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yoon-kooks · 2 years

Text

how many | jjk | 3

Pairing: Jungkook x TattooArtist!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Smut, BadBoy!AU

Summary: To Jeon Jungkook, you’re just the cutie who sits across from him in art class. He doesn’t have a clue that you’re also the hidden face of his favorite tattoo artist on social media. When the bad boy notices you’ve taken a surprising interest in his ink, he dares you to explore every inch of his body until all of his tattoos are accounted for. Tempted by his irresistible smile and delicate touch, you might even let him in on your little secret.

Word Count: 6.6k

Parts: 0 ◆ 1 ◆ 2 ◆ 3 ◆ 4 ◆ 5 ◆ 6

Warnings: sexual activity in a hot tub, dry humping, fingering, jungkook touches some boobies, smut from a fluff writer

A/N: we've finally reached the first smutty chapter🦆

◆ the one you found in the hot tub ◆

“So do you have any plans after this?” your client asks as you finish up the last few details on her shark tattoo. “It’s a beautiful Friday night.”

Usually, your answer would be no. You’ve never really been the type to make hangout plans, but tonight is a little different. You do in fact have plans.

“I’m meeting up with a friend to work on an art project for class,” you say. It might not sound like much to other people, but it took an immense amount of courage to ask Jungkook to spend his Friday night making art with you. Sure, you chickened out of asking him out on a real date, but at the very least, you won’t be procrastinating on school work.

“Aww man, school really ruins all the fun, doesn’t it.” The woman looks like she feels genuinely bad for you. You’d probably agree with her if you didn’t have feelings for the boy you’re meeting up with. In fact, school is the best excuse you have for spending more time with him, so you’ll gladly welcome any and all assignments your art professor wants to throw at you.

“Do you have anything planned tonight?” You feel like it’s only polite to ask your clients the same questions they ask you. It makes the small talk a little easier.

“Since the weather’s so nice, I was thinking about taking a spontaneous trip down to the beach with my boyfriend.” She has a huge grin like the kind you’d find on posters promoting dental hygiene, and her eyes glisten with something you’re envious of. You wonder if that’s what it looks like to be in love. “The weatherlady said we won’t have sun like this again for a while, so this is basically our last chance to take advantage of it.”

You’re reminded of that cute bikini you bought a while back but never wore. All this time, you’ve been waiting for someone to swim with. And maybe you finally have someone.

A hazy image comes to mind. It’s a shirtless Jungkook squeezing squiggly white lines of sunscreen all over his body like mayonnaise on a deli sandwich. It’s all cute and dorky until he starts rubbing it into his muscles and all that skin and asks for your assistance.

You’d probably be enjoying this brief daydream, but your brain has decided to place a giant mosaic over Jungkook’s entire torso because that part of his body is still very much a mystery to you. He might have a hundred more tattoos under that mosaic, or he might not have any there at all. You’d like to know either way, and part of you hopes he’s just as curious about your body.

Your beachside fantasy suddenly fades away into dark clouds. Based on the weatherlady’s predictions, there’s a 0% chance of seeing the real Jungkook sporting swim trunks in the near future, which means you need to stop drooling over the thought of it.

Unless you decide to make a move tonight.

“Don’t look so worried, I’m not going to swim and ruin this beauty.” Your client points to the completed shark on her thigh and waves off any concern you might have about disrupting the healing process. “I just want to spend a romantic evening at the beach with my man, you know what I mean?”

You nod. Even though you know what she means, you can’t quite relate in a way you wish you could.

As you lock up your shop for the night, you check the time on your phone. The appointment was shorter than expected, so you still have a good chunk of time before you need to meet Jungkook at the art building. After running some quick calculations, you figure it’s just enough time to go home and change into something cuter.

As expected, your beachy conversation with your client has you staring at the bikini hanging on your doorknob with the tags still intact. You do your best to convince yourself this is a good idea. It’s a warm Friday night, your art project isn’t technically due until Monday, you’d get to see a shirtless Jeon Jungkook without the mosaic, and he’d get to see you in that cute bikini.

Fuck it. It’s now or never.

So after throwing on a floral mini dress over your bikini, you dash out the door and type up a cute message for Jungkook.

Y/N🍑 [8:14PM] “you might want to bring a swimsuit in case the watercolors get messy👙”

After an hour of diligent painting, you hear Jungkook drop his brush into his palette. When you turn to him, he’s staring at all the progress you’ve made on your canvas. While he has the early stages of a peaceful waterfall in the works, you’re already fine-tuning your little beach paradise.

“Hey, is there any kind of art you aren’t good at?” he asks, washing his brushes and putting the paints back as if to say he’s done for the night. After adding highlights to the lazy waves rolling up the sand, you join in on the cleaning spree.

“Nope,” you lie. Art comes naturally to you, but there are still plenty of things you haven’t even tried yet, like sculpting or graffiti.

“So you’re even good at body art?” The boy raises his pierced brow.

“That’s my specialty, actually.” It sounds like sarcasm coming from someone like you, but Jungkook doesn’t know it’s the truth. You grab a black marker and hold your hand out, just as he had done on the day you met him. He gives you the hand that isn’t all tatted up with letters and symbols. “What do you want?” you ask.

Jungkook takes his time in giving you a response, but you aren’t complaining about the prolonged handholding. His dark brown eyes fall on your lips and then your neck. And then slightly below that.

“I think you know what I want, Y/N.” Despite the suggestiveness in his words, his tone is playful with only a hint of mischief.

“Yeah, yeah, I think I have an idea.” You start drawing a mythical canine of some sort in typical @snowsleeve fashion, trying hard not to visualize what the boy actually wants.

But you saw the look in his eye. He wants to pin you to the ground, tear that tiny little dress off of you, and taste every last inch of your body until it’s impossible to breathe. That could explain why he was so eager to clean up.

No, that’s just what you want him to do to you. Ever since he kissed you against your door that one afternoon, you’ve been thinking a lot about what might come next. If a mere kiss felt that good, you can only imagine what it’d be like to have him on top of you. He’d ruin you.

“Wait, this is actually a sick tattoo.” Jungkook flexes his fingers and holds the back of his hand up to you as if you weren’t the artist who drew the design for him. It’s an icy white wolf carrying a carrot in its mouth.

“You should get @snowsleeve to do that for you.” Maybe without the carrot, though.

“Oh, right…” The boy doesn’t sound too thrilled that you brought @snowsleeve up. In fact, he looks a bit discouraged. “She left me on read after I sent that DM, so I don’t know if our highly anticipated appointment is going to happen or not.”

“You were left on read?” You force a laugh. Of all people to leave Jeon Jungkook on read, you can’t believe it was you. It wasn’t on purpose though. You just forgot to respond. “She was probably just busy and forgot about it.”

“That’s what they said about my ex until I never heard from her again,” he says with a straight face. You’re only 90% sure he’s just fucking with you.

“Well, if she doesn’t respond to you soon, I’ll do the tattoo for you myself.” You make a mental note to send a response when you get home. The poor boy needs to be put out of his misery as soon as possible.

“Thanks, I might have to take you up on that offer.” He once again admires the carrot-wielding wolf on his hand without even questioning the legitimacy of your ability to etch an actual tattoo into his skin. “I wouldn’t be too upset if it were you leaving your mark on my body.”

The tattoo somehow holds more weight when he puts it that way. It only excites you more to know that he wholeheartedly trusts you with his body–the same way you’d trust him with yours.

“By the way, were you ever going to explain why I’m wearing swim trunks?” He points at his maroon swim trunks, and you accidentally get a good look at his crotch. You blame his finger for leading your naive eyes in that direction.

“I already told you, Jungkook.” You don’t know why your voice feels so tiny all of a sudden. “Watercolor can get a little messy.”

“But we didn’t really make a mess,” he chuckles, gesturing to the space that’s practically cleaner now than when the two of you first arrived. Then he steps closer to you and dabs something wet and cold onto your cheek. It smells like paint. “Except for right here.”

You hate how freaking cute he is when he grins like that after such a devilish deed. You’re a big advocate of payback, but you already dumped all of the murky paint water down the drain. Instead, you have to settle for wiping the blue paint off your cheek and onto the boy’s oversized black tee. Unfortunately for you, that doesn’t seem to faze him. He’s still waiting on an acceptable explanation for the swim trunks.

“My thought process was that paint would get all over us, and then we’d have no choice but to rinse off at the pool.” You would’ve mentioned the beach instead, but you’d rather not walk in on your client’s romantic evening with her man.

“Sounds legit,” he nods, taking your hand as the two of you exit the art room. Thank god he’s willing to play along with your silly excuse. Though, from the corner of your eye, you see the edge of his lips twitch upward into a smug little smirk. “Or you could’ve just said you wanted to see me shirtless.”

If not for the soft squeeze he gives your hand, you probably would’ve barked back. He soothes you just as easily as he teases you. The very essence of your relationship is cozy intimacy, the perfect balance of warmth and mischief.

The locked gates do little to stop Jungkook from helping you up and over and into the pool area on campus. The lights are off, the pool is quiet, and nobody else is around. You’re not sure what the consequences are for sneaking into the pool after hours, but you’d like to think it’s worth it on a rare night like this.

You dip the tip of your toe into the pool and wince. Even in this warm weather, the water is cold enough to send chills down your spine. With a frown, you scurry over to the hot tub and press what you assume to be the on button. There’s a slight delay before the lights flash on and the hot tub starts to bubble.

You crouch down and keep your hand in the water as it heats up, mesmerized by the cascading sounds of the jets. It reminds you of the serene waterfall scene Jungkook was painting earlier.

Speaking of Jungkook, you glance over your shoulder to make sure he isn’t about to pick you up and toss you into the freezing cold pool. By now, you know the boy well enough to anticipate shenanigans like that. But instead, you catch him pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside onto the nearest lounge chair.

His title as a regular at the gym is well represented by his defined muscles and healthy glow. Just by staring at his abs, you feel motivated to make better fitness decisions, and you almost overlook the winged figure on his ribs. At first, you think it’s a butterfly, but it’s starting to look more like an angel. You don’t know how long you’ve been staring or what facial expression you’re making, but Jungkook laughs and says, “You look like you’ve never seen a shirtless male before.”

You snap out of your daze and splash some warm water in his direction. “For your information, I’ve seen plenty of shirtless males in my lifetime.”

Jungkook cocks his head. “Oh yeah? How many?”

“More than I can count.” You’re mostly referring to your male clients who’ve asked for tattoos somewhere above the belt, but Jungkook can keep thinking you’re a sex goddess for all you care.

He walks up to the edge of the hot tub and stares down at you squatting there. “You must be pretty experienced then,” he says, eyeing the buttons that run down the front of your mini dress. “So were you planning on getting into the water in that dress, or…?”

You believe that’s his not-so-subtle way of asking you to strip. As shy as you’ve been tonight, you hop up onto your feet beside him and undo your dress, one button at a time, until there’s nothing covering your body but a skimpy black bikini. Jungkook watches the whole thing without blinking. “You could’ve just said you wanted to see me undress,” you tease.

The boy nods along to whatever the heck you’re saying, too distracted to speak as he takes in the sight of your bare skin. So much bare skin. His pupils are dilated like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. After a solid twenty seconds, he must realize he’s doing a bad job of hiding his sexual urges because he feels the need to explain why he’s looking at you so intently. “I’m just checking for any hidden tattoos you might have.”

“Find any yet?” You turn your hips and give him a good look at your ass before disappearing into the hot tub. There’s not a single tattoo visible on your body as far as he can see.

He shakes his hair out of his man bun, follows you in, and takes a seat opposite you. “I’m really starting to think you don’t have any tattoos, Y/N.”

“Well, you’re running out of places to check.” At this point, he’s pretty much seen it all aside from what’s directly under the bikini. That either means you have no tattoos at all, or you have a secret one hiding somewhere off-limits.

The slight possibility of the latter has Jungkook reaching out and pulling you toward him. The momentum of the water draws you right into his lap. His eager hands slip into your bikini bottoms and cup your ass so that you won’t drift away–not that you’d want any sort of distance from him anyway. Lately, it’s been the opposite. You’ve been waiting and wanting to close the gap until your body finally overlaps with his.

“Where should I check first?” he asks. For just a second, he allows himself to admire the contours of your breasts like they’re true works of art. He’d probably free you of your tiny top and sling it over the gates if his hands weren’t so busy caressing you down below.

“Anywhere you like.” You wrap your arms around his neck so that the firm grip on your ass isn’t the only thing holding you in place. Hopefully, that encourages him to use his hands to pleasure and explore the rest of your body.

“I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself with that much power, Y/N.” You feel his words travel up your neck until his mouth finds a nice spot to kiss, suck, and taint with his deepest desires. The sloppy and desperate nips at your skin are a sign that he’s been craving your taste for a while. He’s already lost control.

His hands run up the sides of your waist and flirt with the idea of teasing your breasts. At first, he respects the two triangles covering you up, but the perky little buds poking through are clearly inviting him in. He pushes the stretchy fabric aside and just barely grazes your nipples with his thumbs, sending a friendly warning through your body and down to your core.

Before you know it, his palms have completely replaced the two triangles, except they’re larger and have a stronger hold on you. His fingers dip into your breasts, longer than a casual squeeze and purely for his own selfish needs. You’ve never seen him so focused on a task. You wonder if he’s trying to run the algorithm to calculate your cup size in that empty head of his. He’s probably getting an error code because you’re starting to feel the frustration building in his veiny grip.

“This okay?” What a gentleman he is for asking while groping the utter shit out of you.

“Any touch from you is more than okay, Jungkook,” you assure him. That being said, you drag one of his hands from your chest down your stomach. The tips of his fingers are just a centimeter away from entering your bikini bottoms at the front entrance. You look him right in the eye when you say, “But this would be much appreciated.”

His long hair shades his face as he glances down at how you’re still tugging his wrist with a sense of urgency. “I can’t imagine innocent Y/N being this forward with anyone else,” he says, looking smug as ever.

You hate that he’s right. Maybe that’s why your previous relationships all ended the way they did. You never felt comfortable asking for more from anyone, so you’d settle for whatever was given to you, which often wasn’t enough. But these days, you feel like you’re starting to know your worth. And what you deserve is a boy like Jeon Jungkook and his very tempting fingers.

He slows down the pace as he traces the skin between your navel and the string tied at your waist. The slower he goes, the more sensitive you become to the slightest of grazes. At that rate, the two of you could be here all night, still inching toward some form of release. You wouldn’t mind that too much.

He barely crosses your bikini line before you become acutely aware of how erotic your breathing is beginning to sound. Apparently, it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

“So naughty.” He presses his hot lips into your collarbone. Your back arches in response and anticipation. Just when you think he’s about to take the plunge, he retracts his entire hand. “But I’m not sure you’re ready for it yet.”

You intend on responding with an irritated growl, but what comes out of your mouth is more like a whimper from a puppy in heat. As it turns out, that needy sound is what sets the boy off. You feel him stiffening beneath your crotch, desperate for more friction. He adjusts himself just a bit so that the length of his erection is pressed right up against your folds. The only thing standing between you and his cock is the fabric of your swimsuits. And boy, can you feel how thin the spandex is.

You pull back from all the attention he’s giving your body to assess his current state. His chest heaves and his skin is flushed, whether from the intensity between you and him or the heat of the water. You must be at that same point if not further along–even underwater, you can feel the slick coating between your legs. It’s almost embarrassing how much you’re dripping when he hasn’t even ventured there yet.

You run your fingers through his damp locks of hair and press your lips against his. Your tongue wrestles with his in a way that’s a lot less graceful than the first time he kissed you, but you aren’t complaining.

“You taste like cotton candy,” he says, licking his lips. You’re pleasantly surprised that he could identify the exact flavor of your lip balm. What a wholesome detail for the bad boy to pick up on in the midst of something so sinful.

“You taste like green Listerine,” you reply when he gives you another chance to breathe. “And you smell like Old Spice.”

“C’mon, Y/N. You know I can do better than Old Spice.” He frowns and mentions some fancy French brand with notes of vanilla, chestnuts, and cinnamon. It’s intoxicating.

“Well, whatever it is, I like it.” You already know you’ll forever associate that scent with everything you’re feeling in this hot tub. Passion and pleasure. Love and lust.

“Good, because I picked it out with you in mind,” he says before diving back into your mouth. His hands find their way to your hips and rub them in a circular motion. He even lifts you up and adjusts your ass a few times to generate any sort of relief for his erection. He’s getting impatient.

The water swishes about in a choppy manner as you start rolling your hips, grinding your crotch against the solid mass in his trunks. It’s impossible not to feel how large he is. If you had to guess, you’d say his cock is bigger than any of the ones you’ve ridden. But you’ll have to see it to believe it when the time comes.

As the pleasure continues to build, you almost forget that you’re still wearing your bikini in a hot tub and aren’t naked in his bed. Because no one ever told you grinding against him like this would feel better than making love under the sheets. Then again, you’re sure Jungkook would find a way to one-up himself and provide you with the best sex of your life.

The boy is clearly enjoying himself as well, but something tells you he’s still lusting for more. He moans profanity into your mouth and tugs at the strings of your bikini bottoms. One side comes undone, and then the other. You’d normally be horrified at the sight of your bikini drifting away on the surface of a public pool, but you don’t seem to really mind when it’s just you and Jungkook.

“Are there security cameras around here?” You only ask because it’d be kind of awkward if the security guard just watched your bikini be torn off as steamy events unfolded in the hot tub.

“I don’t know. Probably.” The boy apparently can’t be bothered by the threat of an audience while he’s running his fingers along your inner thigh. Is it a coincidence that your body is the most sensitive it’s ever been as he purposely avoids the place between your legs? Coincidence or not, you need him to cooperate soon because your body is starting to act on its own and you refuse to hit your high before you’ve learned exactly what his fingers can do to you.

“We’re gonna get in trouble if the security guard ever sees this.” Your moans get a little louder and your hips move a little harder against him. His cock must be throbbing and past the point of no return, and yet, he doesn’t ask for any favors from you. Right now, he only cares about satisfying the needs of you and your body.

“You were in trouble from the second I sat across from you in class,” he whispers into your ear. Without warning, he slips two fingers between your legs and rubs your swollen little clit until you can’t think straight anymore. Your head snaps back from the sudden surge in pleasure, and the lewd sound that escapes your throat is something you’d only expect to hear in a pornographic setting. You swear you’ve touched yourself in that same exact way, and yet it feels so much better when he’s the one in control.

His fingers somehow know the perfect speed and pressure to send you to the edge and keep you there. Fuck, no man has ever touched you like that. Your body has never felt so hot and sensitive, so intense and frenzied, all at the same time. You haven’t even come yet, and he’s already put your entire history of orgasms to shame. Not one single orgasm can compare to what you’re feeling right now, and you’d like to think you’ve had a fair amount of good sex in the past. But not anymore.

You’re not ignorant, either. Something that feels that good takes a lot of practice. The thought of him fingering and fucking his other female friends isn’t pleasant, but at least it’s you who gets to experience him at his best. In fact, you’ll personally thank the gals of Jungkook’s past for helping him become the sex god he is today.

And then his fingers stop. Everything stops, except for your growing frustration when he doesn’t budge after five whole seconds. You can’t decide if you’re glad or upset that he’s left one finger right on your clit. Either way, you’re going to lose your goddamn mind if he keeps torturing you like this.

“Jung. Kook. Please,” you beg him in your best horny voice. You’re confident you can negotiate with him to get on with it, but when you come back to your senses and take a peek at him, he’s glancing over your shoulder.

You turn your head and follow his line of sight to a large group of friends hopping over the gate and catapulting right into the pool. Startled, you snatch your bikini bottoms from the water’s surface and unwrap yourself from Jungkook.

His fingers slip out from beneath you as you situate yourself to be sitting thigh-to-thigh with him. You lean in and whisper, “Don’t these people know the pool is closed?” as if you weren’t also guilty of ignoring the padlock on the gate or the twenty signs that clearly said “closed.”

“I’m pretty sure we broke more rules than them tonight,” Jungkook says, straightening the little triangles over your breasts. “It’s a shame we were interrupted, but I don’t mind making you wait a little longer.”

And then he smirks. You knew it. He enjoyed making you squirm and beg for his touch. And you can’t believe you were in such a helpless and horny state, only to be walked in on by some trespassing hooligans. You’re thankful for the shroud of steam around the hot tub because you assume it’s the only thing hiding the embarrassment on your face.

“Are you still aching for me?” He examines your face closely. The sweat dripping down your forehead is doing a shitty job of disguising itself as pool water. You’re clearly flustered. Maybe the heat can’t save you after all.

To top it off, the ghost of his touch is a tingling sensation you won’t be able to soothe until you get home. The sad thing is that your own fingers won’t be able to make you feel what his fingers made you feel. The lack of action between your legs is pure torture, and Jeon Jungkook is very aware of that.

“I promise I’ll make it worth the wait,” he whispers, confirming that there will indeed be another time for intimacy and everything that comes with it. Without any interruptions.

“Hey, Jungkook!” one of the hooligans shouts from the other side of the pool. The group waves at the campus celebrity beside you.

“You know them?” You squint your eyes, but you don’t recognize any of those faces from your art class.

“No… but I guess they know me.” Jungkook waves his hand in their direction–the same hand that was running circles around your clit just moments before. You’re only a little bitter.

“Of course. Everyone knows you because that’s what it means to be an influ–”

“Y/N, please don’t say it.” He’s burying his face into his hand. That hand.

“Influencer,” you hum. “You know, if I had that many followers, I’d probably end up hiding my face. I’m not really a fan of strangers knowing me like that.”

“Well, not to sound conceited, but I only have that many followers because of my face.” You can barely hear him over the jets. He stares at his muddled reflection on the bubbly surface. The underwater lights illuminate his face. The starry sky has nothing on him. What a beautiful human being. “And while they might know my face, my name, and my tattoos, there are a lot of things those people will never know about me.”

“For example?”

“I’m more than a casual viewer of anime–I read the manga, too,” he admits. “And I used to wanna marry Sailor Mars.”

Who would’ve thought Jungkook was a Sailor Moon fanboy? “Go on,” you chuckle.

“I watch a lot of those nature videos about the world’s tiniest cat and endangered rhinos. You know the ones, right?” He looks at you with the expectation that you also sit at your computer all day watching similar videos about baby salamanders.

You don’t actually know what the fuck he’s talking about, but you nod anyway. “Okay, what else?”

“I still play Pokémon Go.” He pulls up the app and scrolls through an endless list of captured mons. He has a nickname for every single one of them. “My Pokédex is 87% complete.”

“Probably should’ve kept that one to yourself, you nerd.” You give his thigh a squeeze, only to remember how toned and hard they felt beneath your ass. Must be from all the running around he does while catching Charizards. “Any other dark secrets I can tease you about?”

Jungkook loops his pinky around the one you have resting on his thigh. “I’ll tell you another if you promise not to tease me about it.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t tease you about it,” you promise. “As long as it’s not about you naming your Diglett ‘Dicklette.’” You also saw Psydick, Cockuna, and Cuboner in his Pokédex, but you decide not to mention those.

“I can’t believe you fucking saw that,” he groans. “And no, of course it’s not that.”

“Okay, then it’s a promise.” You snuggle closer to the boy and rest your head on his shoulder. Something about the combined scent of chlorine and Jungkook’s chestnutty cologne is oddly therapeutic.

“Do you think becoming a tattoo artist is a realistic career path?” he asks. The pinky promise has slowly morphed into something along the lines of your hand fitting perfectly into his. You’re honored that he’s comfortable enough to confide in you about an undecided future. You’d love to help him in any way you can.

You smile. “You asked the right person because I’m never going to say no to that question.”

At first, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but he should’ve already known your stance on this one. You have full faith in his talent as an artist, but you’re starting to think he needs a confidence boost. Especially after he says, “Y/N, I appreciate how supportive you are of our tattoo agenda, but I need you to tell me I’m a shitty artist who should stick with becoming a software engineer.”

“You’re a shitty artist who should stick with becoming a software engineer,” you repeat in your best Jeon Jungkook voice. It takes you an extra second to process the words that just came out of your mouth. “Wait, you’re a comp sci major? I always just assumed you were an art major.”

“I’m double majoring in both.” Jungkook shrugs as if it’s no big deal. Now he sounds conceited.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I was practically having sex in a hot tub with the biggest nerd on the planet,” you joke, intentionally leaving out the part about him also being the hottest boy in the universe. “I mean that as a compliment, by the way.”

“Thanks?” he laughs.

“But seriously, I don’t think it’s bad if you want to make tattoos a part of your career, Jungkook.” It takes everything in you to not overshare. Not yet, anyway. But as someone who grew up in the apartment right above a tattoo parlor, you know exactly how it feels to dream of living that life. “If you ask me, I think it’s just a matter of committing and injecting ink into your first willing victim.”

“Are you volunteering to be my first victim?” He tilts his head and follows every movement in your eyes. Why does he have to look so doe-eyed and adorable while talking like a freshly turned vampire?

Of course you’d love a tattoo from Jungkook himself, but you’re clearly not the type to make impulsive decisions when it comes to body art. And you do in fact have a reason for that.

“I actually have pretty low pain tolerance and a slight fear of needles,” you admit. It’s one thing to use needles on the skin as art tools, and an entirely different thing to be the one getting poked. A lot of other tattoo artists and enthusiasts can’t take you seriously because of that. But something tells you Jungkook won’t hold it against you. He might even find it endearing.

“Is that the reason behind your lack of body art?” Jungkook runs the pads of his fingers along your bare arms. You already know he’s thinking of all the things he could do with a canvas as pure as your skin. The possibilities are endless.

You nod. For a tattoo artist, it’s incredible that you haven’t come up with tattoo designs that would justify the pain you’d have to endure. That is, until Jungkook drew that cute little bunny on your hand. Ever since that day, you’ve been more willing to step outside your comfort zone in more ways than one. “But if you’re serious about becoming a tattoo artist, I’d be down to give it a go.”

“I promise I’ll be gentle.” He plants a kiss on your forehead. You hope he understands that there’s no way to be gentle when it comes to tattoos. Unless he was referring to something else. “And just for the record, I’m still not ruling out the slight possibility of you having a tattoo hidden somewhere. For all I know, you could’ve had a painful first tattoo experience and that’s what’s kept you for getting any more.”

“Hm, maybe.” You casually tiptoe around his theory and point at the winged figure on his ribs. “Did this one hurt? I heard that spot is pretty bad.”

Jungkook looks down and says, “Yeah, this little guy hurt like a bitch.”

“Is it a butterfly or an angel?” You wish the jets would stop for a moment so you could get a better look at the design below the surface.

He stands up out of the water to show you what it looks like without anything obscuring it. The water droplets streaming down his torso are only mildly distracting with how they follow the paths carved out for them by his abs. That must be the science behind what makes lifeguards and swimsuit models exceptionally attractive.

“It’s called a fairy, Y/N…” He sounds disappointed by your ignorance. Your bad for not being raised by Tinker Bell or Cosmo & Wanda.

“That was my next guess,” you frown, following him out of the water and toward the towel rack. “It’s cute.”

“It reminds me of you.” He stops in the middle of drying off to point to the fairy’s tiny bundle of yellow flowers and the faint black flames that follow her. She’s an odd mix of cute & sexy, compassionate & unapologetic. It’s a feisty little fairy brought to life in an art style you’ve become quite familiar with recently.

“You designed it yourself, right?” Even before he answers, you know your eyes aren’t deceiving you. This is a Jeon Jungkook original if you ever saw one. He’d make a fantastic tattoo artist, and you wish he could see that.

He nods. “I got it after my last breakup. It’s supposed to embody the kind of person I think would be good for me.”

You give the fairy another look. It’s not exactly like looking in a mirror, but you’d like to think you’re just as kindhearted and tough as the person Jungkook envisions himself with.

“She looks like she’d keep you grounded when your ego is too big, and lift your spirits up when you’re feeling down,” you say. You slip back into your dress but feel the now chilly air against your damp skin. The weatherlady was right.

“Exactly.” It’s you. You’d challenge him just as much as you’d adore him. You’re the person who would be good for him. Perfect even. He pulls his black tee over your head, and you snort when it’s longer than your mini dress.

“Are you going to be warm enough like that, Jungkook?” You feel bad that he’s shirtless while you’re walking to the car in two layers.

“I’m fine.” He really doesn’t seem bothered by the drop in temperature, but he holds out his sleeveless arm, the one closest to you, and says, “This arm is a little cold, though.”

You wrap yourself around his arm like a koala hugging its tree. He might be the shirtless one, but so much warmth radiates from him. It feels like he’s keeping you warm, rather than the other way around.

“Hey, Y/N?” His voice is soft again.

“Hm?”

“Wanna know one last secret?”

“You’re actually triple majoring in archeology? You were Team Jacob and not Team Edward? You always order Hawaiian pizza but pick the pineapples off and eat them separately?” you guess.

“What kind of weirdo does that with their Hawaiian pizza?” Jungkook narrows his eyes at you. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“It tastes better that way.” You lift your nose with a hmph, embracing your chaotic energy for what it is.

“I’ll have to try it next time if you ask me out again.” He unlocks his car and opens the door for you. You get a glimpse of the hickey he left on you in the side-view mirror, reminded of the lust that had consumed the two of you in the hot tub earlier. You don’t want to let go of his warmth, but you know you need to get home in order to finish the deed. You might even invite him inside so that he won’t have to go another day without knowing what sex with you feels like from start to finish. Surely he needs that knowledge as much as you do. Especially now that you’ve both gotten a tiny taste of what a night together could entail.

“Ask you out again? I don’t recall ever asking you out in the first place, Jeon,” you feign innocence and let out a yawn. You don’t remember the passenger seat being this cozy, either.

“So that cute little swimsuit message you sent me was totally not your way of asking me out on a pool date, right?”

“Totally not,” you agree. Before you forget, you pull your phone out of your bag and type out a response from @snowsleeve to Jungkook’s main IG account. After hitting send, you also make the executive decision to give his smaller art account a follow so that he can see that his talent is recognized and respected by fellow artists. “Wait, what was the secret you were going to tell me?”

“The one I was going to tell you before I was interrupted by your accusations about archeology and Twilight?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

His silence lasts for what feels like a century. You lose track of how many stop signs you pass without a response, and it’s getting harder to keep your eyes open. In fact, you aren’t sure if what you hear next is reality or just a dream.

“I’ve got it bad for the cutie who sits across from me in art class.”

#bts smut #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #bts bad boy au #bts fluff #jungkook #bts

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tittyblade · 3 years

Text

tumblr etiquette 101

a list that is nowhere near exhaustive, from yours truly.

First off, welcome! Whether you’re a twitter veteran looking for anything but whatever twitter is, or a new user just done signing up, glad to see you in our ranks beloveds! Welcome home. Refer to this quick tour to make sure your fandom experience (or tumblr experience in general) is a positive one!

Disclaimer: I know it’s long, but please try to read or skim through til the end if you’re new here! This is by no means meant to be a rule book (for the most part lol), only a guide to help you get settled easier!

1) Your blog

This is where people will see and interact with you, so put some effort into it!

Try to choose a name (url) that’s simple. You can see it as your brand, it’s how people will perceive you and remember you. If you’d like to interact with other users here (and not use the site just for the content) it’s better to have something short and sweet, preferably without spaces. (Of course, these are only suggestions.) Rest assured, you can change it literally any time you want.

Have a theme. Utilize the tool that lets you edit your blog’s color or the font of your bio! You can make it match your profile picture, or your blog if it has a theme of its own. Make it feel homey :]

Fill in your bio. People will be checking out your profile probably more often than you think. Don’t leave it empty! Put in any information you’re comfortable with sharing and isn’t too personal (like your age if you’re a minor, or other TMI that can be found on other people’s carrds). It’s always better to add a name/nickname people can use to refer to you by, but feel free to use your blog description to shitpost still.

You can have an intro post. More often than not, you’ll see a blog have a pinned post, a post permanently appearing at the top of a blog until you pin another post or unpin it. You can make one of those, if you’d like to introduce yourself in more length, link any other socials or a carrd, and show others visiting your blog how you tag things so it’ll be easy for them to navigate. Not an obligation.

Keep your anonymity and your safety. It should go without saying, but there’s no harm in repeating it just in case. Your comfort, privacy and safety has the utmost importance. Don’t share any information you don’t want to. Don’t share your age if you’re a minor, or any other incredibly personal info. I’d encourage you to go by a nickname that’s not your real name, (blog name, your brand, remember?) since there’s safety in anonymity, and that’s lowkey one of the big deals of tumblr, but that’s up to you still.

Choose what you want to be visible. Your liked posts and who you follow are all things you can set to keep to yourself and hide from the publics eye, how handy! You should go through all the setting while you’re at it, set it to your comfort.

Side blogs are a thing. You can have multiple blogs that you can use for different things (see: different fandoms, art blog, etc) to keep them organized or away from your followers. Just remember that the replies and off-anon asks you send will be from your main blog, as well as where you follow other blogs from.

2) Interacting with others

You’ve set up your account, now comes the fun part!

Follow to your heart’s desire. If you care about others seeing who you follow, fear not! In tumblr, usually only two types of blogs keep their following visible to others: newbies, and big blogs using it to point people on other good blogs’ direction. Just turn it off, and go ham following people.

Customize your dashboard. Gonna mention just two things here: this is another reason why it’s really important that you follow blogs without sparing, your dash will collect dust otherwise; and you should turn off “best stuff first” in your dashboard settings, to have a better community here and all.

Follow tags. You can set it in your settings that posts with your followed tags appear on your dashboard.

You can check the og post for edits and context. When you see a reblogged post you don’t understand the context of (or don’t recognize the character in case of fanarts), click on the profile so it will take you to the original post. From there you can check the original poster’s tags to get the context, or see if there have been any edits made to the post, since when you edit a post it doesn’t update any past reblogs.

Send people asks... This is how you make mutuals, people! Do it off-anon if you’d like them to know your blog, or anon if you’d rather not! (You can still end your messages with a signature to show you’re the same person, -[name] is one example.) Send them nice messages, ask their opinion on something, discuss things, or just straight up shitpost lol. Go wild. The sky’s your limit and it’s definitely more than 280 characters.

...and let them ask you! You can set your preference in the settings, do it on desktop tumblr to access more settings tho! What you can customize on mobile is limited (like letting people ask you things anonymously, that’s only on desktop settings). In my personal opinion, it’s always better to tag their username (or a nickname you give them, if they’re a friend) on that post, since you wouldn’t want your interactions with your friends to get buried in your blog forever.

Comment on posts. If you have something to say but don’t want the post to appear on your blog you can add a comment. The owner of the post will get a notif for it, but for anyone else you need to tag them.

For the love of god, reblog. People will only see your liked posts if you have it visible to public and they specifically go on your blog to look at them. You like something? You reblog. It’s already hard for posts to circulate properly, if you don’t reblog them literally no one will see them. If not for anything do it for the artists. Just hold and drag on mobile to fast rb.

3) Your Posts

Finally here! Don’t be a lurker, post and engage!

Make use of “read more”. If your post is long, add it. That’s what you clicked on earlier to expand this post. On desktop leave an empty line and you’ll see three dots appear, and on mobile type :readmore: on that empty line.

Draft a post to come back to it later. Pretty self explanatory.

Queue your post. Whether it’s your own post or you’re reblogging, make use of the queue feature to a) not spam reblog and fill up the dashboard of people following you and b) keep your blog active while you’re gone. Mess around in the settings, it’s fairly easy to set up.

Schedule your post. Same as queueing, the only difference is you get to choose the exact time your post will go up. Handy if you want to schedule a post for certain dates like april fools, or 5 years in the future for some reason.

Format your texts. You can do all kinds of fancy stuff here (that’s a link, try pressing on it). Twitter doesn’t have this, make use of it. Changes depending on whether you’re on mobile or desktop. (Desktop has less features.)

Check your stats. If you’re trying to understand the algorithm better or want to look at some pretty graphs you can get your data on that on desktop tumblr.

@ people in comments. You’ll get all the notifs when people comment on your posts but they won’t see your reply unless you tag them in your message.

4) Tags, and tagging a post

This is where my earlier statement “this isn’t a rule book” stops being applicable. It’s not a war crime to go against these, I won’t come chasing you (don’t take my word for this) but you’ll work up a bad rep. Just saying lol.

Do NOT crosstag posts. It’s really tempting to add unrelated tags to increase your posts’ interaction, I know, but that’s not what tumblr is about. Don’t be a dick and make other communities’ experience worse for them.

Always tag your posts with “crit/critical/discourse/etc” if it calls for it. There’s no exceptions to it. This is the reason you see people migrating to tumblr. Let people enjoy things.

Don’t main tag a critical/negative post. If your crit post is about “Thing”, you add the “Thing critical” tag, but not the “Thing” tag. People block crit tags if they don’t want to see it, don’t shove it in their faces by main tagging it.

If you don’t want to see something, just block it. Another reason why people are able to survive on tumblr. You don’t start discourse, you don’t make call-outs, you block. You can find something for every community you can think of if you go looking for it. The worst of the worst probably won’t ever appear on your dash, but if you’re worried or feel the need for it, you know where the block button is.

Feel free to shitpost or ramble. More often than not you’ll see people rb a post with a comment, and their elaboration will be in the tags. The tags are only visible on your profile and the notifications of the owner of the og blog. Just a thing people do.

Reblog artists’ posts with nice comments in the tags! Commenting on a drawing is usually done through the tags (Not an obligation, again, just a thing people do. Feel free to add your comment on the rb itself if you’d want other people to see it tho!) and leave nice messages for the artists! It’s a win-win for everyone involved.

If you have more than a single follower, always use the common tw warning tags. You don’t need to tw everything, but tw’ing some common things is the bare minimum human decency. Keep it safe for others.

Tag a post “long post” if it’s really long. Pretty self explanatory. Don’t make people scroll through all that please lol.

You can use them to organize your blog. This is more of a pro tip, if you’d like to not miss a post in your blog, cause they will start pilin’ up soon enough.

#Liveblogging is pretty fun. If you’d like to talk to people during streams, don’t forget to add the relevant tags still! Again, you won’t show up on people’s dash otherwise.

Whew! That got out of hand. Hopefully I didn’t bore you too much. Check out blogs like @heritageposts and @hellsite-hall-of-fame to honor our past o7. @mcytblr-hall-of-fame too maybe :eyes:. Anyways, don’t forget the most important rule of them all:

Enjoy your stay! You’re meant to have fun on here while also making friends (if that’s your thing). Just be kind and respectful of others, you’ll get the hang of the rest! <3

#mcyttwt #mcytblr #dream team #dream smp #mcyt #dsmp #tumblr #how to tumblr #gonna tag ppl now so more users will see it lol #dreamwasteken #georgenotfound #karl jacobs #technoblade #sbi #twitter #twitter discourse #sbitwt #sleepytwt #sleepy bois inc #HOLY shit this took so long omg my back literally hurts rn #the fuckin lengths i go to make sure tumblr doesnt get tainted w twt LMAO #anyways if youre seeing this you should follow me look at how sexy i am i spent the last 2+ hours typing this goddamn list out #also: ignore how i literally sound like its 2014 at some parts here lol i tried my best #also ignore how wack the paragraph breaks are tumblrs formatting hates me and its 4 am im too tired for this #third also: some bits here are supposed to be ironic keep that in mind pls #rolan.txt #long post #save #yes im tagging my own post as save what about it

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bts-weverse-trans · 3 years

Photo

201125 Weverse Magazine ‘BE’ Comeback Interview - V

V: “I wish we were back with ARMY, laughing together” BTS BE comeback interview 2020.11.25

How are you doing these days? It’s been a long time since you were able to see your fans. V: I’m not over-stressing about how I can’t meet the fans face to face right now. I just want to see them when it’s safe to meet. I think now, I can wait until then.

As your song says, “Life Goes On.” You decided to keep going on with your life. V: We have to move on. We can’t feel defeated forever. I felt a lot better after making some songs.

Other than working on “Dynamite,” you’ve spent very little time away from home. How do you pass the time when you’re by yourself? V: I really like just spacing out, so I’ll sit in my room doing nothing for hours. I could try putting on a movie, but then I couldn’t concentrate and would just zone out. When that happens, it’s kind of like I’m living without a thought or care in the world. Maybe I should make a song about all of this someday. Probably call it “Spaced.” (laughs) Anyway, these days I’m looking for ways to keep myself happy.

Have you found anything? V: Well, I’m listening to LPs lately. It’s getting to be Christmas season and I love snow, so I bought two or three Christmas LPs to listen to. I’m also listening to old jazz songs by Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. Frank Sinatra is cool, like chilled wine; Sammy Davis Jr. is crazy talented. (laughs)

I guess making “Dynamite” must have been some consolation even when you couldn’t meet fans due to COVID-19. V: We couldn’t put on a concert and couldn’t see ARMY, so we were feeling more and more drained. It seemed like an endless battle. We really wanted to see ARMY feeling better, so we had to get back up on stage and make another album so that together we could beat this thing. I want to be the friend who’s always cheering ARMY on, but there aren’t many ways to make them feel better.

How was the whole “Dynamite” experience? You made it to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 and also had a chance to perform in a variety of different styles. V: Shooting the Tiny Desk Concert was a very natural process, which was nice. But actually, with the situation being what it is, we couldn’t really feel much. The day the news came out was of course thrilling. It was great, actually, all of us calling each other and some of us laughing and others crying: “We haven’t gone down the wrong path after all! Turns out we had a chance—it really was possible!”

You had everyone sitting in the middle, with the set arranged symmetrically around you. V: That was made possible thanks to everyone having their own ideas. There was no overlap between items, which actually allowed us to create a sense of unity by placing all these different props symmetrically. It wasn’t intended to be symmetrical; each member really did choose something unique.

In your room, you included a violin and a photograph. V: That’s a picture I took. I like photos and drawings, but if I had used any art then I would’ve been using that one particular artist’s work, so I thought I’d better use one of my own photos. I ended up choosing the violin because I learned how to play it but also because I enjoy classical and jazz.

It sounds like there were no problems choosing the songs for BE. How did you feel recording your parts on the other members’ songs? V: I like “Dis-ease,” which Hobi hyung wrote, but stylistically it was challenging. It’s really far from my own style so it took a long time to get used to. “Fly to My Room” used to be my favorite song, but it was also the hardest to sing. It was okay at first, until Jimin jumped in.

What about Jimin? V: Because I had to keep up with Jimin, the song went up maybe three keys. I thought I would die. (laughs) It started out as my favorite song, but it was just way too hard to sing.

But why did you have to sing that way? V: Jimin said he was sorry, that he couldn’t go any lower. (laughs) When I first heard the demo version, the key was perfect for me, so I thought it would sound great and I should definitely do it. But then Jimin said he wanted to do it too, so I said, “Great, let’s do it together.” Turns out we went up three keys. So I said, “Hey, what’s the deal? Should I just give up?” But, well, somehow it all worked out in the end. It was a happy ending. (laughs)

Yes, it feels like the chorus never ends. The production style is very unique. I like how the emotion is carried through the whole way. V: I agree, but it’s so long. The chorus turned out crazy, like I was kind of beating the melody into people’s ears. (laughs) The chorus is good, but the whole song’s melody is really catchy. Whenever I heard the beat, I was totally into it. The way the vocals pick up on the beat and the melody was so original and fun, I just had to do it.

What instructions did you give to the other members when they were singing on your song, “Blue & Grey”? V: I didn’t really have to give them instructions much. I told them it would be nice if they could think of all their problems and then try healing those wounds with their voices, since if they focus on those emotions, there’ll be more feeling in the song. They all did a good job expressing the emotions I wasn’t able to.

It seems like you intended “Blue & Grey” to be a melancholy song. I heard you had originally planned to put it on your mixtape. V: I wrote “Blue & Grey” when I was at my lowest point, when I was actually asking whether I could keep going with my work or not. Even the fun parts of work became a chore, and my whole life felt aimless. “Where do I go from here? I can’t even see the end of the tunnel.” Those kinds of thoughts hit me hard.

Was there a reason for that? V: It was when work was a major challenge. When I’m happy, I want to work, and when I’m happy I can put on a smile and see the fans, but there was just so much work to do. I’m an easygoing, you know, laid-back person, but I was stretched too thin and I was starting to sputter. What I mean is, I was having a really tough time, and thinking, “What’s waiting for me at the end? It’s important to be successful, but I’m also trying to be happy, so how come I’m not happy right now?” That’s when I started to write “Blue & Grey.”

So writing the song was sort of your way of bringing yourself some peace of mind. V: There was a time I was going through something like this. I was having the toughest time, but I couldn’t keep carrying that feeling around with me. Instead, I could use it as a kind of fertilizer. So I took care of that feeling by constantly writing it down in my notes. I just kept writing everything down, and when finally I felt like I wanted to try writing a song, I did. After the song was finished, I felt a sense of accomplishment, and that’s how I was able to let go of “Blue & Grey.” That was one way I wanted to try getting over my problem.

The songs you make or sing solo on all have similar images: night; loneliness; snow. V: I like nighttime and the late-night air, and when it snows, too. I liked those things since way back when, but lately I feel things like snow and the night air keep me alive. They may just be another part of normal life to other people, but to me, they represent very special moments.

That makes me think of the ending from “Blue & Grey”: “After secretly sending my words up into the air / Now I fall asleep at dawn.” V: I don’t really sleep well. I toss and turn and get caught up in a lot of thoughts. Even when I turn out all the lights, I can see everything clearly. I close my eyes, but all my thoughts spread wide open. Then I’m sleepy at work, and staring off into space when I’m alone, with bags under my eyes, but if I want to avoid that then I really have to sleep. Except, with the way I am, it doesn’t allow for it. I wrote about that in the first and second verses; a feeling like, “When I’m stuck thinking like this, everything is grey, and I’m all blue.” I wrote these feelings out as a song, and now that I’m thinking about it again, I’m actually over it. I feel a lot lighter. I sent my words out into the air, and now I fall asleep at dawn. You’re supposed to sleep at night, but I’m sleeping in the morning again. So I say “good night,” but it’s not actually a good night. “I pass out because I’m exhausted” kind of thing. It’s the emotions I felt in those moments that I wanted to express.

What do you hope hearing about that feeling will do for listeners? V: Rather than just some stranger telling them to cheer up, I think it’s better to say something like, “You seem depressed lately,” or, “Seems like these days it’s tough for you to perk up.” “Blue & Grey” is the same: “You’re depressed lately? Me too. We’re in the same boat. Wanna talk about how you’re feeling? You wanna feel better, right? I know, but sometimes it feels like you’re being washed away by a whirlpool of stress.” I want the listeners to hear me saying that to them.

It’s important to express your emotions right away when they’re so overwhelming. V: Yes. I usually write a lot of songs when I’m feeling emotional, but these days I have so many different things to do that I can’t really write anything. I tried to write something before when I had a little time, but nothing came out because the feelings I had were already gone. So I tell myself, “You gotta write a lot when you’ve got the feels!” (laughs) And then I open my notes app and come back to old notes, like, “Ah, so that’s how I was feeling back then? I see. Well, that’s how I used to be, I guess.” So I tried to write “Blue & Grey” quickly, as soon as a big feeling came on.

Then it’s important to revisit those feelings when you’re producing a song or choosing which songs to release? V: If you can’t bring the feeling back, you can’t make the song, either. I release a song if I feel it expresses who I was and how I felt at the time when I wrote it. Even if we record it perfectly, if the result sounds artificial, I would rather release another, more honest sounding song instead, even if it’s not perfect.

Are those the kinds of songs you selected for your mixtape? V: Um … I don’t know. This is my first mixtape, you know, so I feel a ton of pressure about it. I’m thinking all the time about what kind of album I should make so that I can feel satisfied with it. The title track is the title track, but everyone also says to just leave it as it is, but I keep getting the urge to keep putting in more and more.

You usually write and choose songs based on your emotions. Maybe the pressure to make your first mixtape comes from you having a hard time with that. V: I think it still has a long way to go. Maybe it’s because it’s my first mixtape, but it’s so hard. And I feel like it’s a little lazy. People tell me just to put it out and see how it does, but I’d rather know what needs to be fixed before I release it. I also don’t want the title track to be depressing. I want it to be positive and help people beat those depressed feelings. But it’s not easy.

That sounds a lot like what the members conveyed with “Life Goes On.” V: I think we showed the current situation in a very straightforward and honest way. We’re still going, going, going. And the going is tough. But it doesn’t end here. I wish we were back with ARMY, laughing together. I hope we’ll all be happy in the future and keep on doing our own best, cherishing our hope for our happy future.

Trans © Weverse

#bangtan #taehyung #weverse magazine #comeback interview #201125 #2020 #be album

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adhd-disaster-willie · 3 years

Text

you’re the one that brings the sun; chapter 2/6

Chapter 1

Warnings: Swearing, mention of death (very brief, not graphic)

Notes: Yes it is six chapters now lmao

---

Alex is one month, 4 breakdowns, and probably $100 worth of coffee (even with his employee discount) into his first semester of college and more than prepared for his daily screaming into a pillow session. He stumbles into his dorm, but comes to a screeching halt as soon as the door closes behind him.

“You’re painting the walls.”

Willies spins around, narrowly avoiding falling off his step stool, and gives Alex a lopsided grin. “Wonderful observation,” he quips, hopping down with a paintbrush still in his hand.

“You- you can’t do that.” Alex gapes at him, dumbfounded.

“Ah, can’t I?” Willie raises his eyebrows, smiling. His cheeks are flushed and his hair has been haphazardly pulled up, flyaways falling to frame his face. Alex shakes himself from his reverie. This is not the time to be admiring Willie, idiot.

“No- that’s… that’s against the rules,” Alex says desperately. “The RA lives like, right next door.”

“He’s colorblind,” Willie reassures Alex. “And a homophobic asshole.”

“He’s- what? I…” Alex runs his hands over his face, breathing in deeply. “Okay. Okay. Uh, why are you painting the walls?”

Willie settles into the couch, humming thoughtfully. “I was working on that one essay but couldn’t focus because-” he waves his hands around his head vaguely, like that’s supposed to explain his thoughts. “-and then I remembered that there was a sale at Home Depot so here we are.”

Alex looks up at the wall, trying to ignore the anxiety clutching at his chest like mistletoe to a tree. It’s fine, it’ll be fine. “Why blue?” His voice comes out much less calm than he’d hoped.

“It’s my favorite color,” Willie replies like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m only painting that one wall anyway, the sale was just for the mini paint buckets. I think a pop of color is nice, y’know?” He jerks his hands in the direction of the wall, grinning.

“You’re gonna have us killed,” Alex states simply. “I’m gonna be expelled and have to crash at Julie’s again and I won’t have a college education and the band is gonna fail and I’ll be uneducated and living on the streets.”

“Woah, hey.” Wille stands up, face knitted with worry. He sets a hand on Alex’s shoulder, steadying him. “Dude, I didn’t know it would freak you out. Shit, uh, I can paint over it. Really, it was stupid and impulsive.”

Alex shakes his head. “No, no it’s fine. It’s just-” In for 4, out for 8, deep breaths Alex. “Just stupid anxiety, I’m overthinking.”

Willie tilts his head to the side slightly. “Yea? You sure you’re cool with it?”

And he really is… cool with it, at least sort of. Apparently there’s an override switch in his brain that makes it so of something makes Willie happy, Alex can’t help but be okay with it. Huh. That’s new.

“Um…” Now that his brain is less foggy, Alex is realizing that Willie is like… really close. “Uh, yea. Just… don’t go painting any murals in the bathroom.”

Willie laughs loudly, throwing his head back and bouncing slightly on his heels. Alex’s gaze rakes over his face, golden sunlight seeping through the window and dancing across Willie’s cheeks. There’s a certain comfort to the way the sun comes through the window each evening. Miraculously, their dorm is positioned in an odd way that gives them a west and east facing window; and the way the light drapes over Willie is different at sunset compared to sunrise. It’s looser, makes him look free and like he keeps the sun right in his pocket, only letting it out when Alex is near. Stupidly, Alex thinks he wouldn’t have much trouble forgiving any future bathroom murals. One month, they’ve known each other for a month and Alex is already waxing poetic about him. He scolds himself internally.

“Tell you what,” Willie starts, stepping back and gesturing vaguely. “I’ll buy you a coffee to make up for it.”

“Dude it’s like 5pm,” Alex reasons, but his resolve is already dwindling at the sight of Willie’s playful grin.

“And? It’s the weekend.” Willie tosses an arm over Alex’s shoulders, sticking his bottom lip out in a dramatic pout. “It’s just coffee.”

“Remind me what happened last time you drank coffee.”

Willie sighs mournfully. “We do not speak of the carnation incident.”

“Right,” Alex chuckles. “Okay. Fine. But no more painting the walls.”

“Aye aye captain!” Willie gives a theatrical salute before waltzing out the door with Alex at his heels.

5:30pm in late September means it’s just chilly enough to wear jeans instead of shorts and just sunny enough to see light slipping through the trees and grass. Willie seems to be a magnet for the sunlight, leading it in a subtle dance as they walk across campus. Alex follows the way his hair sways in the light breeze, painted in a sheet of gold and bronze, like it’s been dipped in a liquid campfire. He wonders if his heartbeat is synced to the rhythm of Willie’s feet, marveling at how each step seems to send a ripple through Alex’s entire body. It’s unfair, the way the evening sun makes everything seem softer and more poetic, and Alex thinks that he could write an entire song about the way Willie glances over at him with a teasing smile. In a- a friend way of course. Because everyone thinks about how beautiful their friends look while walking. Of course.

Willie turns to Alex with his head tilted slightly. His expression is frustratingly unreadable. There’s blue paint brushed across the bridge of his nose and his left cheekbone, like his skin is stained with bits of the sky and Alex has a weird urge to bring his hand up and brush it away, but also a weird desire for that paint to be there forever; it suits Willie. His eyes, shining amber in the light, glance over Alex’s face and Alex feels like he’s being put under a spotlight except Willie’s the only person in the audience. Willie finally speaks his mind, his voice gentle. “Your hair looks golden in this light”

Alex feels his entire face go pink and he almost squeaks “You can’t just say those things!” But his tongue seems to be caught in the back of his throat so he opts for a mortified smile before turning to focus on the sidewalk right ahead of him. Willie doesn’t elaborate, or pressure Alex into responding, and they lapse back into a comfortable silence.

It isn’t until they’re just outside the coffeeshop that Alex comes to what is probably a mildly important realization. Bobby’s working right now. Bobby, Carrie’s cousin who’s known Alex as long as Luke and Reggie have, occasionally plays with the band, and has been involved in too many conversations about a certain long-haired skater. Alex’s stomach fills with an unmistakable dread at this thought.

“Alex? You good?” Willie bumps their shoulders and shoots him a smile that’s soft around the edges. “You can just get tea if you’re that anxious about the coffee.”

“No,” Alex chuckles, attempting to mask his stilted breathing. “It’s fine, coffee’s a good idea anyway. I need to stay up and practice that one horrible drum solo my professor insists I perfect.”

“And you have to do that tonight?”

“Yea, the band has a gig on Sunday so Luke’s probably gonna lock me in the studio to rehearse all of tomorrow.”

Willie giggles bubbily, his eyes squinting in the way that makes Alex’s stomach flip. Alex opens the door and a stupid piece of his mind itches to grab Willie’s hand to pull him in. He doesn’t.

Alex likes his workplace. The lights are warm and drape like a blanket over the building, the walls are decked in posters and paintings and vinyls, the windows are clothed with too many plants to count, and the chairs are the type you can just melt into and fall asleep. If he was still religious, he’d thank god for the fact that he was able to score a job here instead of a stiff, concrete chain store. The place is owned by the sweetest middle-aged lesbian couple who like to bring their cats by and let Alex take home leftover food when he has the closing shift. He likes it, and finding a customer service job Alex enjoys is like finding a needle in a haystack. And yet, his whole body is buzzing with nerves. He loves Bobby, he does, but the boy is just as fond of teasing Alex as Luke and Reggie are, and of course Willie had to pick right now.

Willie’s grinning as soon as he processes his surroundings. “Dude you didn’t tell me this place was so cool!” He grips Alex’s forearm excitedly and Alex’s entire brain just… short circuits. He’s sure Willie’s gushing about the mural on the back wall, because he has the awestruck and giddy expression he always gets when talking about art or skateboarding, but Alex’s brain is not registering a single thing Willie says.

Alex hears a loud and deliberate cough and is swiftly pulled from his mind, realizing three things: He is blatantly staring at Willie with a smile he doesn’t even want to see, Willie is still holding onto his arm and rambling, and Bobby is looking on with an expression that tells Alex that there is most certainly a new picture on his phone that will make for wonderful blackmail material.

“Alex, who could this be?” Bobby asks, and of course he’s the one with a scary good poker face because Alex almost believes that he truly is clueless.

Willie lets go of Alex’s arm, a cruel trick of the light making it look like he’s blushing. He gives Bobby a wave. “That’d be me. I’m Willie, Alex’s roommate.”

“Oh!” Bobby smiles innocently. “The famous Willie!”

“Famous?” Willie cocks an eyebrow at Alex. “You talk about me, hotdog?”

“Hotdog?” Bobby gives Alex an expression identical to Willie’s, but laced with mischief instead of fondness. Alex has an inexplicable urge to flee.

“Let’s just get our drinks,” Alex squeaks, herding Willie up to the counter and sneaking a death glare at Bobby on the way over.

“Hmm, and what’ll that be?” Bobby asks, making a point to plaster on his customer service smile.

“Medium cold brew with cinnamon almond-milk foam for me and a medium green tea for Willie, decaf.”

Willie looks at Alex incredulously. “You know my tea order?”

“It’s- it’s all you drink!” Alex squeaks defensively, picking at the collar of his shirt because when did it get so warm?

Bobby snickers. “Okay, one pretentious-ass cold brew and a horribly boring tea.”

Willie goes to pay, chuckling under his breath.

“Your drinks should be ready shortly, by the way Alex, I like this one,” Bobby snickers.

“Oookay!” Alex blurts, dragging Willie from the counter in hopes that he didn’t hear the last bit of Bobby’s sentence. His cheeks are burning as he directs them to his favorite corner of the shop. There are two chairs nestled in the corner, partially hidden by a rickety bookshelf and a wall of plants that hang down and will occasionally brush against the chair’s occupant. In the mornings, the sun shines through in a way that makes the chairs perfect for curling up like a cat seeking warmth. Alex sinks down into the seat nearest to the wall with a contented sigh and shuts his eyes, humming softly. “This is my favorite chair,” he mutters, eyes still closed.

“Hmm.” Willie’s response sounds odd, so Alex cracks open one eye only to find Willie sat in the chair beside him, elbows on the armrest closest to Alex, his chin resting in his palms. He’s looking at Alex with his lips curled into an almost wistful smile and suddenly Alex feels awfully overwhelmed. “It’s a very nice chair,” Willie says, leaning back to relax his head against the cushion and swinging his legs over the arm rest. Alex almost mourns his gaze, but he quickly shakes that feeling. It’s silly.

A gentle breeze drifts in through the window, which is always open slightly at this time of year, when it’s not too hot and not too cold out. Alex’s nose wrinkles, feeling the plant hanging above his head dance across his face in response to the wind. He hears Willie giggle beside him and he whips around, definitely not pouting. “What?”

“You made a face,” Willie responds, gesturing to his own face and mimicking Alex’s previous expression. “It was cu- it was uh, funny.” Willie goes red for a split second, but Alex writes it off as the heat and is about to ask if he wants the window closed when Bobby comes walking up, drinks in hand.

“I’m obligated by contract to warn you, Willie, that Alex with caffeine past 3 is never a sight you want to behold,” Bobby says, handing them their drinks and pulling up a chair to sit across from them.

“There is no such contract,” Alex protests. “And you’re exaggerating.” He takes a sip of his coffee, glaring at Bobby from behind the cup.

“Maybe not a formal one.” Bobby turns to face Willie now. “Seriously, caffeine at night makes him emotional for some reason.”

“Liar!”

“No dog movies when Alex has coffee at night, he’ll be sobbing for hours, even if the dog lives.”

“Noted,” Willie says, laughing. Alex contemplates kicking Bobby.

“Hey Bobbers, remember that time when you tried jumping an electric fence half naked because you got caught sneaking into a pool at night to impress a girl?”

Bobby blinks, his expression uncaring. “You cannot embarrass me,” he says. “I have no shame whatsoever.”

“Of course you don’t,” Alex grumbles.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Willie-”

“We should get back before dark!” Alex interrupts. He grabs Willie’s hand and all but shoves him from the shop, shouting at Bobby the whole way to prevent him from saying anything more to embarrass him.

Willie looks up at Alex, clearly amused, and they begin the walk back to their dorm. “Bobby seems nice,” He says nonchalantly.

Alex groans loudly. “No, no he’s terrible. He is one of my best friends and I despise him.”

Willie nods, sipping his tea. “Your friends are all pretty cool.”

“Yea… yea they’re great.” Alex pauses, sighing. “I don’t know where I’d be without them. The streets, probably,” Alex snorts bitterly at the last bit. It doesn’t cross his mind that Willie hasn’t been filled in on this. He doesn’t want to get into it. Willie seems to get the hint, brushing the confusion from his face in favor of looking up at the sky.

“I’ve always wished I was better at landscape paintings,” Willie whispers, his tone practically reverent. “Some people can just… capture every detail and emotion in- in sunsets and what-not. And it’s- it’s insane!” He gestures wildly with his hands as he talks, tea threatening to spill everywhere. “I can do abstract just fine, it’s my favorite. But my landscapes are always so… bland. I wish I could paint the feeling behind it as much as the plain details.”

Alex has seen his landscapes, and thinks them far from bland, but he doesn’t say anything. Willie has a way of turning the most horrifically boring pieces into storms of color and emotion, and Alex thinks that each brushstroke holds a piece of his soul. But he keeps his mouth shut.

“The sunset is nice,” Willie says. “I love when the clouds are pink like this. My mom used to-” he laughs nostalgically, remembering something. “-she used to tell me stories about the clouds. They all had their own personalities and lives and families. She would sit at her easel, painting the clouds, and I would be at her feet just… absolutely mesmerized.” There’s a certain shine in Willie’s eyes that Alex hasn’t seen before; it’s bittersweet and sort of disconnected. “And somehow… somehow she could show the cloud’s personalities in the paintings. I wish I could do that. She was the one who made me love art; I remember when I got my first skateboard, I stayed up for hours painting the bottom and I was so proud of it. And after I grew out of it she... she hung it on the wall above the mantel and would tell everyone who saw it how awesome it was”

Willie’s taken on a new demeanor, and Alex realizes this is the first time he’s spoken about his parents. “She seems amazing,” Alex mutters, voice quiet like he’s afraid of breaking something.

“Yea,” Willie replies. “She… she was.” He lets out a shaky breath. Oh. “She was a single mom, I never knew my father, never had the chance to ask about him. She died in a car crash when I was 14, I’ve lived with my uncle Caleb since.”

“Oh. Willie I-”

“It’s fine. I miss her, but it’s been four years y’know? I’m not… shrouded in grief like I used to be.” He gives Alex a genuine smile to prove it, and bumps their shoulder together. “C’mon, we’re almost home.”

Home. Home used to be Luke and Reggie and Julie, now… now Alex isn’t quite sure. College still feels new and different, and he often feels like his doesn’t belong. His dorm doesn’t feel much like home, it feels like a hotel room, like he’s a guest. But Willie… Willie feels more like home than anything in that dorm. Willie and his stupid blue wall and his long rambling and loud laughing. Home is Luke and Reggie and Julie and Willie, and that’s completely and utterly terrifying to Alex.

---

Chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

Notes: This chapter was gonna be longer but I felt like that was a good place to leave off. I hope you liked it :)))

Taglist: @thatsanewflavor @spookiest-sapphic @dovesgrangers @julie-n-phantoms @frostknyte @thegaylink @nervousmiracletrash @crummycassidy @fairygclds @reallyintrospectivepeople @madsmax-37 @swamp-acad @kat-maybe-not @sunsetcurve123 @lookingthroughmirrors @queer-fandom-enby

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youwontlikethisblog · 3 years

Text

She's Ugly!

In a previous post I briefly touch on the subject of Armando and his belief of love. Here I will be going into more detail on my personal experiences as a writer who has written complex OC's with a very similar nature to that of Armando. I will be talking about some pretty heavy topics here so this is your warning if they make you uncomfortable or trigger you.

As a writer you spend most of your time doing research. You don't really spend it writing as more than 75% of the time is dedicated to researching the entirety of your story and it's characters. That means you research on mental health, social behaviors, addictions, learned behavior, coping mechanisms, ect... to create an authentic and realistic character.

When I was doing research for my OC, based on the past I wrote for them I had to look into the consequences that it carried into adulthood. I had to do a lot of research on coping mechanism and seggs addiction(I write really sad characters um but that's besides the point. Also try explaining your search history when you've got tabs and tabs about centers that deal with that addiction and so on).

[Below this I will talk about Seggsual Addiction and such. if it makes you uncomfortable skip to the next [RED]].

Doing that research I found out that many people who do have that addiction often use it as a form of escapism, control, or due to a lot more severe trauma. Sometimes it's just the feeling you get from that. Some have this addiction because of low self-esteem, feelings of worthlessness, and also because it's something they can control, or at the very least in their denial stage they believe that they can.

Seggs Addiction is when someone cannot function without it. When it becomes a problem in that person's life and ruins friendships, relationships, and their professional life. It can range from content watching to actual action of the addiction. This is a serious problem as it often leaves the people feeling helpless, dirty, lowers the quality of life and they feel a lot of shame due to it and it's something that they need professional help to be able to control and overcome, just like drug addiction.

[Now I will be talking about Armando and why this relates to this breakdown. You may proceed.]

Do I believe Armando has that? Not necessarily. I am not a professional so I cannot diagnose someone with that. I just know a lot about the subject because I had to do research on the topic in the past.

Armando is a complex character. The reason I bring this up is because he does show traits of it. Do his affairs get in the way of his professional life? Somewhat. Does it ruin friendships? Yes. Does it ruin relationships? Yes, mainly his.

We know Armando has had an array of women in his life. He is desired by a lot of women(I seriously do however believe that Mario is a s. addict).

I've thought about this part of his character for a while. I really don't know what Fernando Gaitan researched or what inspired him to write Armando's character so this is really just my own personal speculation and is not a fact of the show.

From the start we are told that Armando is a man with refined taste and high standards for his women. The secretaries tells this to Betty, if I'm not mistaken Marcela mentioned it once, and Mario tells him all the time.

A poster here in the tag made a post about the situation of Mario and Aura Maria and they did a really good job at breaking down this side of Armando; that he doesn't have a refined taste or high standards for women but rather he doesn't like involving himself with women who are not in the same social statues and circles as him because of the abuse of power that it entitles.

When he told Mario he wanted to fire Claudia for being crazy Mario reminded him of what he told him when he wanted Armando to fire Aura Maria and because of that Armando decides not to personally fire Claudia, it wasn't until Marcela asked for her head that he asked Hugo to fire her.

Now let me step away from the story and explain why I have this speculation.

Armando's parents aren't very active in his life. They're only there when it comes to the company or his relationship with Marcela(I already talked about his parents in The Art of Subtly in YSBLF post) now imagine that as you're growing up. That your parents aren't actively in your life unless you're achieving or accomplishing something. We know Armando has a sister that doesn't talk to their parents and is only in contact with him. That their mother possibly ruined her marriage to a man because he was poor. This tells us that his parents aren't the best.

A child who grows up having to overcompensate and over achieve grows up with low self-esteem, feelings of worthlessness, and other problems. They grow up believing that the only way they are worthy of love is by being perfect and they become obsessed with achieving perfection.

Due to this upbringing Armando is a control freak, neurotic, egocentric, and obsessed with perfection. He gets stressed out when things don't go his way. He has grown up in the fashion world and beauty has been fed to him that it is tall, thin, and above all has to be perfect.

A child is a product of their environment.

This has molded Armando into the person he is today.

On top of that Armando basically has his entire life planned out by his parents as a child who grew up hearing about the desire for him to be with Marcela to honor his parents best friends, for the good of the company, ect.

To receive his parents love he must do what his parents tell him, no exceptions. He must be the best at everything so he always aims high. In his proposal to be president he did exactly that.

Ironically Armando too is a people pleaser and feels like he has little to no control over his destiny.

So flings with Models become a form to cope. Though for a long time he enjoys those flings and what it entitles as it makes him feel good about himself, he is able to decide who he has a fling with but then it no longer is that.

My OC's addiction is driven by the desire of feeling wanted and needed. It boost her self-esteem though when it's over with she feels empty and hollow inside and we get a scene of Armando expressing those exact feelings to Mario the night he meets Ms. Colombia.

As they are leaving the cocktail Mario is upset that he[Armando] was leaving because he was so close to closing in on Ms. Colombia being his next conquest and that he couldn't change her for Marcela, who was always going to be there. Armando goes to explain something to him. He tells him that though at first he does get excited over the women and he does want to sleep with them that as soon as it's over he feels nothing anymore, that he doesn't enjoy it anymore.

This is part of a cycle and we see that.

Armando, before Betty, has the idea that if he falls in love it will be with a physically perfect woman who knows where she's standing and the only person that is like that is Marcela. He's got three reasons to marry her: He wanted her vote, his parents, and because she's what is mentioned above.

When Betty is introduce into his life she isn't what he expects in his dream woman. He expects perfection in a physical sense. However Betty has everything he wants in his dream woman in substance and personality.

He knows he likes Betty's personality but because she isn't physically perfect, he believes he isn't interested in her or attracted to her but because he likes her personality so much he believes he's entitled to her which is what drives his jealousy, it is not love.

Armando isn't in love with Betty here or at least not yet.

Betty embodies everything he wants and desires in a woman. She is humble, kind, respectful, unconditional, faithful, smart, like really smart and he likes that about her a lot, submissive and selfless.

However because the package isn't what he thinks is perfect, he cancels out. He denies that he likes her and he denies that he cares about her because of it.

So when Mario suggest for Armando to make Betty fall in love, Armando is apprehensive and disgusted by it.

Let's be honest, Betty isn't ugly! She's adorable! I will fight anyone who disagrees with this. Betty is cute and has always been cute.

I have spoken about Armando's emotional confusion a lot in the past few days but I haven't spoken about the mechanics of the confusion he is dealing with.

Denial is a strong defense mechanism. Subconsciously he has feelings for Betty and is attracted to her because of her personality but consciously he isn't. The mystery of the mind is never ending.

sub·con·scious /səbˈkänSHəs/

adjective of or concerning the part of the mind of which one is not fully aware but which influences one's actions and feelings. "my subconscious fear"

Armando's behavior towards finding out that Betty is in love has been dominated by his subconscious. However when it comes to facing those feelings he enters denial, therefore he cannot fathom the idea of ever being involved with someone so "ugly".

con·scious /ˈkän(t)SHəs/

adjective aware of and responding to one's surroundings; awake.

Armando is aware that Betty isn't his ideal of the type of women he is physically attracted to. He is aware the she isn't the standard of beauty.

Due to this he is refusing to listen to Mario.

Now that we understand this we can continue with the episode breakdown.

After Betty leaves, Armando is upset because Nicolas is the General Manager of Terra Moda(it feeds his paranoia talked about in the Betty, My Betty Part 3 post) .

Once again Armando and Mario switch roles. Armando is now aware of his conscious desires and he's sticking by them. Mario however is aware of Armando's subconscious desires.

Mario tries to level with him. He tells him that they can tell Betty to fire him but Armando rejects that by telling him that he does a good job and that Betty says he's important for Terra Moda, therefore Eco Moda, again this shows that Armando doesn't distrust of them in a professional sense. So they both agree that they shouldn't tell Betty to fire him. Mario first suggested that they reverse the seizure against Eco Moda and Armando goes on to reject that and explain why they can't do that. So Mario tells Armando that they need to think of something because it is a business deal involving them three; Armando, Himself, and Betty.

They agree that asking Betty to fire or take away so much responsibility from Nic could give way to Betty becoming hostile and resentful. Mario tells him that it would also be unfair since she's always been so unconditional with the both, Armando agrees.

We get to divides here. Two sides of the nickel.

Mario's priority and main concern is keeping Eco Moda and Armando as president for what it gives him.

Armando's priority is Betty's love life(Why else would he be so worried about her love life? A normal boss wouldn't care about your love life. Armando knows that Betty is a good and trustworthy employee and he said so himself).

Mario as always watched Armando carefully. The third and best option would have been to simply talk to Betty and be professionals and leave things alone and not doing anything about Betty's love life.

Mario tells Armando "Well the best option is to make Betty fall in love with you."

Armando goes on to say that he would never do that because he doesn't have the desire to and doesn't want to because Betty is ugly(this is why I said what I did above). Mario stops using the fear of losing Eco Moda and goes for the emotional because he knows that it will affect Armando's subconscious that will dominate him like it had been all day long.

"You're the perfect candidate because if it weren't for Nicolas showing up, I could have sworn she was in love with you. No, seriously, look at the way she looks at you, she's always been unconditional with you(he knows this is one of the qualities that Armando likes about Betty as he always lists it). My friend, if there's anyone that is capable of fighting against Nicolas Mora, it's the president of Eco Moda(here he is appealing to Armando's ego)."

What does Mario get out of all of this? Reputation in tact which allows him to continue living his best single life, which he said himself is his most prized possession. So it is important to him that Armando does whatever it takes to keep Betty from doing anything to get a husband(post Betty, My Betty! Part 3).

Fast forward Armando is in Marcela's apartment after the new collection launch and they're fighting because Armando let Betty into the event.

He not only defends his decision of inviting her as his guest but Betty's job and her role in the new collection. Marcela scoffs and they continue to argue.

What captured my attention though is that Armando tells Marcela that she can't be in a competing so absurd with a woman like Betty and shouldn't be in a feminine competition with her.

Armando is now go to the otherside of the room so we get his back as Marcela starts to speak ("You're wrong Armando I don't view her as a woman")and as she says "I am offended that you would think I feel she's a feminine competition-" Armando now looks at her confused.

Either he is confused because he doesn't understand what Marcela is trying to say or once again his subconscious is dominating him here.

The takeaway is that in Armando's mind Betty is a woman, ugly, but a woman nonetheless. He is confused as to why Marcela doesn't view her as a woman but still behaves the way she does.

We again get a classic scene of Betty writing in her diary as we hear her dialogue and get scenes of Armando in Marcela's bed.

We see Armando thinking about what Mario told him earlier that night.

When Mario told him that he would've sworm that Betty was in love with him[Armando] in that scene we didn't really get a reaction from him. He had a poke face but here, as he is thinking about it all he has a different look.

We stop getting a visual flashback, only an auditory one after Mario told him "I could've sworn she was in love with you." and the frame we're getting is Armando's face while laying in bed. He seems hopeful. The exact same expression he had when Betty told him that she didn't have anything with Nicolas.

We hear Mario's voice when he told him "If there's anyone who can fight Nicolas for Betty's love, it's the president of Eco Moda." Armando shifts in bed and covers his face. We then fade to Betty asleep on her bed and get another fade to Armando, this allows us to know that they are about to have another shared dream.

Armando is the mvp of this dream ss the camera focuses on him right away.

He seems happy in this dream as he runs around with Betty in a field with bright green grass and trees. He continues turns to look at Betty or allows Betty to lead him. Then in the dream Betty disappears and Armando is left alone, searching around him with a scared expression on his face until Betty finally appears in front of him. She nears him with her lips slightly puckered and Armando smiles and as well moves in closer until Betty runs away from him again.

The dreams shows us this two more times where Betty runs from him until the final time when Armando finds her and they near for a kiss we then get a real world Armando in bed shaking his head mumbling no, we can assume they are kissing in the dream.

This foretells what is to come. In Betty's eyes this is a good dream but we also know that due to her past Betty is afraid to love again which we're told this by her constant running away from Armando in the dream.

Armando's fear is brought to light in this dream that is of him losing Betty as it reoccurs more than once and each time he goes out to find her. There is times when he does want to kiss her but Betty pulls away and runs and then on the final one he becomes conscious in his dream(yes that happens, it's called lucid dreaming and sometimes it randomly happens).

The fact we kept getting fades from both Armando and Betty sleeping lets us know this was a dream simontainsly happening at the same time and it isn't until after they actually kiss that Armando's conscious starts to wake him up.

Marcela then finishes waking him up in the real world and asks Armando what he was dreaming, he tells her a horrible nightmare.

Again, Armando is aware that he doesn't find Betty to be his ideal perfect woman or the beauty standard. You know, she's "ugly" so having something physical even in a dream is a nightmare to him. The thing to take note of is that he was enjoying the beginning of that dream and it demonstrates his subconscious feelings.

We already Betty loved that dream.

The next morning Marcela mentions that if he doesn't talk about the dream he must secretly want it to come true.

His coping mechanism towards this entire situation has been denial. It protects him from having to face his true feelings and fears. It protects him from something he isn't ready to deal with yet.

He starts choking on his juice and coughing as Marcela watches him.

Marcela telling him this pushes him to face those fears of his, the fear that he does like Betty and that he does care about her more than just his employee however again, he is in denial therefore unable to understand this.

[You know I will write a post about how Aura Maria and Freddy are a parallel of Betty and Armando.]

Neither Betty or Armando talk about their dream to anyone, or at least the real content of said dream, which based on what Marcela insinuated, Armando secretly wants that dream to come true.

This is a fact because later on when Armando has that nightmare of Betty making out with Nicolas inside the new car they got, he tells Marcela about the nightmare or at least some distorted version of it, because he doesn't want that nightmare to come true. This time though he doesn't talk about it.

Betty clarifies the situation between Nicola and her roll in Terra Moda and Armando thanks her for it.

When she goes into her office Armando tells Mario that he's right about making Betty fall in love.

This next scene I already broke down in another post. Armando suggest Mario for the job because he knows that Mario would never fall in love with Betty but at least it would secure the company. However since Mario would never fall in love with Betty that would mean that he wouldn't have competition since you know these two pigs share everything.

Not only that but it would mean that he gets to avoid and deny his feelings without the worry of Nicolas and Betty ending up together and Nicolas turning her against him.

Armando tells Mario that he gets that it's the more logical thing that he[Armando] is the one to make Betty fall in love but that it's not morally correct.

He gets angry as he tells him that he can't do that to her, a woman who has been very special to him, too special towards him. Again this shows that Armando takes notice and likes that Betty treats him the way she does and because of that he doesn't want to hurt her and he knows that she doesn't deserve that.

However Mario then pulls the "your parents will be so disappointed and angry at you if you lose the company. So do you have to decide whether you'll be a rat to your parents or Betty."

As they discuss the sinister plan they solely based the problem in the physicality. As Armando even said himself the only bad thing about the plan was that Betty was ugly. If Betty wasn't ugly Armando wouldn't be afraid to face his feelings therefore be upfront about them.

However because she is it clashes with all his other traits. His ego, vanity, obsession with perfection and the fact he was unable to be in control over who he ends up falling in love with or liking.

I don't know what worse, Armando knowing how selfish the plan is against Betty and still going along with the it for the sake of the company and his unwillingness to admit to his parents that he was wrong or Mario knowing exactly what's going and how to manipulate Armando to do this and not caring about his best friends feelings and the guilt he will carry on as long as Armando remains president for his own greed.

In the next post I will breakdown the scene in which Armando drunkenly confesses somewhat his very confused feelings.

'Til next time :)

Ps. Sorry for all this typos! I'm an insomniac so I usually write these sleep deprived lol.

#armando mendoza #don armando #armando ysblf #beatriz pinzón solano #beatriz pinzon solano #betty la fea #betty ysblf #yo soy betty la fea #mario calderon #marcela valencia #betty pinzón solano

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bosspigeon · 3 years

Text

Carabosse et la Fee des Lilas

Prompt: 💋Drag

Pairing: Adam/Male Detective, Bonus Found Family Vibes~

Words: 5,346

Summary: Tina spends some quality time with Arlo and Unit Bravo as they prepare for Wayhaven's first real Pride festival, Tina torments her best friend and his maybe-boyfriend (as is her god-given right), and Arlo has a big think about his favorite role and what that role allowed him to explore~

CW for references to transmisogyny and implications of past trans/homophobia

Sometimes, Tina wonders if Arlo missed his true calling. His hands are surgeon-steady as he pencils delicate patterns onto Felix’s cheeks, outlining with white eyeliner in preparation to fill them in with bold colors and glitter. Tina almost can’t wait for her turn, even though Felix looks like he’s in real, physical pain with the effort of holding as still as possible. She’s no stranger to that struggle herself.

Neither is she a stranger to Arlo’s forceful, if toothless, threats, overcome as she is by fondness when he growls that he's going to draw a mustache on Felix’s face with permanent marker if he doesn’t stop bloody bouncing.

It’s pretty fun to watch from the outside. Sure, when you first sit down when he’s like this—all sharp and snappish and “stop moving or I’ll chuck you out the window”—it’s hard to keep still, but Arlo’s got this sort of quiet intensity to him when he’s focusing on something that’s oddly meditative. He’s just a soothing presence, really. Like a capybara or something. He’s friend-shaped.

Whatever weird magic it is, it’s definitely catching, because Felix looks less like he’s about to burst, like he did when Arlo was putting down the foundation, and more like he’s enjoying the attention. Tina’s not sure how long it’s going to last, seeing as Felix has given her a run for her money in the “manic energy” department, and he’s nowhere near as caffeinated as she is at any given time, but for the time being, he’s (mostly) still and quiet.

There’s music playing, quiet enough that the broody one (she knows his name, but it seems to bug him when she calls him "the broody one," which is funny, so—) only grumbled about it for a few minutes when Arlo turned it on, and even seems to enjoy sitting close enough to Arlo’s stupidly fancy stereo system to, she guesses, feel the rumble of the bass through the floor. Vampires are weird.

Anyway, it’s Arlo’s usual sad goth boy nonsense, but as quiet as it is, and with its intense instrumentals and rumbling vocals, it’s pleasant background noise more than anything.

Nate (the handsome and charming one, because of course all Arlo’s vampire friends are handsome, so she has to differentiate between them somehow) is rifling through Arlo’s bookshelf like it’s his job, and visibly struggling to pick something to read, because Arlo’s sitting room bookshelf (the one she found at a yard sale three hours away and lashed to the top of her sedan with every single bungee cord she could find at the local hardware store because it was coffin-shaped, for god's sake) is where he keeps all his weirdo occult stuff to, quote, “make people who pop by unannounced leave faster.”

And then there’s the big, handsome, stupidly fit blonde Arlo still won’t call his boyfriend, even though they’re so obvious it’s sickening, and she means that with all the love in her heart. He’s sitting in the armchair by the bookshelf, positioned so he can look like he’s reading one of Arlo’s old music magazines and totally isn’t taking advantage of the perfect line of sight of Arlo perched on the end of his coffee table so he’s not too tall to work on Felix, sitting in a chair from the kitchen. Tina sure hopes he doesn’t think he’s subtle, being a super special vampire secret agent and all.

He seems to notice her eyeing him, at least, and keeps his attention pinned firmly on the magazine, though he is definitely not reading a single word. Nate keeps browsing, the Broody One keeps brooding, Arlo keeps working, and Felix starts to hum. Arlo gives him a sharp look, but it doesn’t seem to be moving his face in any major way, so he just rolls his eyes and keeps tracing pretty patterns onto that unfairly smooth, dark skin. Do vampires do skin care? They probably don’t even need to, and that’s probably one of the reasons people like to villainize them. It always comes down to jealousy, doesn’t it?

She sighs, loudly enough that every eye in the room turns to her, and while she did not expect the sudden attention, she knows she can at least use it to entertain herself. She homes in on Adam, and smiles when she finally looks at the magazine he’s still valiantly pretending to read. There’s a familiar man on the cover, and while she can’t be bothered to remember his name, she grins. “Oh, hey! Arlo, he’s reading the one with the guy who looks like you!”

Arlo doesn’t even look up, but he huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes again. He’s going to give himself a headache if he keeps that up.

The comment does exactly what she wants it to, which is draw the attention of all the other vampires. Arlo even begrudgingly pulls the pencil away from Felix’s cheek so he can take a look, and he immediately bursts out laughing.

“Arlo!” he exclaims, slapping at Arlo’s knee. “You didn’t tell us you had a twin!”

Nate chuckles (warm and rich and handsome, if a sound can be called handsome) and turns from the shelf to study the magazine curiously himself. Even the Broody One peers over to see, a little smirk curling his permanently-scowling mouth.

“Considering he was born in the sixties, I definitely don’t,” Arlo drawls. “Tina’s been making that joke since we were kids. She’s just happy she’s got an audience who hasn’t heard it twelve times a week since she first saw my old Type O Negative poster.”

“Some jokes just get better with time,” Tina says archly. “Like a fine wine.”

“And some jokes age like milk,” Arlo fires back.

Adam tilts the magazine so he can look for himself, and his dour expression clouds over even more, brows furrowing and mouth twisting. He peers up at Arlo, studying him, then down again.

Got you. “Yeah, you’re right,” Tina says, nodding sagely at him. “Arlo’s much prettier.”

It has exactly the reaction she was hoping for. Arlo drops his eyeliner pencil and makes a strangled noise, glowering at her with his cute freckly cheeks going all red, and Adam, who is a good bit paler than Arlo, goes pink from the crewneck of his just-this-side-of-too-tight tee shirt to his hairline. Tina wants to punch the air as the other vampires snicker at them. Well, except for Nate. Nate’s not a snickerer. He chortles. It’s adorable.

“Speaking of pretty!” Felix crows once they’ve all had a laugh at their fearless leader’s expense. He points to his own face with both hands, dancing in his chair, and Arlo sighs and rolls his eyes again, bending to pick up the dropped pencil. Luckily, the tip isn’t broken, so he can get right back to work, once he’s given the young vampire a moment to get his wiggles out. He settles, sitting on his hands and pursing his lips when Arlo gives him a dry look. He hovers back in with the pencil, and then Felix blurts out, “How’d you get so good at this anyway? Well, I assume you’re good at it. I haven’t seen it yet.”

Arlo doesn’t say anything. He just looks at him, pencil poised, until Felix pinches his mouth shut with a quick little apology. Once Arlo’s satisfied his canvas is actually going to hold still and keep quiet, he gets back to it. “My school was pretty small, especially compared to the bigger-name performing arts schools out there,” he says after a moment of quiet focus, tracing the outline of a heart around one of Felix’s eyes. “Our department didn’t really have a huge budget, and workspace was at a premium too. We didn’t have a lot of time to prepare for performances before someone else had to use the theatre, so we all did our own makeup at once, for the most part. Sometimes we’d help each other out, because we all had our strengths and weaknesses.”

He pulls back the pencil, squinting critically at the heart like it’s not completely perfect. “Demi was the best at laying the groundwork, and at matching colors to our costumes and complexions. Viv was the best at coming up with concepts and making sure we looked like a matching set. Wendi could do insane prosthetics, and was the best at bullying our department head into giving us the money for them. I had the steadiest hands, so I always did the eyes and the details.”

“Was Wendi the one who did your Dracula look?” Tina gasps. “That one was so cool!”

“Dracula?” Felix blurts. Tina doesn’t miss how the others perk up with interest too.

Arlo glares at him, and he shrinks back with a sheepish little grin. “Yeah, we did Dracula, uh… second year, I think? That was when Tilly transferred in and started doing our choreography. She’s the one who got Professor Dacey to let us do less classical stuff and start branching out a bit.” He glances briefly at Tina, staunchly ignoring the way Felix pouts at him for dividing his attention. “And, yeah, Wendi did the prosthetics for that one.”

“She’s got to be magic,” Tina asserts. “She managed to make your sweet, mopey face look so scary.”

Felix and Mason both snicker at that, and Arlo’s mouth goes all lemon-sour pinchy, like it always does when she calls him a sad puppy man, or any variation thereof.

“Take a lap,” Arlo says to Felix. “Don’t touch your face.” He jerks his head at Tina when Felix bolts to his feet and starts zooming around the flat to get out some of his energy. “Your turn, if you’re done being a comedian.”

“I’m never done,” she says with a sunny smile, but she bounces over to take Felix’s place in the chair and closes her eyes serenely so he can start on her makeup.

“And, God, do I know it,” he grumbles under his breath, knowing full well she can hear him, and so can everyone else in the room, too.

“Do you have pictures?” Felix hollers. He’s dipped into Arlo’s studio, and he’s making no secret of rifling through the desk in there, drawers slamming and paper rustling.

Arlo tips his head back so when he sighs, loud and dramatically long-suffering, he’s not blowing his breath right in Tina’s face. She appreciates the gesture. “Bottom right drawer,” he calls back, resignation thick in his voice. Given how long he’s been putting up with Tina—and Felix might just be Tina’s second platonic soulmate (Arlo, of course, being the first)—he already knows that keeping quiet is just prolonging the inevitable. Tina opens her eyes briefly to see Felix come sailing out of the studio with a thick leather-bound album held triumphantly over his head.

“Oh, I haven’t seen that in years!” she coos happily.

Arlo bops her on the forehead pointedly with a sponge covered in foundation, and she closes her eyes obediently.

She hears Arlo’s antique sofa creak as Felix plops down onto it, rifling through the plastic pages. “Aw,” he whines, “no baby pictures?”

“I can’t imagine him ever being a baby,” Mason snorts, and he sounds closer than he was before. Tina knows better than to open her eyes while Arlo’s in the zone, though. He’ll bop her with something less soft than a sponge next time. “I figured he’s just always been a giant.”

Felix laughs, high and chiming. “No wonder Agent Priestley’s always so sour, then,” he says. Tina giggles, and it becomes an inelegant snort when Arlo bops her again on the nose.

“Ask Rebecca if you want to see my baby pictures,” Arlo mutters blandly, and Tina can feel the weight of his attention. “I doubt she has many after age two, and the ones before I’ve barely seen.”

Tina’s not a super-special supernatural secret agent, but she tries with all her might to will someone to change the subject before things get weird. Now’s as good a time as any to learn telepathy.

Felix, heart of her heart, interrupts what’s shaping up to be a real prize winner of an awkward silence with a loud gasp. “Woah!” he exclaims, and pages crinkle as he presumably holds up the book for Arlo to see. “Who’s this? Did you do her makeup too?”

Arlo’s hair rustles as he turns his head away from her, and then the hand on her cheek freezes. Tension radiates through every inch of his body, practically leaching into hers. She cautiously opens one eye, and sees Arlo sitting up impeccably straight, stiff as a board and staring at Felix like a deer in the headlights. He swallows so hard she can see his throat move. “Um,” he says, stilted and strange. “Yeah. I did.”

Tina opens both eyes and squints at the photo album. Oh.

Felix looks at the sudden strain in the way Arlo is sitting, the tightness of his posture, and looks quizzically down at the picture again.

Tina remembers that performance. She remembers Arlo dancing (ha) around the subject when she asked him teasingly if he was going to be playing the prince, who was the lead, was he excited to kiss a pretty girl?

She can’t remember the character’s name, not so many years after the fact, especially since they were all weird classical nonsense, either Latin or French or some mishmash of the two. But she remembers the costume. She remembers waiting with bated breath to see Arlo onstage, to stand and scream and cheer obnoxiously loud in support of her best friend. She shot to her feet the second she saw his obvious silhouette rise from a feather-bedecked black chariot, head and shoulders taller than anyone else onstage. The music swelled, lightning flashed, and then when the spotlight hit him, she was so stunned she plopped right back into her seat with her jaw on the floor.

Arlo’s always been one of those guys that straddled the line between pretty and handsome. Long, lustrous hair and eyelashes she would kill for, cheekbones that could kill, a defined jaw, a proud nose, and intense eyes she could only call sultry—if she hadn’t known him since they were both weird, gawky brats, she’d probably be half in love with him before figuring out she wasn’t his cup of tea. But seeing him onstage was always an adventure. He threw himself into whatever character he played, put his everything into them, from the costume to the makeup to the performance. He just became the character, and in a way that was so very Arlo, all that intensity and focus channeled into an act that completely stole the show, in Tina’s humble and completely unbiased opinion.

Carabosse! That was her name!

Carabosse was no different.

Arlo’s makeup was flawless, ghost-white foundation giving him intense Morticia Addams vibes, contouring that made his cheekbones look absolutely unreal, bold black (or maybe really dark purple?) lipstick and shiny, smoky eyeshadow that made him look ethereal and wicked, with a daggerpoint cat-eye that she spent an hour begging him to teach her after the show. When he turned his head in a sharp, birdlike motion to look down his nose at the dancers playing the King and Queen, she gasped at the way his hair rippled down his back, shiny-black and woven with actual feathers that trailed back from the ornate metal circlet resting on his brow like a bird’s crest. The costume was breathtaking, too, a tightly corseted bodice and a high collar, a dramatically billowing skirt and trailing, feathered sleeves that flared like wings whenever he moved.

And the way he moved! Arlo’s dancing changed with every role, whatever he felt would suit the character. One of her favorites was always his Hans-Peter (she had a soft spot for that one, and had ever since she was little—one of the first Christmas gifts her stepmom had ever given her was little storybook version of The Nutcracker that came with a CD) because his dancing was so stiff and stridently mechanical, he looked like a real toy soldier come to life. But his villains moved with a slinking, predatory prowl she’d only ever seen in monster movies, and never in something like a ballet. His Carabosse was as beautiful as she was terrifying, and it was incredible to watch. She wanted to fling herself at him after the show and babble at him endlessly like she always did, but she spent a solid minute staring at him slack-jawed, until he shifted awkwardly and looked down, and the confident intimidation of the Wicked Fairy sloughed away to reveal Arlo underneath.

He almost melted into the floor with relief when she finally startled to babble.

She puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes, and he takes a slow, deep breath, offering Felix a strained smile. “Take a closer look, mate,” he says quietly.

Felix does. He looks up and squints at Arlo, and then back down at the photo. Tina has to bite her lip so she doesn’t laugh when he looks over at Adam, still holding the magazine with that metal singer that kind of looks like Arlo on it, and then back at Arlo. His mouth drops open into a little o, and he shoots to his feet and shouts, “No way!”

Mason was allowed his name back briefly, but he goes right back to Broody One when he grimaces at Felix and slinks pettishly back to his corner.

Arlo’s shoulders are practically around his ears, but he tries to keep smiling. “Yeah. Sleeping Beauty. Fourth year. I was the Wicked Fairy.”

“He was amazing,” Tina declares, shoulders back and chin tipped up challengingly. “The costume was insane, but the way he played her was absolutely, ridiculously badass.”

“You look awesome!” Felix blurts, still gawking down at the photo. He flips to the next page, and squeaks happily when he finds more pictures, from different angles, showing off the costume, the way Arlo loomed over the other dancers, the way he commanded the stage. Tina should really find out who took the pictures and send them her thanks, because they really put in the work. “Your makeup, your dress, your hair! How’d you even do that?”

Arlo laughs, and it sounds so utterly relieved, Tina’s heart breaks a little. Arlo’s always been sensitive, and for someone who dresses and holds himself the way he does, he worries more than he lets on what people think of him. Especially people he cares about. She squeezes his shoulder again, and he bites his lip when he glances back at her and smiles hesitantly.

“A lot of wire, and enough hairspray to choke a bloody cow,” he says, twisting around and slinging his long legs over the coffee table so he can face the sofa. “I think we bought every bag of black feathers the craft store had, and then spent an entire weekend painting them with this stupidly expensive embossing powder. We had to get, like, ten pots of the stuff, because the craft store only had pots the size of a quarter.”

“I admire your dedication,” Nate says pleasantly, strolling over to peer over Arlo’s shoulder. They tighten just a bit before relaxing slowly. “That costuming is superb. I’ve seen professional productions that weren’t half so detailed.”

“That would be Viv’s work,” Arlo laughs, looking down at the pictures fondly. “She took whatever cheap garbage the department had for us, raided the nearest clearance fabric rack, and worked her magic. The employees at that little craft store loved and hated us in equal measure.”

Arlo is still tense, but he’s loosening up little by little, and with him Tina does too. The easy camaraderie is soothing, and she knows how much Arlo cares about his vampire friends, so it’s got to be a huge weight off his shoulders to be able to let his guard down around them. He deserves that. He deserves to be able to be himself.

Adam standing up draws Arlo’s attention like nothing else could, and he freezes like a startled rabbit again looking up at the burly blonde vampire as he approaches the sofa. He looks a split second from bolting. Tina sits up straighter and gives Adam her most daring look, squaring her shoulders to make it perfectly clear she's ready to fight the second he opens his mouth. She’ll definitely lose, sure, but she’ll make as much trouble as she can before she goes down.

He reaches out, his hand hesitating before it touches the album’s glossy page, and he looks up at Arlo with a questioning tilt to his brows. Arlo looks like he’s barely breathing, but he nods, and Adam slips one of the pictures from its sleeve. He straightens his spine, shoulders back, holding the photo and studying it carefully. His face is impossible to read, about as expressive as a bloody brick wall. Tina’s vibrating with nervous energy. She’ll fight a vampire, though. She will.

When Adam does finally speak, his voice comes out so softly Tina almost doesn’t hear it over the adrenaline rushing through her. “You look… striking.”

Striking. Oh my god.

She wants to laugh. They’re ridiculous.

“Thanks,” Arlo chokes out, his cheeks and ears going red this time.

Oh my god. Tina covers her mouth with both hands. Arlo glowers at her. It’s a lot less threatening when he’s blushing like that. “I didn’t say anything,” she mumbles against her palms.

“Your face,” he hisses, and she yelps.

“Oh! Shit!” She pulls her hands away, and he grabs her by the chin to check the damage with a click of his tongue.

Tina thought things would get better once Arlo actually kissed the man (and maybe got a leg over, but that’s only her business when she can finally get Arlo to actually talk about if the big, beefy Adonis is as missionary-with-the-lights-off as he looks) but at least they’re not just staring longingly at each other from across the room and then getting all sad about it anymore . Thankfully, Felix seems to be an old hand at clearing up the weird tension between the two of them, chiming in a delighted, “I’ve never seen you look so scary!” as he rifles through all the pictures from the Sleeping Beauty show. “I mean, you’re pretty scary when you go all furry, but also, you sort of just look like a big lanky puppy, because it’s just you, you know? This is someone else! Who is she! She's so cool!”

Arlo sighs and turns around to fix whatever Tina’s ruined with her foundation, and throws himself back into dolling her up. Thankfully, the actual festival’s not for a while yet. She complained about the unnecessarily early start when Arlo suggested the time, but now she’s glad he’s such a persnickety prick about scheduling. “I had a lot of fun with it,” he admits, shrugging his shoulders. “The original script notes said to get, y’know, sort of silly with it, but I wasn’t a big fan of that angle for a character like her. Yeah, I wanted to be campy, but not in the way…” He purses his lips. “Okay, well, Nate probably knows this, but a lot of classical ballets that have a female villains do this thing with them that I hate.” He frowns deeply, patting at Tina’s chin with gentle ferocity. “ An evil female character is supposed to be sort of… sort of a cautionary tale, I guess? Like your typical bitter spinster crone, the old hag, or the wicked stepsisters, things like that. So they’ll specifically cast a male dancer and put them in bright, gaudy facepaint and garish costumes that are supposed to be cartoonish and ugly, that you're supposed to find funny, to show you that this character is bad because she’s indelicate and mannish, and that’s why she’s evil.”

His mouth twists around the words, and he looks up, back at the vampires, leaving Tina a moment to really appreciate that Arlo’s comfortable enough with them to do what he’s only ever really done with her—which is ramble about something he’s passionate about. It’s always fun to watch. He turns back to her, and she just wishes his hands weren’t occupied, because he’s a big hand-talker otherwise. “I got the role because the professor thought it would be funny to stick me in a role like that, being so tall and, y’know,” he gestures vaguely to his faded old band tee and dark jeans, the thick leather cuff around his wrist. Tina doesn’t see what he really means, seeing as he looks cozy and content right now, but she gets what he’s going for. “He was expecting me to be awkward about it. The big, tough guy doing drag as the creepy crone caricature.” He huffs. “I talked with Demi about it, and we decided to say fuck that.” He sits up straighter, tilts up his chin, and looks down his nose at Tina.

She peers up at him, wide-eyed, and suddenly wonders if this is how Demi felt, playing Aurora when Carabosse looked down her nose at her like an insect under her heel.

“I thought Carabosse deserved better,” Arlo says fiercely. “If I was going to be a villain, I was going to be a damned good villain. I was going to tower over all the delicate, dainty little princesses and fairies, and I was going to be fierce. Professor Dacey wanted Aurora, and Candide, and Florine to be the epitome of sweet, delicate femininity, the ideal damsel in any classical show. Carabosse is supposed to be the complete opposite. You’re supposed to root against her, not want to be her. She’s a threat to the idea of womanhood, of the ideal feminine. She’s bold and selfish and she takes what she wants. I leaned into that. I even danced en pointe for parts of it, even though Carabosse isn't supposed to, and between the rehearsals and the actual performance, I thought my feet were gonna fall off, but it was worth it.”

Arlo smiles, and Tina is thrilled by the wickedness of it. She thinks she even sees just a hint of fang. Arlo’s been so careful about showing his teeth, ever since he told her what happened to him, why he disappeared for so long, so it's somehow special for him to feel like he can show her even a hint of what he’s become.

“Professor Dacey was pissed, afterwards, of course,” Arlo laughs, but there’s an edge to it. He seems to shrink. From Arlo to Carabosse to Arlo again. He looks down at his hands as they work on Tina more than at her face. “He didn’t, y’know, say anything he could have gotten fired over, but he did rail about being left out of planning and the budget and all that rot. Got even madder when Demi pointed out we’d spent our own money on the costumes. I think if he was tall enough to look down on me, he would have.” He snorts, a bitter curl to his mouth. Tina thinks of it painted bold, dark purple, thinks of how it would look with those teeth behind it. She wonders if he’d let her do his makeup for the festival. She’s not nearly as good at details as he is, but she’s no slouch either.

“You should have let me put raw fish in his hubcaps,” Tina mutters, just to make Arlo laugh. It works, and she beams at him.

“Would have been a waste of fish,” he mumbles, sucking his teeth. He finally picks up a bright eyeshadow palette and starts waffling over colors. He’s quiet while he deliberates, but after a while, he sighs. “I liked being Carabosse,” he says, like it’s a secret. Like he’s trying very hard not to be ashamed.

“I wish I could have seen it,” Adam says, almost dreamily. Tina could scream. “I— We could have, I mean. All of us. In solidarity.”

“Smooth,” Felix whispers.

“I’m sure it was a phenomenal performance,” Nate adds helpfully. He’s taken the album from Felix to flip through to some of Arlo’s other shows. “The passion you have for your characters shines through in just photos. It’s quite impressive.”

“You should have gone pro,” Tina mutters. “You’d be a household name by now.”

Arlo snorts and bops her with the brush. How many bops is that now? She’s certainly on a roll today. “And who’d keep you in line back here?” he teases.

Tina squints up at him and sticks out her tongue. “Like you’ve ever even tried to keep me in line, you big softie. You love the chaos, just admit it.”

“I’ll admit you to the hospital when you do something stupid and get yourself hurt again, how about that?”

They bicker like children back and forth while Arlo finishes her makeup, a wash of pink, purple, and blue eyeshadow and matching lipstick, overlaid with a lustrous sparkle to her cheekbones and a cute little black heart-shaped beauty mark under one eye. Felix gets a bi flag heart to match her eyeshadow around one eye, and then the rest is a sort of confetti splash of sparkly stars and hearts in every color. Even Nate goes for the bi eyeshadow (Bi-shadow? She should have been saying that this whole time!), making him, Tina, and Felix a matching set, and Mason consents to a very simple pan flag on his cheek. Tina suspects Adam only allows the eyeshadow treatment so he can have Arlo cup his face all tenderly, but she keeps the thought (mostly) to herself. He looks good in pastels, she thinks when she sees the finished blue, pink, and white.

Arlo draws a little heart under his eye too. The heart in Tina's chest almost explodes with warmth.

And then Arlo disappears into the bathroom, leaving the rest of them to entertain themselves while he gets ready on his own. They go through the album some more, and Tina tells them all about her favorite shows, because she went to every single one she could manage, and got Arlo’s school friends to send her videos of the ones she couldn’t. Tina Poname is Arlo Priestley’s number one fan, and that will never change. Not even now that she's got some competition.

When Arlo comes out of the bathroom, they all look up in sync, and he stands there, shifting anxiously from foot to foot under the attention, and lifts his hands in a stilted shrug. “So?” he asks, smiling nervously. He’s changed clothes, too. Tight pants, big boots, a mesh-sleeved black shirt underneath his patch-and-pin-covered denim vest. His wrists jingle with chunky bracelets, and his hair is braided neatly over one shoulder. But his makeup is what really steals the show. That insanely sharp cat-eye, of course, but one eye is done up in blue, pink, and white, and the other in yellow, white, purple, and black. He smiles timidly. “I, uh, I couldn’t really decide on just one,” he says, sticking his gloved hands into the pockets of his vest. “I’m, um, I’m not sure which one’s really right for me yet, I guess?” He shrugs again, and Tina watches delightedly as Adam stands up slowly, his eyes on Arlo with such an awed intensity she wonders if he even remembers there’s other people in the room. Arlo keeps babbling as he approaches, the words tumbling nervously from his black-painted lips. “I sort of like matching with you, Adam, and I know they’re both fine, but I—”

Adam grabs him by the lapels of his jacket, yanks him down to his level, and silences him with a kiss. Tina throws her arms up in the air with an impulsive shriek of “WOO!” that Felix echoes even louder. They high-five over Mason’s head, and he looks like he wants to throw them both out the window. Nate sits by with a pleasant little smile, which only fades when he takes note of the clock.

Adam and Arlo are still kissing, Arlo’s hands cupped around the vampire’s cheeks and Adam clinging to his vest like he'll drown if he lets go. Tina thinks she might see a hint of tongue when Nate loudly clears his throat.

They break apart with an indecent smacking noise, and Tina yelps out a sharp laugh when she sees Arlo’s black lipstick smeared all around Adam’s mouth.

Nate crosses his arms and smiles dryly at them. “Why don’t you two go fix your faces,” he suggests. “The rest of us will make sure the car is packed for the festival.”

“Um, yes. You— We—” Arlo fumbles for a bit, touching his smeared lips, his eyes just a bit dazed. He and Adam look at each other, and then flee for the bathroom together.

Tina’s never been more excited for a festival in her life.

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavensummer #pride in wayhaven #tina poname #adam du mortain #a du mortain #felix hauville #f hauville #specialist agent mason #specialist agent m #nate sewell #n sewell #oc: arlo priestley #pidge writes #HELLO I AM FINISHING THIS AT 3:30 AM #I HAVE MY FIRST DAY OF MY NEW JOB TOMORROW #WISH ME LUCK #this turned out WAY longer than i meant it to but god was it fun #i hope you guys like it as much as i liked writing it #arlo playin w gender expression via ballet is my everything #the costume designs for carabosse can be SO GOOD #but some of them are SO BAD #ballet is like that #its very uuuuh traditional wrt its aesthetics and gender roles #and arlo and his friends were all like 'but what if not'#anyway title is v last minute bc *shrug*#tina gets to be the lilac fairy #i did so much reserach into this ballet y'all #the only thing i didnt do was watch the whole thing #tho i DID find it on yt so i could later....

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puthyflapps · 3 years

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Thot about Anya making one of those cheesy promposal signs for Raven. Her plan was to have the sign read, “prom with you would be out of this world” and there would be images of all things space covering the poster board –planets, stars, the whole nine yards. But she wasn’t exactly good at this artistic stuff. Her block letters were sitting rather crooked on the paper and the picture she’d drawn of the moon looked more like a chocolate chip cookie and the rocket ship...well, I shouldn’t say. All in all, it was a real eye sore.

She’d spent way too many hours working on this stupid thing and it was too late to make an emergency trip to the store for more poster board. So, Anya decides the best course of action at the moment is to just flip the board over and start fresh. Now, with a new, blank canvas she gets smart and enlists the last-minute help of her resources. God bless her sister for dating an artist, right?

With Clarke’s help, this thing actually looks presentable and Anya isn't entirely embarrassed to be seen standing outside of their school with it as she waits for her girlfriend to get out of her last class of the day. Anya and Raven were never ones for cliche high school rituals but this was their last prom together so she wanted to make it special. If that means Anya has to stand awkwardly in front of everyone with a giant, dorky sign then she would because Raven deserved to feel special.

The bell rings signifying the end of class and it makes Anya’s heart thump with a dizzying kind of excitement. She keeps her dark brown eyes trained on the doors of the school, searching for her girlfriend’s form. She notices a few familiar faces staring at her in a mix of shock and confusion. If this were any other day she would’ve sent a sharp scowl back their way as a reminder to fuck off but right now, she is too preoccupied with finding her girl. Another minute or so passes when the blonde finally catches a glimpse of a bright red jacket and she knows immediately, that’s her.

Her sweaty hands tighten their grip on the paper as she waits for the girl to get a little closer before hoisting it up in front of her chest for all to see. A few beats pass and Raven still hasn’t quite noticed yet. It leaves Anya momentarily second guessing herself. Maybe this was a dumb idea. What if Raven didn’t want some grandiose gesture for something as simple as a high school dance?However, before Anya’s thoughts can further spiral, she hears the warm voice of the girl she’s been waiting on call out.

“Oh my god!”

Raven’s bright smile is blindingly beautiful and the happy giggles that overflow from her lips are all the confirmation Anya needs to know she did the right thing. She visibly relaxes and it finally feels like she can finally breathe again but there’s still somewhat of an underlying nervousness clawing at her because Raven hasn’t said yes yet.

The brunette takes her time approaching her girlfriend; making sure to take a mental screenshot of this moment so she can tuck it away safely in her mind and revisit it for years to come. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so much and although it doesn’t seem remotely possible, her smile seems to only grow wider the longer she stares at her adorable girlfriend. Anya doesn’t like to be the center of attention. She’s always been the back-of-the-class, silent observer type. So, to say this was a surprise would be an understatement because this display was certainly an attention grabber.

“Baby,” Raven says as all her words seem to fail her in that moment.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to prom with me.”

“Yes, of course,” she answers as her hands gently take hold of the sign so she can take an even closer look.

Honey brown orbs meticulously inspect every detail from the nerdy pun to the cute doodles strewn about the board.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she declares and pauses briefly to rise on her tiptoes and place a sweet kiss on Anya’s thin lips before continuing.

“Did you get Clarke to help you?”

Raven asks sweetly as she notices the familiar art style. Personally, she thinks it’s rather cute that her girlfriend reached out to her best friend for help. The idea of the two working together is a little funny considering the two don’t have much in common besides their love for Raven.

“Yeah, blondie’s a little better at this art thing than I am. She drives a hard bargain though. I owe her like a week's worth of Starbucks for doing this,” Anya mutters in faux frustration.

“Aww, well hopefully it was worth it.”

“It definitely was.”

The two stare lovingly at one another for a moment; just basking in each other’s presence and the feeling of contentment.

“Can I keep it?”

Raven asks, her eyes darting down to the paper and back up to her girlfriend.

“It’s all yours. I just wouldn’t look at the back of it if I were you,” Anya replies as the tips of her ears tinge pink.

The brunette’s brows crease and her head tilts in confusion, prompting the blonde to explain.

“I tried to do it by myself at first but it didn’t turn out the way I hoped it would.”

Curiosity gets the best of the girl and she can’t stop herself from turning the poster over to see what has her girlfriend so flustered. On the back are colorful block letters of varying sizes that to someone else’s eye might be unsightly but, to Raven, are nothing shy of gorgeous. Perhaps her favorite part is the random sprinkling of stars throughout the page. They had been erased and redrawn several times if the faint smudges from what was most likely not the best eraser are anything to go on.

“I wish you would’ve used this side,” the shorter of the two says quietly causing the other girl to vehemently shake her head in opposition.

“It wasn’t good enough. I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

“It is perfect,” Raven argues as her eyes trace over all of the girl’s haphazard pencil marks.

Anya presses a chaste kiss to the other girl’s head and chuckles softly, “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” Raven replies earnestly and honestly, “I love it.”

And really, she wasn’t lying. There was not so much as the faintest falsehood coating her words that day. That poster remained taped to her bedroom wall for the rest of the school year. Unsavory lettering and poorly drawn doodles on full display for all to see. Raven even brought it with her when the pair moved into their freshman dorm room despite some hesitance from Anya. When the couple moved into their first home together, she made Anya store it safely away in their attic so that one day, when it was time for their children to enjoy a prom of their own, Raven could proudly show them a little piece of their parents past.

#this was supposed to be a paragraph but i didn’t feel like I could accurately explain the vibe #jfc 💀😂#ranya #raven reyes #anya woods

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chrwrites · 3 years

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Bad Ideas - Chapter 1: “I'm his girlfriend”

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I wrote this for @astronavigatrix for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers Secret Admirer Exchange! The prompt was Fake Dating and I decided to write '5 Times Luka and Marinette pretended to be dating and one time they didn't need to'. I had a lot of ideas for this and I ended up splitting it in chapters. I hope you like it! 💖

read on ao3

Marinette's mouth twisted at the scene in front of her, an unpleasant feeling making her stomach twist.

Luka was standing in front of his locker, nodding at a girl Marinette had never seen, a polite smile on his face as she got way too close. She was tilting her head, one finger twirling around a strand of platinum blonde hair as she raised her free hand to his arm. Her long fake nails danced slowly up and down his bicep.

His expression twisted in annoyance and he tried to shrug her off and put some distance between them, but yet again she leaned in and all Luka could do was roll his eyes at whatever she was saying.

Marinette grit her teeth. Didn't that girl notice how uncomfortable she was making him? Or how he wasn’t really enjoying her presence at all? Damn, Luka wasn’t even the type of person to show his annoyance like that. He was usually calm and collected. What had she done to make him act like that?

Marinette couldn’t just stand there and watch without doing anything. She had to do something before that girl, whoever she was, made Luka feel more and more uneasy. She watched him look down, his fingers twisting the spinner ring on his thumb, before deciding to take action.

“Lu!” she called, sliding her arm into his as soon as she was close and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as a greeting. She felt Luka stiffen before he relaxed into her, his eyes wide in surprise at her unexpected display of affection. “Marinette?”

The girl in front of them finally took a step back, a startled expression forming on her face while she studied them. She blinked before speaking. “And you are..?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she focused on Marinette.

Marinette frowned, but her mouth twisted in a sweet smile as soon as she looked back at Luka, “I'm his girlfriend,” she chirped.

Fortunately, her voice didn't betray her. She slid her hand to hold Luka's and squeezed tight, looking up at him.

His eyes were wide, and a strangled sound escaped his lips before he shut it close. Marinette giggled and gave him a confident smile in the hopes that it would reassure him. She leaned her head to his shoulder and Luka didn't flinch away, but all he managed to let out as his thumb brushed the back of her hand and tried to keep himself grounded was a choked out “Yeah…” that got him to clear his throat.

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?” the girl asked, feigning innocence in a way that sounded so familiar that made Marinette's blood boil.

Luka opened his mouth to speak, but Marinette cut him off, “That's none of your business,” she snarled. The girl huffed in annoyance, and Marinette glared at her. Luka next to her straightened up and took a deep breath, and Marinette gave a comforting squeeze to his hand.

She then turned her attention back at the girl, who had crossed her arms as her eyes went up and down to study her.

Marinette held her gaze and didn't flinch at the disgusted expression forming in front of her. If she was going to come up with a hurtful comment, Marinette was ready to snap back. It’s not like she hadn’t dealt with disrespectful brats over time, and she wasn’t letting some cheap dollar store Barbie imitation — okay no, actually, she was pretty, but that couldn’t make up for her personality — put her down or harass her best friend. She was Marinette, she was strong and—

“But aren't you a seconde ? Such a shame Luka here's into little girls… you could do so much better,” the girl said in a saccharine voice while fluttering her fake lashes at Luka.

Marinette felt Luka's hold on her hand tightening. She raised her free hand to his chest and gave him a reassuring look, trying to wordlessly tell him that she could handle it, but his jaw was still clenched when she spoke.

“Yeah, I know, a 16-year-old dating a 17-year-old. Shocking,” Marinette gritted through her teeth and pulled Luka towards her, making the girl scoff and check her nails. Good, now they could leave.

“Come on, I don't want us to be late for class,” Marinette said, holding Luka’s hand tighter and walking past the girl. She didn’t miss the chilling glare Luka sent her way.

When they were far enough from Luka’s locker, Marinette started walking faster, as Luka didn't have trouble following her nervous pace with his long legs. The closed doors of the classrooms and the colorful posters on the walls passed through her eyes in a blur even as she tried to focus on them instead of the anger that was building inside her. Marinette didn't want to let some stupid Barbie wannabe ruin her day, but all she could think about were the girl’s words. The deprecative tone in her voice when she called her a seconde and told Luka that he could do much better. She didn’t know what she was talking about.

That was stupid, Luka never failed to remind her how extraordinary she was. Even now as she led him through the school and he followed her quietly, he took the first chance he had to shake her from her thoughts.“Marinette, that's not where your class is…”

“I don't care,” she said, looking for an empty classroom she could calm down in. Luka squeezed her hand reassuringly, and his thumb slowly brushed the back of her hand. Marinette took a deep breath, but his action didn't help her forget about long nails moving on his arm and the words still ringing in her head. It actually made her think about it more.

Who the hell did she think she was?

She had no right to belittle her, to imply that she wasn't worth enough for Luka to spend time with. It didn't matter if it was only because she was trying to hit on him and Marinette was rightfully putting herself between them. She was being disrespectful towards him, invading his personal space, and Marinette couldn't just stand there and watch, right?

No, Luka was her friend and she had every right to rescue him from unwanted attention. It's not like anyone cared about who they were da—

Just as the thought crossed her mind, she realized what she had done, and how Luka had just silently rolled with it and was still holding her hand. Why would she even say something like that?

She picked a turn, opting for the art classroom that was always empty in the early hours of the morning and, when she finally found it, she slammed the door closed behind them.

“Marinette, what the fuck ?” Luka said. His bewildered expression made Marinette’s stomach twist unpleasantly.

She groaned, letting his hand go to hide her face and lean to an empty desk. “I’m so, so sorry. I know I shouldn’t have said it, but she was making you uncomfortable and I wanted to help you get rid of her.”

Luka let out a breathless laugh. “By saying that you’re my girlfriend?”

“I couldn’t come up with anything better, I’m sorry! And if you think she’ll spread the rumor, we can just say that we broke up or something. We’re not even together in the first place and I know I was stupid and I understand if you’re mad at me, but I did it because—”

“Marinette,” Luka interrupted her, his hands reaching for her wrists to gently pull her hands down and reveal her face. As he looked her in the eyes, he held a soft expression that made her feel incredibly better. “I don’t care about the rumors. Honestly, I should thank you for stepping in. I’ve been trying to let her down gently, but it didn’t work. I’m sorry you had to deal with her, too,” he said, his voice tense.

She reached for his hand and squeezed it gently before speaking. “It’s alright, Lu. I’ve learned to deal with that,” she said.

“I know, but you shouldn’t have bothered...” he sighed.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “I’m your friend Luka, and friends help each other out,” she said. Luka nodded, but something about him seemed off. She knew Luka was the type of person to handle things by himself, but he never rejected Marinette’s help when she offered it.

“Are you sure you’re not mad at me for saying that I’m your girlfriend?” she asked hesitantly.

Luka looked up at her and gave her a small smile. “I’m not mad at you, Mari,” he reassured. “You’re fine. Just… don’t catch me off guard with stuff like that.”

Marinette nodded and leaned to wrap her arms around him. She felt his chuckle rumble through his chest as he held her, and when she pulled away, she could finally see the easygoing smile she liked so much.

“Who was she, by the way?” Marinette asked.

“Just some girl from Terminale D. We met at a party last weekend and she got a bit clingy,” Luka said sheepishly, one hand going up to rub his neck.

“That's putting it nicely,” Marinette chuckled.

“Well,” Luka sighed, “I did tell her I wasn't interested in her, so having her still trying to catch my attention was kinda frustrating.”

“Just a little bit,” Marinette teased, pinching her thumb and index together.

Luka chuckled. “Yeah, okay. Thank you for coming at the right time.”

Marinette giggled, and the uneasiness she felt from making up a lie to rescue him from someone's hold disappeared. “I'll be your fake girlfriend whenever you need.”

You could be my real one.

Luka shook the thought out of his mind. Sometimes the feelings he hid deep down in his stomach made their way back up to his heart, and all he could do was push them down again. They'd already been through this, and Luka was happy with being close with Marinette without wanting more. It was only in times like this, when she was careless and maybe made some stupid choices to help him out (like, for example, saying that she was his girlfriend) that they would resurface.

But he learned how to deal with that. A few deep breaths, thinking about the smell of the Seine, and he would be fine. No more thoughts about being more than friends with Marinette.

They had known each other for years and, now that they went to school together and grew closer, he was happy that Marinette had found he was someone to count on. It was the same for him, even if sometimes it meant that he had to control the impulse to kiss her on the spot or scold himself for staring at her for too long.

The sound of the first bell rang, making Luka wince and Marinette giggle in response. He shook his head, taking a moment to recollect himself and clear his throat before speaking. “Can I walk you to class?”

“Don’t you always do that?” Marinette teased before walking to the door.

There was only easy chatter after that, and Luka took a breath of relief as he realized he was listening to Marinette without focusing on the way her lips moved or the feeling of her shoulder brushing against his. She was complaining about some group project she had to work on in the afternoon when they reached the door of her class.

“Well, let me know if you need to be rescued again from some overly-clingy girl,” Marinette said.

Luka shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Of course, I will.”

Marinette smiled at him but, before she could reply, the second bell rang.

Luka's hand ruffled the hair on top of her head, making Marinette wince, and his mouth moved before he could even realize what he was saying.

“See you at lunch, girlfriend.”

#lukanette #LBSC Exchange 2021 #endgame lukanette #luka couffaine #marinette dupain cheng #my writing

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fykimtaehyung · 3 years

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V: “I wish we were back with ARMY, laughing together”

During V’s photo shoot, he’s wearing a different expression in every photo on the monitor. They create a tension and an anticipation because we have no way of knowing what he might do even one second later. But the result is cool from start to finish. It’s V. How are you doing these days? It’s been a long time since you were able to see your fans. V: I’m not over-stressing about how I can’t meet the fans face to face right now. I just want to see them when it’s safe to meet. I think now, I can wait until then. As your song says, “Life Goes On.” You decided to keep going on with your life. V: We have to move on. We can’t feel defeated forever. I felt a lot better after making some songs. Other than working on “Dynamite,” you’ve spent very little time away from home. How do you pass the time when you’re by yourself? V: I really like just spacing out, so I’ll sit in my room doing nothing for hours. I could try putting on a movie, but then I couldn’t concentrate and would just zone out. When that happens, it’s kind of like I’m living without a thought or care in the world. Maybe I should make a song about all of this someday. Probably call it “Spaced.” (laughs) Anyway, these days I’m looking for ways to keep myself happy. Have you found anything? V: Well, I’m listening to LPs lately. It’s getting to be Christmas season and I love snow, so I bought two or three Christmas LPs to listen to. I’m also listening to old jazz songs by Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Jr. Frank Sinatra is cool, like chilled wine; Sammy Davis Jr. is crazy talented. (laughs)

So that’s the type of performer you find cool. V: Those two were also a big inspiration to me while we were working on “Dynamite.” Sinatra has all this jazzy body language, but he also threw some disco in there. And I imagined how Sammy Davis Jr. might dance if there were a mic on stage and he had to dance around it. They were a lot of help when I was finding a way to be upbeat and cool at the same time in “Dynamite.” I guess making “Dynamite” must have been some consolation even when you couldn’t meet fans due to COVID-19. V: We couldn’t put on a concert and couldn’t see ARMY, so we were feeling more and more drained. It seemed like an endless battle. We really wanted to see ARMY feeling better, so we had to get back up on stage and make another album so that together we could beat this thing. I want to be the friend who’s always cheering ARMY on, but there aren’t many ways to make them feel better. How was the whole “Dynamite” experience? You made it to the top of the Billboard Hot 100 and also had a chance to perform in a variety of different styles. V: Shooting the Tiny Desk Concert was a very natural process, which was nice. But actually, with the situation being what it is, we couldn’t really feel much. The day the news came out was of course thrilling. It was great, actually, all of us calling each other and some of us laughing and others crying: “We haven’t gone down the wrong path after all! Turns out we had a chance—it really was possible!”

While you were performing in “Dynamite,” you were also the visual director for BE. I’m sure you were unimaginably busy taking photos, but were you able to communicate well with the other members? V: We communicated smoothly, and I listened to all of their concept ideas and I organized everything around that. If we tried something too natural, it wouldn’t be conceptual enough, so we did our best to strike a balance. You had everyone sitting in the middle, with the set arranged symmetrically around you. V: That was made possible thanks to everyone having their own ideas. There was no overlap between items, which actually allowed us to create a sense of unity by placing all these different props symmetrically. It wasn’t intended to be symmetrical; each member really did choose something unique. In your room, you included a violin and a photograph. V: That’s a picture I took. I like photos and drawings, but if I had used any art then I would’ve been using that one particular artist’s work, so I thought I’d better use one of my own photos. I ended up choosing the violin because I learned how to play it but also because I enjoy classical and jazz.

So how do you feel it turned out? V: I made it, so naturally I like it. (laughs) Part of me thinks I should’ve tried something more conceptual. BE was supposed to give off sort of a magazine or poster feel since we didn’t shoot many of those, but it ended up having more of a natural feel to it. But I did think that the next time we try to make a photoshoot conceptual we should move away from that natural look a bit. The group explained their ideas clearly and they were simple enough to do, so I think it all went really smoothly. It sounds like there were no problems choosing the songs for BE. How did you feel recording your parts on the other members’ songs? V: I like “Dis-ease,” which Hobi wrote, but stylistically it was challenging. It’s really far from my own style so it took a long time to get used to. “Fly to My Room” used to be my favorite song, but it was also the hardest to sing. It was okay at first, until Jimin jumped in. What about Jimin? V: Because I had to keep up with Jimin, the song went up maybe three keys. I thought I would die. (laughs) It started out as my favorite song, but it was just way too hard to sing. But why did you have to sing that way? V: Jimin said he was sorry, that he couldn’t go any lower. (laughs) When I first heard the demo version, the key was perfect for me, so I thought it would sound great and I should definitely do it. But then Jimin said he wanted to do it too, so I said, “Great, let’s do it together.” Turns out we went up three keys. So I said, “Hey, what’s the deal? Should I just give up?” But, well, somehow it all worked out in the end. It was a happy ending. (laughs)

People might be able to hear that part better because it’s so much higher. (laughs) The tone of your combined voices and the way they contrast is really impressive. V: Yes, but all that aside, it was quite the struggle. (laughs) And the chorus is really long. I think it repeats, what, four times? Yes, it feels like the chorus never ends. The production style is very unique. I like how the emotion is carried through the whole way. V: I agree, but it’s so long. The chorus turned out crazy, like I was kind of beating the melody into people’s ears. (laughs) The chorus is good, but the whole song’s melody is really catchy. Whenever I heard the beat, I was totally into it. The way the vocals pick up on the beat and the melody was so original and fun, I just had to do it.

#201125 #taehyung #v #bts #bangtan #t: interview #sorry i split it i thought the initial part was rly important to highlight

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angelisverba · 4 years

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i’ll hold you so you don’t fall again

in which y/n is just really creative and harry writes erotica under a pseudonym.

pairing: interiordesing!y/n and eroticawriter!harry

word count: 21k+

note: i’m so freaking sorry this took so long. thank you for being patient with me, and i hope its what you expected :) also the formatting is all wonky i have no idea why.

Y/n wasn’t one to brag.

She knew what it felt like to sit and nod while someone else talked about their accomplishment. The itchy pull of heart strings; the yearning of wanting success, too.

But, she also knew how awkward it was to go back and forth declining compliments.

Which is why she never bragged about her newfound success. Or did the whole ‘oh you’re too sweet’ ordeal. She said thank you, and moved on.

Because it definitely was one.

A sudden change of no recognition to suddenly everyone wants her.

She had her friend, Lucy, to thank. Lucy had just opened up a coffee shop. One of those cute artsy ones on a street in West Hollywood somewhere, with money she had saved up over the years. It just so happened that her best friend was a talented painter, designer, and dabbled in all kinds of crafts. Y/n was known for always maintaining a tiny business of whatever it was she could come up with, and when her friend asked for help to decorate and set up shop, she jumped at the opportunity to go big.

The store was a loft-y type space. A blank, grey walls and metal; an industrial room. The first time Y/n looked at it, her mind flooded with ideas. Mirrors, art, frames, flowers, and anything that could be put up. Different themes and approaches to light up the room. But, before doing anything, she had a nice long talk with Lucy, about what she wanted to see. Had her set up a pinterest board with items for the shop. Color schemes, movies, plants, etc. From that, y/n took hold of the project, asking for Lucy’s opinion here and there, but taking most choices to her own judgement.

The end result… well, it was the reason why Lucy was full all the damn time. Y/n had turned the lofty space into an Instagram hippie galore. Lucy’s mood board consisted of a weird mix of Madonna, pearls, and David Bowie. So, all over there were some of the most famous pop-culture posters. Streams of pearls. Mason jars lined with pearls. Velvet curtains with golden tassels; the stringy ones that tickled when you rub them all over your palm. There were light bulbs and fairy lights hanging in the wooden beams from the ceiling, that were turned on everyday 30 minutes after sunset, like the headlights on cars. Additional records were set to look through and buy in a corner, and opposite that a jukebox with records that both y/n, Lucy, and Lucy’s boyfriend, Mike, had picked. The labels were written in y/n’s writing, a mix between curly-cue and messy doctors cursive; clean enough to read, messy enough to enjoy.

No plants. Or succulents, at least, but y/n had bought 5 dozens of roses from downtown. She’d hung them up to dry, left some where they were, and others she put in empty glass cola bottles that were in the center of each of the 10 booths. On the single, middle tables, y/n had placed leather table cloths. No flowers.

And the menus? Oh gosh, the menus. They were y/n’s pride and joy.

She’d closed herself in an entire day, to create the finishing look. With a copy of drinks (labeled like ‘Madonna’ and then the actual coffee order that star would’ve wanted) and the small variety of sandwiches (& other finger foods) y/n drew portraits on blackboards, used different fonts, painting mediums, and at a certain point even incorporated glitter, to create these magnificent hand drawn chalk menus.

Then the outside of the shop. This is what got her word out.

A journalist of some sort had happened to stumble upon Coffee for Rockstars the day that y/n was painting the windows.

You know, like with a brush and paint can.

She’d blocked off her workspace with chairs and caution tape, jammed her newly bought airpods in, and pressed play to her music.

The mural- Lucy labeled it, but to y/n it really wasn’t all that much, consisted of a the planet Saturn, with David Bowie, Elton John, Prince, Stevie Nicks, Freddie Mercury, and The Beatles prancing along the rings (all picked by Lucy). The window was a 5-or-so feet taller than her, so she had to use one of the chairs to reach the top half of the planet.

While she painted Elton’s fluffy feather suit on, the journalist had approached her, his waist pushing through the tape y/n had put up.

“Excuse me?” he called out to her, hands positioned on one of those Canon Rebel whatever they were called everyone seemed to be carrying around these days.

And Wild Night by Van Morrison may have been playing a little too loud because y/n didn’t hear him the first time, and he had to call out again, leaning forward slightly to catch her attention.

“Excuse me?” The guy says a little louder. This time, she sees him, and turns while removing her headphones, getting paint on her forehead and hair.

“Oh!” she said, startled. “How can I help you?” Her cheeks flame a bit when he gives her a boyish smile, lips twirling up to the corner of his eyes. He’s cute, she thinks, floppy hair that’s sunbleached at the tips from the sun, and freckles in the bridge of his roman nose.

“Yes, actually. My names’ James. I was wondering if I could take your picture for an article I’m doing. I work with the LA times, in the local business section, and there's a piece on West Hollywood’s hottest places. This one’s trending.” He lifts his camera in a ‘here it is!’ gesture.

“Me?” she asked in disbelief. Her eyebrows raised high above their usually places, and her eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Shouldn’t you be photographing inside? You know, like the people?”

“You worked on this place didn’t you? That’s what Lucy told me. You’re a big part of what makes this place hot ‘n trendy. Plus, this live painting action will look wonderful…” he trailed off, his glance drifting to the window and to the picture she was painting. “It’s really good. Deserves some recognition.”

“Uhm…” Y/n looks around. There’s people on the opposite street staring at her, some that linger as they walk by. She catches a window roll down as the car goes by.

She’s always been small. In size, in popularity. She’s never been in demand. If she said yes, there's a possibility that that would change. A small part of her wanted that… she could finally start her business, like she’s always wanted to...

“Okay, how do you want me?”

He laughed, and told her to just continue with what she was doing. So, she did. She added more paint to her glass palette, and unprofessionally used her bare thigh to rid the brush of the excess paint. Momentarily, the brush found its way to the bite of her teeth, so the girl could put her earphones back in and get back into the right headspace to work.

The journalist, chuckled as he watched her, amused by her tactics, how she leaned back to look at the bigger picture. He was done in a matter of minutes, taking pictures of everything she’d set up in her closed off area. The tarp she’s laid on the floor. The cans of paint; red, blue, yellow, green, white, and black. An uneaten sandwich and a glass bottle filled with pink liquid (lemonade and a bit of vodka, y/n’s choice of drink when she was painting, claiming it got her ‘creative juices flowing’).

He has to get her attention again the same way, because she’d managed to lose herself in what she was doing.

“You’re all done?” she asked him, once again plucking the earphone out with a yank.

“Yep, got more than enough.” James said, placing a black cap on the lens of his camera. “Can I ask you a few questions?” Y/n smirked a bit, thinking back to her school days when smartass teachers would respond with ‘i don’t know, can you?’ and she nearly did as well.

She didn’t though. She just said, “Go right ahead.”

“Well, first thing’s first,” he reached into his front pocket, and pulled out his phone. Who keeps their phone in their front pocket, she thought. “Name, age, and what you did for Rockstar’s cafe?”

“My name is y/n, I’m 21, and I was interior and, as you can see, exterior, designer as well for Rockstar Cafe.” She’s shifting awkwardly side to side, tugging at the ends of her large, orange Garfield shirt nervously. Flashes of her jean cut-offs peeked where her shirt lifted.

“Tell me a little bit about the process of creating the entire ‘astro-70’s’ vibe you got going on here are the shop.” James doesn’t look up at her, because he’s furiously typing away at his phone, noting down what y/n says.

“Well, that was really Lucy’s doing. She provided me with pictures of things she wanted, kinda like… uhm.. that aura? I guess you could say that she wanted the place to have. I worked side by side with her, to make this happen. This was her vision, I just helped it....” she struggled for a moment, to put her thoughts into words, “come to life.”

He looked up at her then, a small smile on his lips. “What’s your favorite thing about it so far?”

“I’d say, the way the menu is set up. An artist’s name, and the drink they’d get. Lucy did her reasearch, and found out like, I guess you could say, their ‘regulars’. So, what’s on the menus are what the artist actually would like.” Subconsciously, she points to the inside of the shop, referring to the menus.

“Last question, have you ever done anything like this before?”

Y/n stammered for a moment, then said, “No. I haven't.” She taps the tips of her shoes together, all paint splattered and scuffed. “Nothing at this level of big. I’ve always kinda, worked on crafts. In highschool I had a small business, where’d I’d sell personalized things. I think that’s why Lucy trusted me so much. Because I have a history of reaching to the stars when it comes to paper and pencil.”

“That was great. Thank you so much, y/n. It was interesting to hear about you, and the cafe.” James places his phone back in his front pocket, and hooks his thumbs onto the straps of his camera as if they were suspenders. “Is there a website or business card you’d like me to reference in the article, after your name and all that?”

“I don’t have anything like that actually. Just that I worked with Lucy, I guess you could say.” She puckers her lips at the end, shaking her head slightly.

“Okay, well then. I’ll leave you to it. It’s coming along amazing.” James nods politely. “Have a great rest of your day, y/n.” Then walks away.

“Bye, James.” She twiddles her fingers at him her way of saying goodbye. It doesn’t take her long to get sucked back into her work. In fact, as soon as she puts the earphones back in, she’s gone off the face of the earth, and doesn't notice when a green-eyed stranger stops to stare at her, right by the tree that she’d wrapped the caution tape around. The man pinched his lip as he watched, eyebrows furrowed with the same concentration y/n had for her work.

Except that he was watching her. The way her wrist flicked, how she tilted her face to look at what she was doing. How she stood like a flamingo, with her ankle pressed against her calf. The way she blew the wisps of hair off her mouth.

He watched her intently, wondering who she was and how did she get there and what her name was.

And then,

Brushing those thoughts out of his mind, he walked into the shop and didn’t look back.

“Y/N!!” Lucy yelled from the counter.

Y/n, covered head to toe in sparkly purple fabric, rushed out with a bit of hummus on toast in her mouth still.

It was Halloween, and Lucy had demanded they both dress up as part of the uniform at Rockstar that day. Y/n, had decided she would go as Selena Quintanilla, and had crafted herself a halter top-style romper with purple cloth she had bought at the fashion district earlier that week. She’s woken up early too, and gone to her mom’s house so she could do her hair, and make up (given she’d lived at the same time Selena had).

Lucy, ever the creative one, teased her blonde hair, spray painted it with a cheap can of green hair dye from the dollar store, and bought a pinstripe tux. TA-da! Beetlejuice, beetlejuice, beetlejuice.

“Y/n!” Lucy was hissing now, impatient and demanding. It was a busy day at Rockstar. Social media influencers had come out for photo-ops and the like. Also, Lucy had a deal going of buy one get another iced coffee half off, and a free cassette with the $20+ purchase.

“I’m coming, Luce! I’m coming, Jesus Christ,” y/n finished off chewing, tugged on the halter top to make sure nothing would pop out of place and washed her hands in the sink to help Lucy at the register.

After she finished, she took place along side the three baristas, Kelsey, Tilly, and Kim. Kelsey was a broke college student, Tilly an Asian girl who doubled as a pole dancer on certain nights (she wore a mask to make sure her identity stayed secret), and Kim was a 30- year old who lives in his parents house. Bit of a creep if you asked y/n.

“Y/n, you wanna take order 48 or 50?” Asked Tilly while rinsing a measuring cup.

“I’ll take 50 and start on 52.” Y/n responded, tying the apron straps behind her neck. She didn’t tell Tilly that she picked order 50 because she hated making espressos, and order 48 consisted of three espressos. Order 50 was only four iced coffees.

After she finished decorating Lucy’s coffee shop a month ago, Lucy didn’t offere y/n a job, but she was always around to help, and Lucy paid her for it. After class, y/n would stop by the shop, and that would lead to her working as a barista. Which she didn’t mind, the money helped and it gave her something to go. Otherwise, she’d be at home with her nose stuck in a regency novel and a buzzing feeling of want in her crotch at the cue of poetically beautiful yet smutty words.

“Order number 50!” She called out. She set the plastic cup on the pick-up counter and plucked a stray from the jars to place alongside the drink. Seconds later, the drink was picked up by a tall and tanned man with green eyes; nails painted black; rings adorning each finger; soft, pink lips and a scruffy jaw. Curly strands of brown hair peeked out of a green beanie.

He smiled at y/n. The way you smile at the cashier in the market. Polite. A bit disconnected in the eyes. He said, “Good morning, Selena. May I have a cup holder please?”

In a British accent made heavier by the morning gruffness in his voice. Scratchy, deep, manly. And incredibly sexy.

Of course, y/n took a moment to take in and drink the image presented before her, but after she felt her cheeks heat up like the fire underneath a witches feet, she cleared her throat and responded with, “You recognized who I was! Kudos to you, sir!” with a grin on her red lips. The man chuckled, and took the carton cup holder y/n gave him.

“Have a great rest of your day,” was the last thing he said before he walked away. Y/n stared after him, watching the way his thighs filled in the fitting yellow pants he where, and how his biceps looked deliciously muscular; bulging in a white tee.

“Y/N!”

“Sorry, Lucy!” Y/n skipped back to her post in front of the screen,and began reading off orders for Tilly, and Kim to make, and picked one for herself. Two iced coffees, one heated croissant. She was in the middle of measuring the milk when Lucy called her name again.

“Lucy, I’m doing it, okay?” Y/n responded, frazzled.

Lucy sucked on her teeth. “Y/n, come over here.” When y/n looked up, she saw that not only was Lucy looking at her, but a tall skinny blond with a sharp cut bob and a long white silk dress.

Confused, y/n dumped the milk into the mixing cup and handed the order over to Kelsy for her to finish. “Yes?”

“This is Karime, and she wants you to help her decorate her store.” Lucy held a palm out towards the woman. “Karime, this is y/n.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Karime said, and y/n had to restrain from cringing at her nasally, high-pitched voice. “I love what you’ve done with this place! My store could use some re-camping, and when I saw the article I just had to come and see if I could hire you.” Karime makes gestures with her manicured hands, and titles her head in ways that makes her hair shake like sheets in the wind.

“Oh! Um…”

“Why don’t you go ahead and talk with Karime, we’re all covered back here.” said Lucy, an extra-pleased tone in her voice; the voice she used with customers to keep them happy, y/n had recognized. Oh so now you don’t want me to work? y/n thought to herself, but gave the same smile the green-eyed stranger had given her, and walked out through the waist high swinging door to meet with Karime.

“So, I wanted to know if it was possible to hire you on a month to month basis. Ou could come in the first week of every month, decorate, redecorate, while I suggest and give you a picture of what I want, like you did for Lucy.” Karime had a bamboo handle purse, and they clacked together every time she moved her hands in ‘here’ or ‘there’ gestures.

They’re both standing at the start of the record shelves, and Y/n is awkwardly shifting her weight from foot to foot and fiddling with her hands. She’s sweating, too. This was huge. Big. Is this what networking was? Getting the word out? Expanding? If she said yes, it’s possible that it’d create a cycle. Someone else would come in, asking for help, to hire, to contract. It was a rush. She was giddy, excited. But most of all, nervous. One, because she’s a bit clumsy in the social aspect, and Two, because she had a standard to meet.

Despite all this, she said, “Of course, when do I start?”

Then, Karime had given y/n the address of her shop (a weird mix of aromatherapy, kale smoothies with books), and they decided on a day to meet up (the second day of every month starting November, two days from that day).

Karime left after that. She hadn’t bought anything. Lucy congratulated y/n, squealed over it even, and Lucy never squeals. Kim looked over at them when he heard Lucy, and tried to ask what all the fuss was about. Lucy demanded he go back to work, and y/n ignored him.

When closing time came, the girls did the bare minimum, and rushed out to pregame at Mike’s apartment. Like crazy teenagers, Lucy and y/n shared three bottles of a Stella Rosa bottle that had been on sale at the grocery store at the corner of Mike’s apartment complex. Inside, Mike was 2 beers in, and claimed he wouldn’t drink anymore since he was the DD.

“You guys go on and drink yourselves black.” he said, sitting on the couch with a water in his hand and Lucy in his lap. Mike, a slender punk rock kid who proved his mom wrong in the fact that his like for the color black is ‘not a phase’ is the sweetest guy y/n had ever met. He wasn’t afraid to show his love for Lucy, always doting on her, and if she asked, would rip out his heart and give it to her.

Y/n was jealous. She yearned for a relationship like theirs, and no matter how long she waited, how hard she tried, Prince Charming never showed. Instead, she was stuck with watching Mike and Lucy rub into her face what she wanted so badly.

Affection. Love. Companionship.

Cheers to that, y/n thought. Her bottle of Mango and whatever the heck the flavor was called, was nearly done and she could still walk in a straight line. The wine was juice in her hands. Child’s play. Water. It had no effect on her. Not until she was three bottles in. It took an entire bottle of Smirnoff vodka shots to get her going once. Only then could she completely let go.

“A lonely soul drowns in Stella Rosa, Mike.” Lucy, her hair sticking up like Einstein from the re-teasing she’d done in the bathroom. “There it stands, taking the shape of Selena. Poor, poor, Selena.” Lucy giggled. A teasing jab that made y/n pout, and y/n heart to clench because she knew Lucy was right. A lonely soul she was.

“That’s not very nice of you, Lucy.” Y/n pointed at her friend, bottle in her hand. “First you yell at me at work, now you make fun of my love life?” Shes joking, too, but there's a bit of truth to her words. Meaning, Intention.

“Drink up, lonely soul, and prepare for the battle that lies ahead: the making intercourse with an attendee of the club.”

“Blah,blah, and screw you.” grumbled y/n, finally, finishing the bottle with a final drink.

Not that y/n had anything against it, but fuck the club. She hated it. She only ever went because Lucy or Mike or whoever else begged her to go with them and promised something in return. (Lucy promised she wouldn’t ask her for help the following day). She hated the lights, how load it was, and how much she was being touched. Sweaty men and women alike, rubbing up on her in places where she didn’t want to be, it was too hot, and her toes always got stepped on.

“The usual for you, y/n?” Mike was yelling. His mouth was at her ear, but even then, only some of what he was saying made it into her ears. She simply nodded, and lifted up to fingers. Two gin and tonics. One part water, three parts gin.

Lucy and y/n had managed to snatch a tiny booth when they walked in, and this was the place y/n was planning to spend most of her night. Not out on the blue-lit dance floor, not standing at the bar. Sitting at the dark booth, glumly sipping at her two gin-n-tonics.

“You are not gonna sit here sippin’ glumly at your drinks, got that?” Luccy pulled at the lapels of her suit, popping her collar so the tips touched her jaw.

“Lucy, please.” Y/n’s bangs were deflated and her lipstick was smudged, at her friends comment, she sunk into her seat and pulled her head around.

“Let’s go.”

Lucy tugged her onto the dancefloor just as some song by Cardi B or Nicki Minaj (y/n couldn't tell anymore) blared through the speakers, and the bass beat thrummed in her chest. They stayed for a few minutes, and in those few minutes, y/n’s toes grew numb with how much they’d been stepped on, and her hair was beginning to stick at the back of her neck. Lucy’s black and white makeup was gleaming with her sweat, and her hair dropped with condensation.

It looked a bit funny really. Selene and Beetlejuice together on the dance floor. An odd pairing, but a parenting nonetheless. Lucy led her back to where Mike was when she got tired of dancing, and like an obedient puppy, y/n trailed behind her. When Lucy ordered y/n to chug her drink, she did it.

She couldn’t say not. Not to Lucy. Not to Karime. Not to James.

She couldn’t say no.

And because she couldn’t say no, y/n woke up the next morning and couldn't remember a thing. She had a Katy Perry Last Friday Night moment. Sadly, there was no really hot guy next to her on her bed, and thankfully, she hasn’t wearing headgear.

What woke her, was the pain behind her eyelids that started when the light hit her. With a groan, she hid in the crease of her elbow while she scraped her thoughts together. Y/n was still in her Selena get up. She itched, smelled, and had a headache that hurt like...well, it hurts so much that she didn’t even know what to compare it to. She felt on her nightstand, and there it was. Bless his heart.

Mike had left her a glass of something cold, and two pills. She didn’t know for sure because she didn’t have the energy to peek and see, but the class was probably pedialyte. The hangover cure. The pills were Tylenol. They had to be, because he knew ibuprofen doesn’t do shit for her.

“Fuck, fuck,fuck,” y/n mumbled. Her tongue felt like sandpaper against the dry roof of her mouth, and when she swallowed, there was a dangerous taste of gin to her spit. Pressing her fingertips to her aching temples, she curses Lucy for making her go out last night, and Mike for letting y/n chug alcohol.

Unfortunately, she makes the stupid mistake of rising quickly from her potition on the bed to ‘get it over with’ and not even a full second goes by when she feels her stomach contents worming up her throat. She had to clamp her lips together and rush to the bathroom with her blanket wrapped around her ankles so she doesn’t barf all over her floor.

She doesn’t make it in time, and she spilled her gut on the toilet seat, before she’s made it so that her head is positioned right over the toilet bowl. She heaves and heaves until her chest hurts from the muscle contractions and her throat burns from the amount of acidity her bile holds. Tears drop from the corner of her eyes to where her thumbs grasp the seat because it fucking hurts and she’s gotten throw up in her hair.

The pain in her chest seems to have gone deeper, and wrapped its sharp talons into her heart. Her tears become purposeful; there’s a reason behind them not. She wishes there was someone there to hold her hair. To rub her back and tell her it was all going to be okay. To bring her the glass of pedialyte of her bedside table and coax her to drink it because she’d forgotten it.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, y/n gets up and flushes the toilet, wiping down the toilet seat with paper from the roll. The blanket, still curled around her ankles, she picks up and hoists it over her shoulders. She gurgles water from the sink before heading out, avoiding making eye-contact with the horrendous image in her mirror.

Pedialyte goes down like the gin did last night, and she throws in the pills when she drinks, simultaneously pulling the strings so her blings flip downwards and cut off the light coming in from the outside. Quickly, she strips from the itchy Selena ensemble, and slips on a red t-shirt with the Kool-Aid man’s face on it over her head. Y/n has learned that its worse to go to bed and not eat, so she doesn't get back into bed, even though she really wants to and instead throws the blanket on top of her scattered pillows, and turns to make breakfast in her impossibly tiny kitchen.

She lives in a little lofty space in the downtown area. The cheapest of all her options, and the best kept compared to the rest. The windows were blackened around the edges, and her air conditioner didn’t work, but hey, at least she had a roof over her head that she didn’t have to share with her parents. And she liked the window wall, too, and how the windows propped open on hinges. The way her brick walls looked during golden hour. It was very pretty. Relaxing.

Slowly but surely, she’s built herself a little home that she feels comfortable in. In her tiny little space, her favorite thing was her radio. An absolute steal at the thrift store: a really old radio with big knobs and the red line that moved left and right when you tried to pick a station. She went to it now, and turned it on at a soft volume. The song that always feels like it's about a one winged dove by Fleetwood Mac came on, and she hums it softly while she turns on the stove. It click, click, clicks on when the gas catches flames, and she pours oil into a pan to crack an egg over it. The white edges sizzle, and bits of oil jump up and splash onto her skin. It happens so much it doesnt hurt her; she doesn't even flinch. When the egg begins to turn golden, she turns down the knob, and goes back to her fridge in search of an avocado. Call her a trend follower, but she’d be damned if egg and avocado didn’t hit the spot. Plus, she makes an ace toast.

Surprisingly, the smell of egg (her dad likes to say eggs smell like ass) doesn’t upset her stomach, no. Actually, her stomach grumbled when she smelled it, and the ache that had begun to spread across the lower region of her abdomen made her hurry to cut open the avocado, and pop in a slice of sourdough bread into the toaster. She fore-went mayo that time, instead just wanted to get something into her burning stomach because she was so hungry. Her eyes blearily while she does all this.

By the time she’d spread her avocado and egg of the long slices of bread, the radio was playing Girls Just Wanna Have Fun By Cindy Lauper and y/n is doing a little happy dance on her way to her wicker table by the window, next to the bookshelf resting against her wall. Before she sat down, she reached for a novel on the shelf, and set it alongside her plate on the table.

Biting into her toast, she opened the book.

Dani’s cheeks blushed a wine-pink color. She looked away.

“You confuse me so,” she mumbled just loud enough for him to hear.

“How?” He grazed her jaw with gentle fingers, enough to turn her so she’s looking at him.

“You say that what we have, this spectacle we put on, is simple only to convince the people you will be a good king, but them you look at me… like that.”

“Like what? Like I want to kiss you?” he whispered, smiling faintly. “Because I do.”

She seemed not to know what to say, and resolutely, she turned so she sat facing forward between his spread thighs, back to him.

He realized then, that her shyness had caught up with her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and set his chin on her shoulder.

“I’m no expert in etiquette, Your Highness, but I’m sure this is high;y improper.” She sait, stiffly and primly while he cuddled her.

“Proper? They call me Rafe the Rake. I’d say, my little peach, that we passed proper a long time ago.”

“Don’t call me that,” she mumbled.

“What do you wish I call you then?”

“Dani.”

He chuckled at her response. “It’s a hellions name. It suits you well, all right. You can call me Rafe, if you like.”

“I do not wish to call you Rafe.” “No?”

“It’s a scoundrel’s name. I wish to call you Rafael. Like the angel.”

“An optimist, aren’t you?” Rafael began combing his fingers through her hair, sifting through the silking

strands then massaging down her neck and shoulders.

She sank back into his chest with a sigh. “That feels wonderful.”

“I should probably warn you,” he leans forward so that his lips are pressed against the shell of her ear. “I’m rather gifted with my hands.” She tensed again when he leaned down and nibbled on the skin of her neck, but Rafael left her melt in his arms when he continued his sensual massage on her shoulders. “Are you uneasy with this?” He paused to take her hands into his own, feeling as if he were young again with the first girl he had taken a liking towards.

“No,” she said quietly.

“Good.” With fingers still threaded through hers, he drew her hands back, and pinned her arms ever so gently behind her for a moment, gazing down her neckline at her creamy chest. Her breasts her small, but awfully perky and firm. He wondered if he could fit the entirety of one in his mouth. He bet that she’d like it if he did.

Y/n paused for a moment, and clenched her thighs together. A buzzing feeling was starting to form on her clit, and she felt the space where her thighs touch grow warm. The Kool-aid man’s eye popped with hoe erect her nipples were. She was aroused. And she knew that the feeling would only grow more intense the longer she read, which she planned on doing. So, she picked up her plate, placed it in the sink, and took her and her book into her dark room.

Her novel, Our Sign of the Times by Lemus Knox was tatted and bent this way and that from all the times she’s cracked the pages open for a steamy read. A painting of a bodacious woman and handsome prince posing in front of a castle adorned the front cover (one of the main reasons why she bought it). The was was strong, with raven hair and a strong jaw that portured strongly as he kissed the brunette woman in a lilly gown that he held in his arms. The castle was cottage like, with ivy covered walls and stone hedges; complete with a moat and bridge wrapping around the area. The author, Lemus Knox, painted the image himself, as he say so in the acknowledgements. No one knows who he is, how old he is, where he lives, or anything else about him really. A pseudonym, he says. A way to keep his life private life and still do what he loves to do: write.Y/n stumbled upon his book two years ago, in the best sellers section at Barnes and Nobles, and has been slowly falling in love with him and his characters ever since.

When she settled back into her blankets, y/n opened her book, and placed a single hand on her tummy, over the Kool-aid man’s mouth.

“It’s getting dark,” she said rather breathlessly, “don’t you think it’s time we head back?”

“I like being on the water at night. You can’t see. You can only hear the wares and you have to feel,” he teasingly brushed his fingers over the tops of her breasts, “your way back to shore. Feel your way through the dark.” He whispered into her ear,one of his hands splaying on her stomach and pushing back up, up, up to her breasts. “A man has to know exactly what he’s doing.”

She arched against him with a soft catch in her breath as he finally cupped her small breast in his large hands; her generous nipples turned hard underneath his circling thumbs.

“Rafael,” she moaned breathlessly, arms wrapped against his neck as she pushed her swollen mounds against his roaming hands. “We can’t. We’re not married yet.”

“Oh, my sweet love.” Rafael’s hands slid back down against her belly and began stroking her thighs. “I don’t plan on deflowering you yet. I simply wish to learn what it is you like.”

“But… I do not know what I like.” Her words were gasps of dreamy pleasure.

“Then I guess we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

Knowingly, y/n’s hand began to follow the same path that Rafael’s had. Thumbs circling against swollen nipples, fingertips teasing the insides of her thighs.

Her head was cushioned against his chest, and she turned her fact to him, seeking his mouth in innocent yearning. He lowered his head, and parted her lips with long strokes of his tongue into her sweet mouth, savoring the way she tasted. She reached up, and caressed his cheek as they kissed in slow, soulful agony.

While she ran her fingers through his unbound hair, Rafael deftly inched her skirts upward over her exquisite legs. His heart pounded as she let his hands roam under the gathered layers of silk gown and muslin petticoat. He groaned into her lips when his fingers came to the edge of her white stockings, and found tenderly warm skin. His groin flooded with heat and his body turned rock hard in an instant. Unwilling to push her beyond what she was currently willing to give him, Rafael fought to keep his needs in check.

Having been with many of the calculating damsels of the court, he knew that Dani was unlike them. She was soft, fragile, small, so precious in his arms. And while she may think herself independent, Rafael wanted nothing more than to hold her close and protect her, as much as he wanted to give her glimpses of what was in store for the night of their wedding.

Under her dress, he took his time exploring, kneading, caressing her belly, her hips, all the while devouring her mouth. Behind closed eyelids, he smiled to himself when she began to writhe and twist in his hold, virginal madness getting the best of her.

“Rafael, Rafael,” her voice grew drunk with urgent need.

When he stroked her at her ore, he was more than pleased to find she was soaked with silky wetness, throbbing under his fingertips with pure female invitation.

“Dani,” he mumbled against her earlobe, as her took her skirts with his empty hands and raised them higher and higher. “Would you like to watch?”

“NO! I couldn’t.” Her chest heaved. “Don’t make me.”

“Watch me touch you.” he murmured as his fingertips began to circle. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, my darling. I only want to fulfill your desires. Watch me pleasure you. Look at how beautiful you are , your sweet body. My wild, virgin love.”

“Oh , Rafael!” she turned and kissed him ardently. A burning moisture inexplicably rose behind his eyelids, and quickly fled as their kiss ended.

He kissed the curve of her neck, moved by his shy uncertainty as she lowered her heat to watch as he touched her, panting slightly. She was so ready, he thought in pure agony as his hardness chafed against her back through their clothes. It would have been easy to take her then and there, on the warm glossy planks of the deck, but her repeatedly shoved that temptation aside, vowing to prove his respect for her by making their wedding night her first time.

Y/n, too, was panting as she continued to read, her vision growing blurry with pleasure and need.

His thumb deftly teased her jeweled center, while his middle finger gently stroked inside her tight, fluid heat ,and as he kissed her ear and the back of her neck.

Y/n threw the book aside, letting her own hands take the pace it needed to to bring her to her high. HEr slender fingers deftly pumped in and out of her slick hole, the hand that was holding her book now rubbing fast circles against her swollen button. Wet mewls left her swollen lips, and her chest arched to meet hands that weren't there. The feeling of clenching in her abdomen and a squirming need something increased.

She left herself clenching on nothing, pinching her pert nipples with damp fingers as she rubbed faster and harder circles onto her mound.

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” she gasped under her breath, a long groan escaping her as she felt it instenifsy; anticipation of water nearly spilling. It hit her like a splash of cold water, her head thrown back against her pillows with her mouth open; a scream and no sound. Her body felt electrifies, her veins fueled by fire.

And when it died out,

She fell back like a ragdoll, limp and tired onto her sheets. Y/n was all droopy eyelids and noodle limbs after her orgasm.

She fell back asleep with sticking fingers on top of her red Kool-Aid man t-shirt.

“... you know what I mean?”

“So… you don’t want a beach theme?” y/n asked. Karime, dressed in another silk dress, but this time in floral red pattern, was having a very hard time identifying the theme she wanted for her Aromatherapy cafe/library.

“No, but I just want like, beach-y vibes. Airy? Ooopen. Yes, open.”

“So plants,” Y/n jotted bulleted notes into her planner, in a blank section under ‘Karime’. “White and green color scheme. Open, clear room.”

The two are standing at Karime’s shop, three streets away from Rockstar; an alarmingly vast space with plain walls and counters. Y/n has a lot of blank canvas to work with, and much to improvise because Karime wasn’t being exact with her vision. She hadn’t even set up a moodboard like she said she was because ‘an LA girl has a wild life you know, hun?’

Y/n truly wished she didn’t know.

“Okay now, what’s your budget?” she asked, her tone businesslike but full of warmth and interest.

“Um, how much do you think you’ll need?” Karime wasn’t looking at her, no, she was picking at her cuticles, and pushing them back with her thumbs; her nails had grown and blank space separated the polish from her skin. Karime was across y/n, behind the quick-serve counter where smokey machines and masks where all lined up; one for each stool.

“Plants are expensive. If you want big and already grown plants, they’re expensive- ranging from $20 to, I don't know… maybe $80?” Y/n taps her pen on her chin. “Furniture, and other wall decor I can craft and thrift, so that right there is maybe $200? $400 tops.”

“Okay.” Karime said, shrugging her shoulders with a crescent moon smile on her pink lips, “I’ll write you a check for $3,000 to start. I don’t want anything from second-hand like Goodwill or anything like that. I’ll give you addresses to pre-selected antique stores and the likes. Now, you mentioned something about measurements?”

“Yes! Thanks for reminding me,” she’d forgotten all about that, and it truly is a key process in the decor department. “Do you happen to have a measuring tape?”

“Actually, yes. There’s one in the back, I’ll go get it.” Karime pushed herself off the granite table top, and turned on her heel to walk through a golden confetti curtain, leaving y/n seated at the counter.

For a moment. She fiddled with the tubes coming from the humidifying machine in front of her, an opaque purple bowl with two tubes sticking out from opposite sides that connect to facemasks that cover your mouth. They’re cool to the touch, but warm when her fingers linger. A humming sound emits from the machine when she accidentally presses the start button, and she pushes it again in a panicked state to make it stop. She decides it’s best if she stops messing around with expensive machinery, and instead turns to looking at the small amount of people that are in the shop.

There’s no one really up and about at 10 in the morning on a Sunday. The few that were, came with laptops to do work in the library section of the shop, with coffees on their tables, or some kind of breakfast, which had to be from somewhere else because Karime didn’t have a menu for food. Just drinks.

One of these really risers, a man who hunched over a sticker covered Mac, looked strangely familiar. Y/n was staring at his choice of clothing (a worn down Brittney Spears shirt with jeans and rolled at the ankles and pristine white vans) when he turned to look at her. It was then, looking onto his dazzling green eyes and watching his taffy pink lips curl into a smile and a hand coming up in a small wave, did y/n recognize that it was the stranger that recognized her Halloween costume a few days ago.

Cheeks heating with clear embarrassment, y/n raised her own hand and timidly twiddles her fingers. She mouthed hello and tried to keep from cringing when he raised a finger to rub under his nose to hide the way his lips twitch upwards. His nose scrunches and wiggles, and his eyes wrinkle at the corner, a cheeky gleam in his look.

“Y/n!” Karime, reappearing, held a ruler in her hand. A ruler. “This is the best we’ve got, babe.”

Her head snaps from the familiar stranger to Karime, who smiled as if she’d just solved all their problems when she’d really just created more because measuring with a ruler? Seriously. Y/n curses at herself for forgetting to bring her own measuring tape.

She has no other option than to nod, smile, and take the ruler, and start taking measurements.

Like the hand-over-hand motions of steering a car, y/n has to place the ruler, mark where it ends with her nail, and repeat the process again and again.

The walls, the patio, window space, countertops, tables, and the one she’s dreading to do: the dimensions of the room the stranger is sitting in. Karime’s place was split in two and a half. A small outdoor patio, the man space with tables and machines, and the library lounging space. The library lounge space, a doorway cut into a small cozy room to the left when you walk in.

She’d yet to go in there and measure the walls and bookshelves, putting in on to last in hopes that he’d leave because measuring with a ruler is really embarrassing and it’s possible that she’d be shuffling around him.

God.

Getting a grip, she pulled her shoulders back and walked into the room, counting how many steps it took to walk through the door frame. She felt like fingers trapped in a Chinese finger trap, constricted.

Walking into the room, the stranger didn’t look up, instead he looked even more immersed in his work than ever. Eyebrows furrowed and fingers tapping away on his keyboard. He was even leaning into his computer screen, like he couldn’t get whatever it was he needed to type onto the screen fast enough.

Sure enough, staring at him, lost in whatever it was he was typing, y/n stumbled on her own two feet, and an absurd noise escapes her lips when she tried to catch herself.

She doesn’t turn to see if he’s looked at her (he did, with a grin that showed off his bunny-like teeth) and instead hangs her head and makes her way to the opposite wall. Great way to be inconspicuous, she thought to herself.

The wall opposite the stranger, was tall, like the others were. And even though she was sure that it was most likely the same dimensions, she wasn’t going to take any chances. Pulling up a chair so she could stand on it once her arm couldn't reach anymore; huffing because Karime had those really heavy metal chairs that screeched if you didn’t pick them off the floor. Seven feet later, y/n had to step up on the chair, wobbling on her legs while she hiked up, pressing harder on the wooden ruler to make sure it’s place didn’t move.

Her nail pins into the wall, at the end of the ruler, before using her other hand to move up the start of the ruler where her nail left off. When the ruler reached her hip, y/n stumbled leaned forward and effectively knocked out her balance so she was left flailing, falling, fa-

Not falling.

No, not falling, because two hands grip her hips, and pull her back on the chair to make sure she doesn't fall flat on her face. Her eyes are pinched un closed anticipation, waiting for the smashing of knees against the cold, hard floors but it never comes.

“Gotcha!” says a deep british voice. A warm gust of minty wind flutters in y/n’s nose, and when she opens her eyes. Glittering green eyes, wispy strands of hair, and petal pink lips.

Right. In front. Of her face.

“Selena, you’ve really got to be more careful,” he says, chuckling as his speaks so his words are broken with sounds of laughter. He’s even lifting her up from her leaned position off of the chair, and settling her down on the floor, biceps tightening and a humming noise coming from his throat as he does so.

She’s flabbergasted. Doesn’t know what to say because she doesn’t think she’d ever been picked up before. Its ridiculous really, seconds away from eating shit on hard ass surface and all she can think about is how she was picked up. But jeez, who could blame her, the man was hot.

All sharp jawline, clavicles peeking out of his shirt, and the column of his throat such a nice pretty color. Quite handsome, really.

“Shit,” y/n finally manages to get out, her eyes wide, shoulders tense, and instinctively, her fingers are digging into his shoulders (though she’s not aware of it yet).

“You alright?” The man says, when he notices the way she’s gone rigid. He doesn’t say anything about the way her fingers are gripping at him.

“Uhm, yes. I am now. Thank you…” Y/n’s voice comes out in breathy spurts, and her forehead glistens like she’s just run to catch the bus. That’s when she noticed where her fingers were placed; the way the white cloth dipped in from the amount of pressure she was exerting onto his skin. Cheeks turning a darker pink, she cleared her throat and avoided looking at him when she removed her hands.

“Harry” He mumbled. “My name’s Harry. Yours? Not quite sure if it’s Selena or not…”

“HA!” A loud exclamation, a bit too loud that it was awkward. “No. Not Selena. Y/n.” She looked into his eyes them, raising her chin the last inch to move from Brittney Spears face to his eyes. Eyes the color of light streaming through a tree leaves in a forest on a spring forest. Y/n sucks in a breath.

“Well, wonderful to meet you, y/n.” He leans towards her, a ringed finger pointing jeeringly at the stick still in her hands. “I gotta say, measuring with a ruler?”

“Very efficient. As you can see,” She shakes the hand the ruler is in, and then uses the ruler to point at the seemingly innocent metal chair “You should try it sometime.”

“Only if you catch me.” Harry grabs his own wrists behind his back, his shoulders hunching forwards and head shaking side to side a bit as his speaks.

It takes a moment for her to drink in what he’s said, to fully react with a scoff and a smile. “Catch you? I’ll hold you up on my shoulder’s myself.”

“Then we’ll both end up sprawled on the floor, all roughed up and bruised.”

They both laugh at their jokes, and Harry even goes as far as to clap his jean clad knee. When it gets quiet, their laughs dying down, Harry speaks again.

“Saw you in the paper. Helped decorate Rockstar didn’t you?”

Y/n’s jaw drops. Her lips opening and closing like a fish eating crumbs at the water’s surface. “The paper? What paper?” This was news to her. She was aware that the article James would write would be like, online or something. But a physical paper. That’s a little bigger. And him having remembered. Having identified her.

“The local paper. WeHoVille.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, one side of his lips pulling up in a confused manner. “Was picking up a sleepy time tea and honey at the Wholefoods, and you painting was a feature next to the counter. Didn’t show your face, but I walked past that day and remembered.”

“The paper… wow. I didn’t know. But yes,”Y/n twirls the ruler on in circles with her fingers, putting all her weight on one hip so on of her feet could tap loosely on the floor. “I decorated Rockstar.” After a beat, “What’d you think about it?”

“The place is amazin’!” A strand of Harry’s hair flops down to the space between his eyebrows and eyelashes, tickling his skin. He had to brush his fingers through his hair to comb it back. “Love the feel of it. Gotta stop myself from going in everyday or might blow all my money on Stevie’s usual.”

“That’s my favorite too! Next time you’re there, give me a wave down and I’ll have you covered.” Y/n’s offers had Harry’s eyebrows raised in seconds. “Least I could do, given you saved me from a concussion and all that.” She tried to explain, words coming out in a flurry from her mouth.

He chuckles at her flustered stare, the same repressed smirk that he’d given her when he caught her staring. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.” Silence and then, “What do you plan on doing with the place?”

“Turn it into a greenhouse,” y/n said bluntly. The two were still standing next to the wall y/n was measuring, and Harry leaned one of his shoulders against it, moving his hands from behind his back to his front, wrapping one around the other one’s wrist.

“That’ll be nice. Even more uh, how do you say, therapeutic? I guess more relaxing than the place already is. Karime said plants?” He asked. It didn’t quite settle with y/n that he knew Karime on a first name basis, that he was interested in knowing she picked plants, and she wanted so badly to say: Karime doesn’t know what she wants, but instead pushes that feeling away and goes with,

“Well, she gave me a scope to work with. A color scheme. A gist. Certain decorations she wanted to see. So on and so on. Plants is just what I took from it. And it goes with her place because it has to deal with aromatherapy and all that. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve hit it right on. Can’t wait to see what it’ll look like.” He raps a knuckle on the wall. “Did you still need wall measurements? I’ll hold you so you don’t fall again.”

Timidly, she responds, “Okay.”

“Up you get, then.” Harry pointed to the chair, and y/n raises her leg to hike up, this time with Harry’s hands placed on her hips, steadying her.

A tiny dash on the wall where her nail slid off marks where she was at when she nearly fell off the metal chair, and this is where she places the ruler. She left off at 7 feet, the ruler at her hip. Resuming the same positions, she starts to wobble again, and Harry's hands tight, holding her straight.

She guesses he hears her gasp when she feels herself wobble because he says “I’ve gotcha.”

Y/n moved the ruler up one, two, and three more times, and then her arm can’t stretch anymore and pinches one eye closed to cry and guess how many more feet are left. She guessed four… ish. On a whim, she tries to push the ruler up once more, and her shirt rides up on the left side of her hips. Warm sequential breaths hit her skin, and a shiver drops down her spine when she realizes what’s happened.

Harry, ever the gentleman, doesn’t waste a second, and slides his pointer and middle finger over her skin, his warm fingers splaying over goosebumps to pinch her shirt and pull it down for her.

“All done,” she squeaks. “Coming back down.”

Harry released her, but offers her a hand and she takes it, holding on to his as she comes down, his palms warm and rings cool; a nice contrast.

“Thank you so much for h-”

“Y/n?”

Booth Harry and y/n tun to the doorway that leads to the main room, where Karime stands with a checkbook in her hands. Y/n turns back to look at Harry. The curls behind his ears, the blonde hairs on his top lip. He turns to look at her, and gives her a closed lip smile. She smiles back and twiddles her fingers, mouthing a bye bye.

Karime walks away when she sees that y/n is following her, and takes them both back to their position on the counter.

“Here’s the check. Two thousand dollars. Deposit it into your account, and use it for gas, furniture, anything that has to do with Aromareads you can pull from this.” She opens the book and tears out the slip of paper. “I will need receipts. And your name?”

Karime glances up at y/n, only to see that she’s busy looking back through the door frame at Harry. The manager is slightly irked at the fact that the person she’s hiring to reshape her business isn’t paying attention, but following her line of gaze, Karimer can’t blame her. Harry, a usual in her store, is a very very handsome man. Towering, with broad back and a neck Karime would love to bite into if she wasn’t gay. He sat at his laptop, thighs spread and eyes hard and stern, pondering with a pout. Karime is sure that what caught my/n’s attention is the way Harry’s thighs and crotch looked at that very moment, enticing, strong, sensual.

Clearing her throat, “Y/n. I need a full name to address the check.”

Y/n’s neck snaps towards Karime, her hair getting caught on her lips at her velocity. “Uh- yes, sorry it’ll be Y/n Y/l/n.”

Karime repeated her name, and asked for her to spell it, which she did while stuttering mildy.

“Here you go.” Clicking her pen against the marble countertop, Karime handed the check to y/n. “Listen, by no means do I wanna pressure you, but if you could get this down before the holidays are in full force, I would love that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It won’t take me that long.”

And it definitely didn’t.

On Monday, y/n spent the entire day (and part of her night) driving to most of the places Karime had sent her through a text. She spent a few minutes googling the places and looking through the pictures that came up and cursing every time it would redirect her to yelp- because really who has yelp? The antique stores were all spread out in the Los Angeles area.

There was one in Long Beach. The pictures showed a really big warehouse with chair lying on top of each other and tables littered with little statues and the likes. Here she bought baskets. Tons of them. Gus (the owner) has dedicated an entire isle to them. When he saw y/n’s cart, the laughed then asked her “Why dolly, whadda ya need all them baskets for?” And when she told him it was for business, he offered her coupons and package deals.

“Tell ya what,” he scratched the scruff on his chin, the only hair he had because he was bald, “You buy all these baskets,” he pointed to her cart, “I’ll give you a twenty pa’cent discount on ya purchase, and if ya want, you can pick anathin’ ya want from over there because no one wants tuh buy them.” Then he pointed to a pile of books that lay haphazardly next to a stove and a turquoise refrigerator. She paid one hundred and fifty.

She walked out with wicker baskets, one being a picnic basket she snatched for herself, lined nicely with red patterned cloth and a lid for it to close, and that same picnic basket full of regency novels from the 90’s.

There was another in Laguna. A beachside thrift shop, where she paid for (very overpriced) frames of painted lighthouses and beach landscapes for that ‘beach’ factor Karime wanted. By this time, she drove back towards Hollywood to drop the items back at Aromareads because her car was getting full. She didn’t go inside, just unloaded the tings in the back and Karime took them inside. If she had, she would’ve seen Harry.

Y/n then took to the shops in the downtown area. One being, a swapmeet type place where you walked through and looked at all the furniture. They set up different sections for different themes. Victorian, regal, animal skin themed, and a hall full of mirrors. Y/n bought a large 8x8 mirror for five hundred dollars. It would be delivered the following day.

One of the sections was retro-themed, and she snapped a picture of a hip-height lava lamp and sent it to Lucy. Lucy then proceded to beg y/n through to text to please buy that I fucking need it. Will pay u back. So she bought it; $100 that she knew would be no big deal for Lucy given all the business she had.

Her final stop, were the flowers and plants district. There, she placed a large order for 30 succulents, and an assortment of nearly 100 leafy plants to fill the baskets with. She blew $1,000 there.

By the end of the day, she’d wasted nearly all of Karime’s check; a measly two hundred remaining after she refilled her car with gas (give or take some). Y/n met with Karime at around 6, in the back parking lot again, and left everything she’d bought.

“Oh! And the mirror should be delivered tomorrow before closing time.”

Karime was wearing a caramel turtle neck and black slacks tucked into latex ankle boots, her hair pinned back and tied into a spiky ponytail. Her ears were adorned with pearl earrings, and her fingers were jammed into golden rings. Y/n felt embarrassed in her measly purple jumper and paint splattered mom jeans. Her accessories consisted of a fanny pack full of nails and a hammer at her waist.

“Good, good. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow-” Karime was already turning back and returning into the shop when Y/n said:

“Actually I was hoping I could start now.” Her words lifted into a question at the end, half suggesting half stating.

Karime’s face morphed into one of confusion and surprise, but in the end she agreed, and told y/n to do as she pleased.

Upon first entering, y/n is disoriented.

She walks into a frenzy of… nothing. It’s like an industrial kitchen, but completely empty. Occupied only by the things she had brought in. She remembers that she walked into the back and not the front, and it made sense because Karime doesn’t offer anything that would require use of the kitchen. Everything she has is done at the bar by the barista outside.

Karime leaves y/n in the back, where she asses her items. The baskets. The frames. And well, that’s really all there is. It would be more with all the plants coming in. She realizes that she doesn’t really have much to work with and there really isn’t much to do than hang picture frames, and there’s only five of them.

Nonetheless, she goes outside with the first frame in hand. A soft blue painting of a lighthouse on an island with light from a hole in a cloudy sky shining on the building. When she picked this one up, she knew exactly where it would go. By the wall next to the sliding door that lead to the patio. She sauntered over to the spot then, dodging a woman on her boyfriend on her way there. It was packed, and rightfully (it was a tuesday).

She reached the spot, and lifted the picture on the wall, lifting and tilting so it would fit naturally. Eventually, she found the sweet spot, and reached for the hammer she had stuck into her belt loop and the box of nails she’d placed into the fanny pack on her waist.

Without hesitation, she put the first nail on the wall, and started banging. Three taps in, and she hung the wire on the nail, balancing it so it looked the way she envisioned it. After she was done, y/n stepped back to admire her handiwork, and tilted her head to the side the way one does when their looking at a picture that’s upside down.

Perfect.

She walked around the shop then, with the purpose of noticing empty spots on the walls, anything that could be filled up with artistry. The simple tables? No they had to stay that way. Placing something on the tables would clutter them and tarnish the ‘relax’ mode people came in for. The window that faced the street? Yes. Y/n planned on lining them with hanging droopy plants on the edges, not obscuring but not leaving a clear view either. She’d have to buy shelves to place baskets on the walls. Hooks to hang them. This she would do with what was left from the check.

Yet… something was missing. The alternative-ness she knew should be there. Something ‘hippie’ and ‘aesthetic’, off the minimalist side of things.

Looking into a corner where the walls met, a light bulb went off. She knew exactly what was missing. Letters. Y/n had seen an image on Pinterest not even less than a month ago. A picture of a string of letters. Or rather, a message. It said something along the lines of ‘You are my light’ or something edgy like that. Each word had been hand cut and strung onto a piece of- she didn’t know, string? Tweed? A wire?- and hung in a corner of a room where walls met. It knocked off every box on the checklist. Minimalist. Crafty. Aesthetic. And cheap, considering how low the money was.

She knew she’d have to brainstorm phrases and pass them by Karime, but she’d worry about that later.

It was Friday. One day after the plants had been delivered, and y/n was set to work full force. Sure, she’d have to work amongst customers, but no matter. It would get done.

She started in the back. With the plants.

Y/n had bought a plastic-type lining at the Home Depot to place soil in the baskets. She lined then all first, securing the material with tape around the edges. After, came the transfer and placement. She decided this would be a better method, and if there were extras she could have Karime sell them. This way, she wouldn’t overcrowd the place and stop when she saw an adequate fill of green.

The first, a circular basket with no handle the color of a waffle cone. Because it was one that would go on a shelf, she placed one of the droopiest plants in it, a green stream of vines and shrubby leaves.

Last night, y/n had given Karime the benefit of the doubt, and allowed her to place shelves where she’d liked them So, before she opened at 7, Karime had decorated her store with wooden slabs for y/n to decorate. Taking the first plant, she walked out.

As expected, Aromareads was bustling with energy. Women with mojitos in their hands, burnt out college kids hooked up to masks, older men and women laughing like tinkling bells.

She’s walking towards the first row of shelves she sees on the wall across from her, besides the sliding doors, basket held gingerly with both hands, when she hears:

“Y/n!”

Looking to her left, she sees a sleepy, just-rolled-out-of-bed looking Harry. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the words ‘Treat people with kindness’ in a gradient rainbow color, and… and grey sweatpants. Grey. Sweatpants.

Grey sweatpants.

Y/n tries not to visibly swallow him whole as he walks towards her with an innocent smile on his face because god if she isn’t all hot and bothered right now. Her eyes seem to be magnetically attracted to his crotch, trying but failing to grasp and image of what may be lying underneath.

“H-hey, Harry,” she smiles at him meekly, her voice cracking when she speaks. She cleared her throat and said again, “hey, Harry. S’nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too.” He bows his head towards her, and endearing mannerism that has y/n’s heart pooling down to her ribcage. “I see you’ve brought out the green guns today.” A teasing grin on his extra red and shiny lips. Perhaps it was chapstick. It was rather windy outside.

“You see correctly.” She giggles at his joke, at the same time, rolling her eyes at how cheesy he was being. “Today’s the day it all comes together.”

“I’m excited to see how it all turns out. Don’t go falling on any chairs today alright?” He wags his finger at her, mocking a mother shunning her child.

“I’ll try not to. But if I do-” she said, coquettishly.

“I’ll catch you.”

“You better.” Laughing at him, she repeats his actions and lifts her finger up to point at him.

With a final laugh and a shake of his head, Harry walks away and into the working room.

Y/n watches him walk off, and walks off her own way as well, resting the basket against her hip as she went. When she reached the wall with shelves arranged in a checkered pattern, she placed the basket on top of the wooden plank, and tufted leaves so they look naturally messily placed. Unintentionally intentional; they way one teases their hair so it looks nice.

She went back to her work station: the now full kitchen, and repeated the process. Picked a basket, filled it with a plant, and took it outside. She left the hooks for last, wanting to leave of being in the way of people until she had too. Almost effortlessly, y/n filled Karime’s space with greenery. Cacti on shelves, large leaves and vines on walls, frames of beach paintings on nails. Once, she pricked her finger because her it had accidentally slipped inside the glass globe in which the succulent was in.

When the time finally came to walk into the room Harry was in, the outside was looking rather… forest-y. She liked the way it looked; a calm type of chaos. One that showed relaxation and no care for anything. Which was the point of the entire place. Come in. Relax. Breathe in from diffusers to get that extra push to decompress.

Harry sat in his usual spot, directly in spot of the doorway, in one of the middle tables. Hunched over his computer with fingers flying over his keyboard. He had earphones in this time, white buds tucked right into his ears, stray strands of hair looping and covering them. His lips were placed in a puckered pout, the scrunched pink skin twitching from left to right.

Humming to herself, y/n forces herself to walk past him, forces herself to not turn back and glance at Harry even if she can feel his gaze burning into her back. She makes it seem like the hook and plant in her hand are the most interesting things in the world. Turning it over in her fingers, and even going as far as to lift the basket (this on with a handle and curved bowl bottom) to her nose and smell it.

“Need a hand with that?” Harry says from behind her. She feels his presence from behind her, standing close enough that she can feel when he reaches to her front and takes the basket from her hands. Y/n’s heart starts beating as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Closing her eyes to get a hold of herself, all she sees is green. Green, the color of his eyes.

“Yes, please.” Her voice is small, shy.

Harry, feeling bold, nudged the tip of his nose on the hair behind her ear. Enough to make her notice, but not enough to make her completely sure that it was there. “Where do you want it?” He says, breath hot on the shell of her ears. Her eyes widen, and her body goes on full alert. She’s suddenly aware of the closeness of his hips on hers, the brushing of the fabric on her the back of her hand.

“Up…” Y/n steps forward, towards the wall. She places her finger on the smooth surface, and traces it over to where she wants it, doing loopty-loops to her desired spot. “...here.”

He places the nail on the wall, hits it with the hammer that y/n gives him and hooks the basket as well. He turns to her when he’s done.

“Got any more?” He asks, placing a hand on his hip.

“Yeah, in the back. Wanna come help me?” Y/n points with a thumb to the doorway, half of her body turning as well.

“Lead the way.”

So they leave together to the backroom, y/n holding open the golden curtain for Harry to walk through. He looks around endearingly, his neck stretching and eyes darting from place to place as he takes in his surroundings. Y/n is stuck at the expression on her face, her heart strings pulling when her ears listen to the soft giggle that escapes his lips.

“S’very nice back here.”

“Wanna grab a few baskets? Place ‘em in the lounge?”

“Sure thing.” Harry wraps his hand around the handle of three baskets at the same time, and with the other, he grabs the still-packaged hooks and wait for y/n by the doorway. She hurried to grab two succulents, and met Harry at the doorway. They had an awkward moment of deciding who’s going first. A huffle of backwards and forwards until eventually, Harry held his palm out to allow her to go through while biting his lip. Y/n ducked her head and felt the tips of her ears go warm.

“So, I tried Elton John yesterday.” He said, trailing behind y/n into the lounge like a little puppy. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging.

“Oh? How was it?” She replied, juggling the two glass casings in her hand, and then pricking herself again. She flinches, but doesn’t make any noises.

“Think I might have a new favorite,” he said, bashfully ducking his own head and peeking at her through his hair. Her heart fluttered, and if it could, she was sure it would bust out with the dreamy sighs she suppressed.

“It’s that serious?” She asked.

“It’s that serious.” They reach the lounge, and y/n sets the succulents she carries in her hands down on a table. “Have you had it yet?” Her stretches her hands out to Harry, signaling for him to give her his items.

“No, not yet. Should probably give it a try if its changed your mind. Can you pass me a hook?” Harry gives her all four packages he holds in his one hand. When she wraps her hand around them, her finger brushes against the chubby part of his hand.

“Here you go- I only drank it ‘coz like, I’m on this diet thing and needed a drink with oat milk in it. Elton’s was the first one I saw. Woke me right up, too.”

“Diet you say?” y/n took the hammer and walked over to her desired stop, a few feet away from the one Harry had put in.

“Some altered version of keto. Had a really bad bug, had me feeling icky and ‘just decided it was the best.” He takes place next to her, watching as she positioned the nail and hit it a few times with the hammer. He held out a basket on his finger when she was done. She was a whirlwind, he thought. Busy little bee, never stopping. Harry nearly feels bad because she’s so full of energy, bouncing back from the table to the wall and arranging plants before he could even blink. “S’not fair. Not letting me do any work.” A pout appears on his lips, eyes teasing.

“You just stand there and look pretty. I’ve-” she points to herself, finger at her chin. “Got this.”

Harry grumbles something that she doesn’t catch with his chin tucked into his neck.

“What was that?’ she hums.

“‘Said, can’t exactly be pretty ‘coz you took that job too.”

Y/n’s hands still. Immediately, she feels her chest grow red roses blooming on her cheeks. She’s not exactly… embarrassed, per say. No. The familiar feeling of ants running wildly in her lower stomach began to burn, her ribcage tickling as butterflies try to creep out with beating wings. Pretty. He had called her pretty.

“Uhm, thank you?”

“You’re very welcome, darling.” His tone of voice is smug. And when she looks over at him with eyebrows raised, he’s biting his lip and his looking at her through his eyelashes like he had before, but there was no childish play in it this time.

“Say,” she picks up a succulent. “What’s it with you?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugs.

“Lovin’ all up on me.” She puts the succulent back down.

“S’nothing wrong with lovin’ all up on a pretty girl.”

There it is again. Pretty girl. Y/n is on fire her entire face pink, color concentrated on her cheeks and nose as if she had taken a walk in the brisk wind.

“Stop it,” she said.

Harry’s face turns concerned, brows kissing and lines appearing on his forehead. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” All work is forgotten, and instead they stand facing each other.

“No! No, no,” Y/n’s eyes widen and her hands waving back and forth to eradicate the thought of her being disturbed by him. “S’just,” she sighs. “Not used to it, is all.”

Upon hearing this, Harry’s face breaks into a smile. “Well then,” he starts. “Better get used to it.”

“Oh, you.” She playfully slaps his shoulder and picks up the succulent again, this time actually going to put it on a shelf adjacent to the window; a little alcove Karime has placed in a weird spot.

“When do you get a break?”

“I think I get to take it whenever I want, why?” “Wanna head down to Rockstar? Craving a Madonna right about now.”

“Never pegged you as a Madonna guy,” (the Madonna was a sweet caramel iced coffee with whipped cream and chocolate chips; not actually what Madonna would drink, and the beverage itself being one of the few inaccurate ones). “Let me finish with this, and I’ll let Karime know.”

So she did, much faster with Harry’s help. He handed her nails, hooks, and the plants she asked for. He asked if he could leave his stuff in the back, and he followed her back there once again, ticking his bag into an empty cupboard next to y/n’s things. On her way out, she said a quick goodbye to Karime who she was sure didn’t even hear what she said.

Harry and her walked the short block side by side, with him playfully knocking his shoulder into hers and smiling like a mushy schoolboy when she pushed him back. They made small talk about drinks and the weather, shoulders hunched up and chins tucked in because it was a little cold. Y/n’s frayed highschool sweater wasn’t doing much to keep her warm, and she had half the wind to pull her hood up the way Harry had his.

Looking over at his, his nose was going a bit raw. Pink and the skin around it a little pale. By the time he noticed she was looking at him, they’d reached Rockstar, and he was opening the door for her. Murmuring a small thank you she walked through, and stepped to the side to wait for him to step inn as well, given he’d held the door open for the few people that had been walking behind him as well. From inside, she could see him nodding and smiling at everyone who stepped in.

“You wanna grab a table and I’ll get the drinks?” she says to him when he appears next to her with hands in his hoodie pocket; she’s craning her neck to meet his eyes.

“Sure. I’ll be in the records?” He takes one hand out to point over to where the records are.

“Okay.” Y/n nods and head to the counter, where Lucy is busy taking someone’s order. She only see y/n when she walks behind the person and makes a silly face at her. Lucy laughs, but continues taking the order, and y/n pushes through the doors to put on an apron and make her and Harry’s drink.

“Well if it isn’t y/n!” Says Kim.

“Y/n! Girly its been forever,” Kelsey bumps her hip when y/n get to work alongside her at the steaming machine.

“Yes, yes, I know. Missed my favorite baristas.” she giggles, bumping her hip a little harder and making Kelsey gasp in faint shock. “Where’s Tilly?”

“Called in sick. Poor think could barely speak.” replied Kelsey. Y/n hummed a response, and made her drink first, a hot chocolate, and set it to the side to allow it to cool down meanwhile she made Harry’s. When Kelsey noticed her reaching for another measuring cup after just making her own she says,

“Two drinks?”

“Got a friend waiting for me in the records.” Y/n explained, pumping an extra pump of caramel into the cup. She puts in less ice too, and extra chocolate chips and whipped cream.

“The records…” Kelsey craned her neck out of where customers pick of their drinks to peek tp the records section. “Wait, wait, the one in the hood?” “Yep,” said y/n, unbothered as she capped Harry’s drink.

“Y/n!” Kelsey hissed, “He’s hot!”

“Yes, Kelsey, I am aware.” Y/n rolls her eyes and picked up both drinks, turning on her heels to walk out but nearly bumps into Kim, who stood not even an inch away from her. She backs up instantly.

“So are you and he a thing?” He asked, leaning in closer to y/n’s face,his breath smelling on the ramen he always ate during his lunch break.

Y/n, uncomfortable by his closeness, tried walking around him but he stepped to the side. “It’s none of your business Kim.”

“You never accept my dates, but you’ll accept his?” Kim’s tone is angry, and when he takes a step towards her, Kelsey steps in front of her.

“Kim, leave her alone.” Kelsey says, turning back to y/n and nodding her head in the direction y/n was heading. When she pushes past the swinging doors, she catches a bits of what Kelsey says to him in a harsh whisper, “just wait until Lucy hears about this.”

“Haarryy,” Y/n says in a sing-song voice, dodging people as she makes her way to the records. Harry’s standing with a record in his hand, legs spread apart and leaning back a bit with his other hand tucked into his opposite armpit. “Here’s your John.”

Harry takes the plastic cup from her, giggling as he looks at her.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, genuinely confused.

“Still wearing your apron,” Harry wraps his lips around the straw, tongue poking out to lap at it and take it into his mouth as y/n tries really hard not to stare.

Looking down at herself, y/n shrugs, and leaves it on, taking a seat on the nearest loveseat and wrapping her now empty hand around the warm cup.

“What did you get?” He asked her.

“Willy wonka.” She brings the cup to her lips, tilting it up slowly and her mouth waters when she catches the scent of the foaming chocolate. Harry takes a seat next to her, his thigh touching her jean-clad one. He sits with them spread, leaning back in an eased position, and y/n eyes jump down to the bunched grey fabric at his crotch. And… well, there’s a larger than normal bulge through the fabric, drawstrings bending over the imprint, and y/n chokes on her drink. Some of it sputters out onto her apron.

“Still hot?” She nods. “ Gotta be careful, love. Who picked the names?”

Y/n looks over at him, head tilting to the side with eyes squinting. “Picked what?”

The cloudy skylight streamed in softly, casting a soft grey glow on Harry’s side profile. “The names for the drinks. Who picked them?” He holds his drink in one hand, straw near his face so all he had to do was maneuver his wrist to the plastic tube was in his mouth.

“Lucy did. Well, for most of them. I picked Andre 3000, Madonna, Willy Wonka and made the drinks myself. They’re not accurate though.” She sipped from her drink. “The rest of them are.”

“How much of this decor did you do? Like, concepts and stuff.” Harry takes out the tucked hand to wave around, and then tucks it back in.

“Concepts? Hmm…” she trails off for a moment. “All of them. I don’t want to say that I made this place myself, because I wouldn’t have done it without Lucy’s guidelines, but I went out, bought the furniture. Everything you see me doing at Karime's, I did here… ‘cept Karime’s is just plants and this,” she waves around her in a gesture and leaves it at that.

“Do you decorate apartments?” He asked.

“W-what?” Y/n, in the middle of a sip, and very surprised at his question, stuttered at his

“‘Coz mine’s looking kinda bland right now, was thinking maybe you could help me put some life into it.”

“Harry, I-”

“Kinda like the Rockstar vibes, but like, a little less on the trendy side? I dunn-” Harry isn’t looking at her, his eyes wandering and landing on everything but her.

“Harry.” she said a little more sternly, putting a stop to his little rant. He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. “I’m not sure you want me to help you decorate your home.”

“Why not? You’d be helping me is all, and I love the way you’ve made Aromatherapy and Rockstar look.” He licks his lips, moving his head to the side and bringing the straw into his mouth with his tongue (that y/n stare at for longer than necessary).

“But it’s your home.”

“I am aware. Help me make it more me.” He shifts his body towards her then, his knee bending so he chest is to her. “Please?” He makes the face Puss in Boots made in that one movie, y/n couldn’t remember then because Harry looked much cuter than that dumb cat did.

Y/n tosses this idea around in her head. Helping Harry decorate his home. She was scared, not only because Harry was cute, but because home was a personal and private space to be calm and safe. What if she screwed it all up and then Harry was uncomfortable in his own home? What is she did such a shit job that, that- well such a bad job that a horrible result came out of it again. This thing with Harry, a budding friendship? She barely knew the guy, just that he had an affinity for showering her with compliments and he made her turn more red than that really bad sunburn she got in the 10th grade after she refused to put on sunblock on a trip to a pool resort. What her point was, is that decorating someone’s home- a place where the heart is pure- is a really big job.

“Of course, this would be after you’re done with Karime’s place. Don’t wanna stress you out or anything like that.” A nike shoe, white and crisp looking like it had come straight out of the box, pressed into his thigh when he wrapped a hand around his ankle and pulled his bent leg in tighter. “Whadda ya say?”

After hemming and hawing a few times, y/n finally says, “Okay. But you’re gonna have to be one million times more specific okay?” She elbows him, his position causing her elbow to poke at his pec instead of his bicep, and y/n elbows into hard muscle.

“Heyyy, can’t go hurting the girls now,” He rubs over where he poked her, and pouts childishly, even going as far as sticking his tongue out at her. “Do you need to head back? I don’t wanna get you into any trouble, y/n.” The use of her name makes her heart skip a beat. “Yes, we should probably get going.” She moves to get up, and accidentally places her hand on Harry’s thigh. Before she would say sorry for touching him, he says,

“Alway using me to hold yourself, huh? Sneaky thing, I see what you’re doin.”

“You offered! Said it yourself, I’ll hold you so you don’t fall again,” she deepened her voice, and faked a british lilt as best she could.

“I do not sound like that,” He whined.

He got up right after her, grabbing her hand to ‘pull’ himself back up, but he was really just holding it. His hand was cooler than hers (because he’d used the hand that had been holding his iced coffee) and enormous around hers. If he tried, he could close his finger tips and they’d be overlapping. When he was fully stood up, he reached around her neck, and lifted the black strap over her head, transfering the cloth over to the hand that held his cup, and then reaching again, this time around her waist to undo the knot. His front, not even a full step away from hers, and y/n got a whiff of detergent and something else she could only describe as ‘clean man’. If she were a shark, this would’ve been the moment her eyes turned black and rolled to the back of her head.

“There you go, no longer look like a little barista.” He hung the apron over he shoulder, and walked alongside her to the exit. Y/n split from him for a short second to return the apron, but then resumed her place next to him and they walked out together. She was hyper alert the entire way, taking notice of when their hands brushed, or when he pressed his bicep against hers. They walked a little stumbly, walking against each other almost. Had it been Lucy, she would’ve already yelled at y/n, and y/n would’ve walked near the sidewalk to avoid bumping into her again. But Harry?

Harry takes it like a champ. Giggling and pressing back against her, and he even placed her on the inside of the sidewalk when she walked to the side closest to the passing cars.

“So, tell me.” He starts, tossing his empty cup at a recycling bin as they waited for the light. “What kind of premeditated preparations should I take to be- as you said- extra specific?”

Y/n still nurtures her cup in her hands, the coffee lid resting on her bottom lip. “Moodboards. Magazine scraps. Room inspiration on pinterest. Make a list of things you like. Anything really. Anything that you like and would like to see in your apartment. Also, you need a budget.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout a budget. I’ll work on everything else. You want it done by a certain day?” He asked, gallantly placing a hand on the small of her back as they crossed the street.

“Preferably within the next week or two. I’m pretty much done with Karime.” She straightens up when she feels Harry’s hand on her, a warm feeling spreading from where he pressed, unlike the nastiness Kim made her feel.

They’re three shops down when he said, “Gotta give me your number so I can send you everything then. You can keep me updated and I’ll keep you updated.” They pass by a tree whose branch is just low enough to graze Harry’s head, and it hooks onto the hood on his head, effectively pulling it back as he walks through. His hair looks incredibly soft. Wispy strands the color of the drink in her hands, billowing up and around his face, a ringlet falling in front of his right eye.

He licks his lips, using his fingers to push his hair back and raise the hoodie over his hair again. HE looks over at her as he does, waiting for her response.

“Oh, oh, yes. Sure thing. Got your phone on you?” Harry jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, the latest model, sleek and looking incredibly small in his hands. He placed it into her outstretched palm, unlocked but not on the contact app. Y/n has to swipe through shamefully, scared he’s gonna think that she’s snooping. She puts her number under ‘y/n :)’.

“Thanks, love.” He took the phone from her, his fingers sliding against the back of her hand. He hisses when he does so, saying, “Y/n your hands are so cold,” and then proceeds to take her hand and squeeze it between his own two.

She giggles sweetly, “Aye! Trynna hold my hand now?” she teased.

“No, trying to hold your hand would be this,” He grabs her hand with one, and lets it wall between them. They walk into AromaReads like that, with him holding her hand and the both of them laughing like they’d heard the funniest thing in the world.

Karime, standing at the counter and welcoming everyone as they come in, catches y/n’s eye and she smiles at herself knowingly. Y/n shakes her head while still laughing with Harry, and they both head to the back. Harry to get his stuff, and y/n to continue her job. Just when he’s walking between the isle and cabinets, his phone dings and he takes it out, his jaw dropping and palm slapping his forehead.

“SHIT! I completely forgot. I have a lunch meeting with my friend today. Fuck,” Y/n, this being the first time she hears swear words coming out of his mouth, rases her eybrow at him and chuckles. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to keep helping you, but-”

She raises her hand, silencing him. “You do what you have to do. This is my job anyway. Just don’t forget to text me.” Basket handles fill her hands, wicker patterns pressing into her pals, and she tucks one of the last two frames under her hand too.

“I won’t. In fact, I’ll do that right now.” He types into the phone that’s still in his hand, and a few seconds later Y/n’s back pocket buzzes and chimes. She doesn’t pull it out to check. “Now you can text me if I forget.” He says finally, swinging his satchel over his shoulder.

“Bye, sweetheart!” He called out, turning back over to smile at her. Y/n’s lips pulled up at the corners, gazing at him with a certain look in her eye as he walked out.

“Sweetheart, huh?” Karime stepped into her direct line of vision, snapping y/n out of the daydream in her head where she’s the housewife and Harry her husband leaving to work, calling out bye, sweetheart! as he walked out the door.

Karime’s looking at her with a smirk and a single pointy eyebrow raise.

God, what had she gotten herself into?

Y/n had saved Harry under “H.”

And received a text from him that same night.

She’d been in her bathtub with cucumbers on her eyes when she heard her phone chime. Chin pointed upwards and wrists perched on the edges of her porcelain basin, she lay unbothered and unmotivated to even move. Arms aching and the soles of her feet tired from walking from place to place and lifting she did at Karime’s earlier that day. Tealight candles were the only source of light in the tiny bathroom, a soft yellow glow cascading on the skin of her neck. The valley of her breast peaked out everytime she took a breath, her mind drifting off into thoughts of green eyes and warm hands, all she’d been able to think about that day.

She planned on staying there 30 more minutes, but her phone dinged again. After she thought it was the two minute thing the phone does after receiving a message, but when it dinged again, she huffed from her nose and removed the soggy cucumber sliced off of her eyes. Should’ve turned off my phone, she thought to herself, grabbing the towel she left on the toilet seat across from the tub, and wrapping it around her torso. The phone screen a blaring white light in contrast to the dimness of the candles.

Y/n, eyes cloudy with sleep and limbs saggy with fatigue, is very much surprised to see that next to the app icon on the display screen, is ‘H.’ Hey eyes pop out of her head at the realization, and her heart shakes up the fatigue to beat up a storm for the boy she’d been thinking about all day since he’d left her.

Standing in her bathroom, on bare tiles with water still dripping on her, it hit her full force. She liked Harry. Liked the way his cheek squished against his shoulder when he shrugged. They way he looked at her through his eyelashes, and they way he made sure that she was walking on the inside of the street. Liked how he smiled at her and said her name. She was obsessed with him.

So i think i know what i wanna go for

Was thinking maybe italy in the 70’s

What do you think :D ??

And attached were varying pictures of vast rooms with big windows during golden hour and white flowy curtains with art pieces on the wall. It was minimal Even more minimal that what Karime asked for. This is what he wanted help with? Not to mention, the pictures he sent were of rooms far bigger than she’d ever seen for an LA apartment. Hell, those rooms might as well have been in Italy, one of the windows had a view of a pretty pink sunset and orange tree branches littering the way.

However, she couldn’t argue that they were very pretty rooms. Sweet and plain, easy for the eye to absorb and just the place you’d be able to melt on the floor with a book.

Or the kind in which you have slow, hazy afternoon sex, but who was she to say what harry would use his rooms for right?

Disclaimer: if this is the look you’re going for

This exact look? You’re gonna have 2 have a really big apartment

Not even a full minute goes by until the grey delivered letters turns into ‘Read at 10:15pm’ and the grey typing bubble appears at the bottom of her screen. Her palms begin to sweat and her breath hitches. She doesn’t realize she’s been holding in her breath until she releases it after his message comes through.

are you doing anything this weekend?

Y/n is confused, brows furrowed as she reads his message. Why does he want to know?

No. why? she responded.

so you can come and take measurements of my apartments. that way i know how to tweak what i want

and I have a measuring tape don’t worry

Y/n rolled her eyes and giggled at her phone screen, turning and resting her bum on the edge of her sink.

Saturday?

Seconds later,

see you Saturday

sweet dreams. H.x

The idiot. Of course he’d sign off a text message. Scoffing, y/n let the towel drop to the floor, and reached into the tub to unclog the drain. As soon as she felt the pop of water flowing down the pipes, she took out her arm and walked out.

On Wednesday, y/n laid in bed until 12. When she got up, it was only to brush her teeth, pee, and eat ramen with rice and egg like the asian lady in the liquor store had taught her to make. When she finished, she went back to bed. Maybe she masturbated to get herself to fall asleep again.

Maybe.

On Thursday, she went took Our Sign Of The Times and took it out to read in her car on signal hill. She finished it.

She cried.

When she went home, she started another one. Rogue Lover. This one with a really pretty purple flower on the front, and the first page when you open it is a raven haired man with shoulder length hair who’s propped up next to a busty redhead. Her nipple is in his mouth, and her head is thrown back in pleasure. Y/n fell a little more in love with

Lemus Knox upon finding the dedication was a note rather than a name.

It said:

Whoever reads this, I’ll be waiting for you where the stars and clouds meet. My heart is yours. Lemus.

Friday.

She helped Lucy at Rockstar. A bald man with a blue beard came in asking for her. He has a boutique in Long Beach. Doesn’t want to come off overbearing. Will he help her?

She said yes.They were set to meet next week.

Also, Harry texted her asking if they were still on for tomorrow and come ready to eat because I made Italian food for a few friends I had over and there’s leftovers.

Saturday.

Y/n woke up with an appetite for Italian food. She didn’t have to be at Harry’s house until 12-ish. They hadn’t really clarified. And with it being 8 am and all that, y/n decided to take some time to shower and prep herself all nice and delicate. She spent 15 minutes lathering herself in her tub, letting her skin absorb berry scented bubbles that made her mouth water, and if she didn’t know any better she’d scoop up the bubbles and eat them.When her skin shriveled, she stood and drained the water, letting the stream from the overhead wash her off, and stepped out onto her heart shaped mat, the kind with little stubs that felt really nice against the bottom of her feet.

A little while back, she’d bought a lemon face scrub from a really expensive skincare place that had a sale, and meanwhile she put on her clothes, she put some on her cheekbones and forehead to sit for 15 minutes. It required extra care when slipping her floral dress over her head. Once she managed to poke her head through, and the material rested all bunched up on her neck, the rest was a breeze. With a careful yank, the light material cascaded down her body, dropping just below her bum. Checking herself in her mirror, she smiled at the way she looked when she swayed her hips side to side. Cheeky flashes of her bum glint at her teasingly. Humming contently, she took off to wash off her face in the restroom. She was eager to find out how Harry liked the way she looked; her dress a low neckline, and she wasn’t wearing a bra because it was one of those dress in which the fabric bunched at the breasts to create a makeshift cup. The patter was a nice pink that looked nice against her skin, dainty little bows at the sleeves and in between her breasts accentuating her features.

Y/n opted for nothing other than a dark shade of lipstick, and let her hair flow down her back. As she was putting on her shoes, a pair of those recycled shoes that sent some of the proceeds to charity, she noticed that much of what she was doing felt like what she would have done if she were getting ready for a date.

And… and Harry had food waiting for her at his place (apartment? Loft? She didn’t know specifically). Was this a date? She definitely wouldn't mind if it was.

She finished, and grabbed nothing other than her keys and shoulder bag, hesitating at her door whether she should grab the measuring tape, but deciding against it after remembering that Harry, quite teasingly, had said he had one at his house.

In her car, she scrolled up her and Harry’s text to find the one which contained his address, tapped on it when she found it, and set in on the small mount on the headboard of her cart. Huffing, she set off to Harry’s house.

It didn’t take her long to get there, about ten minutes, and she parked in front of a much nicer version of her own apartment complex, but in Beverly hills. A beige building that have the similar structure of a hotel, with turquoise patios and green roofing. Palm trees making a walkway to the entrance, which guarded by a security guard who asked who she was there to see.

“I’m here to see Harry…” she falters, realizing she doesn’t know his name.

The security, an old man with a limp and scrutinizing eyes, looked her up and down and said, “Ya one of dem girls das always botherin’ him ain’tcha? I suggest you turn back and go home. Mr. Styles won’t see you.”

Y/n, with her jaw dropped, stood stunned in the middle of the pathway, not sure what to respond. Surely, he was confused. And whichever “girls that came around bothering Mr. Styles” she wasn’t one of them.

“Go on and git,” he said, crossing his arms and standing possessively in front of a keypad.

She hurried to reach into her bag for her phone, walking back to her car while she punched Harry’s “call” because she didn’t want to stand while an agitated security man watched her.

He picks up the phone, and doesn’t even give her a chance to talk before he says, “is Felix giving you a hard time?” His voice gravelly and knowing.

“The security guard? He said that you won’t see me.” She whines into the receiver.

“Ah yes, the strict old man. Gimme a second.” He hangs up on her, leaving y/n clutching the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles turn white.

“Ms. Y/n?!” Felix calls from behind her. She turns around, surprised to see that his face was completely transformed with a smile. His front tooth is gold and he’s missing a molar. “You can go on ahead, dolly. Mr. Styles just called and said you was a nice ‘un.” He said, punching a thumb into the keypad behind him. “Sorry, bout that Miss. Enjoy the rest ‘ur dey!” He touches the tips of his fore and middle finger to his gleaming forehead and salutes her as she passes him, giggling and blushing.

“Thank you, Felix. You too.”

She walks through, and is greeted with a fine lobby. It really does look like a hotel lobby. Carpeted floors, a receptionist, and a door leading to a pool just outside the elevator. Before she can even wonder where to go, she hears her name being called by a familiar voice,

“Y/n, over here!” Harry calls out, standing in front of open doors to the elevator to her right. He’s wearing a burgundy turtleneck and black slacks that are cuffed at the ankles. Yellow tortoise shell glasses and his hair is parted down the middle making him look like MiloThatch. A lavender towelette is in the grasp of his right hand, and he’s waving it at her like soldier girlfriends saying goodbye on the platforms.

Stunned at his etherealness, y/n felt the roof of her mouth go dry. Staring at the way he filled out his clothing, she walked to him hypnotized, transfixed by his appearance. His chiseled features, boyish grin. She gravitated towards him. Enchanted.

“H-hi, Harry.” she said dreamily. Harry’s eyes raked her up and down when she came to a stop in front of him.

“Why, hello. You look exceptionally lovely right now, darling.” He rasped, looking down at her sternly, all traces of a sweet smile gone and replaced by something a little more serious. A little more sinister. His light green eyes turning a darker shade, y/n’s lips parting and knees weakening.

She musters the words to say, “so do you,” and Harry’s lips turn up at the corners.

“Shall we head up. Pasta and salad is waiting for you.” He turns away from her and presses the circular button that goes red when he pushes it.

“How was-”

“So, you-”

They both say at the same time, laughing and stopping to let the other speak and Harry says, “You go first.”

“I see you’ve a few fans that bother you, and Mr. Felix has taken to guarding them off,” y/n commented. Her eyebrow quirked at him.

Harry laughs, a single loud ha! “Felix just takes his job very seriously. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you have women-” the elevator rings and the doors open, “lined up on your doorstep.” Harry steps in first, and uses his hand to stop the elevator doors from closing in on y/n.

She steps through, and they both stand side by side in the metal encasing. Glancing up, she sees the ceiling is covered in mirror panels.

“Well,” Harry shifts his body so his front is facing her, and takes a step, shoulders taking turns on tilting forward with every slow, torturous step he takes. “Does it,” Y/n takes a step back, breath hitching in her chest, “ bother,” her back collides with the cool wall, the floors on the meter above the doors keep going, 5, 6, “ you?”

He’s a needle away from her nose, his mouth ghosting over her own and his chest rising up and down slowly while hers is an erratic mess. She’s breathing out of her mouth, her eyes shifting between his own two that are fixed and straight on hers. 7, 8, Harry’s hand comes to rest on the right side of her face, caging her between the elevator wall and his bicep, his palm cupped her jaw and running a thumb tenderly over her cheekbone.

“I-I,” she stutters.

“Cat got your tongue, petal?” His breath smells like mint and coffee. The tips of the curls that hang in front of his eyes tickle y/n’s forehead and down the side of her temple and eventually her cheek when he leans in to put his lips at her ear. “Look so pretty right now, y'know?” HIs british drawl is heavy because his tone of voice is low.

8, 9, “Harry,” she gasped, involuntarily tilting her head to the side when he noses at the back of her ear. “What are you doing?”

The elevator comes to a stop at 10, and Harry retracts, leaving her a red, heated mess and slightly panting. He takes the few steps to stand in front of the elevator doors, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiled at her sweetly, his demeanor innocent as if we weren't just going to ravish her in an elevator like Robet Patterson for that one Dior commercial.

The doors open to a long hallway that turns sharply at the end to the right, a door where it would’ve turned on the left side. The right wall is a window that looks out onto the middle of the building, where y/n could see the pool that had been behind door. The flooring is a green colored tile, the same as the roofing, and the walls are a flattering soft yellow bordering on white.

Harry’s shoes, expensive looking-black heeled boots that have a rainbow pattern on the, making clacking noises against the floor with every step he takes. Y/n can’t help but feel awkward while walking alongside him, but Harry, humming along to the tune of Maneater, by Hall and Oates, doesn’t seem to share her opinions. At the end of the hall, he makes a sharp turn to left, and she bumps into him. Mumbling a sorry she steps back to allow him to open the door.

It’s not locked, and with a quick turn of the brass knob, the door opens and the smell of tomato and basil hits them both in the face.

Y/n’s stomach grumbles, and she places her hand over her bell and looks over at Harry with wide eyes, embarrassed.

“I take it you’re hungry?” He steps through, holding the door open for her.

“...yes…” she mumbled, stepping through.

“Just in time then because I…” Whatever Harry says is drowned out. Y/n is amazed. Harry doesn’t have an apartment. He has a goddamn penthouse suite. His living room wall is a window, his kitchen open and blending in with the rest of the space. There are no walls, just turns where the building walls connect. Tall and wide walls painted with angles of shadows and lights that stream in. No furniture other than a long, wooden dinner table and three white chairs, and his bed. A mattress and a white comforter messily strewn over pillows. Before the walls turn to the streetside view, Y/n catches glimpses of cedar wood bookshelves arranged in the middle of the room; just like in a library.

“Y/n?” Harry appears in her line of peripheral vision, a knowing look on his face.

“Sorry, sorry. What was it?”

“Said, do you want spaghetti and meatballs or fettuccine?”

“Mmm,” She scrunches her face like she’s thinking real hard, “fettuccine.” Then she adds, “please.”

“You got it.” He said, walking away while playing with the collar of his turtleneck. Y/n follows after him, to the kitchen isle and utilities placed in a little alcove underneath the stairs that lead upstairs. To what, y/n didn’t know.

Then she sees the pots and pans that are still steaming, the cutting boards with chopped lettuce and other vegetables and realizes that-

“Hey! You said you had takeout,”

“I did.” He picks up the knife next to the tomato, and continues chopping the lettuce. “But I left it out, and it went bad. I promised you Italian so I made it myself instead. Much better than Olive Garden, anyways.” He shrugs, looking up at her and pointing with the knife to a chair across from him. “Sit.”

“NO!” She said, exasperated. “Let me chop something, too.”

“Darling, this is finished. I’ve got it. Sit, the fettuccine is almost finished. Just,” he twists his neck to look behind him, at the clock above the stove, a cat with a swinging tail. “Five more minutes.”

Y/n slides the bag she carried off her shoulder and hooks it in the back of the chair he had told her to sit on, which she still wasn’t.

“Harry, that’s not fair.” she stomped her foot, a flat slapping noise of her sole against his wooden floors.

“Oh sit, or I won’t give you any food.” He tuts his tongue at her, shaking his knife and turning to turn down one of the knobs on the stove.

Pouting like a child, y/n sits down with a plop and a screech of the chair sliding against the floor.

She sat and watched Harry as he took plates out of his cupboards and placed food on them. The only noises being the quiet bubbling of pasta sauce, the tapping of his heels, clinks of plates against each other, and y/n’s grumbling stomach. Her face was still puckered in a pout because Harry hadn’t let her help him, but it slowly eased off as she focused more and more on the way he looked in his fitting black pants. The way the fabric was tighter on his ass, how his thighs flexed with each stride. Suddenly, y/n got the urge to bite into them, and she felt herself blush at her own thoughts, especially when Harry turned to her with a sweet smile of his lips.

He placed a plate in front of her, complete with salad and garlic knots.

“Would you like some wine? Got this really nice one the other day and I haven’t opened it yet. Figured since we’re having Italian, it fits.” Harry was holding a dark wine bottle in his hand, that he had just pulled out of his silver fridge.

“Harry, I would love some, but-” Y/n tried to explain that she felt bad because she came here for take out and had cooked her a meal.

“NO buts. Have some.” And instantly, there was a cup of red wine next to her plate.

Even though he had a table for eating, he placed his own plate next to her, and sat down to eat. Y/n looked at him, deflated and with a pained look on her face, while he forked spaghetti into his mouth and raised his glass for a drink.

He froze when he saw she was looking at him. Looking her up and down, he said, “Moppet, eat your food. We have work to do.”

Y/n rubbed her palm down her face, her lips pulled down. With a groan, she picked up her fork, sulking, and twirled it in her pasta.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but definitely not the mini piece of heaven that was in her mouth. Harry had managed to create the perfect blend of cheese and cream that glazed her tongue like silk. It was so good, she moaned, her fingers pressing against her mouth and head tilted back.

“S’good,? Harry questioned, wiping his mouth with a napkin to hide his laugh.

“Very,” she said, shoving more of the pasta into her mouth.

“Good.”

They eat quietly, Harry snickering at her whenever inhumane noises of pleasure left her mouth.Y/n practically cleaned her plate with the garlic knots. She only remembered about the glass of wine when Harry set his down empty, lips stained, and eyes droopy if she looked at him hard enough. After she’d cleaned her plate, she reached for the thin stem of the g;ass and drank it like it was grape juice, only slightly wincing after it had gone down, the tart acidity washing down the sweeter tones of cream.

“Slow down, Moppet. Don’t want you to get a tummy ache.” Harry said, patting her hand tenderly and pushing himself off the seat to place her plate in the sink. At this, y/n jumped from her chair and took the plates from Harry.

“You cooked, not I wash the dishes.” She stuck her tongue out at him, the tip red from the wine.

“But-” Harry protested.

“No buts. Go,” she bumped her hip against his, and walked the last few steps to the sink, picking up the sponge and turning on the water. She washed the dishes, and like always, got the front of her dress wet, water splattering onto her chest. Sucking on her teeth, y/n used the towel hanging on the handle of the oven to pat off the water. Harry watched this from where he leaned against the isle across from the stove; a new glass of wine half empty.

Returning to the table, she grabbed her now full- no thanks to Harry- glass of wine and sipped from it. It settled nicely in her stomach, warming down the path it took to settle.

Clasping her hands, she said, “Okay, Harry. Let’s talk decor.”

Harry untucked his hand from underneath his armpit, and smacked his lips together, “Follow me.”

He started walking out to the living room area, and into the bookshelves y/n had seen. Up close, they were actually taller than her, just about Harry’s height. He walked past them, and stopped again at a corner where one building face meets the other. Here, he had pictures upon pictures laid out on the floor. He even had scraps of fabric.

Y/n stared, and nodded approvingly. “You did your research. Good job.” Looking closer, she saw what the images were. Albums (David Bowie, Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, The Beatles, Prince). Pop culture pieces (Andy Narwhal, Pulp Fiction, Sixteen Candles). Fabric patterns, colors, and a lot of velvet. About half of the pictures were shots of other room like the pictures he’d shown her.

To her left, Harry tapped onto his phone, and seconds later, that song he’d been humming in the hallway, Maneater, played with clarity on speakers hidden from the eye. When he was satisfied with his queue choices, he knee and sat next to his big circle of inspiration, legs splayed out in front of him looking infinitely long. Y/n noticed he had taken off his boots, and his feet, knobby and lanky, had toes painted blue and pink. He had black markings on his big toe, but she couldn’t see what it was.

“Look, sit sit, I was thinking…” Harry began, patting the area next to him and grabbing a few of the papers he had spewed on the floor. Y/n, inexplicably endeared, sat with her legs crossed to the side next to him, feeling her butt press onto the cold floor, and listened to him go on and on about his vision.

Hours passed with them just talking about images, why Fleetwood Mac would go better than Prince (because Fleetwood Mac is more of an afternoon in the meadows, and Prince is a night going down the highway in Malibu) and fabric choices for the windows (i’m sorry Harry, y/n had argued, but unless you can find a near translucent velvet its not gonna work. If you want the summer in italy during the 70’s look, you need transparent curtains).

They sat long enough that the way the light filtered in at an angle according to the sun, changed completely (it was at a harsh slant with the morning light, now its at a soft bend with golden light). When the light made Harry’s face look a golden pink, he fell back onto the wooden floors with a groan and said,

“How do you do this, y/n?” He blew hair out of his lips to move the few strands that had fallen in front of his eyes.

“Dunno, its just second natur- heeyy,”

A midst the mess, she guesses they missed it. Underneath a picture of a fruit bowl and flowers, was a picture of a naked woman, with birds eye view from the bot of her head, so you could see the tips of her breasts with they way she arched her back, and the head of hair in between her thighs. Her mouth was open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyes closed and a hand fisting her own hair like she was doing to the man in between her thighs.

Her cheeks burn upon her discovery, and she feels a familiar buzz in the place where the woman in the picture had a tongue pressed against her.

When he heard her little gasp, Harry shot straight up and when he saw the image in her hands he said, “Ah, I see you’ve finally found it. Was wonderin’ when it would come out.” Reaching across her, his chest smushed againt her shoulder, he plucks it from her hands and look at it, smirking.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be doing x-rated work.”

She says it teasingly.

But maybe it was the way she was looking at him then. She couldn’t help it. The roots of his hair looked blonde in the light, and his eyes were clear, almost see through as light passed them. His lips looked particularly tasty, having been tinted red from the wine, glinting from his own spit, and swollen from how he’d plucked at them while he was thinking about her suggestions. The juncture of his throat was partly hidden, but she could still see every time he swallowed, hos his adam’s apple bobbed up and down. And… and it wasn’t her fault that black pants looked good on him either. The material stretching taught over his muscles, flexing with every, single movement he made, no matter how small.

So, maybe she had been looking at his provocatively, and her comment had… fueled Harry. Tuned him in on what had been on her mind.

He lifts himself with one arm from his indian-style position on the floor, up to his knees, and crawls to her. Eyes looking with hers, y/n’s chest starts to heave, her breaths growing bated; shorter; faster.

“Do you want to do x-rated work?” He said, his voice dangerously low. His rings clink against the wooden planks, and brush against her thighs when he comes close, hands bracketing her hips, his nose nudging hers.

She’s gupping, like a little guppy fish, her lips opening and close, but nothing comes out of them.

Harry’s nose moves to her cheek, pushing back her hair. “It’s okay, pet. I can ask you again. Do you want,” his lips are at her ear for the second time that day, except that she thinks maybe they’ll actually gets somewhere this time. All she has to do is say,

“Yes.” Her voice is small, an airy squeak when Harry presses a kiss to the back of her ear. Her hands, sitting dumbly on her lap, move tentatively to his chest, searching from something to hold onto. She clenches the soft fabric in her hands just as Harry starts to lean back, his palm falling into her naval, and pushing her back, back, back, until she has to stretch her legs out to lay comfortable on her back, staring up at him with bleary eyes, glossed over.

“Yes? Course you do, pet.” He moves his knees to straddle her hips, leaning down close so he’s almost talking into her mouth, and one of his hands smooths down the shape of her waist. Y/n feels herself grow wet when Harry dips his thumb into her belly button, and she’s whining because she hasn’t done anything with anybody in so long and she wants him to do something.

But, if he’s not gonna do anything, that she might as well. She stretched her neck the last of the way, flattening her lips against Harry’s. The relief is instant, she quells her desire of being closer to him, and Harry responds almost immediately, swiping his tongue on her bottom lip and licking into her when she lets him. Harry groans, because she still tastes like wine and a sweetness he can only credit to her. His kiss becomes urgent, smashing his against her soft, malleable mouth.

Y/n whimpers, hips jutting upwards when Harry takes her lower lip between his teeth, and bites down on it,hard enough to where the pain was pleasure. Although her mind is swimming, she knows that the bulge she feels through the flimsy cloth of her dress is Harry’s cock. Elated and driven mad by her need, she arches up into him, needing any friction she could.

Harry pulls away from her, their lips separating with a wet noise, and tuts his tongue at her. “Ah, ah, ah. You’re not getting my cock tonight, y/n. Not yet.”

She mewls, her eyebrows dipping and red, puffy lips pouting, “Harry, don’t be a tease. S’not fair.” She doesn’t care is she sounds pathetic, the space between her thighs aches, and she’d like him to very much sate it “Do something, please.”

He coos at her, pressing wet kisses along her neck, his hand sneaking past her waist, to the start of her dress, and slipping underneath it. “Whining like a little puppy, aren’t you?” His hand glides of her thigh, the shill of his rings sending a violent shiver up her spine. His nail scratches a path near the place where she’s most warm. Most needy, and she moans when he feels how close he is to touching her, the splotch on her panties expanding every time he spoke. “You’re alright puppy, I’ll take care of you.”

Y/n’s breath hitches when his finger hooks onto the strap of her underwear, snapping the material twice with a chuckle at the cries he elicited from her.

“Harry, harry, harry,” she’s half mad with need, her eyes squeezed shut with anticipation, and when Harry sees the desperation in her slack mouth, his own features go soft, and he takes out his hand from underneath her dress to cup her cheek.

“Puppy,” he said, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he said again, “Puppy, look at me.” his thumb rubs over her cheek, ignoring the imploring whines that leave her lips, and instead leaning down and kissing her to shut her up. “It’s okay, its okay. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes!” She shouted, eyes going wide, amazed that he’d even ask that. “Do something.” She ruts up again, the head of Harry’s cock nudging against her hood. Harry groans, noticing how fucking hard he is. He’s leaked through his pants, a darker splotch where his head it.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, more to himself than to her.

His hand makes the same trail it had before, flipping up her dress this time to see her clothed center. Her panties make him want to cum on the spot. Baby pink cotton with a bow on the center of the band. Biting his lip, he uses a knee to spread her thighs, and then he sees just how much she needs him.

“Oh puppy. We’ve made a mess of your panties haven’t we?” He looks at her with amusement, “Guess they have to go, don’t they?”

Y/n hums desperately, her hips writhing up to meet his fingers. Pressing a last kiss to her lips, Harry scoots back so his knees are by her feet, and he and slip off the material all the way off. Suddenly aware of how bare she is, he clasps her thighs sht, obscuring Harry’s view of her pussy.

“C’mon now, honey. Don’t be shy,” with a strong hand, he pries her knees apart and lays himself down in front of her, his breath hot on her swollen clit. From that angle, he can see how much she glistens, and how her juices spill out of her every time she clenched her hole around nothing. “Look at you, just begging to be stuffed.”

With a single finger, he slides up and down her slit, collecting her wetness, and then slipping into her.

Y/n bleats, his intrusion stirring her heat up more; she wanted more. Wanted to be filled than more with just his finger, but was scared to say. Instead she said, “another,”

Harry slid his middle finger inside her, scissoring his fingers and leaning down to lick a stripe on her clit. Y/n arched her back, and moaned loudly, her eyes squeezing shut and hands touching at the area around her, looking for something to hold on to and settling to clenching at her own dress.

He hears the sound of her hands colliding with the floor, and looks up to see her knuckles going white with hoe hands she was fondling her dress.

“Y’can pull my hair, puppy.” he said against her slit, the vibrations of his words sending prickled of pleasure to the building orgasm she feels in the pit of her stomach. The second her muddled brain comprehends what Harry said, her fingers jam themselves into her his hair, just as he suckles on her. Y/n’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and her gasps come out in staccatos.

Harry’s fingers are still pumping in an out of her, twisting every time he pushed them back into her. He’s looking for the spongy spot inside of her, when he hears her say something incoherently.

“What was that?” he asked her,his fingers stilling inside her.

“Said, what about you?”

Her voice is faint and weak, her voice and comment sending pin-pricks of satisfaction to his throbbing member. His heart clenches at her considerations, so touched by the fact that she’s so lost in her own heat but she’s still worried about him.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Y’gonna cum for me, puppy?” He feels the pad of his middle finger slide against something that has a different texture that the rest of her, and when her breathing hitches and she lets out a long moan, he knows hes found what he’s looking for. Y/n’s pussy clenches around, her fingers tighten in his hair, so hard it makes Harry yelp. “Clenching m’fingers, puppy, I know you’re there.”

Y/n feels the familiar slow burn of her orgasm twisting in the pit of her stomach, her entire body hyper aware of Harry and what he was doing to her. How he pressed a hand on her navel to keep her from lifting her hips, the harsh sucking of her clit, and then finally the flick of his pointer finger curling inside her. The build-up unravels, and her mouth opens up in a silent scream like the women in the picture, her body going taught, and then falling limp when the wave calms.

“That’s it, love. All better now isn’t it?” Harry slowly takes his fingers out of her, reveling in the way she’s still squeezing around him. She’s sensitive and jerking from her orgasm when He lick his fingers clean, kissing his path up her body. Her thighs, her exposed navel, her clothed valley of her breasts, her collarbones, and up her throat, behind her ear where he’s taken a liking to kissing.

“Jesus, Harry. Where’d you learn to talk like that?” She titters sleepily.

“S’my job, puppy.” He nibbles at her earlobe and down her jawline.

Alarmed, y/n’s eyes pop open, and she sits up, pushing Harry’s chest and holding him at arms length. “What do you mean, it’s your job?” She’s scared she’s just been used or something along those lines.

“I mean it’s my job. Learned a few skills from writing erotica, pet.” He responses calmly, diving back in to continue his assault on the skin of her jaw. His voice warped against her, he adds, “write under a pseudonym. Lemus Knox.”

Lemus Knox.

Harry was Lemus Knox. Harry was Lemus fucking Knox.

“You’re…” she’s still. Almost like that fight or flight instinct.

Harry stills when he realizes she has. He knows, simply by the tone of her voice that she knows who he is. Who Lemus Knox is.He withdraws to look at her, grinning fro ear to ear.

“You know who I am?” he said slowly.

“Harry, I’d even go as far as saying I’m in love with Lemus,” she blurts, reddening as soon as the words leave her mouth, but Harry just smiles fondly at her.

“That’s okay, puppy. Lemus and I aren’t the same person. You have a right to love him,” he nuzzles into her neck, kissing down her shoulder, “Just as long as you save some love for me.”

And lying there, completely stunned ant with Harry’s hard cock pressing into her hip, y/n bursts out laughing. She laughs because she’s happy. Because she likes Harry. Because she loves Lemus Knox.

She laughs because for the first time in a long time, someone is laughing along with her, kissing her, holding her.

She laughs because she can’t wait to see where Harry will lead her.

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musicfren · 3 years

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the presents they measured (the presence she treasured) part 2

HOLY CAKES y’all! 5000 words and infinity pages later, me and @nottesilhouette have finally finished part two of our blind date fluff fiesta (part 1 here) Notte wrote a really big portion of this and deserve so, so much credit for it. She’s an amazing writer <3 Meanwhile I contributed all the many italics :P Happy @felinettenovember y’all!

“Adrien.”

“Felix.”

“I should have known.”

The class presses closer like onlookers at a street brawl, hemming them in. Felix glares at his infuriatingly pretty adversary from across the flimsy classroom table. So here stood the pretender, the imitation, the counterfeit who thinks he can outdo Felix in this game of grandiose. The air between them is taught as a heartstring, dangerously close to snapping, causing irreparable damage to the function of one of their hearts, and it’s a toss-up whose is going to make it out intact.

Felix steels himself. He is not going to lose, and he is not going to break.

At last, Adrien breaks the sharp silence. “So, why are we here?”

And then, from the back of the crowd, a malicious, irritated voice rings out, punctuated with the crisp pop of a bubblegum snapping.

“This has to stop now,” says Chloe, nose red from allergies, immaculate hair ruined by the rushing crowds. She plucks confetti from her hair, crinkling her nose, and dusts ash from her jacket disdainfully, still reeking of cherry blossom candle wax.

“Whatever it is that you’re going through, everyone else is sick of it and we are putting an end to it NOW!”

Felix and Adrien push back in perfect unison:

“But no one’s won yet!”

“How will we know who won?”

Half the class gave them a deadpan look. The other half, less subtle, just outright glared. Chloe checks her nails, and then flinches when she notices one is chipped. She hadn’t even noticed it chipping in the midst of all the chaos, which goes to show exactly how out of hand this has gotten. It needs to get back in hand, and that hand needs a manicure!

“Okay, listen up, you walnuts.” (This was clearly becoming a popular insult around the school) “Cuh-learly this nonsense isn’t going to stop until one of you meatheads gets handed a trophy and told by your daddy you did a good job. So, as surrogate daddy for the day, I am officially announcing the Grande Bataille pour Marinette. SABRINA!”

Sabrina scampers over with a flustered “yes, Chloe!” and a cascade of papers from the stack she carries under one arm. After several seconds of fumbling, she proudly produces an enormous poster, nearly as tall as she is.

“The rules are simple.” (They aren’t.) “You’ll each get a series of clues about something to do with Marinette. What chocolate she likes or something, I don’t care. Anyway, you’ll go where the clue tells you and do your little dance or whatever, and whichever of you gets to the end first will be set up on a blind date with Marinette. Then you can drown her in these stupid roses for all I care. Not my problem”

Felix looks from Chloe to Adrien. Adrien looks from Felix to Chloe. Chloe glares them both down in equal measure. They quail and nod, despite having absolutely no clue what this game is or how it works, because it seems like a good time to get out of that room. But whatever it is, the game is about to begin.

Chloe greets them with an irritated huff in the middle of central park. It’s a calm, sunny day, far too cheerful for the occasion. Felix arrives late, having almost gotten lost on the way twice and sprinting the rest of the way. Adrien chuckles as Felix skids to a halt, panting, already not off to a good start. Felix glares back, but if he has a response it’s lost among his sputtering gasps.

Chloe taps one irritated foot against the grass. Clearly she doesn’t want to be here any longer than she needs to be.

“Late already, I see. Whatever, lets just get on with this.”

Felix, still barely able to breath, raises a hand to tell her wait, but Chloe seems to have no interest in having this take any longer than necessary. With the air of someone picking up a particularly disgusting piece of laundry, she pulls out a sheet of paper with two fingers.

“What is… Marinette's… favorite color?”

Felix’s eyes go wide. They’re going to start with something this simple? And so quickly? This is less a test of knowledge than of reflexes! Oh no... he has to answer now, right now, before Adrien answers first. Okay, um... It was obviously green of course, everyone knew that. It was green right? Right...?

The gifts she got were green. And she hangs out with Chat Noir, right? Marinette had said so often that he was her favorite hero, and she definitely likes black but she says it’s not a real color, and Felix was starting to get dizzy with the lack of oxygen to his brain, and the world was spinning, and he needed to answer right now, and--

No time to think. With all the scarce air left in his lungs, Felix croaks out “Green!”

Adrien looks at him with baffled incredulity. “...Dude, it’s literally pink, have you ever seen her?”

Oh, bother.

Chloe claps with such immense lack of enthusiasm, Felix thinks she might fall asleep right there.

“Bravo, bravo. Adrien, you get a five minute head start. Felix, not gonna lie, that was pretty stupid, I’ll tell you when you can go. Next clue is just in front of Marinette’s bakery. You do know the way there I hope?”

Adrien gives a mock salute and sprints off, leaving Felix to forlornly watch his hopes vanish into the distance.

Despite having more time, more breath, and a considerably higher morale on his side, Adrien manages to arrive at the bakery exactly as Felix does. Silently, he curses his sense of direction. Of course he knew where Marinette’s bakery was. Of course he did. He just… had a moment of confusion during which he needed to look up the bakery by name because he didn’t have the address saved anywhere on his phone. That was all.

Felix is far too out of breath to focus on anything other than remaining alive. He trots weakly up to Sabrina who stands outside the bakery doors, a large official-looking binder tucked under one arm.

“Oh, you’re here. Good.” She flips through her binder intently without looking at them. They wait in tense silence as she searches for the correct page. The wind tosses Felix’s hair into a disheveled mess.

Adrien gives him a wry nudge “Maybe you should take the time to study. You seem to be a little shaky on your basics.”

“Maybe you should learn how to see, Adrien, or did you miss the fact that the bakery is literally in full view of the park?”

“...touché”

“Ah!” At long last, Sabrina has found the appropriate page. With a small, self-satisfied smile, she thumbs the edge of the page and looks up at them.

“Which class does Marinette enjoy the most?”

Felix, by this point, has lost all sense of coherency. What does enjoy even mean, anymore? Well, Felix certainly isn’t enjoying this game he was losing. Losing, losing… What is Marinette good at? That’s got to be something she enjoys, right?

...what isn’t Marinette good at? Felix drifts in his thoughts, flashing through memories of her bright enthusiasm, the flush riding high on her cheeks in every class, the way she chews her pencil when she thinks and the scribbles on her arms, every word a work of art in her hands. The only time he’s ever seen her sink into her seat, hide her face in her hands, turn pallid and pale is…

Gosh, she’s just good at everything isn’t she?

“Everything except physics!” Felix blurts out before his exhausted mind can catch up to him. Sabrina looks at him in bewilderment, finger hovering above her binder. Is he serious? she thinks, mouth starting to hang open in question. Then, five whole seconds after Felix’s brain has crashed over the barricade and careened into the valley below, Adrien’s brain slowly sputters to life.

“Um… I have art with her third period! So… probably that one!”

Sabrina’s gaping mouth hangs a little lower. “What?!” She manages through a wheeze.

Felix jolts. “Wait!!! I thought the question is which is she best at, can I answer again?!”

“...unfortunately, despite having completely awful reasoning, Adrien has gotten the question right. He will progress to Marinette’s favorite fabric store five minutes before you will.”

Felix sulks. Adrien smirks, and looks up the directions on his phone first this time.

It’s awkward standing there with Sabrina waiting for the seconds to tick by. She’s typing away rapidly on her phone, not even acknowledging Felix’s presence, glancing around idly at anything but him. Felix is still trying to work out Adrien’s reasoning. Is that her favorite class because he’s in it? Did they mean which experience does she most enjoy, or which subject? Does Adrien know something Felix doesn’t, about who Marinette likes spending time with, or is he just too sheltered to consider how Marinette exists outside of when she’s with Adrien?

Four minutes and thirteen seconds into his wait, she glances up and then her eyes blow wide. Her typing speeds up more than Felix thought was humanly possible, and her mouth purses into a thin line, her skin pale and clammy despite the unusually warm day. There is an absolute cacophony of text notifications that makes his head spin. At last, she looks up at Felix.

“Okay, go.”

“...what?”

“Go!” She waves a frantically dismissive hand as if that explains things any further.

“Um… okay?” Says Felix, glancing at the watch that still visibly has time left on it. He’s not about to waste one of his precious seconds though, and bolts off towards where he hopes the fabric store is. Time is wasting.

Besides. Sabrina looked about ready to murder him if it got him out of there.

Sabrina watches him go, glancing anxiously from her phone to the bakery window, and calls the class. There’s been a situation.

Marinette is thinking of going for a walk (it is a beautifully calm, sunny day after all) when she spots Sabrina outside the bakery window. Chloe’s friend-turned-servant-turned-friend-again has always been awkward around her, ever since the day Marinette had (temporarily) convinced her to stand up for herself. Still, Marinette thinks it might be nice to have someone to spend the day with, and waves to Sabrina before hurrying out the door.

Sabrina meets her at the door with a “Hi, Marinette!” so aggressive they both nearly fall over backwards.

“H… hey, Sabrina!” She says with an awkward smile. “Um… what brings you around here?”

She’s trying to look over Sabrina’s shoulder, maybe see if anyone came with her, but Sabrina almost instantly slides to block her view.

“Just! Going for a walk! Do you want to… walk… together?”

“I was going to, but you seem to be blocking the door?”

“Oh… yeah…” Sabrina looks over her shoulder and does not move.

“Um…”

About ten seconds of awkward silence later, Sabrina’s wall across the doorframe abruptly vanishes, as she practically yanks Marinette outside. “Come! Walk! Let's do that, where do you want to go?”

Baffled, Marinette takes a minute just to blink in the new light. “I… was planning on going to the park.” She figures that, with the rare beautiful, warm, clear day in December, it would be a good chance to people-watch and sketch ideas in her notebook for new outfits.

“NO!” It’s the most vehement Marinette has ever seen Sabrina and Marinette recoils from the suggestion immediately, not wanting anything that makes her friend uncomfortable. Even if the word friend applies loosely here.

“...or we could just… visit downtown for a bit?”

If Sabrina had it her way, the two of them would go straight up to Marinette’s room and stay there straight up until the date rolled around. Since she doesn’t get to have that, this seems like an acceptable compromise. Downtown is plenty big enough. Right?

Ten minutes later, and it’s too late to stop Marinette from going to her favorite store. To buy fabric.

Sabrina whimpers quietly and sends a few more texts.

By the time Felix gets to the store, Adrien has already answered and slipped out the door. Felix catches him smirking a few steps away from the storefront, but something about it looks off, a little strange. He looks haunted, stricken behind his smugness.

Felix bursts into the store and spots Juleka, and immediately blurts out: “Did Adrien get it right?!”

She shakes her head and ducks behind her bangs, and mumbles, “He said she likes to look pretty. And make other people pretty.”

So Adrien has incurred his first five minute penalty.

...and he’s still ahead!!! Felix growls, and decides on a new strategy. It must be more efficient to focus on getting the answer right than getting it fast at this point, because another five minute delay is irreparable, but a two or three minute delay might still be recoverable. He waits impatiently for the question, but Juleka is engrossed in her texts.

As soon as he opens his mouth to demand fair play, Juleka grabs his arm and yanks him forcibly behind a mannequin. “Why did Marinette start designing for fashion?” she hisses in his ear, pulling him abruptly away and into a new aisle. Felix’s heart leaps to his throat. He can feel a jumble of incoherent words clamoring to burst out. He swallows them, and they taste like bile.

No. He needs a right answer, right now.

It’s hard to think, though, with the way Juleka keeps shoving him around, even going so far as to kick him behind his knees, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. She makes up for it by helping him back up later, but does it count if she’s the one that put him there, and then held him there for long minutes by kicking at him again when he pushed himself upright?!

Finally, he manages to gasp out between one move and another, “Because… clothes are a representation of who you are, and there are too many people with no choices except the same hyper-idealized body types and colors, and Marinette wants to make them feel at home in their own skin.” He says it all in one rushed, nerve-wracking breath, and forgets to breathe altogether when Juleka nods. It’s his first correct answer. He did it. He did it.

And yet Juleka still doesn’t let him go, her vice-like grip on his wrist not letting up at all. Precious seconds are getting lost, and she wont. Let. Go.

Finally, finally Juleka seems to get the divine signal she had been waiting for, because she hisses the next location in his ear and shoves him through the door. And then, immediately after he steps outside, the worst happens.

Marinette figures, being downtown already, she’ll take the opportunity to pick up the order of fabric she’d placed, since the confirmation email came in this morning. It’ll save her a trip tomorrow, at least.

Sabrina seems to despise this shop with a vengeance, whining and pulling on Marinette’s sleeve to go anywhere else, but it’s Marinette’s favorite. All the complaints only make Marinette more determined to show Sabrina why this one is so good.

Stepping in, Marinette makes her way cheerfully to the counter, where she strikes up a conversation with the now-familiar cashier. The two of them strike up a grand campaign to show Sabrina around the store, making the redhead cringe and quiver with every new section of the store. Her eyes seem hunted, constantly flicking back and forth looking for predators, seeming to track something Marinette never quite manages to catch.

At one point, Marinette swears she sees Sabrina mouthing the name Juleka, and the word run on multiple occasions. But that would be super weird, so she assumes she’s just imagined it.

Finally, Marinette steps up to the counter to package up the fabrics she’d ordered, plus a few odds and ends she noticed as they had walked around that she liked. There is, behind her, a mad patter of steps and then the chime of the door opening, but by the time Marinette turns to look, the door is swinging empty back and forth.

And then the akuma alarms go off.

Luckily, it’s Mister Pigeon, because apparently the lure of a sunny day was too much for him to resist feeding his pigeons.

Unluckily, this is going to set Felix back ages in the competition.

Still, he does enjoy getting to talk comfortably with Ladybug, since the fight is so repetitive. They’ve both done this a thousand times, and the motions of defeating him feel like slipping into well-worn pyjamas.

“So what’s been bugging you, ma coccinelle?” Her shoulders are tense, movements awkward. He knows her well enough to know it isn’t the akuma that’s causing this stress.

She grimaces. “...this fight is nothing compared to the one in my civilian life.” She shoots him an exhausted grin, and his heart aches at the sight of it. He tries for reassuring and winces as his words fall flat.

“Oh, dear. What’s going on? Certainly nothing a hero like you can’t handle,” he winks, and then flinches away from a barrage of pigeon excrement and his own awkwardness.

“...you ever think about how nice it would feel to have two people love you so much they’d fight over you?”

This, he’s familiar with. Perhaps not the same way, but he’s loved something like that. Loves someone like that. “I’d imagine you’d enjoy them trying to outdo each other for you, putting so much effort into pleasing you, yes?”

Ladybug slips into a corner and calls for her Lucky Charm, then turns to answer him. “You’d think, but this is neither lucky NOR charming. I… I feel like a prize. I don’t even know if these people know me at all, or anything about what matters to me. I thought I’d like having secret admirers, but it feels like more of a mask than ours.” She looks at him fondly through a slew of pigeon feathers. “At least I know who you are, Chaton, even if I don’t know what your name is.”

He has nothing to say to that, so turns to tackle the villain with particular aggression, slapping sharp beaks and sharp talons away from her so she can focus, and so she can keep talking.

“I don’t know. I just want it to end. I want to matter to somebody, I want to be their priority, y’know? I don’t want big gifts that seem more focused on outdoing the last and an audience for my every reaction-- honestly, they’re worse than the press!!” He catches her shooing away a stray reporter, and grins. She grins back. “It’s like I’m the prize at a gladiator fight, and I’m not sure if I’m the woman he marries or the meat the lion gets, and I’m not sure which is better.”

That last line, paired with her sweet, soft grin is what breaks him. Quietly, he answers. “I’m… not sure there is a better.”

She tosses him the akumatized object and he catches it with claws covered with cataclysm. It crumbles in his grip, and he grins weakly as her yo-yo shoots out to catch the corrupted butterfly.

“Yeah, exactly!! I’m glad you know that, even if they don’t. My… my classmates said they’d take care of it for me, so hopefully it’ll be over soon. I’ll be glad when I can stop performing my adoration for these presents that I don’t even really like anymore.”

“You'd rather have someone just be present, huh.”

“...yeah.” Her earrings give off their last warning beeps, and she startles. “I’ve gotta go, Chaton, but… thank you for listening! You… don’t always say much and I know we don’t know a lot about each other, but I know that… you might not know my favorite color, or whatever, but you know the things that matter to me. The things that make me who I am, that drive me. We have the rest of our lives to learn those things.” Impulsively, she kisses her cheek and then swings away before Chat can respond, leaving him gaping useless at the skyline for a solid minute.

When he comes back to himself, he chuckles quietly, and then decides he has enough time on his ring (and enough selfishness in him) to jump through the city as Chat Noir, which brings him to the Farmer’s Market much more quickly than Felix ever would’ve made it on foot.

Adrien, between navigating downtown on his own for the first time and the akuma attack, arrives at quite the same time as Felix, and glowers miserably at his rival for having caught up.

Maybe Ladybug’s luck was rubbing off on Felix after all.

They meet Luka behind a stall of hand pressed apple juice and apple tarts and some very distracted candied apples that Felix eyes, tempted, before focusing on their clue.

…Luka looks at them solemnly for a long moment, and then plays a deep, rich chord. He pauses for a second to let it ring out before playing another, deeper, even richer chord.

No one dares interrupt. Nodding, satisfied, Luka begins playing a melody. It’s staccato, plucky, but gradually shifts into a neatly balanced harmony, before ending on a final, unimaginably rich chord that rings out into the silence. Then he simply looks at them, calmly, expectantly. Clearly neither Adrien nor Felix have worked out what the heck this is supposed to be.

At long last, Adrien ventures to ask, “Um...what’s the clue?” “The answer. Is within. The question.” Says Luka without pause.

Felix, with more emphasis, asks again. Luka, now very grave, responds: “Be wise. And be true. To your love.”

Felix looks at Adrien. Adrien looks at Felix. Luka looks contemplatively at an apple, and then wanders a little ways off following a bird. Adrien and Felix chase after him, and ask as one with great urgency: “What’s the clue?”

Luka lets out the infinitely mournful sigh of misunderstood artists everywhere. “...fine. The question, since you two clearly didn’t understand the first three times, is: what does Marinette want most from her future?”

There is a long pause as both boys try to work out how they were supposed to understand this from any of the previously given information. Then, collecting themselves, they both answer in a rush, tripping over each other to be the first to answer.

“A fashion designer, with three kids and a gerbil!”

Felix is still talking as Adrien finishes, and feels three sizes too big in his skin as he keeps talking, awkward and gangly and ridiculous. “She wants… the ability to be independent and self-sustaining without losing her passion for loving and caring for others.” Then, absentmindedly, he adds, “also, pretty fashion.”

Another painfully long pause. Then Luka abruptly plays a sharp, twangy chord, so loud and sudden that the two boys jump.

“Good job, Felix!” He says, nodding approvingly “Sometimes the song isn’t just about the melody. You get a five minute head start.”

The blue-haired boy leans against a nearby stall and, satisfied, plays a contemplative chord. Then another. Then another. Felix watches him, confused, trying to determine the hidden message until Luka interjects “Four minutes”, and sends Felix scampering off.

He almost gets to the edge of the market before a thought occurs to him and he backtracks for a moment. Marinette had mentioned once the way she had finally, for the first time, eaten a candied apple she liked and fell in love with it, and the ones he’d noticed at the stall are the same gourmet brand she had loved. She had rambled to him for twenty minutes about how cutting the apple into slices had improved the balance of flavors so well, and why had she never thought of that before, and how the caramel was creamy and soft and sweet without being overpowering or brittle or sticky, and how creative the flavor combinations were.

Felix grabs s’mores, which was her favorite, and toffee-dark chocolate, which she had wanted to try but didn’t get to.

Getting this for her is worth losing his lead.

Then he nearly jumps out of his own skin and bones when he notices Marinette just a few steps away, peering at another stall, and panics for a second, but Sabrina (who is by now very frazzled) rushes after Marinette and reminds her that she needs to get home and changed soon, and didn’t she want to pick up some red bean paste before that? Better hurry!!!

Marinette, for the first time all day, doesn’t protest. Felix takes the fastest route to her house, in case her red bean paste excursion goes more quickly than he expects.

In front of her house again, they meet Nino, who is looking uncharacteristically serious.

The question he asks knocks Felix off balance, and by the time he even begins to get his wits around him, Adrien has caught up and Nino is posing the question to him, too.

“What is Marinette most afraid of in a relationship?”

Adrien answers first. “She’s worried she won’t end up with me.” Nino looks at him for a long moment, and then clearly makes a decision. Adrien is asked to elaborate, and he doesn’t hesitate before adding that “Marinette wants someone who’s kind like her, and who knows the little details about her. She’s afraid to be with someone who doesn’t pay attention to her because it shows they don’t care, and she doesn’t want someone who drags her down with heavy, loaded conversations.”

Felix’s heart sinks. Is that true? Has Adrien won before Felix ever even got to attempt the question? His heart rate spikes until Nino, very carefully, says: “It’s Felix’s turn to answer. Whoever is closer wins, unless we decide you’re both tied, in which case you’re you’ll get a chance to answer again.”

“...shouldn’t you have explained that first?!”

Nino shrinks and smiles nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… haha… oops?”

Felix decides it’s more important to answer. Nino will still be around to traumatize later, after all. He takes another moment, savoring the sensation to have time to think for the first time all day. Recalling the conversation with Ladybug from earlier, Felix realizes that Marinette and Ladybug are similar in a lot of ways. They’re strong, they care so much about the people they love, and maybe they’re both absolutely terrified of being seen as an idol or a pretty face, a trophy or a derivative of their history, or a doormat for their kindness and compassion. They don’t care about knowing something that they can tell someone else between casual conversations through the rest of their lives. They’re worried that they’ll get in a relationship and not be seen, and not be heard.

He says so.

Nino nods, and points Felix towards the park.

He won? He won!!! He--

...he gets to go on a date with Marinette.

Felix is slammed with the realization that he hasn’t won now. He… he knows Marinette, and he knows her well, and that’s not something he thought he would get to be able to say today. It’s more than winning or losing, all of a sudden. It’s friendship.

And, with a little luck and a lot of patience, maybe it’ll be more.

Adrien suddenly bursts in on his revelry. “It’s not fair! That was a stupid question, how was anyone supposed to know that?”

The taller boy steps towards Felix, towering over him. Felix takes an involuntary step back.

“You didn’t deserve to win. She likes me!” Spittle is flying from Adrien's face, his precious model-coiffed blond hair hanging ragged over his face. Felix starts to back away, or point out that he had, in fact, known the answer by asking Marinette questions about herself and listening when she talked, and putting the pieces together, but a kernel of compassion grows in his stomach.

“She does like you. That’s why she’s your friend. And if she likes you more than that, I know she’ll let you know.”

Adrien is looking at him silently, aghast as to how he could have been wrong. Then he storms off, muttering something about lawyers. Felix chooses not to gloat, because there’s nothing to gloat about. He hopes Adrien can get to know Marinette well, too. She’s worth the effort. He knows that now.

He meets Marinette at the park, where the rest of the class has been setting up a picnic date. It’s gorgeous, with soft blankets laid out, pillows strewn across the edges of the blankets bordering a feast of their favorite foods. Candles flicker on nearby benches and fairy lights are strewn up through the trees, and it’s a miracle the weather has cooperated the entire day, honestly.

“You would not BELIEVE what I had to get through to get here,” he starts, knowing how much Marinette loves a good story.

“I’m… Alya just told me what shenanigans had happened today, because I wouldn’t stop asking why Sabrina was having a nervous breakdown by the end of the day. How’d you get that last question right, anyways?” She laughs, somehow bright and awkward at the same time. “I’m not even sure I know the answer!”

Felix feels a blush blooming across his skin. “Well, I thought-- y’know-- it’s just that--” Marinette interrupts him with a hand over his, and he swallows. “...you just… reminded me of someone I know.”

“That’s a pretty special someone you’ve got there.”

“...there’s a pretty special someone I’ve got right here, too.”

They take a minute to eat, and snuggle into each other, and bask in the moment, the warmth of each other and the brisk sharpness of windchill and the twinkling lights of all the love (and maybe desperate frustration) their friends have poured into making this happen.

Hours pass like that, half in comfortable silence, half in excited, rambling chatter. When the wind picks up, Marinette glances at her long-discarded coat and curls up tighter against Felix. He slips his hands into his gloves and holds her tight.

They’re dozing off like that, half asleep in each other’s arms, when Marinette breaks the silence, eyes still closed, mumbling against his shoulder.

“I guess it’s not much of a blind date anymore, but…” She leans in and kisses his cheek, ghosting over the still-warm presence of Ladybug’s kiss. “...I’m glad it was you here.”

#felinette november #felinette #felinette month 2020 #miraculous ladybug #too many italics #guys #she's not a prize #he is so smitten he will discover her deepest fears #and that's valid of him #meanwhile: Adrien's a jackass #and luka's a beautiful space creature #and chloe is a mean girls girl #and every single word is in italics #and the plot don't stop

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kishimoto-did-us-dirty · 4 years

Text

Naruto Arts School AU

Reposting bc I love this post and bc I can lol

Character

- major

description

Naruto

-Drums

okie nobody can deny that our main boy over here is a loud soul, however, he can also carry a damn good beat that compliments his band mates’ music really well. Tbh, he sucked at music to begin with and had trouble matching rhythms and listening to his band mates when they played, however he eventually became a really good rhythm maker.

Sasuke

-Guitar (lead)

He’d be assigned to the same band as Naruto, and that’s how they met. This boy is a damn good guitarist y’all, but has attitude problems™, and used to not be able to deal with Naruto’s haphazard beat making, thus perpetuating a rivalry between the two. He constantly feels overshadowed by his elder brother Itachi, a piano major.

Sakura

- Dance

Ya girl fucking demolishes every single dance routine. Initially starting out with a focus on ballet (pre-shippuden in canon), our pink headed queen soon realized that she wasn’t getting the full experience of what it meant to dance. Her point shoes were her loves, however they hurt and nipped in places not just physical. She realized that she didn’t want to be pigeonholed into a genre of which she would be inhibited by standard, and rather to dance so as to forget technical perfection. Thus, what would partner with post-shippuden Sakura in canon, Art School AU Sakura got into hip-hop. And bitch, she goes hard. A lot of the other girls who she used to dance ballet with admire her for her absolutely BODYING her dance routines, but also for never sacrificing her femininity to dance and not taking BS for being a girl who goes so hard in a male-dominated genre. (Some people believe that hip-hop is heavy hitting and a little metaphorically “dark” so to speak, which Sakura is not. So obviously I expect a little disagreement regarding this, however if you look at people like Delaney Glazer or Kaycee Rice, that is how Sakura would dance).

Hinata

- Creative Writing

Shy and bookworm-like, Hinata can write the best poetry, romance and adventure pieces out of all the creative-writing majors. She’s especially good at writing character relationships and development, and has such a subtle sense of intelligent wit in her writing, that if you blinked you would miss it. However should you catch it, you’re sure to chuckle. Her only struggle is that she tends to drag on in important scenes, stretching them against the regular flow of the rest of her writing. Needs validation for her writing through an IV drip.

Kiba

- Drums OR Photography

Drums for obvious reasons (loud and obnoxious), although ruff boi looks good with a camera, too. Great at landscapes and street photography.

Shino

- Creative Writing OR Photography

I could definitely see Shino having fucking beautiful handwriting, and being a beast at writing anything within the sci-fi realm. I could also see him doing some journalism, and writing for the school paper. He’s very good at the logic of his sci-fi books and coming up with logical but enrapturing stories, that intermingle knowledge and mystery. He’s a very specific type of read, however, and may not appeal to all, however if you enjoy anything similar to Star Wars or Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy, then Shino is your author. If this doesn’t float your boat, though, try photography-major Shino. He can get the best angles of bugs he sees, and has an extensive portfolio with entomology-related snapshots.

Ino

- Dance

Like Sakura, she, too, began with a focus on ballet, however began to branch out into contemporary ballet a little later than Sakura. This is another reason why Sakura switched her focuses, as she and Ino had always had a fierce rivalry for dieting (ballet dancers are pressured to be as thin as possible) as well as battling for technical perfection when they were ballet focused. As the two grew, Ino focused more so on contemporary, but can certainly do some hip-hop with Sakura every now and then, just as Sakura occasionally takes a contemporary class with her. The two still have a rivalry, however, just not to the previous extent as when they were actively competing against each other. They’re more like sisters.

Shikamaru

- Guitar (bass) OR Creative Writing OR Architecture

Smart boy’s a tricky one. He would either be a bassist, a mystery and historical fiction writer, or, of his school offers it, be great at architecture. Idrk.

Choji

- ermmmmm….. maybe graphic design? Tech theatre (props)? Vocal???

Choji is hARD dwnccnpc (that’s what she said). I could see him behind a computer screen, animating and designing games/covers/posters or whatever. He could also do something in theatre, but I don’t think he would do anything up on stage. Something like props would suit him. He might do something in music, tho???? Can he sing???? Help???

UPDATE: Choji is a band kid. He plays tuba or some shit. Big boy got big lungs.

Tenten

- Dance

Always has been, and always will be a hip-hop dancer. She wanted to be like Tsunade, a legendary dancer and followed in her footsteps, taking up hip-hop. (that’s why Sakura focused on hip-hop, too, because Tsunade mentored her and taught a few of her classes, too). Tenten is fast and can keep up with any beat. Not only is she a great dancer, but she’s also athletic, and does track and field (cross country), football, and softball at another school too, since the arts schools doesn’t offer it. Overall great dancer with styl. She’s really looked up to by some of her underclassmen for her cheery, but badass style and skill.

Lee

- DANCE (hip-hop, too)

It’s sweat. It’s burn. It’s energy. It’s Lee.

Neji

- Violin

First chair violinist in his freshman year for the school’s philharmonic orchestra. He be extra like that.

Gaara

- Guitar (bass)

He had a lonely childhood with neglectful/abusive parents, and rock music really helped him with that. Emo music is emo and often made fun of, but the songs have messages and Gaara related, so self-taught himself the bass guitar to help cope, and bring him closer to the music that salvaged him.

Kankuro

-Art

Specifically sculpting. For obvious reasons.

Temari

- Acting

Girl can make you cry with some of her monologues. Total lead. Has a seriousness in her acting that makes her believable, however can falter on the less-serious roles. She may also double-major in whatever Shikamaru does. And she’s better at it than him.

Itachi

-Piano

Boy could play any etude at age 7. Performed at Carnegie Hall when he was 10. And no, he didn’t pay to play there. The hall invited him. Began composing at 9. Has perfect pitch. Owns international awards. If he’s not at school it’s because he’s traveling to play for crowds. He excels at classical and baroque, however has an ear for romantic, and enjoys playing/composing pieces either written or inspired by romantic pieces. Enjoys Schumann, Debussy, and Tchaikovsky. Hates modern classical music, though. Can only take cinematic pieces composed by people like Williams, however can’t stand Prokofiev at all. He does like modern music, though, so long as it’s outside of the orchestral/classical music realm. He likes R&B. He would have liked to do film with Shisui, particularly producing, however his parents pressure him with piano, so he helps Shisui with student films and projects outside of school (will probably pursue film after graduating, tho).

Shisui

- FILM / VIDEO PRODUCTION

Fight me on this!!! THIS BOY IS SO GOOD AT CINEMATOGRAPHY MY FILMMAKING ASS CAN’T EVEN. AS SOMEONE WHO IS IN LOVE WITH FILMOGRAPHY, TRUST ME, SHISUI HAS IT™. THE IT™. HE’S GOOD AT EVERYTHING. CINEMATOGRAPHY. DIRECTING. SCREENWRITING. GRIP-WORK. EDITING. PRODUCING. HE’S SUCH A FILM NERD TOO, AND WATCHES OLD FILMS ALL THE TIME. HE’S JUST TOO GOOD AT IT. DOES STREET PHOTOGRAPHY TOO. HE’S OVERALL A GENIUS WITH CAMERAS. Does film with Itachi outside of school and teaches him, and the two are overall geniuses at filmography. They want to start their own studio together (they do, and it becomes huge). He becomes a leading director, while Itachi becomes a producer and directs sometimes too.

Sasori, Deidara, and Sai

Guess.

Kakashi

- Saxophone

It’s the only thing that suits him and it suits him so well. Has suave.

Obito (omfg his arms y'all)

- Not to say drums or anything, but…. drums.

Narutard 2.0. But he also dabbles in other areas of music. Like, he can also play guitar and sing. He’s also pretty good at music production. Makes R&B sometimes. He wasn’t always the best musician but proved to be a late bloomer, and really harnessed his potential. Tries to be as suave as Kakashi and his saxophone. He isn’t.

Hashirama

- Vocal

OkaYYYYYY. VOCAL GOD. CAN DO RIFFS AND RUNS AND HAS PERFECT PITCH. ALSO THE SWEETEST GUY??? WAS A CHAMBER SINGER AS A FRESHMAN. EVERYONE LOVES HIM, GOOD BOY ENERGY.

Likes to belt.

Madara

- Piano

Total prodigy, but hates classical music. Once was accompanist to Hashirama for a solo vocal performance and hasn’t been left alone since.

Tobirama

- Viola or Cello

Some sort of string instrument and takes it very seriously. Probably plays cello because violas are violas and that’s lame (if you know, you know). Has almost as many awards as Itachi and Madara, but hates his usual piano accompanist, Izuna.

Izuna

- Piano

Also a piano god. The uchihas breed them. Hates being accompanist for Tobirama. They’re secretly best friends though, don’t tell anyone.

Karin

- Tech Theatre.

Idk why. Probably started out with props and made her way up to TD (technical director) in senior year.

Suigetsu

- Tech Theatre

Fucking hates theatre kids. Assistant TD. Karin hates him.

Jugo

- Visual Art

Paints landscapes and nature. Really good with oils and gouache respectively.

Yamato

- lmao Trumpet.

Met Kakashi since they both play brass, but boy he ain’t got that suave. That’s why he plays trumpet. Lmao he plays the fucking trumpet anjdwcnojdnn.

Rin

- Vocal

Sweetest voice and could also play the acoustic guitar when she sang. Died in a car accident junior year. Kakashi was at the wheel when they got hit by a drunk driver. Obito saw the whole thing.

Kurenai

- Visual Art

Can create dream like paintings that almost seem like illusions.

Asuma

- Cello / guitar

Used to play cello because of his parents, but loves to play guitar. Can sing but his voice is raspy from smoking.

Gai

Who the fuck do you think teaches dance?

Jiraiya

- Guitar (lead)

Used to major in lead guitar. Sucked at first. Probably has a couple, casual Grammy Awards (they’re actually not that hard to be awarded with, The Recording Academy award many people outside of mainstream media. My school has a few). Now teachers as head of the Band department at this school.

Tsunade

-Dance

Legendary dancer. Probably toured with a few famous people. Now teaches. Mentored Sakura, and mentored Ino but for a shorter time.

Orochimaru

- Idk, didgeridoo, or some shit

Definitely a wood wind. Flute maybe??? Teaches now but no one knows what he does. Pedophile. Has a thing for Sasuke.

107 notes · View notes

vanchlo · 4 years

Text

Green Eyes

*Thanks so much for reading! c: There are now several parts you can read here: 2 3 4

I’m so happy to share that I won a fiction writing award for this short story through my college’s art journal! c:

Blurb Synopsis: You had been subbing for Mr. Styles for the last couple of months, but you’ve yet to meet him. The notes you leave for each other have sparked a friendship, leading you to want more, and you wonder if he does too.

Genre: Teacher Harry, lots of fluff, friendship, and maybe even some romance? ;)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 5.5k words

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Green Eyes by Coldplay (click to listen)

His shelves were full of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Rumi, and Charles Bukowski. His desk was covered in scribbled Post-It notes, Bit-O-Honey wrappers, and empty mugs of tea.

This is what you noticed the first few times you subbed in his classroom.

These were the only details you knew about the man whose face you’ve never seen. As you gradually began to substitute for his high school English classes more and more, you learned about him more. This was due to his students, and his personal belongings.

What he didn’t and didn’t like: all the way from no fringes on a notebook paper, no red pen ever because that was his grading color, no using the word ‘can’t’ in his class, and students can eat all the snacks they want as long as the trash goes in the bin where it belongs.

The CDs in a stack on the shelf told you which ones he actually listened to because they were the ones that were on top and without dust.

You learned that the pristine book on his desk was never the one he was reading. No, it was the weathered and used copy beside his mug with dog-eared pages and penciled notes.

His drawers told you another story with their contents: boxes of teas ranging from peach to vanilla macaron, journals filled to the brim with words, adult coloring books with tv show themes, and books on Van Gogh and Monet hinting at his artsy background. His students slowly warmed up to you, and through them, so did he.

At this point, you’d only been subbing for Mr. Styles the last five months, racking up around two and a half weeks worth of subbed days. He always left precise and concise lesson plans for you. The books were where he said they’d be. The webpages he mentioned were bookmarked on his desktop. The teacher copy of the textbook and current group book were on his desk. At the beginning, his desk looked like a professional organizer had gotten their hands on it. Slowly, as you came to sub more for him, it grew messier, albeit you kept it tidy during your appearances. As the first few months passed and you became one of the few subs in his room, you started to find notes. They weren’t just any notes. They were more than the straight forward sub notes for the day’s agenda. No, they weren’t that simple. You can still remember the first one you found on a Post-It note - it went like this:

Y/N, peanut butter on your waffles or syrup?

It took you by surprise, but nonetheless, you answered his call. Each time, you’d find a contrasting pen color and scrawl your answer underneath his. Then leaving it somewhere he would find it the next day. They were one-liners at the beginning, and always interesting. Walking to his classroom from your car on those mornings, you’d fill with excitement at the anticipation of finding the next one. Sometimes it took you the entire day to find where he had hidden them.

In the closet.

In a nook in a drawer.

Under the chair.

On the backside of one of his books.

Hidden in plain sight amongst his current choice of notes and lists.

They never failed to spark a smile on your lips, whether it was quirky, confused, astounded or humored.

Guitar or piano?

FRIENDS or The Simpsons?

Vanilla or Chocolate?

Would you rather become a superhero or a wizard?

The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?

Slowly, the questions became more personal, and more than just ‘this or that.’ His questions became longer, and so did your answers.

What was the moment that made you decide to become a teacher?

Is Donny a good student for you, or is he lying to me about that?

What color are your eyes?

What book/film do you believe had the largest impact on you while growing up?

What is the one meal you always order at a restaurant?

Do you have a family?

Should I splurge and buy a new desk chair?

What book should I buy for my classroom you think I need to have? Why?

Why don’t you have a classroom of your own?

When is your birthday?

Star Wars or Lord of the Rings?

They were never a chore for you, or tedious. No, they were fun and you felt as if you saw a little sliver of who he really was with each note. After a while, you started to write and leave your own notes for him to answer. At first, many of them were similar to ones he had left you, because you wanted to hear his responses, too.

The newest one stares back at you, his half-cursive registering in your eyes.

What’s your favorite part about subbing in my classroom? Don’t say the students, that’s what everybody says.

Giggling to yourself, you reach over to his Pink Floyd mug to pull out a green pen. You take a moment to think of your answer. This time you found the note peeking out from behind the smart whiteboard. The sounds of the end of a school day tickle at your ears as you scribble down your answer. Pressing it to an open square of wood on his desk, you turn back to the royal blue pad of Post-Its. Peeling one off, the green pen hovers over the paper, but you can’t get yourself to write the question you’ve been wanting to know all along.

He didn’t have a Facebook, or an Instagram.

The high school doesn’t have a wall of staff pictures like others you’ve subbed at do.

It’s late winter, so yearbooks are still a ways off.

For all you know, you could have seen him here before in the halls when you subbed in another classroom.

Exhaling, you press the pen to the paper before you can convince yourself to stop. Unlike the many times before when your fears got the best of you.

What do you look like?

With a proud but nervous smile you stick it to the desk, layering the first note on top. It sticks to your lips as you bend down to reach your hand into your bag. The glossy bag greets your hand, and you pull it out to set down beside the note.

A small bag of Bit-O-Honeys.

Looking up, your eyes scan the empty classroom. Few footsteps, voices, and lockers slamming trickle in from the halls. You suddenly realize that this is the same view he sees, these are the same sounds he hears, and the same place he sits in every day. Well, when he’s not away on personal days, sick days, on holiday, and at workshops, hence your appearances. The thought knits something together inside of you, making you feel just that bit more closer to him. Something that’s been slowly happening over time since you first stepped foot in his classroom.

One of the first things that did this was the posters scattered across his walls. A poster from the 2013 remake of The Great Gatsby, The Beatles’ Abbey Road album cover, a cartoon of William Shakespeare, a unifying print of Keith Haring’s art, and several posters of quotes from famous books - To Kill A Mockingbird, the Kite Runner, Of Mice and Men, The Life of Pi, and even The Hunger Games. It delighted you watching him add some of them to the walls since your time here, and you’ve been itching to purchase him one as a gift. You’re unsure of what he would like though, and the fear of failure has held you back from doing so.

A bleep! catches your attention. Casting your eyes to the dormant desktop screen, you wiggle the mouse. A red circle has appeared on the title of a tab opened to your professional email. Clicking over to it from a YouTube video he had you show the class, you find you have a new message. At the sight of who sent it, your heart skips a beat: harry.styles@isd . . . . . . .

Hi. I reckon you’re still sitting at my desk this moment, now that’s a funny thought. I wanted to ask you a question while I remembered. I have to go out of town on Friday for a funeral. Believe me, I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to, but these things are a must. I apologize for it being short notice, but I thought I’d ask you if you would like to take it before I posted it to the sub database. Please let me know either way by tonight, so it has a few days to sit on the website to be claimed. Also, I wanted to say thanks for everything you do. My students really love you, and it makes me wonder what I’m missing. Enjoy your night!

Sincerely,

Harry Styles

“Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you. - WW”

A smile warms your cheeks as you finish reading his words, and the familiar poem that ends every email of his. You quickly type up a response to him, agreeing to take the job on Friday, thanking him for thinking of you. A new email appears in your inbox shortly after from another colleague, which occupies you before you lose yourself in your thoughts again.

Perhaps your favorite addition in his classroom is the Fender acoustic sitting on a stand in the corner. Of course, you’ve yet to see it move in the last five months. The stories his students have told you in a way have given it legs of its own in your mind. Much like the little notes you’ve been leaving for each other, something you dread ever ending.

It was a Wednesday. You’re convinced that Mrs. Watson’s Pre-Calc class is surely the bane of your existence. You keep cursing yourself for taking sub assignments for math classes. Seeing that you’re terrible at the subject, you vowed you’d never take one of her assignments again, but you have to pay the bills somehow. You found your respite in the cozy staff lounge. Couches lined two of the walls, along with an arrangement of tables on the other side of the room.

As you walk in, you see that one of the ancient history teachers has nodded off again on the plaid couch. Otherwise, the room is empty, and all to yourself. If that didn’t make you happy before, the assortment of food on the counter definitely does.

Voices float in through the open door as the plastic lid to the cupcakes opens with a pop!

“Ah, looks like ya got tha last chocolate one. I was savin’ that one fer me,” a voice comments from behind you. Turning, you find a tall man in his late 20’s walking towards you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you can have it,” you volunteer, holding the blue-iced cupcake out for his taking.

His blush lips curl up with an amused smile. Dimples fall neatly into his cheeks covered with thick stubble. Its deep brown color matches that of the short quiffed curls atop his head. Misty green eyes stare back at you in the middle of his round, but sharp face. “‘m only joking. Go ahead and have it. I already had one earlier. They’re quite good actually, but I dunno ‘bout tha vanilla. Never really cared fer tha flavoir when it comes t’ cake and ice cream,” he comments, passing you to stop at the nearby sink.

“Yeah, I like to forget vanilla exists half of the time,” you remark, peeling away the paper liner of the cupcake.

Leaning against the counter, you watch as his ringed hand grabs a red coffee mug from the cabinet. “So do I. ‘s ratha boring, if I do say so meself.”

Nodding to yourself, a silence follows your words. The sweetness of the cupcake is shocking when you take a bite. It makes you wonder how you devoured these sugar bombs as a child. A few beeps and a hum from the microwave echo throughout the room as you check your phone.

“Y’know, I haven’t seen ya here at tha school befo’. Are ya new dis year or a sub?” he asks, bringing your eyes back to his lean figure. He pulls a yellow square packet from his tight-fitting black slats, a blush button-down tucked into its waist.

“I started subbing here this year,” you answer before taking another bite of the cupcake. Half of it consists of the sickeningly sweet frosting that makes your teeth ache.

“Mmmm I see. How d’ya like it so far? Are ya a new teacher, ‘s that why yer subbin’?”

“Yeah, I went back to school kinda late in the game after doing something else. I figure I’d sub for a little bit for some experience, because what’s another year of waiting by this time?” you comment, observing how he fiddles with his black tie while searching in the refrigerator.

“Well, congratulations. ‘s a big step t’ go back t’ school fer sumthin’ ya love. ‘s a good profession, I reckon. I’ve been teaching fer 7 years, and here at dis school fer 5. Sumtimes schools even hire subs they’ve had when a position opens, so keep yer eyes open,” he tells you, turning to you with a smile, a yogurt in his hand.

“Thank you,” you say sincerely, returning the smile. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Sure thing. I know it helped loads when I was a newbie. ‘ll see ya around, I gotta get back t’ class befo’ me students do first. Have a good one!”

Walking towards you with the steaming cup of tea in his hands, he pats your arm with his other hand on the way out. Nodding at your ‘thank you’, a small ‘you’re welcome’ falls from his lips before the door closes behind him. Eating the last bite you can muster of the cupcake, you toss its remains in the bin. A thought worms its way into your mind as you sit down at the table.

Wow, I wonder who that guy was? And is he married, because shit, he was handsome.

The smell of orange essential oil greets you when you stepped foot into his classroom the next time. The state of his desk made you frown, and made you want to scratch the itch to clean it. You resisted it and didn’t, and that thought was taken away when his students began to find their desks.

Another day of 7 classes came and went. 2 classes of Introduction to Creative Writing. 3 classes of American Literature. 2 classes of World Literature. Amusing YouTube videos broke up the monotony of your day, and those of his students. The lesson notes he left for you had become more concise as the months have passed, and as you learned from each other. The same couldn’t be said for the dish of Bit-O-Honeys on his desk that he’s kept stocked for your appearances. You’re just glad he’s put the bag you left for him to good use. All throughout your day you had been looking for his newest note, but this time it wasn’t in any of his usual spots. After correcting some quizzes from today, you finally found it in the bottom left-hand drawer of his mahogany desk. Stuck to a tall can of Coke, your favorite drink of choice.

I’m sorry it’s warm, although I’m not sure how you like to drink it. I just find warm soda to be rather nasty. The answer to your question is I have green eyes, brown hair, I’m rather tall, and I like to dress up. Is that good enough for you? Now, what do you look like, love?

Your insides melt at the sight of his answer, but then you groan at the vagueness of it. Off the top of your head, you know there are at least 10 male teachers here at this school with brown hair, maybe more. Maybe even with green eyes, too, and you know that because you’ve seen them in the staff lounge or in the halls. The thought only grows worse when you lose count of how many teachers there are here at this school. Let’s just say, there’s a lot. Yeah, that sure helps a whole lot. Annoyed, you pluck a pen from the green mug and answer his question with as little detail as possible. Two can play at this game, you think to yourself as you sigh.

If you could have a jam session with any musician, dead or alive, who would it be?

Sticking the new note where its corner peeks out from under his tabletop calendar, your eyes return to the Coke. It’s undeniable, you feel a little less perturbed at him just at the sight of it. Only a little bit, that is. Sure, you’ve subbed for a countless number of teachers at this school, and more so in this school district. A few of them are even friends or relatives of yours, but you’d never connected with one before like you have with Harry. You just wish more than anything you could find out what he looks like and what he’s really like. Continuing to take his sub jobs doesn’t really help with that. It only drives you crazier wanting to know the other side of this fascinating human being.

There he was, snoring on the couch again, tv remote in hand. The weather channel is playing, surprising you very little. Snickering, you yank open the door to the black refrigerator. After retrieving your striped black and blue lunchbox, you place the container of leftovers in the microwave. A laugh is heard over your shoulder, and when you turn, you find Green Eyes from the other day.

Tittering as the door closes behind him, he says, “No fail, John ‘s always passed out on dat couch, I swear.”

“I know, it’s every time I’m here. Maybe he should just retire already so he can take his naps at home. Then maybe we could watch something on the tv for once,” you comment, shaking your head. Unpacking your lunch box, you take out a clementine, vanilla yogurt, and silverware.

“Nah, he loves it too much. I don’t see him leavin’ anytime soon,” he remarks, walking past you to search the shelves of the fridge. “What’re we having’ t’day? Couldn’t find any cupcakes dis time?”

“No, those ones were too sweet anyways. They gave me a stomachache,” you complain with a grimace. The beeeeep! of the microwave interrupts your thoughts.

“Mmmm, I dunno, I thought they were pretty good.” Rubbing his tummy, he pulls a breathy laugh from your lips.

Your steaming container of leftovers almost burns your hands, and you dread trying to eat it within the next 10 minutes. Setting up for a lesson in Mr. Harrison’s classroom was a pain, making you wonder why you take any sub jobs besides Harry’s anymore.

“No free food fer us t’day,” he pouts beside you, closing the fridge door before venturing to the vending machine in the corner. Your eyes drift to his outfit choice today - a white button-down topped with a buttoned vest the shade of ochre, all tucked into brown slacks.

“That’s why you pack a lunch. I thought you’d know the drill by now, since you said you’ve been teaching for a while.”

“I do, but sumtimes I forget. Yer already ahead o’ me with dat part, love,” he who doesn’t have a name answers with a short laugh. Sliding a leather wallet from his pocket, you see him type in a number before you sit down at the table. “Who are ya subbin’ fer t’day then?”

“I’m on the west side in the Science wing for Harrison. Bloody Bio.”

“Ugh, I neva cared fer science. Where were ya a few weeks ago when I last saw ya?” he questions, sliding out a chair across from you. An assortment of vending machine food hits the table with a slap - peanut M&M’s, a nutrigrain bar, and a bag of Sun Chips.

“Upstairs in Watson’s Maths class. Remind me to never sub for her again, because I can’t understand Pre-Calc for the life of me. I never could in high school so I don’t know why I thought I could know,” you chuckle. A warmth fills your cheeks at the sight of his lips spreading into an amused smile.

“Yeah, I neva cared fer Maths meself eitha. Numbas neva made a bit o’ sense t’ me, words were always betta,” he explains. You nod along with his words, your mouth occupied with a bite of spaghetti and meatballs. “What subject would ya like t’ teach once tha year’s ova an’ ya go searchin’ fer a job o’ yer own?”

“Um, probably something in English since that’s my focus area. Dabbling in History has been fun, though. I enjoy learning about it myself, and I always have a better time subbing in either of those classes,” you reveal.

“I see,” he replies, his head going up and down. The crinkling of the granola bar wrapper fills the silence between you before he takes a bite. Crumbs pepper his chin, but he wipes them away from his thin beard. “How often d’ya sub here then?”

“I’d say probably 3 days a week typically, but some weeks are 4. Otherwise, I sometimes sub for a friend or somebody I know over at the middle school.”

“Ah, so yer license is sumthin’ like 8 - 12, ‘s it?” he inquires, picking up the black mug you hadn’t noticed he had.

“Yeah, I thought that would give me a good range for those grades. With my experience now, I think I’d like to stay at the high school level though,” you continue, twirling you fork around in the noodles covered in tomato sauce. Crossing your legs, the satiny fabric of your black dress pants moves with you.

“We could always use anotha good teacher here. Ya neva know what’ll happen,” he smiles, standing to his feet with his snacks held in his large hand. Returning his smile, he adds his mug to that hand, patting your back once on his way out. “See ya next time, love. Keep yer head up, it’ll get betta.”

“Thanks,” you automatically respond with. When you go to say his name, you’re lost for words, because you suddenly remember you’ve never gotten it. Now, he’s already too far away to ask for it.

Shrugging your shoulders, you stab a meatball with your fork, wondering when the next time will be that you’ll see him again. Because, he sure is nice to look at, and he’s nicer to you than anybody else here.

Stevie Nicks or John Lennon, it’s a tough call. Okay, I’m doing two questions from now on, because you ask such good ones :( Who would you jam with then? Question #2: What was the last concert you went to?

This time, you found the Post-It before the school day even started. It was on the seat of his chair, making you think he wanted you to find it right away. You’re thinking maybe he remembered one of the last times you complained about how hard he had made it. Sometimes you worry about how excited you get to look for these each time you sub in his classroom, but then you remember it’s only once every few weeks.

That can’t hurt, can it?

That day the hallways were louder than they usually were after school. You attributed that to the boys’ semifinals basketball game set to be played tonight in the gymnasium. The school’s home team against a nearby rival school. Students couldn’t stop talking about it all day, and many of them shared they’d be sticking around after school to attend. Checking your watch, you note that you should have enough time to stop at home to eat dinner before coming back for it. Even though you hadn’t even known about it before today.

The Sufjan Stevens song floating from his desktop fills the room as you get out books for tomorrow. Your hands are full with copies of The Kite Runner, making you feel grateful again to Harry- Mr. Styles for picking a decent classic for the class to read. Although you’d only read it a few years ago yourself, and it broke your heart, you’re excited to sub next time to help his World Lit class with it.

“Oh hey, be careful there, yer gonna slip and fall with all o’ those,” somebody says from behind you, distracting you from your mission of bringing the pile of books from the closet to a desk.

Don’t I know that voice? Turning your eyes to the doorway, you find Green Eyes walk in with a coat slung over his arm. Wait a second.

“I-I’m fine,” you stutter, but your actions that follow negate your words. Your eyes run over his familiar features, and slowly the puzzle pieces start to click in your head. Harry? A thought bomb explodes in your head, and the books tumble from your arms. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Yer okay,” he murmurs, stopping in front of you. Kneeling down, you both begin to pick up the books, stacking them on top of each other. “Thanks for gettin’ me set up fer t’morrow though. I appreciate it.”

“Mmmhmm,” is all you can say, because any words that want to come out can’t get past the lump in your throat. One that’s there because of the realization you just had.

Green Eyes and Harry are the same person.

How did I not figure this out sooner?

“So, ya must be Y/N, huh?” he giggles, his head bent down as he helps you pick up the books.

“Y-Yeah, surprise,” you admit, and your laugh soon joins his. Before you know it, the both of you can’t stop laughing.

“Here,” you hear him say. Looking up, you find him standing in front of you holding his hand out for you to take. A cozy looking maroon sweater covers his upper half, and blue jeans don the rest. “Fancy meetin’ you here,” he jokes in between laughs.

“You’re right about that,” you answer, taking his hand. He helps you to your feet where you smooth down the violet skirt of your dress. “I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots.”

“Yer not tha only one, love,” Harry comments, bending over to grab a stack of books. He begins to set one on each desk as he walks down the aisles of them. “But I s’pose there wasn’t any way t’ know.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t find you on Facebook,” you confess, cursing yourself for the slip up a few seconds later. Lifting your head from the book you just set on a desk, you find his amused eyes on you across the room.

“Ah, so ya were stalkin’ me, were ya?” he smirks, his delightful laugh following his words.

“No, I wasn’t! You’re just one of the only colleagues I’ve subbed for who I’ve never met, or like don’t know what they look like.”

Your small stack soon disappears and when you return to the pile at the back of the room, he does too.

“So, what d’ya think? Are ya disappointed then?”

“No,” you say automatically, lifting your eyes to his green ones that land on you. His cheeks lined with a thick, neat beard crease with dimples as he smiles at you.

“Neither am I . . . . Ms. Vance Joy fan,” he returns, holding your gaze. The sincerity in his words gets under your skin, going straight to your heart. The sarcastic joke inside of them makes you giggle.

Clearing your throat, you look away with what you’re sure are blushing cheeks. Most likely, an entire blushing face. “What are you doing here, anyways, if you were gone for the day?”

“I can’t miss me boys’ big game, a few o’ me students are on tha team. I thought I’d catch up on sum emails and grading befo’hand, but didn’t know ya’d still be here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just leaving, anyways,” you mutter, your movements stilling.

“I didn’t mean it dat way, love. ‘m glad we finally met, it was about time, anyways,” Harry insists, and you nod before continuing to place a book at each desk. “Hey wait, you said you were short and all plain in yer note. No, yer not, ya fibber.”

“Oh like your description was any more accurate,” you scoff lightheartedly, setting down a book before grabbing another from your dwindling stack.

His rich laugh meets your ears, and you can’t resist looking over to him. “Ya didn’t give yerself enough credit, ya know,” he almost coos, and you swear your heart melted into a puddle right then and there. That’s if it hadn’t done so already when you realized he’s Green Eyes. Swoon.

It’s hard to hold back the excitement curling at the edge of your lips. Soon, you run out of books again and when you take a peek at him, so has he.

“Were ya gonna go?” he questions, and you deal him one when you look at him confused. “T’ tha game, I mean.”

Your body feels like jello, and that any move you make would be sloppy. Embarrassing. That’s the last thing you want to look like in front of him. With his dazzling smile, adorably dimpled cheeks, and the cozy vibes he’s giving off. Not to mention, the clean citrus scent wafting off of him. A smell you certainly would be okay with smelling for hours on end. If only.

“Well bloody Rob around tha corner bailed on me, so I have an extra ticket now. Would ya like t’ join me? I was thinkin’ o’ grabbin’ a sub from ‘round tha corner befo’. Concession food ‘s always too expensive, and never worth tha lines at halftime,” Harry suggests, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. One corner of his mouth climbs up his cheek, making you feel like maybe you’re not alone in these jumbled feelings. Or in the fun you’ve had carrying on this blind relationship with him.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun. Maybe we could get to know each other a little better than the few words Post-It notes can hold.”

Slowly, the other corner of his lips curls upwards, making the dimple fall into his cheek once again. Nodding, his lips split into a full-fledged smile, singing with a chuckle. “I’d really like that,” he reveals before venturing to the door and shutting off the light. Extending an arm, he waves a hand towards himself.

“Hold on, let me get my things.”

“No rush. ’s not like ‘ve waited seven months fer dis or anythin’,” he quips. By now, you’re certain your face resembles a tomato. You hope that in the muted light, perhaps he won’t notice.

Hurriedly, you slip on your light coat and drape your bag over your shoulder. Your eyes catch something as you’re tucking your phone in your pocket. Grabbing one last thing, you turn to find him watching you from the lit doorway.

“What?” he wonders aloud, still with that smile etched onto his face. One you’re fairly sure you could get used to seeing.

“Here,” you tell him, placing the Post-It note in his palm. His fingers dotted with dark hairs brush against you, just for a second longer than need be.

“Ah, can’t forget dis now. Important stuff here.”

“Indeed,” you note, stifling a laugh as the sarcasm floats in the air.

You observe his eyes flit across the paper holding your cursive as your steps echo down the empty hallway.

“Hmmm, funny. It says ‘would you like to meet up sometime’ on here,” Harry reads, casting his twinkling eyes to you. Green eyes. “I was jus’ ‘bout t’ ask ya tha same thing on me next note. But I had sumthin’ that woulda took tha cake fer sure.”

“What’s that?” you remark, wondering how that could be. Those thoughts fly out the window when you feel his arm come around your shoulder. A squeal sounds inside of your head, but hey, at least that’s far less embarrassing than doing it out loud.

“I was gonna tell ya dat Tracy across tha hall from me ‘s leavin’ afta dis year, and I may have recommended a certain sumbody t’ tha principal t’ replace her,” Harry hums, a knowing glint dancing in his eyes as they hover over you. “What d’ya say t’ bein’ colleagues instead o’ bein’ me sub?”

“I think I could get used to that,” you answer, letting your smile take over your entire face.

“So could I, love. So could I.”

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