.”

She slaps his arm half heartedly, despite being used to his teasing she still seems upset but not really, scoffs at him, “Shush! I’m paying anyway. Will you let me do something nice for you, please?”

After locking up, Poe turns to her and kisses her cheek, proceeding down the stairs, “I feel like I should be the one asking you that.”

He spots her shrugging at that statement out of the corner of his eye, checking her phone, then linking her arm in his.

“I’m choosing the place.”

“Of course.”

…

Jess had seemingly already decided on a cafe beforehand, and no matter where they went, she always knew where the best table was, even when she claimed she’d never been there.

The table she’s chosen today has perfect view of the door and who comes in, as well as a floor-to-ceiling window to look out.

“The usual?” she asks him, already half on her way to order.

He has to hold in his laugh, simply nodding, “Surprised you remember.”

Jess turns around and sticks her tongue out at him, and he returns the favor, of course.

Oh, they’re very mature.

Poe resorts to doing what he always does, people watching.

He hears his nagging voice saying he’s creepy, but he can admire people from afar, right?

The bustling is just interesting.

He sometimes wonders what’s going on in other people’s heads.

Is the woman with the baby on her lap a single mother, or is her partner on the phone? Is she going through a divorce?

What’s the bundle of teenagers joking about?

Is the cashier with an exhausted look on their face waiting for an answer to their university application?

It’s funny, how everyone’s tied up in their own thing, the whole world revolving about themselves in the moment.

Poe’s at least felt that way before, especially when he’s painting.

A bell rings, signifying the door’s opening, and he turns his head in curiosity to observe who’s coming in.

And well, let’s just say if Poe wasn’t sitting down, he would’ve stopped in his tracks.

He sees beautiful people everyday, sure.

But something about the man now inside the café isn’t like anyone he’s seen before, and he figures he has to stop himself from gaping.

This man’s breathtaking.

From Poe’s location, he can only see him in profile, but man, he’s a sucker for a jawline like his.

The man stops in his tracks for a minute, presumably looking at the menu, restlessly fiddling his hands in his jeans pockets.

He taps his foot a couple times.

His clothes hug his figure, his dark complexion complimented by an orange jacket. Though he hasn’t tucked his shirt in, Poe notices.

His eyelashes flutter, he licks his lips.

His lips are so full.

Alright, that’s enough, Poe decides, turning his gaze away and anxiously waiting for Jess’ return.

And as hoped, she returns, placing a sign with a number in front of him.

“They said it’s going to be 10 minutes, 15 at the most.” Jess tells him, flickering through a magazine Poe assumes she grabbed from the rack at the counter.

“Great.” he answers half heartedly.

Don’t look at him again, Dameron, he tells himself, and he tries incredibly hard to listen to himself.

Now Jess looks up, and she frowns, “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question.”

Poe laughs it off weirdly but he already knows she’s suspicious.

He just has to look, he wishes he didn’t, but can you blame him?

The man’s at the counter ordering now, and he’s just intriguing. Poe’s not even sure he knows why, other than being the most gorgeous person he’s ever seen, of course.

Maybe it’s the colorful patches on his jacket, or the scar on his neck, or the tapping of his fingers on his leg.

Overthinking is not helpful, Poe’s brain tells him.

When Jess turns around in her chair, he knows he’s doomed.

“Oh, I just knew you would stare at someone!” she says, turning back, smirking like she just won a bet.

“Wha- I- Sh! You’re making me sound like a stalker.”

She blinks, tilts her head. She’s thinking he’s overdramatic, he can tell without her even opening her mouth.

Poe just knows that demeanor too well.

“Think he’d be a good subject to paint?” Jess questions, and he has to sigh a little, nodding, “Maybe.”

And without another word, his best friend stands up.

Oh no.

Poe can already tell where she’s headed.

…

He’s restless.

He fiddles with the paintbrushes, cleans them even though he already did that an hour ago, paces, switches out a canvas for the fifth time.

If this goes bad, it’s on Jess’ shoulders, Poe decides.

How she managed to talk him into this, he has no idea.

When she ruthlessly walked up the mystery man in the café three days ago, Poe wanted to protest louder, but remembering they were in public didn’t let him do much.

He observed her introducing herself, they shake hands, okay, great.

Jess talks. Jess points at Poe, oh god, no.

The man looks at him and he freezes on the spot like a deer in headlights.

The man nods.

Then, a polite smile. Acknowledging wave.

Okay, well, that’s not terrible. Poe waves back, of course, cause he doesn’t want to appear rude.

And when Jess returned, she did so with a phone number and a day where a paint session could take place.

Honestly, Poe doesn’t know whether to love or hate her right now.

The man from the café - Finn, his name is, it’s amazing and satisfying to get a name on that face, and Poe has to smile to himself.

He’s incredibly anxious about this.

He’s also glad Jess had the guts to talk to him. Mostly. When he’s not pissed and wishes he didn’t go out with her because he’s incredibly embarrassed about the whole ordeal.

Thing is, he can definitely approach someone when it comes to flirting, usually, but work related? Not so much.

And this doesn’t involve flirting, he reminds himself.

He’s never been this nervous before, then again, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this attracted to someone, at least in the moment, as much as to Finn.

God, he’s a wreck.

Poe’s surprised it didn’t take much convincing for someone to let a stranger paint them.

He hopes he looks trustworthy, or maybe Finn’s just as anxious as he is.

Maybe Finn won’t show up, having second thoughts, but when that came to his mind Poe hears the doorbell.

He shakes himself out of it.

Check his hair in the mirror, because, well, it can’t hurt to try, can it?

He buzzes him in when hearing a rich voice, perhaps an octave lower than his own, saying, “It’s Finn.”

Poe has to adjust his shirt for the twentieth time.

Should he have the top button fixed or not? He has no idea right now.

Suddenly, Finn appears in front of him.

Is Poe sweating?

Finn’s wearing a dark blue button up today, with constellations on it, and he’s giving Poe a smile similar to the one last time they saw each other.

“Hey! It’s Poe Dameron, right?”

Hand’s stretched out to him, he takes it in his, of course, and Jesus, is his hand that soft or is it a figment of Poe’s imagination?

“In the flesh,” he manages to say, telling himself to stop staring, otherwise this will get weird very fast. “Uhm, uh, come on in!”

Finn glances around the flat while leaving his jacket and shoes behind, stretching his arms a couple times.

Arms.

Dameron, get yourself together.

“This is a nice place.” Finn says, smile turning a bit softer than the initial, neutral one.

Poe shakes his as a reflex and Finn raises an eyebrow, “For real, I like it.”

“Oh, god! Sorry. I mean, it’s nice for the price.” he answers him, trying to find a way of standing that doesn’t look awkward, “I only cared about the location, at the time.���

The other man looks like he wants to laugh, but doesn’t.

His eyes turn to the window, the view of the bustling city life just below.

“I see what you mean.”

Poe nods. Looks down on the floor. He feels incredibly ridiculous.

“So!” he finds himself saying, voice a bit too loud for the occasion, trying to appear cheerful, “I, well, I assume Jess told you that I paint.”

Finn snickers now, nods, “She did. Told me you were in need of a model, so. Here I am.”

Poe has to nervously smile back at him, he just has to.

“I’m very grateful. I just- thank you. I didn’t want to seem weird, Jess approaches people way better than I do.” he explains, flicking a brush in his hand. “I tried to stop her, really.”

Finn shrugs.

He’s already settling in the chair Poe’s placed in front of the easel, ready to be painted.

He opted for one from the kitchen, one with the possibility of leaning back, as opposed to the stool he uses himself.

“You don’t seem weird, man, don’t worry. Not yet, anyway.” 

Finn smiles like he told a joke, Poe scoffs. God, less staring, more painting, already.

“Can I get you water, or something, before we start?”

“Nah, thanks but I’m good, really.” he replies Poe, adding the last word as a reassurance.

“Alright.”

“Ready when you are.”

…

It’s going quite well, actually.

Poe’s afraid he’s going to jinx it, but he has to admit that, at this time.

Two hours of painting while Finn settled into the model role, resulted in a well deserved break, he reckons.

He assured him they could schedule another time, really, he didn’t want to take up more of his time, but Finn insisted he had no other plans today.

After a mutual decision of ordering pizza, they settled in the kitchen, with a semi awkward silence, and god, how he wishes he could spout out a pickup line and everything would work out.

Poe feels unprofessional.

This is rather unprofessional, though, this ordeal.

Finn’s giving him these smiles and he wonders if he’s as nervous as himself.

It’s oddly enough when they return to work that a conversation is sparked. Poe supposes they got all the nerves out of the way until now.

Most of them, anyway.

“Could I ask something weird of you?”

Finn gives him a curious look, “Sure.”

“Tell me your most embarrassing experience ever.”

Poe looks at his work so far. He has to capture Finn’s eyes exactly right.

And the soft curves of his figure, he definitely got them, just needs a little fixing up so it’s perfectly precise.

There's something incredibly refreshing about his awkwardness, maybe that's what real is, Poe wonders.

He’s having a hard time not looking at Finn’s hands.

This man might be driving him insane.

Finn looks surprised at the request.

Poe fears this might be turn out how all these sessions go, the model is weirded out and the piece is never finished because he doesn’t get quite what he wants, but, “Promise you won’t think I’m stupid.”

He blinks a couple times at Finn’s words.

“Promise. I- I’d never think that.”

He shrugs, looking sort of nervous again, but continues, “So I’d made myself a cup of coffee, as I do every morning, but I trip over one of my plants.”

A laugh he’s seemingly struggling to hold in appears out of Finn’s mouth, and Poe can’t help but laugh as well.

“I- well, that resulted in the cup smashing. Coffee all over the floor. Somehow, I managed to land on a shard with my neck.”

Now Poe really has to laugh, but he feels bad, glad Finn’s laughing at just as much, though.

That sounds ridiculous. Not exactly what he had expected.

But he weirdly thinks back to when he first saw Finn in all of his glory, seeing the scar and wondering.

Yet another little thing to learn.

“Were your family there to see this magnificent event play out?” Poe finds himself asking, still rather surprised by it.

His model visibly cringes, “Oh, god, no, thank god. Living alone has the perk of that.”

“But nobody saw you, then?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not embarrassing. I know it happened. I’ll never forget.”

Finn jokingly shudders at that, and fuck, there’s apparently nothing that can make him not attractive.

Poe’s quick to memorize that big smile on his face, the warmth of his laugh, sort of hiccupping, he thinks he’s got his smile done, almost.

And then, because it all seems a bit more relaxed now, Poe decides to be bold.

“Would you mind me coming closer? To sketch some facial details, that is.”

Just like before, when he thinks he might’ve screwed it up, Finn shakes his head, “Be my guest.”

He obliges.

When Poe moves away from the canvas, grabbing a sketchbook and pencil, getting up in the only slightly taller man’s space, Finn takes just that one inch closer that Poe’s surely gonna start freaking out.

Their thighs are touching.

He turns quiet, focusing on the pencil, but it’s when he has to look right up at Finn’s face every fifteen second.

Surely, Finn’s noticing his reappearing nerves by now.

Is he doing this on purpose? He can’t be, can he?

Poe wishes he knew what’s going on in this man’s brain.

Fuck him and his perfect looks and his perfect smile and his perfect voice.

“You know,” Finn’s voice sounds, and Poe blinks up at him, flicks the pencil because he doesn’t know what else to distract himself with, honestly, “Your art’s so interesting. Peculiar.”

He scoffs.

“You have to stop complimenting me, I’m not all that great.” Poe states. He really hopes he’s not blushing.

The compliments are wonderful for his ego right now, and the voice telling that, maybe, Finn’s interested in him too, but it’s also making him incredibly shy.

“I think you are,” Finn laughs, softer than before. “Faces are your thing, I’m guessing.”

Poe just has to shrug.

He wishes he could say something smart now. Interesting. Instead, he can’t help but act on his instincts, about the vibe that’s going through the room at the moment.

“Can I… Can I ask you something?”

And Finn looks at him, really looks at him for what feels like ages, until he answers, “You already did, twice.”

“I know. Okay, I need to know that I’m not taking this out of proportion, alright?”

He nods. His smile seems ever the more encouraging.

Finn’s knee graces his, goddammit.

“You live alone?”

“Yes.”

“But you have a partner?”

“No.”

“So you’re single?”

“Yes.”

“You’re straight?”

“Bisexual.”

Poe has to stop for a moment.

It’s his turn to look at the other man for God knows how long. Well, he expected a yes there, but this is way more than he could hope for.

This doesn’t mean he’s interested, of course, surely, he’s not, but Poe can’t quit now, can he?

“Do you actually like my art?”

“Of course I do.”

“Really?”

“I don’t lie to people I like, Poe.”

Oh my god, the voice in his mind has to shut up now.

Poe feels like there’s been an explosion. Poe Dameron no longer computes.

There’s no signs of it being a surreal practical joke on Finn’s face, in fact, he looks down in his lap.

He’s blushing.

“Shit. I mean, that doesn’t sound very smooth, I’m sorry.” he laughs at himself, scratching his neck.

When did Poe’s flat get so fucking hot? He can’t breathe in here. He fiddles with the paper pad.

What’s he supposed to do now, then?

Poe never thought he would feel like the lead in one of those romantic films, ever, in his life.

Not in his cards by a long shot.

But, apparently, he thought wrong.

“You like me?”

“Yes.”

“You found me attractive when you first saw me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you agreed to this?”

“I-,” Finn seems so nervous now, not knowing what to do with his hands, but still keeping his legs almost entangled with Poe’s at this point, “Yeah.”

So he shuts his mouth.

Poe just has to nod. Standing up, moving back to the easel, discarding the materials nearby.

And Finn’s up like lightning, doesn’t move closer, but staggers through, “Fuck, I, sorry, this is- I probably made this so awkward.”

God, he’s so pretty.

He’s the prettiest person Poe’s ever laid eyes on.

Bless Jess and her ruthlessness, she deserves a drink next time she comes around, he decides.

“No, it’s getting late, natural lighting’s leaving. Fitting time to stop.”

Finn almost has the look of someone on the edge of a breakdown, he’s swearing at himself, apologising, but Poe interrupts him once more, “It’s a fitting time for you to take me out for dinner.”

He looks at him with big eyes.

God, Finn can take him right now and ruin him if he wants to, Poe doesn’t care anymore.

“If you like, that is.” he adds for good measure, because at this point Finn seems just as confused with all of this as himself.

Finn almost immediately calms down again.

He looks incredibly soft right now.

That smile, fuck, Poe needs fifty years in order to capture that perfectly, he reckons.

“Sounds perfect.”

#mine #star wars #stormpilot #userneville #finnpoe #queernet #eloquencenet #hogwartsfamily #fanfiction #m/m fanfiction #swedit #starwarsedit #fandomaestheticgang #sabrinasfamily #rebeccasfamily #marisasfamily #reannasfam #meghansfamily #finnpoeedit #myedit #my creations #fanfic #tw: swearing #my writing #sophiesfamily #usersophie #meet cute #fluff #au #lennon tries to write

[imaginedanganronpa]

Could you so V3 boys with an artist S/O? I love your work and the effort you put into them, i wish you luck with future promts in the future♡☆ (sorry if that was awkward lol)

Thank you so much!! It means a lot! And I didn’t think that was awkward at all, no worries :) Please enjoy!

V3 Boys With An Artist S/O!

Saihara Shuichi

Saihara adores your talent since he’s never been a veryartistic person himself. He has always admired those with artistic abilitiesand he considers himself lucky to be with such a creative person.

He loves flipping through the pages of your many sketchbooks, always with yourpermission, of course. He wouldn’t invade your privacy like that. But he likesgetting a little glimpse into your mind and adores every page, even the unfinished works in progress and messy outlines.

He would be the kind of boyfriend to buy you artistic presents, although Saihara isn’t the best when it comes to ideas for gifts. He’s tried to use his Detective-skillsto figure out what you may like or need but always seems to fall short.

He does pay extra-attention to the kinds of supplies you favor, and he notices the things that other men may not. Saihara notices the small details in your art and shows his appreciation to the amount of time and effort put into each piece.

Saihara loves it when you take photos or draw pictures of him but isn’t the most confidentmodel – every time you’ve tried to draw him, he’s always had a wobbly smile and a brightblush plastered on his cheeks, and his position always feels unnatural. You stick with surprise drawings of him since he always has the cutestreaction.

Whenever you draw him, Saihara will start bumbling and tripping over his words, unable to contain his joy. His hands will fly to cover his face which is without a doubt bright red. He has a drawer full of art you’ve made for him and cherishes each and every one. When you two are apart, he reminisces on what you’ve made for him, keeping them close to his heart.

You’ll use your napkin as a drawing pad on restaurant dates, doodling himdiscretely when he’s not paying attention. You’ll end up surprising Saiharawith the end result after dinner, almost every time.

More than once, you’ve misplaced your art supplies and had to ask him, “Is thata bottle of water or paint-thinner on the counter?” Saihara will give you the parenting talkto be more responsible, since he doesn’t want you accidentally drinking paint-thinner! “W-what do you mean?! How do you not know?!” It also freaks him out and has made him much more cautious when picking up an unmarked bottle from around the house.

As much as he loves your talent, Saihara gets extremely flustered when you arefrustrated. He hates when you hit artist’s block and are unsatisfied with your works. Personally, he thinks everything you make is beautiful but knows that it’s not as easy to convince you the same.

You’d get frustrated and bury your hands in your face, huffing angrily anddropping your paintbrush. Saihara immediately flocks to your side and squeezesyour shoulders lovingly. “Are you okay, (Y/N)?”

Shaking your head, you groan and stare at the canvas bitterly. It didn’t look right: the proportions were off, the color was dull, and you just weren’t happy with it.

“Your art is beautiful, just like you.” Saihara warmly smiles and pulls you into his chest. Sighing, the Detective guides you away from your work and brings you outside for awhile, just to give you a much-needed break to recharge your creativity.

You appreciate that he was able to sense when you were stressed, but it wasn’t that surprising. He was a Detective; it’s what he does. And whenever you feel drained or like your art is lackluster, Saihara always knows how to calm you down and ease your mind.

“Please, don’t say such bad things about your art. It’s wonderful, and I think you just need to step away for a while.” No matter what, he will always support you and do his best to reassure you, especially when you are feeling down. 

In Saihara’s eyes, you are the most amazing artist and person he’s ever met and he will go to great lengths to prove it.

Ouma Kokichi

Ouma completely adores you and your artistic abilities, but there’s no way he can just tell you that. He’s got jokes. Oh, believe me, he’s got jokes.

He will beg you to draw him naked, asking if he can be your next model. He’llprobably lay in the pose from the Titanic and ask you to “Draw me like one ofyour French girls.” This always causes you to roll your eyes and dismiss him with an agonizing glare.

Or, he’ll sneak up behind you and loom over your shoulder. “Oh~ (Y/N)-Chan isdrawing a nude model? How scandalous!” You insist that it’s a normal part ofany artist’s work, but he’ll just continue to tease you.

Truthfully, Ouma can be a little bit overcritical at times, but he doesn’t do it intentionally. He does his best to make sure you know that he’s just teasing, but sometimes it comes across as him seriously belittling your work. He tries being sensitive towards your art and will comfort you whenever he senses that you’re upset.

That’s just how he shows that he likes something!

“So, do you not like it?” You’ll ask with a tinge of disappointment in your voice. Ouma’s sly, smug grin gets wiped off his face once he notices your glassy eyes and quivering lip, and his attitude switches at the snap of a finger.

Raising his hands defensively, he shakes his head. “N-no, (Y/N)! I was just kidding, I love it! Seriously… believe me!” Although he means it, sometimes he tries too hard to sound sincere and this can cancel out his reassuring words, but you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Secretly, Ouma adores your art and cherishes it like a little kid. He alwaysgets ecstatic whenever you have something new to show him, bouncing up and down excitedly. 

Ouma will also try peeking over your shoulder whenever you’re working. You don’t mind if he watches, but he doesn’t always respect the personal-space rule. His overbearing presence can make you nervous, especially when he starts begging, “Let me see, let me see! C’mon, (Y/N)!” and whines like a child.

Whenever you come home and tell him you have a new project to work on, he always asks if he can be in it somehow. Ouma will jump at every opportunity for you to draw him because he loves your art style and the way you depict him.

Although he won’t admit it, he has a secret locked box where he keeps all of the artwork you’ve made for him. He gets incredibly embarrassed whenever you bring it up, though.

“Maybe if we kill Angie, you can take her spot as the Ultimate Artist! Youdeserve it way more, anyway~!” Ouma exclaims in a cheery tone, and you shake your head. “No way, there’s no way I could be an Ultimate,” you laugh. Ouma looks a bit disappointed by your comment, frowning slightly.

“You totally could, (Y/N). You art is amazing, so don’t say that.”

And he also begs you to teach him how to make art. He genuinely wants to learn and hone in his abilities, so you give in. Ouma’s persistent nature wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He doesn’t catch on very quickly, though. A lot of his art comes out as messy and unorganized, and he more-so tries copying you rather than developing his own style. And rather than listening to you, he insists that he can handle it and tries finding his own ‘creative’ and ‘unique’ ways to do the same thing you do.

When that doesn’t work out, Ouma gets easily flustered and gives up within the first hour, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the trash-can. “Why am I not amazing at this? I don’t get it! Is there some trick you’re not telling me?”

Rantaro Amami

It takes a lot to impress this boy, but he’s always over themoon whenever he watches you work. The focused look on your face and the passion you put into every piece never ceases to amaze him.

Rantaro has a fine appreciation for the arts, and he wants to adapt some ofyour skills and abilities to better his own nail art when he works with his sisters. After all, he’s a bit of an artsy guy himself but he doesn’t even come close to your skill.

He provides a relaxed, calming, and peaceful environment to work in with no pressure. He’ll come up behind you while you’re working and just linger there, silently admiringyour art with a tiny smile on his face. Rantaro won’t say anything since hedoesn’t want to disrupt you, but instead he’ll just stand there and watch contently.

He finds something so relaxing about watching you work. Rantaro will also take goodcare of you while you’re busy, asking you if you need anything and providing assistance whenevernecessary. He’ll bring you water or snacks, or offer a small massage if you’re tense; he’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable.

Rantaro absolutely loves going to art stores with you and helping you pick out supplies.He has learned so much from you – he patiently listens to you talk about differentartists, brands, and materials and absorbs all of the new information. Hearing you talk about art, knowing how much you care about it, always brings Rantaro happiness.

He wants to cover your home together in your pieces. He’ll frame all of your works on paperand hang up all of your canvases. All he wants to do is showcase them - the walls and ceiling of his bedroom are filled with all kinds of different artwork, including those you’ve made for him specifically. He falls asleep while admiring them, memorizing every little detail, brush stroke, and highlight.

Rantaro will also definitely take you on adventures in hopes of finding somesort of inspiration. He’ll drive around the city with you, walk through thestreets hand-in-hand and hunt down the most beautiful places and people inhopes of striking a chord in your creative side.

One of the dreams you share is to travel to Paris, Italy, New York, and more to see the different famous artworks scattered around the world. It’s something you both fantasize about and something that Rantaro can’t seem to wait for.

You two also enjoy going on dates to Art Museums. After you two started dating, his love for the arts only intensified and he shares your interests. “I like that one a lot, it’s very pretty,” he’ll say quietly as he points out all of his favorite pieces. “One day, your hard work will be hanging up, all over these walls. Just watch, my little work of art.”

Rantaro is so unconditionally supportive of you and does everything in his power to show you that.

His favorite thing, though, is when you draw him candid. If he’s reading a bookwhile sipping coffee or gazing out of a window whilst daydreaming - he won’t even notice you scribbling in your sketchbook. Rantaro loves the little surprises and always welcomes them with open arms.

“Oh? Of me?” He confirms with a bright grin on his face. It makes him feel special and loved. He also keeps some of your smaller sketches of the two of you in his wallet and looks back at them from time to time.

Kiibo

More than once, Kiibo has caught you daydreaming about your profession. You can’t help it! Ideas of what to make next flow through your mind, andhe never really knows what to do. He thinks it’s the human equivalent of whenhe blue-screens so he ends up shaking you back into reality.

He’s never really had the opportunity to make art before since he’s, well, aRobot. He’s always been far too clumsy and uncoordinated to hold the paintbrushor pencil, but he still tries his best.

Especially since you two have started dating. Kiibo is determined to create a beautiful work of art for you, since you’re always making something new for him. He has so many sketches, paintings, and all kinds of pieces you’ve made for him and all he wants to do is the same for you.

One of the reasons why Kiibo fell for you was because of your talent – he’s alwaysadmired artists. They do something that he’s unable to and he can’t even begin to wrap his mind around the creative process surrounding art.

He’s never been the creative type. He doesn’t have the same kinds of thoughts or functions that humans do, and thus he cannot daydream or think up the same kinds of expressive, creative ideas that humans can. It makes Kiibo a bit sad that he’ll never be as imaginative as he’d like to be, but he lives vicariously though you.

You make him handmade gifts for special occasions and he will cherish each andevery one of them. Every time you make him something new, he’ll fawn over it and show it to everyone he meets. “Everyone, I have an important announcement! Look at this! Isn’t it beautiful?”

You will also come to him for ideas and you enjoy bringing his wildest dreams into reality, although Kiibo never really knows what to say. A lot of his suggestions have to do with Robots and Mech.

He much prefers giving you free-reign and watching you work. He loves watching the whole process from start to finish and he is absolutely amazed by the way you bring color and lines to life.

Kiibo is never very far from your side when you’re making art. He likes justsitting and watching, regardless of how long it takes to finish. 

Although, he gets paint and other mediums allover him. He’s not the most graceful person ever, and he often ends up accidentally resting his elbow in the paint or fiddling with the markers and pens, resulting in several stray marks all over his metal body.

Kiibo can’t feel it and only realizes what’s happened after you point it out. He’s used to it, though. You normally have stray color and marks all over your hands and arms, anyway, so he’ll just giggle and say, “Now we look the same!”

Before you started dating, he didn’t realize all of the qualms and pains that come with being an artist. He doesn’t understand the concept of artist’s block or frustration involving the process, so Kiibo never really knows how to handle it when you get frustrated. 

“What do you mean it’s ugly? It looks perfect to me!” He uses the most reassuring words he can think of, insisting that you must be wrong and that your art is perfectly fine. Of course, that doesn’t really ease your mind. Kiibo also didn’t realize that, sometimes, artists need space. Although he adores art, especially yours, he doesn’t really understand alone-time. He doesn’t want to leave you alone because he wants to watch you work! 

But, if it’s for the best, then he can handle it. He just gets so worried because he loves your art and doesn’t want you to think poorly of it.

No matter what, though, he will always love you and show you his support for your work, especially when you’re going through a rough time. 

Kaito Momota

Kaito’s favorite kinds of art are your watercolor pieces and he loveswatching you create them. He finds it so fascinating, watching the colors mix togetherand move around as if the paint had a mind of its own. He says it reminds himof a galaxy, so you’re not really surprised that they’re his favorite.

And whenever your hands are stained with whatever medium you happened to be working with,he will take your hands into his own and admire them. 

Kaito will run his fingersalong the colors and kiss your working palms, grazing the knuckles and admiring the hands that create such beautiful works of art. All the colors make him think of space.

One of the more frequent dates you two go on are dates to Art Galleries and Museums– he’ll definitely enable you and your passion, although the first time you wanted to go to an Art Gallery together, you practically had to drag him there because he wasn’t very interested. 

Now, however, Kaito loves going on trips to local shows and hearing you go on and on about the different kinds of art.

Kaito loves hearing you talk aboutit and can sense the passion in your voice, which is exactly what he wants in a partner. He admires your drive and how serious you are about your profession.

He can get annoyed, though, and sometimes he doesn’t understand the art, especially when it’s abstract. He doesn’t always appreciate it but you can’t blame him - not everyone has an imaginative mind like you do. Still, you get a bit upset when he calls something “Stupid” or “Weird.”

Regardless, Kaito does support your creativity. He wouldn’t do anything that might falter that or hold you back from making art. Even if he doesn’t always understand it, he’s going to do his best to support you anyway.

He’s always so speechless whenever he watches you create, especially because you get so in the zone. Half of the time, he’s watching you work with an open-mouth, wide eyed expression. He wondered how you were able to do that so easily.

The other half of the time, he’s peeking over your shoulder and asking, “What’cha drawing, (Y/N)?” Kaito is also quite inpatient and isn’t great with surprises, so you sometimes don’t want him watching you work. As much as you love him, he wants to rush through the process and see the final result as quickly as possible, meanwhile that’s not how you roll and you want to take your time.

Once, you made him an Astronomy and Space-themed painting for his birthday and he was completely floored. Holding it to his chest protectively, a wide grin appeared on Kaito’s face as he gleefully exclaims, “This is the best gift I’ve ever received!”

Also, expect him to make comments like, “Your art is out of this world!” 

He genuinely wants to get some of your original art tattooed on him someday. He thinks it would be romantic and there’s no one else he’d rather have design his future tattoos.

Kaito caught you sketching him one evening and sneakily peeks over your shoulder without you noticing. “What’s th-” he stops, and stares at it momentarily, blinking to make sure that this was real.

“Is that… me?” His voice was uncertain, and your face was turning red. You shyly closed the sketchbook and turn away from him, but he’s immediately infatuated with your work. “Wait, no, don’t hide it!”

Kaito just couldn’t believe it - someone had really made something for him in his likeness, and it was so accurate! His stomach was filled with butterflies and he was beaming like a little kid.

Bringing you into a long kiss, he thanks you and reassures you that he adored it. To this day, he still has it framed and hanging on his wall. He promises that he’ll keep it forever.

Korekiyo Shinguuji

It’s obvious that he has a very intense appreciation for thearts, but he appreciates the artists themselves even more. Korekiyo knows how meticulous andtedious the arts can be and he, personally, doesn’t have the patience to makeit himself, nor does he have the talent.

That’s one reason why he always makes such a big deal out of your artworks. In his eyes, you are the most wonderful artist in the world, comparable to Picasso or Da Vinci. Honestly, you don’t really see it but you appreciate his adoration.

Korekiyo loves your art and will always fawn over and showcase it. After all, you deserve only the best. He believes that everyone should see your work and wants to show it off, as long as he has permission.

He loves going on Museum and Gallery dates with you – hearing you talk aboutthe different pieces, methods, and artists always makes his heart feel full.

That’s one way you two have bonded. Korekiyo can spout off about humanity, culture, and people; meanwhile, you can tell him everything there is to know about artwork, mediums, and well-known artists from past and present. 

The two of you have a similar sense of passion and can teach and fuel one another’s interests. Korekiyo also likes going to places with you and then pointing out works that he likes. “That one is quite beautiful,” he’ll comment, just to get you fired up.

He loves hearing you talk about it, the way your face lights up and how happy you sound when talking about the arts.

You often ask him for ideas on what to create next since he has a very overactive mind filled with creativity and unique thoughts. It’s no surprise that he is most fond of your art revolving around people and Korekiyo is always asking to see your proportion studies, sketches, and faces.

He doesn’t just enjoy talking about art with you or watching you when you’re in your element, but Korekiyo also loves making it with you. He was never the creative, artsy type before you two started dating but you’ve inspired him to try his hand at it.

Although he doesn’t compare to your skills, he isn’t so bad. You’ve taught him proper proportions and tricks on how to draw different faces and body parts, and making messy, mindless doodles has become a way for Korekiyo to relax his mind or pass time.

You inspire him without even realizing it, and perhaps that’s one of the reasons why he’s fallen for you so hard.

He’s helped you create a full-blown studio in your home and he’s surprisingly good at organizing and interior design. Helping you build a place where you can work in peace was the least he can do - after all, he’ll go above and beyond for his loved ones.

Korekiyo thinks you’re so beautiful when you’re making art. He quietly admires you, distancing himself so that he doesn’t get in the way. But the way you look, and how happy you seem, when bringing it all to life makes his heart melt.

If you ever make him something, no matter what it is, he’ll cherish it and keep it as one of his prized possessions. None of his other belongings are as important to him as your art because nothing else holds the same value, and material items don’t have the same love and effort put into them.

Korekiyo can clearly see how much love you put into every piece, and as long as he’s around he will do nothing less than give you his full support and faith. He wants you to be happy and can sense that this is one of those things in life that brings you utter joy, and he wants to preserve that for as long as possible.

Gonta Gokuhara

Gonta isn’t too familiar with art, but he understands it asa basic concept. He’s never really made art before and is worried that he’ll break thecanvases or the tools you use, so he leaves it all to you and admires you from adistance.

Still, he loves watching you make art, almost like he’s in a trance. He’s so infatuated and impressed with your abilities that he can’t help but to stare and he can zone off after awhile.

Gonta can be alittle bit hard to deal with considering that he will continuously ask you questions ormake comments, resulting in breaking your focus. You try to not get irritated withhim since you know that’s just who he is, and you can’t hold it against him.

He hasn’t been exposed to art very much and the least you can do is introduce him to the subject, little by little. You love teaching Gonta everything you know which has expanded his appreciation for the arts as a whole.

He also loves hearing you talk about it, and how passionate you are. You always look so bubbly and happy when you talk about your work so he knows it’s a good thing. And as long as (Y/N) likes it, Gonta will like it, too! Anything to make you happy, of course!

Gonta gets inspired by you and wants to be like you as well, so he tries his hand at art but it often ends up looking like messyscribbles and splatters of color everywhere. You always hang it up on the fridge, though, and make a big deal out of it so that he feels satisfied.

Together, you two daydream about ideas and brainstorm what you should make next. Gonta is always suggesting the same thing, “Bugs!” which isn’t that surprising.

You simply giggle at his innocence, knowing that he’s as passionate about Entomology as you are about your profession. Honestly, since you two have started dating you have caught yourselfdoodling the little creatures more often than not. A lot of them are actually quite beautiful andGonta’s favorites are your butterfly pictures, especially when you usewatercolor on their wings. He thinks it looks so gorgeous.

You never thought you could find so much enjoyment out of drawing bugs, but it makes your boyfriend happy and you love the sweet smile it brings to his expression.

He will always help you build your installations since he’s so strong and canhelp with just about anything in that department. Gonta is careful to not damage the art in the process since he knows how important it is to you and how much work was put into them. Before, he never thought of installations as art but he’s developed a much greater knowledge of all of the basic since you two have grown so close.

You’ve tried taking him to Art Galleries before, just to expose him to different artist’s styles and works so that he has a broader sense of the subject, beyond what you’re able to create.

However, that didn’t go according to plan. Gonta would crawl under the velvet ropes restricting the viewer’s access and pick up the art pieces or run his hand along the surface of textured sculptures, despite the “Do Not Touch!” sign. This garnered several gasps of astonishment and dirty looks from the other patrons viewing.

Maybe you should’ve explained that that was a big no-no to him before trying to take him here…

He’ll also run around the Gallery like a child, chanting, “Look at this one, (Y/N)!” or, “This looks like something (Y/N) would make!”

You may have successfully broadened his horizons, but not without getting kicked out of the Gallery first.

Ryoma Hoshi

Although he isn’t one to completely fall all over someonewith an extraordinary talent, he can respect and recognize it where it’s due and will unconditionallysupport your artistic abilities. Ryoma does enjoy your work and is gladthat you have something you’re so passionate about.

He may not completely fawn all over you like other people might and is much more serious and reserved when it comes to your talent. In his eyes, it’s just something to make you stand out from others, but nothing more. Ryoma is impressed with your abilities but tries to not make a big deal out of it, since that’s just not who he is.

Although, his coolness disappears when you make him something special and that shield of seriousness wavers, because no one has ever gone through that kind of effort for him before. It makes him feel loved and cherished, so he will always do the same towards your works.

He’s a bit skeptical about it, though. You’ve insisted that art is one of theways you unwind and relax, and that art therapy has helped you in the past. You’verecommended it before but it doesn’t seem to really get through to him.

Ryoma didn’t believe it would work at first, but once he finally gave arttherapy a shot due to your continuous persistence, he surprisingly found himself much less tense and more calm than before. He was floored, and ever since then art therapy is your personal favorite past-time as a couple.

He will always give you his opinion whenever you’re working on a piece, and hemakes sure to do it in a respectful yet honest manner. You can count on Ryoma to give you unbiased feedback and let you know when something doesn’t look quite right or where he believes a color might look better. Overall, he’s helped improve the quality of your work since you started dating.

He knows that artists need time to themselves when working on their pieces and that good art doesn’t happen overnight. Ryoma willgive you plenty of space when needed and never rushes you through the process. He’s fine with taking some time apart to fuel your creative abilities, knowing that it will only help you in the end.

But he does thoroughly enjoy watching you make art when you want him around. He’s begun to love and appreciate it evenmore as your relationship progressed. 

Ryoma has taken it upon himself to become educated on famous artists and works, and the different art forms that exist. He’s explored the subject on his own and also isn’t afraid to ask you questions; he is simply curious and wants to use the correct terms when talking about it.

Watching you work brings him a sense of peace. He feels at home, content, when watching you create these beautiful pieces of art. You don’t even necessarily have to talk to one another, and can sit in complete silence and he will still feel true joy.

Ryoma doesn’t mind the messy room, canvases and sketchbooks strewn everywhere, or that your skin and clothes are never free from stains. That’s just part of it and exactly what he expected when he started dating an artist.

The way he sees it, is that your talent is a part of you, and the artworks you bring to life are an extension of who you are. In essence, you are beautiful so of course he finds everything you do beautiful as well. 

As long as you’re together, you will have his unconditional love. Ryoma will always support your talent, even if he doesn’t always show it.

- Mod Rantaro

#danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #danganronpa v3 #ndrv3 #ndrv3 imagines #killing harmony #ouma kokichi #oma kokichi #kokichi ouma #shuichi saihara #saihara shuichi #amami rantarou #rantaro amami #kiibo #kaito momota #korekiyo shinguuji #gonta gokuhara #ryoma hoshi

[theartificialdane]

Andromeda: Maybe this year

A Melati focused Andromeda about not doing as well in high school as she had expected.  Originally inspired by “Anybody have a map” from Dear Evan Hansen.

A million thanks to @veronicasanders for not only being a fantastic beta and cowriter, but also forcing me to confront my angst for angst and do what is needed to make the story work!

{Melati...} Violet wanted to reach over the table, wanted to touch her daughters hand. {Is there something on your mind?}

Violet ran, her feet hitting the pavement, her heart beating rhythmically, her breath coming in and out, in and out. It was early morning in mid autumn, the air chilly.

Violet’s watch beeped, and she slowed down, finally stopping in front of the property she and Sutan had bought when they relocated back to America. It was a lovely three story house, a brownstone on the Upper West Side, their neighborhood one of the reasons they had picked this specific property, but the real reason was next door.

Violet could see a dim orange light from the second story window. A shadow moving around inside. Raja was already up, the woman without a doubt sitting in her study and getting some work done before everyone else woke up. Violet smiled to herself. She should have known that Raja and Sutan would find a way to buy houses right next to each other, though she suspected Jinkx had had a finger in the game since two almost identical properties had shown up at the exact same time. It was all worth it though, when she had heard her husband’s sigh of pure relief as he took his jacket off for the first time in their new house, the world finally right again for him since his twin was back where she belonged; only a single set of walls away.

Violet checked her watch, the slim fit bit on her wrist telling her that her time was a little slower than the day before. Violet had never cared about how fast she ran, she had never done it for the physical fitness, but instead the quiet that overtook her mind, the nagging voice in her head only a tiny presence at the very back of her skull, but now, she was training with an actual goal in mind. A half marathon she would be running with Shane, the watch on her wrist a gift from the man that had been consumed by the idea of doing it before he turned 45. Violet hadn’t planned on joining him, Shane having never ran before, but she had volunteered when she saw the look of pure terror on Betty’s face the moment her friend realised her husband was serious about it.

Violet opened the door to their garden, the sound of tiny paws and yiffs coming around the corner hitting her before she even had a chance to reclick the lock. Asta and Nora both looking up at with big eyes, the pugs’ small tongues out their mouth. “Don’t look like that, darlings.” Violet smiled, bending down to quickly pet each of her dogs. “You’ll get your breakfast.” Violet quickly waved to their security camera. She was unsure if it was ever watched, but she felt weird not acknowledging its presence. Fame had forced everyone to get security installed when a fan of the show had followed Sutan into the bathroom at a bar, and Violet was grateful that Fame had taken that step, the woman one no one spoke against, even when she was being paranoid or unfair since she wasn’t one to ever let anything go.

Violet opened the patio door, and Asta and Nora followed her inside as Violet finished the rest of her morning routine. Shower, hair and makeup, all before 6.30.

The next step was her least favorite part of her morning, but she knew she had to do it.

The walk to the third floor was an easy one, but the task facing her was not. Violet knocked on the door, carefully opening it, the light from the hallway shining in and hitting her sleeping daughter in her bed. Melati was burrowed under the covers, the only thing visible her dark curls. She had inherited her father’s heart for sleep and late nights, Violet sometimes waking from the sounds of Melati working away in her room. Violet turned on the lights, the light dimmers they had installed in there on Juju���s recommendation a true lifesaver.

The soft jade green walls were filled with trinkets, the curtains were closed, the door to her walk in closet opened and her clothes spread everywhere, canvases lining the wall. Melati had a craft room, the space freeing up in the house when Violet had relocated what had turned into an ever growing workshop to an actual studio space, but Melati still prefered to keep much of her stuff in her room. Her computer was still open on her desk, the screen dark.

Violet took one final deep breath, stepping into the room to wake the most terrifying creature known to man. A cranky teenager.

///

{Melati, you have to wake up.}

Melati could feel her mother's presence looming by her bed. She cracked an eye open, her phone still in hand from when she had fallen asleep texting her dad last night as he had been making his way home, promising that he’d be there by evening.

He and been gone for over two weeks, helping the Indonesian producers shoot the first edition of Asia’s Next Top Model.

{It’s 6.45..}. Melati knew why she had been woken up, but she still wished her mom would get off her back a little. She didn’t know anyone else who’s mom was as overbearing as hers. Not that she had many American friends to ask, but she was certain that no one else was still woken by their parents at 14.

{You’re riding with Auntie Raja today.}

{Do I have to?} Melati turned, looking up at her mom, standing by her bed. She had only been in high school for a little over two months, and she still hated every single second of it, none of it made better by the fact that she more often than not had to ride to school with her demonic cousins. Normally she’d go with her dad, Sutan going downtown anyway because of work, but he was an entire world away. {I’d rather ride the subway with Maggie.}

Violet cringed. She’d always hated the subway, and the fact that her daughter was so independent should have made her proud, but instead it just consumed her with worry.

{Please? I’ll text you when we get to school.}

{Fine,} Violet sighed. {10 minutes, or you’re gonna be late.}

///

Melati opened the patio, Nora and Asta shaking their feet. Melati could hear her mother in the kitchen, walking the dogs one of her responsibilities in the morning. She was just about to leave the living room to change her socks, the damp grass soaking her sneakers, when their home system dinged. Someone was calling them. Melati turned around, the caller ID a familiar bright and smiling face. Melati quickly accepted, and Courtney Act showed up on the screen. Both Asta and Nora perked up, the pugs yipping happily.

“Courtney!” Melati smiled brightly, a blush creeping into her cheeks. “Hi!” Melati wasn’t proud of it, but no matter how many times she met her, she always felt a little starstruck around Courtney. She had seen her movies almost as many times as she had seen Moana, and she had performed her songs for every school talent show when they still lived in Paris.

“Hi lovebug! How are you doing?”

“I’m good.” Melati pulled a lock of hair behind her ear. “Another day of school.” Melati laughed, the English feeling like wool in her mouth.

“Awww, hang in there, babe. It won’t last forever.”

“Thanks.” Melati felt a rush of relief. She had spent some time with Courtney and the kids in LA during the summer while Bianca and Sutan had been filming last season’s Top Model, and the whole thing had felt like a dream. One day, Courtney had taken her out for sorbet, just the two of them, and actually listened to her. Courtney was her favorite adult to talk to, the blonde always understanding.

“Is your mom around, sweet pea?”

“Uh, she’s making breakfast...”

“Oh, bummer. I was hoping to ambush her with a little project,” Courtney said, eyes twinkling with glee.

“I can tell her you called,” Mel said, smiling. “So… I read that you’re leaving your talk show? Is that true?”

“It’s true. I’m stepping down at the end of the year.”

“Really? Why! I love your show,” Mel told her.

A smile pulled at the corner of Courtney’s mouth as she said, “Well...let’s just say that I’m trying to be a supportive wife.”

“A supportive wife?” Mel’s brow furrowed, confused. What did that have to do with her show?

“No no,” Courtney said with a giggle. “I’ve already revealed too much! But you’ll find out soon eno- Violet!” Melati saw Courtney wave, a grin on her face. “Good morning!”

Melati turned, her mother coming out from the kitchen.

“You’re awfully chipper.” Violet walked over, a note of mild irritation in her voice. “Is this about your email?” Melati knew her mother hated having her routine interrupted, but she was still being overly hostile.

“I’m great, thanks, and how you you?” Courtney said.

“Is it so important that you can’t wait? You have kids yourself, you know how mornings are-”

Melati bristeled. She was 14, that meant she was only two years away from getting a driver's license, and four years away from college. {I’m not a kid.}

Violet turned to Melati. {I didn’t mean-}

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Courtney smiled, holding up her hands. “But I just couldn’t wait.”

“For what?” Violet had crossed her arms, her eyes narrow as she watched the screen. “I think my reply to your request was perfectly clear.”

“Listen. I know you don’t want to design kids’ clothes.”

“That is one way to phrase my direct decline.”

“Right, but that’s not what I’m asking for. I was just hoping that you’d do some low key consulting. It could even be anonymous. You know how much I value your input-”

“I’m not a children’s designer, Courtney.”

Melati rolled her eyes, falling back on the couch. Sometimes she felt like her mom spent so much more time telling people what she didn’t want to do compared to what she actually did. Melati knew Violet designed couture, that almost everything her mother made was sold and designed directly for her clients. She knew the waiting list for Violet Chachki's time was miles long and that the chance of getting an appointment almost non-existent, but that didn’t excuse being so rude to someone Melati cared about.

“Okay, I hear you, but please, Vi, just take a quick peek before you give me a final answer!  I mean I got to Amsterdam this morning and they showed me some of the samples and they are just so cute! Like look at this, you think it’s just a little gender neutral pea coat but then look closer and THE BUTTONS ARE DISCO BALLS!! And then there’s-”

Without even looking, Violet grabbed the remote and hung up, cutting Courtney off mid sentence.

{You just hung up on Courtney Act!} Melati knew her mouth was hanging open, her jaw slack with surprise.

{I did.}

{You can’t do that!}

{Actually, I can.} Violet looked at her watch. {You have to get going. Are you sure about the sub-}

Melati crossed her arms. {You were really rude. She’s supposed to be your friend.}

{Go brush your teeth.}

////

Violet had just finished making breakfast when Melati came down the stairs, this time dressed for the day in a soft cream sweater and jeans, her curly hair collected in a half bun. She was wearing pearl earrings, a thin gold bracelet and a ring Violet had given her.

Melati grabbed a bottle of juice from the fridge, dumping her backpack on the floor as she sat down at the table, her teenager still prickly from the mornings conversation. Violet liked Courtney, had maybe even come to love her, but the blonde was still much like the devil. Give her a finger, and she’d take your entire arm and Violet did not have time for Courtney’s project, not when Melati acted like a porcupine ready to fight whenever Violet dared say anything to her.

{Do you have to throw your things?}

{What?} Melati barely even looked up, her eyes occupied with checking the French news on the kitchen screen. Violet sighed as she sat down, Melati obviously ignoring her. Violet hated how much tech that had made its way into their house, Sutan always hopping on whatever the latest trend was with enthusiasm while Violet would happily have prefered a home with no electronics at all. At least she had managed to keep their bedroom a screen free zone, though keeping Sutan away from his work email often turned into an uphill battle. Violet placed her hand in Melati’s field of vision, the teen finally looking up before she repeated her words.

{Do you have to throw your things?}

{Does it matter?}

Violet looked at the bag. It was a designer backpack, the thing a gorgeous black with thick rims and leather that had clearly been cared for and crafted lovingly.Violet hated the look of how her daughter was mistreating it, Melatis laptop and her books distorting the shape. It had been given to Melati by Raven, a ‘welcome to american high school’ gift. When Violet protested at the extravagance of it, Raven informed her that it was very important - Heaven forbid Melati get bullied at school for having the wrong school bag. Violet relented, although she suspected that Raven’s idea of high school bullies was a little out of touch.

{It does.}

Melati rolled her eyes, but then picked up her bag, putting it on the chair next to her. Violet desperately wished Sutan was home, her husband a master at navigating Melati’s moods. Her daughter as prickly as a cactus most days when Violet only wanted to soothe and understand, though Juju had insisted that was just how teenagers were. But although Violet could begrudgingly accept a certain degree of surliness, it seemed like this week had been especially unpleasant. Her kind, loving, enthusiastic daughter was suddenly slamming doors, refusing dinner and not answering direct questions. Something was wrong.

{Melati...} Violet wanted to reach over the table, wanted to touch her daughters hand. {Is there something on your mind?}

{No.} Mel snatched her hand back.

{Okay...} Violet retreated.

Melati finished her juice, the clock nearing 7.30, which meant they had to get going. Melati picked up her bowl and took it to the sink while Violet did the same, her own breakfast almost untouched. She’d text her assistant later and ask for some breakfast, though she wasn’t sure the hunger would come, her stomach turning into a knot. Violet missed Sutan more than she wanted to say, but she was also happy her husband was traveling the world and chasing his dreams, though it kind of beat the purpose of why they had moved continents in the first place.

{Do you want me to send a car to pick you up after school? I have to stay late at work.} Violet had never planned on running a studio of her own, to have people that depended on her and wanted to have meetings and hear her opinion on things she genuinely didn’t care about, but it had become her life, and her team did give her the opportunity to do things she never would have accomplished on her own.

{I’m going to Maggie’s.}

{Again?} {What's wrong with Maggie?} {Nothing.} Violet tightened her robe. {It's just, maybe you should try making more friends in your class, someone you haven’t grown up with-} {I wish /Dad/ was here...}

Violet barely heard it, the words whispered under Melati’s breath. She reached for her daughter, attempting to give her a hug, but Mel ducked away, picking up her backpack and heading to the door, barely glancing over her shoulder as she grunted out a goodbye.

////

Melati descended into the subway, scanning the platform for Maggie’s tiny body and sparkly blue backpack.

“MelMel! Over here!” Maggie waved excitedly, a ball of energy as always. Her brown bob, orange sweater, matching miniskirt and huge glasses making her stand out amongst all the other uptown commuters. Maggie jumping up and down as if they hadn’t seen each other in years was so cute that it was /almost/ not embarassing.

“Hey Mags.” Mel leaned in to give her friend - or rather, her ‘almost cousin,’ as they called each other - a hug.

Maggie adjusted her glasses, asking, “Sooo… How was your night?”

“Okay.” Melati bit her lip. VIolet hadn’t been home because of a fitting until after dinner, so she had spent the afternoon in her room with Asta and Nora, working away. “I almost finished my collage, but then I accidentally fell into a black hole on Youtube. Did you know that the world's biggest species of bumble bees come from South Africa and is called Bombus Dahlbomii?”

“Cool. Weird, but cool,” Maggie said.

Mel smiled and closed her eyes, enjoying the whoosh of air as their train approached.

“Aaaand…” Maggie said, linking arms with Mel as they entered the subway car. “... did you talk to your mom about that English test yet?”

“Ugh, no way.” Melati knew the question would come, but that didn’t make it any better. “Are you kidding?” Maggie had been bugging her about it all week, but there was no way Melati would willingly walk into the lion’s den.

“It probably won’t be as bad as you think. I know I was really freaked last year when I got a B in Spanish, but my moms were so sweet about it. Alaska ended up taking me to the spa to de-stress.”

“Yeah, well, that’s your family.” Melati crossed her legs, the sense that everyone around them could listen to their conversation extremely uncomfortable. “Your moms aren’t uptight like mine. And I didn’t get a B. I got a D. A /D/, Maggie!” Melati sighed. “She’s going to /murder/ me.”

Maggie took a deep breath and stood in front of Melati’s chair. She placed both hands on her shoulders, singing sweetly and earnestly, “/Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens… bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens-/”

“Maggie…” Mel hissed, glancing around at the subway car self-consciously. It was great that Maggie was so confident and unconcerned with what everyone else thought, but Mel didn’t mind blending in. In fact, she preferred it.

“/..Brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favorite things!/...Did that help? A little Julie Andrews magic?”

“No.” Maggie kept staring at her, her brown eyes expecting and filled with mischief. “Besides.. That movie is only.. I don’t understand why you love it so much? It’s not that good.”

Maggie gasped dramatically, and then made the sign of the cross, clasping her hands together. “She didn’t mean it, Julie!”

Melati blushed and pulled Maggie back into her seat. “Why are you making a cross? Aren’t you Jewish?”

“Jinkx says that the Church of Julie is non denominational.”

“Ugh, I wish my dad were here,” Mel sighed, hugging her backpack to her chest, her exam inside it almost burning. Melati hated keeping secrets, and this was growing bigger each day.

“Like, back in New York, or here with us on this Subway car?” Maggie joked.

“My mom is just so impossible!” Melati exclaimed. “And, she said that I’m hanging out with you too much.”

“... She said what? But I thought your mom loved me? Remember that time she almost smiled in my general direction?” Maggie did a little shimmy, making Mel chuckle.

“Okay, she’s not that bad. She just wants me to make new friends.” The train lurched forward and Mel nearly fell out of her seat, grabbing a pole nearby. “But how am I supposed to make new friends when my cousins have already told everyone I’m a weirdo?” Tanya and Isolde Amrull were seniors. Seniors in the way Melati had only seen on movies. They were ever popular, dressed every day as if school was their personal runway, a group of people always around them to get their approval or to hope they rubbed off on them. Melati had only been in the school a few months, but she had already seen hoop earrings disappear from one day to the next, since Isolde had said they were over during a lunch period.

“Well, first of all, you are a weirdo, but in the very, very best way. And second, Tanya and Isolde are the /worst/, so only total assholes would believe them. And you don’t want to be friends with assholes, right?”

“I guess not.”

“So, when’s your dad getting home anyway?” Maggie asked, leaning a head on her shoulder.

“Tonight… I really didn’t want to deal with this on his first night back, but...I think I have to.”

“Or you could just like… Never tell them?”

Melati smiled, the train stopping. “That’s good… Let’s call that Plan A.”

///

Violet sighed, looking over the printouts she had made her assistant do of the several emails Courtney had sent her. The collection was...Violet didn’t know what it was, except hideous, but Violet also didn’t know anything about children’s clothes. Melati had thankfully never requested glitter slippers or bunny shirts. Violet had no idea why Courtney had requested her advice. The only thing she really knew anything about was fabrics, and as she was running through the different suggestions from the Dutch company, her brows shot higher and higher since most of it would be terrible for toddlers. Cotton in colors that would stain horribly, nylon so close to the skin it would irritate, and shoes so narrow it could impact the shape of a baby foot. Violet was two pages into an email, detailing everything that was wrong, when her phone rang.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Violet put the phone under her chin, her private phone only for family members and the very few people Violet considered friends.

“What are you working on?”

“What?”

“I can hear the pencil.”

Violet looked down, a small laugh leaving her as she had not even realised she had been sketching away on her notepad, creating a new version of the jackets for Courtney’s line.

“I’m sorry.” Violet put it down, quickly flipping over the paper and turning her chair around so she was looking out on the street instead of her computer. She could hear Sutan chuckle, but also the bone deep tired of her husband's voice. “How far are you?”

“Made it to LA. Boarding in 30.”

Violet felt a hot surge in her stomach, her cheeks blushing instantly at how stupid she felt. They had been married for almost 15 years, and she still didn’t feel right when Sutan wasn’t with her, her excitement to have him home after two long weeks prickling in her fingertips.

“God I hate this fucking airport.”

Violet laughed, knowing exactly how much Sutan hated LAX.

“I’m in the worst mood, I’m sorry.”

“We can get pizza tonight? If you want?” Violet knew Sutan would most likely be dead to the world the moment he touched down in New York, her husband never sleeping well on planes because of his height. If she was lucky, he’d be up and about when she got home that night, and the promise of pizza even if sober Violet didn’t enjoy it much, was a certain way to get Sutan to do pretty much anything.

Sutan groaned, and Violet could almost hear how he sunk a little deeper into his seat. “I love you. You know how much I like traditional Indonesian, but nothing beats a double pepperoni”

Violet smiled, her fingers tapping against her chair. “Love you too.”  

“So.. I read your texts.”

“Ah.” Violet could hear the change in Sutan’s voice instantly, and she knew she only really had herself to blame. She had messaged him from her closet, her body almost shaking when Melati had left the house that morning, her daughters words still ringing in her ears.

“I know you’re worried.”

“I-”

“But Violet, I promise you. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There is.” Violet said. “There has to be something wrong Sutan, you haven’t spent time with her, she’s.. She’s never been like this before. She talks back /every/ chance she gets.”

“Like every other teenager in history?”

Violet bristled, the smile in Sutan’s voice not helping her mood at all.

“This isn’t normal.” Violet knew she hadn’t exactly had the normal experience of being a teenager, the ballet academies indisputable hierarchy and the pure time it took to not only manage a fulltime job but also keep her physical fitness up had meant she had never had anyone to argue with where she could win, no skipping school or drinking in the parking lot, but there was something called basic respect, and even if Melati was a teenager, she was still her child, their child, their sweet and kind girl. “Something is bothering her, something extra, I just... I know it.”

“A mother's intuition?”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Violet sighed. She knew Sutan was only trying to make things better, but most of the time Melati was a completely different girl around him, her father never making mistakes in her eyes, even though Sutan’s job was the true reason they relocated back to America.

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“Thank you.”

///

Melati unlocked the front door, dropping her key in the bowl by the door. The house was quiet, just as she had expected, her mom rarely showing up until after it was dark outside when she said she was working late, but Melati had still hoped someone would be home, since she had gone to Maggie's after school. Alaska had been there, the tall blonde chatting away in her slow drawl while Maggie had happily reenacted everything that had happened at drama club and Melati had sipped her tea.  

Melati was just about to take her shoes off, when she bumped into something. It was her dad's suitcases, the four bags taking up the entire hallway. A surge of happiness rushed through her, and Melati bolted for the stairs, her shoes still on.

[DAD!]

She threw open the door to her parents bedroom, fully expecting to see her father underneath the covers. The room was small, heavy curtains keeping out the sunlight, and dominated by a king sized bed, a set of double doors leading to her parents closets and their bathroom, but the bed was empty though also unmade, which meant he had to be somewhere in the house. Melati took another set of stairs, her dads office on the other end of the floor from her bedroom. Melati stopped in front of the door, the muffled sound of music coming from inside. Melati knocked three times, waiting for a reply.

[Come in puppet!]

Melati opened the door, looking inside her father’s office. [How did you know it was me?] Melati stepped inside, feels calm. A bookshelf lining one wall filled with Batman memorabilia, heavy oak dominating the room, small bar, stacks of magazines and things Sutan’s current and former models have worked on.

[Mama never knocks like that.] Sutan turned in his chair, and pushing his glasses up, and opened his arms.

Mel rushed over for a hug. Sutan laughed, kissing the top of her head and pulling her into his lap. He turned the chair back around, facing his computer.

[I’m just ordering pizza for tonight.]

[Really?]

[Mmh. Which one do you want?]

[Spinach please.] They sat together for a while, Sutan absentmindedly asking Melati how her day had been, the two just enjoying each others company when Melati realized that she was still wearing her backpack and stood up. [Actually... Dad?]

[Changed your mind?]

[No. I... I got back my grade from that test last week. You know, the English exam?]

[You did? Anything fun to share?] Sutan smiled. [Shall I call the framers?] Melati sighed. Normally her dad’s teasing and enthusiasm would make her happy, but today it just grated on her nerves.

[Just read it. Please.] Melati handed the blue book to Sutan, watching nervously as he grabbed his glasses and flipped to the back, reading the first grade she had ever gotten that was below a B+. Melati had no idea how her mom would react, but she was counting on her dad to be the calm one, and hopefully help her break the news to her mom. Maybe even offer to do it for her if she was really lucky.

[Well, that’s disappointing.] Sutan looked up. [Is this grade correct?]

[What?] Melati hadn’t even realised how small her voice sounded. [Umh... Yes. Yes it is.]

[Did you study? Or did you expect to skate by without any work? Because that’s not going to cut it at this school.]

[Yes! Yes I studied! I tried my best. I...I guess I just didn’t understand the book and-]

[Well, you’ll have to do better. When I was your age, I had two jobs, and I still managed to get straight As. There’s no reason for anyone as smart as you to get grades like this.] Sutan shook the pages of the blue book for emphasis.

Melati stared at her dad. Her laid back dad, who had always told her to just try and try again, who walked through life as if everything always worked out for him. Melati had never been asked to take a job, had never even considered it since she used so much of her time on her art. Melati had expected her mother to be the one to tell her these things, to be the one who ignored how she had tried, telling her it wasn’t good enough, but here her dad was, looking at her as if she had somehow done this on purpose.

[And if you need help, you tell us. We’re not paying for one of the best schools in the country so that you can just-]

[I didn’t know I needed help!] Melati yelled, Sutan growing quiet instantly. [It’s not my fault, I tried! I really tried!] Melati had had been to every class, taken diligent notes, read the texts multiple times, had even discussed them with Maggie - but somehow, in the classroom, with the seconds ticking down, it was like everything had slipped from her mind. Her thoughts were a confusing jumble of three languages and twisted phrases, and none of it came out right on the page. [It’s - it’s this stupid language and not enough time and I don’t understand why we’re even living here!]

[Melati-]

[I hate this country! I hate it, I HATE it!]

Sutan stood up, holding up his hands in surrender. [Calm down, and we can talk about this-] His voice was calm, even, like everything she had said didn’t matter to him at all.

[Calm down?! Do you even understand anything?!] Melati’s voice had reached a shrill, fevered pitch. She felt like an animal in a cage. Trapped against her will. [Of course not! Of course you don’t because no one cares about me!]

[Melati.]

[Why don’t you just leave again like you always do?!]

Sutan swallowed. He had never seen his daughter like this, fat tears streaming down Melati’s cheeks. Before he could attempt a response, Violet appeared in the doorway, her coat still on, her keys still in hand like she had run upstairs the moment she got home.

{What’s going on?} Violet asked, {I heard yelling, is everyone okay?}

“We’re only talking, lovely eyes, just give us-”

{No! No! It’s not fair, it’s not- it’s not!} Melati whirled around, her fists clenched in anger.

{Little darling, I-} Violet didn’t know what she had expected, but Melati flinging herself into her arms, sobbing like she had as a kid when she was consumed with worry and missing her dad, was not anywhere on the list. Violet grabbed Melati, pressing her cheek to the top of her head, rocking her back and forth, holding her closer than she had in years. {What’s going on?}

“It appears we’re fighting.”

“‘A mother's intuition’ huh? What about a father’s?” Violet shot Sutan a dirty look, her husband visibly cringing, though she couldn’t entirely blame him. She couldn’t remember the last time Melati had yelled, and least of all at Sutan. Mel said something, the sounds of it muffled in Violet’s coat.

Sutan cleared his throat. “We were just discussing her grade.”

“And that leads to my daughter crying?”

“She got a D, and I was just telling her she needs to take school seriously if she ever wants to-”

“She’s a child, a teenager, not a robot. I know you got into UCLA but-”

“She needs to work hard if she wants to-”

“Sutan, just- Melati.” Violet gently took Melati’s face, turning it up. {Why didn’t you tell me, puppet?}

{You’re… not mad?} Mel gulped, breath hitching. {I thought you’d be mad..}

{Over this?} Violet wrapped her arms more tightly around her daughter. {It’s just a test.} Her whole body felt lighter, the relief that Mel’s problem was a simple academic one flowing through her, filling her with gratitude. {I know you’ve worked so hard.}

{I did... I promise I did} Melati wiped her face, clearly both ashamed and embarrassed over the yelling Violet had heard from downstairs though she had no idea what had been said. {Everything is so different from the other school and I can’t... I don’t know...}

Melati felt a touch on her shoulder, Sutan’s hand closing around it. [I’m sorry I’m an idiot.] Melati turned, looking up at her dad. [You’re right. I’m not around a whole bunch. You didn’t chose this move and you didn’t chose an American high school, but we’re not leaving, and I just want you do to do well.]

Melati nodded. [I know...] She pushed a piece of her hair behind her ear, very aware at how both her parents were looking at her. [I think...a tutor might be a good idea...]

[I’m sorry for going all...tiger mom on you.] Sutan smiled, still looking extremely apologetic.

[It wasn’t your shining moment.] Melati told him.

[Yeah..]  Sutan hugged her tightly. [Sorry.]

///

{What are we watching?} Violet sat down, Melati and Sutan both grabbing their pizza boxes and opening them at the exact same time.

{Glimmer!}

Violet looked at her daughter, Sutan pressing play on the ever familiar movie. {You get to pick any movie you want, and you pick Courtney’s Disney debut?}

{With the English audio. It’s educational, Mama}

{Yes Violet. It’s educational.}

Sutan laughed, and Violet couldn’t help but smile. Violet grabbed her plate, picking a piece of Sutan’s pizza out of his box, her husband and daughter back to being two peas in a pod. As she settled in, Sutan’s arm behind her back, she felt a sense of peace fall over her. Nothing was perfect, but Melati was okay, and her problem was fixable. Everything would be okay, and they would get through it together, Melati getting everything she never had.

#galactica #andromeda #paris au #my fics

[maliaroux]

HELLO, ALL YOU BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE! first of all I just wanna say I am so fucking stoked for Starlit, and to get to write with you all! Anywho back to the task at hand, under the cut is a little bit about my hot garbage child Malia Roux, she’s an old muse but a goodie and I can’t wait to develop her more with you all! If you want to plot just like this or hmu via direct message and I will eagerly respond, i’ll be sure to include any trigger warnings below! Oh also, I am Mon, love me.

TW: domestic abuse, statutory rape, abandonment, prostitution, drug abuse, alcoholism, car accident, implied murder, death. 

AESTHETICS: 

lipstick-stained menthol cigarettes, empty spray cans, fake smiles, and humorless laughs, glassy dull eyes, dirty knees and whispered secrets, acrylic paint and empty canvases, unwavering loyalty and bruised knuckles, paint-speckled backpack full of clothes, tight dresses and high heels, hushed compliments and chipped nail polish, night terrors, and paranoia.

( her actual aesthetic board on pintrest here !!! )

BACKGROUND:

malia’s always been a lost soul. she grew up in phoenix, arizona, living in a tiny little suburban community, raised in one of the copycat cookie cutter homes just the same as the rest of the kids she went to high school with. when she was about five-years-old her dad walked out on her mom ( an aggressive & unloving woman who preferred her wine bottles to sippy cups ), leaving malia alone with her and her older sister ( who was eight years older than her ).

after her father left her mother got worse, now full of resentment and alcohol, she took everything out on malia. malia was too young to understand why, it wasn’t until years later she figured out the truth, that the reason her father had walked out on her mother was that he had found out that Malia, his pride, and joy, wasn’t even his daughter, but that’s neither here nor there.

as her mother’s rage grew, the more malia got in trouble, the more malia was ignored. by age ten the girl felt like a ghost in her own home, living in the shadow of her perfect, beautiful, older sister alice. no matter what malia did, what sport she joined, what trophy she won, what prize she brought back home to her mother, she still treated her like an invader, like a pest she had to put up with until the girl was finally 18 and she could kick her out.

eventually, malia stopped trying, stopped caring, shut off every emotion, every feeling she ever had towards her mother and turned it all into an apathetic gaze. she hated her mother, she hated her sister, and rather than try to be perfect, rather than rebel, she put herself into the role her mother wanted. she was a guest.

by the time malia was fourteen she was hardly home, spending most of her time at friends’ places, out partying, hanging out with boys way too old for her, doing things with them that were meant for people way too old for her. she didn’t care anymore. she played her role as the ghost in her own home, but she was tired of feeling sad... of feeling numb, and at least they helped her feel.

she figured she’d go through the rest of her life filling the void until she could finally leave… that is until her mom remarried. her step-father was an interesting man, loud and charismatic. boastful, charming, demanding. he took malia and her mother in. he was a man who put her mother in her place for being cruel, for being uncaring… and that was something malia liked… something malia exploited.

it truly didn’t take long for malia to tempt her step-father into sleeping with her, he wasn’t a good man after all… and rather than hide their dirty secret, malia rubbed it in her mother’s face. let her call her a whore. let her call her disgusting. she didn’t care because at least it got her mother noticing her finally.

malia didn’t really care for her step-father, she never really cared about anyone romantically, they were a means to an end, just like he was. but he didn’t like that… he didn’t like malia being with other boys, other girls, and after a while things began to get violent. he was controlling, and abusive, and malia wasn’t the type of girl to put up with it, even with all the traumatic reminders she had to. and her mother? didn’t care to help… even told her she deserved it.

so rather than stay in her cookie cutter home, with her resentful mother and her abusive, disgusting step-father, she decided to leave. she had packed her bags and stolen the keys to her step-fathers range rover, planning to sneak off in the dead of the night without a trace. but of course, things didn’t go as planned.

she had managed to get in the car when her step-father caught her, she can’t completely recall what happened, but she remembered locking the door, she can remember putting the car into reverse, swinging out into the road as he chased after it, and the next thing she remembered was a loud crash, and the sound of the engine revving and the spider web cracks forming on the bloodied windshield as she sped off.

that was two years ago, two years and she still hasn’t even attempted to return home, to call, to figure out if her step-father was okay or not… she’s been living in starlit semi-happily, spending her nights partying and sleeping around just like she had back in arizona, making easy cash by selling herself and selling her art.

she’s the usual culprit for all the graffiti around starlit, an avid fan of street art and a struggling artist, she’s constantly walking around in paint covered clothes with spray cans in tote.

TLDR: so basically malia is a spray can toting sarcastic little smart ass who is an insanely good friend and self-deprecating human being. she sleeps around for fun and for money, spends her nights drunk or high, works off nights at the fremont street experience doing street art. while loyal she can still be selfish, something she doesn’t really mean to be.

WANTED CONNECTIONS:

THE CONFIDANT: the sole person malia trusts. though trust is used lightly. she trusts them enough to talk freely, to share how she feels more than she does with anyone else, the one person she finds herself actively searching for, her only true friend... she’s loyal to them above all else, and she tries not to spoil it, though she figures knowing her it’ll get fucked up in the end.

THE EX: There was a period of time where Malia attempted to love another. though she couldn’t find herself falling into place like they wanted, they were perfect, better than she could’ve asked for, and yet she still found her eyes wandering and after a few mishaps, they found out she was sleeping around, they don’t speak much now but when they do it’s never good. 

THE FREQUENT FLYER: Malia tries to keep work from following her home, but after a drunken desperate night for this starlit resident and her, she found herself making an easy twenty bucks for practically nothing, and they’re not bothersome, most of the time the poor soul just wants someone to listen to them talk. 

that’s really all I can think of in detail but any sort of plot connection can work with malia, friendships or enemies, people who hate her because she slept with their boyfriend or girlfriend, people she fucked over because they liked her and thought they had something and she just ghosted, whatever your heart wants I am honestly down for.

#starlit:intro #domestic abuse tw #statutory rape tw #abandonment tw #prostitution tw #drug abuse tw #alcoholism tw #car accident tw #implied murder tw #death tw #now i need to go do dylan's cause i am trash

[jungcupid-archive]

these spaces, our space

pairing: jimin x jungkook 

summary: jimin has friends and then jimin has friends. he’s still not quite sure if jungkook qualifies to be in either category. (very loosely inspired by that one episode of how i met your mother - you’ll know what i mean soon)

chapter: 1/?

+

“One week, Jimin. I’m sorry it had to come to this,” Jimin’s landlord gives him a sympathetic look. The 6th floor is silent on Monday nights, as you’d expect it to be. Tonight is no different. The low hum of electricity is the soundtrack of Jimin’s life at this point, lively chatter or loud music has become unfamiliar to him. He doesn’t know of a life before dim lighting and scratchy carpets, before odours undefinable but prominent nonetheless. But there stands his landlord, breaths falling in a pattern so familiar to him, yet everything about this feels wrong.

  “Jimin,” Mr. Ahn says softly. He sighs when Jimin stares at the paper that’s being put into his hands. The younger boy’s bangs fall over his eyes as he reads the text, and he’s suddenly grateful his expression is hidden – he tries to ignore the stinging in his eyes.

 “I can’t do this anymore, I’ve given you time. I’m sorry,” And with that, the man limps off into the oddly yellow lights, grunting as he reaches the staircase. He moves slowly, but eventually he is out of Jimin’s sight. There are several words written on the sheet that had been handed to him, but there’s only a few Jimin really processes. Termination, vacate, failure to pay rent.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this.”

Not as sorry as I am, Jimin thinks bitterly to himself. He rubs his eyes with his fist and turns into his apartment, shutting the door behind him carelessly. He hopes everyone on the floor can hear him. The tube light barely counts as “lit” inside, it’s flickering incessantly, hurting Jimin’s eyes more than usual. When he’d first moved in, he hadn’t bothered taking it up with the landlord. He’d just been grateful that he had a place to stay. He was scared and young, and very much in need of shelter.

  4 months and a bad migraine problem later, he definitely has a few things to say.

  The window is open and although the day is dead, the city is not. Horns are blaring and Jimin can hear a woman yelling something about catcalling and men are fucking pussies that’s why!. He doesn’t usually keep the window open, but Jimin had woken up this morning to soft sunlight and a warm feeling running through his body, it had been his one day off. So he’d opened up the window, letting the dust out, and he’d gone about cleaning up the place.

   Goes to show what you get for good maintenance.

   Jimin shuffles to his bed and winces as it creaks beneath his weight, he rolls over onto his stomach and hopes to bury his thoughts into the pillow along with his face. He didn’t have a bad landlord, really, he didn’t. Mr. Ahn had been generous and patient, he’d understood Jimin’s financial situation. Only a matter of time before he grew frustrated, Jimin supposed. The notice paper is lying somewhere beside him, but Jimin can’t find it in himself to care. For now, he closes his eyes, breathing in the smell of turpentine (which had long since taken over all matter in his apartment), and let’s the folds of unconsciousness swaddle him.

-

  Jimin’s alarm goes off at 6:15 AM.

  He calls in sick to both of his jobs at 6:17 AM.

 The bed is welcoming, and as much as Jimin wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep for 12 hours straight, he has work to do. So, he throws his phone off to one side, and goes to shower.

  “What the fuck?” Jimin mutters to himself lowly, leafing through his contacts book. “Do I not have a life or something?”

   Everyone listed in his book is either family, someone he hasn’t talked to in years, or a professional that is solely in the book for emergencies (read: a doctor). Jimin shoves the Lucky Charms in his mouth and scowls, flipping through another page so violently that a few paintbrushes that had been left on the table roll off to the side. Family is out of the question, Jimin had left his home years ago to move to Seoul and pursue his art career – which his parents hadn’t been supportive of, naturally. He’d endured months and months of sheer torture as his parents begged him to come home, told him he’d never succeed, threatened to cut off their financial support, and finally, cut him off completely. He hasn’t talked to them in over a year. What would Jimin even say if he called them now?

  Mom, Dad, hey! Long time no contact whatsoever! So, anyways, just wanted to tell you that you were right! I can’t make it in this world without your financial support! And I’m never going to succeed as an artist! In fact, I got kicked out of school within the first 4 months! Now I’m getting kicked out of my apartment too.. so.. will you help me? Love you!

  Yeah, no.

  Jimin slams the contact book onto the table in frustration and pushes his cereal away. Does he really have no life outside of his small circle of friends? After getting kicked out of school, Jimin had been too stubborn to return home, despite his family’s countless requests to do so. He’d lived in someone’s basement for a while, working multiple jobs until he’d saved up to take an oil painting course in a University nearby. The 5 months he’d spent there had to have been some of the best months of his life, not only had he learned a shit ton, but he’d felt like he was finally moving forward in his life.

  Of course, all good things must come to an end.

   When he’d finished the course, he realized he had nowhere to live anymore. The dorms were only open to students, and Jimin was no longer allowed entry. He’d spent nearly all his savings into this one course, and he was scared. So, so scared.  When he’d found Mr. Ahn, a man in his late fifties very much willing to help, Jimin had almost cried. In fact, he had cried. He’d hugged the man and thanked him over and over again, promising to not let him down.

  The agreement was simple, he’d get two months grace to start paying for the place. In the meantime, he wouldn’t have anyone breathing down his neck for money. Jimin had gotten two different jobs and had worked hard, but it was hard. Of course it was hard. He could barely pay the rent while also being able to feed himself, luxuries such as new clothes were non-existent, and when he did have the occasional Treat Yourself Bitch thought, he’d splurge on art supplies (which was never good, seeing as how expensive one tube of paint could be). He didn’t have time for making new friends, or going out to have fun, he needed to make sure he could keep a roof over his head. Of course, nothing had really worked out for him in the end. That’s exactly why he was in this situation now, surrounded by nothing more than strewn canvases and misery.

   The last 2 months had been tough, Jimin had been struggling to pay even less than half of what he was supposed to. He sighs, leaning over onto the table, head resting on his arms. Why does everything have to be so fucked up? Why can’t he just be rich? Or have a sugar daddy? Or be rich AND have a sugar daddy? He groans, getting up to put his bowl away, then makes for the phone he’d left on his bed.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Most of Jimin’s friends are better off than him, so of course he feels guilty asking them for help. He’s been reassured many times, of course, with quiet Please don’t feel like you’re a burden Jiminie’s and You’re our friend. Why wouldn’t we help you?’s. But Jimin can’t help it, he feels like he’s taking advantage of his friends. That’s why he hesitates when he goes through his phone, thumb hovering over a contact. He squeezes his eyes shut and releases a breath, hitting the call button.

  “Jimin!”

 Jimin’s missed Taehyung’s lovely voice, it always manages to hold such excitement for the smallest of things, “Taehyung, hi! We haven’t spoken in forever, wow.” A nervous giggle escapes him and he almost slaps himself. What is he? A middle schooler?

  Okay, so maybe Jimin has a tiny crush on this particular friend of his, so what?

 “You’re telling me! Why don’t you call anymore?” Jimin can practically see Taehyung pouting at this point, “When I’m back in town, we’re definitely going out. With everyone! God I wish my firm would give me a break already, I feel like I haven’t slept in months.”

 Jimin nods sagely even though Taehyung can’t see him, plopping down on his bed, “I know the feeling, trust me. I may not be a hotshot lawyer,” – this prompts an oh, shut up in his ear – “but I’m working so many shifts that I think I’ve become one. I don’t have eyebags, Tae, my whole face is an eyebag.”

   Taehyung is laughing on the other side, and Jimin smiles, for a moment he forgets what he initially called for. He’s missed talking to his friends. He misses all of them, the last few months he’d been stuck in an endless loop of eat, work, sleep, repeat. He just wants his life back.

  Jimin’s eyes land on the piece of paper lying harmlessly on his mattress and he snaps back to reality in an instant, clearing his throat before he speaks.

  “Listen, I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you for long. I,” Jimin really, really hates himself, “I need your help, if possible. I’m so sorry, I really don’t want to drag you down or anything but do you think I could maybe stay with you when you get back? I could find something temporary until then and of course, you would be temporary as well but-“

 “Wait, slow down, Jiminie. What’s up with your place? Are you getting terminated? If it’s a Quit Notice, legally you should be getting 3-5 days notice,” Taehyung’s voice is calm and firm, it’s his Lawyer Voice, as their friends have dubbed it.

  “Yeah, I.. I got a week’s notice. I don’t know where I’m going to stay, honestly. I’m just, I’m sorry, I’m sure you don’t want someone hanging around your house,” Jimin’s insides are twisting with guilt already, his palms are sweaty.

  “No, Jimin, I would love to have you. But I’m not going to be back for weeks, and it’s going to be hard for you to find a place for the time being. I would let you stay there now, but my place is undergoing reconstruction. You know how I was telling you about wanting new flooring done? I decided to leave one of my friends up to it while I was out of town. I’m sorry but I don’t think I can help you out this time around, Jiminie. Although, if he files a lawsuit to evict, I’m your guy,” Taehyung sounds apologetic and Jimin wants to tell him it’s okay, but really, it’s not. Because he’d thought Taehyung was going to be the one person who’d be able to help.

  He wants to cry.

  A few murmured thank you’s and it’s okay, bye’s later, Jimin is back where he started. He sniffs and tries not to bawl like his 3 year old cousin, going through his phone again. Yoongi’s name pops up, and Jimin hesitates. Jimin’s known the elder since they were young, they’d practically grown up together and know everything about each other, and this is why he hesitates. Because Jimin is well aware of Yoongi’s crushing debt, he’d finally graduated and gotten his Masters in Psychology but the several years at school had built up, and along with them, his student loans.

  Jimin was used to hearing Yoongi complain about the stress of paying back all that money at least once whenever they spoke, and so Jimin wasn’t so sure about asking Yoongi. The other had a tiny apartment, on top of everything else.

  It’s getting harder and harder for Jimin to keep his hopes up, and he contemplates calling Yoongi one last time before he decides that he’ll do it, he has no other choice.

  It goes down quick. Yoongi offers his place for Jimin to temporarily stay, Jimin’s gut twists with guilt, he says no.

  The call ends soon after that, and Jimin takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to relax his body. He crosses his legs and sits with a straight back on his bed, thinking through his options.

  Taehyung was a no-go, as was Yoongi. Namjoon and Jin were two possible options, but they’re Yoongi’s friends from University which means Jimin has seen enough of them to know that he’d only be intruding if he lived with him. Also, he’s not sure he can handle the two of them throwing each other dreamy looks without having either one actually make a fucking move. It was infuriating, but Yoongi had told him to leave it alone the first time he’d mentioned it. So he did, and meanwhile, he wondered just how oblivious two people could be.  

   Hoseok was just as broke as he was. He worked with Jimin at the diner, and they’d become quick friends, keeping each other good company when night shifts were especially slow. Jimin had learned that Hoseok was taking on the job due to student loans he had to pay back from his few years at Seoul Arts. Apparently, the boy was quite the dancer and he’d even built up a name for himself underground back home. Jimin called bullshit every time, watching with mirth in his eyes as Hoseok got riled up and defensive over his preferred art. He still remembered he’d invited the other to go out with him, Yoongi, Namjoon and Jin. They’d gone clubbing and Hoseok had singlehandedly wiped the dancefloor with every single person who had the nerve to come up to him, and this was when he was drunk. Jimin secretly idolized the older boy.

  As they’re in similar financial situations (and Hoseok barely fit into his own apartment), Jimin rules out that option as well. That leaves him with one last person.

  Jimin wants to chuck himself off the balcony, refusing to believe it has come to this. But he has no other choice, so he scrolls nearly all the way down to find one name that makes him uncomfortable just looking at it.

  Jeon Jungkook.

 This was going to be just great.

+

#bts #bts ships #jikook #kookmin #jikook fics #jikook fanfic #jikook fanfics #jikook fanfiction #kookmin fics #kookmin fanfic #kookmin fanfics #kookmin fanfiction #jimin x jungkook #jungkook x jimin #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfics #jungkook #jimin #jungkook fics #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfics #jungkook fanfiction #jimin fics #jimin fanfic #jimin fanfics #jimin fanfiction #cupid wings #(also uhh if anyone likes making headers for fics nd stuff pls help sljfd i dont wanna use a generic gif since its mutlichap? idk jfds)

[angelicteeth]

hi our boys are disgusting

god fuck yeah they are 

Aristotle: He/Him - Leo - 18 - 6′4

1. What is your OC’s favorite color? blueee!!!!!!!2. Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect? he loves art books! his mom used to show them to him and he’s collected them ever since. would also like to collect daggers/knives/swords bc he thinks they’re neat 3. What kind of things is your OC allergic to? nothing 4. What kind of clothing does your OC wear? ohhhh this guys 100% a metal head. leather jackets, spikes, ripped jeans, chains- necklaces and wallet, vans or boots, lots n lots of patches/pins- the whole ordeal! typically only wears reds, blacks, whites, and dark shades. muted colors. 5. What is your OC’s first memory? he was around 4 or 5 and his mother asked him to bake a cake with her, and he agreed, of course. they made a giant 5 layer red velvet cake with chocolate, caramel, and peanut butter chips in between and chocolate fudge drizzled on top/off the sides. they made a HUGE mess in the kitchen and all over themselves and he cherishes this memory so sooo much. 6. What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite? black panthers!!!!! he also loves dogs a lot… he? HATES?? butterflies ???7. What element would your OC be? oh boy fire 8. What is your OC’s theme song? uhhh anything Heavy Metal9. Do you have a faceclaim / voiceclaim for your OC? noooooo, i dont rlly like doing this edrfghu but! he has a deep voice, its warm and deep and kinda ? sultry? idk 10. What deadly sin would best represent your OC? wrath. 11. What are your OC’s hobbies? painting!!! learning about history/going to museums, annnnnnd does his bf count? LOL12. How patient is your OC? How hot-headed are they? uhhh relatively patient? definitely depends. he’s VERY hot-headed but doesn’t ‘explode’ often 13. What is your OC’s gender / sexuality / race / species / etc.? male, gay, and latino! he’s also human wsedrftg14. What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods? fucking LOVES cheese??? and big warm pretzels… CINNAMON ROLLS! hates olives ??? and most fish 15. If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why? he’d really want a big cat, doesn’t matter what… just a Big Boy16. What does your OC smell like? warm, cinnamon maybe but also musky and woodsy… but he sometimes just likes smelling Clean and like semi typical guy cologne ??? or just Expensive smelling cologne,,, idk he always smells really fucking good sedfgh17. How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job? uhhh right Now he’s just graduated high school and issss looking for work… doesn’t really know what he wants to be, honestly. he’s still trying to figure everything out 18. What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths? he fears losing completely everything he loves, specifically his boyfriend and his brother. a weakness is how hard he is on himself, and how much he isolates/pushes people away when he’s low. a strength is just how warm and caring he is. how much he loves. even if he doesn’t always see himself as strong, he is. he really, really is19. What kind of music do they listen to? Do they have a favorite song? h e a v y  m e t a l  h e ‘ s  a  f u c k i n g  m e t a l h e a d i havent looked too into it so i don’t know about songs, i WILL look into it at some point20. If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do? he live on this hell planet, sadly 21. What personal problems/issues do they have? Pet peeves? the death of his mom… and his anger… he blames himself for her death and hes struggling hard with it, since his father doesn’t help at all and blames him, too. a pet peeve he has is people leaving doors or cabinets open, it makes him so mad dftgyhu just fucking close them 22. What kind of student were they/would they be in high school? heee was a good one ? hardest subject for him was english :/ mainly got A’s! except for english 23. What is a random fact about your OC? he cannot bake or cook anything EXCEPT breakfast foods 24. What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living? he… didnt see a future until he met his boyfriend, nathan… after his mom died, so did everything else 25. What inspired you to create them / how did you create them? Were they originally a fancharacter? What was their personality / design like when you first made them? amber wanted to play the sims and she told me to create 2 characters but i said hey! i do one, you do one! and then we were fucking idiots and turned them into ocs dfyudfhjkl; its soooo recent that nothings changed LOL im still developing him, as i am with all of my ocs 26. Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why? nathan… he gave him a second chance at life, he gave him a reason to want to stay alive, a future. also jordan is super super important to him they bffs xoxo (edit: dan n ty also mean the world to him) at his current age… his dad. their relationship does eventually get better but right now, hes the least important but has such a big impact on him it hurts27. What kind of childhood did your character have? A GOOD GOOD GOOOOOOD ASS CHILDHOOD up until 16 it was soooo good… his moms his best friend, he n his brother hung out all the time, and his dad wasn’t so angry or drunk28. What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions? he picks at his nails when hes nervous, but it doesnt happen very often so its nothing he tends to worry about. heee doesn’t stim but fucking loves paint mixing videos those are his shit uhhh no, no addictions… unless you literally count his bf wertyui29. If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose? “If You Sit On My Grave I WILL Haunt You” or “Long Live The King” because he’s a stupid fucking leo30. Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why? yesssssssss he wants to marry nathan So Bad sedrftyui he’s unsure about kids, though… kinda just wants a couple pets 31. What is their most traumatic memory/experience? What is their favorite memory? his mom died on his 16th birthday driving to come pick him up. anything involving nathan… doesn’t even matter what it is, he just loves him so much32. If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be? his mom back33. Would they ever kill someone? What would someone have to do to push them to kill someone? If they would kill someone, why? uhhh probablyyyyy not… he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he actually killed someone,,,34. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually? uh he likes concerts n shit but its not like,,, a social group thing… he doesnt do that shit…35. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories? very vivid imagination, is often found daydreaming when hes not painting or with his bf. not really worried, honestly, kinda just lives in the moment and doesnt give a single god damn shit about a thing except on the bad days36. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain? he wants nathan the most, out of everything- and he has him… but if he didn’t he would do anything for him. anything37. What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do? pees with the door open esdrtyuio38. What would your character do with a million dollars? ooohhhh spoil the shit out of nathan, get a tattoo or 2, and buy art stuff!39. What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? Nightstand? Garbage can? eggs, leftovers, milk, orange juice, bacon, butter, and syrup. a couple of canvases, paint brushes, the shirt he slept in the night before. a couple of single issue comics, the graphic novel hes reading, a bottle of water, and a tiny art canvas. random plastic, paper, maybe an empty water bottle or 240. Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with? out with nathan, probably on a date. ripped jeans, dark red sweater, black shirt, boots, wallet chain, necklace chain, and a single dangly earring in his left ear 41. What does your character do when they’re angry? Why? yell, scream, get super physical. he’s burning, he’s burning, he’s burning. make it stop, better yet, let him thrive 42. Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from? nope! he’s clean for now43. What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said? oooooh uh he says some Shit when he’s pissed, especially to his dad44. How does your character react/ accept criticism? fine? doesn’t really care about it unless its from nathan. oooor if youre just being a shithead hell tell you off45. If your character was given a slice of pineapple pizza and they HAD to eat it (or something bad would happen), how would they react? Do they even LIKE pineapple pizza? he enjoys it, wouldn’t mind it at all tbh46. Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works? fuck, yeah. he’d do something stupid to it to see if it works and then display it in his room or give it to his bf47. Can your character draw? What do they like to draw? Do they doodle? hellllll yeaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. everything, anything48. What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult? his mom was his best friend and the reason why he is the way he is. his dad was a good man, but now hes a stupid angry drunk who blames ari for his mothers death. its affected him positively and negatively, hes loving and passionate like his mother but insecure and doubtful because of his father49. Does your character like candy? Do they get sugar rushes? What are they like when they get a rush? d o  n o t  l e t  h i m  h a v e  a  l o t  o f  c a n d y  p l e a s e 50. If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count? would probably elope with nathan, do some crazy shit, and hope to god he doesn’t actually fucking die 

Jordan: He/Him - Sagittarius - 19 - 6′2

1. What is your OC’s favorite color? light green2. Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect? stamps, stickers, beanies, anything aquatic-themed, and tarot cards/witchy stuff!3. What kind of things is your OC allergic to? bananas…4. What kind of clothing does your OC wear? lazy type clothes, very sluggish. lots of oversized cardigans, hoodies, and sweaters. baggy shirts, but he religiously wears jeans. likes chains but preferably small ones, and usually only wallet chains. likes wearing a ring on each thumb and if hes Feelin it a couple more! punkish basically 5. What is your OC’s first memory? spying on his brother and dad training outside in the barn6. What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite? he has a giant soft spot for cows but his favorite is whale sharks!!! he doesn’t really like frogs 7. What element would your OC be? water! but with Slight fire8. What is your OC’s theme song? something slow and sad, probably 9. Do you have a faceclaim / voiceclaim for your OC? no! his voice is soft and low, like a lullaby. very warm and comforting, but also a lil husky10. What deadly sin would best represent your OC? envy/lust/greed wsedfg11. What are your OC’s hobbies? reading, using tarot cards, organizing his stamps/stickers, watching documentaries, and making sure aristotle doesn’t do anything Stupid12. How patient is your OC? How hot-headed are they? he’s pretty patient but he’s also pretty hot headed. he Will lash out when angry :/13. What is your OC’s gender / sexuality / race / species / etc.? male, bisexual, white (russian/american) also a human sedryui14. What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods? loooovvveeessss chocolate chip waffles! and breakfast foods in general. hates peas and green beans 15. If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why? a cowwwww… they remind him of his mom dfghj16. What does your OC smell like? clean but ? kinda minty!17. How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job? he currently works at a little bookshop/coffeeshop! he likes it but he wants to do something more when he’s graduated from college. 18. What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths? his father and crickets. how emotionally attached he gets to people. how warm and soft he is, he never stops caring for others 19. What kind of music do they listen to? Do they have a favorite song? goth, heavy metal, sad/emo shit20. If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do? he live here Binch21. What personal problems/issues do they have? Pet peeves? his whole family besides his father is dead and he’s all alone with nobody to turn to. he h a t e s crunching noises. so much. also fucking HATES when people poke holes in shit just STop. 22. What kind of student were they/would they be in high school? actually really really good, even though he looks like a fucking slacker esdrftgyhu probably got all A’s23. What is a random fact about your OC? he always has his fingernails and toenails painted black or dark red/purple24. What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living? fuck man he doesn’t wanna live hes so fucking Tired his dark circles are permanent but ari makes life worth living sdfg25. What inspired you to create them / how did you create them? Were they originally a fancharacter? What was their personality / design like when you first made them? …once upon a time amber and i made a gang au with ari n nathan and promptly made jordan for the Shits and Giggles but it turns out i fell in love and way too deep making his character, thanks!26. Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why? aristotle, probably, because he assumes his mom is dead. least is his dad whos a fucking asshole murdering cuck27. What kind of childhood did your character have? uhhhh Not Good ill tell you that. his father only married and brought his mom to russia so she could give him kids, preferably boys. first was nikolai, second was kazimir jordan, and lastly was feliks. they were all 2 years apart, making nikolai and feliks 4, so they were all close in age and played together often. his father was most proud of nikolai but feliks had been showing signs of possibly exceeding all of their expectations. kazimir was last in everything, but he was his mothers favorite. he’ll never forgive his father for torturing him and killing everyone he loved. 28. What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions? he often picks at his nail polish, or the skin around his nails. definitely fidgets with his hands often. doesn’t stim but follows a lot of soap carving and squishy videos, also likes bread/cooking ones. he’s kind of addicted to red bulls but he’s cutting back and resorting to coffee, which he drinks black29. If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose? “hell’s waiting for me so watch your back”30. Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why? maybe married but almost Definitely no kids. no thanks. xoxo31. What is their most traumatic memory/experience? What is their favorite memory? his father dragged him into the barns once after he accidentally spilled something over an ‘important’ paper so his father branded him with a cross on his side. his mother used to braid his hair with baby’s breath in it when theyd play out in the field, just her and the 3 boys running around, having fun. it was peaceful, bliss32. If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be? to tell his mother he was sorry and that he’ll never stop loving her33. Would they ever kill someone? What would someone have to do to push them to kill someone? If they would kill someone, why? no, he’s seen what killing someone does to people34. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually? i dont really like this question edrtyu35. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories? hes so tired all the time hes often in the clouds, never really focusing. daydreams a lot to make it through each day, pretending hes someone hes not. hoping that his mother is actually still alive, and that he doesnt have to keep reliving memories. they wont stop fading, he keeps getting them jumbled. he just wants to make more with her, be with her one last time36. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain? his moooooooooom, he’d do anything for her37. What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do? he has to turn door knobs twice before actually opening a door 38. What would your character do with a million dollars? that’s so overwhelming to him but probably pay off college shit sdfghj debt is So Scary 39. What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? Nightstand? Garbage can? yogurt, water bottles, red bull, orange soda, and some strawberries. a pair of jeans and boxers and random books hes checked out from the library. a half empty can of red bull, the book hes currentl reading, a beanie, and a cute little jar of jelly beans ari got him. garbage can has crumbled up balls of paper, empty red bull cans, empty bottle of soda, and an old textbook.40. Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with? probably aristotle and nathan to a concert/out to eat. wears black jeans, a baggy red and black striped sweater with a black shirt underneath, boots or vans, and prolly a wallet chain + his thumb rings41. What does your character do when they’re angry? Why? he screams and yanks on his hair fgyuhlj;k42. Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from? heee has a cross on his side, and a few Light scars on his face- over his bottom lip, on his forehead and on the left side of his cheek/jaw. a couple on his back and arms as well most of them are from his father…43. What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said? he’s never said anything Out Loud but in his head he says shit all the time dxgfhgjhjlio hes a snarky son of a gun44. How does your character react/ accept criticism? he will go home and Cry about it later 45. If your character was given a slice of pineapple pizza and they HAD to eat it (or something bad would happen), how would they react? Do they even LIKE pineapple pizza? eh its Ok46. Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works? hes pretty paranoid about it and probably shows it to ari like ‘bitch what the FUCK’47. Can your character draw? What do they like to draw? Do they doodle? he doodles mindlessly when hes bored in class 48. What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult? uhhhh his dad is a big Cuck but his mom is an Angel and the best person he’s ever met. this has fucked him over hard bc hes father took her away from him and now he has nothing left so hes an anxious, paranoid Mess49. Does your character like candy? Do they get sugar rushes? What are they like when they get a rush? he l o v e s candy pls50. If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count? Kill Him Now

Tyler: He/Him - Pisces - 22 - 5′7

1. What is your OC’s favorite color? baby blue and pink!2. Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect? nail polish, lamb stuffed animals, comics, seashells, and washi tapes 3. What kind of things is your OC allergic to? nothin4. What kind of clothing does your OC wear? he likes soft colors, pastel. sweaters are his favorite but he also likes long sleeved shirts. dresses pretty feminine, isn’t a fan of dark colors on himself unless its his boyfriends clothes5. What is your OC’s first memory? when he was around 4 or 5 he was riding his bike when he hit a rock and went flying forward, causing him to scrape his knees and his nose to bleed 6. What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite? l o v e s  l a m b s and snails, doesn’t really like salamanders 7. What element would your OC be? w a t e r 8. What is your OC’s theme song? something soft and not too upbeat 9. Do you have a faceclaim / voiceclaim for your OC? he has a very smooth and kind of feminine voice ? but its masculine enough to not misgender him,,,10. What deadly sin would best represent your OC? envy???11. What are your OC’s hobbies? painting his nails, drawing/sketching, reading comics and graphic novels, watching documentaries, and journaling!12. How patient is your OC? How hot-headed are they? very patient and rarely hot headed, gets more agitated or annoyed 13. What is your OC’s gender / sexuality / race / species / etc.? male, gay, white human boy14. What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods? would Die for milkshakes he loves them so fucking much, isnt a big fan of hamburgers/beef in general 15. If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why? a lamb or sheep he is so infatuated with them. they are so so soooo cute 16. What does your OC smell like? strawberries and cream!17. How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job? heee currently works odd hours at a gas station, it’s definitely not his dream job but its not super awful… most of the time. he wants to go to art school, actually, to learn to make jewelry and to learn how to do more with his art18. What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths? abandonment and ultimate loneliness. he’s really self conscious but he loves with all hes got and he loves so much, and so hard19. What kind of music do they listen to? Do they have a favorite song? bubblegum pop, kpop, jpop, and some indie music!20. If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do? he here 21. What personal problems/issues do they have? Pet peeves? he’s self conscious and in recovery for self harm/an eating disorder but he’s doing really well! its still hard but he’s pushing through… he hates having chipped nails drftugyihuo as soon as one chips, even a little, he repaints them as soon as he can22. What kind of student were they/would they be in high school? he was a nerd he got straight A’s and actually enjoyed school kinda erdtfyuio but only because he loves to learn, not the actual people or atmosphere 23. What is a random fact about your OC? is really interested in astrology and loves reading his horoscope 24. What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living? he’s honestly trying to still figure that out but the more time he spends with his boyfriend, the more he wants to live and have a happy future with him25. What inspired you to create them / how did you create them? Were they originally a fancharacter? What was their personality / design like when you first made them? amber made dan, dan needed a love interest, tada!26. Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why? daaaaaannnn, his boyfriend, nathan his best friend (+ari)  annnnnnd uh ? nobody really ??? 27. What kind of childhood did your character have? he had a pretty alright childhood, kind of lonely…28. What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions? plays with his ears if he’s super nervous, really fucking loves slime to stim and help him calm down- or chews on something29. If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose? something gay, probably 30. Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why? yes and yes!!! he wants to get married and have a family with dan :331. What is their most traumatic memory/experience? What is their favorite memory? dan got into a bad bar fight once, he was having a shitty day and the guy was being an absolute douchebag asshole and tyler wasn’t there to help him or stop him and it was just… bad… once dan took him to a petting zoo to meet and pet some sheep and he cried because it was quite possibly the nicest thing anyones ever done for him and then the dumbass also set up a picnic for afterwards and he fucking bawled again stupid gay saps32. If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be? the funds for college esdrtf33. Would they ever kill someone? What would someone have to do to push them to kill someone? If they would kill someone, why? nope he is a soft crybaby 34. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually? i dont LIKE this fucking q smfh35. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories? he daydreams a lot, yeah, and hes almost always worried because his anxiety is an absolute bitch but hes working on it36. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain? he just wants dan and to go to art school37. What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do? he has to say goodnight to all of his stuffed animals before bed every night sdfgfgghj38. What would your character do with a million dollars? a r t  s c h o o l39. What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? Nightstand? Garbage can? strawberries, mangos, chocolate almond milk, leftover food from a restaurant he went to with dan, and some chocolate syrup. nothing, he has to keep his room clean always. nightstand has a graphic novel and book hes currently reading, a note/poem from dan with a small lamb he got him, and a bottle of peach tea. 40. Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with? somewhere really really fancy with dan! he’d wear a cute suit, a white one with a pastel yellow button up shirt and a black tie. wears the necklace dan got him and probably a few dainty rings that match well together/when layered 41. What does your character do when they’re angry? Why? he cries. a lot. he gets really overwhelmed when he’s angry, and tends to scream or yell42. Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from? on his arms from self harm, his hips as well… 43. What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said? he doesn’t like saying rude things44. How does your character react/ accept criticism? uhhh if he asks he’ll probably take what the person says into consideration but if he hasnt asked, he’ll get mad/sad 45. If your character was given a slice of pineapple pizza and they HAD to eat it (or something bad would happen), how would they react? Do they even LIKE pineapple pizza? he like it46. Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works? he gives it to dan rdyftugyhio47. Can your character draw? What do they like to draw? Do they doodle? s e n d  h i m  t o  a r t  s c h o o l  p l e a s e48. What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult? err his parents were kind of absent a lot, they traveled so much for business that he was often alone, only himself for company. his mom was loving, for the most part, when she was home. she got drunk quite often, though, but that just made her more giggly and unfocused. his dad… was hard on him, kinda abusive. often ignored him, honestly, unless it came to school and ‘being a man.’ he can be very distant at times, and self isolates often… yet he’s afraid of being alone, he doesn’t want to be abandoned, so he loves the wrong people, stays with the wrong people, because it seems right. if they stay, ill be okay, even if im still crying. even if it still hurts 49. Does your character like candy? Do they get sugar rushes? What are they like when they get a rush? he does like candy! gets sugar rushes sometimes sdrftugyu dan finds it so fucking cute bc he’s so hyper and giggly 50. If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count? oh please don’t stress him out like that…

Alexander: He/They - Virgo - 24 - 6′0

1. What is your OC’s favorite color? dark purple2. Does your OC collect anything? What do they collect? swords, dragons, and bookmarks3. What kind of things is your OC allergic to? dairy and bees4. What kind of clothing does your OC wear? what he actually has to wear differs from what he personally likes. his father is the king so because of that, he often has to wear a lot of suits/prince attire. but personally, when he doesnt have to be Prince, he likes to wear dark and comfy clothes, a lazy emo5. What is your OC’s first memory? he vaguely remembers aster being born and wanting to help his mom take care of her 6. What’s your OC’s favorite animal? Least favorite? dragons!!! doesnt have a least favorite??? maybe mosquitos 7. What element would your OC be? hhhhh water 8. What is your OC’s theme song? something heavy and dark9. Do you have a faceclaim / voiceclaim for your OC? he has a charming n husky kinda voice !10. What deadly sin would best represent your OC? greed or envy11. What are your OC’s hobbies? fighting, taking care of dragons, making rings, and reading historical books12. How patient is your OC? How hot-headed are they? he’s been trained to be patient, for the most part, but when he’s passionate about something he tends to get hot-headed sometimes 13. What is your OC’s gender / sexuality / race / species / etc.? non-binary, bisexual, he’s an alien so he’s kinda pinkish… same color as aster but a little lighter 14. What foods does your OC like to eat? What are their least favorite foods? loves seafood… isn’t really into eggs 15. If your OC could have any pet, what would they choose? Why? he Has his dream pet, a dragon, so he’s Good16. What does your OC smell like? woodsy and clean 17. How do they make a living? What kind of job do they want / not want? What is their dream job? What do they think of their current job? he’s a prince but he works with dragons a lot!!! it’s his Dream… or to sell his rings 18. What are your OC’s greatest fears? Weaknesses? Strengths? commitment, losing his family, and sharks. he gets too lost in his head at times, distances himself from everyone. he’s physically very strong and a charming/calm guy by nature 19. What kind of music do they listen to? Do they have a favorite song? he’s not the biggest music guy but enjoys rock/alternative/emo stuff20. If they came from their world to ours (if not already in our’s) how would they react? What would they do? curious about everything, goes into almost every shop he can find and tries out so many different foods…21. What personal problems/issues do they have? Pet peeves? his last relationship was Bad and he’s still very much affected by it… he hates wearing socks to bed dfyguh it annoys him so much22. What kind of student were they/would they be in high school? excellent, top of his class23. What is a random fact about your OC? he loves tattoos and would love to be covered in them one day 24. What is their outlook on life? What is their philosophy / what do they think in general about living? currently, his outlook is very bleak dxfyuibj he’s really sad,,,25. What inspired you to create them / how did you create them? Were they originally a fancharacter? What was their personality / design like when you first made them? i gave aster siblings and then slowly developed him in my head!26. Who is the most important person in their life? Why? Who is the least important to them (that still has an impact and why? his family, specifically his siblings, anddd his ex boyfriend still haunts his almost every thought and action :/27. What kind of childhood did your character have? good!!! he and his siblings did so much stuff together dxfghjkl; i Love them28. What kind of nervous habits do they have? Do they stim? Do they have any kinds of addictions? twists his rings a lot or shakes his leg when he’s nervous. doesn’t stim 29. If they could choose their epitaph for their grave, what would they choose? fuck, man, i have no fucking clue and neither does he30. Do they want to get married? Why or why not? Would they ever want kids? Do they have kids? Why? currently, no31. What is their most traumatic memory/experience? What is their favorite memory? his ex boyfriend tried to kill him once. he relives that memory almost everyday, and hates himself for not telling anybody about it. his siblings always know how to cheer him up, which he’s soooo grateful for. the 3 of them went to an amusement park once and just had so much fun, eating waaaay too much and going on all of the rides 32. If they could have one thing in the world, what would it be? happiness33. Would they ever kill someone? What would someone have to do to push them to kill someone? If they would kill someone, why? er probably wouldn’t but if it was his ex… he would reconsider 34. What social groups and activities does your character attend? What role do they like to play? What role do they actually play, usually? his dads the king, hes a prince, so he often finds himself at balls or parties and pretends to be super charming and openly available for marriage, even though he doesn’t want it and his younger brother will most likely take the throne instead35. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories? he never stops living in daydreams or memories and would like it all to just. stop. let him b r e a t h e36. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain? peace. he wants everything to stop, he wants his head to stop convincing him somethings wrong when hes fine and he wants his thoughts to stop wants the voices gone.37. What’s something that your character does, that other people don’t normally do? he sucks skittles and starbursts for a long ass time before actually eating them…38. What would your character do with a million dollars? donate it all 39. What is in your characters refrigerator right now? On their bedroom floor? Nightstand? Garbage can? nothing dfhgjk he hasn’t restocked it yet,,, probably some clothes and random books lying around. uhhh probably some alcohol, candy, and a map. crumpled up paper and wrappers in his garbage can40. Your character is getting ready for a night out. Where are they going? What do they wear? Who will they be with? uh probably alone and to get wasted or high,,, doesnt matter where :/41. What does your character do when they’re angry? Why? self isolates and simmers in his anger, throws shit and screams because hes so mad/frustrated 42. Does your character have any scars? Where did they get them from? theres some cigarette burns on his thighs from his ex, a couple on his back and arms/legs from either fighting or his ex… there’s probably more but id have to think a lot more on his ex and stuff, which i will do eventually!43. What was the most offensive thing your character had ever said? towards the end of his relationship he probably said some harsh things to his ex44. How does your character react/ accept criticism? fine unless its super personal to him, then it reminds him of his ex and he cant focus on anything, he shuts down45. If your character was given a slice of pineapple pizza and they HAD to eat it (or something bad would happen), how would they react? Do they even LIKE pineapple pizza? inhales it. please feed him46. Your character is given a voodoo doll of themself. What do they do with it? Do they see if it actually works? stares at it for so long.. would probably carry it with him always dsfgjkl;47. Can your character draw? What do they like to draw? Do they doodle? he things drawing buildings is super relaxing…48. What were their parents like? How has that affected how they are as an adult? very loving! hes very grateful for them and how supportive they are, even if its unconventional to being next in line for the throne. they just want him happy more than anything49. Does your character like candy? Do they get sugar rushes? What are they like when they get a rush? he loves candy, shoves it in his mouth so fast estrytuyul he only gets sugar rushes if he binges on candy around others??? never when hes just munching on it alone50. If your character was presented with imminent and unavoidable death/fatality, how would they react? Would they try to avoid death anyways? Would they try to make their last days count? i cant say he’d be entirely mad at his current state… would probably say his goodbyes and then just wait, or wander around waiting 

#wow i have ocs #aristotle #jordan #tyler #alex #oh god i really did this didnt i

[tobiologist]

always us

my sixth entry for klanceweek! this time, for prompt #6: quote. this is a continuation of prompt #5!

still debating whether or not to cross-post these entries on ao3 so let me know what you think. again, you can also find these short ficlets on twitter!

day 1 / day 2 / day 3 / day 4 / day 5

I’m picturing us on rooftops

in strange cities,

with strange people,

and us.

Always us.

— “I’m not sure if this is for love or old friendships or new friendships” by Claire Luisa

So this is what Keith’s life has come to.

Guests from every corner of the universe seem to be gathered for the day’s celebration. Each is dressed lavishly in the traditional attire of their people, creating a stunning spectacle of rich cloth, dangling jewels, and enchanting body art, like thousands of dancing canvases.

As a prince, Lance is dressed like royalty. Allura managed to find an old suit of her father’s on board the ship. Thankfully, the Altean style is similar to that of the Vruan’s. The suit material glimmers a dazzling baby blue under the light of the levitating chandelier overhead. Lance wears a white button-down beneath his suit jacket with the top two buttons undone. Blue swirls adorn his collarbone, as well as his shoulders, hidden for now. Tiny white and blue dots stretch the length of both eyebrows, and the makeup Allura chose makes his eyes stand out even more than usual. Turquoise gems adorn the rings on his fingers and dangle from fragile silver chains on his ears.

As much as Keith hates to admit it, Allura and Coran did an amazing job. Lance certainly has an ethereal, royal air about him.

Which is great for the mission but terrible for Keith’s sanity.

Every few minutes, while they make their way through the crowd, Keith convinces himself everything is fine. Then, he stares at Lance for a second too long and the allusion is shattered. Lance is easily one of the most beautiful people in attendance. It’s almost impossible to ignore the whole crush thing when said crush practically looks like an otherworldly being, like a fucking god or goddess or something.

Keith, on the other hand, feels… out of place.

The prince’s escort is not allowed to dress more extravagantly than the prince himself. His suit clings comfortably to his figure, and the black color with red accents certainly complements Lance’s outfit. A silver chain hangs around his neck with a small charm, adorned with the Vruan crest. The ring on his right hand matches one of Lance’s, boasting a sizable ruby. In the Vruan culture, a matching set represents the bond between the prince and his escort.

“Like wedding rings,” Pidge was all too happy to point out when Coran presented the rings to them.

At the moment, Lance is chatting up two lanky aliens. Keith doesn’t recognize them, but the tiny gold crowns on both of their heads are explanation enough.

“Of course, of course,” Lance answers with a little chuckle. “Thank you for your time.” He bows to both in turn and then grabs Keith’s hand. Even through his gloves, Keith senses the faint trembling of Lance’s fingers. He’s nervous?

Keith lets Lance drag him toward the center of the dancefloor. There’s a lull in the music and most guests have cleared the area. Once they reach a spot far from any potential eavesdroppers, Lance stops and fixes his attention on Keith.

“None of these people know where that stupid Galran prince is,” Lance hisses, lowering his voice. “Hell, the first few couples I talked to didn’t even know the dude was alive.”

Before Keith can answer, the band picks up where it left off. But, this time, the music has a more pleasant, slow melody. Keith curses softly under his breath. Of course the next song starts right as he and Lance reach the center of the dancefloor. They need to move and fast.

But Lance doesn’t seem to be on the same wavelength.

Far too gracefully, he wraps an arm around Keith’s waist and draws him closer. Keith is too busy having a minor heart attack, what the fuck, to stop Lance from intertwining their fingers and lifting their clasped hands. Unsure of what to do, Keith lets his other arm hang awkwardly at his side. “Uh—Lance?”

“Put your other hand on my shoulder,” Lance whispers. “Get rid of that noodle arm right now.”

“But… what… are we dancing?”

“Not yet, but we’re about to be.”

Keith reluctantly obeys Lance’s instructions. His gloves feel far more constricting than before, and, yep, here comes the sweat. He silently hopes there aren’t pit stains on his suit. And if he starts to smell, too, that’ll be the end of him. No more Keith Kogane.

Lance slowly begins to spin. Completely out of his element, Keith blindly follows. Or at least attempts to.

“You’ve never danced before, have you?” Lance prompts.

“Uh… no…”

“Right. That explains why you’ve stepped on my feet, like, four times now. Even though you’re looking down like a weirdo.” Lance scoffs and shakes his head. The light catches the jewels on his earrings as they swing. “You really never went to any of the Garrison dances?”

“Seriously? Of course not,” Keith huffs.

“Alright, geez, calm down. I should’ve known.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You look way too good in that suit to be giving me such an awful headache,” Lance whines.

He thinks I look good. Keith feels his heart crawl up his throat. That had to be a joke.

“And you look way too good to be giving me shit right now,” Keith quips. Two can play at this game. “But here we are.”

“You think… I look good?”

Keith considers tearing out his own tongue. Maybe it’ll keep him from saying embarrassing things for the rest of the evening. “I mean, Allura and Coran did a good job of making you look like a prince.” Smooth.

“I guess they did,” Lance mutters. He almost sounds… disappointed. “Now, to avoid blowing our cover, please just follow my lead. Okay?”

“Okay.” Keith can’t bring himself to protest. Lance makes a good point. A prince and escort would definitely know how to dance.

Lance resumes turning, carefully guiding Keith along. Other couples smile fondly whenever they pass on the dancefloor. To his delight, by the tenth or so turn, Keith quits stepping on Lance’s feet. They develop a comfortable rhythm, each footfall in time with the beat of the song. As the musicians continue to strum their instruments on stage, Keith takes a second to close his eyes. The melody really is beautiful.

The longer they dance, the closer they seem to get. Keith isn’t sure who’s responsible, but he likes to think they’re both at fault.

Keith inhales Lance, savors the body heat and comfort of being so close without the worry of what others might think. That’s the beauty of disguises. For a time, no matter how brief, you’re someone else. You can do just about anything under the guise of staying in-character.

At least that’s the excuse you can use if someone later questions your actions.

This moment feels fragile to Keith. It’s almost as if he and Lance are an actual couple, dancing together at a party. Keith wonders what it would be like to travel the universe like this. Lance at his side, a steady presence, a constant.

Keith lets himself be a bit selfish. He leans his forehead against Lance’s and breathes. His heart beats a frantic staccato in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away.

And neither does Lance.

#klanceweek2017 #klance #vld #voltron #keith #lance #otp: we had a bonding moment! #i cradled you in my arms! #my fic #mine #my fic: klance #my fic: voltron #a continuation of prompt 5 ayyyyyyy #the dorks slow dance #i want them to kiss #and hug #please picture beautiful prince lancelot