#I flipped the canvas coloring and finished it this way without noticing

[inkbagel]

I used to use flipaclip but I’ve switched to procreate dreams recently. This is what I’ve noticed about both programs.

Flipaclip (when I used it, I know they’ve made changes to the app since then) is free to use but if you pay them like 10 dollars you can use more brushes and have more layers etc. just higher quality of life. You can also save your animations without their stinking watermark. (I’ve heard they’ve switched to subscription fees though. Idk if that’s true)

It’s a pretty good animation software considering how cheap it is. You can’t have too big of a canvas or it crashes, I got a brand new iPad when I first started using flipaclip and even then anything above 700x700 would crash the app. Aside from this it runs pretty smoothly and doesn’t overheat my iPad or glitch too often. The brushes aren’t the best and you can’t customize them (to my knowledge. A LOT has changed since I switched apps) but they’re still okay and I didn’t mind them when using this program.

However, flipaclip isn’t really the best for animatics or rigging since the copy paste feature is kinda weird and hard to use and you have to manually copy paste a frame a hundred times to make it go for multiple seconds. It’s really great for frame by frame animation but anything else you have to get pretty creative with how you use the app.

And also if you want to resize something to make it bigger, since the app can’t handle a big canvas in the first place everything gets extremely blurry and you end up having to redraw the picture if you want it to look crisp. I got around this just by resizing it anyway and drawing over the resized image on a seperate layer.

Overall it’s pretty nice for like 15 dollars but not the best software ever. I liked it when I used it though and made some pretty nice animations. Here’s one from almost two years ago that I’m still proud of.

Procreate dreams is very weird and has way more features but I don’t know if I can say it’s better. It’s not free, but you only have to pay 20 dollars once. Theres no subscription fees and the director of procreate said there never will be. (It’s also anti AI.)

It’s definitely extremely different from flipaclip. You can have as many customized brushes as you want (however if you want them customized you have to customize them in procreate), you can have a big canvas and use a lot more layers, instead of drawing it manually you can just tell the program to move one frame across the canvas at any speed, you can add videos with audio, it can almost work as its own editing software, you can set the frame rate way higher or way lower, you can add filters to animations, you can stretch frames to last whole seconds (instead of copy pasting like flipaclip) you can change the color and opacity of onion, you can switch between editing mode and flip book mode (animating) it uses this track feature that lets you have multiple animatics in the same canvas all running on different times and programming and a lot more that I haven’t fully figured out yet.

HOWEVER. IT DOES NOT HAVE ANY LASSO TOOL WHATSOEVER. Flipaclips lasso tool was really wonky but it was way better than nothing. It is sooo painful for an animation software to not have a lasso tool. It’s still a kind of new software, and it’s still getting updates all the time but nothings added a lasso tool yet and I’m personally offended by this.

Also unlike flipaclip, it’s really confusing to use and you have to watch a lot of tutorials on YouTube to get an idea on how to use it. But this goes for pretty much any program you use, flipaclips just nice like that.

It also uses SO MUCH STORAGE. Every time I finish an animation I have to save the video to my phone and delete the file because the procreate file takes up like half my iPads storage and if my iPad runs out of storage it tries to kill itself (thx apple)

The way it handles undo and redo buttons is really weird. It autosaves multiple lines into the same undo click so if you hit undo instead of deleting one mistake it might just delete half the sketch you just made. (If that makes any sense) the undo button also isn’t on the screen by default and you have to tape with two fingers, but you can change this in settings.

Also, if you zoom in to the canvas while drawing your lineart is way cleaner, but if you zoom out too much al your lines will be blurry. I don’t know why it does this.

It’s also still pretty glitchy and crashes often, but it autosaves every other minute so you don’t lose any progress. You just have to refresh the app a bit.

I personally prefer it over flipaclip, but it’s still a pain to use sometimes and I wouldn’t call it better than flipaclip. Here’s an animation I made on procreate dreams that was fun to make with little to no crying over the software. It’s way less animated than the one on flipaclip bc I was way more lazy making it and also learned more tricks on how to animate without drawing every single frame.

Both programs are pretty nice and considering everything id give them four out of five stars.

okay I’ve gotta know are there any ipad animation people on here and what programme(s?) do you use because if I don’t make an animatic soon I will explode

(If it must be paid for (which I assume it will be) then I would prefer a one time payment over a subscriptions)

[sherokutakari]

Friendly Fire ArtFight Attack!!

@dromaeocore​ 's Mango the Dragon Bat stretching after a good day's sleep! Very late to the artfight party, but I wanted to make sure I drew something for him, bc seeing all their great artfght art really inspired me, and is why I joined ArtFight!! (Also I didn't read the thing about the sports clothes until after I'd finished so I hope this is okay OTL)

Link will be in reblog probably sometime tomorrow~

[zulivaris]

Art Block tips that helped me

 I’ve recently experienced art block after 3 or so months of overcoming my last one. Thankfully this block only lasted a few days thanks to some things I’ve observed and noted down from the previous time. So I’m sharing these few tips in hopes that it might help someone get unstuck :D!

First and foremost if you’re tired, sad or anxious don’t be surprised that you can’t make art, go and take care of yourself by treating yourself with kindness and patience, the sketchbooks and canvases will wait for you :)

The tips are under here:

Separate art studies from the creative time:  When you do art studies you’re there to focus on specific things, learn and understand how things work so you can apply them later in your art. Studies take a lot of energy and focus and are the opposite of the creative "flow” of making your own pieces. If you combine the two the results are either unfocused studies or stiff drawings. When you sit down at your desk ask yourself “Do I want to learn something new or do I want to create something of my own?”

When you have an idea don’t be afraid of being messy: Let’s say you want to make a picture of several cats kolo dancing in the moonlight. How do you go about doing this? Well since you came up with the idea you already have a vague image in your mind, sketch it out with simple shapes, stick figures, circle and spheres etc Don’t worry about cat anatomy, or the dancer’s moves, sketch out the essence of it. This method removes the need to be perfect or accurate. 

Ok after the messy sketch then what? Well now that you have sketched out the essence of your idea (and hopefully had fun doing so) now you go on to look for references! You put the creative process on pause and you can do a few brief studies if you need to: anatomy, color schemes, values, poses. Pick out a few of your favorites but don't obsess over them, they are a guide, a tool.

You know much more than you think. You’ve probably been drawing for a few years now. You’ve probably done some studies and drawn more than one type of subject. Then you have already internalized some of that information. I used to be obsessed with capturing the minute detail of the subject, and not be able to draw ANYTHING without reference. Instead of a useful tool, references became another obstacle to my creativity. That’s perfectionism my friend, and that’s no good. Here is an exercise a good friend of mine offered: Draw a few characters, animals and objects from imagination. Make sure that the subjects have no personal value to you (no ocs for example) so that if you make a mistake you won’t feel bad about it. Make the process relaxed and comfortable, pour a nice cup of joe, listen to your favorite music ... You will notice that you do indeed know how to draw some things without reference, and it’ll help with your confidence. 

The more you do studies the more you understand This seems evident but the more you understand your subject the freer you can be and the easier it’ll be to draw it from imagination in the future. If you really struggle with something to the point of frustration (as in you can’t get it right even with reference) It means you have to study it. Have a study list, for example: hands, perspective, color theory etc. And one of those days you want to study pick something from the list, and look for videos on youtube or useful sites like line of action etc. Only study one thing at the time. You can go from studying hands to studying arms since they’re more immediately connected, but you can’t study hands and then jump to learning perspective right after. Trust me you can learn perfectly fine with the resources online, and I’m sure you’re clever enough to do it :D

Mistakes don’t mean you “suck”  I’ve noticed that the two most common causes for art block are perfectionism and lack of self-confidence.  The two can often go in tandem which is worse :’D But let me remind you of something, you can fix your piece along the whole process. Use erasers, lasso tools, liquify , select, paint it all over etc If something looks off to you then you also know deep inside how to fix it. Useful ways to see what clunks: flip canvas horizontally (helps with placement, proportions), turn the image to grayscale (helps to check values and where your eye tends to look), look at your image in thumbnail size and ask yourself if it’s clear, see the pose’s silhouette and ask yourself if you can tell what the character is doing etc. Don’t fret, everything can always be fixed :)

Perfectionism, sometimes it stops you before you begin Perfectionism causes you to overwork a piece, it makes you draw less, it makes art stressful, it brings insecurity. Let’s remove it with a simple exercise. It can be combined with the “draw things from imagination” once you’ve drawn something you like: dont do line art, don’t shade it, keep it as simple and crude as possible and then...post it. Yes, post it. You’re not at your best? You’re only human, this will help you embrace that very human side of you. You make mistakes. So what? The more mistakes you make the more you know what you need to study and the better at art you become. Mistakes are there to show us what we need to learn. See them as another tool and not a sign of failure.

Make the process as enjoyable as possible: You like art. You love drawing. Never forget this. Otherwise why are you drawing if you don’t enjoy it? It’s easy to fall prey to the mentality of those relatable memes that “art= suffering” or “I can’t even draw the other eye”. No no no my friends, these messages are fueling your insecurities instead of overcoming them. Let me tell you what, art is fun. It is. Art is fun, because I decided to make it fun again. And you should decide on that too. Personally I adore lineart but my hand-eye coordination is lacking to do it digitally, so....I just skipped it. Yes. I skipped it. I do the sketch, I clean it up a bit and then jump onto color which I adore. It allowed me to draw more and more freely. When I draw I listen to music, make strokes with the rhythm, I take breaks often and I drink my favorite iced teas. If you don’t like coloring do it in grayscale, if you love lineart then do that etc It doesn’t mean you won’t learn your weak points in the future with studies and practice, but you won’t let your weaknesses prevent you from drawing at all. No no, you won’t let them. You draw because you want to, despite of them.

Don’t wait for inspiration, provoke it  Inspiration is not a divine and capricious muse. You make inspiration. It’s easy just collect all the things you like, music, artists, objects, characters, animals, patterns, plants etc Make boards on pinterest or similar sites, combine things you like. You like suits? You like birds? You can draw a bird in a suit, or a bird-inspired suit design, there is frankly a lot of ideas that can spring up from little things like these.

When a project stops being enjoyable either pause it for now or move on to the next thing. Pieces aren’t precious. They’re not “the one time I got x right” they are one of many. This advice goes mainly to hobbyists who can afford the luxury of passing to a new project. I have a WIP of a character who is overly complicated (I enjoy a challenge from time to time) sitting for half a month. I sometimes come back to it and add something... but as soon as it starts to create discomfort and insecurity instead of enjoyment I move onto something else. In the meantime I created 3 or 4 new pieces. If I had waited on finishing that piece I would have been severely creatively and physically exhausted. The art comes from you, not inspiration. The more art you make the better you become.

That’s about it :D I know it’s long but I prefer to be thorough and cover all the possibilities. If you have read of this: Thank you so much I hope this helps you at least a bit, if it helps only 1 other person I’d still be very happy. Have a nice one, and kick art block’s butt!

[beanieblanchett]

iii. “use me but as your spaniel”

Paring: Cate Blanchett x fem reader

Warnings: professor student relationship, slight smut, masterbation, dom/sub undertone, dirty talk

Read Chapter 2 here

(Sorry for the long wait I have been caught up with my personal and academic life lately🥺I know I’ve been a complete ass making people wait for so long. I’m so sorry)

*not my edits*

The day has been long.

There’s a clock in your bedroom. An old fashioned one, and you could hear the second hand ticking in your room: time passes in the unit of a second at a time, and you are so aware of every second that has passed.

It is painful, really. You try to focus on the reading for your psychology class, but there’s an unsettling feeling in your chest, as if something is suspended in the air, waiting to fall.

To fall. Like gravity, so natural and irresistible. That is how you feel right now as you sigh and look at your planner for the third time in the past hour, a scheduled appointment for office hours with a professor, the professor…...highlighted in yellow, like the color of the sunlight that is now resting outside of your window.

And so you are thinking about her again. The other day when she was explaining the literary devices that Ovid used to show the depth of love. Love, when the word falls out of her mouth you can’t help but tremble. You take in a deep breath as you wander around the meeting link on the canvas site. There’s still 10 minutes before the scheduled time. Even though she has always said in the lecture that anyone’s welcomed to join the meeting room, you decide to wait. The amount of hesitation and a mix of other feelings pumping in your heart scares you. You hate to use the word love lightly, but what other word could you use to describe that feeling that’s dancing in your chest right now? that hopeless attraction, that constant longing you have for her? When you’ve barely even talked to her, you’ve fallen for her. You feel utterly alone, slightly ashamed, and immensely terrified.

You curse under your breath as your eyes refocus on the screen, dragging yourself back from your thoughts, you’re almost late. And so you click on the link, your body tense and your teeth biting your lower lips nervously as you enter the waiting room.

“Well Hello, so how are you doing today?”

She greets you with a smile, her voice reaffirms her presence and makes your heart miss a beat. She’s wearing a white shirt, the first three buttons casually opened, elongating her elegant neck, exposing her delicate collar bones...and the a peek of her cleavage that makes your cheeks burn. Yet you can’t take your eyes off, a silver necklace draping from her neck down to inside her shirt...almost luring you.

“Can you hear me alright?”

She spoke again, and you’re embarrassed by your lost focus...on her. It still feels slightly unreal that she’s addressing you—you’ve gotten used to not answering her questions, as you know someone else always will.

“I’m sorry...yes I can hear you. I’m doing good.” You open your mouth to realize that your voice is a little raspy from not talking all day.

She is looking slightly tired but genuine and kind as usual, staring into the camera with a satisfied smile as she nods to your answer. You can hear her clicking as you both fell silent. You try to focus on the presence of her so as to stop your thoughts from running into wild places, but that seems to do the opposite job.

“So I see you’ve got a 90.5 on your last essay, which isn’t bad at all.” She said with a keen smile as she praises you, which soon turned into a look of curiosity as she raises her eyebrows, “with such a grade you’re not required to come see me, but you still choose to. I wonder if you have any specific questions for me?”

“Oh…” no, you don’t really have any, but you look down on your notes for things you’ve prepared for this meeting, “I just wonder if you have any suggestions for my writing, you know, where can I improve, because I’d like to get a better grade for that upcoming essay.”

“Hmmm..understood.” She nods again, and you can see her eyes quickly scanning through your essay as she speaks.

And her left hand, that was supporting her chin, is now resting on her left cheek. And—an observation that scorched your cheeks—her fingers are now unconsciously touching her own lips...in a most casual, most usual but also insanely sensual way.

“Will you give me a minute? I’d like to inspect your words more closely so I can give you better suggestions.” She lifted her eyes to look at the camera with a subtle grin.

“Oh sure. I’m in no rush.”

Her fingers returned to her lips after she’s done talking. long, beautiful fingers that you have dreamed and thought about. You’ve imagined them on your face, on your hand, on your body...in your body...without realizing how bold a move you’re making, you feel your own touch on your thighs, moving closer and closer to the center before you find yourself messaging your desire, already aroused, over the thin fabric of your panties.

You gasp at the pleasure, a silent one, and then a louder one. You look into the screen to see her now flipping through a book on her desk, (Metamorphosis, you suppose, as that’s what your essay was about), feeling more daring and slipped a sweaty hand into your pantie.

You’re wetter than you expected, providing an easy entrance for your own finger. Your breath gets heavier and heavier with your slow thrusts, trying to maintain your posture until a soft moan slips from your lips.

She’s still intensely focused on the book, and so you gathered the courage and whispered her name, “Cate….”

“Cate...Cate…..” you say to yourself, words muffled with your now loud moans, which is not getting more and more intense as you get closer to the climax——

“Okay I think I’m done here,” she looks up to you, her sudden words scaring you, ruining your orgasm and now your pussy is pathetically wet, and exposed in the air.

She doesn’t seem to expect your response as she proceeds to give you a few suggestions about your writing. She praises your interesting perspectives, and points out a few flaws in your analysis, raising some other questions regarding the texts. As always, she seems to be most genuinely interested in your work, analyzing it as if it’s the work of Ovid himself. Her voice is incredibly captivating to you, and to your swollen desire, but her highly professional manner turns you on even more——the thought of you being naked with your ugly desire, almost dripping in such an academic discussion...how sinful, how humiliating, how dangerously attractive.

“Now would you mind sharing with me the passage you’ve chosen for the upcoming essay? The Shakespeare one.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” You nod, looking down to your notes to avoid looking at those eyes, and looking at your own picture on the screen. You could imagine yourself right now, cheeks red and sweat on your forehead, how weird she must have thought of you to be.

“I’ve chosen the passage in the Midsummer Night’s Dream. Helena’s confession and pursuit of Demetrius. I find that speech of her quite touching...the devotion of putting oneself in such a lowly place, almost an act of submission, but also an act of great courage, to go against societal norms…”

You pause yourself there to look up at her, she’s nodding and smiling as always, but in her eyes, you see almost a tint of a fleeting, mischievous smirk? you must have made a mistake. And you must have been illusioned by your heating desire, so you shake your thoughts and continued: “it’s this passage,

‘Use me but as your spaniel—spurn me, strike me,

Neglect me, lose me. Only give me leave,

Unworthy as I am, to follow you.

What worser place can I beg in your love—

And yet a place of high respect with me—

Than to be used as you use your dog?’”

Finishing off, you look up again, and you feel yourself shaking.

Silence. And you think you see that mischievous smile in her eyes grow stronger. You’re almost certain, yes there’s definitely something behind those eyes. Those eyes that shine with kindness and professionalism, sparkle with interests and curiosity...there must be something behind those eyes.

And now they’re staring at you.

“Professor?” You feel unease, breaking the long silence that felt like forever.

“Is that for your essay or is that for me?”

Your heart either stopped beating or was beating at an unnatural rate, you opened your mouth to find yourself stuttering, “I...this...the essay...sorry?”

She did not respond, but her eyes now burning with a wanton look.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Your voice is shaking.

“Oh yes you do.” She says, stopping the screen share of your essay so that you could see her and only her——eyes filled with mysterious lust, a smirk emerged on her face.

“You thought you muted yourself, didn’t you? Or did you think those filthy little noises that your pretty mouth was making could escape my ear? But I’ve heard them all, even those wet noises coming not from your mouth but from somewhere else. And did you think I didn’t notice you, looking like you’re having too much fun biting your lips with watery eyes in my lectures?”

Her stare was intense, burning you to the ground, to your knees, stripping you bare and making all your attempts to act decent seem useless and pathetic.

“You are quite a daring one, but a bashful one at the same time. How interesting.”

“‘To be used as you use your dog’...now look up and answer this: is that what you want from me?”

(To be continued.)

[ssa-pretty-boy]

Love and Thunder

Summary: When a thunderstorm rolls in and the power goes out what will Spencer and his girlfriend do to pass the time?

Word Count: 4.4k

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: smuttttttt - fingering, unprotected sex (WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT KIDS), penetrative sex

——

The smell of coming rain had been in the air for days. So when dark clouds rolled in, threatening to open up at any given moment, no one really gave it a second thought.  But as the day progressed the normal hustle and bustle of the city grew into something more palpable, its people trying to get indoors before the torrential down pour that was sure to come. 

Spencer Reid was no exception. Though there was something about a good thunderstorm that he found extremely relaxing, he didn’t want to be caught outside in one. Like the rest of the city’s inhabitants he was speed walking down the concrete sidewalks, eternally grateful that his apartment was only a couple of blocks away from his metro stop. 

He managed to make it into the lobby of his building just as the first drops of rain started to sprinkle down. With a grateful sigh, he shucked off his rain coat as he watched the droplets slide down the glass door. The drizzle was slow and lazy, honestly more like a fine mist than true rain. Maybe this was just going to be an average summer rain shower after all.

Taking the stairs two at a time up to the fourth floor, he made it to the last landing with an astonishing amount of grace. For someone who was as uncoordinated as Spencer tended to be, it was a surprise even to himself he made it without so much as stumbling. He unlocked the door and was greeted with the sound of pots and pans clinking together coming from the kitchen. Rounding the corner into his tiny kitchen he saw Y/N at the stove, stirring what smelt like pasta sauce with one hand and holding an open book up to her face with the other. She was mouthing the words as she read and Spencer smiled, he found it incredibly endearing and told her as much as he left his satchel and raincoat on the small table tucked into the corner of the room.

Y/N laughed, glancing up over the top of her book with a warm smile as he came over to her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind and settled his chin on the top of her head. “Wasn’t expecting you home yet.”

The book forgotten, she tossed it to the counter and leaned back into him, tilting her head up to place a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw. “I was just extra help today so I got cut loose early because of the storm.”

He hummed again, certainly not complaining that his girlfriend was home. “What are you making?”

She took the wooden spoon out of the pot and held it up to Spencer’s mouth for him to taste, smiling when he groaned and nodded his approval. “My mom sent me a new recipe for a creole Alfredo sauce. Everything else is ready so I just have to it throw in and let it simmer for a few minutes. Why don’t you go wash up and I’ll start setting the table.”

——

When Spencer and Y/N were in each other’s company, they had a habit of blocking out the rest of the world. Spencer had always thought it sounded lame and cheesy when he heard couples say such things but when he met Y/N he understood it instantly. They were just so comfortable around each other, so…compatible, that nothing else mattered to them as long as the other was happy. Especially when they were in the comfort of their own home. 

They had been so wrapped up in each other, in fact, that they failed to notice the changing atmosphere outside. It wasn’t until they settled into bed for the night, when Spencer finally flipped on the TV and mindlessly turned to the weather channel in hopes of seeing a sunny forecast for the following day, that he realized just how intense this storm was going to get. So much for that picnic in the park with Derek, Savannah, and Hank they’d so been looking forward to. Spencer studied the swirling diagram of colors, noting that area which he and his girlfriend called home was already far into the red and it didn’t look like they would be in the green any time soon.

A flash of lightening brought his attention away from the television and towards the window on Y/N’s side of the bed. Pushing the thick duvet back, Spencer climbed from the warmth of the bed and padded towards the window. He reached out with a little hesitance and pulled the curtains back, eyes widening at what he saw on the other side of the glass. Several of the small trees lining the street had been blown over, the street itself in front of the building was flooded, and a few blocks away it looked as though the power had gone out. 

“It’s nasty out there,” he mumbled more to himself than Y/N. She was so preoccupied with painting her toenails, a shade of deep red that Spencer secretly found incredibly sexy, that she hadn’t even noticed him get out of bed to walk over to the window. 

“Is it?” She wasn’t really paying him any mind as she finished painting her left pink toe, the very tip of her tongue sticking out between her lips in concatenation as she did so.

He mumbled a soft ‘yeah’ as he sat down in front of her. Grinning at him, Y/N leaned back against the headboard of the bed and screwed the cap back onto her nail polish before tossing it into the small canvas bag sitting on her bedside table. 

“You like?” The question was rhetorical, she knew how much he liked the color on her and maybe she picked out specially for that reason. She lifted her foot just in front of his face and wiggled her toes to show off the color of the polish. 

Smirking at her, Spencer grabbed ahold of her ankle and pulled her down the bed closer to him, laughing at the squeal that the action got from her. Holding her foot up to his mouth, he pressed a kiss to each toe before slowly beginning to kiss up her foot to her calve then her thigh, all the way up to her waiting lips. “I fucking love it.” 

He let put a playful growl as he dove into the crook of her neck and began to place sloppy wet kisses all over the exposed skin, his fingers ghosting over her sides to start tickling her relentlessly. Her giggles ringing out through the small bedroom were like the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. Their playful fun was cut short though by a bright flash of lightening that washed the room in a bluish hue, both of their head snapping towards the window. Holding his breath, Spencer began to count in anticipation for the clap of thunder that was sure to come. 

1…

2…

3…

4…

There was the deafening crack of thunder he had been waiting on. It sounded like it was directly over head, the very walls of the building seeming to quake. Y/N let out a squeak, clutching onto Spencer’s biceps for dear life as she hid her face in his chest. 

Trying to lighten the mood however he could, he laughed and and pulled back to look at her face. “It’s alright, sweet girl. Just a little thunder and lightning, nothing to be scared of. Well, there’s no need to be afraid of thunder, anyway, seeing as though its really just a sound caused by the lightning. Lightning, on the other hand, can be quite dangerous if-”

With a playful swat to his chest, she silenced him. “As much as I usually love your facts and tangents, that one really didn’t help. Like at all. You know how I am about bad weather! It just freaks me out a little." She admitted the last bit sheepishly, no matter how many times he assured her she had no reason to be embarrassed by her fear of storms, she still hated to admit it. Everyone is afraid of something, he always told her. 

Brown eyes flashing, he looked down at her with a smirk before leaning back back down and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before working his way to her jaw.

“Well then, why don’t we do something to take you mind off of it, hm?” He was kissing her throat again as he suggested it, pressing the words into the column of her neck with wet, open mouthed kisses. Her head was already swimming, thoughts foggy as his mouth trailed lower, pulling at the collar of her shirt to get access to her collar bones now. The only response she was able to supply him with was a mumbled “mhm” and a shuddering gasp as his cold hands slipped under her T-shirt to find her bare chest, much more purposeful than the playful tickling had been. His thumbs ghosted over her nipples and she arched into touch, moaning when he pinched the hardening peaks between his thumbs and forefingers.

Just as he pulled the old Caltech shirt off of her, the lamps on either side of the bed along with the TV began to flicker. “Shit,” he cursed as he rolled off of her. “The power is probably about to go.”

Spencer stood from the bed and grabbed his phone from the bedside table just as the electricity flickered off entirely. Switching on the flashlight that was built into his phone, he shone it into Y/N’s face. She squinted into the light, holding up her hands to shield her eyes from the blinding brightness. “I’m going to go get some candles and a lighter. Stay in here, bubs.” 

Quickly making his way down the dark hallway, Spencer headed for the hoard of scented candles he knew Y/N had stashed in the linen closet. He scanned the shelves, and spied the decorative basket tucked into the corner of the top shelf. Honestly, he didn’t even want to know how Y/N had managed to get up there. Even for as tall as he was, he had to stand on his tip-toes to reach it.

He pulled the basket down and rummaged through it, crinkling his nose at a few of the names… Pink Sand, Midnight Cashmere, Home Sweet Home. Why did they all have to have weird names? Why couldn’t they just be named what they were supposed to smell like? Eventually he gave up on trying to find normal ones, just deciding to take the entire basket before going to the kitchen to retrieve a lighter from the junk drawer under the microwave. 

Once back in their bedroom, Spencer began to scatter the candles all over the small space, lighting them as he went. Before long the entire room was aglow with a soft, flickering light. After finally lighting the last few, he tossed the lighter down onto the dresser before going to flop onto the bed next to Y/N. 

Still half naked, she was sitting up with her knees pulled her to chest and staring absentmindedly out of the window. She was too busy worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and watching the rain slap against the glass to pay the slightest bit of attention to Spencer. So he turned onto his side and took the opportunity to watch her.

Right arm propping his head up, he shamelessly let his eyes rake over her from the top of her head all the way to the tips her toes. On their fifth date, he’d noted that candle light made her look ten times as gorgeous as she already was. The tiny flickering flames illuminated her features in ways a light bulb or even the sun failed do. Every date night he had planned since usually involved a lot of candles for that very reason. 

Not being able to resist the temptation any longer, Spencer reached up and cupped her cheek in his hand. Y/N turned her face into his palm and pressed a kiss to the center of it. Their eyes locked and Spencer swore he felt his heart swell in his chest as she stared down at him with what could only be called adoration. It was funny how time seemed to stop completely when she looked at him like that. Like he hung the stars and the moon in the sky just for her. It made him feel like he could fly. 

She moved to lie down facing him, so close that their noses were just centimeters apart, and ran her hands up his arms to his shoulders. The muscles of his arms tensed in the wake of her touch and she batted her lashes up him, feigning total innocence at her actions as his pupils blew wide. Her hands slid back down his chest, her nails pressing into him just hard enough to leave faint red lines in their wake. “I think we were doing something a minute ago.”

“Yeah, I think we were.” His words were husky as he cupped her cheeks in his hands again and leaned in to kiss her. Winding her arms around his neck, she pulled him on top of her and he fell to rest perfectly between her thighs.

One of his hands slipped into her hair and gripped tightly at the roots, snapping her head back so that he could have even more access to her throat and jaw. A wanton moan accompanied the sharp sting of her nails raking over his shoulders when he bit down hard enough to bruise. He bit and sucked relentlessly at her pulse point, fully intending to give her a rather spectacular hickey to sport the next day at work. When he pulled away to inspect his work he smirked at the mark, his thumb brushing over it with just enough pressure to have her whimpering.

Becoming desperate for some sort of relief from the growing tension between her legs, she started grinding herself down onto Spencer’s thigh. The cocky bastard was smirking down at her as his iron grip forced her hips back down onto the mattress. She was already so blissed out she didn’t even realize his hands had left her neck and hair. “Be patient, princess.”

The use of the pet name had her eyes fluttering shut, the asshole knew the effect it had on her and used it to his advantage every change he got. Kissing her swollen lips once more, he pulled away and sat back on his calves to drink in the sight of her; pupils blown wide, lips red and swollen. When she looked like this, all flustered just from his touches and kisses, Spencer could barely control himself. Before going to crawl back over her, he grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and quickly tugged it over his head before tossing it to join her’s on the floor. 

Y/N sat up on her knees, meeting him in the middle of the bed, to kiss him. It was feverish and sloppy, their teeth clashing and nipping at each other’s lips. Both were breathless when they finally parted, heads swimming from the lack of oxygen.  

Placing a firm hand on her chest, Spencer pushed her back to lie back down on the bed. Hovering over her again, he dipped his head down to her chest and took her one of her nipples into his mouth. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as he bit down and tugged at it. He released her after a moment and laved over the bite marks with his tongue before he moved to her other breast. She arched up into his touch, hands tangling in his hair as he continued to lavish her chest with attention. 

“I love your tits,” he told her shamelessly, placing a kiss on each raw nipple before licking up the valley between them.

Despite the filthiness of the words and actions, she snorted out a laugh and shoved his head away from her chest. He was laughing as he pulled away, “I do though!”

“I know you do. And I love your cock but I would really love if it were inside me right now.” She reached down and started palming him through his pajama pants to emphasize her point.

“Remember what I said about having p-patience?” He choked on the words as she gripped him tighter, his head dropping forward onto her shoulder as he shuddered. When he lifted his head back up his cheeks were flushed and his pupils had blown so wide there was only a thin ring of honey brown surrounding them.

He sat back and hooked his fingers into the waist band of her sleep shorts and underwear and jerked them down her legs. When she was completely naked under him, he cupped her sex and practically growled,“I want to play a little first.” 

The words alone were enough to have her moaning and bucking up into his hand, aching for some sort of friction. Spencer ran his middle finger up her slit, gathering her arousal on the digit before bringing it up to her mouth. Without having to be told, she opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue, taking his finger in her mouth and moaning at the taste of herself as she sucked it clean. 

She released him with a soft ‘pop’ and he instantly brought his hand back down to her core. He ran the same finger up her slit again, ghosting over her clit with a few slow, lazy circles this time. Y/N gasped, her hands flying to Spencer’s biceps as he slowly slid the offending digit into her and began to pump it in and out of her. 

She moaned out, arching her back off the bed as he started to pick up the pace, curling it up to perfectly stroke against her front wall each time. “More.” It came out as more of a breathless moan than an actual word but Spencer understood her none the less. “Gimme another one, Spence.”

“So fucking needy, aren’t you?” Despite the comment he complied with her request  instantly. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as he slipped another long, nimble finger into her aching heat, not even bothering to give her a chance to acclimate to the slight stretch. Spencer’s fingers were fucking into her at a relentless pace, still curling them at just the right angle to have her seeing stars. She had asked for more and damn if he wasn’t delivering.

She was slack jawed as her eyes were rolled back in her head and god damn he had never been happier to have an eidetic memory. The look on her face was going to be what got him off when he was in those cold, lonely hotel rooms across the country. 

“Ah god,” she was panting now, her chest heaving as she chased after her high. “Please don’t stop. Please. Please. Please, Spence.”

He added his thumb to her clit and started pressing small, tight circles to the swollen bundle of nerves. A lewd moan ripped from her throat as her hips bucked up into his hand, much to Spencer’s amusement. With a deep chuckle, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Please what, princess? Use your words.”

A delicious warmth started to settle in her belly as she clenched around around his fingers and Spencer had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the tightness. “Please let me cum. Please,” she was begging, her voice raw and breathless. And he would be lying through his fucking teeth if he said it didn’t go straight to his cock. He hummed and sped up his fingers, still making sure to curl upward with each thrust. 

Stars flashed in front of her eyes as that warmth in her belly burst into a full blown flame, the fire licking up her body from her toes all the way to her head. Her nails dug into Spencer’s tensed biceps as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of her, milking her high for all it was worth. Even as the pleasure started to ebb, he kept up his ministrations to the point where her mewling moans turned into whimpers. She was spasming around his fingers, her walls gripping so tightly around him that he couldn’t help the bucking of his hips into the mattress below them.

“S-Spencer,” she moaned, her hands finally finding his and trying to shove him away. She could already feel another orgasm building, riding the tails of the aftershocks from the first. 

“C’mon,” he purred. “You can do it, baby. Give me another one.”

Her skin felt like it was on fire as her toe curling second orgasm hit her. She was trembling as Spencer worked her through it, his fingers slowing and eventually pulling away from her aching pussy altogether. Another lewd moan was the only sound she could manage at the loss of contact.

“You did so good, princess,” he mumbled as he pressed sweet kisses to the side of her face while she came back down to earth. “You took my fingers so well. Think you can handle my cock now, baby?”

Bleary eyes fluttered open to look up at him and she nodded slowly. Spencer smirked down at her and made quick work of wiggling out of his pajama pants. Y/N reached down to take him in her hand but he swatted her away. His cock was aching and he knew if she took him in her very capable hands he wouldn’t last long at all. “Trust me baby, I’m good to go.”

Grabbing her by her forearm, Spencer hauled her up to sit on her knees before climbing back on the bed behind her. Still fucked out and pliable, she didn’t fight it when he put a firm hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her face down into the mattress. With one hand firmly planted on her hip and the other gripping his dick, he lined himself up with her entrance and slowly pushed in. 

Every nerve ending in her body felt like it was a live wire; everywhere he touched he left fire in his wake. She was a mewling mess beneath him as he set a slow but purposeful pace, pulling out almost completely before slamming back into her. There were sure to be finger shaped bruises along her hips in the morning but she didn’t care, couldn’t care as he started pounding into her like his only purpose in life was to fuck her into sweet, sweet oblivion.

“Fuck,” he panted, “you feel so fucking good, baby. So tight and warm.”

The sound of skin slapping and Y/N moans filled the room as he settled into a quick and brutal rhythm, his hips snapping forward even harder. One of his hands slid up her back and gripped onto the back of her neck, hauling her back to rest against his chest. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream, her eyes screwing shut at the deeper angle the position allowed. He was so deep and she swore she could feel him in her belly when he took her this way. 

“Nu-huh,” he breathed in her ear, thrusts not faltering in the slightest. The hand on the back of her neck came to grip her jaw and turn her head towards the mirror resting on the dresser directly across from the bed. “I want you to watch yourself get wrecked.”

Her eyes fluttered open and looked at her reflection in the mirror, moaning at what she saw staring back at her. The hand he had on her hip slid around her and dipped down to spread her open so they could better see where he was fucking into her. 

“Touch yourself for me,” he told her, his voice husky and commanding. She did as she was told, sticking her fingers in her mouth first to wet them with her tongue before bringing them down to her clit and swirling them in small, quick circles. With a particularly sharp thrust Y/N was cumming again, crying out as her vision went completely white this time around. 

Her walls clamped down around his cock like a vice and Spencer’s head dropped to her shoulder as he groaned, his thrusts starting to get sloppy. “S-Shit. I’m right behind you, baby, just hold on.”

A couple of thrusts later he was cumming, groaning out a string of curses as he spilled into her. His arms around her waist were the only thing keeping her upright as they caught their breath. As gently as he could manage, he pulled out of her and her lie down before collapsing to the mattress beside her.

After a few minutes of basking in their afterglow, Spencer pressed a kiss to the crown of Y/N’s head before he got out of the bed to get a washcloth to clean her up. As he turned off the faucet he realized there was a sudden lack of howling wind and pouring rain. Making his way back into the bedroom, he peeked out the window before returning to bed.

“It stopped storming,” he mused as he gently brought the warm washcloth up between Y/N’s legs.

She winced at the sensation but was otherwise quiet for a moment before admitting, “Honestly, I had forgotten it was even storming in the first place.”

Mission accomplished then, Spencer thought to himself with a soft chuckle as he tossed the washcloth in the hamper next to the dresser. He settled back down on the bed with her, pulling her back to him. He had just about drifted off to sleep when Y/N started to giggle uncontrollably. He peaked an eye open to look down at her as her shoulders started to shake from the fit of laughter.  

“God, the neighbors probably thought we were making a porno.” She was still laughing as she said it but knew fully well that the elderly couple next door probably did hear them. And would no doubt make comments about it the next time they ran into each other in the stairwell. 

A wicked grin took over his face as he looked down at her and laughed, “Now there’s an idea.”

[waitimcomingtoo]

Where We Start Again -3

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: how do you fake date someone you have real feelings for?

Series Masterlist and Regular Masterlist

Playlist by @tiny-friggin-human

The first thing Peter heard when he entered your apartment was shouting. You looked disappointed as you locked the door behind you and put your keys in a bowl next to door.

“Sorry. That’s my dad.” You apologized. “He claims using his “lawyer voice” is the only way he can get clients to listen.”

“It’s fine.” Peter assured you. “As long as he doesn’t use that voice on me.”

“Not unless your skirt is too short or you got a grade below a 90.” You said through a tight smile as you dropped your backpack on a kitchen stool. He uncomfortably shouldered his, unsure of if he should do the same.

“You can put your bag down. Put it next to mine so they can talk.” You raised your eyebrows suggestively. Peter shook his head as he laughed at your dumb joke and put his backpack on the stool next to yours.

“What are the gonna talk about?” He played along and you thought about it.

“Yours is probably telling my backpack about how scared he is since he heard your last five bags disappeared.” You whispered dramatically and Peter scoffed.

“I just lose them a lot, okay? I can’t believe you noticed that.” He mumbled. He did lose his backpack a lot when he had to ditch it for Spider-Man duties, he just never thought you’d notice that he always had a different bag.

“Sometimes I see things when I’m not applying lipgloss or brushing my hair.” You said through a big, fake smile and Peter got the hint.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He told you. “I know you do other things. Like paint, apparently.”

You looked at a small canvas hung on the wall together. It was a painting of squidward on a yellow background with your name at the bottom. You looked at it proudly and adjusted it so it wasn’t crooked.

“I hung that up there two years ago and my parents still haven’t noticed.” You laughed, but Peter didn’t find it very funny. “I think it’s kinda of pretty.”

“It’s lovely. You’ll have to make me one someday.” He said as he gazed at you. You seemed different now that you weren’t at school. You weren’t standing as straight and finally looked relaxed.

“You want me to paint a bunch of dicks on your ceiling?” You asked and he almost choked on his saliva.

“Why would you do that?” He asked in bewilderment.

“It was a Michelangelo joke, ciccino.” You said an unexpectedly authentic Italian accent.

“Oh. Um, pizza spaghetti spicy meatball to you too.” He muttered and you laughed loudly. He looked at you quizzically, never having heard you laugh like that before. It was never that loud or cheerful. You noticed his staring and covered your mouth in embarrassment.

“Sorry about that.” You said sheepishly and he shook his head.

“Don’t be.” He said softly. “It was nice to hear.”

“Come on. I’ll give you the rest of the tour.” You took Peters hand and lead him to a room at the end of the hall. “This is my bedroom. I’m sorry I don’t have Yoda on my sheets. I hope daisies will do.”

MJ’s words echoed in Peters mind when you didn’t let go of his hand. He blinked a few times as he looked around your room. He’d imagined what it might look like a few times, as he did with a most people. He was pretty sure Flash lived in a dirt hole outside of a SuperCuts. Whatever he imagined your room would look like, the reality was better. But as he looked closer, he noticed an absence of photos with friends or mementos from school. It was almost like your popularity started and ended on school property.

“Your sheets are fine. It’s smells like you in here.” He said without thinking. “Was that the creepiest thing I could’ve possibly said?”

“Nah. A boy in my Econ class told me he wanted to use my hair as a towel once. You’re gonna have to try harder to creep me out.” You let go of his hand and smoothed your skirt before sitting on your bed. Peter stood awkwardly near the door until he found the words to say. He didn’t want to take another step into your room at risk of ruining the wholesome atmosphere.

“Your hair looks soft and all, but I don’t think it’d be very absorbent.” He said finally and watched your face for a reaction.

“Right? Some people are so dumb.” You joked and he felt himself ease up. He took a few steps toward the center of your room and noticed a guitar leaning again your dresser.

“Do you play?” He asked curiously and you nodded. You got up and walked over to the guitar, fingering the strings as a soft melody played.

“A little. I can strum along time a few songs.” You told him. He joined you next to the guitar and touched the neck.

“Thats still something.” He assured you. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“Theres a lot you don’t know about me, Peter.” You quipped and stopped touching the strings.

“Good thing I love to learn.” He replied and you picked up the guitar.

“What’s your favorite song?” You asked and played him an energetic riff.

“You’re gonna laugh.” He hesitated to tell you.

“I would never laugh at you.” You promised.

“It’s Hey there Delilah. My mom used to sing it when she made dinner.” He admitted for the first time to another human being. He and Ned didn’t cover vulnerable topics, so he kept personal stuff to himself. It was hard to keep it in sometimes, but he never felt like he had another choice until now. I

“That’s a great song. She had good taste.” You said softly. You had heard about his parents passing from MJ when you asked her about the cute boy who sat at her lunch table a week earlier. You didn’t expect him to open about it so soon, but you were glad he did.

“Yeah, she did.” Peter agreed. He never expected to be talking about this with you, but it felt good to get off his chest.

“What was she like?” You wondered as you fingered the melody to Marry Me, Archie.

“Amazing. We used to do crossword puzzles together and she would finish hers before I read my second clue. And she always had something in the oven. It made the house really hot in the summer but my dad and I didn’t mind. We were happy as long as she was.” He reminisced. You listened intently to him as you played the song softly.

“What would she make?” You asked him.

“Pretty much everything.” He replied. “Her favorite was chocolate chip cookies. But from scratch, not a package.”

“Were they good?”

“They were so good.” He sighed happily. “She used to put extra chocolate chips on as the cooled down. I miss those cookies.”

You didn’t say anything but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He knew you were listening, and that’s all that mattered. His eyes wandered to your bookshelf which was bare of books except for one.

“Charlottes Web?” He raised an eyebrow as he picked up the book and flipped through it.

“It’s my favorite book.” You told him. He was leaning a lot about you just from being in your room.

“Could’ve fooled me. It looks brand new.” He held it up for you to see.

“I only read it one time. When I was younger.” You shrugged and put the guitar down.

“But it’s your favorite?” He wondered.

“The ending makes me sad. I remember the story and how it made me feel, and that makes it my favorite.” You half smiled. “I just can’t read it anymore because-“

“It makes you sad.” He understood. “That’s cute.”

“You’re cute.” You nodded your head at him and blew him a kiss, like you were cat calling him. He looked away bashfully and brushed it off. “I’m serious. I really like this color on you.”

“So I’ve been told.” He mumbled shyly. “Thank you for the candy, by the way.”

“Well I had to pay you back for the gogurt.” You teased. “Should we get going?”

“Going?” He furrowed his eyebrows.

“To the mall. For a dress. Like we agreed.” You said slowly and he remembered why he was at your house in the first place.

“Right.” He nodded curtly. “Let’s go.”

~

“How’s this?” You opened the dressing room curtain and stepped out in a short maroon dress. Peters eyes lit up at the sight of you until he realized something.

“Isn’t that the same dress you just had on?” He asked.

“No. That was burgundy. This is maroon.” You said like it was obvious and it went right over Peters head.

“You look great.” He complimented, and he meant it.

“You said that about the last three.” You whined and looked at yourself in the mirror. You adjusted the dress nervously and decided you hated it.

“Yeah, but you do this crazy thing where you’re super pretty and look good in everything, so.” Peter shrugged and you bit back a smile.

“Peter Parker with the flirtatious banter. We love to see it.” You winked, something he was coming to see you did a lot, and went back into the dressing room. You came out a minute later in a long white dress.

“What do you think about this one?” You asked for his opinion as you smoothed the dress down.

“Oh my God. You look like Princess Leia when she - I’m gonna stop talking now.” He interrupted himself before he said something uncool.

“You don’t have to hide who you are from me, Peter. If you want to make a Star Trek reference, I want to hear it.” You folded your arms and admired the dress in the mirror.

“Okay.” He obeyed. “And it’s Star Wars. Star Trek is different.”

“Oh. Which one has the bunnies playing basketball?” You pursed your lips as you looked over your shoulder at the dress.

“That’s Space Jam.” He couldn’t even hide his attitude. “That’s not even-“

He cut himself off when he noticed the playful smile on your face.

“You’re messing with me.” He realized and you nodded.

“You’re cute when you’re riled up.” You shrugged a shoulder and disappeared back into the dressing room.

“How’s this?” You reappeared in a little black dress. It had a sheer layer over the mini skirt that was short in the front and longer in the back. You looked beautiful, to say the least. Like the person who designed the dress made it with you in mind. Peters eyes slowly trailed down the dress and a smile tugged at his lips.

“You know the scene in Mean Girls when Aaron sees the picture of Cady as a little girl on top of an elephant and smiles? And like, that happy song with guitars plays in the background?” He asked you and you looked confused.

“I think so, yeah.” You shrugged.

“That’s how that dress makes me feel.” He confessed and you tilted your head.

“Like I’m a child riding an elephant?”

“Like I’m seeing you for the first time.” He replied. “The real you, anyway. Again, not trying to sound like a stalker, but I’ve looked at you a lot over the last four years. But this feels like the first time I’ve ever really looked at you. You look - - you look happy.”

“Do I not normally look happy?” You asked quietly, turning to look at your face in the mirror.

“You have a sadness to you.” Peter admitted and your head whipped to him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that.”

“No, it’s okay. No ones ever honest with me.” You were quiet for a moment following the confession. “What else do you see?”

“I see a really beautiful girl.” Peter answered honestly. He thought he was complimenting you, but you looked annoyed with the answer. He remembered what MJ said about you hating being watched and took that into consideration as he formulated his answer.

“I also see someone who’s smart and can solve a rubix cube in under a minute. I see someone who’s funny, but never at the expense of someone else. Someone who remembers your favorite candy and helps you glue a LEGO lamp together after school. And I see someone who would pretend to be my girlfriend to save me from a bully. That’s what I see.” Peter recited. You looked at him for a moment before taking a seat beside him. You looked like you were searching for the words to say, so Peter kept silent.

“We need to get you a tie to match my dress.” You said finally. You gave him a soft smile and took the hand that was gripping the arm of his chair. “Thank you.”

“For?” He wondered what he had done to warrant a thank you.

“For everything you said. No ones ever known me that well before. No one ever wanted to.” Your voice wavered and Peter thought he could see tears in your eyes.

“I’ve always wanted to.” He confessed. “And somehow, I’m getting the chance. I still worry that I’m gonna wake up and this will have all been a dream.”

“What?” Your expression changed from appreciative to annoyed too quickly for Peters liking. “Why?”

“Because girls like you don’t hang out with guys like me.” He shrugged like it was simply. You hastily got out of your chair and Peter feared he had said the wrong thing.

“Says who?” You asked sharply as you folded your arms. He was positive now he had said the wrong thing.

“Says everybody.” He said weakly.

“Fuck everybody.” You snapped and Peter jumped a little in his seat. “You are better company than anyone one of those sentient bratz dolls at my lunch table. I’ve had more fun with you these past two days than I have in four years with them. I don’t care what everybody says because I like hanging out with you. So I don’t want to hear anymore of this status talk. I’m just a person, Peter.”

“An extremely popular person. And your reputation would plummet if you were caught hanging out with an extremely unpopular person, like myself.” He tried to explain himself as he got out of his seat but it only made you angrier.

“Caught? Like I’m committing a crime just for being seen with you?” You laughed bitterly. “I don’t know who instilled in you that I’m some deity that no one can talk to, but it’s not true. I thought you understood that.” You said in disappointment before storming into the dressing room and swiping the curtain shut.

“Y/n- daisy wait. Wait.” He pressed himself against the doorframe and sighed. “I do understand that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on a pedestal like that. I know you’re just a person.”

He heard you sniffle behind the curtain and his heart broke when his worst fear had come to light.

He had made you cry.

“You don’t get it, Peter.” You said quietly through the curtain. “Everyone think I’m a stuck up snob or a perfect, plastic doll. And no one cares to get to know the truth. They just see what the want to see. I want them to see me the way you do.”

“Maybe they don’t deserve to see that. Daisy, you are this exceptionally phenomenal force of nature.” He promised as he tried to make amends. “You hold a power that their tiny minds could never understand. Forgive them. They’re slow.”

He smiled in relief when he heard a laugh from the other side of the curtain.

“Now that I have you laughing again, will you come out?” He pleaded.

“I’ll think about it.” You said after a beat of silence.

“For the record, I liked you from the first day of freshman year. Before you were popular.” He admitted to someone other than Ned for the first time.

“Didn’t my dad almost hit you with his car?” You asked as you opened the curtain just enough so he could see you.

“Yes.” He stuttered, surprised that his apology worked. “But I was jay walking so that’s on me. And as I waited for my heart to start beating again after nearly colliding with your dads Toyota Camry, I looked up and saw you crying.”

“I thought he killed you.” You defended your actions.

“But he didn’t.” Peter smiled easily. “And now we’re talking through a curtain because we’re fake dating and I can see your bra strap. What a wonderful world.”

You laughed loudly again, a laugh he was sure only he got to hear.

“Come in here.” You grabbed him by the shirt and tugged him into the dressing room. His knees weakened at the sight of you in just a bra and panties so he averted his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten in his head.

“I don’t mean to worry you but I’m about to die, so do with that what you will.” Peter wheezed as he focused on the ceiling tiles.

“Relax. Just turn around.” You ordered and he obeyed. He turned around and tried to ignore the sounds of you getting dressed. “Okay. You can look now. You were saying?”

“I’m saying I liked you before you were the queen of Midtown Tech.” He repeated as he put his hands on your shoulders. “I liked you when you were just the girl who cried on the first day of school because her dad almost turned me into a skinny white boy pizza. I never thought I was gonna be good enough to talk to you. That’s why I’m worried I’m gonna wake up from this. Because it’s something I’ve wanted for so long.”

“You are good enough. You are so good enough.” You laughed sadly and stepped closer to him. “You’re the only one in this school who treats me like an actual person. I’m sorry I got defensive. It’s just because I’ve been wanting this for a long time too.”

“Tell you what.” Peter started. “You’re gonna buy that black dress and I’m gonna buy a tie to match. And I swear, I will never make you feel like this again. I never meant to make you cry, daisy. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you for apologizing.” You said sincerely. “I don’t get those a lot.”

“Then you better start getting used to it because I make a lot of mistakes.” Peter joked and your body shook as you laughed.

“I look forward to what you can come up with.” You smiled softly.

“Come on. People are gonna think you’re jumping on my skeleton.” Peter said as he opened the curtain and walked out.

“Okay.” You followed him out. “Wait, what?”

Tag List 🏷

@a-villain-vying-for-attention @wendaiii @dorbiksbitch @t-monosapiens-h @badhollandfluff @thisisthebiplace @silteplaittais-toi @seasidecrowbar @spideygirl2003 @5-seconds-of-mendes​ @bitchylittleredhead​ @oh-whatabeautiful-parker​ @everydaymj​ @write-from-the-heart​ @blackpetalsmeandeath​ @electraheart-3174​ @shawni-h​ @peterparkoure​ @sleepythighsweat @steebbb @traveleraroundsworld @averyfosterthoughts

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Seven

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: so this chapter doesn't exactly have a hay bale maze but it has something even better :)

***

Being a legal consultant is surprisingly easy.

Years of studying business law in order to take down big corporations in the courtroom is now being used to help a big corporation— Nesta wants to be disgusted at the state of her morals. Fortunately for her, all the issues that have come across her desk so far are minor negotiation matters. The way Night Court Inc. is run is virtually perfect, and she almost hopes a blatant lawsuit drops into her lap just so she can give Rhysand and his sycophantic workers hell.

Though Nesta knows better than to dream big. This is essentially busy work that Night Court’s actual lawyers don't have time to do, but she's grateful for it either way. She's grateful for the man who got her this job even more.

When her car finally gets back from the auto shop one sunny November morning, Cassian suggests they go out to celebrate.

“Celebrate what?” Nesta says. “Not having to rely on you for rides anymore?”

“Exactly that.” Cassian grins and leans his elbow against the kitchen counter. “There’s a fall festival an hour north of here that pops up every year. There's good food and hot cider. Let’s go.” He nudges her excitedly.

Nesta narrows her eyes at him. “You’ve been planning this,” she accuses.

“I go every year,” he shrugs. “Come on, we have the whole day ahead of us.”

He makes pleading puppy eyes that have absolutely no effect on Nesta, but she doesn't want to hurt his ego by letting him know that.

There is nothing appealing to her about going out into the cold and doing autumn-related activities, so she surprises herself and Cassian both when she agrees to go. He rewards her with a wide smile and tells her to get ready.

Nesta feels oddly giddy afterward. She can't recognize the feeling, so she tamps down on it while she gets dressed and braids her hair.

Outside, her burgeoning smile drops when she sees Cassian getting the truck started. “I thought the point of this was that we could use my car now.” She gestures to her beat up blue sedan, a sad little thing parked next to Cassian’s fancy truck.

“Nes, if I thought your car could go anywhere near a mountain road without falling to pieces, I would get in it without hesitation.”

It's as close to apologetic sympathy as she’ll get from him, so she only grumbles a little before climbing into the passenger seat she's gotten all too familiar with.

The door slams as Cassian gets in the driver’s seat, and something on the dashboard catches Nesta’s attention. Reaching out, she picks up one of her coloring books and her zipper bag full of markers and pencils.

She glances at Cassian. “Is this for me?”

He looks up from where he’s buckling his seatbelt. “Oh, I just picked it up on my way out. Cell signal gets spotty the closer we get to the mountains, so you might get bored.”

Nesta looks down at the coloring book she's clutching, surprised.

“Did you want anything else before we leave?” Cassian says. “I can run inside and pick up some books.”

“No— no, this is good,” she says softly. She flips the page open to a fresh landscape scene, black on white lines staring back at her. “Thank you.”

She unzips her pencil bag with a new reverence, barely noticing as they pull out of the driveway and head for the highway leading out of town.

Nesta is intent on her coloring the entire ride, falling far too easily into that little bubble of her own mind where she forgets that other things and people exist. Cassian, unlike most people, doesn't seem to mind this. He's content with driving in the quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the radio and the scratch of Nesta’s pencils.

She’s trying to get the blue shades of the lake just right when she feels the truck start to slow, and she looks up to see that they're in some kind of parking lot. Ahead, a market-carnival setup sits at the base of the mountains, and it sprawls as far as her eyes can see. “We’re here already?”

“Yeah.” Cassian glances at her hesitantly. “Is it lame?” He gestures to the autumn-themed affair, as if he’ll turn around and drive them right back home if it isn't to Nesta’s liking.

Nesta can’t pay the festival any attention yet. “I’m not done with this picture yet,” she says simply. She holds it up for Cassian to see, even though he probably can't tell that the mostly-completed picture is still missing a couple of details.

He just says, “We’ll wait till you're finished, then.”

She brightens with relief, and takes her time adjusting the colors of the landscape to her liking. As soon as she's satisfied with what she has, though, she throws her pencils and book down like they're on fire and grabs her coat. “Let's go,” she demands.

If Cassian is surprised at her sudden change of pace, he hides it well and follows Nesta onto the fairground. “Slow down,” he calls for her.

Perhaps the fall season isn't terrible, Nesta thinks as they buy warm candied apples. The air smells nice and the weather is brisk and Cassian stands so close to her that she never quite gets cold.

It feels almost like a date.

Nesta glances at Cassian from the corner of her eye as she chews on her apple. Wind ruffles his hair and his brown cheeks are flushed red, but he looks content. It's too bad they're just friends, because this would have been a nice date.

She has to stop her train of thought before she gets distracted by how Cassian’s hand isn't holding anything, and how her hand isn't holding anything, and maybe their hands should—

She makes a fist with her free hand and shoves it into her coat pocket. This is why she doesn't usually have friends, she remembers— because she can never stop hungering for more.

Nesta and Cassian’s not-date is spent with Cassian throwing his money at every other thing he sees on sale, and Nesta biting her tongue at the unnecessary waste of it all.

“Eight dollars for a cup of cider? Come on, you're being scammed.” Nesta pulls at his elbow, trying to lead him away from the drinks stand.

“But it comes in one of those cute little jars,” Cassian protests as he’s pulled away.

There’s a laughably small hay-bale maze that they complete in less than three minutes, thanks to Cassian being tall enough to see over the hay bales. Then there’s a ferris wheel that Nesta adamantly refuses to get onto, regardless of how high it goes or not. And then, without either of them noticing, the sun starts slipping behind the mountains.

With her arms full of bags of snacks and random knickknacks that she’ll never need in her life, Nesta finds herself back in the market area.

There’s a painting at an art stand that has caught her attention. Something about the brush strokes and choice of color palette… it reminds her of Feyre’s art style. Amateur, but warm and comforting, clearly made with love and dedication. She approaches the elder salesman carefully, only wanting a closer look at the piece.

It’s of a glittering forest in the peak of autumn, ruby and flame-colored leaves littering the scene. An unwalked pathway cuts through the scene, and a longing Nesta can’t place swells in her stomach.

“My daughter painted this one,” the salesman says to her, pride peeking through his voice. She glances up at the kind-faced man. “Only this one?” she asks. The rest of the paintings don’t have the same art style, Feyre’s style.

“Yes.” He places a protective hand over the canvas. “She’s still learning, but she’s got heart and potential. One day she’ll be a better artist than me.”

Nesta blinks at his words. “How much is it?”

“How much do you have?”

She looks down at her hands full of shopping bags and realizes not one of them is carrying her wallet. “Oh, I must have left my money with my—” She glances up then and looks around. “Cassian?”

He was just here with her. They were walking together and she took note of the pretty fairy lights that were starting to turn on, and then she saw the art stand. She scans the milling crowd for a glimpse of his face, but it’s five p.m. and fully dark now.

Unease starts to pump in her chest. “Cassian?” she calls again. She wanders away from the art stand, painting and salesman forgotten. Maneuvering her full hands, she wrangles her phone out of her back pocket and turns it on. Just as she suspected— no signal. Waving it high in the air doesn’t do much for her either.

Shoving her phone back in her pocket, Nesta takes a strained breath and resolves to keep looking. If she can’t find him, she can always make her way back to the parking lot—

Something shoves hard into Nesta’s back, and her glasses slip right off her nose in the collision. She feels a metallic crunch under her boot and gasps. Suddenly there are people everywhere, heading in the opposite direction that she is, and whoever bumped into her yells a quick apology that gets lost in the crush of bodies.

Nesta stumbles out of the crowd, blinking quickly. She can’t see a thing, and the fairy lights are now blurry orbs. “My glasses—” she says to nobody. She scans the flattened grass and dirt furiously, squinting until she gets a headache, but she can’t find them. “Shit.”

She ends up roaming out of the market area, finding herself back on the fairgrounds. There are a few tents around her, but they're empty and the noise has died down. She doesn’t know where she’s going.

At one point, Nesta simply drops her bags and keeps walking without them. She barely notices leaving them behind. The magic has drained out of the festival, and she just wants to find her way back to Cassian’s truck. If the ferris wheel is that way, then the exit should be that way… she thinks.

She looks around in the dark, frustrated tears rising at her inability to recognize anything. She's alone. She’s cold. She was abandoned.

Nesta doesn't know how long she stands there, hopeless in some deserted corner of the fairgrounds. She forgets what she's supposed to be doing, and just stands there staring at nothing. Escaping to a numbing void in her mind.

The desperate call of her name brings her back to earth.

Blinking, Nesta turns around to find a tall figure heading towards her. Cassian.

He’s holding something in his hand, she can tell, but he drops it when he sees her face and breaks into a run.

“Nesta!” Hard warmth crashes into her as strong arms grab her and yank her close. Her face presses into his chest, and hot tears fall despite the lingering numbness.

“Where did you go?” Cassian is demanding. “You had me so fucking scared—”

“I lost my glasses,” she says weakly into the wool of his coat.

“I know.” He goes from stroking her back to clutching her face. His thumbs rub at the wetness beneath her eyes, and finally she can see his face. He’s close enough that she can read every detail, their foreheads pressed tightly together. He isn't letting go.

She presses her lips together. “I lost you.”

“I know.”

In the next moment, Nesta feels everything all at once: Cassian’s heavy breath on her face, his fingers digging into her scalp, his hazel eyes looking relieved and apologetic and terrified at the same time. His heartbeat racing beneath her hands.

For the briefest eternity, Nesta and Cassian share the same mind. They are thinking the exact same thing.

There’s a moment of painful hesitation, where Nesta has the opportunity to pull away. She doesn't take it, and by then it's too late— Cassian’s mouth is on hers.

Oh. Oh.

Nesta buckles a little under the weight of his kiss, but he holds her upright with his grip. His fingers wind so tightly into her braid she worries he might undo the whole thing, but then she's tucking her cold hands into the warmth of his sweater and wow, what a wonderful end to a terrible night.

His lips break from hers for a breath, only to come in again and kiss her deeper this time. A helpless noise escapes from one or both of them. She’s unraveling with every stroke of his tongue, and she thinks distantly that if kisses were flavored, this one would be sweet enough to make her teeth ache.

It's over far too soon, with Cassian’s series of kisses slowing until they stop completely. He pulls back far enough that they both have room to breathe, and with oxygen comes sharp reality.

For once, Nesta has no words. Her thought process is a tape jammed on a few moments ago, so Cassian is the one that has to slowly drop his hands from her hair and clear his throat.

“Let's go home,” is all he says.

***

The drive back to the cabin is silent. Nesta puts her earbuds in and turns on music as soon as they get in the truck, and halfway home Cassian glances over and realizes she's fallen asleep.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and it's a struggle to keep his eyes on the headlight-lit road ahead.

Losing track of Nesta with no way to contact her was one thing, but nothing scared Cassian more than when his eyes caught the metallic glint of broken gold rims in the trampled dirt of the marketplace.

After running from stall to stall searching for Nesta, only one man was able to give Cassian a straight answer. “She was looking at some art and then she went that way,” the old salesman pointed. “She seemed upset; I think she was looking for you.”

The pieces of Nesta's glasses sit in a bag in the backseat now, tucked alongside a canvas painting of an autumn landscape.

The relief Cassian felt when he found her in one piece, when she turned to him with the saddest eyes— he was more cemented in his feelings for her in that moment than in any late night he’d spent dreaming about her.

And when she looked at him like that, fighting not to cry… it was over for him. Weeks of restraint that he hadn't even noticed building up snapped at the last second, until he was kissing Nesta like it was his final dying wish. All of it, utterly over.

He glances over to her now, where she sleeps with her head against the fogged window, exhausted after the day she's had. His hands twitch with the temptation to reach out and touch her.

Gravel crunches as Cassian pulls up into the driveway, and he looks at Nesta again and sighs. He almost goes to wake her, but changes his mind at the last moment and gets out of the car instead. Circling around to the passenger side, he opens the door and carefully lifts her out of her seat.

Her head lolls against his chest, but she doesn't wake. Stress and high emotions have no doubt knocked her out for the rest of the night.

Realizing there's no way to unlock the front door while holding Nesta, Cassian has to circle around to the back of the cabin, entering through the open kitchen door and carrying her on silent feet up the stairs.

Once she's safely tucked in her bed, Cassian can relax his shoulders for the first time all night. Later, he sits down in the half-lit kitchen with Nesta’s broken glasses before him. The frame is split right down the middle, but he already knows Nesta won't allow him to get her a new pair. He’ll need wire and some pliers.

Tying his hair back, he settles down and gets to work.

***

a/n: i'm trying to apologize less for my work but this chapter is not only short and late but also super iffy in terms of writing quality 🥴 so im sorry. if my secret snowflake gift has anything to do with it part 8 will also be a little late (i'm looking for balance guys i really am).

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01

[biletdoux]

paint me the sea | n.yt TEASER

Pairing: nakamoto yuta (nct) + japanese female!reader ; yuta centric

Rating: G (teaser), M (completed work)

Genre + Tropes: college!au, romance (angst, smut), psychological horror

Warnings: none (in the teaser), full warning list will be posted with completed work

Length: 731 (teaser), TBA (completed work)

Summary: “I just want to be beautiful,” you sobbed. “Please make me beautiful.”

And so he did.

(Or; in which Yuta was an artist and you were his greatest masterpiece.)

Notes: This is part of the Addiction Collaboration hosted by @127-mile​ and @moondustaeil​. Also, to clarify, the reader is not necessarily ethnically Japanese, but for the sake of the plot, the reader was born and raised in Japan. 

I caved and posted a teaser smh, but a girl does what she needs to do to get motivation amirite??

Disclaimer: This story—and the collab as a whole— do not endorse toxic behaviors and/or addictions nor are they an accurate portrayal of the members’ behavior and/or personality in real life.

Italics - Japanese dialogue

Yuta met you on a balmy afternoon. 

It was late spring after a light shower from the heavens above. The sky was still overcast and the humidity clawed at his skin in an attempt to steal his breath. The austere greyness of everything strained his eyes and made him wince. The streets had long dried, but the smell of delicate raindrops on hot asphalt told him it wouldn’t stay that way for long. This was the type of weather that inspired Yuta to paint the most, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He shouldn’t anyway. 

Through pops of gold that lined the grass, dandelions were always in full bloom during spring’s last dying breath as a messenger to hand the season’s reign to summer. Yuta never did like dandelions or the color yellow, but looking back, he supposed it wasn’t too bad. Something good came out of this day afterall. He met you.

You were a whirlwind.

While too busy wallowing in the misery of bleak weather and fighting off his artistic urges, Yuta was too wrapped in his own thoughts to see a bumbling figure plowing along the path and straight into him. It was picturesque how the papers exploded as the two of you made contact. As the papers fell all around you in a montage worthy cascade, Yuta couldn’t help, but notice the way you shot your hands out in a desperate attempt to gather all of the precious papers.

“Shit!” You cursed to yourself. 

Yuta watched in amusement as you muttered hushed expletives under your breath. The lilt and curve of your shared native tongue didn’t escape his ears. 

“I’m so sor-- er, uhh-- I mean I’m so sorry.” Your apology was sincere, but you were too busy collecting your scattered paper to look at Yuta properly.

“It’s okay.” Yuta smiled while picking up the folders that also fell from the earlier collision.

By the time you finished, half of your papers were crumpled and Yuta calmly watched you as you flipped through the pages to reassess the damage. It was then that your head popped up, as if in realization that something felt amiss and without missing a beat, Yuta handed over the manilla folders.

You gratefully accepted them and smiled sheepishly, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Yuta smiled back. “I’m Yuta, by the way. Nakamoto Yuta.”

The surprise that found residence in your eyes was apparent, causing Yuta’s smile to widen. He thought you were cute. 

You attempted to introduce yourself in return, but the shock Yuta gave you mixed with the impact earlier left you dazed and a little more scattered than you were willing to admit. All that left your mouth were incoherent stutters, but Yuta gave you a reassuring nod and he watched as the trepidation left your system. You sounded more sure and confident the second time you introduced yourself, although Yuta didn’t miss the flush on your cheeks. 

Yuta tested out the way your name sounded in his head and tasted the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. It reminded him of how the paint would glide on his canvas after a firm stroke of the brush and Yuta shivered despite the muggy post-rain atmosphere. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Nakamoto-san, and thank you again for earli- eh?” You were cut off by a text notification on your phone and Yuta watched as your eyes widened. Your feet started to move before your eyes were even fully done scanning the screen. 

“I’m so sorry,” you started, your voice trailing behind over your shoulders, “I have a really important presentation and I’m late.” 

The last few words of your apology dissipated into the thick spring air, but Yuta was able to piece it back together with little trouble. He chuckled to himself as he watched your retreating figure, before feeling the distinct splash of water droplets on his face. Yuta looked up to see the sky had darkened a considerable amount during the brief exchange with you and his earlier guess that the rain would soon start up was proven true. 

As the occasional raindrops picked up in consistency and volume, Yuta picked up his pace and hurried home to shelter himself from the rain.

When Yuta was younger, he was told that when it rained, it meant the angels were crying, but why would they cry for such a blessed meeting?

[yoyowrites]

Muse

Edgar x friendly!reader (ft!BFF!Mike)

Word count:1146

Warnings:None, bad writing/formatting

Edgar has come to hate art. He hadn’t, wouldn’t admit to himself, much less anyone else. It’s just the fact that the vibrant colors faded. That’s why he showed up at the mansion. He didn’t make any effort to get close to anyone. Instead he actively avoided the rest of the survivors. He prefered to stay alone.

The first people he talked to outside of matches were you and Mike. The two of you noticed that Edgar was limping more than usual after a match. Edgar was cornered by the two of you. He was prideful and just wanted to leave. You and Mike agreed to leave him alone on the condition that he would let you treat him. He agrees.

He expects that after being healed he would’ve been left alone. He was sorely mistaken. He would sit to sketch and you'd appear.

The first time it happened you had a reason that didn’t involve stalking him, you swear. You were calling him to go over strategies in case you were matched up together again. So there you were, walking over to him and he just looked so peaceful. He wasn’t scowling or hissing at anyone. He was just sitting there and sketching. You stared at him for a few moments before he caught you staring. When your eyes met his you could swear that your heart almost fell out of your chest. You ended up leaving without asking him about any strategies.

After that you tried to catch him drawing more often. Eventually, Mike noticed you paying extra attention to the new guy and began to tease you. You swore that it was only curiosity. Mike didn’t buy it but he let it go, for now.

Edgar ,on the other hand, was weirded out, at first. After the third(ish) time of you looking at him from afar and not doing anything he felt confident that you didn’t mean any harm. Not too long after that he even invited you to sit in front of him. He would never let you see what he was working on but that never bothered you.

Occasionally, Mike would sit with you two practicing his juggling. Sometimes the three of you(mostly you and Mike with Edgar interjecting every once in a while) would talk and joke. Sometimes it’d just be you and Edgar.

Edgar had a routine for after he finished a match. If the survivors won or tied, he’d get healed and help whoever was injured before leaving. If the survivors lost, he wouldn’t even wait to heal his own scars and just leave. After a particularly bad match you saw him bruised to the point of barely being able to move. You walked up to him and helped him stand. He would try to get you to let him go but after he saw how serious you were, he let you drag him to his room. 

You wrap him up the best you can. Once you finish dressing his wounds you go to leave, but before you can completely step out of the room he asks you to bring him his sketchbook. Confused, you do as directed and bring him his sketchbook. He pats the area next to him. After you’re settled down, he opens his sketchbook, he starts flipping through the pages. He stops a little after halfway through the sketch book. He shows the page to you. It’s titled “Home”.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Of course you would think that.”

He begins to tell you about the city he grew up in. He told a few stories and tall tales from his childhood. Once he finished he ripped the page and handed it to you. You were confused at first but he just thrusted the page towards you.

“It’s a failed sketch, you wouldn’t be able to tell but anyone who knows anything about art would. You can throw it away if you’d like.”

Then he practically kicked you out of his room.

You found some tape and taped the art in your wall next to the picture of your family. The only person who knew it was there was Mike who teased you relentlessly when he saw it.

After that night he would allow(force) you to see some of  his works. He’d tell you random facts about art. After a while he would also begin to quiz you.

“What’s the complementary color to blue?”

“How do you create complementary colors?”

“What creates good composition?”

If you properly remembered he’d smile smugly to himself. If you didn’t he’d shake his head, flick your forehead and tell you the answer to his little ‘quiz’.

One day you’d notice that Edgar was acting strangely. He was staring at you and turning red. Mike noticed too and immediately started ‘Y/N and Edgar sitting in a tree..’. You ignored best friend and tried to talk to Edgar about how he was acting. He denied behaving strangely, so you let it go.

Then Edgar began avoiding you. You didn’t notice at first but soon it became obvious. He began not painting in the open as often. Then he wouldn’t wait for you to get healed. Suddenly the only thing time you saw him was in matches. You confronted him after one too many matches and he turned bright red. He would drag you to his room. He’d tell you to wait outside and run in his room, He would come out with a wrapped canvas. He’d tell you to open in your room and retreat into his room.

The canvas had a tag titled ‘My Muse’. You sat in your room and opened it. It was a colorful portrait of you. On the inside of the canvas was a scribbled note (for someone who was so good at painting he had awful handwriting).

‘As a thank you for your help with my wounds. You’ve brought back the light in my art. I trust that after my lessons you would know the importance of lighting in a painting,correct?

Much love, Edgar’

While you were opening the canvas, Edgar would be pacing in his room. He didn’t know when or how it happened but when he was around you he noticed that sketching had become easier. The ideas had flown easily. He had tried to deny it but after the night you helped him with his wounds he was faced to confront his emotions. With the help of Mike, he decided that making you a portrait with a thoughtful note would be a good way to confess.

He continued to pace wondering if you’d already opened it. Then there was a knock on his door. When he opened it he had an armful of you. You had launched yourself at him. He couldn’t even be mad at you, not when you had brought his love of art back.

[quickspinner]

These Two Hands (I’ll Never Not Know You)

I worked on this for ages, and I just couldn't get it to come out right, so I put it aside and worked on other things. I hadn't looked at it in months, and then the WIP meme came along, and I started looking it over, and it turned out to be ridiculously easy to fix and finish, so here it is at last!

Shoutout to all my artist buddies, whose complaining about hands being such a pain to draw gave me the idea for this fic. 😆 Love you guys.

I don't think I said anything that specifically made it clear, but they're university aged in this one.

It was a beautiful summer day in Paris, with just enough breeze to keep the heat from being unbearable. Enjoying the weather and his music, Luka had no idea how long he’d been sitting there playing on the warm, wide stone steps of the Trocadero. A while, by the sun and the hollow feeling in his stomach. Luka packed up his guitar and slung it across his back. He started to descend the steps, but paused as he nearly trod on something at the bottom. He bent down and picked up the book, plain black and with heavy, weighted paper, like an artist’s book. It wasn’t battered or dirty, like it had been there for days, though the canvas cover was frayed a bit at the corners. Well-used, he concluded, and lost only recently.

Luka looked around, hesitant. He couldn’t see anybody who looked like they’d lost something. He went back up the steps and looked around at the top, with the same result. 

Luka sighed. He got so into his music, he frequently lost awareness of his surroundings, so while he knew some people had stopped on the steps to hear him play, he had no memory of what they looked like or what they’d been doing, other than Officer Roger passing by and giving him the stinkeye. Apparently the officer hadn’t felt like ruining a perfectly good day by hassling about permits and nonsense, though, and once he’d moved on, Luka had played without regard to his audience.

He went back down the stairs, thinking, and then sat down slowly on the bottom step. He felt like an intruder as he opened the book, as he thought of the battered spiral notebook full of embarrassing, half-finished scribbles he carried in his guitar case. He checked the inside of both covers first, but found only the initials MDC. No phone number, not even a full name.

Luka blew out a frustrated breath, fluffing his bangs away from his face. Reluctantly, he began turning pages. 

It was full of...hands. Hands planting a seedling, hands cleaning something indistinct. Hands buried in a lumpy mass. Clay? Or maybe dough? Hands twined in yarn, holding the vague suggestion of knitting needles. What they were doing was usually only lightly sketched in and suggested, but the hands themselves were detailed and bold. It was kind of weird at first, but as he continued to turn the pages, still checking each for some sign of the owner, he began to appreciate the different types of beauty and strength captured on each page. He could imagine the trembling in the wrinkled hands with swollen joints that held a flower stem delicately. There were fingers curved over a computer keyboard, charged with energy, and he could almost hear the rapid smack of the fingers hitting the keys. 

Luka found himself rubbing his fingers together. He’d never contemplated his hands from an aesthetic standpoint. Why would he? They were rough and scarred; his fingers from the guitar, his palms from the ropes and rigging on the boat, from the lifting and carrying required for the constant rearranging of the stuff on deck to make sure they could get around. He’d never thought about whether they were—any of what he saw in these pictures. 

He glanced up and around again, still feeling guilty to be poking through someone else’s private things, but no one was paying him any mind, and he still had no clues as to the owner. He tried to flip quickly, just checking each page for even a hint of where he might go to return it, but with everything but the hands indistinct there wasn’t much to go by. 

He stopped in surprise on the last sketch in the book, staring at the drawing of hands on a guitar. The guitar was just roughed in, once again more of a suggestion than a drawing, except where the left hand rested on the fretboard, pressing into the strings. 

The hands, though, were incredibly detailed, and, he realized with a sudden blush, they were his. He touched his thumb to the ring on his pointer finger absently. The right hand, curved to strum, the pick invisible from that angle but implied, had bracelets matching his stacked along the wrist. 

The nails were colored in, dark like his, but beyond that, he wouldn’t have recognized them without the jewelry and the small curving scar near the thumb of the right hand.

These hands were elegant, graceful, intentional. It had been a long time since Luka last consciously thought about the control he had over his hands, but he couldn’t help thinking about it now. It had taken him years of practice to get there, but when he played, his hands did exactly what he needed them to, found the strings he needed quickly and accurately. Though they were thin, they were strong and sure, equally capable of coaxing a melody and knotting a rope with speed and strength. 

That was what this person had seen in them, at least. 

“Oh!”

Luka looked up and found a girl staring at him with both hands over her mouth, her blue eyes wide. Her gaze flickered between him and the book. 

“Is this yours?” he asked without thinking. 

She nodded slowly, pink spreading over her cheeks. 

Luka closed it quickly and stood up, offering it to her. She took a hasty step forward, grabbing the book gratefully, but somehow got her feet tangled up and yelped as she tipped forward. Luka caught her shoulders and steadied her. “Woah, easy.” He shifted her back until she was solidly on her feet, and let go. “I’m sorry for snooping, it’s just I found it on the steps and I was trying to find a name or something so I knew who to give it back to. I wasn’t having much luck, though, so I’m really glad you came back.” 

“Oh,” she said, blushing and holding the sketchbook to her. “It’s okay, of course I understand. I’m glad it was found, at least. I just...I’m just kind of embarrassed, I know it must look kind of weird, and I usually ask before I draw someone but you were busy and the music was so lovely and I started watching your hands and just kind of got caught up in the moment but I’m really sorry—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Luka said, putting a hand on her shoulder briefly to interrupt as she began picking up speed. “I thought they were cool, and I’m flattered you saw something in my hands worth capturing.”

She smiled shyly. “I like hands that make things. They’re my favorite. I mean, it started just as a drawing exercise, because hands are hard, and so I thought if I just kept drawing them I’d get better. And...and then when I started looking, I got interested, and I kept going. It’s kind of stress relief now. And that probably doesn’t make it any less weird.” She put one hand back over her face, the other still clutching her sketchbook, and made a little whine. “Why am I still talking?”  

“That’s amazing,” Luka smiled, and then hesitated. “Um, are you busy? On your way somewhere? Because if not, I’d really like to look at some more. If it’s okay with you.” 

Her eyes widened slightly, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. “R-really? I mean, sure, if you, um. If you want to. I didn’t really think they were that interesting, to be honest.”

“Well, I do,” Luka said, and backed up to sit back down on his steps, tipping his head to invite her to sit next to him. “My name’s Luka.”

She smiled nervously, perching on the step and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m Marinette.” Luka turned back to the beginning of the book, and began to page through more slowly, pausing now and then to ask Marinette about a picture.

“That’s my grandmother,” she told him, as he looked at a picture of half-gloved hands resting on the handles of a motorcycle. “She travels a lot.” 

“I really like this one,” he said after a moment, pausing at the hands twined in yarn. 

“I, um,” Marinette hunched her shoulders a little bit. “I love drawing people knitting. They all look so different, even though they’re doing the same thing. Everyone holds the yarn a little bit differently, knits just a slightly different way.”

“And this?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “I can’t quite figure this one out.”

“That’s my friend Kim,” Marinette explained. “He’s a swimmer. He was doing backstroke time trials and I just got really fascinated with the way his hands held onto the wall. I didn’t quite get the perspective right, though.” She giggled nervously, and Luka smiled at the sound. “The blurry spots are from when he dripped on me trying to get a look at what I was doing.” 

“I can see it now,” Luka nodded. “The tension in them, and why you did the eyes here between them—”

“They ended up looking kind of buggy, with the goggles,” Marinette admitted. 

“No, I really like it, though,” Luka looked up to flash her a quick smile. “You really get that sense of power about to let loose.”

Marinette blinked. “Y-yeah,” she smiled. “Yeah...thanks.”

“Why make the rest of the drawings so incomplete compared with the hands?” Luka asked curiously, looking up from the book to meet her eyes. “I mean, I get why the hands are the focus, but why make the rest of it so vague?”  

Marinette blushed. “It’s...stupid. I don’t know if it’ll even make sense if I say it out loud.”

“Try me,” Luka smiled. 

“It’s just, no matter how I draw them, it’s not the full picture,” Marinette said thoughtfully, and then glanced up at him with an adorably shy smile. “No pun intended. I just mean that there’s so much that these hands can do and when I draw them, I’m really only capturing one. I’d be fascinated to find out what else your hands can do besides play guitar,” she added, and Luka’s face flamed red, though Marinette didn’t seem to notice anything suggestive about what she’d said as she picked his hand up, examining it. Luka swallowed as she turned his hand over and ran her fingers over the calluses on his palm. “You didn’t get these from the guitar,” she said. “Sports? Or something else?” 

Luka cleared his throat. “I live on a boat on the Seine,” he said, watching her. “I work with a lot of ropes, and I’m always climbing around fixing something or other.” 

Marinette nodded, looking up at him, his hand still cradled in hers. “That explains the tan. What else?” 

“Um…” Luka blinked, trying to think. “I carry sound and boat equipment.” 

“Okay,” Marinette said, still listening. Looking at him like he was a puzzle she was trying to solve. He wasn’t sure what she wanted to hear, or why he suddenly very much wanted to be worthy of her interest, but...

“I...comfort my sister,” Luka said softly, dropping his gaze to his hand again. “She’s nervous, she gets worried. I put my hand on her shoulder so she knows that I’m there with her and she’s not alone. I...I calm my mother down. She’s kind of...passionate, she gets worked up about stuff a lot. I put my hand on hers or on her arm to remind her to take a minute to breathe.” 

“And you help up strangers who trip over their own feet,” Marinette giggled. 

“Yeah,” Luka smiled, looking at her. “That too.” 

“It sounds like your hands do a lot of good,” she said. “Your hands help people. Lift them up. You carry, you support. That’s very noble, Luka.”

Luka’s face heated. “Poetic, but...I think that’s giving me a bit too much credit,” he said, looking down at her little hands on his. He was beginning to be fascinated with their contrast, by the way their fingers looked together. Impulsively he closed one hand, capturing hers gently.

“You’re really special, Marinette,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody that thinks like you.” 

Marinette stared at him for a second, and then looked down at their hands. It seemed to hit her all at once that she’d been holding onto him, and she jerked her hands back, face reddening. “I’m so sorry—I’m being really weird, aren’t I?” Marinette hunched her shoulders. “I’m sorry—”

“Maybe a little bit,” Luka broke in, stopping her from another apology spiral. “But what’s weird anyway? Just something a little different than normal. Unique. Nothing wrong with that. Let’s just roll with it.” He grinned. “Embrace the weird. May I see yours?” 

She looked startled. “W-what?” 

“Your hands,” he said, holding out his own. “May I see them?” 

Marinette couldn’t get any redder but her mouth opened and closed soundlessly for a moment. “It’s okay,” Luka said quickly. “If you’d rather not. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.” 

“No, it’s fine,” she said, hunching her shoulders again. “It’s only fair, right? Gosh, I didn’t even ask you, you must think I’m so—” She made a wordless noise in her throat and held out her hands stiffly. 

“I don’t,” Luka chuckled. “I didn’t mind. It doesn’t have to be fair, though,” Luka said, making no move to take her hands again. “If you’re not okay with it, don’t feel like you have to.” 

“It’s really okay,” she said. Her hands relaxed a little, her shoulders came down, and there was enough sincerity in her smile to convince him. “It’s just, I don’t think mine are anything special.” 

“Hmm,” Luka chuckled, slowly reaching to take her hands. “I didn’t think mine were either, until today.” His hands dwarfed hers as he closed his fingers lightly. Her fingers were slender and elegantly tapered. Her fingernails were short but filed meticulously into perfect ovals. He ran his thumbs lightly over the backs, tracing the veins and gliding over the bumps of her knuckles.  

“So what do you do with these hands, besides drawing?” he asked as he looked. 

“Sewing, mostly. Some knitting and crochet and things like that, but mostly I make clothes. I’m in school for fashion design and I’m always working on some project or other. That’s why my hands are always so beat up.”

Gently Luka turned her hands over, letting go of her left hand to trail his fingers over the palm and fingers of her right, noticing the calluses on her fingertips and one on the side of her middle finger. 

Luka looked up at her and grinned. “You said hands that make things are your favorite.”  

Marinette shrugged slightly, smiling. “It’s worth the callouses. The business stuff, I could live without, but the making—it doesn’t feel like work. I like making things that help people express themselves.” 

Luka picked her left hand up again and noticed a shiny burn scar on the heel of it. He turned that hand up and let go of the other to run his fingers lightly over the scar. “What’s the story here?”

“A boring one,” Marinette chuckled, making a face. “I’m a klutz and I live in a bakery. I tripped and put my hand down in the wrong spot. I’ve gotten lots of burns for various reasons but that’s the only one that really left a mark.”

“Do you bake?” 

“Sometimes. Not for the bakery, but for friends and family on special occasions. I also do a lot of decorating. Cakes and cookies and stuff. I’m a master with a piping bag.”

“That makes sense,” Luka said softly, thoughtfully. 

Marinette tilted her head and looked up at him. “Luka?”

“These little hands create so much beauty,” he mused aloud, marveling. Marinette squeaked and he glanced up at her, a question on his tongue, but he froze instead, caught by her eyes, clear baby blue, framed with dark lashes, and currently wide and staring at him. It struck him all at once as he took in her vibrant blush and pretty parted lips that she was really, really beautiful, and that he’d been fondling her hands for the last several minutes and he should...he should probably let go.

He didn’t want to. 

He didn’t want to let go of those tiny, strong, capable, beautiful hands. 

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” Luka said, and cleared his throat to smooth out his suddenly rough voice. “What you were saying about my hands lifting people up. Your hands...make things beautiful. You take ordinary things and make them better.” He looked back down at their hands, rubbing his thumbs absently across her knuckles as he spoke. “That’s a pretty special gift, Marinette. Making the world a more beautiful place, or even just making it so that people can see the beauty that’s already there...you’re amazing.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to look back at her face. “Would you, um...this is going to sound really forward, but would you go out with me sometime?” 

“O-out?” Marinette stammered, looking rather like she’d just been hit in the head with a board.

Luka tried not to laugh. “Yeah. Out. On a date? Maybe this weekend? I know we just met, but…”

“I’d like to,” Marinette blurted, face red. “That...that sounds really great.” She dropped her gaze for a minute, and then flicked her eyes back up shyly, a slow smile curling her lips. “But if you want my number, you’re going to have to let go of my hands first.” 

Luka grinned back, squeezing her hands instead of releasing them. “Or I could just take you out right now. Are you free for lunch? I’m starving, personally.” 

***

It was another sunny summer day, on the same stone steps, and Marinette and Luka sat pressed close together, the fingers of his right hand threaded together with her left, as she sketched busily on the sketchbook in her lap. They’d been there for a while now, but Luka was comfortable and happy lounging on the sun-warmed steps, humming a tune to himself and trying not to fidget in a way that would tug on the hand Marinette was holding. 

He was staring blankly at nothing, remembering their first kiss. Well. Not their first kiss, standing outside of her home while he held her hands in his and leaned in to press his lips to hers for just a sweet, soft moment. Their first real kiss, when his hand came up to cup her cheek as hers slid back and slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck and he kissed her for real. He remembered noticing how his hand felt so big compared to her face as his thumb brushed her soft cheek, his touch feather-light and reverent even as hers was firm against him. She tilted her face to better meet him, and his thumb slipped down to her jaw, his calloused fingertips fanning out along the side of her neck. He remembered the way she gasped, leaning into his touch, which pulled her lips away from his. He’d kissed along her jaw as his rough palm skimmed down the elegant line of her neck and followed the curve of her shoulder before stroking back up again to pull her closer. How their other hands had met and twined together, fingers locked as they were now, palms pressed tight together. He remembered how the strength in those little hands had surprised him.  

Movement beside him jerked him back to the moment, as Marinette sat back to look at her page critically. Swallowing, Luka seized his moment. 

“Can I see?” he asked as he sat up and leaned over, and Marinette shifted the sketchbook so he could look at the drawing of their joined hands she’d been working on.  

Marinette had teased him a little bit about asking for such a thing, but not too much. He was just as in awe of her art now as he’d been the day they met, and she knew it. Her portraits of his mother’s hands and his sister’s hands were already hanging on his wall, so this was a logical addition to his collection.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, looking over the nearly-finished picture. “I’m loving it, but...I think it’s missing something.” 

Marinette frowned, turning the picture back towards herself. “What do you mean?” she asked, just as Luka shifted his grip on her hand. She looked back at their hands, opening her mouth to protest, but instead her mouth just dropped open as Luka slid a small sparkling ring onto her finger. 

“There,” he grinned, looking up at her face as Marinette did a credible imitation of a fish. “That’s better.” His eyes softened as he looked at her. “Marinette, will you—”

He never got a chance to finish as she tackled him awkwardly back onto the steps, her sketchbook falling from her lap and bouncing down to land in nearly the same place it had almost exactly a year ago.  

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Wedding Colors (Part 3)

(Hayffie ❤️🧡💛💚💙💖. An exploration of Effie’s evolving character as she faces past and present personal intensities while making preparations for Finnick and Annie’s wedding.)

13:00—lunch. For the first time since the ominous day in July that she’d descended into the gloom of 13, Effie’s belly was full. As weeks had turned into months, she hadn’t felt hunger. She’d picked at meals and pushed unpalatable food around her tray. But now something was different. Flint scraped over steel inside her like the wind across her cheeks that morning. Her spoon repeatedly clinked the bottom of the bowl of squash soup. It took every ounce of restraint to not bring the whole bowl to her mouth and tilt it upward to collect the last drops.

Keenly observant, Cressida noted, “That’s new.”

“What?”

“You finishing a meal here.” She dropped her voice. “Are you pregnant, Trinket?”

Effie’s face flushed scarlet, blushing through burnt cheeks. “Bite your tongue!” she snapped.

Cressida glanced at Pollux, and Effie recognized her own faux pas. “Please excuse me. I wasn’t thinking about...”

Interacting with an Avox who was a regular citizen rather than a servant of the Capitol was still a new experience for her.

Pollux signed, “No problem,” and his brother offered the translation.

Effie returned her attention to the inquisitive filmmaker. “I’m JUST hungry. Must a woman be pregnant in order to finish a bowl of soup?” She whispered “pregnant” as if saying it too loudly might invite the situation. Or just as worrisome, Haymitch could walk in at that moment, hear the word, flip out, and not touch her again. Now that she’d opened the Pandora’s box of sex with him, she didn’t want to put a lid back on it.

“Okay. I get it.” Cressida was intrigued by Effie’s blush, but otherwise mollified. “You like the soup. End of story.”

It was golden orange in color and lightly flavored with spices that tasted like autumn. Ginger was recognizable, but the others were a mystery to Effie. Her experience with cooking was mostly limited to a course she’d taken a decade and a half prior at Charis School of Grace, Beauty, and Charm.

Her mother had insisted on “Finishing School” for Effie after she graduated from the Academy. The summer classes had been a compromise, since her father was resolute in his intention to send her to University. He’d even dipped into his personal inheritance to pay extra tuition when her test scores didn’t qualify her outright for admission.

“Charis will focus Euphemia on the most sophisticated etiquette and deportment, preparing her for marriage into greater wealth,” her mother argued.

“University will prepare Effie for a practical career suited to her strongest skills,” her father contended.

“Grace, beauty, and charm ARE her strongest skills. Face it, dear. Like you, our daughter lacks the talent to be a Gamemaker.”

“She has the talent to be more than a rich man’s wife.”

“If I were the wife of a RICH man, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?”

Their barbs stung each other. After years of practice, the Trinkets knew just where to aim them. They agreed that Effie needed a path which would secure an optimal future for the family. Neither of them asked her what she wanted.

If they’d asked back then, she would have had one specific answer. And if she was honest with herself now, her deepest desire was exactly the same. If she’d voiced it then, her parents would have sent her to the Asylum first before anything else. So she said nothing about it.

By 18, she’d become a master at the art of knowing when to hold her tongue. She’d internalized the pressure to please her parents and reflect positively on her family’s name and station in society. The burden of doing so was a heavy weight on her shoulders.

Effie’s shoulders ached too from the physical work of gathering and carrying around large sacks of perfect leaves. She daydreamed about a bath full of bubbles followed by a nap on a real bed. Allowing the fantasy was a mistake because then her body screamed for it.

She wondered if even babies were allowed to nap here, or did they get merely a half hour of “reflection” before dinner like everyone else? Did they have daily schedules imprinted on their chubby little arms? Eat. Poop. Sleep. What else did the tiny things do? She’d never paid much attention to them in the Capitol. Had she ever seen a baby in 13? She couldn’t recall.

***

14:00—volunteering. The children would be out of school soon. Plutarch told her to expect them along with anyone who was between work shifts. Coin was allowing more flexibility than usual in order to encourage volunteerism. Effie considered the irony in the word spelled out on her arm in purple ink. Following schedules was mandatory. Once “volunteering” is tattooed on your body, doesn’t it cease to be voluntary?

That place made her head hurt if she thought about it too much. She pulled her rose-tinted sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on, hoping the change in light would temper some of the ache, and help her feel less vulnerable.

“Ready or not, here I go,” she said out loud.

She approached the kitchen staff for permission to use large plastic serving bowls to hold the leaves at the tables. The kitchen manager, a middle aged woman named Cuire, put up resistance, muttering something about needing authorization from the president.

Greasy Sae showed no qualms about interjecting. “Now, those leaves ain’t all that different from a salad. We’ll have the bowls washed again long before dinner service.”

The older woman, with her hair up in a kerchief more plain than Effie’s, carried a stack of serving bowls through the doorway without waiting for the manager’s consent. She returned to the kitchen for more until every serving bowl in 13 was in the dining hall. Cuire pursed her lips but said nothing.

Sae pulled a handful of leaves out of one of the canvas bags and dropped them into a bowl. “The list of procedures here’s a mile long. Sometimes the only way to keep these folks from sayin’ ‘no’ is to just not ask ‘em. And then work fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Effie joined her efforts to quickly transfer the leaves to the bowls. “Thank you, Sae.”

“Thank YOU, girl. Gatherin’ up all these to make pretty things for the weddin’, you must be exhausted.”

“I had help. From Haymitch.”

“Did you?”

“I had to ambush him.”

“Nah. As often as that boy looks at you, I’d guess he went willingly.”

Ambushed and willing. Yes, he was.

Beetee wheeled up to her with several spools of wire, wire cutters, rolls of electrical tape, and several pairs of scissors.

“The copper color is PERFECT!” Effie gushed.

“This wire is at least a hundred years old,” he replied with little emotion, “The only reason it shows no corrosion is because 13 is fastidious about its storage conditions, including adequate air circulation. The gauge is small. The electrical current from present technologies, would overload and overheat it. The wire is rather useless actually.”

“Well, we’ve found a use for it!”

“In the absence of copper tape, this seems the best match, which is ironic since brown is typically used for high voltages. And high voltages would burn right through this particular wire.”

“We’re just making garlands today, not blowing out an arena!”

“You’re speaking non-metaphorically, of course. We might hope the propo will play a role in shattering the Capitol’s grip on the restless minds of its citizens... That said, it isn’t my intention to imply that YOUR mind is gripped and restless.”

A gripped and restless mind sounded fairly accurate to Effie. “I doubt the Capitol views me as its citizen at this point.” I guess that makes me homeless, even though my family home, my apartment, my belongings, my entire history are all there.

Beetee noticed her smile fade. “You might be right about that. ...I’m sorry.”

After seeing what her victors had been through and what they were still going through, she felt uncomfortable being apologized to by a victor who she held in high regard. I don’t deserve an apology, though manners dictated the proper response to an apology was a gracious, “Thank you.”

“Will you be staying to help?” she added.

“I’m needed in Special Defense. Bring the leftover supplies when you come down later.”

“Beetee, thank you for this.”

The clock was ticking. Effie went to work immediately, arranging leaves in alternating colors and shapes and adhering the stems to a long length of wire.

“What a beautiful pattern!” A friendly voice spoke over Effie’s shoulder. She turned to see Delly Cartwright whose blonde hair fell free of its usual braid.

“An artisan! Delly, I’m grateful you’re here to help with production and quality control.”

From their occasional chats at mealtimes, Effie had learned that Delly’s parents had been shoemakers, and 13 put her to work in textile production as soon as she’d turned 18.

“Me? An artisan?”

“You WILL be, dear. I’ve seen your stitching. I’ve also observed your congenial way with people.” Effie cut a long length of wire for Delly and set her up with supplies to work at another table. “Let’s spread around the talent.”

When school let out, Delly’s younger brother was the first to arrive, not wanting to go “home” to empty quarters. Posy Hawthorne followed close at his heels, skipping to keep up with his much longer legs.

“Stop followin’ me!” he told her.

“I’m not followin’ you. We’re just goin’ the same place, that’s all.”

“Well, you’re a baby, and I don’t want you sittin’ at MY table.”

“Cordwain!” Delly interjected, “That’s not polite!”

“I’m FIVE years old, and I’ll sit wherever I please, CordWAIN.” With three older brothers, Posy could hold her own in disagreements with just about anyone, especially boys. Effie admired that along with her manners.

“Aw, Dellyyyy,” her brother whined, “You’re supposed to call me Cord!”

“You apologize to Posy, and I won’t have to be so stern.”

“Do I HAVE to?! She’s just Vick’s little sister.”

“And you’re MY little brother, so, yes, you do. You know Ma and Pa would say so if—“

“Ma and Pa are dead!” Cord sat at the table with Delly and folded his arms across his chest.

Delly sighed, and her tone softened, “Cordy, honey, that’s all the more reason to apologize.”

His lip quivered, and he muttered in a hoarse voice. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry they died,” Posy empathized, “My daddy died b’fore I was born.”

She sat across from Effie and looked at her for a long fifteen seconds. Effie wasn’t used to children being so young. The girl’s dark hair fell long past her shoulders in two braids. Her gray eyes were deeply set. She had the look of a person who’d seen the shadow of death and kept going.

“I like your pink glasses.” Posy twirled one of her braids around her finger. “I used to have pink ribbons. Two of ‘em.”

“When I was your age, I wore pink ribbons in my hair. Pink was my favorite color.”

“Mine too! Gale says we can’t go back fer the ribbons. He says they’re gone. Do you think they’re gone?”

“Well... I...” For goodness sake. What does one say to a child whose district was fire bombed to rubble?

Cord muttered some more, “Of course they’re gone!”

Posy ignored him, waiting for Effie’s response.

“Your brother, Gale, is wise, dear.” Effie saw her expectant little face fall. “I am going to your district tomorrow. With Katniss. Would you like for me to look for the ribbons so you know for certain?”

Posy nodded.

“Then I’ll be sure to do that. In the meantime would you like to help make a garland? There aren’t any pink leaves, but there are other pretty colors.”

Posy reached into the bowl and pulled out a red one. “Can I do this one?”

“Of course. Let me show you.”

Effie demonstrated with a different leaf then watched Posy’s small fingers peel and cut the tape and use it to add her chosen leaf to the copper wire.

“How’s that?” the girl asked.

The tape was crooked. The leaf was crooked, and it didn’t fall in line with the pattern. Effie considered telling her so. Aemilia Trinket certainly would have. And for that reason if no other, Effie said to the five-year/old, “That’s wonderful, dear.”

Posy beamed. “You’re nice. You’re not scary at all! I’m gonna go tell Rory that he’s wrong.” She hopped out of the chair and skipped away, turning around long enough to say, “I’ll be back!”

Effie watched her go, not knowing quite what to think. Rory?... She couldn’t remember who that was. One of the Hawthorne boys?

“This year would have been Rory’s first reaping,” Delly explained.

Effie didn’t need to hear anything more in order to understand. The truth split her heart. Half of it dropped like lead into her stomach. The other half rose up into her throat, threatening to choke her.

The children are afraid of me.

Even without a reaping ball in front of me, they are still afraid.

In that moment, she didn’t have time or space to process the realization. She just sat there, forcing a smile, trying to keep the vacant feeling in her chest from showing on her face. As volunteers streamed into the dining hall, she swallowed the lump in her throat, pressed her palm to her stomach, and directed the project as planned.

More children arrived giggling and singing, 🎶”Come live with me and be my love...”🎶 It was the beginning of District 4’s wedding song, which they’d started learning in school. 🎶”...I'll take you out upon the sea...”🎶 drew them into conversation about how the ocean might look, feel, sound, smell, and taste. None of them had ever been to the seashore. They’d only seen it in books.

🎶”...To share the starry night with you...” 🎶 intrigued them too. Some of the children from 12 tried to describe the stars to the kids from 13 who had never been above ground at night. “A star is like the tip of the flame of a candle that never flickers.”... “They just pop out in the sky as it’s changing from blue to black.”... “My grandma says stars are ghosts that come to visit us at night. Good ghosts, not scary ones.”... “Ghosts ain’t real.”... “Are so!”... “Are not!”

Dozens of adults were there to cut wire and strips of tape for the younger children and to ensure the garlands turned out beautifully.

With so many helping hands, Effie had to let go of her precise plans. The work of other artisans became apparent as some patterns emerged which were even more pleasing than what Plutarch and Effie envisioned.

Boggs showed up, carrying his son on his hip. The boy seemed younger than Posy, though Effie was far from an expert about children under 12. Boggs sat at a table with the boy in his lap. The little one reached for the leaves just as Boggs’ communicuff started flashing wildly. “Damon, buddy, President Coin is calling. I’ve just lost my break time. I’m going to need to take you back to daycare, but maybe Miss Trinket will let you take one of the leaves with you?” Boggs gave Effie a pleading look. The last thing he needed just then was an upset kid.

Damon’s big brown eyes welled up with tears. He wiped them away with the backs of his hands which were filled with leaves that he didn’t want to let go. Since the epidemic, Boggs and his son had been on their own. Looking into those teary eyes, Effie couldn’t help but feel for them. The feeling seeped into that empty space in her chest, and eased a bit of the void.

“Your son can stay awhile, if you’d like. Then I can take him back to daycare.”

“Are you sure? He’s a handful, and you have a lot going on here.”

Seeing herself in the moment as “scary ghost” rather than a star, Effie definitely was NOT sure that she was the right person to be looking after a young child. “Of course, I’m sure,” she spoke through her smiling mask.

“What do you say, buddy? Do you want to stay with Miss Trinket and make a garland, or do you want me to take you back to daycare now?”

“It’s Effie. The only one who calls me Miss Trinket around here is Mr. Heavensbee.” She laughed.

Damon climbed down from Boggs’ lap and up into Effie’s. “Oh! Well, hello,” she said, pushing her chair back far enough to make room for him. He was heavier than he’d looked in the strong arms of his father. He squirmed around reaching for everything at once: more leaves of every shape and color, scissors...

Boggs’ eyes widened.

Effie handed Damon a roll of tape in trade for the scissors. “You can hold the tape, and I’LL do the cutting.”

‘Thank you,’ Boggs mouthed the words then told his son, “This is an important job, soldier. Effie is your commanding officer. Are you going to take this work seriously and mind what she tells you to do?”

“Yeth, thir, Daddy, thir!” His lisp melted Effie’s heart.

“At ease, little man. I’ll pick you up from daycare at 18:00.” Boggs kissed his son’s forehead, and Damon was already hard at work attempting to peel tape off the roll.

As Effie helped the boy put leaves on the wire, Posy returned, accompanied by one of her brothers who hurried to claim an open seat next to Cord. Posy skipped up to Effie and patted her head. “I got Vick to come, but Rory’s stubborn. YOU know how boys can be.”

Effie looked up from the table to see Haymitch leaning against a pillar near the edge of the dining hall. He was watching her closely. The expression on his face was a loaded mix of curiosity and seriousness.

“Yes, I do know how boys can be,” Effie agreed, “Especially when they are afraid.”

Haymitch had never seen Effie around little kids, and he was fascinated. The Hawthorne girl chattered on and on, tucking leaf stems into the top knot of Effie’s kerchief. Boggs’ kid was in Effie’s lap, crushing leaves with his hands and unwrapping tape for her to cut with scissors. A girl Haymitch didn’t recognize sat to the side, touching Effie’s bracelet. “Is this silver and gold?” the kid asked.

“This s costume jewelry,” Effie answered.

“What’s ‘costume’?” the girl wanted to know.

“A costume is... something you might wear when you are... pretending.”

The Hawthorne girl said to the other one, “You can wear one of my pink ribbons sometime, and we can pretend to be twins... if Effie finds my ribbons in 12 tomorrow.”

Effie locked eyes with Haymitch. “I promised I’d look, Posy, but please don’t get your hopes up, dear.”

He was trying to make sense of the situation. Effie’s going to 12 tomorrow? Why? And why is nobody telling me anything! Pissed off, he started to walk away.

“Excuse me, girls. Damon, let’s go talk to Haymitch for a few minutes.” Effie stood up, holding the boy on her hip as Boggs had done. “Haymitch! Wait...” She caught up to him before the staircase. If he’d really wanted to avoid her, he would have already been long gone.

“What are you thinking!?” he asked, unsure of what he was wondering about most... Why was Effie going to 12 where the burned corpses of his people were still rotting? Why didn’t she tell him about her plans? And what the hell was his heart doing as he watched her with those little kids?

“Annie needs help selecting one of Cinna’s dresses for the wedding, and Katniss asked if I could go with them for support. So, of course, I said yes. ...Not that I owe you an explanation.”

“You owe me nothing, sweetheart. But it’s bad there. You’re going to see things that’ll change you.”

“I’m already changing.” She boosted the kid up on her hip. “There’s nothing I can do to stop that. ...And I don’t think I want to stop it.”

Damon dropped the leaves and rubbed his eyes. “Are you tired... buddy?” Effie hesitantly used one of Boggs’ nicknames for the boy. He shook his head ‘no’, but rubbed his eyes again. “How about we take these leaves to daycare so you can show your daddy?”

Damon nodded and opened his hands to the floor where the leaves had fallen. Haymitch bent to pick them up and handed them back to the kid. He stood close to them. Effie smelled like the woods, faintly like ginger, and mostly like her. The fragrances helped him feel less agitated. They were familiar, as if less was changing all at once.

“Thank you,” she said about the leaves, “Will you please tell Delly where I’m going and ask her to stay until I return?”

“Sure”

She rested her palm on Haymitch’s shirt where his sweater gaped open. She brushed her fingertips along the buttons. “Will YOU stay until I return? I could really use your help hanging these garlands in Special Defense.”

Her touch felt too good for him to say no.

The peace in his expression was answer enough for her.

As he watched her walk away, a smile crept over his face. He was far too amused to remind Effie that the Hawthorne girl had embellished her head wrap with at least a dozen leaves. In all the years, it was the best *wig* he’d seen her wear. If she was going to roam around 13 looking like a tree, then who was he to stop her?

[jeon-googi]

Winter Bear

— pairing: Photographer!Taehyung X Artist!Reader

 — genre: Slice of life, Romance

— words: 4k

— rating: SFW

— warnings: none~

— notes: I think this may be my favorite one so far, I kind of just woke up last night and started writing and tbh I’m really happy with the outcome. I hope you all like it as well 

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You hadn’t exactly noticed him at first. You mean, at your small arts college you were well into your third year and could name almost everyone by now. Yet somehow in the corner of the class, one nameless student sat. His hair was shaggy and it covered his eyes and most often his clothes were oversized, making his hands look like small paws as he fiddled with his camera. His camera seemed to be the one thing permanently stuck to his body as you noticed, it never left his hands. In class as the professor would demonstrate, you notice rather than looking with his own eyes, he liked to look through the eyes of the camera lense instead, as if it somehow made more sense to him this way. 

You found all this out from one class period. Soon the professor dismissed the class and you began to slowly pack your belongings, still captivated by the nameless boy. He too quickly packed up his belongings, a canvas tote with some sketch pads and his pencils, and left with his camera in hand. Now you wouldn’t consider yourself a stalker so to say, but he most definitely caught your attention. Leaving the classroom only a few paces behind him, you kept a discreet eye on him, as he floated through the halls of the art building. He liked to stop occasionally, at windows, and peer through the camera. You figured he was taking photos, as he would pull back and glance at the screen, either a slight scowl or a neutral look on his face. You followed for as long as you could, before he reached the large stairs leading to the roof. There was no way you could follow without suspicion so you turned around quickly and left down the hall, unaware of the camera angled back at you, the gleam in the photographer's eye as he captured the way your hair moved in the sunlight. 

Your second day of classes noticing the camera boy went as uneventful as the first one, but today, you learned his name was Taehyung. 

“Taehyung, how does the composition of this painting make you feel the artist's emotions?”

Your ears perked up at the mention of his name as you glanced at him from across the classroom, Taehyung deep in thought as he toyed with the strap of his camera. He seemed to be deep in thought as he stared at his desk, but soon enough his head shot up to look at the board. 

“The composition isn’t what makes you feel the emotion, it resides with the colors.”

Your eyes widened a bit, you weren’t expecting his voice to be so deep. Your teacher nodded in agreement, “Good I am glad you caught on. See class this painting in particular-” 

The rest of the lecture droned on for you, but you couldn’t help but be so curious about Taehyung. You hands absentmindedly sketched down every aspect you watched, the profile of his face, his hands, the hair in his eyes. To be quite honest, you weren’t expecting to feel so inspired. 

‘Maybe it’s a sign…’ you thought, as the class ended and everyone began to pack up their things. The teacher had written on the board the final date for your classes end of the year exhibition, and so far, this boy in class was the only thing striking your creative nerve. Making sure you threw everything into your bag, you mustered up enough courage to quickly make your way over to him. Up close, he still didn’t even acknowledge your presence fixated on his notes in front of him,  until you gently tapped him on the shoulder, shaking him from his daze. 

“Um hey?” You smiled, gripping the strap of your tote bag nervously. He stared at you wide eyed as he nodded a greeting back to you. 

“I know this is a little embarrassing, but I’m Y/n...and I was wondering if for my exhibition, you would model for me?” You asked quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. “You see..I’ve been in quite a rut lately and well, right now your kind of like...my muse?” You explained, trying not to sound like a weirdo. You dug through your bag quickly and pulled out the few pages you had sketched and laid them out on the table before him. “I mostly focus on sketches and charcoal, so I wouldn’t need too much of your time...” 

Taehyung’s eyes carefully scanned over your work, his hands lightly brushing the lines on the page as he recognized them as his own. His eyes went a little wide as he stared back at you. “You really...want to sketch me for your final grade?” He asked, almost in disbelief. You nodded vigorously. “Yes!”

He smiled a bit at your excitement before collecting your sketches and passing them back to you. “Alright, I guess I’ll do it then.” You really couldn't contain your excitement as you thanked him fervently. You both planned to meet after classes on select days of the week, after all, you didn’t want to take up too much of his time since you knew he would also need to prepare for his final project as well. You used an old classroom on the third floor of the art building that never was used anymore, so you made it your own personal studio. You couldn’t lie, you were nervous. After all, it would be your first time alone with Taehyung. As you began to set up your easel and supplies, the door softly creaked open. Taehyung's head appeared through the door, giving you a boxy smile when he saw you. 

“Hey Taehyung!” You smiled, pulling out the last few pieces of your supplies. He entered the room, dressed in a black turtleneck and denim jacket, a small pair of glasses resting gently on his face. He was handsome. That was easy enough, but there was some sort of poeticness to everything he did, from the way he fidgeted with a ring on his finger, or how he fixed his hair. You were utterly captivated by Kim Taehyung. 

“I’ll just have you take a seat, and I’ll start the first round of sketches.” you instructed, pointing him in the direction of the chair. He nodded and sat down quickly, his hands placed in his lap. You tapped your pencil to your lip gently as you examined his position. “You look just a little too...stiff. How about we try this?” You walked over to the chair, motioning him to stand up. Quickly you flipped the chair around, sitting with the back against your chest, resting your head on your arms with your fingers gently dangling. 

“I think this will be most comfortable for you, and I will get the points I want.” You smiled. Taehyung nodded as he mimicked your position on the chair, glancing at you to make sure he got it right. “Perfect.” you smiled and began to sketch. The silence at first was awkward, more so for Taehyung as he had nothing to do except not move. You realized this a little too late into the session and felt bad immediately. 

“So Taehyung...what program are you in right now?” you asked, glancing at him from behind the easel.

“Photography.” he answered simply, moving his eyes so he could look at you a little bit better. You cocked your head as you looked back at your sketch. “If you are in the photography program, why are you in the painting class then?” You asked curiously. “I realized I had never seen you before so I was curious.” you added. He nodded, “Well it’s all relative isn’t it? I like understanding the emotions of painting so I could replicate it in my photography.” You nodded in understanding as you placed your tools down, stretching your arms out. “That does make sense. Maybe you are a genius Kim Taehyung.” you teased as you stood up, grabbing a water for yourself and one for him as well. He gratefully took the drink as he stretched his arms out, groaning from the stiffness of his body. You pulled a chair up next to him and slumped down exhausted. “That should be enough for today. It’s already looking like how I pictured.” You admitted, wiping your hands clean on your jeans. Taehyung smiled politely, “I’m glad I could be of some help to you.” You watched him carefully, excited at the opportunity to see him so close. “What do you think you're going to do for your final project?” You asked, standing up so you could start packing up your belongings. Taehyung gave a shrug, “I started a few different portfolios throughout the year, I’m just not sure which one I will use.” You nodded in understanding. “What do you like to photograph the most then?” Taehyung thought for a moment as he helped clean up. “People probably. I like seeing what others can’t.” You bit back a smile at his remark. “How very philosophical Taehyung.” You grinned as he chuckled sheepishly. “Well why do you like sketching? Specifically me?” He asked with a cheeky smile. You rolled your eyes as you took the paper off your easel, rolling it up into your tote. “Don’t flatter yourself, you just happened to be there when my inspiration struck.” Both of you laughed as you finished cleaning and locking up the room behind you. “See you next time!” You smiled as you gave him a wave goodbye. Taehyung nodded his goodbye as he left down the other end of the hall. 

That night you stared at the sketch. 

“It really doesn’t capture enough of...him.” You decided as you examined it closely. Sure, you captured his anatomy to the best of your ability but it didn’t scream Kim Taehyung. You started closely at the fine lines of his hands before you realized what was missing. 

The next session, Taehyung positioned himself in his original spot, but cocked his head as he heard your request. 

“My camera…?” 

You nodded, “The sketch is fine but it’s missing some sort of… Taehyung essence if you will.” You explained. “You always have your camera with you, I think that would help in my sketch.” Taehyung nodded, listening to your explanation. He stood up to go to his bag on the nearby table, rummaging through it until the silver device appeared. Putting himself back into the same position but now, from his hand dangled the camera. You stared transfixed on him, now this was exactly what you were missing. Starting to work you quickly sketched the camera into his hand, relishing in the new soul within your piece. Focused on your work, you didn’t even notice his finger moving until his camera shuttered and flashed. You glanced over at him, a mischievous smile on his face. “My hand slipped.” You rolled your eyes as you continued your work, “So Taehyung, you like to photograph people. Who are your favorite people to photograph?” 

You could see his eyes flit back and forth as he thought of an answer. “My friends. They inspire me a lot.” He admitted as you nodded to encourage him to continue. He started to name off his group, Jimin and Hoseok from the dance program, and Jungkook who was also in photography. Yoongi from music production. Namjoon from political science and Jin from management. “We’ve all been friends since freshman year.. I’m not sure what I would do without them.” His words were so earnest and full of love it made you feel a bit emotional towards these people you never met. “They sound like really great people Taehyung.” You smiled, setting down your charcoal and wiping your hands on your pants. “We can take a break now.” You smiled, walking back over to him. He smiled his thanks as he stretched out from the chair, groaning with pleasure. 

The sunlight shone in from the large window at the front of the classroom, golden dust particles dancing in the air between you two. The sun caressed Taehyung's face gently, casting him in a golden glow. Smiling you glanced away, your heart fluttering gently. “Thanks for taking the time to pose for me. How about we go get some lunch? My treat?” You offered, collecting your bag from off of the floor. Taehyung nodded, “Sounds perfect.” As he collected his own belongings. Leaving the room you both made your way outside onto your school's campus, the trees swaying gently in the spring breeze. You both found out you loved coffee and pastries, loved reading and watching movies, and enjoyed the same music. There was a cafe nearby and you two took some seats on the patio across from each other. Taehyung quickly pulled out his camera and started looking through the lense at the scenery before him. 

“Why do you do that?” You asked, sipping on your coffee. He glanced at you with a raised eyebrow, “Do what?” You motioned to the camera, “You always just look through the lense, you’re not even taking pictures” He glanced at his camera and made an ah sound. “Well you never know when the perfect picture could happen. I like to look around and see if anything looks worth shooting-” He resumed his position of looking through his camera before abruptly turning it to you, quickly capturing a photo. You looked at him bewildered as he glanced at the preview on the screen. “Perfect…” He mumbled with a smile, his eyes glancing up to yours. The blush on your face was immediate as you huffed it off, taking a sip of your coffee. Taehyung grinned as well, not taking his eyes off of you and you quickly changed the subject. 

Before you knew it, it was the end of the semester, only a few more days before your final exhibition. You were so excited to finally be able to relax and take a break but soon you also realized, you only had one more sketch session with Taehyung. Over the course of the last few weeks, the two of you grew close. The air seemed to change between you two during the last few sessions, Taehyung's eyes somehow always finding yours and when you would call him over to see your work, he would lean in close, one hand one the back of your chair and his face close to yours. After sessions you would stare at your work, a twinge of sadness creeping into your mind. 

The last session with Taehyung came quick. You found yourself slowly setting up this time around, your hands lingering on the easel and on the paper before you. You almost didn’t even hear the door open before Taehyung crept in. 

“Are you excited Y/n?” He asked with a smile, taking his seat in the center of the room. You cocked your head before he laughed softly, “It’s our last session, your project will be done soon!” Your smile faltered a bit before you were able to nod your head excited, “I’m ready for a break! How about you? Your portfolio coming along?” You two chatted and discussed while you began your warm up sketch, the daylight casting long shadows throughout the room. Before you knew it, the room was starting to grow dark. 

‘No...no, no, no.’ As quick as it began, your last session with Taehyung had to end. 

“Wow Y/n these are amazing. I can’t wait to see the final project!” He smiled at you, collecting his belongings. You nodded quietly, rolling up the paper into your bag. It was all too much. You didn’t realize how much you enjoyed his company, how quickly he became a constant in your life. You didn't realize a few tears started falling past your lashes, and Taehyung's demeanor changed quickly. Placing his bag on the nearest table he jogged over to you, your head hanging low as you gripped your tote. 

“Y/n, Y/n what's wrong?” He asked concerned, his hand gently reaching for your face, gently lifting your face to his. 

“I-t’s nothing…” You sniffled, trying to wipe your face quickly. Taehyung shook his head, “No what is wrong? You wouldn’t be crying if you were fine.” He said softly, his thumb gently tracing soothing patterns on your cheeks. 

‘How can I tell him?’

‘Does he feel the same way?’

Your eyes glanced towards the floor before putting on a fake smile, “I’ve just grown so used to seeing you, I’m sad I won’t see my friend as often.”

Taehyung watched carefully as he lowered his hands, “Ah...well were still going to be friends. We can see each other soon.” He said with a smile, “But don’t be sad because of that. Let's get going.” 

You couldn’t tell exactly what happened, but Taehyung's demeanor dropped. Mentally punishing yourself for making things awkward you two parted ways in the hall, giving one last wave to each other. It felt as though you were leaving something important behind, but he was right, you could see him anytime, after all he even said you were friends. But that was the issue. In your room, you flopped onto your bed staring at your ceiling.

You didn't want to be friends with him. 

You were in love with Kim Taehyung. 

The day of your final exhibition was here, and you stood in the classroom carefully arranging your sketches on your display. The class was set up in a museum style, allowing everyone to browse around and visit each other's works, you were even allowed to invite people from other classes. You smiled as some friends came over to see your work before you paused, hearing an all to familiar voice. 

“Jungkook bring them in here!”

Taehyung entered the room,  his gray sweater rolled up at the sleeves and a brown coat in his hands. A tall boy entered the room, carrying a large easel.

“Namjoon has the other prints, and Jimin and the others are on their way.” ‘Jungkook’ said, placing the large easel down with ease. 

‘So that’s Jungkook…’ you thought with a smile, watching the two interact like siblings. Your heart sped up as Taehyung caught your eye, saying something quickly to Jungkook and waving your way. Jungkook turned around as well, giving you a friendly nod. You waved back shyly before returning to arranging your sketches. 

Soon the class started, and the chatter and mingling began. A lot of people gave you praise for your work, loving the different poses and points you chose to work on. You smiled as you waved off their praise before a deep voice interrupted your conversations.

“You’re Y/n?”

You looked up, a taller individual looking at you. 

“Yeah I am? You are..?”

“Namjoon.” He smiled looking at your work. “You really drew a lot of great pictures of our Tae.” He said, your eyes widening at his compliment. 

“He was a great model, I’m really lucky he accepted my offer.” Namjoon nodded as he listened to you, “Have you gone to check his portfolio out yet?” he asked. You shook your head, confused. Namjoon smiled as he covered his mouth trying to hold back a laugh. “Well I think you should, he worked really hard and would appreciate your feedback.” You nodded, excusing yourself from the conversation to find Taehyung's table. His booth was laid out neatly, a single binder on the table. In elegant cursive the name of the portfolio was on the front of the book.

Winter Bear.

Turning the first page you smiled, it was indeed full of candid photos of his friends, all in places they seemed to love. Jungkooks photos were of him in nature and with other friends, Hoseoks was on the dance floor,  Jimins at the beach. You were filled with a sense of youth and nostalgia, your eyes watering at the blatant love Taehyung had for his friends. You bit back a smile at a conversation with him that rushed to your mind

 “What do you like to photograph the most then?” Taehyung thought for a moment as he helped clean up. “People probably. I like seeing what others can’t.” 

Turning the last few pages you realized there were a few extra photos at the end, and some of them struck a vaguely familiar. There was a figure sitting in a chair, a hand delicately reaching towards an easel, the face was focused on the art before them. You paused, staring closer at the work. Was that..you? You quickly looked at the other photos and indeed there was no denying it, the last individual in Taehyung's portfolio was you. There was the photo he took of you at the cafe as well as others you didn’t know of. Tons from you in your studio, some from your walks to the cafe, one from the hallway outside of the classroom. You couldn't help your eyes watering as you reached the final page, a simple quote written in the same cursive. 

 All the bad days

They’re nothing to me 

With you

-Taehyung

Quickly looking around you searched for his familiar head of hair. Namjoon seemed to notice you looking and you caught a discreet motion to the hallway outside of the class. Giving him a smile, you ran out of the room looking up and down the hall for Taehyung. 

‘Where could he be?’

You started to panic, unable to think of where he would go to before one idea came to mind. It was worth a shot. Quickly heading up the stairs, you ran to your studio, noticing the door slightly ajar. You paused in front of the door, out of breath, before softly sliding it open.

Taehyung was there. His back against the door, leaning against one of the tables in the room, his hand gently tracing over the easel you had used so many times before. 

“Taehyung…” You called, a look of shock on his face as he glanced up at you. 

“Y/n what are you doing here?” He asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. You made your way to him quickly, causing Taehyung to lean back against the table. 

“I saw your...portfolio.” You said out of breath, looking him in the eyes. He seemed to grow a bit shy as he glanced away from you. 

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you... I hope you’re okay with it it’s just..” He started but stopped, his voice growing soft as he fiddled with his fingers. You quickly reached out your own hand, taking his hand in yours. His eyes grew wide as he stared at you, “It’s just what Tae?” you pressed. 

He let out a shaky breath, “I never wanted to be just friends with you. You inspire me, you make me so happy Y/n but I just...I just didn’t know how to tell you.” He answered, squeezing your hand gently. He looked shocked as you sniffled, your eyes watering. 

“You really like me?” you asked.

Taehyung chuckled as he took his hands back, placing them on your cheeks to wipe your tears away. “Very much.” He whispered as he leaned in closer, placing his lips gently against yours. Your heart was beating so fast you thought it was going to explode as you placed your hands on his, your mouth moving against his. Pulling back you rested your foreheads against each other, basking in the silence of each other. He glanced at you before smiling, “But how did you know I was up here?” You sniffled before laughing as well, “I met Namjoon...he told me.” Taehyung let out a heartfelt laugh, making a mental note to thank him later. Pulling you into his chest, he wrapped his arms around you tightly, placing a kiss on your head. You nuzzled your head deeper into his chest as he smiled, closing his eyes. You two stayed together like this, the sunlight warming your bodies and the golden dust dancing around you two until you left the studio, hand in hand. The door shut gently, putting the room back into a state of slumber. 

You sleep so happily I wish you good night, good night, good night Good night, good night

[saintlavrents]

Forever [h.o]

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield x Reader

Warning(s): Fluff

Prompt: “Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that? Here, lemme just-“

Summary: This is where it all started.

Words: 1,072

A/N: im back with yet another haz fic ((im in a deep hole of haz feels ok)) for my entry to @hollandsosterfield and @spidey-caps‘s writing challenge. happy belated birthday! sorry that this is so late ((school still sucks lmao and its been taking up most of my time and energy)) and sorry if this is kinda bad lmao bc I haven't been writing any fluffs and am still in a v angsty mood so yeah. enjoy?

Harrison walked out of the on-campus coffee shop with two cups of iced coffee in his hands. He walked over to the art room in the west wing of the campus, with a strap of his bag slung over one of his shoulders. He stopped on the doorway of the art room, which only had her in it, deeply engrossed in yet again another one of her painting.

He couldn’t help but admire how cute she looked whilst focusing on the canvas and barely even noticing his presence. Her hands were covered in different colors and shades of paint. Some even got to her arms, neck, cheek and even her hair.

“Coffee?” His words tore her attention away from the canvas and on to him.

“Yes, please. Thank god.” She threw her head back, in an attempt to stretch her neck after hours of looking at the canvas.

He walked over to one of the tables in the room and placed one of the cups he brought on it, along with his bag and took the coffee he got for her over to her. He pushed the straw towards her, enabling her to take a sip without having to touch the cup with her paint-littered hands.

“Much better. Thanks.” She smiled at him.

“No problem.” He placed the cup on a stool behind her and went back to sipping on his iced coffee.

She was struggling to keep her hair out of her face and away from the paint, as they were untied and had gotten untucked from behind her ears. She kept on flipping her hair, whilst moving the brush in her hand, just to keep it away.

“Your hair keeps falling into your eyes, do you know that? Here, lemme just-“ He said as he ties her hair with the scrunchie he somehow pulled out of his bag, causing her to pause the moving brush in her hand and give him a weird look.

“So, you just carry a scrunchie around, huh?”

“How could I not when you’re always having hair all over your face when you’re painting?”

“Fair enough.” She shrugged and continued moving the paint-covered brush over the canvas.

“Plus, I couldn’t possibly look at your beautiful face if it’s covered up.” He smirked.

She raised her palm, which was covered with blue paint, “Don’t make me get this all over your white shirt.”

He laughed and retreated to lean on the wall next to the table he put his bag on and pulled out his phone, mindlessly scrolled through his Instagram feeds and replied to a few texts, whilst looking at her once in a while when she’s not looking.

But soon minutes, turned to hours and there was nothing more to do with his phone, so he slid it back into his jeans pocket and decided to fixate his attention onto the girl scrunching her face at the canvas. He, soon, found himself smiling lightly as he’s looking at her, admiring her beauty and her dedication to her art.

It wasn’t a secret when it comes to his feelings for her. Everyone around the pair definitely knew of it, except for her. If it wasn’t for her obliviousness, she would have noticed the heart eyes he’s always looked at her with.

Harrison soon fell into the pits of his thoughts, overthinking on the feelings he has for her and trying to come up with a way to tell her how he feels and, possibly, even ask her out.

“Quit staring.” Her word snapped him out of his thoughts.

“I wasn’t staring at you. I was staring at the wall.” He poked his tongue from between his lips, jokingly.

“I never said you were staring at me.”

He huffs, “Fine. I’m bored, okay? How much longer will you take?”

“Hey, you offered me to come with you to Elysia’s birthday.” She raises her hands in defense.

“I didn’t know I had to wait for you for two hours! What are you working on, anyway? Let me see it.” He marched over to her in an attempt to sneak a peek of the painting she had been doing ever since he got there.

“No!” She said, trying to cover the canvas with her body, shielding it away from him.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N. You can’t make me wait here for you and not see what you’ve been working on.”

“It’s almost done. You can see it when it’s done.”

“Fine.” He was about to go back to where he was sitting earlier but didn’t when he saw one of the paint tubes oozing out yellow paint. He took the paint in his fingers, walked on back over to her and smeared it over her right cheek, mischief glinting in his eyes.

She felt the cold paint on her cheeks and yelped, “Harrison!”

He laughed and she stood up from her stool to chase him with her paint-covered palms, trying to get revenge. As an artist, she definitely lacks exercise so at one point she stopped chasing him around the room as she bends over, placed both her hands on her kneecap and pants heavily.

“Okay, that’s enough.” She breathed out.

“Okay.” He responded, stopping his tracks and walking over to her, still smiling with mischief.

She stood up, a few feet shorter than his towering figure. And looks up at him, at that damn ocean eyes. And in that moment, he swore he’s never wanted to kiss her so badly. He keeps on flicking his gaze from her eyes to her lips. She tugged the corner of her lips to form a small smile and leaned in on her tippy toes to plant a kiss on his lips.

His eyes went wide, clearly surprised at what she just did, but he then leaned back in and gave her a proper kiss, this time shutting his eyes, only opening them once again when he felt a cold liquid smeared onto his cheek. He pulled away to her smiling widely.

“I win.”

“That was pretty much how it all started. And now, four years later, we’re here celebrating the love they have for one another. Let’s raise our glass to the bride and groom.” Tom finished his best man speech and raised his glass along with the other guests, whilst Harrison and Y/N smiled at each other lovingly and connected their lips once more.

“To now and forever more to come!”

tagging: @hollandsosterfield, @spidey-caps, @revenantwriting, @miraclesoflove

[benscursedkid]

what you make it

aisling casey x badeea ali

words: 882

a/n: okay, so firstly i started this ages ago and i am so sorry it only got finished now. secondly, i apologize again for my lack of content recently but i have been extremely busy as of late but i hope to catch a break soon!

listened to ocean eyes by billie eilish while writing if that helps!! as a thank you to @badeeaswife for her gift fic which you should absolutely read (metronome hearts) and for just being an amazing person. i hope you like it mori and i really hope i got aisling right and if not i apologize in advance!! ✨💙

*alternatively titled: diamond mind*

Something about the black lake always seemed to shimmer.

It’s a shame really, how almost no one seemed to notice. Too appalled by the thick surface color, they never stop to consider the way the light reflects off the top, like a mirror of waves. The sun’s rays spare no mercy as they beat down insessantly on the water, allowing for specks and tiny stars of light to bounce off. It’s just as beautiful as the bluest ocean or golden beach, better even when you take into account just how unique it is.

This is especially true when the gentle afternoon breeze ripples the water, casting a sense of serenity across the field surrounding it.

Badeea closes her eyes, reveling in the way the grass brushes across her cheek as she tries to get the right angle. The Hogwarts castle is a nice touch for the background, the way it sits lonely atop the hill.

Her hands itch for her paintbrush, a snowy white canvas, blank and waiting for her to lavish it in color. However, the canvas sits in her dorm, too big to bring all the way out here. Instead, she makes do with the pencil in her hand, exaggerating every stroke to match reality.

Many people may disagree that the scene of the black lake has masterpiece potential, but Badeea likes to think otherwise. There’s more than seven wonders in the world and she knows because she’s lived thousands. Art isn’t about replicating reality, it’s about shaping it the way you see it so others can see it, too.

Moments are what you make them, so why not make them beautiful?

Just as she’s finishing up some last minute details, a dark head of hair pops up over the hill. Much to her delight, it is exactly who she expected and her heart skips in excitement.

When her companion is finally within hearing distance, Badeea smirks coyly behind her drawing.

“You know,” She says impishly as they set their things down in the grass beside her. “For someone obsessed with time, you’re rather late.”

Aisling pouts from her spot beside her, using her bag as a pillow. “I tried to get here sooner but Snape was being particularly spiteful today, Di.”

Badeea attempted a straight face, but soon exploded into little giggles at the thought of her girlfriend serving a detention for Snape. She’s never experienced such a thing herself, but she can only imagine how tedious it could be for Aisling, much to Snape’s enjoyment.

Clicking her tongue with a poorly veiled grin, she doesn’t catch the way Aisling smiles at her softly. She releases a sigh. “I suppose you’re forgiven.”

Now it’s Aisling turn to grin as they settle into a comfortable silence. The latecomer conjures a book from her bag while Badeea attempts to resume her project.

The two of them never really needed words, anyway. It was never about such things between them. No, it was more like mutual understanding, compassion, companionship. And sometimes, like now, with everything always going on around them, that’s all they really need.

However, it seems that her companion is being extremely distracting...

Without second thought, the Ravenclaw flips to the next empty page in her journal, abandoning her previous attempt. The suns rays and the water’s reflection centers and fractures around Aisling in such a way that makes fingers twitch. The gentle breeze combing through her short curls doesn’t help either.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, not really. Allowing her hand to simply drift across the page, she decides to let chance take a turn in her journal. However, before she knows it, a familiar face is looking back at her.

By this time Aisling has given up her reading and has decided to just enjoy the sun and her tranquil surroundings. Her eyes have fallen closed, a hand draped leisurely across her forehead as shadows pass overhead, grinning at the way the blades of grass caress her cheeks.

And, really, it’s not fair. Or at least if you asked Badeea it isn’t. She’s never seen anyone so pretty before...

So pretty

Finally looking down to her page, Badeea is pleased to find Aisling dreaming back at her. She’s quite proud of it, actually. She had made sure not to miss a single detail or perfection, right down the the individual freckles on the bridge of her nose.

It was perfect, she thought. Though, she thinks she might want to keep this one for herself. Something about the intimacy squeezed between every curve and pencil stroke just seems for private, something to admire in peace.

“You finished, Di?”

Badeea starts, not having expected her to speak. Quite frankly she thought Aisling was asleep. “Wha–”

“It’s hard to keep your endeavors a secret from students and staff without knowing when you’re being watched.”

The artist splutters, a flush warming her cheeks as Aisling grins satisfactorily. At this, her cheeks puff and she squares her shoulders.

“I had to,” She insists, her pencil lying limp in her grip, her dark eyes trained on her sketch. “For science... and art.”

“I know,” Comes Aisling’s easy reply as she reaches for Badeea’s hand and even dares to lean forward, placing a chaste but oh so soft kiss against her cheek. “I know.”

[wackpainterkid]

could you write about noliv painting each other's nails? 💚

Of course I can. I think we can all use some fluff right about now so here you go :)

i give you my heart

She likes soft hues.

A rosy blush, a peachy brown, maybe a burgundy if she’s truly feeling adventurous but she always plays it safe, never picks anything crazy.

He, on the other hand, adores bold colors.

The bolder, the better even. blues, blacks, whites, colors she’d never dare to touch in combinations she’d never dare to wear.

She doesn’t know if there’s a deeper meaning behind it, a psychoanalysis based on which nail polish colors you use—she’s sure there’s a Buzzfeed quiz about it—but that’s how it is.

How they are.

-/-

Liv got bored and now she’s painting her nails. Because that’s something you do when you’re bored. She picks out the rosy blush—like she said, predictable—and settles on the floor. Her toes get the honor of being painted first and she props one leg up and folds the other under her body, almost cross-legged but not completely. And she paints. First her left foot, from big to little. One stroke of pink after the other.

A knock sounds on the door before she can move onto her right.

Liv looks up and behind her, straining her neck in trying to see her bedroom door as it opens.

It reveals Noah.

“Hey,” he says, a bag on his shoulder and a soft smile on his face.

Her head turns again as she places the brush back into the bottle. She truly faces him this time by moving her entire body towards him.

“What are you doing here?” she questions, both puzzled by and content with his sudden appearance.

“Ralph let me in. I was in the neighborhood,” is his explanation.

Her eyebrows rise as she challenges his statement. He is never in her neighborhood. Not without the purpose of seeing her.

“Fine,” he concedes after a measly couple of seconds. “I missed you.”

Liv can’t help but snort and she rolls her eyes while shaking her head. It’s been two days since he’s seen her. And they’ve been texting constantly since.

And here he is in her room saying that he missed her.

She would be lying if she says she doesn’t like it.

“I hope I’m not disturbing.” There is a hint of apprehension in his voice as he gives her an out, the option for her to tell him to leave.

“Of course not,” she reassures. “You’re welcome to join me.” And her hand taps on the ground besides her, welcoming him to sit there. She turns back to the bottle of pink and opens it again.

He doesn’t immediately. Noah first stands behind her—he hovers over her even—casting a shadow over the spot she’s sitting and making her look up again. Then he smiles at her. And it’s her favorite, the one where his eyes gleam. The one that never fails to make her smile as well. He bows down and kisses her forehead upside down. Her eyes close and her lips curl even further in reaction.

He moves away and Liv’s focus goes back to her feet. His bag gets thrown into a chair and he settles on the floor next to her. For some time, he just watches her paint every nail on her foot and when she finishes those and is about to move onto her fingers, Noah speaks.

“Feel like swapping?”

Curiously, she looks at him.

“Swapping what?”

“Colors,” he says, eyeing the nail polish bottle she is holding. “You pick one of my colors, I pick one of yours.”

“And you brought your nail polish along for no reason?”

“Of course I did,” he says like she should’ve thought that all along. “I’m Noah.”

To be honest, it shouldn’t even have surprised her. He is indeed Noah.

He gets back up and walks to his satchel. After some rummaging around, he removes not one but two bottles of nail polish.

“So? What do you say?” He wiggles the bottles—one dark blue, one white—with a lifted eyebrow.

Maybe there is no harm in being bold for once.

“Sure.” Liv shrugs. “But only on one condition: you paint them.”

He approaches her again and gets back down to her level.

“Will you paint mine in return?”

And only now, Liv notices that his own nails were void of any color, which, in itself, seems very unlike Noah.

She extends her hand to his, waiting for him to grab it.

“Deal,” she says once he does and shakes it.

It’s his turn to paint first. Liv picks the dark blue and lets him do his thing.

He seems ultra concentrated, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth slightly ajar. Every time she attempts any sort of small talk, he quietly shushes her. He’s definitely taking this way too serious; it was as if he was restoring one of his adored Monet paintings instead of just painting her nails.

Noah stops for a second and tilts his head, his dark hair flopping down. He peers at her nails and then his gaze shifts to the other bottle he brought along,

“Hold on, can you hand me that bottle of white?”

Liv becomes suspicious, but still reaches for it. “Why?” She waits for an answer before handing it to him.

“Just trust me.” He opens his palm, waiting to receive the requested bottle.

And because it’s him. Because it’s them, she gives it to him. Because she does.

Funny how she’s also taking this thing way too seriously.

He ends up turning the tiny canvas that are her nails into a piece of abstract art, that most likely has some kind of meaning she’s not getting, but she’s also kind of in love with how they look.

And while it isn’t what she normally goes for, it doesn’t seem wrong; it belongs, there on her nails painted by him.

She smiles while she admires them. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, sealing the nail polish again.

“Your turn,” Liv announces. “Which color do you want?” She motions to her desk that has all of her colors on display.

He considers her collection for a moment, his fingers tapping against each other, but eventually his eyes fall on to the bottle standing on the ground “Let’s go with the pink.”

“Pink it is.”

Liv paints his nails slightly less carefully than he painted hers, but knows he doesn’t mind. It’s pretty on brand for him.

“How does it look even better on you than on me,” she wonders out loud as all of his nails share the pink color.

Noah wiggles his fingers in response and chuckles. He’s about to remove his hands from her reach but Liv stops him.

“Hold on.”

She takes his bottle of white and decides to give his nails her own signature as an artist. Noah curiously eyes her movements. She wipes the brush on the edge of the bottle and approaches his hand again. On the nail of his middle finger, Liv draws a white heart. And on his left hand, another one.

You know, a finishing touch.

“There. Now you look like a badass.” She attempts to remain serious but she can barely contain her laughter as she watches him study the heart.

Noah shakes his head and sighs before flipping her off. With his embellished nail.

“Love you too,” Liv replies.

And she giggles.

Loudly.

It is hilarious.

Before Noah can reply or react, her bedroom door swings open and Ralph stands in the door opening.

“Hey Liv, do you know—Oh my god. Guys!” Ralph’s eyes go wide in shock. “You painted your nails without me?!”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Passing Through

Part three: Whiteout 

A/N: Woah. This story got a little derailed. Things happened, then things didn’t happen and then all of a sudden BAM things happened again. That makes little to know sense. But Passing Through is back on track, mostly thanks to Bruce Springsteen, but also @its-my-little-dumpster-fire and @something-tofightfor and @benbarnestongue so this (and the fried rice) is for you. 

Word Count: 4,569 

Songs Referenced: I’m on Fire & Atlantic City, Bruce Springsteen

“Let’s get out of the city, what do you say?” You kept your hand on his bent elbow as you pulled him toward the alley between the convention center and the building next to it, not waiting for his response. He could answer when you had shelter and could actually see him standing a foot in front of you. There was a shortcut to the light rail stop on 18th that was mostly covered if you traversed the alley, and the snow had started increasing its intensity, so you dragged Ryan towards the overhang.

Under the shelter of the royal blue vinyl awning, you released his arm, slightly embarrassed for having grabbed it in the first place. Brushing snow from your shoulders and shaking it from the ends of your hair, you looked up at Ryan, and waited for his response. His quiet, curious eyes were slightly narrowed as he weighed his decision. “Well, I was supposed to stay with a friend’s brother here in the city, but…” he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small black flip phone, checking the screen. “But I haven't heard from him yet so…”

“Well, I don’t want to interfere-”

“So lemme just-”

You spoke over one another again, prompting a nervous inspection of your shoes and a small, sideways smile from Ryan.

“Lemme just give’m a call, see where he’s at.”  He stepped away to make a phone call, pulling his phone out of that secret inner pocket of his canvas coat.

You used the brief moment of separation to try to collect your thoughts. Okay. Yes, he’s very attractive. He’s nice, he’s talented...I like him. He’s fun. I...yeah. Okay. But this is how it’s gonna go. I’m inviting him to stay- because it’s snowing!- and nothing else. We’ll have dinner and we’ll talk...maybe some more music. But that’s. It. Okay. Here goes. He was walking back towards you, something between a smirk and a frown on his face, puffs of vapor in the cold air emanating from his lips. “Bad news?” you asked.

He shook his head. “My buddy’s brother is stuck up in the mountains...says the roads are closed an’ he can’t get back down here.”

You nodded. “Yeah, that happens up there. A lot, actually.” He stuck his phone back into it’s safe spot, zipping the secret pocket. “So. As I was saying. I have a place not far from here.” You shrugged nonchalantly. “You’re welcome to come stay with me until you can get in touch with your friend.” We played all day together. I trust you.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it, smiled and shook his head again, giving a small scrunch of his nose. “Yeah?”

You nodded and smile. “Yeah. Don’t get too excited. It’s not the Ritz. But it’s warm and I have space and it’s not some overpriced hotel. And I’m making fried rice for dinner, so…” You winked.

“Why would you do that for me?” he asked simply, out of pure interest, and with no expectation of what your answer would be.

“Today’s a special day for me. You helped me out in the coffee shop this morning, we played together...you’re a nice guy, Ryan, I like you. If offering up a few square feet of my floor helps you out then I’m happy to do it.” You looked up at him and saw something shift in his eyes, like he’d heard something in a new language for the first time.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes on you as he bent down to pick up his things. “Okay. Let’s get outta the city, Junebug.”

.  . .  . . .  . . . .

You’d taken the light rail from 18th back to Littleton, hustling down the snow-covered sidewalk of Littleton Blvd. to get to Jake’s. You’d hoped to catch a ride back to your complex with Missy; she lived in building B, you were in H. You also hoped to pick up a big ‘ole jug of beer from your place of employment with your discount. Just like when you were walking down the mall in Denver, you watched Ryan notice all the signs, and the stones in the foundations of the buildings, the way the snowflakes fell in the beams of light from the street lamps. It kept the cold of the storm from getting to you, even as you felt your sweater get soaked with snow. You made it to Jake’s just as Missy was shutting the lights, gave her a “pretty please” and got both your growler and your ride, Ryan stuffing his bag in the trunk of Missy’s ‘98 Malibu. In eight minutes you were home, and Ryan was hauling the bag back out.

“Home sweet home,” you gestured vaguely at the building before you, leading Ryan to your front door.

You kicked your boots one at a time against the siding, noticing Ryan’s amused smirk at your abrupt action. Once the snow had been sufficiently stomped off, you gave them another swipe on the mat, then turned the key to throw the door open. Ryan was right behind you, making sure to clean his shoes, though less aggressively than you, before stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, turning the lock. You flipped the light switch and the lone, circular overhead fixture above the table-less dining nook flickered on. It cast a soft yellow light onto the plain white walls, onto Ryan’s face. You watched him deposit his backpack and guitar case against the wall, straightening to look around, eyes narrowing just a bit before turning to you. You unwound your scarf and peeled off your soaked through sweater and hung both items on the hook by the door, setting your bag on the counter between the dining nook and the kitchen.

“You just movin’ in?”  He cocked one eyebrow and tilted his head, unzipping his coat.

You let out a little laugh that was drier than the sand dunes down south in Mosca as you knelt down to untie your laces. “Four years ago.” You stood back up and stepped on the back of one heel to pull your foot free before doing the same with the other.  

Ryan folded his coat and dropped it next to his things. “You leavin’ soon then?” He followed your lead and removed his own boots.

You snached up both pairs before any residual slush could soak into the carpet, and placed them on the brick flooring in front of the fireplace. Of course it looks like I’m coming or going. Who the hell has a place and doesn’t bother to fill it? ...or, re-fill it I guess… You turned to him with a shrug. “I… my lease is up in three weeks but… I don’t know, I’ll probably stay. Need somewhere to sleep, you know?” Oh shit. You realized too late what you’d just said, and your heart began to hammer in your chest.  

He just gave you a sideways smile and removed his hat. “No, I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Ryan, I-” you chewed at your bottom lip, dropping your eyes and stuffing your hands in the back pockets of your jeans. I can’t believe I said that. Your hair fell over your face and you didn’t push it out of the way, grateful for the chance to hide. “I didn’t mean anythi-”

“I know you din’ mean anything by it, s’okay,” he took a step towards you and dipped his head to look at you through your snow-soaked hair.

You looked up to see the kind smile that he was still wearing. “No,” you said, pulling your hands back out of your pockets. “No, it’s not okay. I-“

“Hey, it is. It’s okay. You’ve done so much for me today...an’ I know you’re not lookin’ at me like that…You’re just...you’re just doin’ a nice thing. And you don’t have to apologize, okay?”

You swallowed. You could tell him why that upset you another time. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asked again.

You nodded and laughed. “Yeah. Okay. So… I’m gonna take a shower really quickly...then you can, and I’ll start dinner.”

Ryan nodded and smiled. “Sounds good. I’m gonna step out on the balcony, that okay?” He produced a hand-rolled cigarette and a silver lighter from an altoid tin he’s produced from a pocket.

“Yeah,” you pointed towards the side door. “Just out through there.” He turned and headed towards the red trimmed door, disappearing out into the snowy evening as you headed for the warmth of a steamy shower. What a day.

.  . .  . . .  . . . .

After your shower; after warming up and sorting thoughts and trying to make something less than cosmic meaning out of the day’s events, you found Ryan finishing his cigarette, the reddish glow of the burning paper held between his fingers the only color in the all white squall. “Hey,” you called, poking your head out the door as he stomped the butt out under his boot and turned to you. “Shower’s all yours.”

He came in and you could feel the cold come in with him. Showing him where the bathroom was and instructing him on how to wiggle the handle on the shower door so he wouldn’t get stuck inside, you left him to get cleaned up while you started dinner, like you’d said.

.  . .  . . .  . . .

Hips swaying freely and separately from your upper body, ribs and shoulders shimmying a little less vigorously than your bottom half, you rapidly stirred the vegetables and got lost in the old familiar song. You sang along; not every word although each lyric was etched permanently in your memory, alternating between singing and humming, sometimes supplementing the music with your own backup of oooooh’s and yeah yeah’s. Your phone was propped up inside of a metal 9 pan that had made its way home with you from one of your many serving jobs. A Haitian cook you worked with once who spoke not a word of English had taught you that if you didn’t have speakers, sticking your phone inside of a 9 pan was the next best thing. The two of you had bonded over your love of music, teaching each other a few choice words in English and French that were necessary in the restaurant industry: “onions”, “allergy”, “milk”, “fuck”, “jackass”, “son-of-a-bitch”, “tomatoes”... the essentials.

You switched the wooden spoon from your right to your left hand without missing a beat in the rhythm of the song or the stirring. Steam was rising from the pot in swirling, aromatic wisps, filling the air with earthy smells from the soy sauce, and spicy ones from the togarashi you were sprinkling in time with the drum beat. Setting the spice down on the off-white counter next to the few other shakers that you’d taken down from the cabinet, you grabbed the small bowl of chopped scallions and, with a flourish, dumped them into the hot sesame oil. A satisfying hiss let you know that the oil was at the right temperature, and the count you’d been keeping in your head let you know that the lyrics were about to pick back up in the song.

“Sometimes it’s like someone took a knife, baby edgy and dull and cut a six inch valley through the middle of my skull.” You never missed your favorite verse, and, eyes closed, you shook your head freely as you felt the words come from your heart to spill from your lips. “At night I wake up with the sheets soakin’ wet and a freight train runnin’ through the middle of my head.”

Opening your eyes, you noticed that the veggies were sufficiently heated through. You didn’t want to cook them too thoroughly, preferring when they retained some crunch, so you turned to reach for the cabinet behind you in the narrow kitchen, looking for a bowl to hold the vegetables until they could be added back into the pot. But you spun to a stunned stop in your socked feet when you saw Ryan in a loose fitting heather gray tee shirt,  leaning against the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the dining nook. You’d been so engrossed in the song and the scallions that you hadn’t heard the shower turn off or his footsteps come down the long hall. But there he was, wet hair hanging over his forehead, light radiating from those soft leather eyes, and an amused quirk to his mouth that told you that he appreciated your performance.

“Oh!” you squeaked, feeling a slightly embarrassed grin pull up your cheeks. “Hey, didn’t hear you…” you pressed your lips together and tucked a piece of hair back behind your ear, resuming your hunt for a bowl. You found the purple plastic one that was the perfect size for what you needed and pulled it down.

“Sorry,” he stood fully and came around the breakfast bar and into the small kitchen. With the both of you in there, it felt even smaller, and you were very aware of how close he was standing to you. “Din’ mean to scare you or anythin’, just,” he shrugged, “I could tell you like the song. S’a good one, I like it, too. Play it sometimes.” He shrugged and your embarrassed grin turned into a sunbeam. Ryan looked over your shoulder at the contents of the pot: peas, carrots, bits of green beans, and the chopped scallions you’d dramatically added. “Looks good,” he nodded. “Anythin’ I can do to help?”

You weren’t used to having help in the kitchen. Even when Kevin was around, it was only ever just one of you cooking; you never tag teamed. You weren’t sure if the kitchen could accommodate two moving bodies, chopping, stirring, opening cabinets and using the sink, but you appreciated the offer immensely. “Um, can you grab a couple of bowls? This is gonna be done soon, just have to do the eggs and they’re-” you snapped your fingers and saw his eyes light up, surprised at the loud crack that the action created- “quick.” He smiled and you pointed to the top left cabinet where you kept the serving bowls. There were only three, and none of them matched. Ryan nodded and moved back out and around to the other side of the breakfast bar, reaching up and opening the cabinet from the dining nook side. He set them down on the bar- one striped with all the colors of a sunset in the desert, the other a bright green fiestaware piece, as you whisked the eggs in a measuring cup with a fork. The sound they made when they hit the pan was even more satisfying that the hiss of the scallions, and you quickly picked up the wooden spoon to keep the quickly cooking eggs moving in the hot pot.  

“Where’d you learn to cook like that?” Ryan asked, back to leaning on the counter. He was behind you, but you felt his eyes on you, somewhere around your shoulder blades.

“Oh, I’ve worked in lots of restaurants. Picked up little things here and there.” You looked over your shoulder. “This one actually came from this real fancy place. Five star French inspired Cajun kitchen, but the cooks always made rice or taco dishes for comida- that’s what they called the family meal, for the staff, before we’d open for the day.” You looked back down at the pot where the eggs were about fifteen seconds from completion. “Emmanuel- friend of mine I worked with- he taught me this one. Fried rice on a budget. Frozen veggies and leftover sticky rice- oh, can you grab that for me? Should be a couple of cardboard containers in the fridge.”

Ryan stood and let his long legs carry him to the refrigerator, pulling it open and stooping down to see inside. It was relatively empty- half full carton of orange juice, the growler of beer you’d brought home, a few random condiments, eggs, and a couple of plastic tubs of leftover meals, neither of them enough to fill a hungry stomach. He reached in and pulled out two white Chinese food boxes, leftover from the lunch you’d had with Missy before your shift at Jake’s a few days ago. “These?” he asked, holding them up in his tattooed hands.

You glanced over and nodded, tongue poking out from your lips in concentration as you finished with the eggs and slid them into the bowl with the vegetables. “Yup, great, thank you.” Reaching over, you took the two boxes from Ryan, fingers brushing his and sending a sudden shiver down your spine. Oh come on with that, he’s going to be gone soon, stop with the shivers. You saw his eyes flick from the take out containers to your face and wondered if he felt it too. With a negligible shake of your head, you opened the boxes and dumped the cold  rice into the pot, hitting it with a few more splashes of soy sauce. As soon as the white rice was broken up and stained a light brown, you returned the eggs and mixed vegetables to the pot and stirred until the ingredients were harmoniously combined, adding a touch more sauce and a drizzle of sesame oil. “And, voila.” You tapped the spoon against the pot as the song changed, the 9 pan carrying the bluesy harmonica of Atlantic City into the kitchen. Grabbing the two bowls, you portioned out servings for Ryan and yourself, pulled open the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon you’d gained from an Applebee’s you bartended- they had very distinctly shaped spoons- and a fork from Pappadeaux, the Cajun place you’d mentioned. Turning to Ryan you held up one bowl, then the other. “Spoon or fork?”

Ryan pointed to the violet and orange sunset bowl. “I’ll take the spoon, thank you, looks great, really.” You watched the little birthmark under his eye become lost in a crinkle of skin as his eyes narrowed with his smile.

“Bon appetit.” With a wink and a funny little laugh, you grabbed your impromptu speaker and your bowl, and led Ryan over to the empty living room. “Gonna have to be a floor picnic,” you shrugged. “All the tables have been reserved.” You set your things down as Ryan chuckled and did the same before sitting down on the beige carpet and leaning against the wall beneath the window. “You want a beer? I’m gonna have one.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.” You we’re glad that he’d stopped being so overly appreciative and seemed more comfortable. He’s really doing more for me than I am for him. Having Ryan in your home made you realize that it had been more than a year since you’d had anyone over. More than 365 days had come and gone since a second soul had passed through your front door. And today of all days you were grateful for the company.

You smiled, eyes flicking up and out the window before you turned back to the kitchen. The snow was still falling with purpose, glowing orange in the muted light of the outdoor lamps in your complex. The air and sky and ground and trees were all a dull, dark grayish color; the night and storm slowly swallowing the the day. You were glad that Ryan wasn’t out there, scrambling for a place to stay since his plans had gotten whited out. The wind blew against the screens and whistled down the chimney. Should light a fire after we eat, it’s only going to get colder. You reached up into the cabinets that faced the dining nook and grabbed two mason jar mugs before swinging around the  counter into the kitchen to retrieve the growler of Seedstock Barn Beer that you’d brought home from Jake’s, and poured generous amounts into both of your glasses.

Returning to the couchless living room, you sank to the floor next to Ryan, offering him one of the mason mugs. “Cheers,” you said, holding yours up for hi to clink.

He held his glass just a few inches from yours, a quiet pause coming over his face. Setting his bowl down on the ground next to him, he gathered his eyebrows together and took your breath away with how he was keeping your eyes locked with his. “Today’s been really… I can tell today’s an important day to you.” You felt your cheeks grow hot and you swallowed, unable to look away from his deep, intense eye contact. “It’s been important to me, too. Just so you know. It’s…” he blinked and cast his eyes downward then, and you felt your heart fall with them. “It’s been a long time since I spent a whole day with someone...since someone wanted to spend that much time with me and...and even longer since it actually felt...right, you know?” He laughed at himself then. “I’m ramblin’. Just… thank you. An’ cheers.” He finally clinked his glass against yours and immediately brought it to his lips, filling his mouth with cold beer so more words wouldn’t fall out.

You took a sip, too, smiling against the rim of your glass as you saw color creep up and over the top of Ryan’s beard and onto the exposed skin of his cheeks. You both started eating in silence, Bruce Springsteen finishing off the last chorus: Put your hair up nice, fix yourself up pretty, and meet me tonight in Atlantic City. Through  a mouthful of fried rice, Ryan cleared his throat and spoke. “You like this song a lot, too, don’t you?”

You looked up from your meal and over at him, chewing slowly before you nodded. “Yeah...yeah, I do.” How did he guess that? You’d been singing and dancing before, that wasn’t a mystery. But here you were quietly eating your dinner, leaning against the wall, not moving or swaying at all.

One cheek rose on his face. “You were tappin’ your fingers against your fork, and you had your eyes closed for a second when the harmonica started.” He answered your unasked question, and you tried not to let another shiver pass down your spine at the level of detail that he was capable of noticing.

You swallowed your mouthful and cleared your throat, too. “Yeah. I’m… my mom’s actually from Atlantic City, so the song is... “

“It’s home,” he answered, spoonful of rice halfway between his bowl and his mouth, tone completely certain and sure, understanding exactly what you felt.

You nodded, stirring your fork through your food. “Home. Yeah. It is. A lot of his music is home for me. But that song… yeah. It’s home.”

“I have a harmonica,” he said casually. “We could play that together sometime. You could play piano an’ sing.” He shrugged and shoveled vegetables into his mouth. “This is really, really good, by the way.” He indicated the contents of his bowl with his spoon, long fingers wrapped around the handle in a mesmerizing fashion.

“That would be…” Great. Amazing. A dream come true. To play that song with someone so talented, so passionate...someone that you felt so linked to… it was… “I’d like that, Ryan.” You smiled. In the dim light you noticed the inked feathers on a bird’s wing tattooed on his forearm and used it as a welcomed change of subject. “That a Hawk?” you asked, curiosity in your eyes as you pointed over at his arm.

He looked down and you saw the veins in the underside of his arm move as the muscles flexed beneath his skin. When he raised his eyes again there was a wistful gleam there. “Yeah,” he answered enthusiastically. “Yeah. Hawks always remind me of freedom.”

You were pretty sure you knew why and where he was going with that, but you questioned anyway, to keep the conversation going; he was a man of few words and you wanted as many of them as you could get. “Not Eagles, huh?” You took a sip of beer, licking some foam off of your top lip.

Ryan shook his head and a still damp lock of hair fell over his forehead. “Nah, eagles are too serious. Hawks...they float on thermals...they soar and dive and turn...they have fun. They’re free.” He finished off another mouthful. “You have any?”

“Tattoos?” you asked and he nodded, washing down the last of his dinner with a long gulp. “Yeah, a few. I have the number 26.2 on my right foot- the distance of a marathon,” you explained, “and a branch of bleeding heart flowers on my ribs.”

“You ran a marathon?” There was excitement in his eyes as he asked the question.

“I did. Do not recommend.” you laughed and he followed suit. “It was...horrible, Ryan! I have never been in more pain!” Your cheeks pulled up as you stood to take both of your empty bowls to the kitchen. “I wanted to quit so badly. I was in agony from the halfway point on. Just… just miserable.” You were laughing heartily.

He waited for you to come back to the living room. “Why didn’t you, then? If you were hurtin’ that bad?”

Your laugh froze on your face and melted slowly into a fading smile. “I couldn’t,” you stated. “I was dedicating it to my mom...she uh… she’d just passed away about a year before the race, and she...she always loved watching me run, you know. When I was a kid. She was always there, cheering. So… so I gave her one last real big race. And so I couldn’t quit.” The laugh came back. “Ended up with a stress fracture in my right knee, which is perfect, because she was so stubborn, and that’s an injury of chronic...or stubborn...overuse.” You crouched down by the fireplace, and felt the air change in the room as Ryan stood. “Today was… actually today’s the anniversary of the day she… she passed. So...so-” You cleared your throat, reaching into the fireplace to open the flue.

“Hey,” his voice was soft and warm and right behind you. You turned, not ready for the way his eyes hit you. “Hey, I’m really sorry…’bout your mom. She’d...that scholarship thing at Max’s?” You nodded. “She’d be real proud of you, Junebug. You’re...you’re a real good person.”

Junebug. Why did it sound so right coming from him? Sure, Max called you that, but that’s just because of the name of the music fund. No one else but your mother ever called you that. Not Kevin, and not any of your boyfriends before him. You’d just met Ryan that day, so how was this possible?

“Thank you.” You smiled, and he mirrored it. His smile is… it helped to lighten your heart. His smile is a song. You cleared your throat a final time, turning back to the fireplace. “We should get a fire going. Heat is kind of…” you waved one hand back and forth and you heard his chuckle. “There’s wood stacked outside, where you were before? Could you...do you mind grabbing some?”

“Sure,” you heard the chuckle’s residual lilt in his honey sweet voice. He poked outside onto the covered patio and grabbed a couple of split logs, bringing them back to where you’d had crumpled newspaper lit already.

“Perfect timing, looks like we’re about to get snowed in…”

.  .  .  .  .  .

@something-tofightfor  @its-my-little-dumpster-fire  @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @benbarnestongue @banditthewriter @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou

let me know if you’d like in or out on this one!