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angellesword · 4 years

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YOUR EYES TELL | JJK (02)

➭ You live in a world where people see in black and white. The solution to finally see the colors? It’s simple. You need to meet your soulmate and look at him in the eyes, but what if the person bound to you is already contented with the monochromatic world? What if…Jeongguk, your soulmate, is already in love with someone else?

Alternatively;

“A future without you is a world without color.”

Genre: soulmate au, e2l, unrequited love, heavy angst, fluff, lawyer au.

Pairing: Artist!Jungkook x Lawyer!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

SERIES: CHAPTER 1 | CHAPTER 3

"Please, Joon. I just need to know if he's okay..."

Namjoon scratched the back of his head while looking at Red. The latter was practically begging him to spill things he's been forbidden to utter. He was sure he's just seconds away from telling her what she wanted to know, but then he's abruptly reminded of how heartbroken Jungkook was.

"Don't tell her I'm here," tears painted Jungkook's cheeks. "I don't want to see her. Not now." Or ever...

"He's not here, Red. I'm sorry," Namjoon sighed, trying to close the front door of his small apartment; regrettably, Red stopped him before the door shut in her sad face."I know he doesn't want to see me." She said with a shaky voice—causing Namjoon to purse his lips into a thin line.

"Right." He couldn't help but say. She deserved the snarky remark for hurting Jungkook beyond repair.

"But I'm worried about him. H-He was...so mad when he left."

'Who wouldn't?' Namjoon wanted to say, yet he kept his lips glued together. He needed to remind himself that although she hurt Jungkook, Red was still his friend.

"I'm sure he'll be fine wherever he is." Namjoon's caught Red's eyes. "Jungkook is strong, you know."

"I know." She looked at her feet; this caused the man inside the house to also look down. Namjoon was so busy shooing Red away that he didn't notice a big box on the ground. Judging by the looks of it, he deduced that this box belonged to Jungkook. The tower of sketchpads and other art materials was already a giveaway.

"Can you give this to him, though? I'm not sure when I'll get to see him again, and I know he can't live without this stuff, so..." Red picked up the box. "Please, Joonie..." She added when the older boy didn't say anything.

"Fine."

In the end, Namjoon gave in. He didn't have a choice. This was the only way to make her leave; however, he instantly regretted his decision when he spotted Jungkook sitting on the couch."What did she say?" Jungkook inquired eagerly; his eyes flew on the box that's juggling in Namjoon's arms. Jungkook saw his friend trip over a non-existent stone.

Namjoon was really clumsy.

"She wants me to give this to you." The older boy handed the box to Jungkook in exchange for his precious daughter.

"Ji-eun..." Namjoon cooed, bopping the nose of his three-year-old child. Ji-eun chuckled; her little finger was poking her father's deep dimple.

"Appa!" Ji-eun's eyes twinkled. She missed being in her father's embrace even though it hadn't been long since Namjoon left her with Jungkook.

Ji-eun couldn't help it. Jungkook used to be the fun uncle, but all he did now was cry and snort. Admittedly, she's getting tired of wiping his tears every second.

She wondered who made uncle Jungkook cry.

"Huh." Jungkook huffed as he examined what was inside the box. Namjoon was right. It's full of the younger boy's stuff.

"Is she really so eager to kick me out of the house that she personally brought my things here!?"Jungkook was seeing red. Profanities left his lips as acid dripped down his stomach. He's so mad at his ex.

"Language, Jeon," Namjoon warned, turning away from Jungkook. He couldn't let Ji-eun listen to the younger boy's dirty mouth. "Besides, you're the one who left."

Jungkook didn't know how to respond to that, mainly because Namjoon was correct. He was the one who left in the middle of the fight. In his defense, he was hurt. What Red was saying was too much for him—it was painful, the kind of pain he knew would forever haunt him.

"I love him, Kook."

Red's confession echoed in Jungkook's mind again. Red told him she loved her soulmate. Jungkook didn't want to believe her because how? How could she fall in love with another man just by looking at him in the eyes?

"We've been seeing each other for months now."

His question had been answered. Red was a cheater, and it's the last straw for Jungkook. He couldn't take it anymore, so he stood up.

"I hate you, bitch!"

The pain that crossed Red's face indicated that Jungkook had gone too far. He didn't mean it, but he's hurt, and this was the only way he could hurt her back.

Before Red could say anything, Jungkook was already out of the door.

It's two am in the morning. Jungkook was certain that the only awake person that he could bother right now was none other than Namjoon, his brother-in-law.

Thankfully, Namjoon's apartment was just a few blocks away from Red's home.

"Kook?" Namjoon squinted his eyes after opening the door. He's been awake for straight twenty-seven hours to the point that he couldn't tell if Jungkook was really in front of him or if he's just hallucinating.

"Hyung..." Jungkook broke into tears upon seeing his only family.

Namjoon let the crying boy inside his house.

"I ran out of tea..." This was Namjoon's excuse when he handed Jungkook Ji-eun's milk. Namjoon didn't even have time to buy his groceries since his daughter occupied most of his time.

Fortunately, it looked like Jungkook didn't give two fucks as he was already halfway finished drinking the warm milk.

It's been exactly fifteen minutes since the younger boy came knocking on Namjoon's humble abode. Jungkook had stopped crying, though he still looked a little shaken.

"Red found her soulmate..." Jungkook spoke right before Namjoon could ask what happened. Suddenly, the older boy found himself biting his bottom lip. He didn't want to pry about Jungkook's life, but then he's reminded of the wish of Hye-Jin, his late wife.

"Take care of my brother, Joon..."

"D-Do you wanna talk about it?" Namjoon asked before he changed his mind. This was the only thing he could do for Hye-Jin.

"What's there to talk about?" Jungkook hissed even though he's the one who started telling Namjoon things. The latter kept his head low. In times like this, he wasn't sure what to say.

It's not like he's better than Red. Namjoon also broke up with the woman he was dating right after meeting Hye-Jin. The only difference was that Namjoon's ex perfectly understood the situation. She knew that they weren't destined to be together.

"She cheated on me. She said she's in love with her soulmate." The bitter taste in Jungkook's mouth was still there. It only strengthened as soon as the word 'soulmate' left his lips. Jungkook continued pouring his heart out to Namjoon despite saying he didn't want to talk about it.

"She's going to regret leaving me. No one can love her the way I do!" Jungkook swore, but Namjoon's almost 100% sure he's wrong.

Seeing colors were different. It felt like everything was perfect. Namjoon couldn't deny that one of the many reasons he fell in love with Hye-Jin was because she helped him see the wonderful hues.

It's like the more he fell in love with her, the brighter the colors became. Even now that she's dead, Namjoon could still see colors. Granted that it kind of faded, it's still the best thing Namjoon was proud to experience.

The rule of the world was simple. As long as your soulmate was in love with you, the colors would always be visible in your very eyes. It would only become less bright if your soulmate died. However, the case of a one-sided love was different. People wouldn't be able to see colors if their soulmates didn't give them their hearts.

Some said that there were cases wherein people went blind when their soulmates started to hate them. Namjoon and Jungkook didn't know if it was true or just a myth. After all, they hadn't encountered people who apparently 'went' blind because of the mentioned reason."I'm telling you, hyung. She'll come to see me soon."

Jungkook was right. Two weeks after their fight, Red showed up. Unfortunately, it's not to beg her ex to come back. She only returned a box full of his stuff, a clear sign that she's officially kicking him out of their shared apartment.

"How can she do this to me? It's my house too!" Said Jungkook nine days after Red's appearance in front of Namjoon's apartment, it finally dawned to him that his ex was no longer a part of his life.

It's really over.

Jungkook realized this while staring dumbly at his ruined sketchpads. Ji-eun accidentally spilled a glass of water on her uncle's drawing.

The mixture of pain, anger, and frustration caused Jungkook to scream. He couldn't possibly be mad at a three-year-old kid; that's why he just directed his negative emotions to the fact that Red practically kicked him out of their home—his home.

He was aware that Red's name was written in the lease contract, but Jungkook paid this year's rental fee. He's broke at the moment. This being the case, Jungkook swallowed his pride to come to live with his brother-in-law. The thing was, it's getting hard for him to stay there. Namjoon had only one room, so Jungkook slept on the couch—wait, this wasn't about right. Jungkook didn't even get to sleep. Ji-eun's cries wouldn't allow him to do so. Aside from this, the little kid had also ruined her uncle's drawings countless times now.

"Seriously, Kook. You need to move out of your brother-in-law's house." Taehyung pouted his lips.

Jungkook couldn't decide if he could take his friend's advice seriously, at least not when Taehyung's tongue was basically down Jimin's throat.

"I can't afford to lease a new place." Jungkook scrunched his nose, eyes still focused on the disgusting public display of affection in front of him. "I only have forty dollars in my bank account."

"Oh, you poor thing." Jimin slightly pushed his boyfriend's chest to dodge his kisses and to be able to look at Jungkook.

Jungkook snorted. He didn't want to be babied, especially not by Park Jimin, who he met just a few months back.

Park Jimin was Taehyung's real soulmate. It was still weird seeing them together. All his life, Jungkook believed that Taehyung, his childhood best friend, was a straight man. Taehyung dated a lot of women before; he also seemed to enjoy being with them.

This was one of the reasons why Jungkook hated the idea of a soulmate. It was a complete bull. It was unfair to let fate decide who you'll end up with. Jungkook witnessed Taehyung's struggle after meeting Jimin. He was happy that he could finally see colors and that it didn't take him long to like Jimin, but Taehyung was so confused.

Like Jungkook, Taehyung also thought he was straight, but then his world suddenly turned upside down. Before he knew it, Taehyung was crying. He was too overwhelmed with what was happening, and Jungkook hated it. The latter didn't care about genders; he supported those who didn't identify themselves as heterosexual. Jungkook hated that people had to limit what they thought their gender was just because of the concept of soulmate. Again, it was not fair.

"But I can help you..." Jimin added as he took a bite of his frozen yogurt. They were currently inside of an ice cream shop. Jungkook had to get out of Namjoon's home since it was getting hard to look at his ruined works. He called his best friend to help him destress. Jungkook just had to let his frustrations out. Luckily, Taehyung and Jimin were more than happy to treat their younger friend some frozen yogurts. Jungkook ordered three of the said dessert.

"No, Jimin." Taehyung said as if he'd read his boyfriend's mind. "Jungkookie isn't going to suck your dick for money."

"Aw." Jimin's lips protruded into a sulky pout, making Jungkook roll his eyes. Sometimes he couldn't believe the couple's relationship. Jungkook knew that Jimin was only joking, but Jungkook thought he couldn't let the love of his life think about someone else's body. He was pretty possessive.

"We can call Yoongi-hyung, though. I think he's in the mood for some dicks—"

"Guys!" Jungkook groaned, cutting them off. His eyes were widening too. "Can we stop talking about dicks for five seconds? I have a serious problem here."

"Oh, right!" Jimin's eyes lit up. He also cleared his throat—an action that made Jungkook sigh in relief; at least he's getting serious now. "You need to find a roommate, Kook. Lucky for you, I have a friend who's looking for a housemate. I think she could cut you off some slack."

The younger boy's scoff was almost instant. "Cut me off some slack?" He narrowed his eyes at Jimin. "I don't want to owe anything to anyone. You know that."

Jimin shrugged his shoulders, taking another bite of his frozen yogurt. "It's not like that. You'll actually be the one doing her a favor. She's in dire need of a roommate, Kook. She wouldn't mind if you couldn't pay rent right now, as long as you're willing to keep the house clean and look after her cat. You can do that, right?"

Of course, Jungkook could. He was an artist; he spent most of his time inside his home, silently drawing whatever came into his mind.

"Huh." Jungkook was still skeptical. "Can't she just hire a maid?"

"Wish it was that easy. She's a mess. Not even her maids can tolerate her shit. Besides, her cat is a total bitch. She scratches anyone that's not her owner."

"I'm not sure..." Jungkook scowled. He wasn't sure if he could live with a stranger. Jungkook was a shy boy; it actually took him a long time to even say 'hello' to Jimin.

"Just think about it, Jungkook..." Jimin smiled warmly at the younger boy. "I swear she's a decent person. Yes, she's messy, but aside from that, she's fine. She doesn't pry on anyone's life; she's quiet, just like you, and oh! She likes banana milk too! I swear, Kook. You'll like her!"

For some reason, Jungkook's heart skipped a beat. He knew Jimin was kind, he's the type of person who always talked about the good qualities of a certain someone, but this was the first time he spoke about someone with such passion.

Jimin continued to talk about you, his lovely best friend. If you could hear him right now, you were sure you'd end up crying. Jimin was indeed the best friend you could ask. He's fiercely loyal.

"It's true, Kook. You'll love her." Taehyung talked about you with the same intensity. He had met you, and he instantly fell in love with you. You were smart and witty.

The couple continued sharing things they loved about you. Jungkook swore he's not easy to convince. The only acceptable reason why he's standing in front of your apartment was that Taehyung and his boyfriend knew the magic of words. They had done an excellent job convincing him.

Jungkook let out an exasperated breath when you still didn't answer the door after his ninth attempt to knock. Truthfully, he was getting pissed off.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all.

Just as when he was about to leave, the door suddenly opened with so much force. Jungkook was startled.

"I'm sorry, I was in the shower. I swear I heard you the first time you knocked, but I was panicking, so I slipped down the floor, and I..." You ran your hand through your wet hair, eyes widening when you saw your fingers covered in soap suds.

"Oh, my God!" You were panicking again. This time, you finally looked at Jungkook to see his reaction.

You were rambling about how this whole situation was so embarrassing, but Jungkook wasn't listening anymore. How could he focus on anything when his heart was beating this fast? Jungkook was pissed before he met your eyes, right now; the irritation he felt was rapidly boiling down to panic when he realized what was happening.

Colors.

Jungkook was used to seeing black and white, so imagine his confusion when the colors suddenly became visible in his eyes.

Nothing made sense to him, but one thing's for sure.

Jungkook had found his soulmate.

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2-cute-4-school · 4 years

Text

NCT Dream reaction : you give them a handmade gift

M.list

Genre : fluff fluff fluff

Word count : 2.5K words

Mark Lee

*sigh* my overworked baby, SM pls let him rest

he probably forgets to eat from time to time or just doesn’t time to

which breaks your poor little heart :<

so when Mark stays in the recording room until late in the night once again, you don’t go to him empty handed

you go to him with a handful of homemade cookies!!! ヽ(^◇^*)/

when you enter the studio, Mark’s slumped figure immediately straightens up, tired eyes lighting up at the sight of you

he turns in his chair and stretched out his arms to you with a puppy face and your heart :((( just :((((( melts :(((((((((( wow mark no need to kill us all with your babie culture

but who are you to say no to this angel with somewhat less appropriate thoughts but you didn’t hear this from me so you don’t hesitate to walk into his open arms

he lays his head on your stomach, nuzzling into you and cuddling up to you like a clingy koala bear as you run your fingers comfortingly through his hair, lightly massaging his head

with the serene atmosphere you almost forgot why you came so you pulled away from Mark, your heart clenching at his whine and bring the bag with the cookies out of your backpack and thrust it in his hands

he looks from you to the bag and back with eyes so wide and innocent your brain almost short circuited at the utter cuteness

he digs into it once you prompt him to, a soft ‘woah’ coming out from him once he was hit with the sight of freshly baked cookies

“daaamn these are so good, babe” your eyes shine with pride

as he sticks one in his mouth, munching delighted at it (◠‿◠✿) , he grabs you with an arm, sitting you on his lap like a baby that you are and prodding your lips with another cookie he grabbed out of the bag

“oh no, I made these for you, I don’t-”

he doesn’t let you finish your sentence as he pushes the cookie in your mouth, watching you fondly as you start munching on it and patting your head with a gentle hand

“you’re so much cuter when you’re not nagging”

*GASP*

the Disrespect

Huang Renjun

this baby probably also showers you in his own gifts such as paintings or drawing of you sooo

it’s only proper that you also gist him something made by you (°∀°)

you work your cute ass off to perfect the most adorable Moomin key-chain you can come up with *huff*

the day you finally deem it good enough to be shown to the top artist Huang Renjun you sweat buckets as you approach him

Renjun is busy on his iPad as you paddle over to him and stick the key-chain in his face with a dumb but proud smile “here”

Renjun turns to you with a blank face “what is this?”

●‿●

when I tell you the blood drained from your face and you died 50 times internally, your soul just left your body and you saw your life flash before your eyes ‘well life was good, time to say goodbye eyy’

you manage a loud and definitely not artificial laugh

“HAHAHA JUST AN UGLY THING I made I MEAN FOUND HAha ʰᵃ!!! Hey doesn’t it look like you in the morning?!”

that’s when you knew you gotta bolt the scene

but Renjun of course couldn’t let your embarrassment end there the grumpy little gremlin

he snatched the keychain from you and curled his other hand around you, gluing you to his side and you froze as you looked into his sparkly wide eyes ( Renjun’s eyes are galaxies fite me )

“you made this for me?”

“uh yeah”

warning : you were strangled to death by Renjun who deemed that a simple ‘thank you’ just couldn’t suffice, you had to die asphyxiated by his bear hug

“thank u thank u thank it’s so cute, I love it so much! I love you so much!!!”

“do you love me more than Moomin?”

warning 2 : he threw you away faster than he captured you in his deathly cute hug

“know your place, no. 2″

(¤﹏¤)

Lee Jeno

so Jeno is just a biiiiit upset at you maybe

okay maybe a bit more than just a bit

because you might or might have not broken his favorite cup which, mind you, was also a gift from you, when you were at the dorms

so now this overgrown baby gives you THE stinky eye and makes sarcastic and grumpy remarks with any chance he gets

and honesty as much as you love him, you’re ABSOLUTELY DONE with his pettiness :’)

that’s how you find yourself seated at your desk with a blank cup, acrylic watercolors and brushes spread everywhere as you squeeze every ounce of willpower to finish what you started

so after 2 mental breakdown, painted fingers and a veryyy dirty desk, you finished painting a cute design on Jeno’s new cup

you let it dry and didn’t waste another second to bring it to Jeno who still sulked at the dorms

once you were let inside, you trudged over to Jeno who was sat at the couch, refusing to get up and greet you with kisses as he usually did and slammed the cup on the coffee table in front of him

his frown turned into a confused puppy face so fast his duality amazed you once again, he lifted the cup gently, running the tips of his fingers gently over the paintings you worked so hard to complete for him

“are you still mad, nono?”

his silence was quite unnerving as you started to tire yourself out, your voice weakened by worry, but he lifted his head, looking at you with eyes so soft your heart fluttered wildly in your chest

“mad? you-you did this for me and you think I’m mad?”

he put the cup down much gentler than you and stood up from his seat, engulfing you in his arms, one of his hands squeezing you impossibly close to him and the other one cradling your head to his chest

“I think I just fell in love with you once again”

“if you fall in love just from a painted cup I should be more careful when I leave you alone”

he chuckled at your witty remark, kissing the side of his neck

once you broke apart, he placed his new favorite cup on the highest shelf and turned to you with a shit-eating grin

“i’ll put this here so maybe you won’t break this one too”

“sleep with an eye open tonight, lee” (☉‿☉✿)

Lee Donghyuck

so another overworked baby of mine bless his soul

his schedule is so packed so even though he’d cuddle with you until the end of times you actually didn’t get to do that as often as you’d like

and we all know how whiny lil cutie baby Haechanie can get when he doesn’t get what he wants :’))))

and since unfortunately you can’t be beside him all of the time like he wants you to, you decide the next best thing : you knit him a scarf !! you even stuck a tag made out of a soft material with a drawing of a smiley sun to one end of the scarf

he looks so shocked when you skip into his room and lovingly strangle him with the scarf

and you swear you could see his eyes glisten when you tell him you made it yourself and he remembers the bandaids that seemed to grow in number every day which you always shrugged of when he asked

although the tears may be from the lack of air ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

n e way, he looks so thankful as he wordlessly cradles your hands in his, bringing them up to his lips and taking the time to litter kisses over every single one of your small injuries, whispering a soft ‘i love you’ at the end

you swear your heart runs leaps through your rib cage

he just loves you so so much and would appreciate anything you give him

you bring his face back up and press a huge *smooch* on his lips and you both giggle in between your kisses

why so cute you lovebirds?!?

he brings the scarf everywhere he goes, to the dorms, to every show, concert, whenever he travels somewhere, no matter the season

it becomes his lucky charm

once, Renjun sends you a picture of your Hyuckie sleeping cuddled up to the scarf, his nose nuzzled into it

“you know I won’t let him forget about this. EVER” you smirk at Renjun’s text, typing back a reply

“pls do” ( ಠ◡ಠ )

Na Jaemin

this sweet boi hold close to his heart anything you give him

so there’s literally no reason to stress over the bracelet you decided to craft for him

but you being you of course you want to rip your hair out every time something doesn’t go your way ah the levels of patience are definitely soaring through the roof

you even swallowed your pride and asked Jeno for help (read as used him as a puppet) so you were sure you’d get the right size

so after doubting the colors, patterns, material, your entire life choices, you asked Jaemin to close his eyes the next time you met up

with extra shaky fingers, you wrapped the bracelet around his wrist and fumbled to tie it properly

“I’m not getting any younger over here, y/n”

“shut up, mommy jaemie”

he managed to slap the back of your head even with his eyes closed (>‘o’)>

so when you finally tied a sturdy knot with your chicken fingers, you let him open his eyes and beach let me tell you the way his entire face broke into a smile at the sight of the pretty bracelet around your wrist

the sun seemed to pale in comparison with his precious smile, jaemin lights up the world no question, there’s no way you can convince me otherwise

“oh my God, my baby spent time making me such a pretty gift, I must have saved a country in my previous life, come here, let me smooch you into next week (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ “

so that’s how you ended up trapped in Jaemin’s embrace FOREVER

he kept on complimenting you the entire day and made it his mission to boast to every member he could get is hands on about his pretty gift made by his even prettier baby, he’s such a sucker for you no joke whipped culture right here m’am

“Jaemin, the the threads are getting dirty, don’t you think it’s time to take it off-?”

“I’ll die wearing this ʘ‿ʘ“

Zhong Chenle

among all of his ultra expensive things he has, he is dead sure that you’re the most precious in his life

he often told you he’d give up every penny in his bank and all his fame as long as he got to keep you by his side

he regarded you as a ray of warm light when the world left him cold and he swore he’d fight off anything and anyone who dared to hurt you

so this is how he found himself a bit confused and extremely guilty over how he is supposed to fight himself, watch and learn baby

he never meant to upset you, especially over something you poured your blood, sweat and tears into perfecting it just for him

sure, you were aware the Chinese patters you sewed carefully into a pristine white material weren’t perfect, but the way he laughed in you face once you offered it to him toppled your negative emotions over

he wasn’t aware that you sewed it yourself when he made fun of it

“jeez, where did you get this from, Y/N, the clownery fair? even though you should report them for to costumer protection for its ugliness”

“maybe I should report you for being a bitchy prick” ʕ ಡ ﹏ ಡ ʔ

you glare at him and storm away, slamming the door

chenle, the most oblivious and babiest boyfriend : (Θ︹Θ)ს well shit

but of course you couldn’t stay mad at him for long when he sweet talked his way back into your good side basically every minute of the day after finding out from Renjun (this angry angel helped you bless his soul) how hard you worked to sew that

so even though you’re still sulking a lil bit

you accept to come over at his house and as soon as you enter his room you’re shook

where one of his posters once hung above his bed now stood your sewing project proudly

you stared in awe like （’◎’）

“but I though you said it’s ugly”

“that’s before I knew it’s made by you. Anything you did is directly promoted to gorgeous, admirable, incomparable-”

ヾ(＠⌒▽⌒＠)ﾉ

3 weeks later while cuddling

you : *GASP* “I’m so sorry for calling you a bitchy prick, baby”

Park Jisung

he is a giant as much as he is a baby and you agree with me even if you don’t

babies are fascinated by almost anything, especially colorful things

which means Jisung is also fascinated by colorful things ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ

so when you met and you pulled out a few origami figures of different, lively colors, Jisung : (✪㉨✪)

“woah, how did you do these?”

“they’re like basic origami figurines”

if he wasn’t amazed enough already

when you picked up a purple frog and pressed on its bottom and it jumped, Jisung jumped up with it

“WOAH, how did you do THAT?”

you didn’t have the heart to break his innocent awe and tell him it didn’t take longer than 5 minutes to make that frog

so you just settled for a shrug and a simple

“magic, Jisung, magic”

at that, he straightens up in his seat, his awestruck expression fading into a serious one as he grips your shoulders tightly （´＿｀）

“you’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?” ~(｡☉︵ ಠ@)>

“what do you mean, sungie?”

“you’re a wizard!!!!!!!!!”

*facepalm* *internal sigh* *whale noises because cuteness levels are just too high*

“uh, yeah sure, baby, whatever floats your boat”

you try to turn away to hide your growing smile, but jisung isn’t having it

“no, you can’t leave me like this!! teach me!!!1!”

he grips your sleeve and looks at you with such wide innocent eyes as if you’re another wonder of the world and you swear you melt on the spot

“well, you know, my services aren’t free” (¬‿¬)

“what do you want?”

“kisses?” ( jisung shutting down )

“k-kisses? kisses??!? i mean *clears throat and buffs up* yeah sure, that’s all? i can do kisses” ( this baby blushed after only mentioning it but okay boss baby go off I guess ) (*~▽~)

he could’t even be disappointed when he found out origami was nowhere near to magic when you spoiled him with kithes all evening *cue a red Jisungie*

#cznnet #nct reactions #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct dream #nct fluf #nct angst #nct dream scenarios #nct dream reactions #nct dream fluff #nct dream angst #nct renjun #nct mark #nct jeno #nct haechan #nct jaemin #nct chenle #nct jisung

673 notes · View notes

larinah · 3 years

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August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft. I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness. By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants. My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came. I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four. The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.

It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

It was twenty minutes to seven.

When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone. A sudden impulse made me enter. A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short. It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket. He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different. He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand. I apologised for my intrusion. “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.” “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!” He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down. “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said. He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.” “Then what’s it for?” I asked. The man burst out laughing. “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.” He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat. I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man. I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief. “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name. “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?” “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.” He gave a long, low whistle. “And the dates?” “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.” “It’s a rum go!” he said. But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!” Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. “You probably heard my name,” I said. “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?” I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right. “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson. His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour. I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking. We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?” He shook his head. “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought. He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?” I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home. “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.” He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh. “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.” To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while. The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel. It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour. But the heat is stifling. It is enough to send a man mad.

#william fryer harvey #august heat #august 20 #well i don't know why...it's just that i'm sitting here sweating again in mid august in portland

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fuckingfinwions · 3 years

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it's pretty fucking rich of curufin to call the servants perverts for doing what he/his family forced them to do! omg! also i love the detail that sometimes fingon is just like 'suffer bitch' and doesn't stop curufin from getting his own self in trouble. i wonder what celebrimbor thinks about all the tension between the three of them--he must be terrified, poor bby. also i love the detail that maedhros believes in thematic/ironic punishment. i imagine he does it a lot to curufin esp when hes str

*stressed abt ruling the noldor and whatnot. i wonder if he ever directly tells curufin that if he actually put any effort into it that he *might* be the best sex slave/concubine? just to have more 'competition' btwn him and fingon? (and maybe its just a ploy, hes much fonder of fingon just for actually just getting on with it and not being so annoying). also maglor and his elaborate shows. maglor sounds insufferable. is he rlly perfectionistic and dramatic with his directions/ideas/visions? ver

*very particular and demanding? i can also see some really dark domestic humor with like, maedhros being like 'tf are my sex slaves' and it turns out they're all tied up in rlly weird ways running through 'rehearsal' for the 50th time that night or sthg and maglor is like 'oh damn its morning? i hadnt noticed' and ends up having a very very weird party a few weeks later full of avant-garde noncon horror that his pretentious artsy friends who all applaud his 'vision'. also i had wondered, if maed

*maedhros ever feels like he needs to punish nolo or fingon but in a more 'ironic' way, does he do it by forcing them to punish or touch eac other? like if fingon winces or flinches at jsut the wrong moment or something 'oh if i'm so disgusting then i'm sure you'd prefer him to rim you' and nolo is ofc desperate to fix the situation with his son hurt as little as possible. cant imagine curufin wouldnt be very upset too if celebrimbor is brought into his own punishments. cant see that ending well

Celebrimbor is rather terrified by the whole situation, but luckily, all of the other Servants are interested in keeping him safe. Curufin of course wants to protect his son. Nolo doesn't want this to be happening to anyone, and Celebrimbor is the only one he's currently able to make things less terrible for. Fingon thinks that Curufin deserves everything he gets, but Celebrimbor is innocent; and also that Curufin is probably bad at caring for people in general and a bad father. Curufin's defiance, coming at the same time when Fingon learns just how much his own father sacrificed for him and his siblings, just cements that belief.

In practice, this works out to Fingon teaching Celebrimbor a lot about both how to navigate life as a servant and just general socialization. Celebrimbor is torn between trusting Fingon's advice, because Fingon is acting like an older sibling/uncle and Celebrimbor misses that type of connection; and doing his best to stay far far away from Fingon, because Fingon hates his dad and might use him as a proxy, and also look what just happened with Celebrimbor's uncles.

(Also, I think just before he comes of age, Celebrimbor is going to decide he wants his first kiss to be with someone who is NOT Maedhros or Maglor. He might find one of the normal servants' teenage kids, or he might kiss Nolo, as the least scary option. Maedhros is unlikely to notice, and wouldn't be too upset as long is it didn't go any farther - there'd be a punishment along the lines of wearing a stimulating plug and a cage for a day.)

I like the idea of Maedhros encouraging competition, but I think he'd go for it sightly differently. "You always thought you were so special. So smart, could've been a genius at anything you chose, the only reason you didn't make a marvelous invention was because all the easy breakthroughs had just been discovered. But now I see you're mostly an idiot. You perhaps have a little natural talent at forgework, but with different birth could have spent your whole life making nails and horse shoes and never thought of anything greater. You can imitate if someone has already shown you the steps, but you have no creativity of your own. Nor can you figure out how to apply your skills to a new area, instead guessing blindly and patternlessly. Poor Inke, can't even suck a cock without someone smarter telling him how to do so."

Maedhros purposely avoided directly mentioning Feanor. That tends to just make Curufin more defiant, reminded of his pride and that he ought to be a prince. Also, Maedhros is not sure Feanor would actually approve of his actions, and Feanor's potential anger on his return is a bit of a mood killer. Being immortal, Feanor never felt a need to discuss in detail what would happen if he died and Maedhros took the throne. Maedhros is confident he's following Feanor's example, but some instructions might have been nice.

Curufin is now going to try and be the best lover Maedhros has ever had, purely out of spite.

Yes, dark comedy where Maedhros wants Fingon to ride him, but he's too exhausted from practicing double pirouettes where he jumps and lands with his cock an inch away from a spiked post. Maglor says it symbolizes the short distance between despair and desire. Curufin then fucks him using a strap on that he's wearing backwards (symbolizing fear of intimacy) while Nolo does the splits and fingers himself (symbolizing the loss of community in modern society).

Maedhros just thinks that, as king, there ought to be someone with enough energy to get him off the way he likes. Maglor says he's an artist, you can't expect him to make a masterpiece without using all the instruments. Maedhros is privately thinking maybe he should have made Caranthir crown prince, then he'd only be down two at once as Caranthir pretended to be a sadist rather than a masochist, or maybe one of the Ambarussa.

I think Maedhros ends making Nolo officially allowed to refuse sexual orders from Maglor it's been going on for longer than five hours. Also, despite Maglor's protest of artistry, if it involves nudity or genitalia it counts as sex. Nolo isn't Maedhros's favorite, but he's pretty enough, and both Curufin and Fingon would totally take advantage of the out.

Maedhros makes Nolo and Fingon punish each other sometimes, by making them be the one to inflict pain. But he doesn't use sex with each other as a punishment. They''re just so hot, he wants to watch them touch each other multiple nights a week, and he's not the type to make up new rules as an excuse for punishments. And the point of a punishment is that it's something the person involved dislikes, true, but it's also supposed to be something that they can avoid, so that you actually change their behavior. Maedhros likes ordering Nolo to kiss Fingon, and kiss a line down his body, stopping to caress every inch of him as if he's the most beautiful thing in the world. No one believes that Maedhros would stop ordering it if Fingon didn't disobey, so it doesn't work well as a deterrent.

Re: Celebrimbor being brought into Curufin's punishments, I had an idea for "power play" which I didn't end up using. Maedhros is trying to get Curufin to behave, and Curufin is being stubborn, and also insulting Maedhros. So Maedhros beats Curufin with a crop, then ties him to Maedhros's bed.

Maedhros sets oil and a very large set of anal beads on the bed. Then he draws the bed curtains.

"I'm going to have my dinner here by the fire tonight. Celebrimbor is going to bring it to me, and wait on me throughout. When I've finished eating, I'll check on you. If you have all the beads inside you and your cock hard, I'll send Celebrimbor away for the evening while I play with you. If not, I pull back the curtains, and he gets to sit by and watch you. Do you understand?"

Curufin nodded. "Are you going to gag me?"

"Why would I do that? I don't mind if your son overhears you moaning."

#fucking finwions answers #timeline branch: maedhros gets the concubines #servant nolofinweans au #basically Fingon thinks about ethics in terms of justice while Nolo thinks in terms of inviolable rights #it's more complicated than that and fingon wouldn't rape the feanorians if he was suddenly on the throne #because though they'd deserve it; inflicting uneccessary pain is Evil #but it's a fact of Fingon's life as it is that someone is going to be raped and better Curufin than Fingon or someone random off the street

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dropsofletters · 4 years

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tales of a perfect rhyme

title: tales of a perfect rhyme pairing: son hyunwoo/reader genre: poet!au/painter!au/forbidden love!au/friends!au summary: Sometimes, you’re bad at exactly what you desire to become the most. That’s her case and it also is Hyunwoo’s when they realize that they are not exactly good at the arts they desire. Yet, their youthful personalities and their blossoming love seems enough to stay happy throughout their toughest times, until it is not enough. type: angst/fluff/romance/humor word count: 12,540 disclaimer: this is part of my august special called ‘the anti-love club’. each story can be read individually, however, you’d be getting a little bit more of backstory along with some easter eggs if you read each of them, as well as helping me with support. the masterlist can be found here.

Without the chirping tone of birds outside her window, what would be of her? Without the sunshine that gleams through it, the smell of fruits lingering in the air—too dulcet, yet too necessary, what would her life be like?

The question does not go through her head often, for her mind remains too busied by the beauty of the winery around her. Her house, on its own, is surrounded by fields and fields of fruits, green and blooming, the peak of existence. The oxygen in her lungs has always been easier to breathe, more lightweight, the reason as to why mischief is the first thing she thinks about when the ashes of sleep are dusted away from her face.

This room has seen her grow up into the woman she is today. With old paintings from her youthful days, running up to her uncle with paint-stained fingertips creating images of the rainbows she’d get to see after every ounce of rain. Some of them are newer—a portrait that said uncle, the owner of the winery, had gifted her for her seventeenth birthday, and clearly…some of her newest pieces of art. Nothing too excellent, mixes of colors a la Pollock, not quite looking for a shape or an imagery, but a feeling instead. One that she always dares to call normality—it may be happiness, just like it may be a routine, but in her thoughts, she knows that whichever way she decides to go, the winery will always be her home.

The paint on her walls is a contrast to her colorful sundress, yellow with daisies on top of it, but the length is not exactly what she is looking for. To anyone that has seen her walk through the streets, or simply riding on her bicycle, they’ve captured a glimpse of her style. The painted sneakers, the fixed dresses, the shirts that end up bleached or died or cut. The itch starts from her soul and ends up on the tips of her fingers, desiring to make a change in her life that can translate through her. She thinks that happiness shall be shown as long as it’s had, and it shall be prided on.

Perhaps, the reason of her happiness may be having breakfast right now and her gloss-coated lips press together while she looks at her reflection in the mirror. A pair of scissors is already going through the edge of the sundress—making it a tad bit shorter, a lesson that she learned when she had her second boyfriend and she felt more confident on her choices of clothing. The thing is…there are days in which she wants to exude the mentality that art is in herself, in a way, that as long as she can create something, her mind may never be dulled.

The fabric is shorter by the time she steps out of her room, not perfect, but sufficiently flowy for her to walk down the set of stairs and approach the cream-colored kitchen. The microwave is buzzing, her uncle’s shaggy head of hair covering the majority of the surface while he leans down to look at the coffee cup that is being heated inside the machine. The old man has done nothing but support her dream, that one memory of her youth that told her to be an artist…even when everyone else had told her that she’s not good at it.

Art is not about being good, she tries to tell herself. It’s about enjoying life in a different way. About feeling and letting others feel.

It will never pay the bills for her, but that’s why the winery exists.

Her attention is caught on someone else, sipping on a colder drink of coffee, then slurping from the spoon hovering over his rice bowl, so heated that a cloud forms on top of the breakfast. One of the winery workers, with golden skin and matted black hair, more often than not faintly moved away from his eyes, to show those small senses of gravity in their chocolate hues. His lips are plumped up, as if he’s always blowing on his meals to eat them—and that may be the case, for one of the few times in which she gets to see Hyunwoo open his mouth is when he is relishing on the taste of her Uncle’s infamous cooking.

Or that’s what the other workers at the winery say; that Hyunwoo is sweet, but too quiet. So eerily quiet that he seems to blend into any wall, any floor, any seat…though, she cannot see it that way. The moment Hyunwoo stepped into that winery, she was very well out of a relationship and promising to the world that love does not exist. She’d said she would never take any other man seriously, and he came in like a gentle breeze. Not a tornado. Not a tsunami, like the soft reminder of his laughter early in the morning, or the looks spared throughout a few months until a friendship started in between the two of them.

Her weight leans forward, staring at Hyunwoo’s eyes when he captures her gaze before jotting her chin forward. “Give me some of that,” She says, making sure that she crosses her arms under her chest, legs extending as a way of capturing his attention. And she has it, shredded glimpses of his interest in his eyes, in the way those lips quirk up and give her a foretaste of that soul that hides underneath his quiet nature. To some, he ruins the mood. For her, he creates it.

“Your uncle made you a plate.” He tells her, though his spoon is already balancing itself on the expanse of his hand, nearing her lips until they part and take a bite of the meal, paired with eggs. When the spoon is once again nearing his plate to scrape some contents off, her eyes trail to the notebook by his side, some words scribbled, others hidden under the blurred lines of a word he may not have liked…and still, Hyunwoo opts to use a pen.

“You got some writing done during the weekend?” And perhaps, a poet-to-be like Hyunwoo should really go for a laptop, and a Word Document at that, but his style is to keep it simple. Hyunwoo may not be the most profound, romantic of men—heck, he may not be one of those rooted poets that grow up to be stars every few years, creating a new wave to be remembered by textbooks, but the relaxed expressions on his features when finally having somewhere in which he can voice out his thoughts and concerns is more than she could ever ask for.

Hyunwoo nods, ready to spurt some knowledge of his endeavors back at home when her Uncle clears his throat, resting the expanse of her plate on the counter, the seat that she would be taking place in right beside her Uncle’s favorite worker. His strength has helped her Uncle endlessly, with carrying the wines, organizing them, making sure that his poor, old bones don’t struggle at the mere weight of his bent knees. “Pull your skirt down and stop fluttering your eyelashes like that.” Her Uncle says, giving her a pointed look when she simply shrugs her shoulders.

“Can’t pull it down, I already cut it.”

“One would think that once you became an adult, you wouldn’t be so…stubborn, but the older…the worse it becomes.” Though, the tiredness in his voice doesn’t dismiss the nostalgia on his tone. Days that were difficult, yet part of her growing-up process. The leather of the seat digs on the back of her thighs when she takes her spoon in between her fingers, her other hand already sneaking to reach for Hyunwoo’s notebook and read over his poems.

Something about him will always be tranquil. Just like wine, he makes her feel—sleepy, a bit heated, ready to embark in her biggest adventure but take it slow while in the process. He swirls on her tongue, intoxicates her, leaves a flutter on the pit of her stomach, a heartbeat against the other to race and see who wins, it brings her to the sky and puts her down on her feet in such a gentle, caring way. “Ah…I’ve heard that before. I’ll settle down eventually.”

Though, while munching on her meal and hearing the utensils on both men’s hands moving with precision to eat as fast as possible before getting to work, her fingers hook on the small, yellow, somewhat bitten pencil that rests in between the pages, scribbling down a note that only Hyunwoo could read.

“When will you write me a poem?” She writes first, on the last line of the one poem she read before drawing an arrow towards the piece of art itself. “Also, you’re improving.”

The pencil glides from her fingertips for him to take, and she swears she sees his expression lighten up, cheeks filled with food when he writes some words of his own. “What do you want me to write about?”

The action repeats itself, sparing one glance at her Uncle, too lost in the news displayed on the television to pay attention to her. “Whatever I make you feel.”

His response reads: “I can’t.”

She voices her thoughts out, speaking in a hushed voice while looking at him. Hyunwoo’s trembling expression turns towards her Uncle, but she knows that the old man is not what is stopping him—if anything, her Uncle would be over the moon if she got to date Hyunwoo, more seriously past this flirty relationship they hold. Instead, she basks on his presence, his manly scent, the way his white t-shirt hugs his body, jeans cladding his thick legs. “Why? Do I make you that speechless?” She counterparts, quirking an eyebrow when Hyunwoo chuckles and shakes his head.

“I just need time to think about it.” He whispers. “I’m not that good of a poet, yet.”

“You write about the winery, though. The trees, the fruits, the people here. Why not me?”

Why not her? Why not the woman that has promised herself that she’d capture his gaze and practically make it impossible to tear it away from her? To have Hyunwoo has always seemed holy, in a way, almost like getting an angel sent directly to her…all memories of the past few years merging into one single thought: that it has never happened. Without a lot of trying, and with a lot of work to do on the winery and on their preferred choices of art…it never happened. “It will happen someday.”

Though, she can only pucker her lips up, taking another bite of her meal before leaning back on her seat, arms crossed over her chest as a way to release the stress that is pent-up inside of her. Maybe, Hyunwoo would not see her a muse—that one person that takes every single breath away from his lungs, even in a place filled with trees. Or that one person who clouds his mind, even in his dreams, creating images of what-could-have-been’s that he can only fantasize about. “I won’t get younger at the pace you’re going.” The only sound she receives is his chuckle, shaking his head at her antics. This counts another day of a failed try of getting to be his muse, or simply to see more of a glimpse of interest from him. Not surprising, though somehow digging on her chest, she stands up from her seat after a few quick bites of her meal, doing her best to finish the rice before she continues on with her day.

Not without wrapping her fingers around his shoulder to speak into his ear:

“You’re lucky wine gets better with the passage of time.”

###

The trees wave against each other, dancing with the wind, singing their lonesome blues with every movement of their leaves. Instead, she finds the happiness in them—in the hope that the Sun glares down onto their existences, in the way animals seem to be happy around the winery and in the workers, too, not only Hyunwoo but everyone else, as well. Though, if she’s honest with herself, she wishes she could be a good artist, for painting Hyunwoo should be the best benefit for a person of artistic desire.

He’s far away, like he always is. So close, yet so far away when the day is welcomed into their lives. Another day in which she has to smile to hide the absolute adoration behind her eyes and another shrug of her shoulders when her uncle asks anything about Hyunwoo and herself. There’s nothing, she says, and it may be like that—if it was not for the way he smiles at her when he looks up from his position at picking up the sweetened violet grapes, because those eyes scream for her to finally settle down.

For him.

With him.

To have him.

The concept had always been foreign to her—settling down. There are too many beautiful people in this world; too many lips to taste; too many nights to remember. Plenty of times had she heard the words whore or slut used to describe her around the city, small in comparison to the ones in other countries…and she’d say that the concept is so…antique. Perhaps, she could image the word escaping the lips of a sexist man trying to sound remotely attractive while also demolishing the amount of things a woman can do…or, something easier, it’s the word that people use when they can’t understand the complexity of dating. Or maybe, she just sees it from the other end of the spectrum.

But Hyunwoo did not see her like some cheap woman who would much rather have her legs opened than her mind, because that’s not the case…and it will never be for him. The beige hat to shelter him from the sun moves a bit with the wind when his fingers stretch to wave at her, a gentle smile on his features—one that reads have a nice day, instead of the usual this is just a pleasantry before we have sex and have to pretend we don’t know each other after. And surely, with any other man she would have gotten tired…she would have simply said that not a lot of people are made for kissing and telling.

But this is Hyunwoo, the one man that saw her as an artist, as the glide of her brush against a canvas that reads…nonsensical matters. No one sees her art as worthy. No one but Hyunwoo.

When she stares back at the canvas, right after sending a wave back, she realizes that what she does is not art. If she had to conceptualize it, she’d go past Van Gogh or Pollock, past whatever The Louvre could show—that’s the history of art, but it happened way before all those people that crafted the popular side of art. Why is it that people had forgotten that they are art themselves? Art that when described, when coming to life, could be beautiful just like how it could be utterly disgusting. In her eyes, there will never be enough museums and art history books that would ever be able to help her become the artist that would showcase something to the world that matches what Hyunwoo makes her feel.

Her fingers hook around her sketchbook, moving away from the living room of the house while the flapping of wings dulls after two seconds of its initiation, her parrot resting on her shoulder. It may be a bit movie-esque, and Hyunwoo has compared her to a pirate countless times, but nature exists within her…and Hyunwoo is the tranquility that matches her softened heart. A heart that has prickled edges, too much intelligence for its own good, but that can become warm at the mere sight of him.

Art goes past colors—past the damned lines that she does in the name of showing what it is that goes through her head, past what she could ever comprehend, perhaps more understood by an expert…but she can give a name to what Hyunwoo makes her feel.

The caress of fingertips over someone’s back. Traced over lines, bumps, love handles, marks, reddened spots, moles—softly, gently, chilling, relaxing, yet so intimate. It can be done wrongly, when asking for a massage after a long day to someone who is not interested, for example; just like it can be the most miniscule of gestures that breathe out an ‘I love you’. Hyunwoo, with his voice alone, makes her feel like a teenager that has gotten her waist grabbed for the first time—not with a pull to make her feel uncomfortable, but with gentleness, the steps in between them taken far too slowly, too meticulously.

But…she’s not the type to get scared about what her uncle may think if Hyunwoo ends up dating her.

So, what is it that stops her?

Hyunwoo is kneeling down, the fabric of his pants dirtied by mud, his white tank top showing his glowing sweaty skin in the faintest golden color. With a raise of his eyebrow and a stare from the corner of his eye, he says: “Isn’t that my favorite pirate?”

Her fingers move at their own accord with her little pencil, too worn out that it creates the faintest of lines. She starts with the shape of his face—oval, with small eyes that glisten immensely, one more closed than the other as if deep in thought; his lips, plump, asking for a kiss, making her beg mentally to have him speak more. He doesn’t speak enough for how delicious his voice is to hear. “Depends. Jack Sparrow is not on your list?”

“Not when you exist.”

“Smooth.” She replies, looking at her sketch and furrowing her eyebrows. Realism is not her forte—but what is, really? Deep in this whole nonsensical heartbreaker stance that she has created for her, lost in a never-ending summer, she has tried to cover that insecure part of herself. The one woman that never grew up as a talented individual—that loved art, but was never good at it. Hyunwoo is the same with poetry, though he’s far more talented at other stuff around the winery, and an exquisite wine preparator. “I tried to draw you, but it looks like the lovechild of…a goblin and yourself, actually.”

“I wanna see.” He says, knees creaking when he stands up, nearing her body and making her pet parrot fly away. Sunny, an odd name for a parrot…but it just happened to stick around in between the staff at the winery.

Pressing the sketchbook to her chest, she looks into his eyes. “No. I’m shy.”

“You read my poems all the time—” Hyunwoo starts before squinting his eyes, smiling at her when tilting his head to the side to inspect her features. “Wait, did you just say that you are shy?”

For a woman who claims to love sex, casual dating and never getting too attached to anyone—for people are just that, equals, individuals supposed to coexist with each other to get to the end-line, she has definitely gotten attached to Hyunwoo. She’d say, even, he’s the cause of her abrupt stop in dating around. “I mean, I can be shy about things.” She starts, a shrug given by her shoulders. “Much more when those things look like shit.”

“Is it the first time that you’ve tried drawing me?” He asks, and she finds herself speechless.

“Depends.”

“Stop saying depends—”

“Would you think it’s silly of me if I had tried drawing you before?”

Twirling around after his response, a smile crept up on her features when she hears him say: “I’d think it’s sweet.” He tells her, the creaking of grass under his boots sounding behind her, holding her sketchbook to her chest, her dress moving with every movement she gives.

“I never do you justice, though.” She answers, trying to get away from him simply to tease—to have him chasing, following, at the edge of his seat for every word she says. Hyunwoo is a man that has, at least, a vast majority of the people in the city head over heels for him, and to see his quiet persona crumble into a bashful beam at her presence boosts her ego, truthfully—and gives her hope, if anything. For what? Only God would know.

“Don’t look down on your art.”

“We both know it’s not art.”

At that moment, he takes her by the wrist, turning her around until the expanse of his wide and toned chest connects with hers. Eyes to eyes, lips to lips, and when he breathes out an answer, she swears the air has sent her a kiss from him her way. “I’ll give you something and you give me your sketchbook to see how you drew me.”

Her eyes roam his features before scoffing. “Money?”

“I don’t have money, you know that.”

“Ah, a kiss?” Trying her luck, Hyunwoo raises an eyebrow, chuckling at her words.

“Not when all the workers are looking at us.”

“I’ve done worse—”

“I know,” Hyunwoo indicates. “But I’m not one of your worse moments.”

“Right, you’re the best.” She mumbles, knowing that losing him would probably hurt her as much as a blade digging into her sternum, towards her heart, dissipating to the rest of her body—electrifying her with one last breath. His fingers slip into the pocket of his baggy jeans, getting a small notepad out before putting it on her hold, snatching her sketchbook away from her hands just in time to open it.

Her eyes flicker towards the opened notepad, reading pages and pages of a supposed ‘her’. The poems are short, far too small for them to be thought-out pieces, but…they exude the kind of love that is simplistic, softened, all around a bit immature. “You know?” Hyunwoo answers, ripping the page away from her sketchbook before giving it back to her. “I’m going to keep this.”

“I’ll only keep this if the ‘her’ in the poems is me.”

Hyunwoo gives a few steps away from her, walking backwards as he speaks. “…Wouldn’t you want to know.”

The world shines brighter for a second, in the way it falls over his body and clads him in the shape of her daydreams. Where they stand will always be the reason of her reminiscing, something that shall never be taken away from her. “I do,” She adds, arms crossed, rushing towards where he is. “Because I’m the perfect rhyme for anything you think about.” She teases, knowing fully well that Hyunwoo’s mind will always be a mystery to her—but she knows there is attraction, this magnetism in between them that keeps them close, much more when he halters his steps, hands ending up on top of her uncovered arms.

A rhyme is more than tunes that sound the same. A rhyme needs profoundness, meaning, history after history behind syllables that match. “…You’re not wrong.” Hyunwoo breathes out, the wind blowing a bit on his hat, his hand reaching up to keep it in place. “Just, read the poems, don’t overthink it.”

“I won’t.”

And he leaves, blocking the noise of the birds with his steps, with the hum on his voice as he relishes on the sound of his favorite song of the week. For some reason, she feels like dancing when seeing his back depart from her and when her fingers feel the glide of the sheets of paper against her fingertips.

Her.

She’s ‘her’.

Unnamed, she shall remain—like a song that he heard on the radio, learned from one listen, and will never be able to find. But she’s there. Oh God, she’s there, settled, waiting for a smile from him, a rhyme to fit her, a moment that is not fleeting. For a chance to make Son Hyunwoo fall in love with her, and have a future with him.

But she’s not a woman to call a ‘forever’.

###

“Is this the apple wine you guys prepared this week?”

Hyunwoo has his hands crossed over his body, the light of the storage room of the winery barely powerful enough to cast down on his softened features. He quirks one of his eyebrows, a habit of his, and turns to look at her after humming. He has listened to her, she knows, but maybe he needs some confirmation, smiling at her before turning to the pristine shelves that showcase years and years of wines, all of different tastes. “Ah, yes,” He initiates. “It’s not fermented completely, well, not yet. I had to go over the recipe time and time again with your uncle—been a long time since he last prepared one of those.”

They’re not tipsy, but they’re alone. The sound of music is in the background, soft, steady, some jazz that relaxes them into—probably—sharing a drink or two. The door is locked, everyone is back at home and her uncle is certain that they’re adding the labelled stickers to the bottles to send them off to a store tomorrow. That, however, is only halfway done by the time she started to inspect the shelves. “Do you think it’s good?”

“It may taste a bit like cider, I believe.” But he doesn’t give much of an answer, instead taking another sticker and a bottle, lining it up perfectly before sighing. “Why?”

“Ooh, why must you think there is a reason behind me asking?”

“Because you’re you.”

“I’m the company’s publicist.” She defends herself—even when the title is not paired with a degree, it damn right fits her. She has done everything and anything to take the company to social media, exploiting it to getting more clients, more stores to buy their products—and of course, a few pictures that entice anyone to try their wines. “I need to know if what I’m selling is good.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, dragging a seat until he is seated in front of the spacious, glassed table where the newest bottles were placed, fresh out of fermentation. “So, you want to try the apple wine?”

“I want to try it with you.” She corrects, already looking for a switch to clear the room with more lights, smiling to herself at the sight of the city from the small windows. “It’s Friday night, Hyunwoo. And even on Friday nights, you’re always stuck here.”

Though, he can only give a soft answer. “I know.”

But why?

Why?

Why is someone like him just so given to the winery?

Her hand touches his shoulder, softly, gently, dragging her fingernails over the expanse of his t-shirt to ask: “Why?” Because she’s not one to stay with her curiousness, the questions that overtake her even at the peak of the night.

“Just because.”

“I don’t get it.” She skips the conversation, moving around until she is in front of him on the chair. His legs are extended, parted, fingers wrapped around a bottle of wine and she actually takes it from him and places it on the desk, getting lost in his eyes the more she speaks. He’d never see the poetry of him. “You’re a dancer, Hyunwoo. You’re meant to be in some club, dancing the night away with some girl—”

“I have you,” Hyunwoo replies, though they’re not a serious matter—much less have they voiced out their clear ministrations, what unites them. Their start had been simple, for Hyunwoo is a dancer, took years of classes just like her, artists that found love in some other shape of art…and ended up not being good at it. Their only choice was to get better together. “…And that wine really is calling for me.”

Slipping her fingertips on the bottle that had captured their attention, she uses a utensil to open it, grabbing two glasses with quickened movements. “I knew you’d end up trying it!”

“You always make me try new things.”

“Because you’re a boring grandpa, sometimes.” She answers, passing the glass down to him, surprised when his arm wraps around her waist, bringing her down to settle her weight down on his thigh, her knees pressed to his, his eyes staring directly into her soul after taking a sip of the wine. She follows his actions, sighing in delight. “This is good.”

“It is.” He answers, smiling at her with that glint behind his eyes. “At least, I’m good at something. Wines, you know.”

She blinks at that, letting her hands roam his face, learning every aspect of him—of the lips she has gotten to kiss a handful of times, never too profound, as if afraid of falling. But Hyunwoo is a ticking bomb, he’s waiting to grab her by the hand and drag her into the depths of bliss that is…being around him. “You’re good at everything, Hyunwoo.” She replies, leaning closer until her shoulder is against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. “Just because you weren’t good at poetry from the beginning doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.”

“I just don’t get it,” Hyunwoo mumbles. “Poetry? Someone like me shouldn’t even be rhyming stuff.”

“Oh yeah, sure, let yourself get carried away by the supposed stigma of society that says that buff men can’t be sensitive or have a braincell sometimes.” She huffs out her answer, looking into his eyes and seeing the adoration in them, his silent stance speaking more than his words ever could. “We’re dancers—of course you’d end up liking poetry. You’ve danced to poetry, without knowing,” And her smile expands in a grin when she remembers that one night in which they did go out to dance, the night of their first kiss, the reason as to why Hyunwoo never disappeared from her brain. Hips snug together, arms slotted in fitted ways; two souls conjoining. “It’s music. Hyunwoo, if there’s anyone that does music justice in this world it’s you.” She takes a sip of her drink just at the same time that he does, the dulcet taste sticking to her tongue, begging to be taken away by him. By his kiss. “The difference is that music sticks to our brains—the lyricism of it is meant to be remembered, but poetry sticks to the soul. Let your soul speak, if it’s about the winery or about me, just let it have a voice. It’s getting better, I promise.”

His arm tightens around her waist, leaning forward until his lips press to hers softly, carefully, as if he’s afraid he’ll be caught, and he may. When Hyunwoo pulls away, his legs parting even more in the process. “You’re a doll, you know that?”

“I try to be for gods on legs just like yourself.” She replies, leaning her weight back before closing her eyes at the warmth of him. “Hyunwoo…”

“Yes?”

“We’ll make it someday.” She says, trying to sway into his heart, surprised to feel his breathing stopping for a moment, as if taken off guard. “You, as a poet. Me, as an artist.”

“I don’t think so—”

“That’s what dreams are for, aren’t they?” She replies. “It’s not for thinking, it’s for imagining, dummy.”

And she may imagine that, someday, her fingers may hook around a brush just at the same time that he reads over a book. Just at the same time that they grow away from that winery and turn into the exact persona that no one would have ever imagined them to be. And more than that, together, to be exact.

But that’s what dreams are for.

###

“Do you like Hyunwoo?”

Taking care of children may probably be one of the things she likes the least—but someone at the winery had brought their daughter to work today, and having children close to alcoholic drinks may not be the best of ideas. Hence, while seated in front of her canvas, in front of the window that sometimes shows the figure of Son Hyunwoo—just like now—, she wonders why the child that could not even braid her hair a few minutes ago now is intelligent enough to guess that she likes Hyunwoo.

Seojin swings her legs back and forth, seated on a chair right beside her, and she turns to look at her briefly, a smile on her features. “Maybe,” She answers, earning a big beam from the seven-year-old child. Once returning to her painting, a mess of colors and emotions that she cannot explain—too much green and yellow, currently, perhaps inspired by Sunny, hanging around the living room, she voices more of her thoughts out. “Why do you think I like him?”

“Because you look at him like how my mom looks at my dada.” Seojin replies smartly, moving the little baby hairs away from her face to look at the man that is kneeling down in front of the greeneries to pick up some fruits. “Hyunwoo looks like a prince.”

“He does.”

Curiousness overtakes her. “Then, why isn’t he your prince?”

Simple, she believes, the answer slips her tongue just when she stares away from her canvas, twirling her brush in between her fingers when Hyunwoo becomes a clear shadow that passes through the window, embarking a trip towards her heart. She had been touched by too many people, in love plenty of those, she had gotten drunk far more than a princess could ever tell, made mistakes that were horrendous, tainted her soul in distrust. That’s not something a princess does, or a doll, like Hyunwoo calls her sometimes. “Because I’m not a princess.” She answers, shrugging her shoulders just when she creates another line of the canvas, quickened and interrupted by Seojin voicing out her concerns.

“But you like him…if you like the prince, that makes you a princess.” Seojin speaks quickly, standing up from her spot and getting in the way with her canvas, the tips of her messy hair—still in a braid—getting scattered with a bit of paint. She does her best to take the small towel that hangs from her shoulder to clear the brown strands, but Seojin is not paying attention. “Why don’t you make him your boyfriend?”

Because it may be a bit crazy—a bit too out of what she normally does, simply date around and wait until it is over. It may mean love and part of her just fears what that could mean, or if Hyunwoo would even want something like that, for he had not voiced it out either. “I’m afraid he’d say no.”

“You’re pretty, though.”

“It takes more than being pretty to get a man like him.” She tells her, only to widen her eyes when Seojin rushes towards the entrance of the house.

“Of course not, you’re nice and cute, what else does he want?!” Seojin fires back, too overexcited when she opens the door with swinging motions, not helped by the strong wind that almost closes it again. “I’m going to tell him—”

“Seojin, no!” But Seojin moves too fast, already running to the left to go to the field in which Hyunwoo is working at. Without knowing, she stands up quickly, letting her brush fall on the floor just as she feels her heart racing at the mere words that Seojin had brought to life innocently. Someone’s half, a story to tell, a tale to finish—a fairytale, one that she has never lived, never got the chance to have with the people that she liked.

The wind moves her hair, her dress, crazy just as she wonders through the fields, hearing the giggles that escape Seojin’s lips. Just when she picks up her steps, the heels of her boots digging deeper into the grass, she watches Hyunwoo kneel down in front of Seojin, putting his ear closer to her lips just when she mumbles something to him. Slowing down her steps as she nears them, she’s met by Hyunwoo’s stare that trails up her legs and towards her features, giving her a piece of his heart in a smile.

She has never been this nervous—not when seated on his lap, not when kissing him, not when she promises herself that Hyunwoo is the reason behind her solitude these past few months, afraid of getting her heart broken, but also needing more of him. Her fingers slot with each other, trying to look for leverage, just when Seojin lifts her hands in the air, happiness overflowing. “She likes you!”

“Seojin, I asked you not to go out running like that.” She scolds softly, letting out a sigh at her last word, only to watch Hyunwoo nearing her.

“She came here to tell me a secret.” He says.

“We both know it’s not a secret.” She replies, wary of the small eyes that are staring at them as they speak. Hyunwoo is having the time of his life with this, his broad chest shaking with laughter. “You’re not even good with children, stop pretending you are now—”

“I’m not.”

“Hyunwoo—”

His fingers go through his hair, the strands curving to cup his face softly, caressing it with the twirl of his bags. Parted, showcasing his forehead that creases a bit when he speaks. “But, I like you, too.” He tells her, speaking nonchalantly, albeit laughing a bit to himself. Perhaps, the people around—ahem, Seojin—may be the reason behind his nervousness. “What if we settle this with a date? Friday?”

“…As if you were not going to spend your Friday night with me already.” She answers, her voice cut short when a set of plucked, small flowers flies in the air and falls on top of them. The extended hands and the huff that came from Seojin is enough of a reason to showcase that she must have plucked some flowers, thrown it at them as some sort of celebration.

“You’re so cute together!”

“Ah, Seojin, don’t pluck the flowers like that. That hurts them.” Scolding, she starts, only to hear Hyunwoo muffling his laughter when she kneels down and picks Seojin up on her hands, the weight making her puff her cheeks out. “I’ll take her inside before she starts telling people that I like you.”

“No one knows?!” Seojin voices out, only to have her hand pressing down on her small mouth.

“And no one will know, Seojin.”

Turning around, she feels Hyunwoo’s eyes on her form and she swears she hears his laughter, the promise of an endless love and a date that may be the start of her doom.

###

Living in the moment, that had always been her mantra. And what a way to live in the moment, it is, to be held in Hyunwoo’s arms.

Never had anyone taken her breath away, in a way that her chest constricts and still, she can’t have enough oxygen inside of her. But he does. Of course, it is the man that is dancing the night away with her that is doing so—the only person in this entire town that could have her thinking of a house in a hill, with not so immaculate decorations but homely ones instead, of walking barefoot on the tiles to reach him, wrap her arms around him as he downs his first cup of coffee of the day. But he does. Son Hyunwoo does, absentmindedly perhaps, simply by smiling at her, by holding her closer and dipping her into the dance floor, as if she’s a feather and he’s a bird—meant to coexist together.

Because, once every few moons, someone like her falls in love…and it is so slow and calculated in its process that she is surprised by her patience, by her abstinence in having him, but Hyunwoo is worth it. He’s worth waiting a million years, the slow music around them in the romance themed Friday night, paired with lighted up hearts in pink shapes is everything she could have never imagined happening. But here’s Hyunwoo, a predicament, the one stone in her road that had her falling and she’d go back and do it again if she had to.

…She had never been one to learn from her mistakes, after all, and if Hyunwoo is one…

This is the greatest fucking mistake of her life.

Her fingers wrap around the edge of his collar, opened buttons welcoming his taut chest that she traces with the tip of her index finger. “Showing some cleavage here, I see.” She says, sending a toothy grin that she can’t imagine herself giving to anyone but him—one of those that show her gums, make her seem a bit childish, and yet speak of nothing but excitement. “We’re twinning, then.”

Hyunwoo’s smile falters, his eyes flickering down to the neckline of her dress before laughing at his own antics. His cheeks are tainted pink, or maybe the lights are deceiving her, but it’s a nice color to match his beige button down and that rosiness of his lips that she will probably dare test later on the night. Probably meaning…certainly, as long as he’s into it. “You talk a lot.”

“And you talk too little.”

“I’m not a man of words.”

“You’re an action man?”

“I don’t know, I’d have to show you.” And with that, he presses her body closer to his, her hands stopping her ministrations to expand on top of his chest, catching her footing quickly, learned from years of dancing. Her feet move with expertise, along with his, the lingering smell in between them of fruity drinks and dinner. His hand moves on her waist, rest along her hips and sighs heavily, as if nearing their bodies will end of suffocating them but also filling them up with attraction. Past attraction, even, whatever it is that flutters on her chest and has her thinking about the beauty of being held by him instead of simply voicing it out is some magic that she can’t quite explain.

“Ooh, Hyunwoo is talking big.” She wiggles her eyebrows, trying to regain some power and speaking because—damn, it’s what he does. He gets her tongue going, her mind railing, her heart aching simply to have a piece of him. Hyunwoo seems like her future, and she’d be disappointed if this is not some sign from life that the only man that she feels like falling in love for is anything but trouble. “Let me tell you something. I’ll recite a poem to you, Shownu.” The way she spits out the poet name he had come up with has him smiling, nodding along to her words. “Roses are red, violets are blue—”

“Aren’t violets supposed to be, well, violet?”

“Don’t go smart on me now.” She replies, resting her head against his shoulder and looking towards the other couples dancing; some older, some younger, some definitely together for a long time, some learning to fall in love. Where do they fall? Where do an artist and a poet fall more than together? “You know what? I forgot. Thank you. Now, I can’t tell you anything.”

Hyunwoo closes his eyes when he laughs, rubbing his thumbs against her hips before he lowers his head slightly, bending his body in a way in which he can capture her lips in a kiss, though fleeting and soft. “My pleasure to make you speechless, doll.”

She squints at him, taking him by the face with both hands to stare into his eyes. Well, he’s not wrong, for the tip of her tongue is trying to look for words to tell him, for flirtations to whisper in his ears, for more than simple actions to clarify her interest in him, one that is already as clear as water, as the sky, as a glassed window itself. Because…she has talked enough, to other people, to people who did not want her to speak but still pretended to listen, and who would think that someone like her could find love in something as silent as art, and Hyunwoo, himself?

“You’re something else.”

“Good thing?”

“Very good thing.” She complies, leaning forward to press her lips to his, relishing on the taste of him before humming, eyes still closed. “I wish I could tell everyone just how head over heels you have me.”

But she can’t. She can’t turn this relationship serious, because it would not benefit them in the work place—Hyunwoo has more to lose than she ever could, but also because the timing of them will never seem to be right. She has to hold back, not because Hyunwoo is slow in his movements to her heart, but because he’s so skilled in his way there that she’s afraid something else could happen. What if it doesn’t work out? What if he’s indeed a prince, and she ends up running away in fear of the constricting seriousness of the situation?

“I have you head over heels?” He asks, as if he likes to hear her saying such things…and damn, he probably does.

She gasps, contrary to what one would believe. “Of course. Hyunwoo, I’ve been practically into you for the past few months and you still think I’m not head over heels?”

“Why?”

“What?” She asks, watching the way he lowers his lips and kisses her softly, delicately running his tongue on top of her upper lip, her hands trailing down to his neck, grasping softly to feel the pulse in there, Hyunwoo’s arms wrapped around her body entirely by the time he speaks again.

Rare. Of course, it had to be something important if Hyunwoo dares voice it out. “Why don’t you just show me how head over heels you are?”

This is exactly how she finds herself in Hyunwoo’s apartment, how suddenly being friends flashes in the back of her eyelids and reminds her that it has not been months, but years since Hyunwoo has taken up the vast majority of her heart. In the couch that he lays her on to take off his shirt, lips latching to her pulse points, sucking the soul away from her with each flutter of the plumpness of his skin, she had told him about the eleven years she spent in ballet classes and in between chuckles, she had admitted to being kicked out for flirting with the instructor’s son too much. The shirt that is thrown on the floor by the time he leads her to his room, hands expanded on her thighs, reminds her of the night three years ago—New Years’ Eve, when Hyunwoo couldn’t go back home to his parents and his frown was evident. At the time, she had done her best to prepare a meal for everyone at the winery to enjoy, and it was called a coincidence when Hyunwoo’s favorite meals were served on the table.

Or that bed, the background noise of the sheets the one she listens to whenever he calls her, saying how much he misses her—listening to her and sometimes, telling stories of his own. The timing with him will always be off, because she’ll forever be scared of waiting for too long, even when his legs are parting her own, strong muscles resting on each side of her head, his heart pressed to hers, skin to skin. Everyone says that waiting…fuck, waiting is the key to love.

Like waiting for someone to wake up.

Or waiting for someone to come home.

Or waiting for the day in which she believes she’ll have earned his love.

Because Hyunwoo cannot be a love affair—she wouldn’t forgive herself if she gets to taste him once or fifty times, but never forever. It’d be tragic, just like the sighs that leave her lips, the way her nails cling to him, the smile on his face that reads adoration—that sees her as more than a line in his body count, more than a friend: he sees her as art, and that’s all she has ever wanted to be.

Art is complicated, and she finds herself being egotistic, like she has always been. Selfish, in a way. Her hands cling to him, her lips press to his skin, to his neck, wants him to be more of her own, wants for every crevice of his soul to belong to her. When her eyes connect to his, his hair is done a mess, ruffled and ruined just by her, the skin of his neck bathed in sin, Hyunwoo can only reciprocate the kiss that lands on his lips, fervent, needing to have the moment last for an eternity, the one eternity that she has never wished for.

In one kiss, she expects to have her confession be read. She expects Hyunwoo to listen to the silence, like she does with him, but maybe, he doesn’t understand…that one simplistic kiss is screaming at him that she’s falling in love—

No, that she is in love. And it feels like she is floating on the shore of a beach, the tingling sensation matching with the rays of sunshine making her forget that there is a world around her, that there will be repercussions like a broken heart or worse…a fired man.

With one last breath of his name, she hopes the confession fell into his ears, one that reads a single sentence:

I love you.

###

“Where is my book of poems?!”

“What?”

Pulling her gaze away from the break-up app showcased on her phone in between her fingertips, she looks at Hyunwoo practically turning the house upside down in his repertoire to find his notebook. When entering the kitchen, well overdue the time in which he goes back home, the trails of the night seek after him when he lifts whatever surface he can to find that notebook, that damned notebook that she knows means the world to him.

“My notebook. Did you take it?” Hyunwoo asks, eyes shaking, for she knows better than anyone else that, just like her sketchbook, his notebook includes motions of his being that no one should read, or have gotten to read other than herself. His hands are already resting on her arms, as if keeping her in place will resolve the predicament, they’re in, but she simply shakes her head. “Fuck, I swear I left it on this counter earlier—”

Scratching the back of her head, she watches as Hyunwoo moves with anxiousness, for the first time showing a sign on his face that screams…hopelessness. Perhaps, he’s afraid of losing what he had worked so hard for, or he’s afraid that tomorrow morning he’ll wake up to the sound of his poems being read to the daylight, to be showcased as a comedy, when all he has done is try to find a sense to that inner voice of his. “Let me help you.” She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, looking around the couches in the living room, under the mat, whichever bump in it inspected by her.

“This is it. I’ve lost it.” The hopelessness in his voice comes soon enough, throwing himself over one of the seats, slumping immediately with his hands softly bounded in front of him.

“You have not, Hyunwoo. I’m here to help you out—”

“It’s not here, and it’s definitely not in my car.” He answers, not even sparing her a glance when she nears him, arms outstretched to hold him in her arms. “Goodbye poetry, goodbye that stupid dream of mine—”

“Your poetry is not hidden in that notebook, it’s in you, Hyunwoo. Stop it.” She replies, taking his face in between her hands before letting her faded lipstick create a shadow on his lips with a gentle kiss. “Don’t say those things.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’ll shatter this earth if that means getting that notebook back.” After months of this relationship, unknown to the world, three months of absolute joy, she’d do everything to give him the world if she could. “Make that a promise. I won’t ever give up when it comes to you.”

And what’s with this…feeling that tells her that letting go of Hyunwoo will be impossible to her? That she has found it, that thing that her friends had always talked about. That love that goes past summer nights and the heat that comes with forgetfulness, or with winter and its need for warmth—a love that stands even when a train is nearing it, when saying goodbye could be easier than staying. But, she decided to stay—to stay for a long while, as long as he lets her, and so far…it has not been so bad.

If hiding in the storage room every Friday night as a date is excellence, then so be it. If hiding their romance to the eyes of everyone at the winery is what it takes to have Son Hyunwoo, so be it.

“Don’t be scared,” She tells him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and nearing his face to her face, rubbing soothing circles on his shoulders. “I’ll find it, I promise. I’ll find it.”

“No—”

“I said I’ll find it, and I will.”

Because she’d drop a star from the sky itself if it meant seeing him at peace, like he always is.

Which is why she almost turns the entire house upside down the next day, as if looking under the sofa will get her the precious notebook that her boyfriend is looking for. Sunny is somewhere, flapping its wings and resting on her shoulder as if to help her, and she even skips breakfast to favor finding a part of Hyunwoo’s soul. It’s only when she opens the door to her uncle’s office that she finally gets to see a glimpse of a notebook, seated on top of the mahogany desk her uncle is by, and it’s opened, shown to the world to bare Hyunwoo’s soul.

The weight of the flooring creaks under her, though it is not as loud as the thumping inside her chest when her eyebrows crease, moving with precision to reach for the notebook and plater her hand on top of the pages to cover the peeping eyes of her uncle.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She says in between a whisper, hearing how her uncle stops his typing away on the keyboard before continuing, fingertips ushering her hand away so he can look at one of the poetic pieces written by Hyunwoo.

“I’m doing Hyunwoo a favor.”

“He’s been seeking for this notebook since yesterday, Uncle. That’s not helping him—” She tries to grab the fabric away, only to be stopped by a hand that wraps itself around her wrist. The glisten of happiness behind her Uncle’s eyes is clear, the document in front of him bleeding the words of Hyunwoo’s soul—sweet, caring, silent. “Explain.”

Her uncle lowers his glasses, plopping some of the blueberries on a white plate inside his mouth, munching slowly, with precision, patiently like he lives his life when he speaks: “I happened to come across it yesterday afternoon and took the time to read it. My boy has talent.” Her uncle replies, but her mind can only worry about the poems there—the little notes that they had shared in their written conversations when her uncle is in the room, perhaps dusted over with some lines on top of it caused by Hyunwoo’s precaution or if they are easily shown for the world to read. “So, I looked for some poetry contests online and I am mass sending my favorite poems—or a variety of such. The only way I can pay Hyunwoo for the support he has given me the past few years is by letting him go to something bigger than what he has right now.”

Letting him go, why is it that he is the only man that she has never thought of letting go of? His fingers always spread when around them, trapping her hand as if meant to be together forever. Sometimes, she likes to believe she’ll reach older years by his side—that one day she’ll get to see Hyunwoo with gray hairs, and he’d let his fingertips trace her wrinkly cheeks, pinching them with his usual smile on his face. Letting him go to another place, a place in which he’d become a true poet, could mean that he is simply leaving the winery, just like it could mean that he’d have to go anywhere else. Around the world, probably. Somewhere where opportunities for writers are far more fruitful.

She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, speechless, watching as her uncle continues to type and he asks a question, one that she can’t give an answer to because she can’t listen to him. Her ears beep intensely at the mere reminder that Hyunwoo is not a forever, because the title doesn’t exist or perhaps, because it has never been meant for her. His arms will not always wrap around her waist, his sighs won’t always end up on her nape, leaving her with a trail of goosebumps that can only be intensified by a kiss.

Another muse could exist in the far future for him.

And her canvas may consist of darker colors once he is gone.

“I see,” She breathes softly, only to earn a pointed side-eye from her uncle.

“You alright?”

“Kind of.”

“I’m doing this for him. He’s always said how he wants to go somewhere else, travel the world, you know? It would be nice if he got accepted.”

That’s a promise that she has heard in their late-night conversations, a reminder that the tapping of water on the vase will sometime overflow and leave them with the taste of memories. Her fingers try to wrap around the notebook again, but she ponders on the options of badness and wellness, of destroying his future or keeping him to herself. Instead biting down on her tongue, she nods at whatever her uncle said.

“Don’t tell Hyunwoo.”

About what? About the opportunities that will surely start to appear like clouds on his days?

“I won’t.”

And with that, she slips away from the room with a saddened sigh leaving her lips. Positivism lingers with nostalgia, it seems as though there is a goodbye—a piece of her mind that reads with certainty the words:

One day, you will have to let go of him.

Because, if you love him, you let him go, huh?

###

“It’d be cute.”

“What would be?”

“If one day, when we live together, we could hold one of your paintings up as decoration.”

His arm is extended on top of his bed, knees digging onto the mattress, his hand interlocked with hers on top of her abdomen. His body is resting by her side, black sweater riding up his tanned skin, looking at her with a messy hairstyle right after the small nap he had taken the moment they had arrived to his apartment. Hyunwoo is staring at her, she realizes, cheek pressed to his taut muscles, eyes inspecting her reaction when she finally pulls her gaze away from that one movie they had been wanting to watch—the initiation of a good actor, that had both written the script with his best friend, just as he had starred in it. She can remember the name of the actor right now, but it’s not like she cares.

Weeks after Hyunwoo’s stolen notebook issue, she had been the one to deliver it back to him after her uncle had stopped signing up the poems for every contest that he could find online. The life had been returned to Hyunwoo’s gaze, and he seemed to be more tranquil, breathing normally after days of silence that meant no one had read his poetry book. Instead, she’d take up on more working around the winery, trying to distract herself from her muse and on the long run, stopping herself from thinking of the end of something she feels like has just started, even after years of mutual attraction.

She rubs her free hand against her face, a few bumpy stops that she had not tried to conceal with makeup the first thing she touches, and still Hyunwoo looks at her as if she’s the world itself. Her worries may be spurts of non-knowledgeable insecurities, maybe Hyunwoo is the one person that won’t leave her.

“You would want to live with me?” Her voice doesn’t drop flirtatiously, instead she brings their joined hands up to her lips, kissing his knuckles in hopes of one day seeing his finger glisten with a band that calls him her husband. It’s stupid to think in a long run, to imagine Hyunwoo as the man to settle down with her, but he’s the one talking about it.

“Of course.” He says, eyes twinkling when he smiles, his fingers expanding to caress her bottom lip.

“I don’t think my art would be beautiful enough to be in our future home, though.” She replies, voice going through the depths of what their home would like. Tranquil, homely, perhaps with woodened decorations and too many memories—pictures of the people they love, of themselves, perhaps with a pet going around, or some old wines decorating the shelves.

Still playing with her lips, he answers. “Stop it.”

“I mean it.”

“Your art is fine.”

“Ah, I’m not good at it. We both know.” She says, shaking her head before straightening her back, sitting up on the bed and letting her asleep legs crack at her extension. “But what is it that you see in me that has you wanting to live together? That’s a big step.”

Her boyfriend turns around until he is facing the ceiling, their hands pulled away when he crosses his own over his chest. He breathes in softly, a smile plastered on his features, almost dumbly, too many thoughts that he can only voice out in a few words. “Because I love you.”

Oh, that would make sense. For time has taken its sweet years for her to feel as though he’s the only man that will ever love her for who she truly is, past the summery dresses and the faux smiles. “What do you love about me?” She asks, in a mere whisper that has her coming closer to him, as if nearing him will make her remember every part of Hyunwoo, in case she ever dares to forget about him in any day of her life.

“Can I say everything?”

“Yes,” She laughs, trailing her fingers up and down his arm, pecking his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt before resting her nose against the material. “I love you, too.”

“I know.” Hyunwoo answers, sparing a glance at the movie before she captures his attention again.

“Your phone has gotten a few notifications. Aren’t you going to check them out?”

With his phone in vibration, he may have not noticed. “Oh yes, I hadn’t noticed.”

Hyunwoo stands up, his physique in clear view for her when he moves towards the bedside table, picking up his phone and squinting at the screen. For a moment, she inspects his room—the one piece of art that is hers and he had hung up there, in belief for her passion, and the little bits of him that rest in memories on every spot, even on the pillows that are now too uncomfortable in comparison to his body. She studies his expression, how a white light washes over his face and he reads, reads until his smile is permanently plastered on his face, until he checks his messages and whatever notification he had gotten before he wraps her up in the biggest of hugs.

Those that take her breath away, that has her chuckling at his strength, pressed down by the weight of his body, feeling every movement of his lips while they press down incessantly on different spots of her face. Her cheeks. Her neck. Up until when he decides that speaking is a necessity, that whatever has overjoyed his chest shall be shared with her.

She’ll never forget that smile—that smile that had warmed her, just like how it had turned her blood cold. Hyunwoo shows her the screen, but it is too close to her eyes for her to inspect more than the big letters. Not necessary to read more, because Hyunwoo speaks with excitement. “You didn’t tell me your uncle had sent my poetry out. I just got an offer of representation and a call to sell my book and get a contract!”

She wishes she could keep him, that she could trap him in her arms and simply tell him to stay there, to let the silence in between them fall into normality, into a sweetened lake that will take them to endless romantic bliss. Instead, she clasps her hands together, because his happiness is hers—and love is about that, giving more than receiving. “Fuck yes, I’m so proud of you! Is it for real?”

“Yes, your uncle just confirmed it!” And his lips slot with hers, in a way that tells her that he really does love her and maybe…he will stay. She will be the culprit of his poems, he will be the outline of the shadows in her paintings and their love shall remain like that. Two rhyming words, they are, joined together by a verse—and not another word could ever compare to the magic the two of them work.

“Let’s celebrate!” She cheers, wrapping her arms around his neck and squealing when he lifts her up from the bed, moving towards the kitchen to what is clearly a night filled with take-out and cheerful conversation.

Waiting for this, for Son Hyunwoo, is the best decision she has ever taken in her life. There is no regretting that.

###

That one hat that she had seen on Hyunwoo’s head plentiful of times is now on top of her hair, caging the memories to her brain the more she paints. Realism is not her forte, she will always say it, but a sigh leaves her lips when she finds herself painting the outline of him—past the muscles, the lips she dares to kiss, the eyes that look for her everywhere and anywhere, but in his soul. Hyunwoo will always be a soul in green—like the greeneries around the winery, where she met him, and the calmness of him is a representation of nature.

Love affairs are supposed to be red, passionate, they are supposed to feel like sex and carnality, they are supposed to be plenty of things…but Hyunwoo is not a love affair. If anything, he is the only man she has ever loved. The brush dimly moves against the canvas, her hair framing her face uncomfortably, but she doesn’t dare move the strands, because there is this vacant voice in the back of her head that is telling her something will happen. The twist of her gut, the taste on the back of her tongue, everything reads fear, like in any occasion she will be moved by her feet, dragged through the ground, given a piece of reality for falling in love.

Hyunwoo is somewhere around the winery, God knows where, speaking to the representative on the phone to state the conditions of the contract he will be signing with the company for the publication of his poems. This makes her nervous, but more so angry at herself.

What a fucking egotistic bitch, she can only tell herself, not because she is envious of what Hyunwoo will surely approach with his talent, but because she is afraid of losing him. Scared that one day Hyunwoo will look at his success and think of her as a loss more than a win. At some point, she lets the brush rest against the canvas for a second longer. A dot. A dot on the figure that is supposed to be her boyfriend…an ending, because dots can mean the finalization of an idea, just like how it can mean the end of a story.

She doesn’t hear footsteps, not even Sunny dares make a noise, tranquil on the windowsill when Hyunwoo lets out a sigh that speaks wonders. It has all the meaning of her world in one single breath that falls deafly, as if he knows there is something deep in her mind bothering her. His lips press to her temple, his eyes dare close to flutter his eyelashes against her skin and when he finally gives her an answer, there are undertones of happiness in his voice:

“They want me to move to New York for the publishing of three poetry books.”

And this is excellent—it’s the best of the best. It’s the opportunity Hyunwoo always wanted and the one that he deserves, but long distance is something that she doesn’t know if she could bear. She could always leave with him, live alongside him like they had always planned—but she’s tied to her uncle’s waist. The poor man, only getting older, needs to be thought about from time to time and the winery cannot be kept together without someone helping him.

So, this means that her dreams are crushed.

This means that leaving is not a choice.

“That’s good, Hyunwoo. Congratulations.” She tells him, putting the brush down and twirling around on her chair, not as excitedly as she used to whenever she wore a flowery dress. Instead, he inspects her features, a small smile grazing his features. The whiteness of the room contrasts his beam, the twinkle in his dark irises when he says:

“We could always leave together. You’d have huge opportunities as an artist there—”

“No, love. I can’t leave.”

“Why not?” His fingers stop playing with hers, trying to look for the certainty of a possibility that has been broken. That, once again, leaves her with the lack of a bound that will never be broken.

“My uncle is not getting older, and you know his health is not the best nowadays. I can’t—I’ve been selfish my own life, I can’t leave him like that.” The affection in her voice must have softened something within him, and Hyunwoo is about to drop the subject, leave the talk for later like he always does, but instead, she continues. “D—Do you think we should break up?”

“What?” Hyunwoo asks, his voice rushed, waiting for her to correct herself.

“You will go live to New York. I will stay here. I don’t know if—” She cuts herself off, looking up to the ceiling and biting down her bottom lip. She has always been the one to break relationships up, but with this one, she can’t do it. Her eyes flicker, her tongue twists and she has to grab his hands stronger for her to gain some power. “I don’t know if it will work, truthfully.”

“Is that what you think?” His eyes flutter with endless blinking, trying to process exactly what she is saying and she feels her heart being ripped when she realizes what is happening—

She is finally speechless.

And in the worst of ways.

“Tell me why.”

“I can’t…I can’t leave, you can’t stay.” She tells him, shaking her head. “And I will never forgive myself if I stop you from being the poet that you always wanted to be.”

And even then, when anger overtakes his features along with disappointment, Hyunwoo is the most beautiful man she has ever met—inside and out. Her fingers trail through his hair, her lips leaning forward to seek a kiss out of him but when they join in the sweet gesture, his lips capture her strongly, as if needing more of her, as if letting go hurts him as much as it hurts her. His soul is trying to engulf hers, to down her in the most gorgeous of memories that started with poems about her, spoken insecurities, healed hearts, too much time to waste and of course, an ending.

His arms wrap around her tightly, her lips unwrapping from his to breathe out against his shoulder, her eyes closing tightly when she repeats: “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Love isn’t enough in most situations. This is one of them.

###

Her uncle would have probably loved to see the scenery in front of her.

The bustling city, the flickering lights, the people that join and walk alongside each other, the cars passing by and the extreme comparison to the winery. Perhaps, he would have not liked it as much—but who is she to know. Instead, she tries to make her way towards the café near her hotel room, desperate for her caffeine intake before her visits to the endless museums that she had looked up online. It’s difficult to move, much more when people press to her side, but she manages.

What catches her attention is the old looking library that passes her by as she walks on the sidewalk. The windows are huge, perhaps more than one floor in the place, showcasing the newest of releases or the most classic of pieces. Her feet retract the slightest, smiling at the sign that reads poetry and looking for a certain pen-name that she knows better than her own. The simplistic cover is enough to have her eyes widening, looking around as if caught by destiny—because Hyunwoo is there, by his penname, of course, but he’s there.

With persistence, she moves inside the library, grabbing one of the copies of the book that had caught her attention—the first one, one that she had been too fearful to ever look for, but now blinks at her almost mockingly. Or proudly, really, this would not have happened if only she had been selfish and snatched the notebook away from her uncle’s hands.

Some decisions are good on the long run.

Her fingers flick through the pages, recognizing some of the poems, even tutting at the fact that some of them are edited but his being still is exuded in his art. A little bit after, however, she is surprised to see an outline that she recognizes immensely—that one drawing that she done of Hyunwoo, more of a sketch, that he had kept with him, now plastered on the edge of the first book he released. Years later, and she had never noticed this.

The poem surprises her, the words ‘her’ its title, reminiscent of how she had always wondered if it was her that he was referencing. The more she reads, the more her smile widens…because nothing has been edited, not even a single syllable, and that is enough to press the book to her chest, closing her eyes to match the tightness of her chest.

He will always be the best rhyme for her poems, but it’s time for her to start a new one.

It’s time to let go.

That doesn’t mean she lets go of the memories, buying the book and pressing it to the depths of her purse, pushing the door open to go have her caffeine intake.

#shownu scenarios #shownu #monsta x scenarios #monsta x #kpop scenarios #writing #monsta x au #monsta x angst #monsta x fluff #shownu au #shownu angst #shownu fluff #the anti-love club #heeeey one more to go #thoughts on this one?#poet!shownu

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foodcourtdetective · 4 years

Text

thinking too hard

summary: barry berkman has been trying to forget about his soulmate for both of their sakes, but Y/N is making it very hard and using their soulmate connection to draw all over him.

tags: angsty, soulmate au, love at first sight, very brief Barry x Sally, definitely a happy ending!

A/N: I’m just really into soulmate!au’s and Barry Berkman okay?!?! (and // means time passes)

word count 2.4k

AO3 x

He hated Los Angeles. Barry’s long sleeve shirt stuck to him in the desert heat, sweat pooling in his armpits and on his back. NoHank asked him about his outfit choice, offering him a short-sleeved shirt or a tank top.

“You want to take one of their shirts? They won’t mind, they’re confident in their bodies!” NoHank said, gesturing over to the Chechen recruits. Barry shook his head, clearing his throat in discomfort. After a moment, NoHank made a movement to push up Barry’s sleeves for him, but Barry was too quick and grabbed NoHank’s pinky, bending it all the way back.

“Shit shit, okay okay! Someone has body issues! We will talk about accepting your body some other time then.” Barry ignored him, staring coldly ahead as the young Chechen recruit finally hit a beer can with his bullet.

When he finally got back to his apartment, Barry made a beeline for the bathroom, nodding briefly at Jermaine and Nick on his way. After peeling off his shirt and grabbing the sink, Barry took a look at his body or rather what was on it. Today, his soulmate had kept it simple: a heart on his wrist, a note to pick up two lattes at 9, and a flower chain that started at his trigger finger and trailed all the way up his forearm. He sighed, holding back a soft smile as her traced up the stem of flowers with his other pointer fingers. As he ended the journey at his inner forearm, Barry stopped to see a less traditional note: written on his upper chest right over his heart, in simple cursive, it read please talk to me, Barry. A deep sigh filled the tiny bathroom and he gently caressed their handwriting. The familiar movement triggered a whirl of memories.

Writing excitedly on his leg the moment he turned sixteen to introduce himself to his soulmate only to get no response. Giving up on love and joining the Marines shortly after. Noticing the shy hello scribbled on his hand seven years later when he was already too far gone. Writing to them any chance he got once he find out the silence was because they had not been old enough yet. Learning her name was Y/N and that she lived in California. Having to break off communication once Fuches put him to work. The sharp lines she had drawn as she had asked if he could feel the sharp indent of her pen, told him that ignoring them for their own good was ridiculous. The obscene images Y/N had drawn all over him the first couple of years, trying to get an angry message from him, any message.

His heart sank, but Barry knew as much as it hurt both of them, it was better for them to move on, to pretend to not have a soulmate. God knows Barry would rather hide her away, hide his shot at happiness, than have her be tortured or worse by any of his enemies or allies. He groaned, his knuckles turning whiter than the sink.

His acting class didn’t know what to make of him at first; his long, dark clothing sharply contrasted their tight shorts and tank tops, skin flaunting their connections. But despite himself, Barry grew close to Sally, a girl who had never seen any marks on her body. After hearing that Barry also had a blank canvas, she pounced on him with a marker she had seemingly pulled out of nowhere, drawing a star on his knuckles. However, despite her persistence, no matching star appeared on her own. Sally declared them star-crossed soulmates and asked him on a date.

After a late night of drinks, Barry found himself making out with Sally on her couch. She went to pull off his shirt and for the first time in his life, he mindlessly complied, distracted by the intimacy. Sally suddenly shot up from the couch, crying out as she pointed to the drawings adorning his chest. Y/N had seen the star Sally had drawn and, hopeful that it was a message to her, drew out an intricate night sky. Hidden among the stars, scrawled out in cursive, she wrote I’m here when you’re ready, Barry. -Y/N.

“How dare you! You lied just to get into my pants?!” Sally tripped over herself to pick up his discarded shirt, balling it up to chuck at him. Barry pulled it on, dazed all the way home until he saw the message glint in the mirror as he was getting undressed. Barry slammed his fist into the wall, shouting out in frustration. Ass his phone rang, the caller ID revealing it was Fuches, Barry scrambled to put his shirt back on, scribbling a message to Y/N on the fleshy part of his bicep. I’m a hitman. Don’t message me unless you want to die.

After the assignment, Barry found himself staring at his chest and reading her pleas to talk further. That’s not funny. Barry. Barry! Oh my god, you’re serious. That explains a few things. You gotta talk to me, your soulmate? I need to know why. Barry sighed, wandering over to his bedroom to get a pen from his desk. He sat on the bed, anxiously fiddling with the pen in between his fingers before writing on his trigger finger: you still want to talk to me? He waits, watching the loopy letters sweep down his arm like a signature under the floral art she continued to draw every day.

Yes, I have a death wish. He laughed at the absurdity of their conversation before responding.

Why are all artists suicidal?

See, I’d rather have this with you than live without it. Her words made him freeze in his tracks, his fingers gently stroking over the confession as they faded away, scrubbed off by the writer. She filled the now empty space with a series of numbers; Barry furrowed his brow, trying to decode the secret message. After a moment Y/N wrote again underneath them.

Running out of space! Text me! He hesitated, his heart in his throat as he debated if the convenience was worth sacrificing her safety. Finally, with shaking hands, he dialed the number and hit call. A soft hello followed the ringing, the voice so angelic that he knew he would do whatever she asked him to do.

“I said text, not call! You do know how to read, right?”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s nice to hear your voice!”

“What? No, I mean I’m sorry for…” Barry trailed off, his mind swarmed by memories of pushing her away and feeling her anguish through the pointy pen tip.

“You wanted to protect me. I get it. Now we’re even from when I couldn’t write to you.”

“That wasn’t intentional.”

“It would have been! I was a pretty rebellious eleven year old.” He laughed, the silence after he finishes awkward until he breaks it.

“I’m in LA.”

“For work?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Barry doodles a flower on his thumb. It’s not as pretty as any of hers, but she draws a faint heart around it. He brushes the heart, his own beating so loudly it was in his ears.

“I’m scared.”

“Me too.”

“Because of who I am? What I do?” His throat was thick from holding back the dam of emotion, but his voice managed to crack in desperation.

“I’m scared you’re going to leave me again.” Barry paused at that, his own heart breaking a little at the thought of all of the pain he must have caused Y/N by abandoning her. He’s now drawing a bouquet on his forearm, a sloppier version of her own.

“You don’t have to be afraid of that. Once I see you for the first time, I’m probably never going to leave you alone ever again… Not in a creepy way…”

“I would love that.”

“I’m giving you an out right now. You can hang up, stay in the safety of your life as a… what do you do again?”

“Graphic design!”

“I knew you were an artist!”

“And I knew you were a comedian!”

“Weird way of pronouncing what I actually do…” She giggled at that, falling quiet after a hearty laugh.

“Look at your leg. I’ll see you there at 9. Don’t be late!” As she hung up, Barry pressed his phone to his lips in shock. Remembering her words, he pulled his pants down to read the directions she had jotted onto his thigh, the dots in the I’s drawn as hearts instead of dots; he almost died of pure joy right then and there.

In hindsight, it was good that Y/N had suggested a coffee shop to meet because Barry had not gotten a wink of sleep the entire night. He had stared at the ceiling, flat on his back and still fondly stroking her writing on his leg. As his pointer finger traced the hearts, he felt his own thud loudly in his chest. It was easier to protect her when she was just lines on his person, just another part of him that he hated, another vulnerability. But hearing Y/N’s voice, imagining what she might look like, had ignited a wanting within him, a need to be with her, his other half. She was no longer just a part of him; she was a separate entity that he wanted to get to know and love.

He had gotten to the shop as soon as it opened at 4, wanting to figure out where the best table inside would be and staking it out for them. The barista had made him order a drink at 5:30; panicked and feeling about a thousand years old, Barry ordered “something to bring me back to life.” At 6 he was shuttering, borderline convulsing from the quad espresso that he consumed quickly. His anxiety was through the room, but all he could do was dig his fingernails into his palm which was resting on his jeans over her handwriting. What if she wasn’t as okay with the age difference as she thought she was? What if it hits her that her soulmate is a hitman? What if the drawings stop appearing. What if—

Barry jolted awake in his seat, now realizing that he had crashed from the overdose of caffeine. The barista (Stacie, he later learned) made a joke about having to restart his heart. He checked his phone: 8:30am. Suddenly, a thought dawned on him and he ordered another drink. By the time Stacie brought it over and started walking back to the counter, the bell above the door tingled. Barry immediately stood up like Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice, turning to look at the customer. She sensed his stare immediately, turning to look him over as a dreamy blush painted her cheeks.

“Barry?” She whispered, his name less of a question and more of a disbelief. He swallowed, his throat dry as he looked over Y/N, his soulmate. She was absolutely picturesque, an almost pure aura of light around her as the door slowly shut behind her. As she drew near, Barry was almost too aware of how he towered over, a menacing presence.

“I gotcha a latt-“ Barry didn’t even get to finish his stuttering as Y/N grabbed his collar and pulled him down into a kiss. His mouth was already half open and he stumbled forward from the force of her tug. It wasn’t the most coordinated kiss in the world, her mouth mostly on his bottom lip and her teeth lightly bumped his by accident; but it was theirs. Barry felt his body fill with a warmth, like his whole being was sighing with relief at being united with his soulmate as he kissed her back. He had thought that the doodles and the sound of her voice would do him in, but this… this would knock his entire life’s path off track. After a moment, Barry gently placed his hands on her cheeks and pulled away, just looking down at her in awe.

“How did you know my coffee order?” Y/N asked, her grin stretched out wider than Barry previously thought possible. He babbled for a few seconds, removing his hands to gesticulate as he just expressed a bunch of word fillers before finally managing to get something out.

“Y-you, you wrote it on your hand as a-a part of your to-to-to do list,” he explained, trying to stick his erratic hands in his pockets but Y/N swung her hand forward to snatch his hand. She squealed, making a joke about how sweaty his hand was and Barry thought he would die of a heart attack right then and there. She pulled him down again, this time so they could sit at the table together and she could take a sip of her latte. Barry simply stared at her, his brain slightly short circuiting with delight. Eventually, rational thought caught up with him and Barry tried to remove his hand from hers, but she had a firm grip and a look in her eye that told him she already knew what he was going to say.

“You’re not worried about…”

“I thought we already went over this, Barry. I’m in! I’m all in,” she declared sweetly, leaning over to capture his lips once again. He was consumed by it, by her, his head swirling with a dizziness of emotion and his lungs burning with a heartache of regrets. They could have had this so much sooner, if he had left the army, if he hadn’t made that deal with Fuches, if he hadn’t been an idiot about wanting to protect her. The deep and mind numbing kiss ended as Y/N broke it to breathe heavy. Barry looked at her through lidded eyes, revering her with every fiber of his being.

“You are good at that! It’s a good thing too because it looks like I’m gonna have to kiss you every five minutes to get you out of that type of thinking,” she giggled, moving to lean back in her chair but Barry slung an arm around her waist, pulling her back into him with a soft smile.

“Better make it every two minutes because I’m thinking again,” he joked, his heart glowing as the love of his life obliged his request and kissed him senseless.

#barry berkman x reader #barry #barry hbo #barry block x reader #soulmate au #soulmate!au #barry berkman imagine #barry block imagine #barry berkman #barry block #bill hader #hbo #bill hader x reader #my words #barry x sally

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blackevermore · 3 years

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x Wade In The Water

{ Chapter 5: Leak In This Old Building }

Summary: Ester Scott was once in love. She thought the days of her shortcomings were over and that the man she found was her one and only. But all that was taken away when the demons she had became too accustomed to finally took the one thing she had left. Louisiana was her home but the devil down below was calling her name. She only has herself to blame when it came to the hands dragging her under.

Notes: It’s Hazbin Hotel, be ready for everything. Also I apologize for all my mistakes in advance!

Word Count: 3,950

Souls can sing songs, they can sing you harmonies that have been lost with time. When I rest my feet I sit with waiting souls that sing the blues. They sung me gossip and I told them to hold their tongue for the Lord’s words no longer apply to me. They seem to be saddened by my tainted sweetness and I offer them a coin. Place this in your mouth and do not swallow, when you get there you’ll be rich, that’s what I tell them. It’s all I have to send them off.

- Ester R. Scott

People are going missing again. On the board next to the bus stop are faces of people of all ages. Some photos are drawings, some are handpicked from someone’s personal album, and others are clipping from the newspapers. They are all smiling, unaware that in reality they are gone and may never come back. These photos were the last memories anyone would have of them. Even in passing everyone was affected by the smiling faces of missing people asking for help in black and white. As I look over all the faces, I notice that there aren’t as many black folk as there is white folk. This is odd considering my people go missing left and right and their faces are the ones that go unnoticed for years. I look at the few black faces and they are all women with fancy hair and fancy dresses.

They aren’t missing. They were killed, as simple as that.

I look towards all the white faces and it's mostly men, older men with wrinkles on their face. Men in suits and hats that had their pictures taken when they weren’t working. The women are just the same, beautiful and casual, untouched by reality and living comfortably. These women, until the men, were probably still living somewhere with a lover in hiding. The men were most likely six feet under from a lousy gamble and a terrible fate. On the lower row are children, precious babies that didn’t deserve whatever happened to them. I close my eyes and say a small prayer for them before I turn and walk away. Behind me, I know the angels that were following me are still looking towards the board. Maybe they are checking off their list of people they’ve gathered or maybe sent off to hell. Maybe the devil does the same thing, with a smile wide on his face as he chuckles deeply at all the faces and names he knows. Maybe he turns to his side and gathers someone's attention and tells them ‘I know them, they died last month, we play poker every Saturday’. Then he would laugh and smile at the person creeping them out and watching them hurry off to get away from them.

Or, in a turn of events, the devil’s heart grows heavy as he realizes there is more work to be done with the souls waiting down below.

“Ester?” I stumbled through the front door and Chemintine came out of the bathroom. “Welcome home Ester, I’ve already started cooking.” She smiles at me and I knot my brows. It’s been two weeks since she’s moved in and every day since then she’s been doing more and more for me. First, it was cleaning up the few messes I had left about during the long nights I couldn’t sleep. Then it was washing my clothes on days she didn’t have to go to work but I did. At first, I fussed at her for touching what didn’t belong to her, but when she gave me those big baby eyes I knew it was better to just allow her to do as she pleased. Of course within the range of asking me first, it was my house after all. Now she was cooking for me and I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. The last person that cooked for me was my mama and I would have liked to keep it that way.

“Chemintine, you don’t have to cook, I could have done that.” I take off my shoes and place them by the door along with my coat. Chemintine shakes her head and crosses her arms across her chest.

“I can cook Ester, I’m not gonna kill ya.” She said, shaking her head and moseying off to the kitchen to finish what she was doing. “If I’m going to be staying with you for the time being I need to pull my weight.” I walk up behind her as she is stirring something in the pot.

“Fine, but a rule mama used to have was that if you cook I’ll do the dishes.”

“Fine by me,” Chemintine nodded then turned the burner low for the food to simmer. “Where’ya go today? I thought you didn’t go out much on the weekends.”

“Shopping for the house and for supplies,” I answer. I wanted to tell her to stay out of my business but there was no use when she would be staying here. She would eventually get curious about everything. And me being a kind person would treat her like a child and answer all her questions.

“You sure like to bring work home, don’tcha.” Chemintine laughed and grabbed the bowls.

“Not supplies for work, supplies for my paintings.”

“You paint, Ester?”

“Sometimes. When I have the time for it or if I’m inspired.”

“Will you show me your work, Ester?” Chemintine sets the steaming bowls of porridge on the table.

“I can.”

“Goodie!”

I have to say when Chemintine was given the freedom in the kitchen she could cook. Or maybe I was just hungry. Either way what she made was tasty and left me full and dazed. When I asked her how she knew how to use spices she playfully huffed at me.

“I can season food, Ester, I might be white but I know that pepper and salt isn’t gonna make a person happy. Be kind to me.” I shook my head and laughed, she was right, I should have a little more faith in some white people. Not all of them were terrible cooks and not all of them were terrible people. Some just didn’t want to be the odd man out, no one wanted to be seen as a traitor. But then there were those like Cheminiten that couldn’t give a care in the world and would show her ass to her family if it meant being a decent person. ‘I was raised poor, Ester, but I chose to be a decent person’ is what she told me one night.

We were now in my bedroom on the floor with papers scattered about as Chemintie looked at my art. I didn’t take pride in my art as I did in making clothes. It was just something I did when I wanted to keep my hands busy. Sometimes I would sketch or paint without realizing it. My hands were restless and they had to move or else I was sure they would strangle me. I told that to Mrs Birdy and she laughed at me but I was serious.

“Ester, these are so beautiful! How come you don’t talk about it?” Chemintine held up a sketch I did of my mother when I was younger. It was rough and wasn’t as clean as my newer works but it was timeless as it held my mother’s face. I missed her dearly.

“It’s nothing to talk about. Not like the clothes I can make out of nothing.” I smiled gently and Chemintine shook her head.

“This ain’t nothing, these are something, you could sell them and make big money.” The stars in Chemintine’s eyes weren’t for me in reality. I could see in her eyes I was a world class famous artist, sipping wine with big shots and dancing with millionaires. In her eyes we weren’t living in the 30s anymore, we were somewhere in the future where blacks and whites could sit together. She sure did have an active imagination.

“These aren’t meant to be sold, Chem,” I tell her and she shakes her head again in disbelief. She picked up one piece after the other and fell in love with them. “Ester what in the world are these?” Chemintine moved the papers in front of her to the side and placed down five similar sketches.

I sat up and scooted closer to look at the papers before taking a deep sigh, “Those are angels.”

“Ain’t no angel looking like that, Ester, those are demons.” Chem cocked a brow and gave me a funny look as if I lost my head.

“No Chemintine, those are angels in their purest forms. Angels don’t actually look like us, they take our forms so they don’t scare us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’ll have to take your word, I ain’t been to church ever in my life but I’m sure you have.”

“I go every Sunday, never miss a day. Mama might roll out her grave and haunt me if I do.” I laugh and Chem joins me.

“How ya know these are what they look like?” Chemintine question made me stop for a moment. I could tell her the truth but she wouldn’t believe me. She thought I was telling lies just to pull her leg. Or maybe she would think I’m crazy and take off running for the last bus that came this way. I bit the inside of my cheek and picked up one of the more outlandish sketches and looked it over.

“I can see them, believe it or not, I can see them and could have seen when I was a child.” I put the sketch down and wait for her to say something to dismiss my claim. I looked at her and she looked at me with so much wonder and curiosity. Though I knew it to be true I hoped Chemintine didn’t believe everything she heard. I hoped to anyone that would listen that Chem had some brainpower to be sceptical. But the more I watched her and waited for her to say something. The more I realized she hung onto every word I said and didn’t dare question me.

“You believe me?”

“I have no reason to doubt your words, I’ve known you for three years and you’ve done nothing but spoke the truth to me. The brutal, harsh, unpleasant truth, if you told me the sky wasn’t actually blue I’d believe you. You’re not much of a liar Miss Ester.”

“Well, I’d be.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her nativeness and my foolishness. Clementine giggled and gathered up all the sketches into a neat pile with the angels as the first few pages.

“How come they don’t look like humans to you?” She asked me.

“Ma’am said that God told them to be as truthful with me when they come. They are scary to look at but I’ve gotten used to them.”

“I would scream to the heavens if they came to me like this.” Chemintine body shook and she let out a noise of disgust.

“Maybe they’d react.”

“Maybe,” Chemintine handed me the sketches then stood to go and look at the finished canvases in the corner of my room. She flipped through the few scenic paintings with ‘ooo’s and ‘ahh’s then she got to the portraits. She stopped on an old painting I did of myself right after mama died. I had just turned nineteen and Mrs Birdy had given me work. I was sad during that time and I captured it perfectly with the stroke of my brush. She pulled it from the bunch and held it up to the light in the room. “Why didn’t you smile?” She looked over her shoulder to me.

“That was the year after mama died. There wasn’t much to be happy for, not when you’re treated the way I am.” I got up from the floor and came to her side. My eyes in the painting looked on for miles and miles, searching for something.

“Are you happier now?” Chemintine’s voice lowered an ounce of worry on her lips. I looked at her and sighed before putting my hands on my hips and shrugging.

“I’m not happy but I am better than before.” Chemintine seemed to agree with me and put the painting back in the pile against the wall. The night was coming to an end and she told me she wanted to get ready for bed. I nodded and she was off and out of my face faster than I realized. Now alone in my bedroom, it felt colder, as if Chemintine’s happier energy was what was warming my room. I looked around at all the things that were either mines’ or mama’s, memories hung on these walls along with many restless nights of worry. I went and sat down at my small vanity and started to get ready for bed myself. Slowly I took out the pins in my hair and watched as my faint curls fell down to my shoulders. Mama always told me to take care of myself and my hair, our hair was our pride. My pride wasn’t in my hair, never really was, my hair was just hair and my pride was in my heart. I looked up to myself and just like the portrait, my eyes looked on for miles. I didn’t really know what they were looking for.

“Ester?” Chemintine stood in the door frame playing with the ends of her nightgown. I looked up from my book in bed and nodded. She came over to me and sat in front of me right at my feet on the bed. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said, about the angels.”

“So you don’t believe me?” I raised a brow and Chemintine shook her head wild.

“No, no that’s not it, I was just wondering if you could tell me if they are here. Like if you can see them does that mean they are here? Right now?” Chemintine was like a child whose stomach rumbled at the sight of food. She leaned in closer and hung on to the tense air of my prolonged answer. I sighed and closed my book and looked around my room. I then got up and looked around the house then came back to my bed. I turned towards the window against my bed and peeked out the curtain. If we were in here then surely if they were around they would stand outside. But at last, I saw nothing, just the darkness of the woods behind my house and the bright moon. As I looked back and forth once more something in the branches of the trees caught my eye. I narrowed my eyes to try and make it out but it was too far away. It was two twinkling lights that flickered then suddenly it was gone. Unsure of what it was I pulled away from the window and turned back towards Chemintine.

“They’re not here, normally they are but I guess they finally got busy and left.” I smiled weakly at my own joke.

“Can angels be shy?”

“Can demons?”

“I don’t know,” Chemintine whispered.

“Nor do I.” I patted her shoulder and Chemintine sighed and allowed her shoulders to drop. She must have been really excited.

“Well, goodnight Ester.”

“Night Chemintine.”

}~~{

I never had a problem listening to the word the pastor had to say during church. I used to be able to recite the message of the day to mama in the afternoon when we got home. I didn’t really understand what the messages meant but I knew that mama held them dearly in her heart just like she held me. Righteousness, forgiveness, suffering, overcoming and seeking the path that God had laid out before us. It all started to blend together the more I went and sat in the front of the church. The messages were all about us as black folk having to be strong and stay strong. Our lives were nothing but a game of unfairness that weighed our bodies down.

“They may not be kind to us but we must not stoop low like them. We must be God’s children and give them the same kindness God has given to us.” The church folk had lost their mind to that and started cheering and thanking. I sat in my seat looking around trying to find the reason this message was so powerful. I was tired of having to be the nice one when in town. To keep my head down and never look anyone in the face unless they were the same colour as me. To take all the harsh words white folk had to say to me. The spitting at my feet, the names, ignoring my presents, the waiting in the back, the whites from the blacks. I was tired of it. I was so tired I wanted to go to sleep. So I did.

“Did you hear about what happened up north?” One of the church women behind me started to whisper to the other at the door.

“In Kentucky?” The other woman replied.

“That family was drug out of their house and beaten then set on fire in the middle of the street and no one did anything.”

“That’s terrible, I swear this is too much, how long are we going to have to deal with this?”

“God knows.” The woman at the door shook her head and fan herself with. Dividing that was enough ear hustling for the day I walked passed them, casually bidding them farewell, and making my way down the stairs to walk home. But before I could make it down the church stairs I saw a very familiar face. The devil, like many years before, was standing and watching the people walk away from the church. When he saw me stood up straight and nodded towards me. I looked around to see if anyone else was around me to see him. But I was alone and it seemed like everyone was already gone.

“Evening my dear, how was the message of the day this fine Sunday?” His smooth and chipper voice sang into the air and I shivered. I knew better than to say anything to him but I really didn’t want to come off rude. What if he was to strike me down and drag me off? What if he was also waiting for me to say something to suck the soul out of me? But if he was going to do something to me he would have done it a long time ago when I met him when I was a child.

“Servus was good. The grace of God blessed it himself to make sure we understood it.” I stuttered over my words, careful and ready to run if need be. The devil seemed to enjoy my response and took off his hat to comb through his hair.

“I see that everyone has gone home now and you are walking.”

“Seems so, but that’s okay I can get home.”

“Mind if I walk you?” He asked. I looked around once more hesitant trying to find anyone that could save me from answering him. I truly was alone with him and I started to feel scared.

“I shouldn’t walk with you.” I gripped the bible in my hands tight, begging for any and everything to happen to stop this. If mama was here she would have rung me up sideways and carried me away with the fire of Michael on her heels. She would have told me off for entertaining the devil and giving him the slightest acknowledgement.

“I won’t do anything to you.”

“But you’re the devil.”

“That I am.” His sharp teeth gleamed in the sun and he seemed to notice how uneasy I became. He moved closer to the stairs and I jumped back, his smile softened and his eyes started to invite me. “The devil has morals, my dear, I won’t hurt you nor will I trick you. I simply wish to walk you home.” He held out his hand and I took a deep breath. I shouldn’t go with him. I should tell him I was fine all by myself and that the angels were there, that would have scared him off. Maybe.

“The angels-”

“Do they speak to you to not accompany a gentleman?”

“T-They don’t speak to me.” The devil lowered his hand and hummed, he slowly lit up as he thought it over.

“Then surely I can walk you home since the angels are silent and I promise to keep my word. No harm will come your way.” The devil held out his hand once again and foolishly I slowly took it. When I stepped down from the last two steps I felt something be yanked off of me. I quickly turned around to see what it was and it was two angels looking angrily at the devil. Their wings were spread and their shape features twisted in disgust. One of the angels reached out to grab me but for some reason when they got close they yanked their hand away. I quickly say a prayer under my breath and I feel the devil quickly remove his hand from mine. He quickly collected himself and cleared his throat. He took a step back and placed his hat back on his head.

“I think it’s better if we walk apart, and wouldn't want those nasty fellows assuming things.” He tucked his arms behind his back and started walking the way I was heading.

Careful. Be careful.

The voices in my ears were high pitched and sharp but hushed like a whisper. I had finally heard the angels. One angel looked right into my soul as the other watched the devil. All I could do was nod my head then stumble back to start walking away. I couldn’t take my eyes of the angels as I gripped my bible and my skirt. When I was next to the devil I could hear him grumbling under his breath.

“Nasty things. Nasty, nasty things. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel…..nasty.” His eyes gleamed and his face twisted slightly. He continued to mumble under his breath until he saw me next to him. Shaking his head he took in a deep breath and exhaled. He turned to me and smiled once more.

“Well, aren't they delightful?”

“Truly” Was all I could say.

“Ester?” Chemintine met me at the door, she hid slightly behind it as if she was scared of opening it any further.

“Yes?”

“Who were you talking to?” Chemintine looked back over my shoulder and around a bit before closing the door. I gasped and turned to peek out the window next to the door. When I looked outside the devil was still there checking his watch.

“The man?” I pulled the curtain back just as the devil started to walk away. I point towards him and Chemintine looks.

“Ester, what man?” I look back and see the devil walking but Chemintine shakes her head and pulls away. “I think it might be too hot outside, ya talking to yaself, I think you might need a cold drink.” Chemintine laughs it off and heads towards the kitchen to get me a drink.

I should have known she wouldn’t see him. I was blessed to see the angels but I was cursed to see the devil as well. If God really had a mission for me, he had to hurry up and tell me what it was before something bad happened.

#🔻Red Thread🔻#self ship #self shipping #self shipping community #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel

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rivetgoth · 4 years

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OC #4 - Vittoria Marcello

Pinterest board 🥀 Tag on OC blog

AH okay here we go, my next OC, I know I’m going slower than I’d originally hoped but what can you do, slow progress is still progress and I have a lot of stuff going on in the rest of my life as well right now, but here’s another gal of mine. She’s the other protagonist of my novel.

Vittoria is Giovanni’s sister, I talked about him before so I figured it made the most sense to discuss her next. Admittedly I can’t really tell all of her story without spoiling my novel some but it’s fine, I still wanna be vague as possible and in a perfect world my novel will get more traction than just the handful of people reading these, AND hopefully my biggest supporters would wanna read my novel even if they have a basic idea of what happens in it hehe. Anyway, like everyone else so far she’s from my alternative universe in the 2080s.

Basic info is that Vittoria is a heterosexual cis woman in her late twenties. She’s the youngest daughter and youngest child of the Marcello family, and although she has seven older siblings her only full brother is Giovanni, since they share a mother, although he’s seven years her senior. As I mentioned before, the Marcellos are the owners of the Marcello Candy Company, a corporation that pretty much has the monopoly on the pharmaceutical industry due to their drug-infused and heavily addictive candies.

Vittoria was named after her father, Vittorio, which was a last attempt by her mother to hopefully convince Vittorio to accept her as his own. The truth is Vittorio had not wanted another child, having already found Giovanni a disappointment and blaming his wife Camilia’s genetics (because his elder children are so perfect - I’ll discuss them later, some of ‘em are important), and when Camila got very sick during childbirth and, despite the riches of the Marcello Empire she was mysteriously unable to be cured, fowl play was suspected to be involved, but nobody was ever caught or exposed. Camila named Vittoria in hopes that Vittorio would see her as his child and want to raise her with pride, but this didn’t really work, and Vittoria spent a large portion of her childhood almost entirely alone. All of her siblings were significantly older than her, and not only did Giovanni have plenty of his own issues to worry about, but he felt a great deal of resentment towards Vittoria, blaming her for his mother’s death due to the fact that Camila’s death was officially ruled as complications in childbirth. Vittoria had no one around but servants given measly raises to watch over her, and by the time she was as young as four she had made a habit out of trying to sneak off, although she was always caught and returned.

Unlike Giovanni, who was forced into homeschooling, Vittoria was allowed to go to school, although it was a very prestigious private school that bored her to death. She tried again to run away while there, and this time pulled off a multi-day disappearance, but when she was found, her father, frustrated with the negative press that her sneaking off had caused the company, threatened to pull her out of school and keep her homeschooled and under house arrest with her brother if she pulled something like that again. So she sucked it up and got through grade school, although she grew increasingly standoffish and cold to others around her. Her largest solace came from art of all kinds, although especially dark and provocative art, art that gave her an outlet for her frustrations and anger. She loved loud abrasive music and weird looking art that used lots of contrast and lots of dark colors. She ended twelfth grade with no friends to speak of, although she quickly decided to pursue university as her next step in hopes that it would give her what she needed to find a profession of her own and escape her father’s house once and for all.

But Vittoria found herself in a new dilemma, which was that very little actually brought her much joy anymore. Depression had kicked her ass hard through school, and by the time she was in college (which her father paid for, something that frustrated her to no end as she was aware that she was still entirely stuck in his debt and helpless without his assistance) she had very little motivation or interest in anything. She switched majors a few times and eventually settled in on art history, because of her aforementioned love for art, although this decision angered her father, who told her she would be able to do nothing of use and find no success out in the world with a degree in art history. Scared that he was correct, Vittoria ended up giving up halfway through her degree, dropping out to instead jump correctly into business, still using her father’s funds as a startup. She started a fashion line, then a makeup line, then a perfume line, all of which she felt no connection to whatsoever, opting to go with easy, mainstream, and accessible products in hopes of generating sales rather than focus on anything that she cared about. With each of these expeditions, she quickly lost any sort of interest or passion and sold the companies for very little, which quickly led to her creating an image for herself in the public eye that she was unable to finish or stick to anything.

Vittoria grew older and still had little to show for herself and her efforts. She was still trapped in her father’s home with no direction, desperate to prove herself but lacking any sort of support system or internal confidence or drive to get anything done and scared of failure. Her only other sibling still living at home was Giovanni, who she wanted nothing to do with, and seeing his life plateau into a steady stream of nothing, just lounging around and living on his father’s money, terrified her. She finally decided to pull herself together and dip her toes into the music industry, since music had remained one of the few things she loved through everything, although she wasn’t entirely sure what direction she would go in these endeavors, and if she would actually have the courage to explore the darker themes and sounds she liked so much.

After announcing her intents and beginning to contact record companies, Vittoria heard back almost instantly from Anubis, the Rock God of Death, an aging, extremely famous and successful, as well as extremely mysterious, industrial rock musician, who was also the owner of Embalmed Records as well as the Golden Jackal Nightclub. Anubis, in his mid sixties at the time, offered her a partnership with Embalmed Records. Soon after, Vittoria and Giovanni were kicked out of their father’s house, disowned for their incompetence and constant embarrassment of him and his company. Vittoria would accept Anubis’ offer, and learn that he had much more in mind for her than only a simple contract: He wanted her to be his personal protégé. Vittoria accepts this offer and begins to train under his wing, which is where a majority of her story within my novel takes place. Over the course of the novel they also become lovers.

I want to be a little vague here, because I don’t want to wildly spoil every aspect of the novel now, but in the end, Vittoria undergoes some pretty extensive body modification that leaves some large scars on her body and her organs rearranged inside of her, and Anubis dies under tragically under mysterious circumstances, leaving all of Embalmed Records to Vittoria for the taking. She now runs the company as the CEO of Embalmed.

Vittoria ends up in a relationship with one of her employees (who she met before she took over, when she was still training under Anubis), named Cosmo Halloway, who will definitely get a post as well. He’s sort of a musical renaissance man (and the frontman of the industrial metal band Heat Pit) and he adores her. He helps her manage the Golden Jackal.

Vittoria and Giovanni view themselves as polar opposites, and in the way many of their issues manifest, they are. Giovanni overeats and Vittoria starves herself; Giovanni is an insomniac and Vittoria spends most of the time depression-sleeping. Giovanni loves color and elegance, Vittoria loves blackness and harshness. Giovanni’s trauma manifests in a very childish nature and he tries to suppress any negative feelings inward, while Vittoria tries to be mature and lets out any negative emotions on others, constantly lashing out and yelling at others around her. However, they have a lot in common as well, including both loving art and finding solace in it, both struggling deeply with identity issues and insecurities and finding a sense of self, and both having serious long-term trauma related to their family circumstances. She likes to commission artists to draw portraits of her, because she has a great dislike of herself and struggles so much with her own identity, and conceptualizing herself through how she’s depicted through the eyes of artists gives her a more solid sense of self. She hates sweets, mostly due to her family’s involvement in them. She drinks a shitton of black coffee to try to stay awake but still tends to fail and oversleep. She loves dark colors, leather, and silver. She has a horrible temper and is typically very cold and can easily turn aggressive, although this is something she gets marginally better at as she takes over Embalmed and becomes more assertive in her control of the company.

I love Vittoria. I think she’s a really fun character and she’s spent a LONG time in development, I’ve reworked her a huge number of times because she began as a very vague concept (actually, she originally was a guy and her entire character was hugely rewritten to be a woman early on in development lol) that I’ve spent a long time evolving to fit the role of protagonist in my novel. I have a lot more about her (and Giovanni) I’d love to share, but like I said, I don’t wanna give away too much about the novel!!

#daily OC talk

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deafwestnewsies · 5 years

Text

All I’ve Ever Owned

Orpheus and Eurydice find a way, because that's what Orpheus and Eurydice do.

read it on ao3 and ff.net here!

Orpheus stood hesitantly at the doorway. A shop functioning in the rundown part of town that stood gleaming and tall was surely a sign that it couldn’t be trusted, right? He was used the creaky window-doors with little bells that ding!-ed in your arrival, hole in the wall dumplings, a bank that was family owned. Never did he dare to cross by Underground Pawn, with the copper plating and old-fashioned lamps on the storefront. No signs, just a hand painted name on the front door and business hours. (8am-6pm Monday through Sunday.) There was never a need to visit the store, never an item he needed to scrounge for, never an heirloom he could trade for quick cash. Sure, there was a time a few years back when he had to make a serious plea to the local bodega owner so he didn’t starve half to death, but young Orpheus was a natural born charmer. His mother would always chide that ‘Your wink and a smile could take you a mile, dear.’ Unfortunately, he was in a new situation that couldn’t really dazzle his way out of.

Fate, it turns out, could be awfully mean. When his landlord, a mysterious man who went only by Hermes and wore polished wing-tipped shoes, rapped on his door a week earlier and told him that the building would be torn down in a month’s time, Orpheus experienced a new type of panic. Hermes clapped him on the shoulder (“It’ll be alright, son.”) and for the first time, the bags under his eyes seemed more prominent, the furrowed brow showing deep worry lines. It occurred to the young man that he might’ve been losing an apartment, but Hermes was losing his livelihood.

So Orpheus wrote the old man a lovely poem and Eurydice baked him a strong attempt at what could be considered a cake, and the young couple went about packing up their small apartment. Heartbreaking couldn’t begin to describe it all, taking down the small sketches Eurydice managed to leave everywhere she went, the well-used pots and pans going into boxes, a threadbare bedspread being folded carefully. This had been their home for years. Originally, Eurydice’s, since she bought it at only fifteen years old. Not even able to legally sign the lease, the young girl with nothing but a trench coat riddled with holes on her back thrust the first three months rent into Hermes’ hand without explanation. The rent kept coming and she was a steady source of laughter in the man’s world, so he kept her around. At eighteen, a boy entered her world and became her solar system. She would sometimes steal looks at him from across the room when he wasn’t paying attention, just to see the steady breath drawing from his chest. The restless fingers, drumming every surface. The crinkle of his nose when he yawned. She looked at Orpheus like he had hung the stars in the sky just for her.

Even today, at twenty years old, the magic had not faded. Although they were still young, there was no spring in their step. The amount of toil and stress they had endured showed in minuscule ways, like when Orpheus would start biting his nails whenever the bills came in. And yet there was still undying love between the two, a fire that no one could even attempt to put out. Which is why Orpheus, for the last five months, had been planning to ask Eurydice to marry him.

It wouldn’t be elaborate, but it would be enough. With a bottle of their favorite strawberry wine and some candles, Orpheus would ensure that Eurydice would never have to worry about facing the world alone ever again. Which led to the specific problem at hand.

Every apartment in the city was far too expensive for the pair of artists. They could probably afford a room in a boarding house, if a boarding mistress would even let a space to a couple of ‘downright sinners.’ (Taken straight from the words of their next door neighbor.) Rent was simply too much everywhere they turned. However, Orpheus had a plan. A plan that had him joining the waitstaff at a local diner and standing outside of this shop, this awful pawn shop with the domineering walls and unwelcoming storefront. Orpheus curled his fist around the small box inside of his pocket and pushed the door open before his nerves turned him the other way.

The telltale soft jingle of a bell rang out in the otherwise dead quiet store. No- not dead quiet. Someone had a jazz record playing in a back room somewhere. Shelves upon shelves of items stretched out in front of the boy, baseball gloves and valuable coins and things that people just couldn’t afford to buy back. Orpheus plucked the string of a particularly handsome harp, set with golden scenes of ancient greek myths. It was missing a few strings, however. All but seven.

He kept moving throughout the store until he finally reached a glass countertop with a mess of jewelry. Grandma’s pearls, ruby earrings that would stretch your ears, impressive diamonds. A small bell waited patiently. Ring for assistance.

Green fabric and black buckled shoes swept into the picture and flashed a grand smile at him. She was what most would call an aging beauty, but she certainly was striking. Her hair seemed to spill out from underneath her pillbox hat, flowing and tumbling down in a loose braid. Crows feet and laughter lines only made her more beautiful and lively. The bright red lipstick and high cheekbones finished her face off, creating one of the most alluring women Orpheus had ever seen. He was so busy staring that he almost missed the first sentence.

“What can I do for you, dearie?” Her rough voice rang out through the quiet. It was low and enchanting and made Orpheus itch for a pen and paper.

He swallowed hard and pulled out the small box from his pocket. The blue velvet had almost rubbed away, but the true treasure was inside. A small, ornate ring set with emeralds and pearls. His dead mother’s ring. Eurydice’s would-be engagement ring. “How much can I get for this?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman stared at him for a second, her gaze piercing as they made direct eye contact. “Are you sure you want this priced?” She asked, never breaking the stare. He finally looked down, breaking the tension. Orpheus’s eyes burned as he looked at the ring. A small nod followed. She sighed heavily, patting his hand resting on the countertop. “I’ll grab the king for ya.”

Orpheus didn’t even bother questioning the odd nickname and just welcomed the silence once again. His ears strained to hear the melody once more, but it seemed as if someone had turned off the record. He ached to hear the music again.

Instead, a man in a large black trench coat slowly stepped out. He couldn’t have been much taller than Orpheus, but the overall presence was far too controlling. It was clear who had been in charge of decorating the store front. “So.” The man got directly to business. “You’d like this ring priced.”

“Yes sir.” The words escaped his throat by an act of the gods.

The man picked up the ring and held it up to the light. A long stretch of anxious waiting occurred while he inspected it from every angle, letting the stones glint light at any given chance. Once, Orpheus and his mother didn’t have much, just a meager home and some worn-down worldly possessions, but Calliope took pride in her beautiful ring. She would tell anyone who listened that it was from a king of great power, a gift when they found out that she would bare his offspring and give him the next ruler. He died, however, and left her with a newborn baby and a tale to tell. As Orpheus grew older he realized that there was nothing true in her carefully spun story of tragedy and greatness. In fact, Calliope probably didn’t know who Orpheus’s father was at all and the ring was probably a family heirloom. Orpheus was probably not left scarred when he figured all of this out.

He let all of this flash through his mind as the man carefully put the ring back into its box. “I can give you five hundred and fifty for it.”

“No.” Orpheus burst out, surprising himself. “No, I need seven hundred. Please.”

The man raised one heavy eyebrow at him and stared at the ring. “Six hundred. My final offer.”

The apartment they had managed to find was seven hundred dollars a month. They had one hundred and thirty six dollars in their savings. “Okay,” Orpheus winced. “Six hundred.”

He nodded and started to scribble on a pad of paper. “Persephone!” He called out. The beautiful woman came back, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Please ring the boy up. Six hundred, final.”

“Six hundred?” Persephone asked incredulously. The man shot her a look that scared even Orpheus, but she looked like she truly could not have been bothered. Rolling her eyes, she punched a few numbers into an ancient cash register. “Hades, the register is short two hundred.” He lowered his glasses and looked over the contents of the drawer. Counting out the money, Hades nodded slowly and then disappeared around the corner. “If it was up to me kid, you’d be getting a hell of a lot more for that ring,” she muttered.

Orpheus’s face burned. He knew that it was worth more, that it was old and well kept and that somebody would pay good money under the right circumstances, but as went the old adage: Beggars can't be choosers. “Thank you, ma’am.” He said softly, staring still at the ring.

Too soon, Hades was back and handing Orpheus an envelope filled with cash and a ticket that read 003. “You have thirty days. If you’re not back by then, I have a legal right to sell this to any customer that wishes to buy at the price that I will set.” With a final swish of the coat, the man left to the back rooms. After the metaphorical dust settled later on, Orpheus would think about what a curious encounter he had had with Hades.

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he pushed the ring box over to Persephone. She held it up to the light and watched it shine with delight in her eyes. Orpheus couldn’t help but notice the band of gray steel wrapped around her ring finger. He thought of a beginning to a poem. He knew it would never be finished.

Orpheus quickly wiped the wetness in his eyes away as she placed the ring under the counter, now shining among all of the other jewels. Persephone gave a small smile and held his hand for a fast second. “I’m rooting for you, kid. Be back in thirty days.”

Grandma’s pearls, ruby earrings that would stretch your ears, impressive diamonds. A dead mother’s ring joined the cherished and forgotten.

&&&

They both had worked so hard over the past month. Orpheus never told Eurydice where he had gotten the sudden influx of money, but she trusted him when he told her that he would take care of it.

Somehow, they managed to put down the first month’s rent and make friends with their newest landlords, three women who seemingly moved in sync and knew each other’s thoughts before they could say it aloud. Eurydice adored them. Orpheus wrote a few poems about them. They got a tray of what a kind-hearted person would call brownies and an envelope stuffed with diner napkins and scraps of paper, addressed to The Fate Sisters.

By the end of the month, Orpheus was almost electrified with anticipation. He pulled Eurydice out of the diner door and straight to the bus stop. “‘Pheus? Where’re we going?” Eurydice asked, laughing. He didn’t respond, just pulled her in and kissed her deeply. She smiled into his lips for a moment before pulling away. Orpheus was always the more fond of the two when it came to showing physical affection.

The bus left them in the middle of the main street, and he had to hold himself back from running straight to Underground Pawn. Orpheus anchored himself to the young girl’s hand as they strolled to the store, her questioning where they were going the entire walk over. A knowing smile played on his lips, but he didn’t dare disclose the secret. He couldn’t wait even a second longer. Forget the wine, the candles, forget the little details that in the end, didn’t truly matter. The second he had the ring back, he would propose to Eurydice. And it would be perfect.

The bell ding!-ed their arrival and once again, an old jazz record played in a room they couldn’t see. Orpheus hoped that the lady (Persephone?) was swaying softly to the music and trying to lure her stately husband in. He knew that the man would never join the dance.

Orpheus rang the little silver bell and nearly jumped with excitement when Persephone walked over to the back of the counter. Today she wore a deep blue blazer that had puffy sleeves and a matching pair of cigarette pants. A single red carnation was tucked into her wild curls. Her eyes lit up when she recognized the boy and she reached down to grab the box from its place in the cabinet. “You’ve returned!” She called out, joyfully.

“I did indeed.” Orpheus responded, a blush crawling up his neck. He put down the envelope and opened it up, handing her the money he owed. “This is Eurydice, and if you’ll hand me that box, I’ll soon be able to call her-”

“Now hold on a moment, Persephone,” a voice boomed out. Eurydice, already confused, (but slightly delighted, she had an idea of what was to come) jumped at the deep sound. She stared in wonder at the man with the all black suit, a single red carnation tucked into his breast pocket. As both Persephone and Orpheus froze at the sound of his voice, Eurydice couldn’t help but wonder what having that much power would be like. Just as soon as she thought it, Orpheus tightened his grip on her hand and brought her back to reality.

Hades crossed his arms. “Now I thought I made it clear, young man. Thirty days.”

Orpheus knitted his brows together. “It has been thirty days.”

“July thirtieth to August twenty ninth is not thirty days. If my math adds up, which it does, that’d be thirty one days.” Orpheus felt his heart sink as Hades took the ring and placed it back into the display case, this time under the section that did not read Not For Sale. “If you’d like it back, son, it’ll be fifteen hundred.”

“Hades-” Persephone started, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand.

“You signed the contract.” Hades stated, the finality in his tone.

Eurydice tugged on Orpheus’s arm. “‘Pheus, let’s just go. It’s okay.” He grabbed her hand and held it tight.

“Is there any way you can make an exception?” He asked, his tone pleading.

Maybe Eurydice imagined it, but there was a hint of glee when Hades shook his head and swept himself out of the room. Persephone let her shoulders drop for a second, and suddenly the crows feet and laughter lines didn’t seem as beautiful to Orpheus. Maybe they were frowning lines, too. Maybe she wasn’t simply an enchantress. Maybe Persephone had her share of struggles too.

“I’m really sorry, kid.” She sighed, all three of them staring at the box. “Do you at least want to see it?” Persephone directed the question toward Eurydice, who’s eyes widened at the suggestion.

“No.” She answered simply. There was no point in wishing for something you couldn’t have. Tugging on Orpheus’s hand, she began to explore the shelves of items, picking up collectible mugs and laughing at the signed pictures of people she did not recognize. He followed behind her, solemn and dragging his feet.

What would his mother have thought?

Finally they came upon the entry of the store, where Orpheus would have to walk out without a ring, a fiancee, or any hope at all. “Orpheus, look!” Eurydice called out. She was staring at the harp, trying to name all of the stories etched on the surface. “...and I think that one is Apollo and-”

“Let’s buy it.” Orpheus breathed. The price tag read two hundred, but the smile on her face made it priceless in his eyes. Beaming, Eurydice grabbed it off the shelf.

She dinged the bell a few dozen times before Persephone flew in and slammed her hand over Eurydice’s. “Hun, you’re cute and all, but you gotta not pull that shit.” She raised an eyebrow at the instrument Orpheus was awkwardly holding. “You interested?”

“Yes.” Eurydice smiled. “We want the harp.”

Persephone smiled as she began ringing them up. “It’s actually a lyre. Ancient thing, probably needs a good tuning, but real pretty.” The receipt was just a scrap of paper with some confirmation scribbled on it, but it meant that the lyre was actually theirs to keep. “Enjoy it, kids.” Persephone waved the young couple off, her tired eyes watching as they practically ran to the door. She spun her wedding band around her finger as she went to turn the record player back on.

&&&

The second they got outside, Orpheus ripped a string from the lyre. Eurydice gasped in shock, but watched as he fiddled with the string until it made a neat band. He slowly got down on one knee before swallowing, hard.

“‘Rydice. I can’t promise you diamonds and pearls, but I swear to the gods that you will never be alone. You will always have someone to fight for you, no matter the situation, no matter the battle, no matter the enemy. I will stand by your side through rain and snow, and tempers and fights. Some days we might starve. Others we might freeze. But I promise to never let the outside world in. I promise they will never get close enough to hurt you. I can promise all of these things if you promise to be my wife.” Orpheus thought for a moment. “Hell, I’ll protect you with my dying breath even if you say no. I love you, Eurydice.”

She took him by the shoulders and stood him up. Eurydice kissed him like it was her last chance. The lyre lay next to them, momentarily forgotten.

&&&

“Wait. What are we gonna do with this?” Eurydice asked, holding the lyre and eyeing the remaining six strings. “It’s broken.”

Orpheus picked it up and carefully looked it over. He started to pluck a melody out, slowly and carefully.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to make use of it.” The repeated music became more sure and steady under his nimble fingers. “Lover, when I sing my song…”

um i'm proud of this one. also please leave a comment and i will go to hell for you when the king of hell basically steals you and strike a deal with the king of hell but at the last minute i do the exact thing that i wasn't supposed to do and i have to leave you in hell. anyways please rb.

#hadestown #hadestown musical #hadestown on broadway #hadestown off broadway #orpheus hadestown #orpheus #eurydice hadestown #eurydice #orpheus and eurydice #orphydice #Persephone #persephone hadestown #hades #hades hadestown #hades and persephone #hadestown fanfic #hadestown au #my writing

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lilsoshie · 5 years

Text

Together in Santorini

This story is dedicated to @plueschpop and her amazing moodboard

read on AO3

Everyone is 18+

---

After a stressful few weeks of business deals and contracts, Tony felt high strung and in need of a breather. They had been flying around Europe for over two weeks now and Santorini was their last stop.

It was a beautiful island in Greece where the sky and sea merged together in calming blue, it made Tony feel like he was floating and drowning at the same time. The view from his hotel allowed him to see the smaller islands that surrounded the ageless city, yachts and ships littered the coast.

Pepper insisted that he should take in the sites while he was here to help him unwind.

“And who knows Tony, maybe you’ll actually enjoy yourself for a change?” she jokes as she shooed him away.

Which is how Tony found himself wondering the streets by himself, soaking up the beauty of the city. He admired the way the city shone in the sun, a startling white against the cerulean sky.

He had ditched his suite for a white short sleeved cotton shirt, light grey shorts and brown loafers, accompanied by a white panama hat and black sunglasses.

We choose a path at random and begins his trek down the island.

Eventually the cobble paved street leads him to a local museum, like most of the city, it was made of white stone, but this building gave of an antediluvian feel to it. He ran his hand over the columns at the entrance and hummed in appreciation at how, after hundreds of years, they have remained intact and strong.

He slowly paces inside with his arms held behind his back and takes in the artefacts that are on display. There’s an ancient pottery set with farmers painted on them, an old fire kiln with all its weathered cooking equipment, tiled mosaics on the wall displaying an ancient map of the city and much, much more. It was all very fascinating.

He entered the main exhibit and marvelled at the statues that filled the room. Some were polished and clean like they had been made just yesterday, while others had started to crumble due to corrosion, yet still held a powerful presence to them.

Backing up to gaze up at a particularly big statue of an old philosopher, Tony bumped into someone behind him, sending whatever the person was holding all over the floor.

“Shit I’m sorry, I’m-” Tony turns and is stunned by the image in front of him.

At first, he thought he had bumped into one of the beautiful statues on display but after rubbing his eyes he realises that it is in fact an attractive young man. A young man with stunning brown eyes that bore into Tony’s soul like he was standing there naked with all his secrets to bare.

“I’m, I’m Tony!” He grimaced at how he blurted that out but gave the boy a half smile. “Tony Stark.”

The stranger tucked one of his unruly soft curls back behind his ear as he graced Tony with the most charming smile he had ever seen.

“Oh, that’s ok,” he offers a hand covered in black smudges to Tony. “I’m Peter by the way, Peter Parker.”

Tony looks at the hand stunned, still not quite with it. Peter gasps seeing the mess on his hands. He rubs them furiously on his denim shorts before offering it again, still smiling from ear to ear.

“Sorry I was sketching with charcoal and my hands got messy.”

Tony takes the hand this time, not wanting to leave the boy hanging and unconsciously rubs his thumb over Peter’s, who’s smile only seemed to widen. He lets go of the hand and steps backwards and knocks his foot against something. Frowning he looks down to see, what he assumes, is Peter’s art supplies.

At once they both bend down to pick them up only for Tony to place his hand on top of Peter’s when reaching for the same pencil. They both stare at each other before Tony abruptly stands up, hugging his hand to his chest. Tony mumbles another apology as Peter scoops up the rest of his supplies.

As soon as everything was gathered, the boy looks up at him curiously with inquisitive eyes. Tony fidgets under the stare for what felt like an eternity. Eventually the boy smiles again and sticks out his hand as a peace offering. Tony takes it and gently pulls the boy off the ground.

“So,” Tony asks trying to break the awkwardness of the situation. “You draw, do you?”

Peter sees Tony eyeing off his sketch book, grins and offers it to the man with pride.

“Yes, I’m here for a bit of an artist retreat, so to speak.”

Tony flips through the pages of miscellaneous sketches, most of them were sketches of the building and temples in Santorini but as Tony explores the book, he finds himself smiling at the drawings of the locals. There were some lovely ones, all drawn in natural poses, like a moment in time captured on paper.

Peter beams when he points to a picture of a little girl holding hands with an older lady.

“This one is my favourite.” Tony glances up at the boy. “I found the girl crying, she had been separated from her family. I ended up keeping her company until her mother finally found her.”

Peter hugs his supplies tighter to his chest with a relaxed sigh.

“They were so happy to find each other again. With the risk of sounding cheesy, you could feel the love they had for each other. I just had to get it down on paper.”

Tony just watches Peter and how he lights up while retelling all the stories behind the sketches. He feels a warmth pooling in his stomach. It gives him a sense on serenity, like all his stress from the past few weeks have all but vanished, leaving him feeling a renewed energy.

He wanted more.

“Come sailing with me?” he says before his brain could catch up

Peter’s head snaps to look up at Tony

“Pardon?”

“Come sailing with me?” Tony repeats but with more confidence. “I’m only here for a short time and I would love to have you keep me company.”

The boy gifts Tony with his smile once more, he suspects that he is starting to become addicted to the mesmerising gesture.

“I would love to.”

---

The sun is high, the day is warm, and the smell of sea air is strong as Tony guides the little white yacht that he hired across crystal clear waters. the wind is faint so the vessel glides smoothly.

Peter is leaning against the railing on the bow, laughing as a sturdy breeze picks up and tussles his hair about. Every now and then he’d sketch something he sees in the distance.

Tony notices that he worries his bottom lip between his teeth when he concentrates on his work, a pink tongue darting out every so often. The minute Peter catches Tony observing him drawing, a faint red hue graces the boy’s cheeks before he turns back to his sketching, hiding a small smile behind his book.

Eventually Tony finds a nice private area and anchors the yacht is place.

As he does so, he hears a faint rustling, the pitter patter of feet on the deck and then a loud whoop followed by a splash. Peter emerges from the water gleefully and pushes his hair back out of his face.

He is completely naked.

Creamy white skin glows from the light reflecting off the water’s surface as he swims backwards, absorbing the sun. The sea provides no cover and Tony can see everything. He swallows a gulp as he stares down at the most beautiful individual he has ever encountered. His eyes trace the boy’s slender waist, up his flat stomach, past his pastel pink nipples and his mouth is left dry when he watches the boy’s adam's apple bob as he talks, what about Tony can’t remember as he is too busy devouring the boy in his mind.

After doing a small lap, Peter waves over at Tony, beckoning him to join him.

“Come on Tony,” he practically purrs. “The water is amazing.”

Without skipping a beat, Tony undresses and jumps in after the young man, the sea is brisk against his warm skin. Peter giggles as Tony emerges and splashes water at him lightheartedly.

“Oh? Is that how we’re playing?” Tony smirks at the boy and throws a handful of water into his face.

Peter lets out a surprised Oh face then his eyes sparkle mischievously. He brings both hands in and creates a big wave that splashes Tony back and takes off before the man could react. Realising Peter was swimming away Tony let out a playfully growl and chases after him.

Peter swam towards the yacht but was grabbed before he could reach the ladder, he lets out a loud squeal as Tony tickles the boy from behind.

“Stop…ha-ha…please!” Peter cries turning around to face Tony, laughing at the onslaught. “Please I yield! Ha-ha, I yield!”

As they both start to calm down, both grinning stupidly at each other, Tony is made painfully aware that he is holding a very naked Peter against his own very naked body. All laughter dies as the mood shifts to something more intimate. Peter’s hair falls over his hooded eyes and Tony can’t help but brush the strands aside so he can drown in their murky depths.

He runs a splayed hand over the smoothness of Peter’s back, dragging it up to join his other hand in the wet mess of curls. Gently, he angles the boys head, eyes shifting from Peter’s to his slightly pouty lips. A soft exhale of a content sigh is all the permission the man needs.

Tony’s lips meet Peter’s, they’re wet and taste of the sea. At first the kiss is slow, the tender movement of simply sweeping their lips together. The boy delicately mouths at Tony’s bottom lips, nose brushing against each other, inhaling as the kiss deepens.

They pull apart for air and stare searchingly at each other before joining again, this time more desperately. Peter holds them up with one arm clinging to the rails behind him as Tony grinds their bodies closer. Water stirs in their frantic display of affection, creating small waves that ripple against the yacht.

A bite on the boy’s lips causes him to gasp, granting access for Tony’s tongue. His mouth tasted sweet and warm, a stark contrast to his lips. The feeling drags a moan out of him as his cock twitches to life against the boy’s stomach.

Without breaking the kiss, Tony reaches for Peter’s own erect penis, it fits perfectly in his hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze, his thumb flicking over the slit a few times. The boy whines urgently at his ministration, pulling away from the kiss to pant breathlessly while leaning his head on the back of the yacht.

The cries of pleasure remind Tony of an old sea tale about sirens, luring men to their deaths with their enchanted voices while out at sea. Tony muses, while he slowly pumps the cock in his grip, that he would follow Peter willingly, even if it meant his own demise.

Soon Tony hooks his leg on the bottom rung of the ladder that’s submerged in the water and positions Peter, so that the boy is straddling his thigh, cocks pressed firmly against one another. With one hand placed safely on the Peter’s hip, keeping them as stable as possible, he uses the other to grip them both together. The pleasure of the hold jolting down their spines.

Starting with a soft, slow pump, getting used to the feel of both cocks in his hand, his head falls forward, face tucking into the boys exposed neck. He mouths absently at the skin as he struggles to stop his hips from twitching and rutting forward. His lust and desire are nearly overwhelming, but for Peter he would go slow. For Peter he would be gentle.

After a few beats of winded pleas and steady grunts, Tony picks up the pace. He can feel Peter gripping the rails for dear life as his own hand tightens on the boy’s milky hips, fingers bruising the delicate skin. Peter twists and turns at the carnality of it all.

“Please Tony?” a broken sob escapes his parted lips. The boy’s eyes bore into him once again, tears beginning to form from the intensity of their building climax. He can slowly feel his control slipping through his fingers.

With a feverish moan, Tony strokes faster, encouraging Peter to move with the thrusts. The water is now churning with their rapid movements, drops of water splashing their faces, but they’re too far gone to care.

He can feel the telltale signs, the knot forming in his stomach as the heat grows like a fire coursing through his body. His foot almost slips off the ladder as the desire begins to engulf him. The sharp sting of Peter’s nails bite into his shoulder, dragging out a deep groan from within, the pain only heightens the pleasure.

Tony comes hard with the boy’s name spilling from his lips, his hips bucking upwards chasing his own orgasm, his eye clamped shut as the euphoria filled him up leaving him senseless. Peter’s whimpers are cut short as the boy follows through with his own seed mixing with Tony’s, only to be washed away into the sea, the only evidence left of their act was the tears that feel freely down Peter’s cheek.

Peter finally loses his grip on the ladder and collapses against Tony with a sated sigh, he weakly manages to give a lopsided smile. He looked stunning holding onto Tony as they float in the sea, with his flushed face and wet cheeks. With a calloused thumb, Tony can’t help but brush the drying tears away and look at the boy is stunned awe.

A slight wind brings them back down to earth, causing them to shiver slightly from the cool air.

Tony leans in and places his forehead against Peter’s and gives him a slow kiss, then another and one more for the hell of it.

“Maybe we should get back on the yacht and dry ourselves off?” He breathes softly against the boy’s lips, wanting to kiss them again, to never stop, he’s been cast under a spell and these lips were the cure.

Peter nods silently and turns to begin his climb, leaving Tony with a close-up view of the boy’s ample backside, water drips down his torso, the sun making it glisten seductively, a bruise already forming on the pale skin. Tony wonders how many times this kid could leave he speechless today.

---

Tony lay stretched out on the dock, naked and spent from the third round of sex, his arousal finally quenched. He had his back to the setting sun and his head in his arms, drifting on and off from sleep. The sound of scratching stirs him awake and he sleepily turns his face sideways to inspect the noise.

Peter is sat against the railings with a white sheet draped around him, his knees pulled up to his chest and he is scribbling happily in his art book, his tongue doing that thing Tony loves. He gives Tony a warm smile when he sees he is awake.

He crawls over and kisses him tenderly before Tony sits himself up and pulls the kid in for a hug. He rests his head in the crook of Peter’s neck and sneaks a peek at the sketch book still in his lap.

They’re all sketches of Tony, mostly of him sleeping. A warm feeling pulls at his heart strings as he traces the pictures with his fingers.

“Come back with me.” Tony pleads against the boy’s curls, now soft and dry again. “I don’t want this to be our only time together.”

Peter pulls away slightly so he can look Tony in the eye, he looks…sad

“I can’t Tony.” he caresses his face warmly, threading his fingers through his beard, his thumb delicately strokes his lower lip. Tony plants a forlorn kiss to his palm, holding it against him with his own hand.

“I came here for a break before I start college. It’s important for me to go back.”

Tony nods his head empathetically, he knew they’d have to return to reality soon enough, he couldn’t just abandon his company either.

“Are you studying art?” he questions while he makes a notion towards Peter’s book.

Peter just chuckles, shaking his head a little.

“No, this is just for fun,” he massages the pages of the book like an old lover. “I’m actually studying biochemistry at MIT.”

Tony freezes.

“No way…” he manages to say after a while of staring at the boy with his mouth gaping like a fish. He couldn’t believe his luck. “my main office is in New York, I’m like four hours away from you!”

Or shorter if Tony takes one of his private planes.

It takes a few seconds but Tony watches as realisation dawns on the boy.

He gasps as he is knocked back onto the deck when Peter launches himself at him with a flurry of emotions, showering him with kisses all over his face. Hot wet tears begin to fall from his eyes which Tony happily kisses away.

“Does that mean we can keep seeing each other?” Peter asks imploringly, searching Tony’s face for an answer.

“Only if you want to Sweet.”

“Yes!” Peter yells out to the sky with a gleeful laugh. “A thousand times yes!”

The laugh is contagious and soon Tony is laughing too.

Who would've thought that taking a stroll would lead him to this?

As he leans in to kiss Peter, Tony reminds himself to give Pepper a raise.

#starker #tony stark x peter parker

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quitethepirategal · 5 years

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Alphabet Headcanons!

List a headcanon that correlates with each letter of the English Alphabet. Can you list that many? It’s harder than it looks! Any tidbit of information counts, from the simplest fun fact to the lengthiest lore!

A - Red Jessica is an Aries. Her moon sign is Taurus and her rising is Leo. She’s also a cusp baby, giving her Pisces leanings.

B - She has quite a few books in her massive library, but her favorites are The Art of War, Anthony and Cleopatra, On the Origin of Species, The Prince, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Frankenstein, and Treasure Island. She reads more textbooks than anything else tho. She really wants to like Jane Austin but she just... can’t. ( unrelated, I was trying to figure which Shakespeare play would be Jess’s fav and found this. Y’all I screamed. )

C - Cats are her favorite animal. Any kind of cat. The grace, the lore, the silliness, the toe beans; they’re majestic little idiots and she loves them. She has two of her own. Sasha and Rosie. Jessica’s loved cats since she first made friends with one as a very little girl and she remembers every cat she’s ever had or been friends with. Her first cat was an alley cat that followed her around that she uncreatively named Katjie

D - Dutch Afrikaans and English are her native languages, she grew up speaking both. However, she hasn’t really needed to speak Afrikaans since her mother died, and is no longer fluent as a result. Her first word was “Ahoy” but her second word was “geld.”

E - Red Jessica has some ridiculous eating antics, as a result of living in starvation from birth to late childhood and living as a pirate from then on. She can bite directly into onions and garlic cloves as if they were apples, will eat ( or save ) the bones and fat of any meaty meal, can eat an entire apple- core included, loves to eat or chew on citrus peels and raw herb leaves, has a somewhat high tolerance for both spicy things and alcohol, and, like all pirates, has learned to tolerate most rotten/stale/moldy/expired food. On top of that, her pursuit in studying biology and botany crowns her as probably the ONLY person in all of the Neversea who knows what nutrition is and how it works. Also eating avocados make her ears itch.

F - One of Jessica’s signature mannerisms is putting her fists up by her face. When excited or overjoyed she’ll shake them and when shes shy she’ll kind of hide her smile with them. She rests her chin on her fists, holds them still by her jaw when waiting in suspense, and its immediately where her fists fly to when startled or snuck up on ( with the exception of when shes armed, to which her hands fly to her hilt or holster ). This mannerism makes complete and total sense considering shes a trained kick boxer.

G - Gardening is her absolute favorite stress reliever and you can pry it from her cold dead hands. Just bury your problems in the dirt my dude.

H - Her curly ginger hair is certainly one of the first things you notice about her and she takes very good care of it; a wash every two days, plenty of oils, vinegar once a week for dandruff. Her curl type is 3a.

I - Red Jessica is a closeted artist and frequently engages in illustration, and while this mostly comes in handy for taking illustrative botanical notes, her other favorite subject is the human figure. Specifically, the human figure of people she finds attractive or has a crush on. And if you ask she’d be happy to try and draw you! Though she isn’t what you would call amazing she is somewhat talented- with her drawings having very technical, anatomical, and minimalist influences. She also like to sketch pastoral scenes when out in her fields.

J - Jessica was a name her father picked out, naming her after his first love.

K - She remembers her first kill. At 13 she was involved in a skirmish and lunged at a man out from under a table with a rapier. She remembers the exact look on his face, and recalls it with pride. First kill is a right of passage to pirates.

L - Jessica’s love language is all over the place, but can be narrowed down to gifts, words, and quality time. Arrogant suitors, take note because Jess will literally never shut up about you; she will brag about you, remind you of your achievements, praise you for your talents, be proud of you, will show you off, insist to EVERYBODY that you’re the best, and in some cases, spoil you. This goes for friends too, of course but this all goes especially for whoever she has a crush on or is courting her. She JUST!! LOVES STROKING PEOPLE’S EGOS!! Speaking of spoiling, she’s a total gift giver. No reason or occasion needed whatsoever; she is the QUEEN of “ I was thinking of you so I got you a little something.”

M - Jessica is really really weird when it comes to materialism. At a first glance, shes as avaricious as they come. She hoards beauty in the form of an art collection that graces her fine chateau’s halls and eminence gardens of gorgeous flowers. She is a little crazy about treasure too, never missing an opportunity to treasure hunt, and has been known to loan-shark a time or two. But in actuality, as made apparent through getting to know her, she isn’t really greedy or possessive at all. Yes she loves pretty things and yes she is great at making money but believe me when I say that she is in the treasure hunt for the hunt more so than for the treasure. Were she somehow to loose it all, money, island, treasure, everything, she’d be more concerned that whoever took her priceless art won’t take care of it. In the best laid plans of mice and men, Jess is totally a mouse. She’s lived the majority of her life owning nothing but the clothes she had on so, she’d just cut her losses and start over… come to think of it being wealthy is a bit boring…

N - Jessica has never been to Neverland. In my canon, only one pirate ( Hook ) was brave enough to ever set foot on that cursed island. Red Jessica, like the rest of the neverpirates, are too afraid. Most heard tales of an unbeatable foe and that the island itself is watching you, and that’s enough to keep Jessica away.

O - Oranges are her all time favorite food. She’ll eat anything with orange in it. Second favorite is crab or lobster. Third is pineapple chili sauce.

P - Her Myers-Briggs personality type is ESTP- a, the Entrepreneur.

Q - Jessica was Dread Pirate Grace O’Malley’s quartermaster. There are 9 Dread Pirates in the Neversea, each one being a legendary pirate of old, and they have the power to grant only the most talented pirates among them recognized captainship.

R - Red Jessica is is short for Red Handed Jessica for no reason other than I am Peter Pan ( 2003 ) trash.

S - Red Jessica’s crew is a sisterhood of sorts. While she is authoritarian and a captain to be feared, Jessica is friends with everybody in her crew and trusts them with her life. Her ship, The Rose, is practically a floating sorority; complete with weird traditions, gossip, gag rivalries, inside jokes, hazing, and the occasional prank. She even aids in getting them dates ( pro wingman right here ) and babysits some of their kids. Granted, they haven’t done much sailing or piracy in some time. But they all live comfortable lives on Crimson Isle, and they’ll be ready to sail should the need arise.

T - Jessica tends to trust people a tad too quickly and “give too much away” so to speak. It’s gotten her into trouble and even gotten her heart broken a time or two; but for some reason she never learns. She’d like to think she’s great at keeping secrets and to a degree, she is… but I wouldn’t trust her with any of mine- that I will say.

U - Oppenheimer, a pirate in the crew of the Flying Frigate ( in the movie the Pirate Fairy ) is her uncle.

V - Jess finds that she spends most of her days in her vineyard. She’s perfected the growing of grapes and timely shipments of wine, but now shes tinkering with how different aspects of growth effect flavor.

W - Jessica, whether she’s aware or not, is capable of being attracted to women. But she’s never really had any female partners. She’s not homophobic and wasn’t raised in an environment that was homophobic ( pirates pretty much love and sleep with whoever they want to ) it’s just ...never occurred to her to date women. Most of the reasons as to why are subconscious maternal issues but in short, Jess already has difficulty separating different kinds of love. Friendship and romantic love kinda... feel the same. She really only knows how to love one way and she can never tell if a woman is being friendly or flirty, much less if SHE’S being friendly or flirty. For this reason I’ve always labeled her as a questioning bisexual or a heteroflexible...

X - Her most recent botanical experiments revolve around xenogamy, also known as cross pollination. And just to flex, she’s also a huge xenophile for both Spanish and Chinese culture.

Y - Yellow is her second favorite color after red. Pink is her third and emerald green is her forth.

Z - In Jake and the Neverland Pirates, we see a type of rose called a Zebra Rose. While no such flower exists in actuality, I’d like to believe this is a result of some of Jess’s experiments - the medicinal purpose being to combat itching and irritation.

Tagged By - nobody

Tagging - @emcads @shiningsilverarmor @ofrcvenge @hunterhuntcd @youthflight @rcinbowconnection @jesterabandoned @inhxrmony @captainxhaddock @forvistxkonge @mcnsieur and you!!!

#did i just waste two hours bc i had a dumb idea #.....yes #x; WHY AREN'T YOU A CLEVER ONE? { meta }#x; EVER PLAYED CRAZY EIGHTS? { dash games }

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tasharii · 5 years

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Your Colors: Chapter 11

A/N: This chapter wasn't supposed to be a thing. I was halfway through chapter 12 and realized I wanted some things to happen before what I was writing. But this part was too long to shove all in chapter 12... SO here we are.

Enjoy~

Summary: Art was the one good thing between college, work, and the grey minutes in-between. Sometimes, it felt like she wasn’t alive at all. Just drifting. When she joined her new art class, she never expected to start experiencing everything in an entirely new light. All thanks to him. Or: Where Bucky Barnes gets more than he bargained from his new drawing partner.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 4.5K

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, relationship angst, fluff

Masterlist

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

****

Towel in hand, she ruffled it through her damp hair, trying to get out as much water as she could. One of Bucky’s shirts hung loosely down to her hips, over the leggings she’d brought with her. They were clean enough that she didn’t feel the need to steal a pair of his shorts. The dark blue shirt had Coney Island proudly written on the front and felt soft against her flushed skin. Threadbare and loved. Long sleeves hung past her palms, bunched up around her fingers. It smelt like him and a glowing sort of satisfaction filled up the tired parts of her soul.

The rhythmic sound of water dripping from the showerhead drifted to her ears as she hummed quietly to herself. The mirror was fogged over except for the small patch she wiped away. Draping the towel over the rack in his bathroom, she carded her fingers through her hair, shaking it out and messing it up. The ends curled and soaked water into the fabric of her shirt, but it was dry enough. Steam wisped out the door behind her as she walked out into the small hall. Delicious traces of food floated down to her and lead her to the kitchen.

Bucky glanced up from his spot on the couch, flicking through Netflix. A plate of food balanced in his lap and his eyes traced over her before he smiled, “Microwave.” Lazily, he pointed with the remote, and she wordlessly nodded. It took her a second to tear her eyes off him and pad over to the microwave. The floor was cold under her bare feet. Inside, she found an omelet, toast, and bacon. It smelt so good that her mouth instantly started to water.

After getting a fork, Y/N plopped down on the couch beside him and sat a cup of juice in front of her on the table. Squawking in protest, Bucky barely managed to keep from spilling his glass of milk from her bouncing on the couch. Immediately, she dug into the omelet and groaned obscenely at the flavor. Her eyes widened, and she looked over at him in surprise, “Where did you learn to cook like this?” She asked, voice muffled by the food she was still chewing. It was completely unfair.

Sparks of pride made him preen with a self-satisfied little smirk, giving a half shrug, “I had to cook for my sister and dad after mom died. Then for Steve once I moved out cause he’s useless in a kitchen.” He snorted a laugh, flipping the remote between his hands, “And once I started working at Rosalie’s I had to learn some more. Mrs. Rosy wouldn’t have it any other way. The place is small, so almost everyone picks up baking shifts every now and again. After you get her stamp of approval anyway.” Bucky finished off his piece of toast, dusting crumbs off his fingers. Jelly clung to the corner of his mouth and he licked it off when she pointed to it, smirking.

They ate in companionable silence, conversation flowing in and out. As easy as lazy ocean tides. The conversation ranged from her classes, to his job, and some memories of when they were kids and snow days used to be consequence free and fun.

Too full for her own good, Y/N helped him clean up the few dishes. Rinsing as he washed.

Once everything was straightened back up, Bucky started sorting through his collection of videogames. He hummed to himself as he went, prattling off different games that he had and options for them to play. Y/N knew enough to appreciate his expensive console and shelves of various games from all different sorts of genres. They settled on a multiplayer zombie game and Bucky handed her a controller. Within 20 minutes she managed to get him killed, much to his dismay. They were supposed to be on a team, but he took it so seriously that she couldn’t resist tripping him up.

Y/N enjoyed videogames but didn’t have as much time as she would like to play them. A lot of her love came from all the artistic work that went into creating the best games. Every game she ever saw or played, she always broke down what they’d likely done to create such beautiful graphics. Tried to learn what she could to apply to her own art.

“Do you think you could actually survive a zombie apocalypse?” Y/N asked, sitting back in her seat and letting the controller rest in her lap. Her knee knocked against his from where he sat slouched forward on the cushions, elbows on his thighs. It was warm enough in his apartment that she felt comfortable in just his long sleeve shirt. From far off, she could hear the beeping of a snowplow as it worked in the street. Hopefully it would be clear enough for Bucky to still take her home later. The light was shifting to gold from the window, the clouds finally clearing enough for the midday sun to poke through.

Bucky glanced at her from his peripherals then nodded, “Ya, I think I could handle it. Especially if I got to Steve and we partnered up. Just have to get to a secure location with nearby resources.” He cursed and clicked furiously at his controller, managing to clear away a hoard of zombies running after his character. Tongue poked out slightly in concentration, he leaned even further off the edge of the couch, entranced.

An understanding hum left her, and she huffed, “I think I’d die within the first week.” Smashing the buttons of her controller, she tried to beat her way through the group of undead that surrounded her character. Doomed, she held her breath and waited for her health bar to bottom out. Completely tapped of bullets and nothing left but a bat with nails. Blood sprayed all around as she wacked as many as she could in the head. Bucky’s character ran back to her and he shot down most of the hoard, giving her a path to run.

“I wouldn’t let that happen.” He stated, giving her a wicked grin that had her toes curling under her thighs. The smile made his eyes flicker with life and he pointedly shot another zombie about to bite her. Point made, he knocked his shoulder against her own playfully, “See?”

A blush crawled down her neck and she looked away, back to the game where they were entering a worn-down hospital. Part of her mind drifted to the anxious pool filling her stomach. Nothing had really changed since their talk that morning. Aside from the small kiss before her shower, they weren’t doing anything new. Hadn’t kissed, or cuddled, or any of the things she’d thought would happen once that barrier had been brought down.

Gasping, Y/N jerked when a corpse fell from the ceiling. An obvious jump scare and she scowled at Bucky when he cackled at her. Leaning forward, she picked up a piece of popcorn and tossed it at him. He swatted at it, but she managed to bounce it off his forehead. A satisfied smirk filled her lips, until he threw a few pieces back at her in return. Popcorn snagged in her hair and she fished it out and tossed it at his obnoxiously laughing face. Then he caught it in his mouth.

“Ew!” She grimaced, and he just winked at her, turning back to the game. He gathered up a few of the pieces scattered on the couch and just ate those too. Side eyeing him, not trusting him to behave, she tried to pay attention to the creepy hospital. Every so often another jump scare would get her, but she ignored his snickers. As their characters got closer to the next checkpoint, her mind started drifting again.

It wasn’t that she expected him to suddenly turn into a gooey romantic or anything, that just wasn’t him. But part of her worried that she’d cornered him into agreeing to be in a relationship. Because he was afraid of losing her if they stayed just friends. Insecurities stirred in her like a waking monster just under the surface, and she kept shoving them away. It was irrational. Logically she knew that, but the invasive thoughts slithered in anyway.

Especially when he hadn’t even told her how he felt about her. Bucky had never outright said he cared about her more than as a friend. It was always her feelings that got dumped out in front of them like a specimen under a microscope. And now she was looking for any sign to ease the self-doubt coming awake inside her stomach. If she let those feelings take up too much control, it wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

Letting out a slow breath, Y/N asked, “What were you and Steve talking about this morning?” Any conversation to get her out of her head was good conversation. The remote in her hands felt sweaty from her holding it too tightly for too long. Distracted, she wiped her palms on the tops of her thighs.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes blazed with concentration as he focused on the game. Controller in hand, she picked up her soda can from the table, the condensation cooling her fingers as she took a drink. When he still didn’t reply, she lightly bumped her knee against his, jostling him.

“He just wanted to make sure I was ready for our trip over the New Year.” Bucky supplied. When Y/N raised her eyebrows at him in silent question, he paused the game and set his controller on the table, “Every year we meet up with our friends at Tony’s cabin in California. It’s near the Squaw Valley Ski Resort.” He picked up the actual bowl of popcorn and started munching. Noticing a few crumbs on the couch, Bucky dusted them into the floor.

“Tony has his own cabin?” She asked, mind spinning at how much money that man had to have. It took her a second to realize that he was talking about the billionaire Tony Stark. She wasn’t used to hearing anyone refer to the successor of Stark Industries so casually. Peter would die if he knew that Bucky was so close with Stark that they took vacations together. Probably die instantly from a straight shot of jealousy.

Bucky nodded, licking some of the shining butter off his thumb, “It’s huge too. Usually it’s just the 6 of us for a week. Then everyone else comes up for the big New Years Eve party he throws.” Satisfied, he sat the bowl of side and washed the snack down with a drink of his soda. He wiped the condensation of his sweats, licking his shining lips clean of salt.

Y/N had known that Bucky of course had friends, but her mind spun with questions about the friends he spent a week with every year. She took another drink, tracing a finger down the side of the can as she asked, “So you, Steve, and Tony…” She trailed off, hoping he might fill in the rest.

Bucky sat his drink out of the way and started tapping the names off on his fingers, “Natasha, Bruce, and Clint.” He paused and stretched out his legs, letting a foot rest on the ground while he tucked the other up on the couch, “This year I think Pepper might come for a couple days.”

Of course, she was aware of Pepper, the CEO of Stark Industries and Tony’s fiancé. It only made sense that she was coming. The other names sounded entirely unfamiliar. He’d never mentioned any of them before. Which made her even more curious.

Eyes drifting towards the sky, Bucky hummed in thought, “Clint’s wife only comes for the party. Nobody’s dating anyone new. So that should be it.” He smirked, “Which is a good thing. We’re brutal on new relationships.”

Y/N tilted her head to the side in confusion, “I thought Steve was dating someone?” Her fingers carefully brushed through her drying hair, untangling it as she went. She was pleasantly surprised at how soft his condition had made it.

Bucky shrugged, “Didn’t work out. She broke up with him.” When her expression faded into something empathetic and sad, he explained, “Steve works a lot, and his job always comes first. It’ll take a special girl to put up with his bullheaded work ethic.”

“Is he ok?” She asked, fingers snagging on a tangle. Feet tingling with pins and needles, she stretched her legs out, adjusting a pillow behind her. Bucky’s eyes flickered to her feet, and before she could blink, he situated them in his lap. He was still facing her on the couch, and his right hand lightly brushed the bone of her ankle. Instantly, she felt warm and a shy smile accompanied the soft blush across her features.

Bucky’s eyes dragged over her, and a tiny hint of a smile flickered in his eyes as he studied her in his shirt. Then he cleared his throat, as if to put his own thoughts back on track, “Oh ya. They weren’t together that long. He’s had worse breakups.” He propped his head up on his left arm against the couch, softened by his plush jacket. Eyes far away, he smiled at a memory, “One year, Steve actually brought this girl he had been dating for a few months with him on our trip. By the end of the week, she was seriously questioning his sanity.”

Eyes wide, she had to press her lips together to keep from grinning, “Your friends are really that bad…?” She crossed her arms, watching him with amused curiosity. Her toe poked his thigh, feeling the soft material of his sweats. He flicked her toe and she snorted a laugh, kicking playfully at his hand.

Mischief flickered through his eyes and he smirked, nodding, “Oh ya. Tony’s the worst, but we’re all pretty guilty. Clint convinced her to take a trip down a Black diamond slope. She ended up having to crawl down with Steve’s help.” His eyes drifted to the side in thought, “Nat grilled her on everything you could imagine. Not that she had to, she’d already done her research. Just did it to see if she’d lie.”

“And what did you do?” Y/N asked slowly, suspicious. Bucky gave her an innocent, wide eyed look and pointed at himself. In response, she lightly kicked at his hand and narrowed her eyes. Obviously not believing the façade, he huffed a breath, deflating.

“I didn’t have to do much. The girl was too snotty for him.” Bucky scratched at his messy hair, pushing it off his forehead, “She kept trying to ask me about him. Get to know me since I’m his best guy. I didn’t bother humoring her, and she got ticked off, but kept hiding it from him. I didn’t like how two-faced she was, so I pushed until she showed how she actually felt.”

A beat of silence fell, and she hummed in understanding. It only made sense that Bucky was protective over Steve. And that he wouldn’t take shit from any girls trying to win his best friend’s heart. It made her feel a little warm in her chest.

“Bet Steve wasn’t too happy about it.” Y/N guessed, jerking her foot back when he squeezed her big toe. It tickled. Eyes lit with a suspicious gleam, Bucky shook his head and caught her ankle before she could get too far.

“No, he wasn’t. Wouldn’t talk to any of us for a week, but he got over it. He couldn’t stay mad for long. Not when he knew he’d have done the same thing. Maybe a bit nicer, but he wouldn’t have let me be with a girl like that. Plus, we’d already put Pepper through the ringer a couple years before, and if Clint hadn’t been smart enough to keep his wife away from us, she’d have gotten the same treatment.” Bucky explained, and she marveled at the fact he was telling her all this. It was another part of his life lit up for her to devour, and she absorbed every detail.

A thought flickered to life inside her and she opened her mouth to ask, only to pause. Swiftly, she kicked Bucky’s stomach when he tickled the bottom of her foot again and glared at him in silent warning. Amused, he gave her the most boyishly charming grin and she snorted a small laugh at the expression, “Ass.” She muttered, and he pouted, stroking a hand up her calf. As if to sooth her. The touch had sparks dancing up her thigh. Heat burned through her leggings where he stroked his thumb across the inside of her knee.

Shaking her head, Y/N finally asked, “Have you ever taken anyone on the trip with you?” She left the question open-ended. Expecting him to at least say he’d taken Becca, but she wondered if he’d ever taken Dot, or some other girl.

Bucky’s gaze lifted back to her own, hand stilling on her leg. A shadow passed over his eyes, making his lips purse, like he’d tasted something unpleasant. After a beat of silence, he finally spoke up, “Becca never wants to go. Says I need to spend more time with my friends, and not have her holding my hand.” The corner of his mouth tilted up just a little at that, and she chuckled quietly. He continued, “And I’ve not been with anyone worth bringing along.”

Fingers clenching nervously under her arms, she found herself saying, “Maybe I can go with you next year.” Smiling, she hoped he didn’t think she was assuming too much. It was obvious that they wouldn’t be together long enough to go away for a week and have him introduce her to all his friends. But Y/N couldn’t help hoping he would be willing to take her with him next year. That they would be together long enough.

When Bucky stared at her knowingly, she blushed. But didn’t bother to try and brush off her statement. To make it anything less than what it was. The heater clicked on overhead, and she heard a dog bark out in the hallway. His eyes drifted back down to his hand on her shin, “I’d like that.” He mused, more to himself than her.

“Bucky?” Y/N asked, swallowing the lump in her throat. He glanced back up at her. Her anxiety twisted a knife in her chest and she couldn’t ignore the words anymore. Didn’t really want to. If whatever they were doing was going to work out, they’d have to talk. Even if he didn’t like it. Her toes curled in his lap and she shifted her cold feet, tucking them under his thighs.

“Ya?” There was a small, nervous look flickering across his expression. Lips in a thin line, his left hand winked in the golden light when he clenched it into a fist on the back of the couch.

Swallowing the lump forming in her throat, she licked her lips and sat up a bit straighter. Feet still buried under his legs, she adjusted her legs. Then wrapped her arms around her knees, loosely hugging them to her chest. Seated like that, they were a lot closer and she sighed, “I just…” She trailed off, trying to sort through her words, “I just want to be sure that we’re going on this date because we both want to.” Her fingers tugged at the sleeves of his shirt, bundling them over her knuckles.

Bucky frowned, eyebrows coming together, and he withdrew his hand, carding his fingers through his hair. He didn’t move to get any distance between them. Barely seemed to notice how cold her toes were, “Of course we are.” When Y/N just kept staring at him, biting her bottom lip, he tacked on, “I do want to.” His words were strong, not a waiver of doubt in them. Dark hair falling in sky blues, he looked like a dream. Just a pretty dream that she could still wake up from.

“You’re not doing it just cause you’re afraid of losing me… right?” The sentence left her quietly, hesitant. Nearly muffled out by her mouth brushing her knee.

Pursing his lips, he shifted his legs until her feet were swept with cool air. Then he brought up his own knees, bracketing her legs between his. Bucky sat up closer, and the fingers of his right hand brushed her cheek, “What’s going on in that head of yours?” The words were tender and more concerned than she’d heard from him before. They were close enough now that she could feel his body heat. Close enough that she could see the individual flecks of green mixed with the blue around his irises.

Words stuck in her throat, she winced and let her chin rest on her knees. Y/N’s eyes flickered away from his, too overwhelmed by the solid line of attention he was giving her, “It’s just that you were so serious about not wanting to date. And you said that you just wanted to be friends. But then you kissed me. And now we are just going to see how this all works out and—” She groaned in frustration, voice rising as the swirling motions inside her just started bursting out, “And I just want to make sure I’m not forcing you into this because I want you to like me like I like you and—”

Bucky’s lips touched her forehead, his chest blocking out the light of the window, and her sentence died all together. Then his lips touched hers, his chin brushing her knee, and his hand squeezed her shoulder, warm even through his shirt. The kiss was soft and washed away the nerves that had been plaguing her heart. A cooling balm for her soul.

Then he pulled back and let out a breath. He smelt like coffee and laundry soap and home. When he gave her a shy smile, she returned it. Bucky squeezed her shoulder one more time before letting go. Before he could pull back, Y/N caught his hand and held it loosely with her own, arm down near her shin. They were both still wrapped up in an awkward ball together. But it felt comfortable. Natural.

“I’m not… good with words.” Bucky started, watching their joined hands. His callused thumb stroking her knuckles, “That’s why I said I don’t know if I can give you what you want.” His teeth worried his bottom lip, “You’re not forcing me into this. Not really.” The statement released something tight inside her stomach, “I didn’t want to be more than friends because I still don’t think I’m ready to make anyone happy. I can barely handle myself.”

“I’m sorry.” Y/N whispered, and Bucky tightened his hold on her hand. Even though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for, it felt like the only thing she could say. Her hair was cold across her back, shirt still drying. The soft current of heat from the ceiling vent felt good across her skin. But the warmth from Bucky felt better.

“Don’t be.” He soothed, when his eyes met hers, she couldn’t tell what emotions were there. Too many conflicting ones to read, “I just…” Bucky’s gaze trailed over to the paused game, jaw tight, “You’ll have to be patient with me. I haven’t been on a date in a long time. I haven’t felt this way in so long.” His left hand pressed to his chest, like he could tug the emotions out from under his ribs.

“What way?” Y/N asked, entirely aware that she was pushing. Selfish in wanting to hear him say it. Needing to hear him spell it out for her. Her thumb stroked along the inside of his wrist, skin surprisingly smooth under her touch.

The look Bucky gave her was an open, vulnerable one. Lips parted like the words were caught on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed and let out a slow breath, “I can’t breathe when you look at me like that.” The confession came out as a whisper, and she interlaced their fingers together. Squeezing tight enough that she worried it might hurt him. He didn’t even flinch, “And I can’t resist staying away from you. Even if I should.”

A confession for a confession, “Sometimes, you make me so happy that it hurts. Why does it always hurt when you like someone?” She asked, hesitant and voice soft along with him. Every confession that drifted to her ears had her heart beating louder. When his thumb traced a circle around her inner wrist, she wondered if he could feel her pulse racing like a jack rabbit. Bucky’s lips quirked up into an amused smile. Right then, she thought she might drift away. And she’d hate it. Hate to miss any minute of this. If she floated to cloud nine, she might miss future moments like this. And she refused to do that.

“I don’t know.” He replied, and a shy chuckle left him. Ducking his head, his knees knocked into hers when he shifted nervously, “But I think it’s ok to hurt like that sometimes. It means it’s real. And there are worse ways to feel.” Bucky smiled more when she nodded in agreement. The smile took years from his life and made the perpetual rings under his eyes lighter. Every smile he gave her was a gift, and she etched his expression in her mind. Tried to memorize it so she could draw him later.

A sweet, peaceful silence fell. And Y/N watched him fall into deep thought. It was gradual, and his eyes drifted off as he stared over at his back wall. Sometimes, she tried to imagine what he was thinking about. Bucky seemed to have a lot on his mind a lot of the time. She was ok with him needing moment of introspection, when he got a little lost in his own head.

After a minute, Y/N reached for her controller with her free hand. The action tugged at his hand still in her own when she leaned over. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain, and she flicked it back over her shoulder when she sat back up, “Want to play some more?” She asked, and he seemed to snap out of whatever train of thought he’d been on.

He blinked once, twice, his eyes clearing back up. Then Bucky nodded, and readjusted himself. Seamlessly, they untangled and stretched out their cramped limbs. Eventually, they were both sitting forward towards the TV, controllers in their hands. This time she was closer, and she curled her legs under her, leaning over until her head rested comfortably on his arm.

Y/N could feel his eyes on her, but he didn’t seem to mind. A couple minutes after they started roaming through the torn down hospital again, she felt a soft kiss press to the top of her head.

The sharp pulse of happiness that shot through her had her heart growing too big inside her ribcage. But it was a sweet sort pain. If this was how she would feel every time he did something precious…. She could learn to live with it.

Next Chapter

Tags: @boy-leave @wtfholland @snjms02. @diariesofthebeautyobsessed

#Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #marvel #marvel fanfiction #Marvel AU #bucky barnes x reader #reader insert #artist au #slow burn #Fluff and angst #fluff and feels #first kiss #artist bucky #angst with a happy ending #tashariiwriting

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