#The color palette with the red sunset always makes good lighting

[coconut530]

SPOTTED 😮🫵

[38sr]

Hi! I really love the way you color, and I was wondering If you could make a tutorial about it, I of course completely understand if you Can't/don't want to do it thanks in advance If you decided to do it and have a good day/night.

Hello hello! Ooooh, a color tutorial! I've never done one before so I'm not sure if I'll be any good at it haha. But I don't mind sharing my thinking process when it comes to coloring my works. So when it comes to color, I very much have a traditional painter's approach since that's how I learned color in art college. My painting professor never allowed us to use black or white paint, we could only use other colors to create darker colors or new colors altogether. And you're probably thinking, "What the hell? That's insane." And I wouldn't blame you haha. But this approach helped me a lot to not rely on tints (colors mixed with white) and shades (colors mixed with black) when I color. For the most part, I purely thinking about value and hues when I'm coloring.

Finding the right values:

So for this drawing, I did two different takes (one with direct harsh lighting and one without). The reason why I'm showing this is because when it comes to color it's very important that your values aren't clashing with each other. When I started out, all my coloring felt flat because I was using colors with the same values so there was little to no depth. A lot of people don't realize this but color does have value!

If we put the primary colors on greyscale, you notice how each color has its own value. Blue tends to be a dark value, red has a mid to dark value , and yellow is a much lighter value. This is why if you ever look at my work, the color I use for shadows lean into blue/purple tones. You can also have warm shadows since red does have a deeper value compared to yellow. But these values are when the primary colors are at the highest saturation. What would happen if we knocked down the saturation levels?

The values start to become more similar. Since we're not always using the most saturated colors, it's important to understand the values behind the colors you'll use. Once you unlock that, you can pretty much do whatever you want with color haha. That's why I hardly ever use black or white in my digital art when mixing (also I don't mix color with a brush, I just pick from the color wheel which might be insane).

While it's not wrong to use white or black to create darker/lighter colors, color in real life doesn't always act that way. Shadows and highlights can have color. For myself, letting go of white and black has opened a world of color combinations that I didn't think of before taking my first ever traditional painting class. Now, I can freely pick colors and experiment with palettes since I've blocked out what values I need (like the image below).

Even if I'm using blending modes like in the next image, I'm always thinking about making clear value separations. If I can't understand the image in black and white, then I'll have a hard time seeing it in color.

And when you get very comfortable, you can start placing characters in different color environments and match them (which essentially is the job of a color designer in TV animation).

The right image is the official color palette for my character which already uses a lot of blue/purple for the shadows. But on the left side, she's in a night-time environment so I leaned even more into the cool colors to the point that the white T-shirt is actually a very very light purple/pink color haha.

Or like this example where the left drawing gives a more sunset/golden hour lighting while the right one is more blue hour/night time lighting. But you can read the colors clearly 'cause the values are clear to begin with. While that wasn't really a tutorial this is pretty much my thought process when I'm coloring my digital works. ^^; I very much do follow an academic approach to color theory but even then I think it's okay to break the rules. As long as you have understanding of colors' value, I think you'll be able to unlock any color style you want! I hope that answered your question and was helpful!

[singingshutin]

Islands: Sunset

alex feels alive again.

Read on ao3 or down below!

The first day after the island came and went like a scene from an old movie: grainy, muted color streaked across the landscape, blurring together in a runny watercolor palette of rain and mud and quiet Sunday stillness. No sun peeked through the clouds—the only hint of the passage of time was the fade of the cold, hazy light into pressing darkness. Even the house lights felt heavy on her skin, casting a grim yellow spell across the distant dinner table conversation. Yes, Mr. Wright, no, Mr. Wright, she didn’t know, Mr. Wright. Her mom was happy, Mr. Wright, and that’s all that really mattered, wasn't it, Mr. Wright?

Sleep, school, dinner, sleep again: three more days passed, the sky heavy with unrelenting rainy malaise. Alex went about her business, a single ant falling in line with eight billion others, all in a mindless march toward a state of normalcy that she wasn’t sure was ever going to come. None of it felt real—not classes, not homework, not even Alex herself.

It was a Thursday evening: her mother was working late again, and Jonas’ dad had run out of milk halfway through cooking—something. The look on Jonas’ face told Alex it was probably better not to get her hopes up. Not like she was hungry, anyway. Being unreal wasn't conducive to developing an appetite.

“We’ll be back soon, Dad,” Jonas folded himself into his green jacket. “Just milk, right? Nothing else?”

“I’ll text if I think of anything,” Mr. Wright smiled through steam-fogged glasses. Whatever he was stirring glopped unappetizingly in the saucepan. “Thanks, Jo-Jo.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Jonas herded Alex out the door with an embarrassed huff.

“Be safe! Be good-”

Jonas shut the door.

Alex pulled Michael’s jacket tighter around her arms, wrinkling her nose at the nippy autumn air. Red and yellow summer trees blurred together in the cold, cloudy light, washed out and stark against the backdrop of green-black pines and grey sky.

Jonas gestured down the sidewalk. “After you,” he said.

Alex obliged.

Perhaps, to an outsider, the silence between the step-siblings making their way down the road would have looked awkward. Uncomfortable. Resentful, even. Michael’s kid sister, bright and quick and smart, and a boy branded by the law—tied together by the thin, thin thread of their parent's remarriage.

Absolutely nothing could be further from the truth.

Alex was older than time. She’d watched the universe explode into being a million times, and watched it fizzle out a billion more. She’d seen countless lives, sailing across the churning seas of time and space like tiny ships—some sticking together in tight fleets, others breaking off and disappearing over the horizon all alone. Each time it was different, pasts, presents, and futures all converging and diverging in endless different ways simultaneously.

But for all that, for all the eons she’d existed—she was still only seventeen. Seventeen and infinity at the same time, all tangled up inside her, whirling in a frantic loop of never-ceasing contradictions. She had seen possibilities on possibilities that could have, would have, should have happened. She knew every single way the earth would end, every single way humanity would go down with Terra’s sinking ship, every single way it could live on among the stars—and yet she had no idea what was for dinner tomorrow.

And that was painfully lonely.

Jonas had believed her. Every single time, every single loop, he believed her when she told him “we’ve done this all before.” He always tried to flip the breaker switch, always fussed at her reckless leaps across the island cliffs, always cracked the same bad jokes. He was always there, and when he wasn’t, he always found his way back.

He was always her brother.

And for Alex, that was enough.

"You doing alright?"

Alex looked up. Jonas was next to her now, his eyebrows knitted together in a concerned frown. "You've been really quiet since…well—you know." He gave his beanie a quick, awkward tug. "Since we got back.”

Ah, yes. Hell.

“I—hah,” Alex cut herself off with a sigh, folding her arms in a tight knot, squeezing herself against the foggy undertow of swirled-up feelings. “I don’t know yet. I’m…thinking. I think. Processing? I don’t know.” She tilted her head towards him. “And you?”

Jonas looked down, treating the asphalt passing beneath their boots to a humorless smirk. “I was kind of hoping you’d have an answer so I could figure out how I feel.” 

Alex bumped her shoulder gently against the sleeve of his jacket. “We’re on the same team, then, bud.” 

“Bud?” Jonas pulled a face at her. “Who are you, my dad?”

“Champ,” Alex shot back, unable to stop the smile creeping onto her lips. “Kiddo. Big guy.”

“Little sis,” he retorted.

Alex faked a gag. “No one really says that.”

“I could start.” Jonas’ threat didn’t hold much weight when compared to the wide spread of his lopsided grin.

“Fine.” Alex tossed her hair over her shoulder. “But I get to call you Jo-Jo.”

What little Alex could see of Jonas’ ears flushed beet red. “Ugh,” he groaned, “I give up, I give up. You win.”

“Dork.” Alex flashed him a grin of her own.

***

The fog of unease had gathered over Alex’s mind once again by the time they reached the corner shop, and the old feeling of unreality was slowly creeping its way back into her body. The sensation was both blurry and stark: her feet didn’t feel like her own as she floated up and down the narrow aisles under the deafening hum of the fluorescent lights. She could barely feel the chill of the cooler on her skin as she picked out a gallon of milk at random—a bright blue cap, she noticed, the pebbled plastic of the bottle an alien texture on her fingers as Jonas slid it from her grasp—and she hardly registered the cashier’s voice as she handed over a crumpled bill gone soft with time. The register dinged and slid open with a mechanical click. Cold metal clinked into her palm, and she closed her fingers over the smooth coins. Huh—what little remained of her dark nail polish was chipped and peeling…

Back out into the open air they went, the hiss of the automatic doors accentuated by the thick smell of tar and the heavy glow of the street lights against the darkening blue of the sky. Blue as the cap on the milk jug.

A forgotten something stirred in Alex’s chest.

“Clouds’re gone,” Jonas remarked. The thin plastic grocery bag hanging from his arm rustled with the movement of his long, slow stride.

Alex nodded.

“Wonder if we’ll see the sunset tonight.”

The something in Alex’s chest clenched.

“Sunsets in North Valley were always, like, this weird muddy yellow, I—hey, where are you going?”

Alex’s feet were moving on their own, shooting off the side of the road in a flailing sprint. Blood thrummed through her veins as she flew up the nearest knoll, wind rushing across her eardrums, drowning out Jonas’ shouts behind her. Grass and weeds and wildflowers all fell before her boots, the sharp, clean scent of green flooding her head in an intoxicating rush: faster, faster, faster, she had to see, she had to see it—

She skidded to a stop.

Red and yellow and orange and purple: the most vibrant flames she had ever seen licked at the bottle-cap blue sky, wreathing the dazzling golden sun in a crown of paradise. The tiny corner store—before so plain, so sleepy, so everyday and grey—lay beneath the face of the heavens like a pendant, windows gleaming like rubies and diamonds set in silver. Bright and hot and heavy, the whole scene dripped with scintillating splendor, the thick oil paints of nature running down and mingling in brilliant rainbow smears that she could see, that she could taste, that she could hear, that she could breathe—

“Hey—! Ho—holy shit—” Jonas’ voice wheezed up behind her. “What the Hell—”

Alex whirled with a shout of laughter that echoed off the trees. “Just look at it, Jonas!”

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the sky over her shoulder. “...whoa.”

“Don’t you feel alive?” Alex whirled around him in a wild dance, her chest heaving in something between a breathless laugh and a happy sob.

“It’s—wow, uh—” he took a shaky breath. “Holy—damn, it’s—”

“Yes,” Alex crowed in triumph, spinning into his chest with a thud, wrapping her arms around him as tightly as she could, squeezing him like her life depended on it. “It’s all that and a bag of chips!”

“Careful—” he wheezed, catching himself from a stumble, “you’ll knock us down the hill—”

Alex laughed. “God, I feel drunk.” She buried her face in Jonas’ shirt.

Jonas chuckled at that. Alex drank in the sound—oh, so, delightfully Jonas—raspy and dry and low, laced with a light cough and accented by a gravelly huff. It was warm and soft and familiar: just like the time-worn fabric of his jacket clutched in her hands and the wrinkles of his shirt pressed against her nose.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

“Yeah.” Jonas folded her into an all-encompassing hug. “We are.”

And—you know what? In the end, Mr. Wright’s weird casserole-soup-thing was the best meal Alex had ever eaten.

[oasis-nadrama]

‘The Cerulean Motley Crew’, by Cerulean Snake - All aboard, mateys!

Review by Oasis Nadrama, 04/12/2023 (up to page 255)

[Drawing by CeruleanSnake] When they were a young troll, Chever always wanted to become a pirate... but ended up at the opposite end of life, as a prison guard, when the hard rules of the Alternian Empire took their toll on their dreams of liberty. One day, in the orbital penitentiary, they are tasked with welcoming a particularly dangerous prisoner, and this encounter will uncover the secrets to their past, future and present life. Can the call of the sea be heard amongst the stars?

[Drawing by CeruleanSnake] The large fictional universe engendered by Homestuck opens on many worlds, eras and sapient species, and opens even more doors for inventive storytellers. But rare are the fanworks to make full use of this potential, and in this area as in many others, the stunning fan aventure The Cerulean Motley Crew excels. It proposes a rarely explored political context, the period of the Summoner who challenged imperial tyranny, and an even rarer genre in this general setting: PIRATES! Chever, our nonbinary protagonist, improvized buccaneer and self-proclaimed pirate captain, organically assemble a colorful crew along their quest, and the cast is, again, one of this adventure's strengths. Flintlock, an uncontrollable anarchist, fights against slavery and general political power with reckless abandon (not to mention a certain thirst for gratuitous bloodbath). Rat escaped a futureless life in a nightmarish complex and is now along for the ride, despite her general consternation towards the chaotic, childish and sex-obsessed nature of her two comrades The efficient yet comical trio will cross the path of many more memorable figures, some of them friends, some of them neutral, some of them enemies, all of them enjoyable, up to and including the apparent main antagonist, as despicable as they go, all united in a dynamic, fluid, rhythmic dance, events intertwined for maximum impact, drama and suspense but never forgetting to remain entertaining. The structure and pacing are flawless, the tone perfectly mastered, the lore absorbing, the dialogues lively... What's not to love here?

[Drawing by CeruleanSnake] The drawings are on par with the writing: intense, refreshing color palettes are a feast for sore eyes. Character designs are extremely distinct with various morphologies and clothing styles; the different body types really shine in both action scenes and dynamic dialogues. There may be some errors in proportions or simplistic environments, but these little flaws pale in comparison to the overall visual quality. Perspectives are good and dynamic, action poses effective... But the really exceptional thing is the faces: they are all different, flexible, and incredibly expressive! The author makes good use of the media with gorgeous animated backgrounds which adapt to the various scenes: at dusk, the waves of the decor will meet darkened sand bathed in the red light of the alien sunset; by midnight, the foliage on the shore will be lightened only by the shining firmament. This work on the interface does wonder for the general immersion. Other uses of the form include short panel animations and ondulating, shaking, distorted lines in the conversation. CeruleanSnake's maestria culminates in the insult-off minigame. This stunning moment of interactivity, frontal homage to Monkey Island, is funny, balanced, brimming with details! It represents full days of work by the artist and it shows.

[Drawing by CeruleanSnake] The Cerulean Motley Crew is a work of love and a beautiful story, full of life and surprises. Looking forward to the next episodes of this big adventure!

[cherrirui-official]

Favorite color palette? :3

OOOOH THIS IS A GOOD QUESTION!!! There's so many pretty ones AAUGH.

Red, white, and black is a simple one but GOOOOOOTD it's so cool. Anything that's just black, white and (literally any color) is good but red just hits different.

For some reason I've always liked red yellow and purple, especially when I was a child. That specific color combination just scratches my brain so much and they're also nice colors. Especially when the yellow is like that soft cream color and the purple is reeeeeally deep.

Anything with brown is also suuuuper good, I often find myself using brown a lot especially when it comes to making designs for my OCs lmao. Same with Purple, red, and blue.

If you look up "sunset color pallette" you'll find SOOOO many good ones OUGH. sunsets are just so beautiful AND THE COLORS??? HOH I go go nuts ESPECIALLY WITH ONES THAT HAVE DARK PURPLE + LIGHT YELLOW AHDJEBFIS. SAME WITH NIGHT SKIES TOO AAAAH

There's just soooooo many pretty ones, some I can't even name off the top of my head lmao. But yeah those are the main ones.

[slaterherms]

˗ˏˋ 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑���𝐈𝐒𝐓

                  𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 ! ´ˎ˗

hi rpc ! i decided to make my very first masterlist, and i made this for random muse aesthetics, for that one little section in some apps that ask for aesthetics. i was a bit lost on how to approach this, but ultimately, i’ve decided to give aesthetics inspired by own muses. so please enjoy this little insight of my muses and i hope this helps / inspires some of you ! ♡

i still have many more muses, so i might make a part 2. 

ALEXANDER MORGAN bruised knuckles, chipped black nail polish, annotated books, a half empty bottle of alcohol, weirdly shaped mugs, winging life, a god complex, messy sneakers, cigarette butts, a boyish grin, smiley piercings, sarcastic comments, a modernized vintage car, dive bars, the song magnolia by gang of youths, sunglasses after a rough night, raising the middle finger as a response to everything, taking a punch with a grin, riling up a crowd, the sound of cheers, drumming fingers on tables, summer nights. 

ACHILLES HART video game music, long socks with patterns, a pot of black coffee, clicking of a keyboard, coding, all-nighter for work, all-nighter to finish a video game, a scowl that seems permanent, self-deprecating humor, a cracked relationship with a father, a beat up 60′s model car, red eyes from a screen, the song father of mine by everclear, lights reflecting on the street right after rain. 

JACK O’RILEY a small plant in every room of an apartment, a collection of vinyl records, a worn out journal, an acoustic guitar, calloused fingers, a black kitten, live music, jeff buckley’s voice, an empty record store, the color dark sage, a broken home, thunderstorms, black coffee, second-hand books, a walkman, long leather jackets, dirty boots.  

SUMMER DALTON tattoo sleeves, pink rolling paper, winged eyeliner, baggy pants, a habit of self-piercing and tattooing, clear lip gloss, lipstick stained cigarette butts, festering rage, balled fists, the song honey by halsey, a bluntness that can’t be helped, acting out, red heels, black crop tops, claw-shaped painted nails, fingers full of rings, mid-day summer.

DAXTON PASCUAL skateboards, scuffed shoes, bruises all along legs and arms, the sound of a bong when you take a hit, a drawer of rolling paper, the smell of freshly baked goods, golden retriever energy, counting in your head to ease anxiety, painted nails, dyed hair, impulsivity, innocence, oral fixation, the inability to focus on a single thing, romantic comedies, the smell of freshly cut grass. 

RONAN JEAN random sketches, a sketchbook, random band t-shirts, messy curls, dilf glasses, chewing at the end of a pencil, all-nighters, a spacious loft, industrial styles, honey whiskey, male manipulator music, sixties movies, finding peace in being alone, dark academia, hand-me-down clothes, dark colour palettes, an autumn night. 

ROSALIE BERG light academia, red lipstick, tote bags, long coats, hair clips, french nails, always holding a book, gold jewelry, kind to everyone, wandering in bookstores, walking everywhere, listening to podcasts, watching crime documentaries, neat handwriting, sticky notes everywhere, a little bit of sadness behind their eyes, natural makeup (or none at all), sweaters, a spring morning. 

FAIROZ MOUSA snake imagery, colourful jewelry, layered necklaces, a collection of crystals, tarot cards, incense, plants all over their apartment, sapphic literature, academia, chanting for a cause, dark coloured nails, tattooes all over their body, crop tops, long skirts, bandanas, braids, colourful eyeshadow, combat boots, feminist art, social justice social media, mood lighting, sunsets on the beach. 

[myelocin]

the kind that blooms | iwaizumi h.

Synopsis: Hajime thinks of how fragile the moment that love brings can be. 

Genre: fluff, domestic | WC: 1500+

Characters: Iwaizumi Hajime

A/N: this is a commissioned piece from @hvnlydmn :D 

eyes in the sun - florist | jewel - adam melchor

commissions 

Iwaizumi Hajime counts the amount of times he thinks about the way he loves you in just one car ride to and from the farmer’s market on a Saturday and loses count within minute seventeen.

It’s nice, he thinks. The roads aren’t too busy, plus the nine AM sun that doesn’t burn on his skin feels good. You’re sat in the passenger seat, nursing a cup of something that eases you awake on weekends, and the way your head lolls to the side every time sleep tries to pull you back is a familiar sight to him.

He thinks to himself that he loves you, smiling in the silence, and drives.

Red lights, yellow, then green. Back to red, a turn here, and drive up the road there. His palm flat against the wheel, foot on the clutch, the other either on the brakes or the gas. Hajime likes the feel of routine. He lives not having to think through every movement, to the point of over analyzing the situation deep enough to cease being present in it.

Moments such as this.

Saturdays and you. Your blue, blue, sky blue eyes that completes the palette of the earth to his forest green and emerald irises. The light of the sun at nine in the morning, just soft enough to have him slumped in his seat with his hand in the wheel, thinking that sometimes control truly can flow as easy as this.

The light push of the brakes where the pressure is more than familiar to him, and just the slight turn he makes that feels next to second nature against his palm. By now, Hajime already slows down nearing the speed bumps before he even sees them ahead, only chuckling softly when you’d jostle awake and look around the streets only to sleep again for a couple minutes more.

And he’s in love with you, he thinks again.

You’re the face sketched next to the word love, the photo in his wallet, and the presence that centers him within the swirling mess that’s bound to come with the world. It’s the nine AMs on a routine like Saturday that suddenly has him praising his thanks to every God in the books—even though he never was one for religion in the first place.

At the last turn before the parking lot comes into view, the car jostles you awake. Then you blink at him, slow, just barely squinting at the light that streams in through the car window. Hajime hums his good morning before you even tell him you’re awake, and with one hand, reaches over the center console to squeeze your thigh hello.

You grin. His palm is just the right kind of warm that you’ve always liked, and the volume of his voice when he hums his words instead of sounding them out just enough to remind you how routine feels like this. It’s the sentimentality of the mundane that becomes redefined. Saturdays and nine AMs, painted in the shades of the fruit stalls you pass by hand in hand at the farmer’s market. The aunties that sell you fruit, always winking at the two of you when you’d walk past, and the uncles that always clapped Hajime on the back, telling him he’d found a good one.

He’d smile every time too.

(Because he loves you, he thinks.)

He doesn’t exactly say much, not take much of an initiative to break the silence. Instead, he takes the keys out of the ignition, unbuckles his seatbelt, and sits back. The silence that comes after the click remains with the intention to settle, but it feels nice.

The silence feels nice.

It’s loud outside, a fact that he’s sure of as he catches sight of the aunties unloading cartons of produce from the back of their trucks into their stalls. He sees an uncle from across the makeshift street right around the corner call over to what he thinks is wife, because even if she rolls her eyes at whatever he said, the way he smiles when he turns is a familiar one to him.

“You’ve been smiling a lot,” as a comment Oikawa has told him one too many times by now, but he supposes there’s more than just observation to that. The smile he carries is the manifestation of the love that’s shared. Love, like the inside jokes that he knows still has you snorting in laughter even though they’re a couple years old now.

Rehearsed words where he memorizes the context by heart; an I love you, every day; “I’m home,” then a “welcome home,” as a response from another room in the apartment that’s yours and his. Your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom sink, and a bottle of shampoo whose brand he can remember without having to text you for confirmation when he’s running errands.

So he smiles some more; within the silence in his car, while you sit beside him, still trying to squint through the bits of sunlight that remains.

His eyes catch yours on the rear view mirror of the car and he grins his teasing good morning at the sight of you blinking away the last few remnants of your sleep.

You mumble your hello, voice quiet, and just like that things click into place. The smile on his face remains, and the sounds of the world moving about outside dull in comparison to your voice. There’s a tranquility that’s long settled ever since he found his space in the world with you, and this is it.

This, as your eyes against the sun. The color of the skies and of life, all caught in a single reflection painted in your eyes. The nature of love, of how fragile it truly is made known to him through just a slow blink of your eyes as you sit up, unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to him.

You’re smiling and the word forever is what rings in his mind.

Hajime thinks of the home he knows he can always return to, and the sheets on the bed that neither of you decided to make this morning before you left. The slippers you left by the door are probably flipped over, but it’s home. Love like recognizing the fragility of the moment and falling in love with it. Your wordless exchange of conversation; his hand on your thigh, you offering him a sip of the drink he can just tell has gone cold by now, and the chuckle exchanged that lightens the atmosphere even more.

“I think,” Hajime starts, mirth in his voice as he turns to you afterwards. “I think that Oikawa’s got a good point about some stuff.”

You hum, leaning back against the seat again and following his eyes that trail to the old couple by the stall passing boxes, exchanging words. “About?”

Hajime chuckles again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I remember before we met he was the one telling me that if I got along with him so much then I would loooove you.”

You snicker in response, recalling how Oikawa used exaggerate how alike the both of you are. “And he has a point,” you nod, leaning over to poke Hajime on the cheek.

His shoulders relax, the weight that comes with the world suddenly gone, because in the moment Hajime allows himself to just stay here. The couple across the parking lot is smiling now, and he realizes to himself that when you’re in love, you truly do bloom.

Like the red in his cheeks, and the glimmer of your eyes. The glow of the sun as it rises in the morning then sets at night. The ring that sits on your finger now, and the tenderness that the moment cradles the two lovers in.

“That fucker was right,” Hajime laughs, his voice booming in the little space of your car. The stillness of the moment remains, because as fragile as love is, the kind that you share is unbreakable.

The memory from last night is quick to replay in your head:

Sunsets and wearing his shirt that’s a few too sizes too big. Your arms around his neck, pulling him close, and both of your feet bare against the wooden floor as you sway—to a song unsung, and unheard, but the moment is still so much yours. A call from a mother telling a child to come home a few streets over, and the ice cream truck’s bells ringing as it rounds the corner. You listened to the slow inhale and exhale of Hajime’s steady breaths as he kept his eyes on you and thought that the sounds of your mumbling was melody enough.  

Then, a break in the pattern, in the routine, as Hajime turned to you and whispered a quiet “will you marry me?” that still rings in your ear up until now.

In the present Hajime turns to you again, and remembers that the rest of your lifetime and his was now rewritten into a story as if it’s made for one.

“You’re not gonna regret agreeing to marry me are you?” you hear him laugh.

You shrug, cocking your head to the side and lifting your finger with the ring that reminds him of your forever yes.

“You’re never getting rid of me,” you laugh, leaning in to press a kiss on his cheek.

 He’s warm, he thinks. Warm like your lips on his cheek, and his heart that does somersaults in his chest. The sunshine and the light it brings; cast on your eyes, your ring, and on the dashboard of his car. 

So he thinks about how he loves you, again. 

(And again and again and again and again.)

 -

for a love that’s meant to linger.

[boysbeloving]

highlight what you like or what applies to you

thanks for the tag Krishna <33 @i-got-the-feels

and @sereinartemishan (thanks, love!)

hot shower or cold shower // texting calling or email discord (i've never been a part of any discord....it's a group chat thing right? ya...i would be silent lol) // earbuds or headphones // paperback hardcover or ebook // matte or gel // 12 hour clock or 24 hour clock (it's only time [bonus points if you get the reference]) // blue or green // sunsets or sunrises // tulips or orchids // candle light or moonlight // sci-fi and fantasy or horror // pen or pencil // pandas or koalas // gold or silver // sneakers or boots // denim jacket or leather jacket (neither....i haven't found good ones in my (plus) size ever...so what if i have big boobs....give me a decent jacket??!!)// pink or purple // chocolate or sour candy // deodorant or perfume // drive-in movie theater or the cinema (neither if i could help it...we don't have drive-in theatres in my country and i avoid cinema as well...just sit at home and watch something) // pastel colors or neutral earth tones (i go for pastel when defining a colour palette for books but personally i go for deep shades in clothes and lipsticks) // lemonade or fruit juice // past or future//

BL VERSION

crying in the shower or making out in the shower (both...both is good...like...i personally cry in the shower so i get that totally) // give cute boy line ID or stalk his IG // share his earbuds or share his closet // manga or manwha (haven't read either! sorry!) // long dangly silver earring (i'm very emotionally invested in men wearing danglers) or dark leather cuff // time loop or reincarnation // blue engineering smock or red engineering smock (neither but also both...no preference here) // kisses at the beach or kisses in the mountains // cactus or chili plant (???) // fairy lights or spot lighting // ghost boyfriend or vampire lover // hard sub or soft sub (this is for subtitles right?)// stray cat or … actually that’s your only option (i'm not a pet person actually...there are fur allergies in the family....BUT! i always appreciate and adore other people's pets) // Hawaiian shirt (more tiddie display opportunities) or blue shorts // evil ex-girlfriend or predatory fujoshi (neither...it's the society) // suit jacket (i love me a man in a well-fitted 3-piece suit) or leather jacket // high school or university // kitchen drama or office drama // forehead kisses or cheek kisses (omg both....why would you make me choose between any kisses?? how about crotch kisses?? hhmmm???) // Viki or GaGaOOLaLa (neither) // Japanese arthouse depth or Korean high concept (both) // pink milk or yakult (neither...) // censored Chinese BL or trashy Thai pulps // body swap or dead body (neither! but if body swap has to be done then it should be in Kimi No Na Wa style...i mentioned this before as well right?) // sexy or story // back hugs or lap sitting (both...coz both have the potential to go from soft to absolute filth...starts with the grinding ofc) // piggybacks or cradle carry (JUST WALK SIDE BY SIDE OMFG)

if anyone wants to do this please consider yourself tagged by me!

[angelisverba]

i’ll hold you so you don’t fall again

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

pairing: interiordesing!y/n and eroticawriter!harry

word count: 21k+

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

Y/n wasn’t one to brag.

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

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

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

Because it definitely was one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know, like with a brush and paint can. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Okay, how do you want me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, 

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

.

.

“Y/N!!” Lucy yelled from the counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh! Um…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affection. Love. Companionship. 

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go.” 

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

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

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

She couldn’t say no. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Biting into her toast, she opened the book. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t call me that,” she mumbled. 

“What do you wish I call you then?”

“Dani.” 

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

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

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

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

strands then massaging down her neck and shoulders.

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

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

“No,” she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And when it died out,

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

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

.

.

“... you know what I mean?”

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

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

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

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

Y/n truly wished she didn’t know. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not falling. 

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

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

Right. In front. Of her face. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Timidly, she responds, “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Thank you so much for h-”

    “Y/n?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    .

    .

    And it definitely didn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Actually I was hoping I could start now.” Her words lifted into a question at the end, half suggesting half stating. 

    Karime’s face morphed into one of confusion and surprise, but in the end she agreed, and told y/n to do as she pleased.

Upon first entering, y/n is disoriented. 

    She walks into a frenzy of… nothing. It’s like an industrial kitchen, but completely empty. Occupied only by the things she had brought in. She remembers that she walked into the back and not the front, and it made sense because Karime doesn’t offer anything that would require use of the kitchen. Everything she has is done at the bar by the barista outside. 

    Karime leaves y/n in the back, where she asses her items. The baskets. The frames. And well, that’s really all there is. It would be more with all the plants coming in. She realizes that she doesn’t really have much to work with and there really isn’t much to do than hang picture frames, and there’s only five of them. 

    Nonetheless, she goes outside with the first frame in hand. A soft blue painting of a lighthouse on an island with light from a hole in a cloudy sky shining on the building. When she picked this one up, she knew exactly where it would go. By the wall next to the sliding door that lead to the patio. She sauntered over to the spot then, dodging a woman on her boyfriend on her way there. It was packed, and rightfully (it was a tuesday).

    She reached the spot, and lifted the picture on the wall, lifting and tilting so it would fit naturally. Eventually, she found the sweet spot, and reached for the hammer she had stuck into her belt loop and the box of nails she’d placed into the fanny pack on her waist. 

    Without hesitation, she put the first nail on the wall, and started banging. Three taps in, and she hung the wire on the nail, balancing it so it looked the way she envisioned it. After she was done, y/n stepped back to admire her handiwork, and tilted her head to the side the way one does when their looking at a picture that’s upside down. 

    Perfect. 

    She walked around the shop then, with the purpose of noticing empty spots on the walls, anything that could be filled up with artistry. The simple tables? No they had to stay that way. Placing something on the tables would clutter them and tarnish the ‘relax’ mode people came in for. The window that faced the street? Yes. Y/n planned on lining them with hanging droopy plants on the edges, not obscuring but not leaving a clear view either. She’d have to buy shelves to place baskets on the walls. Hooks to hang them. This she would do with what was left from the check.

     Yet… something was missing. The alternative-ness she knew should be there. Something ‘hippie’ and ‘aesthetic’, off the minimalist side of things. 

    Looking into a corner where the walls met, a light bulb went off. She knew exactly what was missing. Letters. Y/n had seen an image on Pinterest not even less than a month ago. A picture of a string of letters. Or rather, a message. It said something along the lines of  ‘You are my light’ or something edgy like that. Each word had been hand cut and strung onto a piece of- she didn’t know, string? Tweed? A wire?- and hung in a corner of a room where walls met. It knocked off every box on the checklist. Minimalist. Crafty. Aesthetic. And cheap, considering how low the money was.

She knew she’d have to brainstorm phrases and pass them by Karime, but she’d worry about that later.

    .

    .

    It was Friday. One day after the plants had been delivered, and y/n was set to work full force. Sure, she’d have to work amongst customers, but no matter. It would get done. 

    She started in the back. With the plants. 

    Y/n had bought a plastic-type lining at the Home Depot to place soil in the baskets. She lined then all first, securing the material with tape around the edges. After, came the transfer and placement. She decided this would be a better method, and if there were extras she could have Karime sell them. This way, she wouldn’t overcrowd the place and stop when she saw an adequate fill of green. 

    The first, a circular basket with no handle the color of a waffle cone. Because it was one that would go on a shelf, she placed one of the droopiest plants in it, a green stream of vines and shrubby leaves.

    Last night, y/n had given Karime the benefit of the doubt, and allowed her to place shelves where she’d liked them So, before she opened at 7, Karime had decorated her store with wooden slabs for y/n to decorate. Taking the first plant, she walked out. 

   As expected, Aromareads was bustling with energy.     Women with mojitos in their hands, burnt out college kids hooked up to masks, older men and women laughing like tinkling bells. 

   She’s walking towards the first row of shelves she sees on the wall across from her, besides the sliding doors, basket held gingerly with both hands, when she hears:

   “Y/n!” 

   Looking to her left, she sees a sleepy, just-rolled-out-of-bed looking Harry. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the words ‘Treat people with kindness’ in a gradient rainbow color, and… and grey sweatpants. Grey. Sweatpants. 

   Grey sweatpants. 

   Y/n tries not to visibly swallow him whole as he walks towards her with an innocent smile on his face because god if she isn’t all hot and bothered right now. Her eyes seem to be magnetically attracted to his crotch, trying but failing to grasp and image of what may be lying underneath. 

“H-hey, Harry,” she smiles at him meekly, her voice cracking when she speaks. She cleared her throat and said again, “hey, Harry. S’nice to see you.” 

   “Nice to see you too.” He bows his head towards her, and endearing mannerism that has y/n’s heart pooling down to her ribcage. “I see you’ve brought out the green guns today.” A teasing grin on his extra red and shiny lips. Perhaps it was chapstick. It was rather windy outside.

   “You see correctly.” She giggles at his joke, at the same time, rolling her eyes at how cheesy he was being. “Today’s the day it all comes together.” 

“I’m excited to see how it all turns out. Don’t go falling on any chairs today alright?” He wags his finger at her, mocking a mother shunning her child.

“I’ll try not to. But if I do-” she said, coquettishly. 

“I’ll catch you.” 

“You better.” Laughing at him, she repeats his actions and lifts her finger up to point at him. 

   With a final laugh and a shake of his head, Harry walks away and into the working room. 

   Y/n watches him walk off, and walks off her own way as well, resting the basket against her hip as she went. When she reached the wall with shelves arranged in a checkered pattern, she placed the basket on top of the wooden plank, and tufted leaves so they look naturally messily placed. Unintentionally intentional; they way one teases their hair so it looks nice. 

   She went back to her work station: the now full kitchen, and repeated the process. Picked a basket, filled it with a plant, and took it outside. She left the hooks for last, wanting to leave of being in the way of people until she had too. Almost effortlessly, y/n filled Karime’s space with greenery. Cacti on shelves, large leaves and vines on walls, frames of beach paintings on nails. Once, she pricked her finger because her it had accidentally slipped inside the glass globe in which the succulent was in. 

    When the time finally came to walk into the room Harry was in, the outside was looking rather… forest-y. She liked the way it looked; a calm type of chaos. One that showed relaxation and no care for anything. Which was the point of the entire place. Come in. Relax. Breathe in from diffusers to get that extra push to decompress.

   Harry sat in his usual spot, directly in spot of the doorway, in one of the middle tables. Hunched over his computer with fingers flying over his keyboard. He had earphones in this time, white buds tucked right into his ears, stray strands of hair looping and covering them. His lips were placed in a puckered pout, the scrunched pink skin twitching from left to right.

    Humming to herself, y/n forces herself to walk past him, forces herself to not turn back and glance at Harry even if she can feel his gaze burning into her back. She makes it seem like the hook and plant in her hand are the most interesting things in the world. Turning it over in her fingers, and even going as far as to lift the basket (this on with a handle and curved bowl bottom) to her nose and smell it. 

    “Need a hand with that?” Harry says from behind her. She feels his presence from behind her, standing close enough that she can feel when he reaches to her front and takes the basket from her hands.  Y/n’s heart starts beating as fast as a hummingbird's wings. Closing her eyes to get a hold of herself, all she sees is green. Green, the color of his eyes.

   “Yes, please.” Her voice is small, shy.

    Harry, feeling bold, nudged the tip of his nose on the hair behind her ear. Enough to make her notice, but not enough to make her completely sure that it was there. “Where do you want it?” He says, breath hot on the shell of her ears. Her eyes widen, and her body goes on full alert. She’s suddenly aware of the closeness of his hips on hers, the brushing of the fabric on her the back of her hand.

    “Up…” Y/n steps forward, towards the wall. She places her finger on the smooth surface, and traces it over to where she wants it, doing loopty-loops to her desired spot. “...here.”

  He places the nail on the wall, hits it with the hammer that y/n gives him and hooks the basket as well. He turns to her when he’s done.

  “Got any more?” He asks, placing a hand on his hip.

  “Yeah, in the back. Wanna come help me?” Y/n points with a thumb to the doorway, half of her body turning as well.   

    “Lead the way.” 

    So they leave together to the backroom, y/n holding open the golden curtain for Harry to walk through. He looks around endearingly, his neck stretching and eyes darting from place to place as he takes in his surroundings. Y/n is stuck at the expression on her face, her heart strings pulling when her ears listen to the soft giggle that escapes his lips.

So they leave together to the backroom, y/n holding open the golden curtain for Harry to walk through. He looks around endearingly, his neck stretching and eyes darting from place to place as he takes in his surroundings. Y/n is stuck at the expression on her face, her heart strings pulling when her ears listen to the soft giggle that escapes his lips.

    “S’very nice back here.” 

    “Wanna grab a few baskets? Place ‘em in the lounge?” 

    “Sure thing.” Harry wraps his hand around the handle of three baskets at the same time, and with the other, he grabs the still-packaged hooks and wait for y/n by the doorway. She hurried to grab two succulents, and met Harry at the doorway. They had an awkward moment of deciding who’s going first. A huffle of backwards and forwards until eventually, Harry held his palm out to allow her to go through while biting his lip. Y/n ducked her head and felt the tips of her ears go warm. 

    “So, I tried Elton John yesterday.” He said, trailing behind y/n into the lounge like a little puppy. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. 

    “Oh? How was it?” She replied, juggling the two glass casings in her hand, and then pricking herself again. She flinches, but doesn’t make any noises. 

    “Think I might have a new favorite,” he said, bashfully ducking his own head and peeking at her through his hair. Her heart fluttered, and if it could, she was sure it would bust out with the dreamy sighs she suppressed.

    “It’s that serious?” She asked. 

    “It’s that serious.” They reach the lounge, and y/n sets the succulents she carries in her hands down on a table.  “Have you had it yet?” Her stretches her hands out to Harry, signaling for him to give her his items. 

    “No, not yet. Should probably give it a try if its changed your mind. Can you pass me a hook?”  Harry gives her all four packages he holds in his one hand. When she wraps her hand around them, her finger brushes against the chubby part of his hand. 

    “Here you go- I only drank it ‘coz like, I’m on this diet thing and needed a drink with oat milk in it. Elton’s was the first one I saw. Woke me right up, too.” 

    “Diet you say?” y/n took the hammer and walked over to her desired stop, a few feet away from the one Harry had put in. 

    “Some altered version of keto. Had a really bad bug, had me feeling icky and ‘just decided it was the best.” He takes place next to her, watching as she positioned the nail and hit it a few times with the hammer. He held out a basket on his finger when she was done. She was a whirlwind, he thought. Busy little bee, never stopping. Harry nearly feels bad because she’s so full of energy, bouncing back from the table to the wall and arranging plants before he could even blink. “S’not fair. Not letting me do any work.” A pout appears on his lips, eyes teasing.

    “You just stand there and look pretty. I’ve-” she points to herself, finger at her chin. “Got this.” 

    Harry grumbles something that she doesn’t catch with his chin tucked into his neck. 

“What was that?’ she hums. 

    “‘Said, can’t exactly be pretty ‘coz you took that job too.” 

    Y/n’s hands still. Immediately, she feels her chest grow red roses blooming on her cheeks. She’s not exactly… embarrassed, per say. No. The familiar feeling of ants running wildly in her lower stomach began to burn, her ribcage tickling as butterflies try to creep out with beating wings. Pretty. He had called her pretty. 

    “Uhm, thank you?” 

    “You’re very welcome, darling.” His tone of voice is smug. And when she looks over at him with eyebrows raised, he’s biting his lip and his looking at her through his eyelashes like he had before, but there was no childish play in it this time. 

    “Say,” she picks up a succulent. “What’s it with you?” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugs.

“Lovin’ all up on me.”  She puts the succulent back down.

“S’nothing wrong with lovin’ all up on a pretty girl.”

There it is again. Pretty girl. Y/n is on fire her entire face pink, color concentrated on her cheeks and nose as if she had taken a walk in the brisk wind. 

“Stop it,” she said. 

Harry’s face turns concerned, brows kissing and lines appearing on his forehead. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” All work is forgotten, and instead they stand facing each other. 

“No! No, no,” Y/n’s eyes widen and her hands waving back and forth to eradicate the thought of her being disturbed by him. “S’just,” she sighs. “Not used to it, is all.”

Upon hearing this, Harry’s face breaks into a smile. “Well then,” he starts. “Better get used to it.” 

“Oh, you.” She playfully slaps his shoulder and picks up the succulent again, this time actually going to put it on a shelf adjacent to the window; a little alcove Karime has placed in a weird spot.

“When do you get a break?” 

“I think I get to take it whenever I want, why?”     “Wanna head down to Rockstar? Craving a Madonna right about now.”

“Never pegged you as a Madonna guy,” (the Madonna was a sweet caramel iced coffee with whipped cream and chocolate chips; not actually what Madonna would drink, and the beverage itself being one of the few inaccurate ones). “Let me finish with this, and I’ll let Karime know.”

So she did, much faster with Harry’s help. He handed her nails, hooks, and the plants she asked for. He asked if he could leave his stuff in the back, and he followed her back there once again, ticking his bag into an empty cupboard next to y/n’s things. On her way out, she said a quick goodbye to Karime who she was sure didn’t even hear what she said. 

Harry and her walked the short block side by side, with him playfully knocking his shoulder into hers and smiling like a mushy schoolboy when she pushed him back. They made small talk about drinks and the weather, shoulders hunched up and chins tucked in because it was a little cold.   Y/n’s frayed highschool sweater wasn’t doing much to keep her warm, and she had half the wind to pull her hood up the way Harry had his. 

Looking over at his, his nose was going a bit raw. Pink and the skin around it a little pale. By the time he noticed she was looking at him, they’d reached Rockstar, and he was opening the door for her. Murmuring a small thank you she walked through, and stepped to the side to wait for him to step inn as well, given he’d held the door open for the few people that had been walking behind him as well. From inside, she could see him nodding and smiling at everyone who stepped in. 

“You wanna grab a table and I’ll get the drinks?” she says to him when he appears next to her with hands in his hoodie pocket; she’s craning her neck to meet his eyes.

    “Sure. I’ll be in the records?” He takes one hand out to point over to where the records are.

    “Okay.” Y/n nods and head to the counter, where Lucy is busy taking someone’s order. She only see y/n when she walks behind the person and makes a silly face at her. Lucy laughs, but continues taking the order, and y/n pushes through the doors to put on an apron and make her and Harry’s drink. 

“Well if it isn’t y/n!” Says Kim.

“Y/n! Girly its been forever,” Kelsey bumps her hip when y/n get to work alongside her at the steaming machine.  

“Yes, yes, I know. Missed my favorite baristas.” she giggles, bumping her hip a little harder and making Kelsey gasp in faint shock. “Where’s Tilly?”

“Called in sick. Poor think could barely speak.” replied Kelsey. Y/n hummed a response, and made her drink first, a hot chocolate, and set it to the side to allow it to cool down meanwhile she made Harry’s. When Kelsey noticed her reaching for another measuring cup after just making her own she says,

“Two drinks?”

“Got a friend waiting for me in the records.” Y/n explained, pumping an extra pump of caramel into the cup. She puts in less ice too, and extra chocolate chips and whipped cream. 

    “The records…” Kelsey craned her neck out of where customers pick of their drinks to peek tp the records section. “Wait, wait, the one in the hood?”     “Yep,” said y/n, unbothered as she capped Harry’s drink.

    “Y/n!” Kelsey hissed, “He’s hot!” 

    “Yes, Kelsey, I am aware.” Y/n rolls her eyes and picked up both drinks, turning on her heels to walk out but nearly bumps into Kim, who stood not even an inch away from her. She backs up instantly.

    “So are you and he a thing?” He asked, leaning in closer to y/n’s face,his breath smelling on the ramen he always ate during his lunch break. 

    Y/n, uncomfortable by his closeness, tried walking around him but he stepped to the side. “It’s none of your business Kim.”

    “You never accept my dates, but you’ll accept his?” Kim’s tone is angry, and when he takes a step towards her, Kelsey steps in front of her.

    “Kim, leave her alone.” Kelsey says, turning back to y/n and nodding her head in the direction y/n was heading. When she pushes past the swinging doors, she catches a bits of what Kelsey says to him in a harsh whisper, “just wait until Lucy hears about this.” 

    “Haarryy,” Y/n says in a sing-song voice, dodging people as she makes her way to the records. Harry’s standing with  a record in his hand, legs spread apart and leaning back a bit with  his other hand tucked into his opposite armpit. “Here’s your John.” 

    Harry takes the plastic cup from her, giggling as he looks at her. 

    “What’s so funny?” she asks, genuinely confused.

    “Still wearing your apron,” Harry wraps his lips around the straw, tongue poking out to lap at it and take it into his mouth as y/n tries really hard not to stare.

    Looking down at herself, y/n shrugs, and leaves it on, taking a seat on the nearest loveseat and wrapping her now empty hand around the warm cup. 

    “What did you get?” He asked her. 

    “Willy wonka.” She brings the cup to her lips, tilting it up slowly and her mouth waters when she catches the scent of the foaming chocolate. Harry takes a seat next to her, his thigh touching her jean-clad one. He sits with them spread, leaning back in an eased position, and y/n eyes jump down to the bunched grey fabric at his crotch. And… well, there’s a larger than normal bulge through the fabric, drawstrings bending over the imprint, and y/n chokes on her drink. Some of it sputters out onto her apron. 

    “Still hot?” She nods. “ Gotta be careful, love. Who picked the names?”

    Y/n looks over at him, head tilting to the side with eyes squinting. “Picked what?”

    The cloudy skylight streamed in softly, casting a soft grey glow on Harry’s side profile. “The names for the drinks. Who picked them?” He holds his drink in one hand, straw near his face so all he had to do was maneuver his wrist to the plastic tube was in his mouth. 

    “Lucy did. Well, for most of them. I picked Andre 3000, Madonna, Willy Wonka and made the drinks myself. They’re not accurate though.” She sipped from her drink. “The rest of them are.” 

    “How much of this decor did you do? Like, concepts and stuff.” Harry takes out the tucked hand to wave around, and then tucks it back in. 

    “Concepts? Hmm…” she trails off for a moment. “All of them. I don’t want to say that I made this place myself, because I wouldn’t have done it without Lucy’s guidelines, but I went out, bought the furniture. Everything you see me doing at Karime's, I did here… ‘cept Karime’s is just plants and this,” she waves around her in a gesture and leaves it at that.

    “Do you decorate apartments?” He asked.

    “W-what?” Y/n, in the middle of a sip, and very surprised at his question, stuttered at his 

    “‘Coz mine’s looking kinda bland right now, was thinking maybe you could help me put some life into it.” 

    “Harry, I-”

    “Kinda like the Rockstar vibes, but like, a little less on the trendy side? I dunn-” Harry isn’t looking at her, his eyes wandering and landing on everything but her. 

    “Harry.” she said a little more sternly, putting a stop to his little rant. He looked at her then, his expression  unreadable. “I’m not sure you want me to help you decorate your home.”

    “Why not? You’d be helping me is all, and I love the way you’ve made Aromatherapy and Rockstar look.” He licks his lips, moving his head to the side and bringing the straw into his mouth with his tongue (that y/n stare at for longer than necessary).

    “But it’s your home.”

    “I am aware. Help me make it more me.” He shifts his body towards her then, his knee bending so he chest is to her. “Please?” He makes the face Puss in Boots made in that one movie, y/n couldn’t remember then because Harry looked much cuter than that dumb cat did.

    Y/n tosses this idea around in her head. Helping Harry decorate his home. She was scared, not only because Harry was cute, but because home was a personal and private space to be calm and safe. What if she screwed it all up and then Harry was uncomfortable in his own home? What is she did such a shit job that, that- well such a bad job that a horrible result came out of it again. This thing with Harry, a budding friendship? She barely knew the guy, just that he had an affinity for showering her with compliments and he made her turn more red than that really bad sunburn she got in the 10th grade after she refused to put on sunblock on a trip to a pool resort. What her point was, is that decorating someone’s home- a place where the heart is pure- is a really big job. 

    “Of course, this would be after you’re done with Karime’s place. Don’t wanna stress you out or anything like that.” A nike shoe, white and crisp looking like it had come straight out of the box, pressed into his thigh when he wrapped a hand around his ankle and pulled his bent leg in tighter.  “Whadda ya say?”

After hemming and hawing a few times, y/n finally says, “Okay. But you’re gonna have to be one million times more specific okay?” She elbows him, his position causing her elbow to poke at his pec instead of his bicep, and y/n elbows into hard muscle. 

    “Heyyy, can’t go hurting the girls now,” He rubs over where he poked her, and pouts childishly, even going as far as sticking his tongue out at her. “Do you need to head back? I don’t wanna get you into any trouble, y/n.”     The use of her name makes her heart skip a beat. “Yes, we should probably get going.” She moves to get up, and accidentally places her hand on Harry’s thigh. Before she would say sorry for touching him, he says,

    “Alway using me to hold yourself, huh? Sneaky thing, I see what you’re doin.” 

    “You offered! Said it yourself, I’ll hold you so you don’t fall again,” she deepened her voice, and faked a british lilt as best she could. 

    “I do not sound like that,” He whined. 

    He got up right after her, grabbing her hand to ‘pull’ himself back up, but he was really just holding it. His hand was cooler than hers (because he’d used the hand that had been holding his iced coffee) and enormous around hers. If he tried, he could close his finger tips and they’d be overlapping. When he was fully stood up, he reached around her neck, and lifted the black strap over her head, transfering the cloth over to the hand that held his cup, and then reaching again, this time around her waist to undo the knot. His front, not even a full step away from hers, and y/n got a whiff of detergent and something else she could only describe as ‘clean man’. If she were a shark, this would’ve been the moment her eyes turned black and rolled to the back of her head. 

    “There you go, no longer look like a little barista.” He hung the apron over he shoulder, and walked alongside her to the exit. Y/n split from him for a short second to return the apron, but then resumed her place next to him and they walked out together. She was hyper alert the entire way, taking notice of when their hands brushed, or when he pressed his bicep against hers. They walked a little stumbly, walking against each other almost. Had it been Lucy, she would’ve already yelled at y/n, and y/n would’ve walked near the sidewalk to avoid bumping into her again. But Harry?

Harry takes it like a champ. Giggling and pressing back against her, and he even placed her on the inside of the sidewalk when she walked to the side closest to the passing cars. 

    “So, tell me.” He starts, tossing his empty cup at a recycling bin as they waited for the light. “What kind of premeditated preparations should I take to be- as you said- extra specific?”

    Y/n still nurtures her cup in her hands, the coffee lid resting on her bottom lip. “Moodboards. Magazine scraps. Room inspiration on pinterest. Make a list of things you like. Anything really.  Anything that you like and would like to see in your apartment. Also, you need a budget.” 

��   “Don’t worry ‘bout a budget. I’ll work on everything else. You want it done by a certain day?” He asked, gallantly placing a hand on the small of her back as they crossed the street.

    “Preferably within the next week or two. I’m pretty much done with Karime.” She straightens up when she feels Harry’s hand on her, a warm feeling spreading from where he pressed, unlike the nastiness Kim made her feel. 

    They’re three shops down when he said, “Gotta give me your number so I can send you everything then. You can keep me updated and I’ll keep you updated.” They pass by a tree whose branch is just low enough to graze Harry’s head, and it hooks onto the hood on his head, effectively pulling it back as he walks through. His hair looks incredibly soft. Wispy strands the color of the drink in her hands, billowing up and around his face, a ringlet falling in front of his right eye. 

    He licks his lips, using his fingers to push his hair back and raise the hoodie over his hair again. HE looks over at her as he does, waiting for her response. 

    “Oh, oh, yes. Sure thing. Got your phone on you?” Harry jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone, the latest model, sleek and looking incredibly small in his hands. He placed it into her outstretched palm, unlocked but not on the contact app. Y/n has to swipe through shamefully, scared he’s gonna think that she’s snooping. She puts her number under ‘y/n :)’. 

    “Thanks, love.” He took the phone from her, his fingers sliding against the back of her hand. He hisses when he does so, saying, “Y/n your hands are so cold,” and then proceeds to take her hand and squeeze it between his own two. 

    She giggles sweetly, “Aye! Trynna hold my hand now?” she teased. 

    “No, trying to hold your hand would be this,” He grabs her hand with one, and lets it wall between them. They walk into AromaReads like that, with him holding her hand and the both of them laughing like they’d heard the funniest thing in the world. 

    Karime, standing at the counter and welcoming everyone as they come in, catches y/n’s eye and she smiles at herself knowingly. Y/n shakes her head while still laughing with Harry, and they both head to the back. Harry to get his stuff, and y/n to continue her job. Just when he’s walking between the isle and cabinets, his phone dings and he takes it out, his jaw dropping and palm slapping his forehead. 

    “SHIT! I completely forgot. I have a lunch meeting with my friend today. Fuck,” Y/n, this being the first time she hears swear words coming out of his mouth, rases her eybrow at him and chuckles. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to keep helping you, but-”

    She raises her hand, silencing him. “You do what you have to do. This is my job anyway. Just don’t forget to text me.” Basket handles fill her hands, wicker patterns pressing into her pals, and she tucks one of the last two frames under her hand too. 

    “I won’t. In fact, I’ll do that right now.” He types into the phone that’s still in his hand, and a few seconds later Y/n’s back pocket buzzes and chimes. She doesn’t pull it out to check. “Now you can text me if I forget.” He says finally, swinging his satchel over his shoulder.

“Bye, sweetheart!” He called out, turning back over to smile at her. Y/n’s  lips pulled up at the corners, gazing at him with a certain look in her eye as he walked out. 

    “Sweetheart, huh?” Karime stepped into her direct line of vision, snapping y/n out of the daydream in her head where she’s the housewife and Harry her husband leaving to work, calling out bye, sweetheart! as he walked out the door. 

    Karime’s looking at her with a smirk and a single pointy eyebrow raise. 

    God, what had she gotten herself into?

    .

    .

    Y/n had saved Harry under “H.”

   And received a text from him that same night.

    She’d been in her bathtub with cucumbers on her eyes when she heard her phone chime. Chin pointed upwards and wrists perched on the edges of her porcelain basin, she lay unbothered and unmotivated to even move. Arms aching and the soles of her feet tired from walking from place to place and lifting she did at Karime’s earlier that day. Tealight candles were the only source of light in the tiny bathroom, a soft yellow glow cascading on the skin of her neck.  The valley of her breast peaked out everytime she took a breath, her mind drifting off into thoughts of green eyes and warm hands, all she’d been able to think about that day.

    She planned on staying there 30 more minutes, but her phone dinged again. After she thought it was the two minute thing the phone does after receiving a message, but when it dinged again, she huffed from her nose and removed the soggy cucumber sliced off of her eyes. Should’ve turned off my phone, she thought to herself, grabbing the towel she left on the toilet seat across from the tub, and wrapping it around her torso. The phone screen a blaring white light in contrast to the dimness of the candles. 

    Y/n, eyes cloudy with sleep and limbs saggy with fatigue, is very much surprised to see that next to the app icon on the display screen, is ‘H.’ Hey eyes pop out of her head at the realization, and her heart shakes up the fatigue to beat up a storm for the boy she’d been thinking about all day since he’d left her. 

Standing in her bathroom, on bare tiles with water still dripping on her, it hit her full force. She liked Harry. Liked the way his cheek squished against his shoulder when he shrugged. They way he looked at her through his eyelashes, and they way he made sure that she was walking on the inside of the street. Liked how he smiled at her and said her name. She was obsessed with him. 

So i think i know what i wanna go for

Was thinking maybe italy in the 70’s 

What do you think :D ??

    And attached were varying pictures of vast rooms with big windows during golden hour and white flowy curtains with art pieces on the wall. It was minimal Even more minimal that what Karime asked for. This is what he wanted help with? Not to mention, the pictures he sent were of rooms far bigger than she’d ever seen for an LA apartment. Hell, those rooms might as well have been in Italy, one of the windows had a view of a pretty pink sunset and orange tree branches littering the way. 

    However, she couldn’t argue that they were very pretty rooms. Sweet and plain, easy for the eye to absorb and just the place you’d be able to melt on the floor with a book. 

    Or the kind in which you have slow, hazy afternoon sex, but who was she to say what harry would use his rooms for right?

    Disclaimer: if this is the look you’re going for

    Like

    This exact look? You’re gonna have 2 have a really big apartment   

        Not even a full minute goes by until the grey delivered letters turns into ‘Read at 10:15pm’ and the grey typing bubble appears at the bottom of her screen. Her palms begin to sweat and her breath hitches. She doesn’t realize she’s been holding in her breath until she releases it after his message comes through. 

        are you doing anything this weekend? 

        Y/n is confused, brows furrowed as she reads his message. Why does he want to know?

    No. why? she responded.

    so you can come and take measurements of my apartments. that way i know how to tweak what i want

  and I have a measuring tape don’t worry

Y/n rolled her eyes and giggled at her phone screen, turning and resting her bum on the edge of her sink. 

    Saturday? 

        Seconds later,

see you Saturday

sweet dreams. H.x

The idiot. Of course he’d sign off a text message. Scoffing, y/n let the towel drop to the floor, and reached into the tub to unclog the drain. As soon as she felt the pop of water flowing down the pipes, she took out her arm and walked out. 

.

.

On Wednesday, y/n laid in bed until 12. When she got up, it was only to brush her teeth, pee, and eat ramen with rice and egg like the asian lady in the liquor store had taught her to make. When she finished, she went back to bed. Maybe she masturbated to get herself to fall asleep again.

Maybe.

.

.

On Thursday, she went took Our Sign Of The Times and took it out to read in her car on signal hill. She finished it. 

She cried. 

When she went home, she started another one. Rogue Lover. This one with a really pretty purple flower on the front, and the first page when you open it is a raven haired man with shoulder length hair who’s propped up next to a busty redhead. Her nipple is in his mouth, and her head is thrown back in pleasure. Y/n fell a little more in love with 

Lemus Knox upon finding the dedication was a note rather than a name. 

It said:

Whoever reads this, I’ll be waiting for you where the stars and clouds meet. My heart is yours. Lemus.

.

.

Friday. 

She helped Lucy at Rockstar. A bald man with a blue beard came in asking for her. He has a boutique in Long Beach. Doesn’t want to come off overbearing. Will he help her? 

She said yes.They were set to meet next week. 

Also, Harry texted her asking if they were still on for tomorrow and come ready to eat because I made Italian food for a few friends I had over and there’s leftovers. 

.

.

Saturday. 

Y/n woke up with an appetite for Italian food. She didn’t have to be at Harry’s house until 12-ish. They hadn’t really clarified. And with it being 8 am and all that, y/n decided to take some time to shower and prep herself all nice and delicate. She spent 15 minutes lathering herself in her tub, letting her skin absorb berry scented bubbles that made her mouth water, and if she didn’t know any better she’d scoop up the bubbles and eat them.When her skin shriveled, she stood and drained the water, letting the stream from the overhead wash her off, and stepped out onto her heart shaped mat, the kind with little stubs that felt really nice against the bottom of her feet.

A little while back, she’d bought a lemon face scrub from a really expensive skincare place that had a sale, and meanwhile she put on her clothes, she put some on her cheekbones and forehead to sit for 15 minutes.  It required extra care when slipping her floral dress over her head. Once she managed to poke her head through, and the material rested all bunched up on her neck, the rest was a breeze. With a careful yank, the light material cascaded down her body, dropping just below her bum. Checking herself in her mirror, she smiled at the way she looked when she swayed her hips side to side. Cheeky flashes of her bum glint at her teasingly. Humming contently, she took off to wash off her face in the restroom. She was eager to find out how Harry liked the way she looked; her dress a low neckline, and she wasn’t wearing a bra because it was one of those dress in which the fabric bunched at the breasts to create a makeshift cup. The patter was a nice pink that looked nice against her skin, dainty little bows at the sleeves and in between her breasts accentuating her features.

Y/n opted for nothing other than a dark shade of lipstick, and let her hair flow down her back. As she was putting on her shoes, a pair of those recycled shoes that sent some of the proceeds to charity, she noticed that much of what she was doing felt like what she would have done if she were getting ready for a date. 

And… and Harry had food waiting for her at his place (apartment? Loft? She didn’t know specifically). Was this a date? She definitely wouldn't mind if it was.

She finished, and grabbed nothing other than her keys and shoulder bag, hesitating at her door whether she should grab the measuring tape, but deciding against it after remembering that Harry, quite teasingly, had said he had one at his house. 

In her car, she scrolled up her and Harry’s text to find the one which contained his address, tapped on it when she found it, and set in on the small mount on the headboard of her cart. Huffing, she set off to Harry’s house.

It didn’t take her long to get there, about ten minutes, and she parked in front of a much nicer version of her own apartment complex, but in Beverly hills.  A beige building that have the similar structure of a hotel, with turquoise patios and green roofing. Palm trees making a walkway to the entrance, which guarded by a security guard who asked who she was there to see.  

“I’m here to see Harry…” she falters, realizing she doesn’t know his name. 

The security, an old man with a limp and scrutinizing eyes, looked her up and down and said, “Ya one of dem girls das always botherin’ him ain’tcha? I suggest you turn back and go home. Mr. Styles won’t see you.” 

Y/n, with her jaw dropped, stood stunned in the middle of the pathway, not sure what to respond. Surely, he was confused. And whichever “girls that came around bothering Mr. Styles” she wasn’t one of them. 

“Go on and git,” he said, crossing his arms and standing possessively in front of a keypad. 

She hurried to reach into her bag for her phone, walking back to her car while she punched Harry’s “call” because she didn’t want to stand while an agitated security man watched her. 

He picks up the phone, and doesn’t even give her a chance to talk before he says, “is Felix giving you a hard time?” His voice gravelly and knowing. 

“The security guard? He said that you won’t see me.” She whines into the receiver. 

“Ah yes, the strict old man. Gimme a second.” He hangs up on her, leaving y/n clutching the strap of her bag so hard her knuckles turn white. 

“Ms. Y/n?!” Felix calls from behind her. She turns around, surprised to see that his face was completely transformed with a smile. His front tooth is gold and he’s missing a molar. “You can go on ahead, dolly. Mr. Styles just called and said you was a nice ‘un.”  He said, punching a thumb into the keypad behind him. “Sorry, bout that Miss. Enjoy the rest ‘ur dey!” He touches the tips of his fore and middle finger to his gleaming forehead and salutes her as she passes him, giggling and blushing. 

“Thank you, Felix. You too.” 

She walks through, and is greeted with a fine lobby. It really does look like a hotel lobby. Carpeted floors, a receptionist, and a door leading to a pool just outside the elevator. Before she can even wonder where to go, she hears her name being called by a familiar voice, 

“Y/n, over here!” Harry calls out, standing in front of open doors to the elevator to her right. He’s wearing a burgundy turtleneck and black slacks that are cuffed at the ankles. Yellow tortoise shell glasses and his hair is parted down the middle making him look like MiloThatch. A lavender towelette is in the grasp of his right hand, and he’s waving it at her like soldier girlfriends saying goodbye on the platforms. 

Stunned at his etherealness, y/n felt the roof of her mouth go dry. Staring at the way he filled out his clothing, she walked to him hypnotized, transfixed by his appearance. His chiseled features, boyish grin. She gravitated towards him. Enchanted.

“H-hi, Harry.” she said dreamily. Harry’s eyes raked her up and down when she came to a stop in front of him. 

“Why, hello. You look exceptionally lovely right now, darling.” He rasped, looking down at her sternly, all traces of a sweet smile gone and replaced by something a little more serious. A little more sinister.  His light green eyes turning a darker shade, y/n’s lips parting and knees weakening. 

She musters the words to say, “so do you,” and Harry’s lips turn up at the corners. 

“Shall we head up. Pasta and salad is waiting for you.” He turns away from her and presses the circular button that goes red when he pushes it. 

“How was-”

“So, you-” 

They both say at the same time, laughing and stopping to let the other speak and Harry says, “You go first.” 

“I see you’ve a few fans that bother you, and Mr. Felix has taken to guarding them off,” y/n commented. Her eyebrow quirked at him. 

Harry laughs, a single loud ha! “Felix just takes his job very seriously. That’s all.” 

“Doesn’t change the fact that you have women-” the elevator rings and the doors open, “lined up on your doorstep.” Harry steps in first, and uses his hand to stop the elevator doors from closing in on y/n. 

She steps through, and they both stand side by side in the metal encasing. Glancing up, she sees the ceiling is covered in mirror panels. 

“Well,” Harry shifts his body so his front is facing her, and takes a step, shoulders taking turns on tilting forward with every slow, torturous step he takes. “Does it,” Y/n takes a step back, breath hitching in her chest, “ bother,” her back collides with the cool wall, the floors on the meter above the doors keep going, 5, 6, “ you?” 

He’s a needle away from her nose, his mouth ghosting over her own and his chest rising up and down slowly while hers is an erratic mess. She’s breathing out of her mouth, her eyes shifting between his own two that are fixed and straight on hers. 7, 8,  Harry’s hand comes to rest on the right side of her face, caging her between the elevator wall and his bicep, his palm cupped her jaw and running a thumb tenderly over her cheekbone. 

“I-I,” she stutters. 

“Cat got your tongue, petal?” His breath smells like mint and coffee. The tips of the curls that hang in front of his eyes tickle y/n’s forehead and down the side of her temple and eventually her cheek when he leans in to put his lips at her ear. “Look so pretty right now, y'know?” HIs british drawl is heavy because his tone of voice is low. 

8, 9, “Harry,” she gasped, involuntarily tilting her head to the side when he noses at the back of her ear. “What are you doing?” 

The elevator comes to a stop at 10, and Harry retracts, leaving her a red, heated mess  and slightly panting. He takes the few steps to stand in front of the elevator doors, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiled at her sweetly, his demeanor innocent as if we weren't just going to ravish her in an elevator like Robet Patterson for that one Dior commercial.

The doors open to a long hallway that turns sharply at the end to the right, a door where it would’ve turned on the left side. The right wall is a window that looks out onto the middle of the building, where y/n could see the pool that had been behind door. The flooring is a green colored tile, the same as the roofing, and the walls are a flattering soft yellow bordering on white.

Harry’s shoes, expensive looking-black heeled boots that have a rainbow pattern on the, making clacking noises against the floor with every step he takes. Y/n can’t help but feel awkward while walking alongside him, but  Harry, humming along to the tune of Maneater, by Hall and Oates, doesn’t seem to share her opinions. At the end of the hall, he makes a sharp turn to left, and she bumps into him. Mumbling a sorry she steps back to allow him to open the door. 

It’s not locked, and with a quick turn of the brass knob, the door opens and the smell of tomato and basil hits them both in the face. 

Y/n’s stomach grumbles, and she places her hand over her bell and looks over at Harry with wide eyes, embarrassed. 

“I take it you’re hungry?” He steps through, holding the door open for her.

“...yes…” she mumbled, stepping through. 

“Just in time then because I…” Whatever Harry says is drowned out. Y/n is amazed. Harry doesn’t have an apartment. He has a goddamn penthouse suite. His living room wall is a window, his kitchen open and blending in with the rest of the space. There are no walls, just turns where the building walls connect. Tall and wide walls painted with angles of shadows and lights that stream in. No furniture other than a long, wooden dinner table and three white chairs, and his bed. A mattress and a white comforter messily strewn over pillows. Before the walls turn to the streetside view, Y/n catches glimpses of cedar wood bookshelves arranged in the middle of the room; just like in a library. 

“Y/n?”  Harry appears in her line of peripheral vision, a knowing look on his face.

“Sorry, sorry. What was it?” 

“Said, do you want spaghetti and meatballs or fettuccine?”

“Mmm,” She scrunches her face like she’s thinking real hard, “fettuccine.” Then she adds, “please.” 

“You got it.” He said, walking away while playing with the collar of his turtleneck. Y/n follows after him, to the kitchen isle and utilities placed in a little alcove underneath the stairs that lead upstairs. To what, y/n didn’t know. 

Then she sees the pots and pans that are still steaming, the cutting boards with chopped lettuce and other vegetables and realizes that-

“Hey! You said you had takeout,”

“I did.” He picks up the knife next to the tomato, and continues chopping the lettuce.  “But I left it out, and it went bad. I promised you Italian so I made it myself instead. Much better than Olive Garden, anyways.” He shrugs, looking up at her and pointing with the knife to a chair across from him. “Sit.”

“NO!” She said, exasperated. “Let me chop something, too.”

“Darling, this is finished. I’ve got it. Sit, the fettuccine is almost finished. Just,” he twists his neck to look behind him, at the clock above the stove, a cat with a swinging tail. “Five more minutes.” 

Y/n slides the bag she carried off her shoulder and hooks it in the back of the chair he had told her to sit on, which she still wasn’t.

“Harry, that’s not fair.” she stomped her foot, a flat slapping noise of her sole against his wooden floors.

“Oh sit, or I won’t give you any food.” He tuts his tongue at her, shaking his knife and turning to turn down one of the knobs on the stove.

Pouting like a child, y/n sits down with a plop and a screech of the chair sliding against the floor.

She sat and watched Harry as he took plates out of his cupboards and placed food on them. The only noises being the quiet bubbling of pasta sauce, the tapping of his heels, clinks of plates against each other, and y/n’s grumbling stomach. Her face was still puckered in a pout because Harry hadn’t let her help him, but it slowly eased off as she focused more and more on the way he looked in his fitting black pants. The way the fabric was tighter on his ass, how his thighs flexed with each stride. Suddenly, y/n got the urge to bite into them, and she felt herself blush at her own thoughts, especially when Harry turned to her with a sweet smile of his lips.

He placed a plate in front of her, complete with salad and garlic knots. 

“Would you like some wine? Got this really nice one the other day and I haven’t opened it yet. Figured since we’re having Italian, it fits.” Harry was holding a dark wine bottle in his hand, that he had just pulled out of his silver fridge. 

“Harry, I would love some, but-” Y/n tried to explain that she felt bad because she came here for take out and had cooked her a meal.

“NO buts. Have some.” And instantly, there was a cup of red wine next to her plate.

Even though he had a table for eating, he placed his own plate next to her, and sat down to eat. Y/n looked at him, deflated and with a pained look on her face, while he forked spaghetti into his mouth and raised his glass for a drink. 

He froze when he saw she was looking at him. Looking her up and down, he said, “Moppet, eat your food. We have work to do.” 

Y/n rubbed her palm down her face, her lips pulled down. With a groan, she picked up her fork, sulking, and twirled it in her pasta.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but definitely not the mini piece of heaven that was in her mouth. Harry had managed to create the perfect blend of cheese and cream that glazed her tongue like silk. It was so good, she moaned, her fingers pressing against her mouth and head tilted back. 

“S’good,? Harry questioned, wiping his mouth with a napkin to hide his laugh.

“Very,” she said, shoving more of the pasta into her mouth.

“Good.”

They eat quietly, Harry snickering at her whenever inhumane noises of pleasure left her mouth.Y/n practically cleaned her plate with the garlic knots. She only remembered about the glass of wine when Harry set his down empty, lips stained, and eyes droopy if she looked at him hard enough. After she’d cleaned her plate, she reached for the thin stem of the g;ass and drank it like it was grape juice, only slightly wincing after it had gone down, the tart acidity washing down the sweeter tones of cream. 

“Slow down, Moppet. Don’t want you to get a tummy ache.” Harry said, patting her hand tenderly and pushing himself off the seat to place her plate in the sink. At this, y/n jumped from her chair and took the plates from Harry. 

“You cooked, not I wash the dishes.” She stuck her tongue out at him, the tip red from the wine.

“But-” Harry protested.

“No buts. Go,” she bumped her hip against his, and walked the last few steps to the sink, picking up the sponge and turning on the water. She washed the dishes, and like always, got the front of her dress wet, water splattering onto her chest. Sucking on her teeth, y/n used the towel hanging on the handle of the oven to pat off the water. Harry watched this from where he leaned against the isle across from the stove; a new glass of wine half empty.

Returning to the table, she grabbed her now full- no thanks to Harry- glass of wine and sipped from it. It settled nicely in her stomach, warming down the path it took to settle.

Clasping her hands, she said, “Okay, Harry. Let’s talk decor.”

Harry untucked his hand from underneath his armpit, and smacked his lips together, “Follow me.”

He started walking out to the living room area, and into the bookshelves y/n had seen. Up close, they were actually taller than her, just about Harry’s height. He walked past them, and stopped again at a corner where one building face meets the other. Here, he had pictures upon pictures laid out on the floor. He even had scraps of fabric.

Y/n stared, and nodded approvingly. “You did your research. Good job.” Looking closer, she saw what the images were. Albums (David Bowie, Stevie Nicks, Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, The Beatles, Prince). Pop culture pieces (Andy Narwhal, Pulp Fiction, Sixteen Candles). Fabric patterns, colors, and a lot of velvet. About half of the pictures were shots of other room like the pictures he’d shown her. 

To her left, Harry tapped onto his phone, and seconds later, that song he’d been humming in the hallway, Maneater, played with clarity on speakers hidden from the eye. When he was satisfied with his queue choices, he knee and sat next to his big circle of inspiration, legs splayed out in front of him looking infinitely long.  Y/n noticed he had taken off his boots, and his feet, knobby and lanky, had toes painted blue and pink. He had black markings on his big toe, but she couldn’t see what it was.

“Look, sit sit, I was thinking…” Harry began, patting the area next to him and grabbing a few of the papers he had spewed on the floor. Y/n, inexplicably endeared, sat with her legs crossed to the side next to him, feeling her butt press onto the cold floor, and listened to him go on and on about his vision. 

Hours passed with them just talking about images, why Fleetwood Mac would go better than Prince (because Fleetwood Mac is more of an afternoon in the meadows, and Prince is a night going down the highway in Malibu) and fabric choices for the windows (i’m sorry Harry, y/n had argued, but unless you can find a near translucent velvet its not gonna work. If you want the summer in italy during the 70’s look, you need transparent curtains).

They sat long enough that the way the light filtered in at an angle according to the sun, changed completely (it was at a harsh slant with the morning light, now its at a soft bend with golden light). When the light made Harry’s face look a golden pink, he fell back onto the wooden floors with a groan and said,

“How do you do this, y/n?” He blew hair out of his lips to move the few strands that had fallen in front of his eyes.

“Dunno, its just second natur- heeyy,”

A midst the mess, she guesses they missed it. Underneath a picture of a fruit bowl and flowers, was a picture of a naked woman, with birds eye view from the bot of her head, so you could see the tips of her breasts with they way she arched her back, and the head of hair in between her thighs. Her mouth was open in a silent scream of pleasure, eyes closed and a hand fisting her own hair like she was doing to the man in between her thighs.

Her cheeks burn upon her discovery, and she feels a familiar buzz in the place where the woman in the picture had a tongue pressed against her. 

When he heard her little gasp, Harry shot straight up and when he saw the image in her hands he said, “Ah, I see you’ve finally found it. Was wonderin’ when it would come out.” Reaching across her, his chest smushed againt her shoulder, he plucks it from her hands and look at it, smirking.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be doing x-rated work.” 

She says it teasingly.

But maybe it was the way she was looking at him then. She couldn’t help it. The roots of his hair looked blonde in the light, and his eyes were clear, almost see through as light passed them. His lips looked particularly tasty, having been tinted red from the wine, glinting from his own spit, and swollen from how he’d plucked at them while he was thinking about her suggestions. The juncture of his throat was partly hidden, but she could still see every time he swallowed, hos his adam’s apple bobbed up and down. And… and it wasn’t her fault that black pants looked good on him either. The material stretching taught over his muscles, flexing with every, single movement he made, no matter how small.  

So, maybe she had been looking at his provocatively, and her comment had… fueled Harry. Tuned him in on what had been on her mind.

He lifts himself with one arm from his indian-style position on the floor, up to his knees, and crawls to her. Eyes looking with hers, y/n’s chest starts to heave, her breaths growing bated; shorter; faster. 

“Do you want to do x-rated work?” He said, his voice dangerously low. His rings clink against the wooden planks, and brush against her thighs when he comes close, hands bracketing her hips, his nose nudging hers.

She’s gupping, like a little guppy fish, her lips opening and close, but nothing comes out of them.

Harry’s nose moves to her cheek, pushing back her hair. “It’s okay, pet. I can ask you again. Do you want,” his lips are at her ear for the second time that day, except that she thinks maybe they’ll actually gets somewhere this time. All she has to do is say,

“Yes.” Her voice is small, an airy squeak when Harry presses a kiss to the back of her ear. Her hands, sitting dumbly on her lap, move tentatively to his chest, searching from something to hold onto. She clenches the soft fabric in her hands just as Harry starts to lean back, his palm falling into her naval, and pushing her back, back, back, until she has to stretch her legs out to lay comfortable on her back, staring up at him with bleary eyes, glossed over.

“Yes? Course you do, pet.” He moves his knees to straddle her hips, leaning down close so he’s almost talking into her mouth, and one of his hands smooths down the shape of her waist. Y/n feels herself grow wet when Harry dips his thumb into her belly button, and she’s whining because she hasn’t done anything with anybody in so long and she wants him to do something.

But, if he’s not gonna do anything, that she might as well. She stretched her neck the last of the way, flattening her lips against Harry’s. The relief is instant, she quells her desire of being closer to him, and Harry responds almost immediately, swiping his tongue on her bottom lip and licking into her when she lets him. Harry groans, because she still tastes like wine and a sweetness he can only credit to her. His kiss becomes urgent, smashing his against her soft, malleable mouth.

Y/n whimpers, hips jutting upwards when Harry takes her lower lip between his teeth, and bites down on it,hard enough to where the pain was pleasure. Although her mind is swimming, she knows that the bulge she feels through the flimsy cloth of her dress is Harry’s cock. Elated and driven mad by her need, she arches up into him, needing any friction she could.

Harry pulls away from her, their lips separating with a wet noise, and tuts his tongue at her. “Ah, ah, ah. You’re not getting my cock tonight, y/n. Not yet.”

She mewls, her eyebrows dipping and red, puffy lips pouting, “Harry, don’t be a tease. S’not fair.” She doesn’t care is she sounds pathetic, the space between her thighs aches, and she’d like him to very much sate it “Do something, please.”

He coos at her, pressing wet kisses along her neck, his hand sneaking past her waist, to the start of her dress, and slipping underneath it. “Whining like a little puppy, aren’t you?” His hand glides of her thigh, the shill of his rings sending a violent shiver up her spine. His nail scratches a path near the place where she’s most warm. Most needy, and she moans when he feels how close he is to touching her, the splotch on her panties expanding every time he spoke. “You’re alright puppy, I’ll take care of you.”

Y/n’s breath hitches when his finger hooks onto the strap of her underwear, snapping the material twice with a chuckle at the cries he elicited from her. 

“Harry, harry, harry,” she’s half mad with need, her eyes squeezed shut with anticipation, and when Harry sees the desperation in her slack mouth, his own features go soft, and he takes out his hand from underneath her dress to cup her cheek. 

“Puppy,” he said, and when she didn’t open her eyes, he said again, “Puppy, look at me.” his thumb rubs over her cheek, ignoring the imploring whines that leave her lips, and instead leaning down and kissing her to shut her up. “It’s okay, its okay. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes!” She shouted, eyes going wide, amazed that he’d even ask that. “Do something.” She ruts up again, the head of Harry’s cock nudging against her hood. Harry groans, noticing how fucking hard he is. He’s leaked through his pants, a darker splotch where his head it.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, more to himself than to her.

His hand makes the same trail it had before, flipping up her dress this time to see her clothed center. Her panties make him want to cum on the spot. Baby pink cotton with a bow on the center of the band. Biting his lip, he uses a knee to spread her thighs, and then he sees just how much she needs him. 

“Oh puppy. We’ve made a mess of your panties haven’t we?” He looks at her with amusement, “Guess they have to go, don’t they?” 

Y/n hums desperately, her hips writhing up to meet his fingers. Pressing a last kiss to her lips, Harry scoots back so his knees are by her feet, and he and slip off the material all the way off. Suddenly aware of how bare she is, he clasps her thighs sht, obscuring Harry’s view of her pussy. 

“C’mon now, honey. Don’t be shy,” with a strong hand, he pries her knees apart and lays himself down in front of her, his breath hot on her swollen clit. From that angle, he can see how much she glistens, and how her juices spill out of her every time she clenched her hole around nothing. “Look at you, just begging to be stuffed.”

With a single finger, he slides up and down her slit, collecting her wetness, and then slipping into her. 

Y/n bleats, his intrusion stirring her heat up more; she wanted more. Wanted to be filled than more with just his finger, but was scared to say. Instead she said, “another,”

Harry slid his middle finger inside her, scissoring his fingers and leaning down to lick a stripe on her clit. Y/n arched her back, and moaned loudly, her eyes squeezing shut and hands touching at the area around her, looking for something to hold on to and settling to clenching at her own dress.

He hears the sound of her hands colliding with the floor, and looks up to see her knuckles going white with hoe hands she was fondling her dress.

“Y’can pull my hair, puppy.” he said against her slit, the vibrations of his words sending prickled of pleasure to the building orgasm she feels in the pit of her stomach. The second her muddled brain comprehends what Harry said, her fingers jam themselves into her his hair, just as he suckles on her. Y/n’s eyes roll to the back of her head, and her gasps come out in staccatos.

Harry’s fingers are still pumping in an out of her, twisting every time he pushed them back into her. He’s looking for the spongy spot inside of her, when he hears her say something incoherently.

“What was that?” he asked her,his fingers stilling inside her.

“Said, what about you?”

Her voice is faint and weak, her voice and comment sending pin-pricks of satisfaction to his throbbing member. His heart clenches at her considerations, so touched by the fact that she’s so lost in her own heat but she’s still worried about him.

“This isn’t about me. It’s about you. Y’gonna cum for me, puppy?” He feels the pad of his middle finger slide against something that has a different texture that the rest of her, and when her breathing hitches and she lets out a long moan, he knows hes found what he’s looking for. Y/n’s pussy clenches around, her fingers tighten in his hair, so hard it makes Harry yelp. “Clenching m’fingers, puppy, I know you’re there.” 

Y/n feels the familiar slow burn of her orgasm twisting in the pit of her stomach, her entire body hyper aware of Harry and what he was doing to her. How he pressed a hand on her navel to keep her from lifting her hips, the harsh sucking of her clit, and then finally the flick of his pointer finger curling inside her.  The build-up unravels, and her mouth opens up in a silent scream like the women in the picture, her body going taught, and then falling limp when the wave calms.

“That’s it, love. All better now isn’t it?” Harry slowly takes his fingers out of her, reveling in the way she’s still squeezing around him. She’s sensitive and jerking from her orgasm when He lick his fingers clean, kissing his path up her body. Her thighs, her exposed navel, her clothed valley of her breasts, her collarbones, and up her throat, behind her ear where he’s taken a liking to kissing.

“Jesus, Harry. Where’d you learn to talk like that?” She titters sleepily.

“S’my job, puppy.” He nibbles at her earlobe and down her jawline.

Alarmed, y/n’s eyes pop open, and she sits up, pushing Harry’s chest and holding him at arms length. “What do you mean, it’s your job?” She’s scared she’s just been used or something along those lines.

“I mean it’s my job. Learned a few skills from writing erotica, pet.” He responses calmly, diving back in to continue his assault on the skin of her jaw. His voice warped against her, he adds, “write under a pseudonym. Lemus Knox.” 

Lemus Knox. 

Harry was Lemus Knox. Harry was Lemus fucking Knox.

“You’re…” she’s still. Almost like that fight or flight instinct. 

Harry stills when he realizes she has. He knows, simply by the tone of her voice that she knows who he is. Who Lemus Knox is.He withdraws to look at her, grinning fro  ear to ear.

“You know who I am?” he said slowly.

“Harry, I’d even go as far as saying I’m in love with Lemus,” she blurts, reddening as soon as the words leave her mouth, but Harry just smiles fondly at her.

“That’s okay, puppy. Lemus and I aren’t the same person. You have a right to love him,” he nuzzles into her neck, kissing down her shoulder, “Just as long as you save some love for me.”

And lying there, completely stunned ant with Harry’s hard cock pressing into her hip, y/n bursts out laughing. She laughs because she’s happy. Because she likes Harry. Because she loves Lemus Knox.

She laughs because for the first time in a long time, someone is laughing along with her, kissing her, holding her.

She laughs because she can’t wait to see where Harry will lead her.

[poutyhannie]

warnings: fem!reader, painter!reader, smut, fluff, slight sub!hyunjin, slight soft dom!reader, penetration, face riding, praising

word count: +2.2k

Absent mindlessly stepping over one of the numerous drying canvas strewn around your studio, you make your way to the cabinet, moving aside one of the numerous commission pieces you’ve finally finished. There it is, in the back, fearing the prospect of being abandoned by your touch. Cautiously, your stained hands grip the paint tubes as a giddy smile spreads over your lips. Unlike the drying canisters around you, closed or sealed with half hearted hands, these tubes were abandoned because of their value. And finally, after completing all commissions, you finally have some time to yourself by yourself with your precious paints.

A tumult of colors swirl under your brush, bending and swaying to your will and to create the controlled chaos of your mind. Though your palette almost exclusively resides in the cool tones, gently caressing the monochromatic, this time, your mind swirls as sunflower yellows and deep vermillion tones fill your palette. There’s not much to think about, just a feeling to go off of. Even though you never break out these prized paints, there’s confidence in your unknowing strokes. Soon, a calm forest scene beings to materialize under your brush, maybe in sunset, where the cooling sun’s scorch now exhales over the trees with golden breath. These rays drift through the branches, illuminating the rocks, fallen leaves, and roaming critters…And a figure? You’re not sure when your brush strayed, but there’s a brown streak right at the middle of the canvas, where the light is the brightest and one’s eyesight would be drawn. Snapping out of your painterly haze, you begin scrubbing at the streak, only further spreading it. 

Huffing at this obvious blight on your calm scene, you once again allow your mind to wander and doing so usually leads one of two things. When your thoughts aren’t clouded with art, they’re of him. You’ve never thought to mix the two, always held your affections for the both at separate ends of your life. Perhaps that’s not ideal. The brush is lethargic over the brown streak as the silhouette of a tall man begins to form. There’s a halo of gold around his entire figure and you wonder whether or not to delve into the details of him when a pair of arms suddenly pull you back from your canvas. Heart in your throat, your arm stings from twisting away from the arms until a soft chuckle burns you to a stop in your tracks. 

The amused smile tugs his eyes into crescent moons and his plump lips part in laughter as he squeals, “You should have heard the sound you made! You sounded like a dying horse.” Gasps of laughter continue to bubble from him and maybe your barrage of hits to his shoulder will stop the burning in your cheeks. It doesn’t, however his eyes catch on your canvas, smile immediately dissolving into dumb wonder. Almost reverently, he steps towards it, face close and breath drying the paint as he admires it.

“You like it, Hyunjin?” His pouting smile bursts warmth in your chest. “Yeah, its really different from what you usually do,” upon further inspection, he points a long finger at the still not rendered brown figure, “Is this me? Maybe that’s why its so good.” Though you scoff, he’s being pulled close into your chest by your stained hands. A yelp tears from him and he pushes you off, inspecting the residue paint on his shirt. His eyes roll back as he holds the back of his hand to his forehead, dramatically wailing.

“Noo~This can’t happen! This was my favorite shirt,” the guilty paint only further incriminates itself over his shirt as he rubs at it ferociously. Falling to his knees, he chokes, wringing his hands together at you. 

His theatrics raise a giggle in you and you lean down to tug at the shoulders of his shirt, explaining, “Hey, I have a special paint soap. Take this off.” This stops him dead in his tracks and his eyes are wide and curious as he slips the white shirt off his broad back. Fading pink lines made from your nails a few nights ago decorate his back and you blush, turning away to walk to the sink. Under cool water and the pink bubbly soap, the mark slowly fades as Hyunjin looks over at it, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder. You’re careful to not move too drastically to keep him there. 

“There,” you pat it with a smile, slinging his wet shirt over a clean easel. Hyunjin towers over you, his raven locks falling into his eyes as it takes everything in your will for your eyes to not travel down his neck to his elegant collarbones, lower to his lean abdomen and even lower to the regions you’re familiar with. The air is suddenly to hot, too stuffy and his hands burn as they trace up your face and into your hair. As he leans in, his eyes are dark and hooded, closing as you are pulled closer to his plush, glossy lips. The flavor rolling on your tongue is of something sweeter than coffee mixed with his usual taste. The movement of your lips against his is slow but his hands around your head are firm. Goosebumps raise on his tan skin as you trace your still wet hands across his bare expanse in front of you. Pressing you against the sink counter, his hardening member rubs you, causing you to let out a low, soft moan. His hands move down from your hair to the hem of your paint covered shirt, quickly twisting it off. Lips meeting yours again but you step aside, gently pulling him along to your abandoned canvas. 

His eye cracks open to see your hand fumbling for a paint brush. “No, no, no,” he mumbles against your lips, pulling back with a string of saliva between his swelling lips, “you are so not stopping to paint right now.” “It’s gonna dry,” you whine, turning away from him.

He groans, absentmindedly palming himself through his dark jeans, “You’re seriously just gonna leave me like this?”

Though he pleads to you with big, shining, puppy eyes, his neck is sweaty, his chest heaves, and his abdomen clenches when he moves his hand. There’s knowledge that his pouting holds tremendous power over you and he exploits it fully. 

In an instant, like most of your artistic inspirations usually occur, you make up your mind, returning to face him, brush still in hand. The bristles are rough against his soft skin, tracing a brassy red tone from the base of his neck, over his collarbone, to his shoulder. The sensation of cold, wet paint paired with the wiry bristles leave him gasping. 

“B-but aren’t these your special paints, Y/n?” 

“Aren’t you my special baby boy, Hyunjin?” 

This leaves him shivering and you trace the brush lower, flicking his sensitive nipple. The other side is captured in your teeth and he hisses. Kissing up his chest, you dip the brush back into the paint, this time choosing a light crystal blue that compliments his tan skin. It goes beside the red, mixing in the middle to a bright purple. You feel his eyes on you as you trail the brush lower to his stomach, tracing the lines of his muscles, but careful to avoid his clothes. You’d rather paint Hyunjin than wash his clothes again. 

When your eyes meet, the tender, innocent willingness filling him provokes you to grasp his face tightly. There’s a yellow splat on his cheek as you squish them between your hands, looking up at him, endeared. His lips are even more impossibly plump because you’re squeezing his cheeks and your tongues are hot and suffocating against each other. With one hand, you to unbutton his jeans, pulling down his clothes so swiftly that his hard dick slaps against his stomach. 

Smiling, you kneel, tracing the brush around his trembling, soft thighs. However, the glistening red of his tip, spouting precum distracts you and you grab a deeper blue, smearing it on his hip near his hard member. Above you, whines break out from Hyunjin’s swollen lips, begging you to do something. “Am I not making my baby boy feel pretty? Do you not like me painting you?” 

“No,” he moans, bucking his hips forward into air, “I-I just really want you right now.” 

Feigning ignorance, you cock your head to the side, standing up and placing the brush down on the table. “Hm? How do you want me, baby?” You fingers swirl around the colors, proud that you used these precious paints on someone even more precious. 

“Can you please ride me?” He’s whining, fingers grasping at you. You should resist, not give in so quickly to his pouting, but can you blame yourself? Pushing him down to the relatively clean canvas tarp on your studio floor, quickly strip before straddling his hips, the cool paint smearing against your legs. Firmly, you grasp the base of his dick and line it up with your entrance, making him let out a soft, strangled groan. The stretch is nothing you’re not used to but it makes you double over, your breasts squishing against his paint covered chest as you place a trail of wet kisses on his chest and neck. After giving time to adjust, you start moving, relishing the feeling of his member dragging against your walls. He grasps your hips harshly, paint morphing into bruises. Hyunjin’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth and his eyes are squeezed shut, refusing to feel anything but you on top of him and him inside you.

A high pitched, loud, pretty moan rips from Hyunjin’s throat when you quicken the pace, lifting up till he was barely inside you and ramming your hips back down. “You like that, baby boy? You like it when I’m riding you fast like this?” 

He nods, whining loudly and embarrassingly. 

You tsk, “If you keep being that loud, my studio neighbors will hear, kitten.” Deep inside you, he twitches and your eyebrows shoot up at the revelation. “Oh, does my baby boy like the idea of that? You want everyone to see how pretty you are under me and hear these noises you make? God, you’re beautiful.” 

His hands wander from your hips to your bouncing boobs and a spark burns through you at the contact. “I want everyone to hear that I’m just yours, Y/n. I’m your pretty baby boy,” he gasps, out of breath and chest heaving. Sweat causes his chest to glisten golden, just like your painting and you lean down to kiss up to his cheeks. 

“That’s right, baby. You let me paint you up because you’re mine.” 

“Y-you use your nice paints on me t-to make me,” he gasps softly, “to m-make me pretty.” 

You shake your head as your thighs burn and the sound of slapping skin intensifies, “You’re already pretty, baby. My pretty baby boy,” your hand goes from gripping his hips to caressing his sweaty face and his expression twists into pleasure as he cries out. “P-please! I’m g-gonna cum,” he continues to gasp, his eyes rolling back, “c-can I c—” 

“Cum for me, baby boy.” At your command, he shoots deep and hot into you and you continue to ride on him, chasing your own high as the wet, slopping sounds compound at the introduction of his cum. When you clench around him, electricity sparking through you, he cries out again, overwhelmed by the stimulation. Still riding out your high, he’s trembling under you, eyes glassy from pleasure. The paint on his chest is swirling, disrupted by his sweat and you carefully lift yourself off of him, juices dripping out of you.

“Can you please sit on my face?” Though his eyes are glassy and almost rolling back into his head, he firmly grabs your hand, tugging you down. Though the burning of your recent high overwhelms you, you lower your dripping core onto his eager, outstretched tongue, your thighs squishing his cute cheeks together. The stinging pleasure of overstimulization burns through you but you stay in place, gasping as his hot tongue makes short work of your used hole. His tongue rolls along the outside of your walls and clit, gathering the juices before plunging into you as you gasp. Thrusting and rolling his tongue inside and out of you, he pulls you closer to your second high, crashing over you from overstimulization.

The trembling of your legs barely allows you to get off of him but when you do, you collapse next to him, panting hard. The burning white pleasure of your second orgasm leaves you light headed as Hyunjin takes care of you, getting up to grab a paper towel because he doesn’t trust any of the paint stained towels you have in your studio. A wide, adorable smile spreads across his face as he watches you in post bliss. “It means a lot that you’d use your special paints on me, Y/n. I know you like, never bring those out.” 

Your lips fumble into a smile at him and you stroke his cheek, leaning to gently meet his lips with yours, the residue of both your highs on his tongue. Its soft and slow but not any less intimate as you caress his shoulders, tracing the paint down to intertwine your hands. “You’re beautiful, baby boy.”

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 1

chapter 2!!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word count: 7k (i am insane i know this!! you can also find this fic on ao3 !!)

Author’s note: hello! attempting to upload a fic on here for the first time ever! do i understand this website’s format. perhaps not. but am i going to try? perhaps yes! anyways hope you all like it :) likes and reblogs are very much appreciated!!! umm idk how this works if you wanna follow me you can?? do follows exist on tumblr dot com i think they do. hope they do. love you all. this is a long chapter buckle up (BUCKle up lmao i am not funny)!! enjoy ;o

“Hey, can you come look at this?”

You teach three classes a week- Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. The latter two are enjoyable in their own right, but Mondays are definitely your favorite. Instead of teaching kids, who are funny and creative but so messy, and so loud, you get to teach adults. People your own age or usually older, putting you in a position of authority, valuing your opinion, wanting you to come look at things.

It’s a delightful power trip.

You turn away from the window to see who’s speaking.

It’s Steve.

Of course it’s Steve, your star student, staring at you with a worn, weary intensity, wiping a paintbrush on a paper towel. He’s already pushed his sheet of paper across the table, bumpy with water and watercolor paint, cream-colored edges starting to curl. He leans away from it, reclining in a seat that’s adult-sized but dwarfed by his frame, looking so forlorn, like the paper just abandoned him, moved to the opposite side of the table by itself.

You stifle a laugh.

“Sure,” you say, and make your way over to his table.

Steve fidgets in his seat as you look at his painting. You try to keep your jaw in check.

It drops anyway.

As always, it’s beautiful. He’s painted a sky, swirling with purples and pinks, and careful clouds, flickering in and out between layers of paint, elegant and pale yellow-orange. And the sun- it’s off-center, and you’re sure it was unintentional, but that adds to the effect, because it’s hot red, and dazzling, and slowly seeping into the still-wet sky. Tendrils of red like real sunbeams, pushing through the clouds like a real sunset.

You don’t know why Steve even takes this class. Half the time, you feel like he should be the one teaching.

“It’s gorgeous,” you say eventually, once your words come back to you. “I love how you painted the sun- the red, oh my god. You’re seriously a natural.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, and you push the paper back towards him. He looks down at it, still tense, brow furrowed, and you almost laugh again, until he looks back up at you. “I wanted to know what you thought about it.”

Power trip.

“I love it,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile, which he hesitantly returns. You might be laying it on a little thick, but Steve still looks distressed, and you genuinely like the guy enough to try to help him.

When he walked in with his friend for the first class, you were floored. People like Steve don’t attend classes like this- classes like this are attended by regular people. Not people that walk like dancers, all grace and light steps, not people that are extraordinarily jacked, with jutting shoulders and rippling muscles, not people that have a weirdly authoritarian air around them, like a politician, but less shrewd.

Still, you welcomed them and made awkward small-talk and tried not to stare at their arms and hoped you came across as a somewhat decent person. It’s your first time teaching adults, you explained, and Steve gave you a smile so sincere and reassured you that you would do great, boosting your confidence to the point where you actually did.

Steve is lovely. He’s passionate about art and has a good eye, a better eye than you, really, and he always tries so hard with whatever he does, and he’s funny in a dorky way, and completely unaware of it. He always wears a baseball hat and tucks his shirts into his pants and called you ma’am once, and looked so surprised when you burst out laughing and told him to call you by your first name. With him, two classes have flown by, and now, during the third, he’s warmed up to you enough to talk to you like a friend.

The friend he brings with him, though?

A total douchebag.

The night to Steve’s day, the rain to his sunshine. It’s obvious that Steve brings him along as some sort of moral support, to make himself look less out of place, which is fine, except the guy always treats you like you’ve perpetually offended him.

And maybe you have, maybe one time you did something that’s worthy of his eternal dislike, but you wouldn’t know what it is, because he’s never brought it up, because he barely fucking talks.

You don’t think he’s a naturally quiet guy. He definitely looks like he has a lot to say, but no matter what, he only ever talks in single-syllable bursts, quiet enough that half the time you miss what he’s saying.

He doesn’t ignore you, either- he listens to everything you say and lets his judgement flicker over his face- which is way worse. A glare is a slight misstep, a shake of his head means that you’ve just said something that he finds stupid, a scowl is a catastrophe.

You don’t even know his name. He’s never introduced himself, and always writes his name in a shaky, illegible scrawl on the sign-in sheet, and by now you don’t care enough to look it up.

Still, you’re nice to him, polite. It’s okay if he doesn’t like you. You don’t need to be liked- being noticed is enough.

You shift away from Steve to his friend, sitting next to him at the table. He’s staring at you in a way that you can only describe as violent, and you flinch, and then plaster your smile back on.

“How’s it going?” You ask, expecting no response, stealing a glance at his paper. He’s painted the entire sheet a watered-down blue, and you want to congratulate him, for actually participating this time, but you don’t say anything. “The watercolors working out for you?”

Your heart goes out to the poor paintbrush in his hand. It’s barely been used, is steadily dripping water, and is being throttled in his gloved grip. He always wears one glove- it’s weird, but you’re not going to pry.

He catches you looking and a whole myriad of emotion plays over his face; irritation and shame, a creased brow and a scowl. You have the feeling that you’ve taken a massive overstep, even though you haven’t said anything else, even though you’re not looking at his hand anymore, just at him.

His hair hangs over his eyes, glossy and carelessly wavy, which you would find pretty, maybe, if he wasn’t looking at you the way he is. Like you’ve just done something terrible.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s it.

Even when you turn away, he’s glaring.

You hate it, so you pretend it’s not happening.

Steve gives you a sympathetic glance before you head back. You wave it off.

“Shonna,” you call, to the fiftysomething woman hunched over her painting a few tables down, “how’re the flowers looking?”

***

Thirty minutes before your fourth Monday class starts, you arrive at the studio to find Rina washing paintbrushes in the sink.

“Hey,” you call.

She turns to you and gives you a surprised grin. “Oh, hey! You’re here early- come help with these brushes.”

You set your bag on the counter by the wall and join her at the sink. You’ve known Rina for ages- ever since you were roommates in college. The class before yours is taught before, some advanced painting thing that she is extremely overqualified to teach.

She’s kind of famous. And kind of self-absorbed, and a little bit pretentious, but maybe that’s just what happens when you’re as successful in your field as she is. No matter what it is, you can’t complain- she’s the one that helped get you this job in the first place.

“A couple of people in my class like to get here early, so I just try to arrive before them,” you say. She passes you a clean paintbrush. You reach around her and tear off a paper towel from the dispenser. “Did you dye your hair? It looks so pretty.”

“Yes!” She shakes her head, letting her hair sway. Last time you met her, she had dyed it pink. Now it’s mahogany red, straight and sleek and falling just past her shoulders. She looks a little unreal. “How’s your class going? Are the people okay?”

“Yeah, most of them are pretty nice.”

She passes you another paintbrush to dry. You consider bringing up Steve’s friend, but decide against it.

“That’s good- and you’re welcome, by the way. But okay, listen. Do you remember that one guy I told you about a while back, Dustin? So yesterday I was just sitting at home, and then he texted me…”

With the formalities out of the way, she launches into a story about someone you definitely don’t remember. Still, you humor her, listen to what she has to say, chime in at the right parts and say “really?” and “no way!” too many times. The minutes tick by.

When all of the brushes are washed and dried, you take them, since you’re going to be the one using them next, and start setting up for the class. Rina walks away and grabs her stuff from the counter. She lingers by the doorway, door already propped open, aimlessly scrolling through something on her phone, hesitant to leave for a reason you don’t know. Maybe she has more to say- if that’s even, like, possible.

You set the brushes in a container at the center table, and head over to the shelves on the far wall to pull out more supplies. Unfortunately, today’s class is revolving around watercolor again. It’s drudgery, such a boring medium- dull, unsaturated, painstaking when it comes to detail. You bring out a stack of paper, the least-depressing palettes, and then mason jars for holding water.

You’re setting the last jar on the table when Rina shrieks.

It startles you, making your hand slip.

The jar wobbles over the edge of the table and then falls, shattering into cloudy glass pieces at your feet.

“Shit,” you curse, and look over at her. “Rina, what the hell?”

Standing across from her in the doorway, having arrived early for class as usual, are Steve and his friends, two shades more flustered than usual. Rina is gawking at them.

Okay, they’re attractive, but not that attractive.

Not shriek-worthy attractive.

You sigh loudly and carefully step over the glass, making your way over to them. “Hi, Steve,” you say, and he jolts, like a scared cat. He’s blushing, stepping back into the hallway, hands awkwardly dangling at his sides. His friend is staring at Rina like he’s about to murder her, and you’re staring at him like you’re about to ask him to pass you the broom behind the door.

Because you are.

“Sorry about… that. There’s a broom behind the door, could you pass it to me?”

He opens his mouth to say something, and you are desperate to hear him, even if he’s only going to utter a simple yes, but Rina buts in.

“You did not just ask the Winter Soldier to pass you a broom.”

Who?

“Girl, what?”

All three of you turn to her, cornering back into the wall. She looks even more unreal, eyes blown wide, red creeping up her neck, giving her hair a run for its money, still gawking. You resist the urge to reach out and pull her chin back up, to close her mouth.

She alternates between looking at Steve and at…  

“That’s the Winter Soldier,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to convince herself, or you, and then steps closer to Steve, who instinctively takes a step back. He’s fully in the hallway, now. “And you’re Captain America.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He stays silent, and you feel bad for him, that’s all you can feel, really- you are confused beyond reason, halfway convinced that Rina is losing her shit, still awaiting the broom, still awaiting Steve’s friend’s words, racking your brain for any image of Captain America or the Winter Soldier that you might have- and coming up completely empty.

You don’t watch the news, like, ever.

Little details float back to you. Steve’s dressing sense, his manners, his muscles…

The baseball caps that both of them are always wearing...

His friend’s glove…

Oh, fuck.

“Are you?” You ask dumbly. The question is meant for both of them, but you only look at one of them while speaking. A glare meets you back- a slight misstep.

You can’t even see your feet, in this situation. You’re walking blind.

Steve crosses his arms and looks at you sternly. He doesn’t look angry, but as close as he can get. “Yes,” he says, completely guarded and unfriendly and not lovely at all. “I thought you knew that.”

You are so stupid- how did you not know that?

“I didn’t,” you say, and you don’t sound convincing at all. Not much fazes you, but you are absolutely, positively fazed right now, and starting to spiral out. “I had no idea- I thought you guys could have been, like, bodyguards, or something, not actual Avengers, oh my god. I’m so sorry, shit, thank you for your service?”

You’re going to end it all- this is so embarrassing.

Steve’s mouth twitches. Rina is scarlet-faced. The Winter Soldier, god, looks so tense, like he might shatter, too, into silent, grumpy pieces all over the floor.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says, and marginally relaxes. He stays in the hallway, the Winter Soldier by the door- you should have paid more attention in your tenth grade history class, what is the guy’s name?

Rina peels herself off the wall, and you start to get nervous. There’s a painful silence, with lots of staring, where you’re still trying to coax a few rational thoughts out of your brain, and only coming up with one- Rina needs to leave.  

You try to tell her that with your eyes, with a pointed look, but you’re not great at this whole communication-through-expressions thing, so she doesn’t get the hint, or does and just ignores it.

“So, let me get this straight,” she says, tearing the silence like a plastic seal, voice starting to rise, from wonder to excitement, from painless curiosity to danger, “there’s two Avengers taking your class? And you didn’t even recognize them?”

“Nope,” you say, looking away, at a stain on the wall, at the distant glass shards still unswept away on the floor.

“That’s…”

She trails off before she has the chance to call you stupid, because the Winter Soldier gives her a pointed look of his own. Low brows and dark eyelashes, blazing blue eyes- she has no choice but to listen. Your staring was irritating, but his is intimidating.

She scampers away, mumbling something you can’t catch and brushing against Steve as she leaves.

This whole thing is so unprofessional, but at least you can breathe again-

“Here,” the Winter Soldier says, and a broom handle comes into your view.

Just one word, but you’ll take it with open arms. You take the broom from him, give an unreturned, unfamiliarly sheepish smile and head back to the broken glass on the floor.

The broken glass is swept up and tossed in the trash. You avoid looking at the doorway, focusing on other useless tasks instead. Rearranging the supplies on the table, fiddling with the window blinds, chatting with the rest of the class attendees as they start to file in.

Then the class starts and you’re swept back into your demonstration, talking and teaching and showing off different techniques that can be done with different types of brushes. You only look in their direction once, right after showing off some technique you barely remember from art school with a fan brush- they sit at their table near the back, Steve paying attention as usual, his friend silently reacting, as usual.

So they decided to stay- that’s good. Great, even.

Until the next part of the class starts, when everyone gets to work on their own paintings, when you have to stop talking.

You mill around the room, searching for a conversation to join in on or a comment to make, but find none. Then you take a sheet of paper and hopelessly try to draw- search for a distraction and a spark up of an idea, something, anything, and come up completely empty. It’s just...

How famous are they? Like, A-list celebrity famous? Are they offended that you didn’t recognize them- should you start treating them differently? You don’t keep up with this stuff. You have an impossibly long list of other things to worry about- you don’t have the time to worry about this stuff. The Avengers aren’t something you think about ever, because why should you?

If you opened any newspaper or magazine you would find something about them- a charity gala they attended, some recent threat they neutralized, the latest gossip surrounding their personal lives. But those lives are so far detached from your own that you’ve never bothered to look.

You simply don’t care. You’re not a native New Yorker- it’s not like these people are your hometown heroes, that you grew up idolizing them. They save the world time and time again and society is forever indebted to them and all of that, but what are you supposed to do about it?

And most importantly, what is the Winter Soldier’s fucking name?

Enough of this chaos goes on in your mind to make your head hurt. Fuck it, you decide- you’ll face it. You straighten your shoulders as you stand, trying your best to look purposeful as you walk to their table, like you have reason to go over there. Yeah, they’re strong. Genetically enhanced and all of that, and they’re important: they’re Avengers.

But they’re taking your class.

You slide into the chair across from the Soldier without taking the time to gauge their reactions.

“Do other people here know?” You ask.

Steve startles, eyes widening, and then considers the question while swirling his brush in green paint. He’s working on a landscape today, you think. “Shonna might,” he says, not rudely. “But nobody else.”

So maybe not that famous. Or maybe the people here are just like you and don’t care.

But it still doesn’t make sense. “Then why did you think that I knew?”

“Because you talk a lot,” Steve says, like it’s the most obvious thing ever.

“Well, yeah, that’s part of the job-”

Steve cuts you off, and fuck, you hate getting interrupted. But he’s smiling, and you can’t bring yourself to get upset over it. “You talk a lot to us.”

Us?  

More like to him.

You take it in stride, don’t let your confidence slip. You’ve purposely angled your head away, and you know the Winter Soldier is staring at you- you can feel it on your cheek, on your shoulder, on every nerve in your face. You don’t look back at him. This revelation hasn’t made him any less unpleasant.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s just as obvious, “because you’re a nice guy, Steve.”

Steve raises his eyebrows so high that they disappear under the brim of his hat. You smile at him as nicely as you can, sugar-sweet, until he can’t take anymore and drops his gaze back to his painting. You turn back to the nameless man across from you.

Winter Soldier.

“Hi,” you say, only to him, and prop your elbows up on the table, resting your face in your hands. “I love the little pattern you have going on with your painting.”

It’s random splotches of black paint- calling it a pattern is an exaggeration. But you carry on.

“This is probably a bad time to ask, and it’s kind of a dumb question, but, like, what’s your name?”

He just barely raises an eyebrow, allowing for a fraction of surprise, before schooling his expression back into his usual mix of anger and boredom, a casual glare and slight frown. For a moment, you wonder what he looks like when he’s happy.

“You don’t know his name?” Steve is in disbelief, and then he winces, and you think he’s been kicked under the table. Abruptly, you laugh.

It rings out. A few people turn and stare, but you brush it all off with another smile.

He’s still staring. You don’t mind it.

The paintbrush in his hand is suddenly unsteady.

“My name is Bucky,” he says, slowly and loudly enough for you to make out the sound of his voice, for the first time ever.

He is definitely bothered by you asking, his mouth drawn tight, and you can’t even take the time to appreciate how cutesy his name is compared to his demeanor, because oh hell. It’s going to be difficult to keep up this whole dislike thing, if his voice sounds like this, low and rough and gritty like sandpaper, pleasantly grating over you and your skin…

You have to consciously remind yourself to keep on smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

Things should feel different, but they don’t. Nobody really reacts- everything resumes as normal. Steve focuses on his panting, adding delicate brushstrokes to the branches of a tree. You linger for a moment, and then get up from the table and flutter off to someone else.

For every class, you wear this kitschy apron, paint-stained, with strings tied in a hasty bow against your back that Bucky always aches to even out. Someone tells you something, and you respond eagerly, fully phased out of the past incident.

He stares until he realizes he’s staring, and then drops his eyes back down to his paper.

Steve wanted to attend this class for a number of reasons- he was bored and wanted something to occupy his time, he wanted to revisit an old hobby, he wanted to learn from you- some hip, emerging artist he’s a fan of, whose work he’s been following for a while now, who is seriously talented, although you have yet to prove it. He wanted to go do something separated from the events of his regular life.

So much wanting. Bucky wants to know why you’re so indifferent.

He doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that you didn’t know his name, or that you didn’t flinch or gasp or accuse him of something, or pointedly look at his left arm. Should he be thankful? Steve is clearly thankful, already loosening up, freed of any lasting tension.

Bucky just feels wary. You’re unsettling.

You come back over to their table one more time. The sleeves of your shirt are pushed up, and there’s a smear of something dark on your forearm, ink or paint. On one wrist you’re wearing a  bracelet made of braided leather. On the other you wear a bulky digital watch.

Practical.

“Everything okay?” You ask, as if something not okay could potentially have happened, in your forty-five minute absence.

Steve fixes you with a friendly smile. Bucky can’t ever bring himself to do the same.

“Yep,” Steve says, and you nod your head, clearly relieved.

“Great!” You glance at him for a spare second, and turn away again.

Everyone he knows is so guarded, walls built high and doors barred shut. Except for you, if Bucky can say that he knows you, the perky art instructor, Steve’s favorite artist. You’re confident and flippant, and that should be a bad pairing, but somehow you can carry yourself within it just fine. Always purposeful in the space you occupy, not reacting to the knowledge of his and Steve’s major, momentous identities.

Bucky wonders, idly, as he blots water over what you so generously called a pattern, why you didn’t.

It’s not like he wants you to acknowledge it, wants you to call him a war criminal or a Rusisan spy. He just wants you to-

He doesn’t know.

The class goes on. An older couple sitting a few tables away have caught your attention, chattering on and on about their personal lives.They have a pet cat that their landlord doesn’t know about, and when they retire they want to move to the seaside in Italy, and in May their son is going to graduate high school.

“High school?” You gasp, loud for no reason. “I hated high school.”

Before the class ends, you take your position at the front of the studio, and talk some more. He knows it’s part of your job, but you are excessive.

There’s an art exhibition going on at some museum, and one of the featured artists is an acquaintance of yours, and on Saturday the admission fee is discounted, and if anybody is interested, you have a stack of flyers on the center table. And you hope that everyone has a good week.

You look at Bucky while finishing up your little monologue, giving a half-smile that’s for the whole class, but seemingly only directed at him. He blinks slowly, and when he opens his eyes again, you’re looking somewhere else.

***

“Morning, pal, you ready to go?”

Steve gives him a hopeful smile as he peels an orange.

Bucky’s hair is still wet from his shower, dripping water onto his shirt. It’s early, too early to go anywhere. He doesn’t even know why he’s awake- usually after his wake-of-dawn runs, he falls back asleep, or lies down and just stares at his ceiling, thinking, until he grows restless enough to get up and do something. But today, the restlessness came much sooner, so he got up much sooner, and it might already be a mistake.

He takes a seat at the kitchen island, next to Sam, trying to think of something that Steve might have had planned for today, and coming up completely empty. “Go where?”

Steve looks hurt, for a brief second. “The exhibition at the museum, remember?”

Oh.

That.

“I’m not going to that,” Bucky says, harshly enough for it to be dropped.

Steve does not drop it. “Hey, come on. Just look at it.”

From his back pocket, Steve pulls out a flyer, one of the flyers you had out on Monday, folded up in a neat square- when did Steve pick one of those up? He holds it out, and Bucky, wishing he was asleep again, takes it.

He unfolds it, and the words are written in tiny letters, and the few photos on the paper are in color but too grainy to make out, and it gives him a slight headache, but he pretends to look it over. Sam leans into him to see it, loudly crunching cereal in Bucky’s ear.

“Looks cool, Rogers,” Sam says, and Steve grins, and now Bucky is the bad guy in the situation, for not wanting to go, even though Sam isn’t going either.

Bucky passes the flyer back without reading a single word.

“I’m not going,” he says, again.

But Steve is relentless. He sets the orange peels aside and gives him a look, and Bucky can already feel his resolve starting to crumble, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. Does he not understand that Bucky is already doing as much as he can?

“Why not?”

He picks the easiest answer.

“I don’t want to.”

Steve’s brow furrows as he splits the orange into two, giving half to Bucky. Sam slurps the milk from his cereal bowl.

They’re all blissfully silent.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says suddenly, almost begging. “I really want to see it.”

“I don’t-” He falters, he’s losing the battle. “How many people are there gonna be?”

Steve lights up. Bucky tries to stay indignant, tries to keep his face twisted in dislike, but it’s difficult with Steve. He’s always so full of optimism, has so much of it that it spills out through the seams, rubs off onto whoever’s closest.

“Not that many,” Steve says, like a promise, shaking his head. “That’s why we should go now.”

“Will she be there?”

Sam perks up.

Steve frowns. “No? Or wait, maybe. It’s a public place- I don’t know. She could be.”

It’s miles off from the answer he wants, but again, for Steve, he’ll take it. Bucky ignores Sam leaning across the counter like an idiot and asking “who’s she?” and eats his orange slices in silence.

***

Huge, bulbous heads, and beady little eyes. The limbs are long and wavy and contorted in the weirdest positions, seas of arms and legs and joints, women twisted over each other in gnarled embraces, a man with his arms twirling over and over again around his own torso. And the colors- a complete eclectic mess of everything- blue, red, yellow, green, purple. Everything.

You walk through the museum floor one, two, three times. The paintings on display are unsettling and ugly, and you’re on the verge of tears.

They’re gorgeous. Pain thrown on a canvas, told through canvas. It’s overwhelming- you’re overwhelmed, and you can’t do anything else about it. The museum just opened and there’s barely any people around- you can wallow in your sadness as much as you want to, for now.

Or maybe you’ll wallow in your frustration, instead.

This… you want to create like this.  

But you don’t have it.  

It being an impossible, nearly unattainable type of pain, or misery or anger or any other emotion so strong and visceral that you could translate it into something like this, something that evokes something else from other people. From an audience.

You might have had something like that once, but that’s all too far behind you now. Forgettable. What you need right now is an idea, a spark of inspiration, a single coherent thought. A confirmation that you aren’t completely lost.

You wander back to a painting in a far corner, all alone in a small alcove. A red woman, with her head nestled in green grass and legs wrapping around the sun, quite literally head over heels for it. Her mouth is wide open, gaping, calling, wailing, maybe. She has a hooked nose and a mole on one of her arms, and her white dress has fallen down to pool on the grass, and her legs are lithe and unshaven, prickly like the grass, just like the yellow spikes of the sun, drawn almost comically.

How do you even- how do you even come up with things like this?

By living an interesting life, probably. Through not being boring.

You stay there for a while. Long enough that more people start to file in, pretentious art students wearing all black, eccentric people with awesome haircuts, tourists. They peer over your shoulders, awkwardly, waiting for you to move. When you don’t, they leave you to be, giving you a rude look or two that you pay no mind to. There’s space on either side of you, if they’re so desperate to see. Sidling up right against you is kind of weird, but you’ll excuse it, for this painting.

Eventually, you realize that you should probably get going.

You’ve been standing so long that your legs are starting to ache, and there’s countless other Saturday errands you have to run- doing your laundry, buying groceries, calling up your mom- boring Saturday things to do.

You leave the red woman, regrettably. The fabric of your sleeve comes back dry when you wipe your eyes, even though you feel fully washed away, feel like you’re floating as you drift over to the elevator.

The doors slide open and a few people file out, and then it’s empty, thankfully. You step inside, press the button for the ground floor, wait for the doors to fully close-

“Wait,” a voice calls.

You’re not rude- you press the button to hold open the door.

When it fully opens, Steve steps inside, followed by Bucky.

You’re still out of it. You don’t even realize who they are, not until the doors have slid shut and the floor jolts as the elevator starts its descent and they’ve been staring at you for a solid five seconds.

“Oh, hi,” you say, after too much silence. You need to get yourself together. “You guys came!”

Put a little pep in your step! And more joy in your voice- nobody wants to listen to someone so drained.

Steve shrugs. “I wanted to see it.”

Bucky just smolders, clearly saying with his silence, “I didn’t.”

“Did you like it?”

Steve considers your question. The elevator stops at another floor and the doors slide open, but there’s nobody waiting to step inside. You wait for Steve to gather his words together, sure that he’s trying to come up with a nice way to voice whatever he’s thinking, which is definitely not nice. There’s no way that he liked the art, not one chance.

“It was… intriguing,” he says, at last. Neither of them are wearing hats today, because the museum doesn’t allow it. Even in this artificial light, his hair shines, golden-blond. “Did you like it?”

“Yes,” you say, without wasting a second. “The one of the red woman- it’s probably the best thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s only January,” Bucky grumbles.

His voice shocks you, sends an ice-cold jolt up your spine that you definitely dislike.

Steve turns to him, peering over your shoulder, surprised and disappointed. The two of them have a silent conversation with their eyes and you stand in the midst of it, waiting for the goosebumps to settle back down, waiting for the chill to go away.

It’s difficult- he clearly doesn’t like you, either- and even if he has his own troubling little backstory, which you don’t care enough about to google, it’s not justified.

But…

It almost makes his aggression... amusing.

“It is January,” you say politely, dismissing him. “Great observation.”

The elevator reaches the ground floor and the doors side open. You exit in step with Steve, with Bucky right on your heels.

You all stand around in the museum lobby, a wide hallway down from the giftshop and a small cafe.

“Are you headed out?” Steve asks. He puts his hands in his pockets, feet planted wide.

Bucky crosses his arms. He’s wearing all black. If it were anyone else, you would make a joke- he could almost pass off as a pretentious art student, if the outlines of his body weren’t so visible through his clothes, all taut muscle and sharp angles. His hair curls over his shoulders, prettier than anything you’ve seen on any girl.

These guys are Avengers, you think, and proceed to push the thought away.

They look so… un-Avenger-y.

“Um.” You press a hand against your forehead, trying to formulate a response. Chores suddenly seem miles away, the last thing you should be doing. You have all of Sunday to complete them, anyway.

“I was going to get something to eat from the cafe first,” you say, nodding over in its direction. “You guys wanna join me?”

You don't know why you look at Bucky when you say it

“Sure!” Steve says, all cheery, still standing alongside you. He smiles and his teeth are pearly white.

Of course his teeth are pearly white. Dentists everywhere are probably cowering, clutching their little metal instruments for dear life.

Then he hesitates, and turns to Bucky. “If you have nothing else to do, I mean.”

Bucky pauses. You and Steve both stare him down.

“They have these raspberry-almond muffins that are to die for,” you say, like it’ll convince him.

He rolls his eyes. Bored and still gorgeous- if only.

“I’m free,” he says, and you don’t know why he looks at you when he says it.

You pay the bored teenager working the cash register with cash. He gives you your change, and when he turns away to prepare your order, you shove half of the bills and all of your coins into the tip jar.

Bucky sits at the farthest table with Steve. His knees can barely fit underneath it, and the tabletop is sticky, and he’s now willingly spending more time here, and with no disguise there is no way that he isn’t going to be recognized by someone, and he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fully booked it yet.

Because…

He doesn’t know.

Maybe because you’re not asking for anything from him, aren’t minding that he’s sullen or unapproachable or anything else- his presence seems to be enough for you, which is bothersome, and at the same time, mildly exciting.

“Are you having fun?” Steve asks, while you smile at the teenager handing you plates of muffins, little glasses of some milky-espresso-coffee drink.

“What do you think?” Bucky asks, while you start your journey back to the table, and Steve opens his mouth to respond, already bothered, and Bucky’s already guilty, but then Steve hops up to help you carry everything back.

You sit down laughing. Steve is laughing, too. The corners of your eyes crease and he can see all of your teeth, and you look at him for a split second, and then turn away before he can get a read on your expression.

He sits in silence, while you and Steve trade jokes and stories and easy banter, talking about art and local politics and all types of things he can’t bring himself to care about, things that Steve is relishing in. You’re witty, apparently, or at least quick enough to get a few quick laughs out of Steve, and Bucky would never say it, he’s barely thinking it, but he appreciates you for it.

And the muffin isn’t quite to die for, but it’s okay.

During a lull in the conversation, you break your attention away from Steve and turn back to Bucky. You look concerned, almost, still smiling but without showing all of your teeth, leaning towards him like you’re about to tell him a secret.

“I never apologized for before,” you say, and Bucky immediately sits up on edge.

Even Steve goes wary, eyes narrowing.

You suddenly give a long, weary sigh, and press a hand against the back of your neck, like whatever you’re about to say is going to be so tedious. “For my friend flipping out when she saw you guys- she’s literally crazy, she’s always doing too much- but on her behalf, I’m sorry.”

The silence following afterwards is deafening.

“It’s okay,” Steve says, after a long moment, while you’re still looking at Bucky- your eyes make his skin itch, and he doesn’t say anything else. “She’s not the worst that we’ve gotten.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, great,” you say, and you slump back in your seat, looking away, back to your half-eaten muffin. You pick off an almond from the top and eat it. “Glad we got that out of the way. I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t say anything.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, so polite, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve his thanks. “Have you known her for a long time?”

“Yes, oh my god,” you say, and readjust yourself in your chair again, accidentally bumping your knee against Bucky’s, but not apologizing for it. He glances underneath the table, at your entire bare knee, visible through a rip in your jeans. “Rina- her name is Rina- was my college roommate for a while.”

“You went to college?” Steve asks.

“I have an art degree,” you say dryly, “which was… an okay decision, I guess. Sometimes I think I should have just dropped out and done, like, stand-up or something.”

You clearly don’t want to discuss it, leaving the last part as some sort of rhetorical joke. Steve takes the hint and nods, already closing the chapter, and you take a sip from your little glass, finally silent. The foam on the top of the drink sticks to your mouth until you lick it off. Bucky replies to it anyway.

“Why stand-up?”

You turn to him so fast that he almost misses you faltering, and give him a dazzling smile. He thinks of your bare knee under the table, and tries not to sweat. “Because I’m funny, Bucky.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds when you say it. “Tell me a joke.”

“Oh, okay,” you say, and clasp your hands together. Steve is watching, rapt at attention. “Let me think real quick- oh, I have one. Which beverage has a black belt in karate?”

Bucky waits.

You wait, expecting something from him.

It’s Steve that has to say, “I don’t know, which beverage?”

“Fruit punch,” you say, exaggerating the last part, and Bucky just keeps on waiting.

Steve cracks a small smile.

“Let me tell you another,” you say. “What type of phone does a piece of fruit carry?”

Steve takes a few wild guesses. He’s enjoying this, and you are too, both of you feeding off of each other. “A phone-fruit. A fruit-phone. A frone?”

You shake your head. “A blackberry.”

Bucky doesn’t tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about.

“Tough crowd,” you say, when he doesn’t react. “Don’t worry, I have more. Where do you go on red and stop on green?”

“Where?’ Steve asks, waiting, leaning forward in anticipation.

“When you’re eating a watermelon!”

It is not funny, it’s painfully unfunny, and maybe that’s why you and Steve burst out laughing. Bucky steals a glance at your watch, since he doesn’t wear one of his own. It’s nearing noon- how has so much time passed? Why is he still even here when he doesn’t even like you?

“Why are all of them about fruit?”

You look at him like his question is the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard. “What food is the best listener?”

Bucky just sits. All the foam in his little espresso thing has dissolved, having been left untouched. He doesn’t like the taste of coffee- too bitter, and caffeine doesn’t work on him, anyway. Maybe he should drink it, because you paid for it, and because you didn’t make a comment about old-fashioned manners or chivalry when Steve offered to at first, just shrugged and got in line.

He knows that you won’t care.

The drink sits on its own, glass beading with condensation.

“Corn is the best listener,” you say, without waiting for Steve to throw his questions or guesses at you, without waiting for Bucky to spit out another sentence. “Because it’s all ears.”

“That wasn’t funny,” he says, and glares at the spot beside your head.

You nod sympathetically, and he thinks again of the rips in your jeans. “I know. But it was about a vegetable.”

Oh.

You stare at him straight-faced, crossing your arms over your chest. Steve does the same, and then he realizes- the two of you are a bunch of kids, punks, juveniles- mocking his stature, pretending to be serious, somehow not offending him.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says. “You’re…”

He can’t even help it. He looks back at you  and his face works on its own. He gives a single, dry chuckle, but he’s smiling, and dragging his hand over his face, scrubbing it off just as fast, but you still see it, and smile back and gently nudge his knee again underneath the table, and then turn back away again, and he’s still staring at your hair while you take big bite out of your to-die-for raspberry-almond muffin, already back in conversation with Steve.

[mull3ts]

aesthetic tag

Thank you @ncitythoughts i wuv ya bby <3

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add 20 of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold

[soft] baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

[dark academia] neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon (bro that happens all the time coz i steal cookie jar ribbons-) | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

[edgy] closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

[seventies] colourful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts (sometimes) | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

[preppy casual] collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

[parfaitjoon] old book smell | doodles of eyes | stained paint palettes | jewel tones | sleepy eyes and red noses | always blushed cheeks | plushies with sentimental value | keroppi | ever-switching aesthetics | chunky trainers | curvy bodies | blurry vision | analysing movies | shouting when excited | green eye shadow | cool fresh water | tiny frogs | thirst for knowledge | random facts

[dreamiehrs] playing Roblox for 3 hours straight | loud laugh that could probably make someone deaf | listening to music 24/7 | hot chocolate on a chilly day | skirts galore | cat lady | has 2 fans on at all times | hibernates during the summer (not literally) | binge watching tons of anime episodes in one day | dark circles underneath their eyes | is on Tumblr 24/7 | loves buying merch | does online shopping in the middle of class | cannot go 1 day without screaming about their faves | having a dance party in their bathroom while getting ready for the day | has an obsession with buying tiny plants | lowkey never goes outside | wanting to write the day away | has millions of lists for every little thing | cannot stop doing the Chika dance

[ncityhours] sweater paws | sweet soft kisses | linking pinkies | old bops playlists | bubble tea with friends | dimple on one side of smile | sunflowers | oversized t-shirts and hoodies with cute underwear | thick fluffy socks | messy buns | doodling calligraphy | picnics in fields with wildflowers | cute summer dresses | beach days with friends | spontaneous 2am kitchen dance parties | old dance shoes | puppies and other cute baby animals | aesthetic travel vlogs | recording vocals on voice notes with old headphones | cuddles under the stars

[earth-to-that-asian-shit :)] won’t shut up about jung jaehyun | tends to loose rings easily | muted colors | has the word “simp” everywhere | illegal meme dealer | is always writing some smutty mess | highly dislikes nature | always gets mosquito bites | sudden outbursts of song | jeans and sweatpants | doesn’t know what’s happening 77% of the time | sleeps with no pants | sits on the floor | curvez :) | doodling memes on important papers | jumps on big rocks | needs to smell nice 24/7 | button ups | knows big ass words but not the small ones

I’ll taGggGgGgGg: @sunflowerhae @bbyyangiex2 @nct127grass @nanajaems0308 @kunswifegwen @huangvibez @bbjisungg and idc who else~

[hiddenclawsof]

aesthetic tag game

tagged by @yutopiada (one of my fav ptg writers out there still notices me to this day im emo--)

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add twenty of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold.

(soft!) baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night |

(dark academia!) neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story |

(edgy!) closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humour | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks |

(seventies!) colourful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding |

(preppy casual!) collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

(by @masterninjacow!) rainy mornings | sweet steaming tea | cats’ purrs | daydreaming about fantasies | back hugs | glinting necklaces | loud video games | grumbling thunder | constantly chewing gum | wearing nothing but a t-shirt and underwear to bed | watching horror movies at night | nibbling on chocolates | talking to yourself | short hair | sad lofi music | messy sketches | sweet-scented body wash | spicy noodles at midnight | hating physical affection but craving it at the same time | ending all texts with lmao or rip

(by @cherriigguk!) dried flowers | painting at 2 am in oversized sweater | up until sunrise | abundance of blankets and plushies | minimalistic colours | writing when you can’t sleep | warm banana bread on a winters day | stroking a sleepy dog | big eyeliner | butterfly clips | lo-fi hip hop | glossy lips and rose tinted cheeks | afternoon tea with old friends | oversized cardigans | herbal tea | dainty jewellery | self-care evenings | messy low bun or ponytails | dark hair | too many sketchbooks |

(by @iniquitouspoppy!) cuddling with pets | collecting art | journaling at night | flower dresses | raccoon eyes | thunderstorms | listening to music in bed | gaming | anything (pastel) rainbow | jumpsuits | taking pictures with an old camera | pictures everywhere | spending time with friends until the sun goes down | being alone and loving it | being alone and hating it | reading in the train or bus | just reading all the time | biking everywhere | buying flowers | biting your lip | blue skies, white clouds | big tattoos | piercings | stargazing |

(by @sweetae-tae) zoning out when talking to someone | travelling with friends | concerts and music festivals | doing something just because it makes others happy | being happy when loved ones are happy | mom-friending everyone | buying new flowers you know nothing about | baking for others | trying out new things | listening to one song on repeat for hours | not being able to find one specific song to listen to | doing things to keep your mind busy | a cool breeze during warm days | staying up for “just one more episode” | wishing on dandelions | collecting four-leaf-clovers | dimples | contagious laughter | decorating your room with photos and postcards and posters | winter nights when it snows heavily

(by @actuallythatwaspromise) bookstores | pearl necklaces | wishing on the first star at night | messy room | tall lace up leather boots | never breaking the rules | thigh high socks | peppermint-mocha frappes year round | no jackets in winter | standing outside in the rain | the scent of pine | watch documentaries for fun | navy blue room | knitted Blankets | eyes that are multi-colored | cool morning mist | perfectly formed sentences | reading poetry to learn new words | swords with golden hilts | wish anklets on so long that you forgot what you wished for

(by @kodabodaa) all black everything | vampire-esque | sitting outside on quiet nights | winged eyeliner | fucked up sleep schedule | standing outside during a downpour | meme photo folder | tattoos | piercings | loves to make people flustered through flirting | first meal not till after midnight | looks like could kill | laying in bed all day | majorly independent | playlists for everything | prince zuko trash | could read you to filth | lack of emotions | once i love, i love hard | not afraid of really anything |

(by @seoultraveller) intense eye contact | deep discussion about passions | naked dance sessions alone in the bedroom | learning foreign language through poetry, song, and history | studying historical dynasties | not studying out of pure disinterest | nervous lip biting | patience | having one drink alone at a hotel bar | pancakes or waffles on a weekend morning | driving down an empty road towards a roadtrip destination | a tryst over the summer that turns into a romantic storytime | traveling to put your school knowledge to use | mellifluous speech | does not speak unless spoken to first | peppermint hot chocolate by the fireplace | wine on the balcony | unknown intensity | crying in bed at night |

(by @daybreakx) hot drinks in tall mugs | glitter eyeshadow | the sensation in your mouth from peppermint + cold | the scent of roses | red lips | talking to yourself in another language | old disney movies | unsolicited information dumps | messy handwriting | cold days with lots of wind | listening to a song you love in public | a playlist for driving even if the drive is 10 min long | heart skipping a beat from happiness | the feeling when a concert is about to start | crime shows | sarcasm | drinking coffee while waiting for your flight | horror stories | scented candles all over the place | daydreaming as an escape |

(by @thelilyshope) sliding on floors wearing fuzzy socks | tennis shoes with dresses | loves horror | making your own coffee | lost in thought while in nature | staring at the night sky | loves the sunrise but doesn’t like feeling tired | falling asleep while bear hugging a plush | the feeling of excitement when discovering a new place | mysteries in old places | learning through travels | slowly reading books | longing for the future | fashion you love but could never try | interested in many but passionate only for a few | warming up under blankets after playing in snow | turning fear into excitement | embarrassing others in public | trying on weird things at the mall for fun | the go-to comfort friend

(by @yutopiada) morning runs through the sleepy neighbourhood | cutting your hair on a whim | clothes that are too big | podcasts and breakfast | writing letters to yourself | the sound and feeling of pressing the keys of a keyboard | songs that remind you of a precise memory | wanting to be different | scared of being forgotten | procrastination | body hair positivity | having a collection of wired earbuds in case one of them breaks | saving empty notebooks because they’re too precious to write in | claiming things as yours by putting a sticker(s) on it | that artificial strawberries and cream flavour | it’s not dessert unless it’s chocolate | white trainers | big, chunky shoes | staring at paintings/artifacts in museums for too long | enjoying old architecture

(by @hiddenclawsof) walking at night to look for something interesting | collection of mystery/murder books | eyeshadow palettes that will not be used | highlighters | converse | not good at giving advises | vintage bracelets | old philosophical movies | peppermint | cries watching animals are being rescued | fidgets when thinking | instruments | typos | kaomoji | observes thoroughly | googles simple words just because | eyeglasses | black earrings | rain | strolling around the bookstore

@yunwoo, @wookikun , @hojinhoe (hi no pressure in doing this but if you want to do this you are welcome to do so ((: )

[dreamiehrs]

aesthetic tag

tagged by: @parfaiitjoon ♡♡ ty for tagging me, love!

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add 20 of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold :)

[soft] baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night 

[dark academia] neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story 

[edgy] closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks 

[seventies] colourful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding 

[preppy casual] collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

[parfaitjoon] old book smell | doodles of eyes | stained paint palettes | jewel tones | sleepy eyes and red noses | always blushed cheeks | plushies with sentimental value | keroppi | ever-switching aesthetics | chunky trainers | curvy bodies | blurry vision | analysing movies | shouting when excited | green eye shadow | cool fresh water | tiny frogs | thirst for knowledge | random facts

[dreamiehrs] playing Roblox for 3 hours straight | loud laugh that could probably make someone deaf | listening to music 24/7 | hot chocolate on a chilly day | skirts galore | cat lady | has 2 fans on at all times | hibernates during the summer (not literally) | binge watching tons of anime episodes in one day | dark circles underneath their eyes | is on Tumblr 24/7 | loves buying merch | does online shopping in the middle of class | cannot go 1 day without screaming about their faves | having a dance party in their bathroom while getting ready for the day | has an obsession with buying tiny plants | lowkey never goes outside | wanting to write the day away | has millions of lists for every little thing | cannot stop doing the Chika dance

tagging: @meraki-mark @theleemark @regularhuhhh @ncitythoughts @dvrlingrenjun @jisvnq @in-my-neofeelings @dreamzenct @florence-cvrt @yayhei @neolights (if u want to, ofc! also if you’ve done this PLS just ignore this sahjdasdj)

[lunatens]

aesthetic tag

tagged by @ggulovebot thaNK U MIMU ILYYYYY <33333

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add 20 of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold :)

[soft] baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

[dark academia] neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

[edgy] closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

[seventies] colourful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

[preppy casual] collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

[parfaitjoon] old book smell | doodles of eyes | stained paint palettes | jewel tones | sleepy eyes and red noses | always blushed cheeks | plushies with sentimental value | keroppi | ever-switching aesthetics | chunky trainers | curvy bodies | blurry vision | analysing movies | shouting when excited | green eye shadow | cool fresh water | tiny frogs | thirst for knowledge | random facts

[dreamiehrs] playing Roblox for 3 hours straight | loud laugh that could probably make someone deaf | listening to music 24/7 | hot chocolate on a chilly day | skirts galore | cat lady | has 2 fans on at all times | hibernates during the summer (not literally) | binge watching tons of anime episodes in one day | dark circles underneath their eyes | is on Tumblr 24/7 | loves buying merch | does online shopping in the middle of class | cannot go 1 day without screaming about their faves | having a dance party in their bathroom while getting ready for the day | has an obsession with buying tiny plants | lowkey never goes outside | wanting to write the day away | has millions of lists for every little thing | cannot stop doing the Chika dance

[yayhei] tarot cards | dark makeup done in the soft styles | eyeliner smears | wearing hoodies unzipped with just a bra | vans | always having bruises | never leaves the house | herbs | staying up staring at the ceiling just because you cant sleep and not doing anything | tons of posters that you have up more for the aesthetic than for the band | shit ton of candles | products that you never use | sleeping during classes | getting detention for tapping on your desk after being asked to stop multiple times

[pastelsicheng] watching sunsets on the roof | rainy days inside | overachieving student though they say they aren’t a try hard | oversized and loose clothes | not knowing your shoe size | cold feet | scrolling through pretty/aesthetic pictures for hours trying to get some serotonin | having several dream jobs | making dumb jokes when youre delirious and tired | worn out clothes | baking on cool/rainy days | sleepless nights | thoughtless showers | short attention spans | shaky legs and fidgeting hands | messy handwriting | scribbled notes | listening to music with earbuds in the dead of night while everyone is sleeping and you can’t | the sound of wind rustling through grass and flowers | drives through the countryside with only trees, cows, horses, and farm houses in sight

[ggulovebot] fruit flavoured alcohol | black glittery eyeshadow | everchanging coloured hair | opening a window when it rains | crisp cold mornings | daydreaming on train rides | longing for a new life in a different country | cups and cups of coffee | chunky black boots with thick heels | sweet essential oils | cringey motivational quotes | a bigass bowl of pasta on a cold day | crying out of nowhere | sweet and tangy candy | trips to disneyworld | old faded polaroid pictures | little black dresses | big gym shorts | staying focused on one task for hours nonstop | doodling interesting words and song lyrics | keeping everything that sparks a memory | gummy bears | laughing at everything when you're tired | caring too much | feeling the wind go through you | talking to plants | tabasco

[lunatens] orange juice 24/7 | swimming until you’re all wrinkly | lavender essential oil | procrastinating even for things you enjoy doing | late night drives | talking for hours under a cloudless night sky | reaching things on high shelves | sleeping in til the last possible minute | buying plants but never being able to keep them alive | ice cream and a walk by the river | pretty dungeons and dragons dice sets | listening to the waves and crickets on hot summer nights | mismatched socks and sandals | ancient latin | pointing out constellations and celestial objects | cherry chapstick | diy haircuts and colours | constantly lost in daydreams | smiling at strangers | brown sugar roasted milk tea with pearls

high key this was really fun and really cute uwu im gonna tag @cutiejoshi @citruscious @woozisnoots @hannie-dul-set @kwanisms @bruh-changbin only if u guys wanna!! pls lemme know if u don’t want me to tag u in stuff <3

[moon-yuta]

aesthetic tag

tagged by: @sly-merlin thanks love! Sorry it has taken so long!!

rules: bold the aesthetics you relate to and add 20 of your own aesthetic qualities for others to bold :)

[soft] baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

[dark academia] neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

[edgy] closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

[seventies] colourful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

[preppy casual] collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colorful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairy-lights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

[parfaitjoon] old book smell | doodles of eyes | stained paint palettes | jewel tones | sleepy eyes and red noses | always blushed cheeks | plushies with sentimental value | keroppi | ever-switching aesthetics | chunky trainers | curvy bodies | blurry vision | analysing movies | shouting when excited | green eye shadow | cool fresh water | tiny frogs | thirst for knowledge | random facts

[dreamiehrs] playing Roblox for 3 hours straight | loud laugh that could probably make someone deaf | listening to music 24/7 | hot chocolate on a chilly day | skirts galore | cat lady | has 2 fans on at all times | hibernates during the summer (not literally) | binge watching tons of anime episodes in one day | dark circles underneath their eyes | is on Tumblr 24/7 | loves buying merch | does online shopping in the middle of class | cannot go 1 day without screaming about their faves | having a dance party in their bathroom while getting ready for the day | has an obsession with buying tiny plants | lowkey never goes outside | wanting to write the day away | has millions of lists for every little thing | cannot stop doing the Chika dance

[bumblebeenct] midnight milkshake runs | listening to 80s music in the car with friends | bees moving flower to flower | study posters | too much stationary | drinking games | sunsets on the beach | studio ghibli piano playlists | starting a tv show and forgetting to finish | long-distance skype calls | having a song for every occasion | flared jeans | vintage 50′s dresses | jumping to a rock song at a party | bathroom mirror selfies | doctor martens | lanyard with keychains | movie days with friends | late night horror movies | too many blankets

[theleemark] memorizing flowers & their meanings | falling in love with fictional characters | late night car rides | mom jeans | sunflowers & sunshine | poetry | drinking tea | purple photoshoot aesthetic | falling asleep with a stuffed animal | stress baking | being the mom friend | random pick up lines | crime podcasts | stargazing | always sending love (sometimes through wholesome memes) | ice cream dates | spontaneous adventures | falling in love with cities | loving chocolate | 2 am guitar jams | soft rain with lofi music

[sly-merlin]

black journals | taste of chocolate in your mouth even after hours of eating | hardbound and classic book covers| late night writing ideas | agatha christie | expensive fountain pens | antique items | middle part hair down | smell of mud after rain | attitude of superiority | how could you not know that? | disney sing-alongs | same playlist daily | pastel highlighters | black and green | whole white outfit | no makeup | be the one that rescues you | formal suits | kindness all the way

[moon-yuta] | notes from friends kept in a box | numerous notebooks with no defined purpose | impulse buying | handmade bracelets | wall decor full of memories | sharpie markers | watching thunderstorms from a window | multiple tubes of chapstick | fits of laughter | water bottle nearby | bed full of pillows | contacts out, glasses on | using pet names with friends | awkward first hellos | comfy pants | hesitating when replying to messages | calling friends while doing boring tasks so it’s more fun | using google as spellcheck | blackout curtains | falling asleep to slow songs

tagging: anyone who wants to do this too