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halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

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How To Adapt To Fire (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Fireman!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Journalist!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.4k

WARNINGS: Fire(s), intended harm, mentions of death, murder, crime, corruption, arsonist mystery plot, pining, protective!Johnny, flirting, intense banter, etc.

A/N: This is based off of US Firemen just because that's what I'm most familiar with!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

There was an arsonist in the city, and you were going to catch them.

Getting out of your car, you slap the door closed behind you and rush out, heels clicking over the concrete as the roaring flames continue violently—orange and red going high into the air, all centered around an abandoned warehouse building. Through the darkness of night, everything was lit up like hell.

Your satchel hits against your thigh one fast step at a time, arms pumping as your eyes find the flashing lights beyond the glare, squinting.

“MacTavish!” You shout, jogging to the line of yellow tape and slipping under it through a small crowd of locals who call to you sharply. Voices going in one ear and out the other, you only search for that familiar helmeted head and the Scottish accent that accompanies it.

“What is she doing?”

“How come she gets to go closer!?”

“Stop that woman!”

Your white blouse does little to push back the gusts of molten heat on the roaring airwaves, and neither do your dress pants. You push on with stubborn righteousness, even as the mulling firefighters groan under their breaths when they catch sight of you, all pausing in their various duties and panic of grabbing the hoses and getting the water going.

The iconic red trucks sit stationary, but the man beside one of the three vehicles has his head nearly snapped off when he darts it over to you in a fast instant.

“MacTavish!” You call out again, locking onto wide blue eyes that blink rapidly at your appearance.

An under-the-breath curse is leveled out, heard in between shouts and the spray of water, droplets hitting your hard face.

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus. Not again.” Heavy boots jog over, tan and yellow uniform loose beside the places where the straps of his gear attach various items and tools to his body. “What in the hell are you doin’ here, Pencils?”

“My job,” you call stiffly, your finger going out to tap at the small plastic card attached to your blouse.

‘PRESS PASS’

“So be a good informant and tell me how much damage this is going to cause,” your hand is already inside of your satchel, flicking on a hand-held recorder, as your eyes scan about. “The fire was bigger here,” you begin without wasting any time, and the firefighter in front of you sighs in exasperation, clenching his jaw. “Was it because this place was abandoned unlike the last four scenes, or because there was a different accelerant used.”

“I’ve told you, Hen,” MacTavish’s hand moves out in appeasement gestures, glancing at the fire and the rest of the teams that rush to get the rest of the hoses going. “Ya can’t be here when the fucking fire is still ongoing. Do you want to get burnt to a damn crisp?”

“I need answers,” you level, gaze darting back to stare into cerulean blues.

John MacTavish, who everyone just calls Johnny or Soap, for some reason, had been a familiar face to you for upwards of two months. In that time, there had been an alarming amount of suspected arson cases—twelve, counting this one. There was an unprecedented spark-up, most taking place in older neighborhoods and abandoned buildings barring the previous four, of which two people had been seriously injured, and three had died.

But now, it was back to out-of-the-way properties, and you wanted to know why. You needed to.

Such an escalation just to suddenly drop back down to no casualties? It didn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for your career as a journalist, then it was for your morbid curiosity of which Johnny was intently familiar with.

The Scot clenches his jaw, dark eyebrows under his helmet stuck into a line. Around him, the others were getting the blaze under control the best they could—there was no need to go inside to search for anyone and all that had to be done was keep the fire from spreading. So, he had no trouble trying to get you to see sense yet again.

“Do you ever give it a rest,” he asks gruffly, accent thick. “Christ, I’ll be gray before you learn to stop sticking your hands where they don’t belong.”

“You’re not my mother, MacTavish,” you speak, lowering the recorder. “Do you have anything for me?”

Johnny moves up a hand and runs it over his face, groaning. A smirk flickers to your lips.

“You’re worse than a fly,” he breathes, unimpressed eyes opening to stick to you. “I can’t say much right now, most of it is left for forensics. Just from the blaze alone,” he glances over, taking it in. “I’d make a guess that an accelerant was used. Especially with how fast it popped up and the intensity of it. I’d have to get the dogs down here for a sniff, but it’s likely.”

“Do you think it’s—”

“Connected?” Johnny interrupts, lips twitching at the annotated gimmer in your eye. “Aye. This was man-made. There was nothing here that could start a blaze like this.”

You click the recorder’s button and move back with a sigh.

“Lovely.”

The Scot raises a slow brow, looking you up and down, confused. “That’s it?”

“It’s all you can give me right now,” you mutter, sliding a look at him as your eyes squint at the rabid flames. Pieces of screeching metal fall into a heap, a loud boom of spreading smoke and lifeless coughing of material in the air.

“Fucking hell,” you murmur to yourself. “This had to be one of the biggest ones so far.”

It was getting held back from the surrounding buildings—slowly but surely in the morning, the entire place would be a smoldering pile of ash and metal, only more questions left behind.

Johnny sets his hands on the collar of his gear, sighing. “Won’t be the deadliest, though, will it? I’m just glad there won’t be bodies to drag out.”

You send a side-eye his way, feet shuffling. “That, I can agree with. But the pattern doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Well, sorry, Hen, but you’ll catch me a bit more concerned about the potential next targets than the pattern.” He grunts, rolling his shoulders. “We need to catch this prick. Soon. Resources are stretched thin.”

“It’s like the guy completely switched his M.O.,” you ignore him, eyes narrowing. “Abandoned buildings, then to taking people's lives, then right back to where he started? That doesn’t happen overnight.”

Johnny grunts. “‘Cept here.”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against your bag. The man at your side looks over, shrugging as he takes in the firmness of your expression—the same that he usually wears to any scene he gets called to. Determination.

“I’ll get the report to you soon as I get it,” Johnny breathes, tilting his head. “Figured with all of your connections, you’ll have a better chance at piecing it all together.”

“Thank you,” you nod. The man hums.

“Now, get the hell out of here, yeah? Makin’ me nervous. Tape’s there for a reason Dearie.”

Scoffing, you toss up a hand and shake your head. “I live to make people nervous, MacTavish. You don’t help bust criminals and not make people nervous.”

You begin backing back up, studying the land one more time. Johnny’s lips are thin, and he shifts his legs to stare after you.

“Just be careful,” he calls, fingers tightening at his collar, strong jaw moving as he fixes it. His heart stutters in its course. “Don’t stick your neck where it doesn’t belong, Hen.”

You wave a hand, and then you’re off again, disappearing into the crowd with flames rising high behind you.

The fireman watches tightly, licking his lips before shouting, “I’m serious!”

—

Your list of enemies was seemingly endless.

Drug busts, criminal enterprises, hitmen—there was no shortage of stories you’d broken and your name being printed into the papers; you weren’t at all unknown to the city or the various police or fire stations. Many described you as a public nuisance, but…you were viewed with a modicum of respect as well—even if it was kept under breath.

Yet, where there was respect, there was also the less savory emotion of contempt from the related individuals of those whom you’d landed into the eyes of the law and behind bars.

Perhaps you’d taken this arsonist for a disorganized fool…but you were about to get a very violent reality shift.

“This is the report?” You ask, Johnny sipping from his coffee cup as you both sit in the park three days later, the bench stiff as your fingers play over the manila folder you’d been passed.

“The public one.” Soap huffs when you slide him a look, his finger pointing at you as he holds his drink. “What? Pencils, I don’t care who you think you are, I’m not about to risk my career for something I can just tell you first-hand.”

You sigh, muttering before your hand pushes open the papers. “Go on, then.”

Johnny smugly smirks, chuckling as his free hand goes up to fix the backward ballcap on his head. Under the tight hold of his athletic shirt, gray sweatpants sharply contract your put-together and professional appearance—like night and day. He still smells of smoke and metal.

“You’re bein’ more snappy than usual. Publisher still on your arse, Bonnie?”

“Telling me I need to drop this goose chase,” you grumble, scoffing, eyes skimming down the printed words ahead of you. “As if.”

“Ah, he’ll come round,” Johnny’s lips flicker, flesh crinkling under that stubble of his. An overgrown mohawk leaks from the sides of his hat. “C’mon, tell me what ya need. I’ve got it all up here,” he goes to tap his head, taking another gulp of his coffee.

The morning air is cold all around you, and people pass pushing strollers or jogging—Saturday just beginning to spread over minds and wake those who’ve slept in. Johnny and you weren’t quite like that.

“Our theory about the accelerant?”

“My theory,” Soap grumbles but nods. “Gasoline. Dogs found traces all over—there was a damn lot.”

You tilt your head, glancing at him. “Fits the profile from the other cases except the ones involving casualties.” Your lips pull into a frown, Johnny’s face going more serious. “Weren’t those all started with matches to the curtains in the living rooms?”

“Aye,” Johnny tips his chin to you. “Couldn’t figure that out until—”

“Until you found the matchbox out in the lawn at one of the crime scenes, plus the busted locks on the front doors. All exactly the same.”

The fireman grunts, lips flickering as his face goes a bit red. “Know my job better than I do.”

You pause, a small heat coming to your cheeks, eyes pausing in their search for new information. “I’m not the one who willingly goes into burning buildings, give yourself more credit.”

Johnny leans closer, chuckling. “Was that a compliment, Pencils?”

“No,” you slide out.

He hums a sound of amusement, moving back as his form slouches into the bench. A bird darts past overhead, chirping. “Goin’ soft on me. ‘Bout time—I've been waiting.”

You roll your eyes heavily, closing the manila folder and shifting it into your satchel.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” You face Soap head-on, taking in the deep blue of his eyes and the tease hidden in them. “The station? Home?” Your brow raises. “Animal shelter—I heard they take in strays.”

“Ah,” Johnny flinches, hand raising to his chest as he feigns hurt. “This how you thank your favorite public servant?”

“You’ll live,” you grumble, standing and flattening out your long black coat. “Come on. Seeing as you’re not entirely lost to me, I’m getting breakfast today.”

Johnny’s beaming grin makes your lips pull in a low smile.

“And just like that,” he chuckles, standing up so that his boots hit the ground and his hand falls into his pocket. The empty cup in his hand is tossed into the trash. “I’m a picture-perfect specimen. Not that I wasn’t already, eh?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you breathe, voice exasperated even as your smile breeds along the lines of your face.

The both of you take off side by side, legs mirroring the others’ pace one slow movement at a time. Throughout your meetings for information, Johnny and yourself have grown close to one another—Violet’s Dinner one of the many places that was the unfortunate hub for your intel swapping. However, it was only unfortunate for the patrons, not you.

Soap gave what he knows about the fires and the ways they were started, and you gave over potential next targets based on whatever you can piece together from your police informants as well as others.

You hum as you both walk the trail, slowly weaving away from the bench and down to the gated entrance of the park, slipping past the black iron as John holds it open for you.

“Besides the ol’ fire-freak, then,” Johnny begins, smiling over at you as he itches at his neck, large arm reaching up and flexing. “Any other big breaks?”

Head turning his way, you speak easily. “In which article—the multi-generational money laundering bust at Warren’s Electrical or the murders near Fifth Ave? Or even the drug smuggling near the docks?”

Blue eyes blink. “...Eh…any of ‘em?”

You snort, turning back to the sidewalk and shrugging.

“You asked.” You slyly begin, before getting into the mental paper that you still had to type and send into editing. “Roy Laurence committed the murders near Fifth Avenue—my informant with the SWAT team says he was arrested and booked within an hour of the green light. DNA and fingerprints found at the scene of the last victim.” You raise a hand. “Now, I just have to try and get a spot in the courtroom when a trial date is released.”

“Well,” Johnny breathes, sending you a veiled look after a moment. “Don’t mean to brag, Pencils, but I got to help an old lady cross the street yesterday.”

You laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as Soap chuckles. The sidewalk continues, men and women passing at their slow paces as cars zip past; the fireman taking the chivalrous stance of the person beside the street unconsciously.

“And I’m sure she was very pleased, MacTavish,” you push out, shifting closer to him as an individual passes by, bumping your arm into his.

“Aye, she was,” the man huffs proudly, puffing his chest. “Called me a handsome bloke and kissed my cheek. Blushed a bit.”

“Playboy,” you tease, eyes narrowed over at him. “Cheating on the mutts back at the station?”

Johnny gasps, putting on a serious face. “Don’t you call Mr. Spots a mutt, Dearie—that’s too far.”

“Christ,” you breathe, and an arm settles over your shoulders, shaking you a bit and squeezing your flesh before chuckles follow.

Trying not to sink into the feeling of heat and the promise of fire, you live in this moment of nearly something. There was the close sensation of borderline affection—just brushing the sense of care and…pining.

You knew the Scot was interested in you, or, at the very least, knew he had some modicum of attraction to you. Hell, the way he’d flirted with you when you’d propositioned him to be your link to the fire department was nearly laughable even today. All smirks and glinting eyes.

John was funny, no one was denying it.

There was that firm push and pull between the two of you, a string attached to your wrists that wouldn’t snap—that had seemingly only grown stronger over the months of mystery. But the arsonist took precedence.

Play can only come after work, and you were the picture of professionalism. Or maybe just stubbornness.

“The regular?” Johnny asks, letting you go as he pushes open the front door of Violet’s with his shoulder, keeping it there as you move inside and nod.

“Sure. Same seats?”

The fireman smirks. “Always.”

You smile, walking off to the corner booth as John goes up to the front, waving down the familiar face of the waitress to let her know that the both of you are here. The two exchange pleasantries as you sigh and lean back into the red-cushioned seats, letting your satchel drop near your feet. Sending a text to your editor, you tell him that you’ll have an article written up about one of your ongoing fixations by Monday.

Johnny’s broad shadow soon graces you once more, carrying a plate of fresh bread with butter on it.

“Lady’s a fuckin’ lifesaver,” he breathes. “Gave us free bread today.”

Your eyes dart over to Tammy, the waitress, who winks at you before disappearing to help another customer. Hiding the twitch of your lips, you raise a brow at John.

“Don’t you usually get pancakes, too? Your stomach will explode,” you huff.

“Ah,” his face scrunches in dismissal. “There’s always room for fresh bread.”

His large fingers are already around the body of a knife, slathering gooey butter on a steaming piece of the carb, chomping down and swallowing before he speaks—reaching for another.

“So, spill it on me.”

Your fingers reach out, grasping some bread and bringing it to your lips. You chew, swallow, and ease out, “I think there are two arsonists.”

Johnny pauses, wide eyes stuck on you as he stops his hand from bringing up the next piece of food. He blinks, his face tightens as he wonders over the information that you have, and then the groans out a long, “Fucking hell… one who’s doing it for kicks, the other who’s settling scores.”

“Precisely,” you shrug. “It explains the complete break in character, and we have enough fires to show that not only is the way the flames started different, but for different reasons as well. One wants to kill, the other can’t control it. Impulse.”

“Makes sense,” Johnny grumbles, amused mood for the moment dropping to one of flashing anger. He taps his knuckles slowly on the table, thinking. “You tell the police this theory?”

“Nah,” you shake your head as your legs shift along the seat. “You know how the chief gets about me—I need to do some of my own leg-work. Get more evidence.”

The Fireman is already shaking his head with a chuckle that has no ounce of tease or jest in it. “Nah ah, no fuckin’ way am I letting you get involved with two arsonists—certainly not one that kills people, Hen.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking permission,” you smirk as your breakfast plates are brought over. Johnny’s is full of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and you, your regular. You thank Tammy with a nod and take a sip of your small drink. “There has to be a connection between the victims. I’ve written about them before, my notes have the answers, I’m sure. I need to focus on one at a time—”

“Bonnie—”

“A possible Revenge-Motivated Arsonist is a far bigger threat than one that only has an impulse to light fires and not harm others. I’ll leave the ladder to you—”

A hand grabs at your own, grasping it firmly. Head snapping up to the square jaw ahead of you, which is tight, the stubble moving the scar along his chin one frown line at a time, you pause your quick rant. Face steadily heating as callouses run along your flesh like un-cut granite, your heart stutters.

“You’ll do nothing without me.” Johnny’s expression leaves no room for discussion.

Mouth slightly parted, your eyelids blink before a squeeze is leveled out on your hand, and the Fireman shifts back. Your eyes follow, stuck on how his shirt hugs his large biceps and the gentleness of how he held you—how he always held you.

Focus.

“You’re not getting dragged into this,” you chuckle, tilting your head seriously. “It could cost you your job.”

Johnny shrugs. “Only if I’m caught. If you're half as stubborn, as I already know you to be, Pencils,” he sighs, low smile coming to his lips. “Then I know you’ll be needing my level head.” Cobalt eyes twinkle.

You stare at him, blinking. Ignoring that skip in your pulse. As hard as you would like to try, you can’t say no to that face of his—that open expectation and firm choice.

“As level as a steep decline,” your grumble meets Soap’s ears, and the man’s face twists with an ingrained amusement that breeds the closer you are to him. It was easy to bounce jokes with you—like a pair of birds, squawking and puffing feathers, only stopping at strange intervals to preen one another before the loud chatter started anew.

“And stop it with the dumb nickname already,” you glare. “It happened once.”

John drags his plate closer, picking up a piece of bacon and taking a bite out of it. “It isn’t every day you see a bonnie Hen with seven pencils in her breast pocket, is it? Hell of a first meeting with that serious face of yours and the sight of fabric practically ripping open.”

“I was in a rush,” your face burns, jaw rotating. “At least I was prepared, MacTavish.”

“Well, who’s sayin’ I wasn’t prepared?”

“Me!” Your fingers grab at your fork, pointing it at him. “You were practically covered head-to-toe in ashes!”

Red cheeks on his part, but always that adorning sheen to his expression.

“I was just in from a damn fire!”

Breakfast went as it usually did—good food and better company—but there was a deeper level to it now; a sharp edge of purpose. By the time the both of you were done, you’d already made up your mind to make it back to your apartment and gather the intel that you had. Find a starting point.

But, as mysteries like these always go, the good times came to a rapid cliff-drop. Johnny was muttering about his work schedule back on the sidewalk when he got the call.

Phone to ear, you’d seen his face tighten—feet going completely still as you have to halt and look back at him, confused. A breeze goes by on the air, and your nose twitches to a sharp tang that leaves your fingers twitching.

“What do you mean, ‘fire on third street?’” Your body locks up, and Johnny’s face becomes devoid of pigment, watching yours closely. It was a strange emotion on his face; a hard and hesitant thing all at once. He was staring, brows pulled in as your lungs seemingly went to concrete inside of your ribs.

Third street? Fire?

Soap’s voice goes even lower. Spine even more straight. “...Stillview apartments?”

You’re already running before you can understand the severity of the revelation—dashing as Johnny yells after you to stop.

That was your apartment building.

“Dearie!” The fireman shouts, his boots pounding after, but you had a head start, shoving through the crowds, dodging strollers and trash cans—bags and thrown curses. “Fucking hell, stop!”

Your form darts fast, heart hammering. Already your mind is running through every possibility and explanation. How could this be happening? Why? Has one of the arsonists found you out? But even then, it could only be the one intent on murder—countless others lived in your building; this was more than intent…it was a massacre.

Fires don’t just spark at a time like this to not be called connected.

Even over the air, you could hear sirens above Johnny’s loud pleas to slow down, moving as well as he could through the rush of people.

He’s still on the phone, barking questions and the will of his legs to take him in the direction of the department building. But you. The back of your head in his black-sided vision.

The man knows that if he doesn’t catch you, you’ll run straight into that blaze not only for the principal but your evidence. Your cork boards and their red strings—your pictures and printed articles. Johnny knew you had them, he wasn’t an idiot.

You were too smart for your own good.

He was nearly there—just a few more steps and he could grab the back of your jacket like some stray cat, pull you back until you were in his arms. A fireman, yes, but he’d never get used to the inferno that was you; you consumed him utterly. It was an instant feeling for him, and even with the initial flirting, the immediate latching of his attention held fast. A bird to a wire. Hopeless, he was. Johnny was afraid at how much you trapped him in your ways—your looks and your…you-ness.

And you were only making him more afraid at this very instant.

Soap was the only person ever supposed to be walking into fire.

“Hen!” The fireman barks, sharp and visceral. But you only take the next corner faster, satchel slapping against your thigh.

“No,” you pant, legs dashing. “No, no, no. I left everything I need for this case in my filing cabinet!”

This is what you get for trying to be organized for once.

You smell the smoke before you see it, and feel the heavy hand on your coat collar not a moment after you lock on it.

“MacTavish!” Your angered voice moves out, but it’s all strangled away in a fast moment of the screaming of sirens and the visible fire from your tall apartment building strikes you. Watching blankly, your face falls as strong arms reel you back into a chest.

“Fuck,” Johnny growls, eyes wide as he looks on, phone clenched tightly in one hand. His jaw writhes with tension, vision darting from one fire truck to another and the men available to help. People were doing a myriad of things—screaming, running, watching—but through it all, there was the presence of fear coupled with a static anticipation.

Panting heavily, you watch your life’s work go up in flames, and feel the tight arms of your informant keep you close.

You learn that if you don’t adapt to this fire sooner or later, it’s going to consume you. And still, you can’t understand if you’re talking about Johnny, who murmurs quick words of comfort into your ear, or the case that just locked you in with chains of commitment and rage.

The real work had just begun as ashes fell like snow to the street; the spray of the firetruck’s water flew with sure aim. Your face hardens, and you feel that worried grip tighten, bringing you into a ramshackle hug.

You have an arsonist to catch, and not a single person would stop you now.

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woso-dreamzzz · 8 months

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Teenage Dirtbag II

Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: It goes well until it doesn't

It's an honour, Mapi thinks, to watch you work.

She knows that she's talented with a pencil but that doesn't hold a candle to the way that you can create such detail on a wall with just some spray paint. You wield the cans expertly as you finish off the shading of the Barca crest on Ingrid's shirt and take a step back to survey your work.

It's picture-perfect and Mapi is stumped at how it's taken your family this long to recognise your talents.

"Alright," Ingrid says," Come on, picture time."

You groan but allow your sister to shepherd you in front of the mural to take a picture. She snaps several, inspecting each of them before finally nodding, satisfied.

She's been doing it for every stage of the process, to document it. She took pictures when you had drawn up your stencils, when you did your base layer and when you did your details.

It's a little annoying but you know you'll be glad later on when you have the pictures to post on your Instagram.

Mapi helps you cover the mural with cardboard so only the very bottom is shown. You grab your blue and red can and stab them with the scissors you've brought with you.

"You might need to back up," You say to your sister and her girlfriend," This will explode in a sec."

The cans are letting out a high-pitched squeaking sound and you usher Ingrid and Mapi back a few steps. You've blocked off the rest of your mural so only the bottom will be splattered with blaugrana colours.

"How do they work?" Mapi wonders aloud.

"Well," You reply, not turning your eyes away from the squealing of your cans," Liquid paint is mixed with a pressurised gas that remains liquid at room temperature. The ones at home that I use have di-methyl ether but I think these have a mix of propane and butane." You shrug. "So I think that means the solvent in them is acetone."

You look over at the shocked look on Mapi's face just as the cans finally explode.

"What?"

"You're incredibly smart," Is what she says in answer and you kind of shrug as you go to collect the cans and take down the cardboard.

"Okay." Ingrid claps her hands together. "Another picture. Go on."

"Ingrid," You groan," Do I have to?"

"Yes," She laughs," Go on. I'm waiting."

You begrudgingly stand in front of it but can't keep the smile off your face.

Mapi notices a change in you the following days. You've relaxed considerably in the house now. You try harder at your schoolwork, pulling your grades up to heights that Mapi could never even dream of. You're more social than ever - though you never go anywhere without your sketchbook.

The team seem pretty entranced by you as well, demanding to meet the artist that Ingrid and Mapi found to do all the murals. You've been making bank from them, drawing portraits and making paintings.

You seem happier now, less hostile than before and Mapi can get the tiniest of glimpses into how you and Ingrid used to interact just by the way you hang out now.

Ingrid's arm easily rests upon your shoulders and Norwegian is a lot more common in the house now. You happily stick to her side and proudly show her your grades when they get released.

There's no indication that you're holding something in until Mapi comes home to frosty indifference between you and your sister.

You're stewing at the kitchen table, scrawling some kind of angry swirls in your sketchpad that you're still managing to make look artistic while Ingrid is muttering angrily under her breath as she talks on the phone.

You keep throwing glares over at her before scratching your pencil across your page again.

"Hey," Mapi says," What's going on?"

You scoff. "I don't know. Why don't you ask golden child, Ingrid? Perfect, perfect Ingrid." Your tone is vicious and mean and Ingrid looks over at you to glare. You sneer back at her before standing up and going to your room, slamming the door shut behind you.

"What's up with her?"

Ingrid sighs, saying goodbye to whoever's on the phone. "I don't know," She says," I just came in and we had an argument."

"About what? She's done her homework, right?"

"Mum and Dad," Ingrid replies," She thinks they're showing favouritism again."

Mapi holds her tongue. She knows that Ingrid thinks the world of your parents and it's clear you're fairly disillusioned with them. Mapi knows that there are definitely hints of favouritism from when she's seen all of you interact with each other but she's not too sure if it's her place to speak up about it.

"I mean," Ingrid scoffs," They're talking about bringing her home now that her grades are going open. I think my brother said that they're willing to let her keep art as a hobby. They'll pay for all the supplies she wants so long as she gets a good degree."

Mapi sighs and darts her eyes away. "Ingrid..." She says finally.

"What? Mapi? What is it?"

"Nothing..."

"No, tell me."

"I don't think she would be happy going home," Mapi says eventually," I know you love your parents but...You have to admit they have high expectations-"

"Because they love us."

"Yes, I know but..." Mapi's eyes linger on your closed door. "Have you ever thought that she might not want to leave?" She bites at her lip, wary if she should say what she's going to say next. "Maybe the distance from your parents is what she needs. You have to admit, Ingrid, your parents aren't the nicest about her passions. You saw her when she was doing that mural. You know that this is what she wants to do with her life."

Ingrid looks at your door too. "I know," She says," But Mum and Dad really want her to come home. They think maybe law school."

"And what do you think? Do you think she would enjoy being in law school? Do you?"

"No." Ingrid can't stop staring at the closed door. "But...What about her friends? Maybe if she goes back to Norway, she can see them again."

"No offense, but your sister is the biggest lone wolf I've ever met. She's happy here, with us. She's more supported than she's ever been before. You need to put your foot down. She stays with us."

Ingrid sighs, looking at her phone screen. Your parents are calling again and she angrily swipes to reject the call.

She knocks on your door.

"Hey, can I come in?" She asks," I think we need to have a little chat."

There's no answer.

"Come on," She says," It's not a bad talk. We can get sushi after."

There's still no answer.

"I'm coming in," Ingrid warns," So if you're shirtless or something, cover up."

She pushes the door open, expecting to find you at your desk with your chunky headphones on but she finds nothing of the sight. The room is completely empty and Ingrid shoves her head out of your open window to spy the drainpipe that you've clearly climbed down.

"You already talk? That was quick," Mapi says as Ingrid comes back into the living room," Are we getting sushi already? 'Cause I would kill for some sushi right about now."

"Get the keys," Ingrid says," She's left out the window."

"Down the drainpipe?" Mapi asks," Damn, I only taught her how to do that for emergencies."

Ingrid sighs deeply, massaging her head with her hand. She'd deal with the clear bad influence Mapi has on you later as she whips out her phone to track your location.

You've made good progress from the time that you stormed into your room to now, making it pretty far across the city to the more rundown side of town that Ingrid knows for a fact has boarded up buildings from when businesses had to close during covid.

Mapi drives them down to some kind of packing warehouse that looks like had been broken into long before you came to stay. It's completely filthy and Ingrid just hopes that there are no squatters to contend with.

She finds you pretty quickly on the second floor. You've curled yourself into the corner on the floor, with tears streaming down your face.

Opposite you, is another mural.

It's a heartbreaking sight.

Yet again, your work is picture-perfect and, somehow, that makes it even worse.

In the background is a little girl. She's got her hands pressed up against a window, peering in. The foreground is dominated by a family. Most of their faces are made up of angry black and red swirls. Only one other person has a face.

It's clear who it is and Ingrid sits down next to you.

You don't say anything to her. You just move to lean against her. You press your head into her neck and sob.

"You're not going anywhere," She says," You're staying right here with me and Mapi."

#woso x reader #ingrid engen x reader #ingrid engen #mapi leon x reader #mapi leon #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso

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thunderstruck9 · 4 months

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Gustav Klimt (Austrian, 1862-1918), Sitzende von vorne (Studie für “Judith II”) [Seated woman from the front, Study for “Judith II”], c.1908. Pencil, red and blue coloured pencil with white heightening, 56 x 37 cm.

#gustav klimt #austrian art #portrait #female portrait

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kookslastbutton · 1 year

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Too Late to Dream ༓ jjk (m) || ch.I

✑ Summary: You did it. You married your college professor. You even bought a house together. Against all odds, everything had fallen into place. But after two years of marriage, you begin feeling something was missing. You want a baby but your husband can’t say the same.

Pairing: economics professor!jungkook x fem!artist!reader

AU/Genre: angst, smut, fluff, marriage au, age gap, series

Rating: M, 18+

Word Count: 4,187

Warnings: 8-year age gap, mentions of professor-student relationship (oc was a Masters student), flirty banter, fighting, jk has a bit of a temper, pent-up issues/desires, jk has daddy issues

Now Playing: Make It Right, Tryna Be, Infinity, Heaven+

A/N: Okay I have been having such baby fever for last few years no joke. I wanna be mom or aunty but my sister won’t have kids yet! So i write this lame series to cope even though it's lowkey sad? lmao. Enjoy!! 🥰

༓ ch. II >> | series masterlist

You’re not exactly sure when it happened but one minute you’re crouched over, sketching in your journal and the next, a child with big brown eyes comes up beside you to watch over your shoulder. He’s a cute little fella, you note. Can't be more than four years old. His hair is ink-black and on the longer side. He’s got on a pair of black and white checkered pants, navy blue sweatshirt, and a toy snug under one arm. At first glance, you struggle to make out the toy but it looks like an elephant.

“Hi…” His hand reaches for you. It tugs the edge of your dress sleeve before reaching down to latch onto a few fingers. You smile up at the child, warmth immediately beaming through your heart.

“Hi sweetheart,” you say. “What’s your name?” You wait for the boy to answer but he doesn’t. Instead, he shuffles down next to you on the grass and points to your drawing. His delicate eyebrows knit together in an inquisitive manner. “What is this?” he asks.

You look down at your drawing, examining it from various angles. It's unfinished but you're working on a sketch of the pond nearby. You've managed to capture the sun-kissed water but the sky needs more work. Being the weekend, you couldn't give up the rare opportunity to indulge in your favorite hobby. “It’s the pond with all the colorful leaves,” you reply.

Blank face, the child thinks before speaking again. “Who taught you?”

Now that's an interesting question. Drawing had always been in your blood since a child. You fell in love with the ability to let your imagination run wild on paper whether it be on the back of your homework or even cardboard. To you, drawing was freedom and discovery. It allowed you to express emotion, memories, abstract thoughts, and to recreate the real world. You typically preferred sketching with drawing pencils but occasionally dabbled with watercolors. You had a gift for it–a natural gift.

By the time high school rolled around, you tended to hole up in the art room, sketching for as long as you could. Your art teacher suggested you go to school for it come senior year which gave you enough push to bring it up to your parents. Determined, you spoke to your parents about it but it was null–art could only be a hobby, it couldn’t support your future. They suggested you go to school for economics or finance instead. You nearly hurled at the idea but you eventually agreed, knowing they’d never pay for you to go to art school. Drawing, as you found out, had to be on the side.

"I had a teacher once in school," you say. "But I mostly learned myself."

The child tilts his head to the side, a puzzled look on his face. “You?”, he says.

You nod your head in affirmation.

“No way! Even I have art teacher.”

You chuckle lightly and move to stand up from the grass, needing to stretch due to your crouched position. He follows suit, still clinging to your hand. “Where you going, Eomma?”

Eomma...That's a name you don't get called often. You're not used to being seen as the mom type. In fact, when you tied the knot with Jungkook, the two of you agreed that having a family was a grey area. You both liked kids, sure, but being parents? That was a subject neither of you seriously considered. “I’m sorry sweetheart,” you coo. “I’m not your Eomma. But, let’s find her together, okay?”

The child shakes his head, refusing to budge. "Mm no," he says, clinging to your leg. "Wanna stay with you." Your heart skips a beat. Children don't typically take to you like this. It causes something inside of you to want to lunge down and pick up the child in a tight embrace. But you nip that thought in the bud when you catch sight of a woman roughly your age jogging toward you. She looks like the child’s mother.

“Si-woo!” She gives a wave. "Si-woo come here!"

“Eomma!” The child’s cheeks rise into a big grin as he watches his mom approach nearer. He lets go of your leg but his hand remains locked in your own. You end up squeezing Si-woo’s tiny hand but then, like a bitter aftertaste, you remember– he doesn’t belong to you. You loosen your grip and allow him to run back to his mom.

“It was nice meeting you Si-woo!” There’s a hint of sadness in your tone but you do your best to brush it off. You only knew Si-woo for a short while and now he’s back with his real mom. You should be happy but when Si-woo’s mom lifts her son, she gives you a scowl. She doesn’t even come up to say anything to you but turns around and carries her son back to their picnic area. You frown realizing you were merely a stranger who little kids are told not to talk to.

You sigh and glance at your unfinished drawing. Suddenly, you don’t feel like drawing anymore. You pack up your belongings in your bag and head to your car, the event replaying in your mind.

You can’t blame Si-woo’s mom for being a little rigid, you think. You’d share a similar reaction with your own kids if you had any–if you had any. You repeat the phrase unexpectedly. Were you warming up to the idea? Your marriage did recently surpass the two-year mark, perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to consider having…no, you mentally stop yourself. Yes, Si-woo was cute but it likely wouldn't happen. You toss your bag of art supplies in the back seat and drive home.

“Jungkook! You here?” You step into your shared apartment and drop your bag on the kitchen counter. The smell of burnt wax mixed with vanilla bean hits you as soon as you walk into the living room. “Jungkook you better be home or these candles are going in the trash!” You really didn’t mind the candles but your husband had a nasty habit of keeping them lit even when you were both out of the house. He didn’t do it on purpose, of course, it was accidental but it was too much of a fire hazard to ignore.

“Kook!” you holler again, but no reply. These damn candles. You snuff them out one by one before venturing into the bedroom. Thankfully none were lit in there. You reach behind your back and unzip your dress, letting it pile around your feet. It's a beautiful dress but you were dying to get into a pair of sweat shorts and a t-shirt.

“Hey honey,” Jungkook says, emerging from the bathroom with damp hair and a towel tied around his waist. You let out a yelp before making eye contact. You've always been easily startled. “How was the park?”

Mentally, you bite your lip. This man was getting sexier every day, especially with that gold band wrapped around his fourth finger. You toss a t-shirt over your head. “Absolutely wonderful. Been a while since I’ve been able to really focus and draw. I loved every second." Should you mention the child? You pause, briefly contemplating the thought. Why not? "A really cute kid came up to watch me draw too…’til his mother took him away.” You don't notice but you nearly spat the last part.

Jungkook lets out a small snort, amused by your sudden irritation. There were many things he knew you could put up with, a resilient woman you were. But whoever this kid’s mother was must have gotten under your skin in the most unusual way. “It’s great you had a good time but you sound borderline offended about whoever this kid’s mother is.”

“It’s nothing really.” You shrug. “The kid came up to me and grabbed my hand. We had a nice talk but then his mom showed up. She didn’t even say hi to me. She just picked up her son and scowled at me like I took him or something. Believe me, I get it. But I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t think about it too much __. She was probably just worried about getting her son back. I’m sure she did mean anything.”

“I guess. But do I really look that harmful?” You face your husband, hands perfectly poised on your hips.

Jungkook strides over to you and strokes down your arms until your hands relax to your sides. He gives you a quick peck on the lips. “Yes.”

Surprised, your mouth falls open. How dare he?! You give a pout, one that Jungkook finds especially irresistible. “Then you can keep your hands and lips off me for the rest of the night, Mr. Jeon.” You wiggle out of his grasp.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for the past four years Ms. y/l/n. But you couldn’t stay away, could you? Just had to marry your hot professor, you naughty girl.” Jungkook grabs you again, pressing himself against your torso. You squeal at the contact. Married for two years and you’re still a blushing mess, get it together __!

“I wasn’t the one who was grabbing my student’s ass after class halfway through the first semester,” you quip, gripping his biceps. “I’m innocent.”

“Oh honey, nonono. You don’t get to play the role of a shy little angel who got eaten by her big bad wolf of a professor day one of university. You were already a master's student when we met. You knew what you were getting into when you started wearing tight little skirts to my class.”

You roll your eyes. “C’mon I had leggings underneath and I wore sweaters. If you’re accusing me of seducing you through my wardrobe then you have a very odd way of getting turned on.”

“Honey, how long have you known me? Sure tits and ass are cool and I won’t say no if you wanna show me.” You give a light shove on his shoulder at that, Jungkook chuckles. “But I have a doctorate in economics. Nothing catches my interest more than a studious individual like yourself studying all the angles of supply and demand. Plus, I liked your sweaters. Made me curious what you were hiding.”

“Oh stop it!” You end up giggling at your husband’s beyond-cheesy explanations. “How am I supposed to know my economics professor was ogling my teddy bear sweater for fuck sake?”

Jungkook throws his head back, feigning frustration. “It wasn’t a teddy bear sweatshirt. It was a bunny and it was very cute!”

“Whatever. Point is, I’m not the one to blame. I was a good student getting her master’s like her parents wanted until she found out her professor was sculpted from the gods themselves. Your shirts were barely fitting you. I swore they were going to bust one of those class periods.” You imagine the horrified look your peers would give. Not you though, you'd probably start drawing him. Shameless, really.

“As I recall that shirt-busting happened many times by your claws. I had to replace a dozen shirts in a month from how many you destroyed.” A pair of manly hands sensually trace down your sides. Jungkook leans forward, lips near your ear. “Seems like you had a lot of pent-up energy.” He nips your ear before peppering small kisses down your neck.

“You have no idea.“ You close your eyes, a moan escaping from you. "Professor–"

Jungkook grunts, suddenly suckling on the sensitive skin. “Mmm you haven’t called me that in a while. Kinda missed it”, he says, backing you up against the dresser. You were about to hop on top when your ass hit the edge but a rude, obnoxious ringing pulled Jungkook off you.

“Hey man!” Your husband answers the phone, a little too joyous in your opinion. You knew exactly who it was on the phone–Park Jimin. You bite your cheek, doing your best to keep down a sour face.

“Yeah let me ask __. Hold on.” Jungkook looks at you. “Honey, Jimin wants us to go out to dinner with the guys. You wanna go or stay in?”

Maybe, you think. You love Jimin but his dinners are usually quite elaborate. He always makes reservations to the fanciest restaurants in Seoul, and he required everyone to be dressed to the hills. It was fun now and then but did you have the energy for that tonight? Eh. What the hell. “Sure. What time?”

Jungkook passes on your inquiry before looking at you again. “6 p.m.” You nod in consent and walk to your closet, rummaging through your clothes for something Jimin-worthy. “Alright man, we’ll see you there. Yeah got it, k bye.” Jungkook hangs up the phone and watches you pull out dress shirts, pants, blazers, literally all your work clothes. “Found anything?” he pipes up.

You pull out a dark green dress, above knee-length, and gorgeously hemmed. “I’m pretty sure I wore this last time but–“

“Next," Jungkook interrupts. "Jimin will notice and you know how he gets when people wear the same outfit twice in a row.” your husband fiddles with through his own dresser drawers, yanking out an oversized t-shirt. You groan knowing all too well how tight Jimin ran this operation. One time Namjoon came in the same maroon dress shirt as before causing Jimin to have an absolute fit. He even made the man go home and change. Dinner was late that night.

“Yeah, you’re right.” You rummage through your closet again hoping to find something tucked in the back. There’s bound to be something. “Damnit, I thought I had more than this,” you grunt, finding nothing.

“Do we need to go on a last-minute shopping trip?” Jungkook throws on a pair of cargo pants.

You groan internally. Shopping isn't your favorite activity. It always took so long, and nothing was to your liking. You prefer online shopping but with only three hours until dinner and apparently nothing in your wardrobe, you suppose it's inescapable.

“Come on, honey.” Jungkook combs through his hair with a few fingers and grabs his wallet from the nightstand. “This is for Jimin."

"Alright, let me put some jeans on.” Jimin, you bougie little punk.

You view yourself in the dressing room mirror, a plum-colored dress adorning your body. This is the tenth dress you've tried on and to be honest, you feel pretty good in it. Nothing feels itchy, too snug, or out of place. The dress was a simple, strapless sheath dress and it fit you like a glove.

"__." Jungkook taps on the door. "You're not gonna like what I have to say but it's inevitable…there's been a change of plans."

"Okay," you reply with strain. "What is it?" You unlock the door to find your husband glancing down at his phone. It's a text from Jimin, you notice.

"Sorry for this but we're not going out for dinner tonight. Seokjin's daughter isn't feeling well so they're going to stay home. Yoongi also hasn't been able to get much time with his kids and wife lately so he's not coming either." Jungkook continues reading Jimin's text aloud. "I don't think we should go out without the whole party so I'm thinking about canceling our reservations."

Damn.

"You look beautiful," he says, catching your half-disappointed expression. "I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal," you sigh. "We'll eat in." From Jungkook's point of view, you were upset about wasting an hour and a half on shopping. He knew you'd much rather be back with your drawing pencils or watching a drama. He felt bad. The real reason, the one you think best to keep to yourself, however, is that hearing Jimin's text reminded you of Si-woo again. Further, it reminded you that nearly everyone in your friend group had at least one kid except you and Jungkook. Normally it didn't affect you though, so why did it today? Had the little kid from earlier really stuck with you that much?

"__? Everything alright?," Jungkook says. "I know we had plans and we've been shopping for a while but if you like the dress you should still get it. Jimin will have his dinner again and there will be other times you'll need it."

It takes you a moment but you reply, forcing a fake smile the best you can. "Oh yeah, yeah I'm good. I dazed off for a second there. I'll–I'll put the dress back actually."

Seeing through your facade, Jungkook lightly grips your arms. "If there's something you're not telling me I'd like to know, please?"

His endearing facial expression both soothes you and creates coils of nervousness in the pit of your stomach. You want to tell him what's up. You also want to pop the question that you've both been sweeping under the rug for the last two years. But how? Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe you're just in a mood today.

"Have–" You start but the rest of the words don't come out.

Jungkook waits for you to finish the sentence. "Have you thought of any ideas for dinner?" You stutter out. "'Cause I was thinking it’d be easier to order takeout tonight."

Eyes narrowing, your husband stares into your eyes. He's searching for any hint that you're bluffing–shifty eyes and such. You think he's caught onto you until his shoulders relax and eyebrows soften. "I was thinking the same thing. But also, I'm buying you this dress even if you don't. It's gorgeous on you and I know you want it. Now take it off and let's go find something to eat."

You manage to chuckle a "thank you" and slip back into the stall to change into your normal clothes. You feel a slight pang of guilt in your gut for not coming clean to him but you weren't sure if you were ready to tell him the truth no more than he'd be ready to hear it.

“Seriously honey.” Jungkook’s voice carries over the stall. “Are you really alright? Do you need anything?” You swallow hard at his persistence.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you reply. “Maybe a little hungry.” One day at a time __, you think.

You end up placing a dinner order at a local favorite nearby. You and Jungkook take it back to the apartment, curl up on the couch, and put a movie on. You nearly fall asleep after the first forty minutes because the plot is so utterly dry and quite frankly, boring. Jungkook seems to be enjoying it though so the movie plays the entire way through.

Still hardly paying attention, your mind drifts off to other affairs. You think about your upcoming work week, what to get for your best friend's birthday in the following few weeks, and the cute dog you saw yesterday, and of course, you loop back to the same lingering topic–your brief afternoon with Si-woo. Part of you wanted to take him home but Jungkook would have a fit, as well as you know...Si-woo's mother. You snort at how interested you've become in entertaining thoughts about children and taking care of them. As you've covered before, you aren't the mom type.

Si-woo and his mother looked very similar though. They shared the same hair color, eyes, and face shape. You wonder what his father looked. Did he have long hair too? Did he share the same lips? Before you can stop yourself from going further you wonder how identical your own child might be to you and Jungkook. Would your child love the arts like you or the social sciences like your husband? You suppose it could be a blend since you technically have a master's in economics yourself. You'd much rather be owning and operating an art museum or being a studio art professor but that's beside the point. Your child would be free to venture down their own path. That is if you have any.

You shift your eyes to Jungkook who's concentrating heavily on the movie. He's a wonderful husband, you sigh, full of love. No doubt he'd make a great father but did he want to? Jungkook never really mentioned it before and neither did you. When you first start dating you had a brief talk about children and building a family but you were still in school then and Jungkook was swamped with his teaching responsibilities. Children weren't something that either of you felt like you could handle at the time. After you'd gotten married there was an opportunity to discuss it again but you were both quite comfortable with it being just the two of you. Today is the first day you've shown any serious aversion to your comfortable lifestyle–you want a baby.

Once the credit scenes appear Jungkook feels your eyes burn through him from your lounged position. "You're making that face again," he says.

"There's no face."

"Yes there is."

"I don't think so."

Patience running thin, the tone in your husband's voice gets firmer. He's not angry but it's clear his temper is rising. You and Jungkook haven't had a spat in a while and you really don't want to start now. "I can see that there's something on your mind. It's the same one you had from the dressing room and I'm pretty sure it isn't about food this time."

"I don't know what you want me to say," you mumble tiredly. You sit up straight. "My face is my face."

"Honey, I know there's something going on that you're not telling me. Is this about that kid's mother from earlier? Because I'm certain it wasn't personal."

"No, it's not about that at all. It's just been a long week and I'm exhausted," you lie, yawning as if on queue. Jungkook grips the couch arm in agitation. He isn't sure what's going on but he isn't letting you go to bed without getting to the bottom of it.

"You're not having second thoughts about our marriage are you?" He throws the idea out there, hoping its obvious inaccuracy will push you to tell him the truth. You grimace at the guess.

"That's ridiculous!" You sneer. "How could you think that?"

"Well maybe because you're not telling me anything else?" Jungkook tosses his hands up. "I mean who knows, it could be anything. Was it the movie? Shopping? Are you horny? What the fuck is it?!" You jump at his sudden outburst.

"No it's none of those–"

"Look," Jungkook cuts shortly. "Will you just tell me so we can deal with it?!" You throw him a nasty look.

"Just deal with it? Like it's some kind of nuisance of an issue that needs treatment?" You jump up from the couch and head to your bedroom in a fury, your husband hot on your trail.

"I don't mean to be pissing you off, sweetheart but I know something's up." He follows you into the bathroom, watching you reach for your toothbrush. "Can you please slow down and talk to me?" He grabs the toothpaste before you can, forcing you to stop in your tracks. You feel your body starting to shake, eyes tearing up. You friggin' hate fighting and you hate being so unsure about telling him the truth–that you want a family. You're scared of his response most. What if he says no?

Realizing your nervous state, Jungkook takes a deep breath and softens his tone. He hates seeing you cry and he hates it even more when he's the one causing it. "I'm sorry honey." He steps towards you but you flinch away. You're not ready to be touched yet.

"I–I want...I want to be a mom. I want a baby." You wait for your husband's reaction and when it comes you instantly start bawling.

"A baby? What do you mean you want a baby?" Jungkook feels everything inside of him panicking. There's a reason he teaches economics to college students and not high schoolers or below. He doesn't do children, he isn't cut out for it. He'll babysit of his hyung's kids from time to time but at the end of the day, they aren't coming back home with him. Jungkook was sure his wife felt the same way but now? Now she's tearing up in front of him, scared to tell him she wants a child–one that will be his.

Jungkook takes you into his arms, his thumb wipes off some of your tears. "Honey, I'm sorry I didn't know. When you came home from the park I didn't realize that little boy meant so much to you." You try blinking back your tears but they keep running down your face. He's being gentle with you and you appreciate that but his choice of words tells you his answer is no. It's quiet, subtle, and cuts like a knife.

You break away from him to splash cold water on your face. The coolness calms your nerves. “He didn’t. Never–never mind what I said, sorry. I’m tired and I’m probably not thinking straight.” You leave the bathroom, leaving Jungkook scrambling for his thoughts.

A/N: Lmk what you think, tysm for stopping by 💞

Masterlist

no reposting, copying, or translating my work– © kookslastbutton

#btshoneyhive #bangtanbathhouse #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook angst #bts smut #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts au #fic:toolatetodream #kookslastbutton

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h5eavenly · 5 months

Text

Carousel┃H.HJ SMAU

Fifty- Flickers Of The Past II.

Warnings: heavy angst, hyunyn being stupid, sexual assault (it's not graphic or detailed but i put a little X right before it in case it triggers you and you want to skip)

wc: 9.1k

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The air smelled sweet, filled with glisters of memories and feelings you promised to bury last year. peaches, fresh and an abiding reminder of the oaths you had splintered between you and yourself. an oddity that only seems to be right in the tight space of Hyunjin’s room. Light blue colored walls equivalent to crashing waves of the ocean alongside the saltiness in the air sweeping in through his window has you slowly seeping in an almost comfortable siesta. Summer, the beach, the sweetness that had lingered on your tongue are all alluring you to the love embodied in him. You find yourself in the same mazes of vows you repeat to yourself, whispering to every passing pink colored rose that you will stop soon, you’ll just love him till next week, till next month, next six months, till the end of the year and you will stop then.

Yet his bracelet is still tight around your wrist and your heart is singing his name as if no other song can even exist at the same time as him.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin who was mere inches away from you. He is sprawled on his bed. The sound of his pencil gliding across the papers of his sketchbook in drawings you’re unaware of fills the silence in the room. Along with his rust covered fan, providing assist to the growing heat of the sun. You turn your head from where you’ve been lying on his carpeted floor, a pillow he threw at you earlier is beneath your crossed arms as you stare at him. As if mountains of worlds had nestled themselves between you, and you are nothing but a worthless rock at his doorstep, without cease for even a moment, a brush of his eyelashes over his cheeks when he blinks your way would surely be enough.

You long for him.

An invisible string ties itself around your ankle and holds you in place and swears to keep you in check. Never too far in. Never too excited, never too hopeful, and filled with infinite patience.

Hyunjin has grown a little taller with the passing days that had blended into your junior year of high school, his shoulders a little broader. Hair strands growing longer at an uncomfortable length right at the nape of his neck. You know all these silly little things, all the little details that have made their way into your memory and taken their claim there, having your eyes follow him whenever he’s near had become second nature. Spending time in his small room, listening to all the lectures his mom threw his way. Whether it be his worsening smoking habits or telling him to cut off his hair already. It’s all so unnecessary to remember but you do, you always do. The weight of them grows heavier each passing day and you wonder how your mind finds space to keep him.

And when Hyunjin finally notices your adoring eyes, never with the same adoration he looks back at you with a raised brow. A different glint in his stare that has the weight on your chest grow into an even more of a substantial threat, has your heart picking speed in yearning that’s never gonna be met.

How more foolish can your heart ever grow to be?

“Why do you keep staring at me? Are you in love with me or something angel?” The curl of his smirk brings faux annoyance to your features, wearing them proudly to hide the darkening color of your cheeks.

“You wish, asshole.” You grumble under your breath, turning your head like his walls are more worthy of remaining crumbs of your attention. Hyunjin only snorts in reply, resuming the scribbles of his pencil.

How foolish is all you can say to yourself when you move to stand up, ignoring the tugging of the string around your ankle, telling you to sit still. A warning that falls on your deafening ears.

You’re continuously losing yourself only to stumble upon yourself too far in. too excited, too hopeful, and never patient enough.

“What are you drawing?” you ask with a playful smile on your pretty face, endearing and more than anything dangerous. Hyunjin uses his body as a cover, stretching his arms to shield his sketchbook from your eyes.

“None of your business.”

“Come on. Show me” you pout, trying to peak at his hidden drawing but to no avail.

“No,” Hyunjin is stubborn, almost childishly so. It shows in the way he tries to keep sketching even with how uncomfortable his position has become.

“Hyunjin.”

“Y/N.”

“Show me.” You order for the last time, crossing your arms with squinted eyes that only makes you even look more adorable, he tries not to find you endearing as he sits up. Legs crossed on his bed and with a teasing smirk he slowly shakes his head at you.

You attack him, jumping on top of him with broken giggles and hands reaching for his sketchbook that he grabs first. An advantage in his longer arms as he pushes it under his pillow when he falls back on his sheets with the force of your body.

“You failed yet again, how sad.” He says mockingly, circling your wrists with his hands and holding you still on top of him. You fall quiet, way too aware of the position you placed yourself in, on his bed and on top of his body, in between his scent and all his belongings. The brush of his palms on the skin of your wrists, his breaths have his chest falling up and down and you feel it. You feel him under you. Your heart is constricting in your lungs with each breath of his.

“Let go of me.” You huff, wrestling against the hold he has on you.

“You jump me and now you’re telling me to let you go?” he teases, an amused look on his face as he watches you fight in hopeless attempts. He moves to hold both of your wrists in one hand while he uses the other one to sit up “Don’t tell me you’re shy now?” he muses as he brings his face closer to you and you lean back before a blush sprouts on your face. An undressing of your emotions that you run away from me.

“As if. You’re ugly and you smell bad.” You feign disgust, lips curling into a tight-lipped smile that you know annoys him.

“You’re heavy anyways.” He grumbles, rolling his eyes at you as his grip on you finally relents and you roll off him with a breath of relief that you hope he won’t notice.

“Hey, I’m on a diet.” You whisper, refusing to look at him and keeping your eyes glued to his ceiling. You try not to think about his hand brushing against yours when he lies next to you.

“Clearly it isn’t working.”

It’s a joke, one that he had thrown at you one too many times, yet it still stings. Right at the same scabbed scar your mom had been picking at ever since you could remember, it won’t close. There’s no way for it to close and his words only dig deeper at it, it falls right into it and you once again feel like nothing but a big open wound. You fall quiet, in a sadness that cannot be explained. It is between your overflowing feelings for the boy next to you and the lack of remorse you feel for your own self-hatred.

“What are you thinking about?” Hyunjin asks, propping his head on his elbow, and turning to the side to look at you. He stops the growing frown between your brows with his pointer finger. It doesn’t belong there, surely doesn’t when you look at him with those soft eyes of yours.

“School dance,” you lie.

“What? No one asked you and now you’re sad?” He raises an eyebrow at you, pushing your face away with his pointer finger when you attempt to bite him.

“Actually, I got asked three times just today.”

“Oh yeah? By whom?”

“Han from chem class, Ryujin from math and your friend Seungmin.”

“Seungmin asked you to the school dance?” he snorts, and you can’t help the giggle that escapes you at his face. Your blue feelings are pushed to the side for now.

“He didn’t tell you?” You tilt your head to look at him and the simplicity of how you act is enough for him to hold his breath, makes his insides churn and he finds himself falling into the nameless lullaby his heart sings around you. Soft, tender, and confusing.

“You better have said no.” he whispers as his fingers reach for you in scarce honesty when they brush the strands of hair over your forehead. No one has ever touched you this softly before, no one has ever been this soft when they looked at you, no one has ever managed to have you before him.

No one has ever made you this clumsy, this careless with your heart. How could you let it be stolen so easily? How could you fall for someone who carries angels in his eyes and the benevolence of the sun in his fingertips? And how could you possibly still languish after him, in hopes for him to ever look at you?

“Why? Are you scared I’ll date your best friend?” the fingers that have been gently twirling your hair turn cruel, pulling at them slightly with enough vigor to sting and you wince in pain, slapping his hand away.

“What the fuck Hyunjin?”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“Okay you didn’t have to pull my hair.” You complain with a pout, stealing his breath and anger away with your mere existence.

“Sorry angel.” He sighs before gently massaging the spot where he pulled and you melt, right under his touch and on top of his sheets. Becoming one with everything that is owned by him, one of his many folded clothes in his closest and lodged between his pencils and erasers. There but not loved enough by him to pick you up.

“What about you? Did anyone ask you?” your heart is on the edge, bearing it to him and you realize it’s stupid.

“Yeah, but the boys think I should go with Lia. They’re saying we look good together or whatever.” He speaks so causally, as if your heart isn’t in the palm of his hand and he just squeezed it with so much force it started bleeding. Aching in maroon and abandoned, akin to a deflated balloon that isn’t fun to play with anymore.

“What do you think? Do you know her?” he asks, looking down at you through his lashes and you break into pieces, the fondness in his eyes is polished, sharp enough to be plunged into you.

Of course you know her, she fits right in with Hyunjin. With the ability to shine through crowds of people and grabbing the attention of every human they pass by. With glitter in their skin and golden sparkles in their hair. They’re everything you’re not. She’s everything you’re not. You who only appears to be some abomination.

“Yeah, I think you’d look good together.”

You’re not sure what kind of answer he had hoped for but you’re more giving than you’d like, your heart is your first enemy, unfair in the way it keeps calling for him even though he never answers.

“Maybe we should go together,” Hyunjin hums, rolling off his bed and stretching his arms above his head in a dramatic manner. At your eerie silence he looks back at you, a pause in his gaze before he grins.

“As friends you know? It would be fun.”

“mhm.”

The silence lingers, settles itself into your bones and around your bleeding heart, and it’s only there to remind you once again of how foolish you are to even hope for a glimmer of Hyunjin, a glance. But it’s never going to happen.

Your hope goes as fast as it comes yet your yearning stays.

Your heart has never known peace, so it seeks solace in the inadvertent scars Hyunjin marks on you, seeks solace in the way you bleed for him. Being in love is so embarrassing it has you soaking his sheets with crimson, leaving behind evidence of your affection that you had promised one day you’ll let go of.

He’ll never look at you the way you look at him.

How foolish.

Months pass by alongside the seasons, turning the weather into frigid wind and collecting clouds every now and then that pours rain over your city. Cold and grey yet summer remains in Hyunjin, in his smile and the dip in his cheeks, in the crinkling sides of his eyes when he’s happy and the scent of his bodywash. It keeps you warm even on days like today where the wind kisses your bare legs with frozen cold lips. The sight of him on the field, running in passion towards his ambitions is enough to have an affable feeling hugging your insides.

You sit by the sidewalk and watch like a little kid, on the bleachers, a home you find pride upon yourself to call. Your notebook that has filled with designs throughout the months lies in your bosom right where it always belongs, a page with an unfinished wedding dress is slowly coming to life between your dancing gaze and the flickers of your pencil. It’s a consequence of huddled thoughts that came to life on random night, turning you into a hopeless dreamer. Imagining yourself in different clothes that will fit whatever scenario your mind had conquered. Hyunjin is constant in each one of them.

This one by far had been the most absurd, you kept rolling in your bed trying to push down the thoughts that had invaded your head late at night, yet they remained. Despite the way you chastised yourself repeatedly you still rolled off the bed because the thoughts of drawing your own wedding dress hadn’t left your mind until it materialized itself on your paper. In your head you’re wearing it when you’re 26, old enough to know what you want and young enough to know you don’t need to waste any more time.

In your head Hyunjin is tucked in every little folder, pages upon page he filled out and in every little story you feed your delusions, he’s your knight in shining armor and in this particular tale he’s waiting for you down the aisle, his hair is even longer and it’s the mid of July, his mother is there and Hanuel who grew up too fast is tearing up. In your head Hyunjin loves you back just as much and when you face him his eyes sparkle with unyielding affection just for you. In your head everything falls perfectly into place.

“Hey Y/N.” your dreams are broken by your rather cold reality when Seungmin is sitting next you.

“Hi.” You clear your throat, a growing blush on your cheeks as you scramble to turn the page over. Refusing to be witnessed in your own acts of dreaming. His eyes flicker between the now empty page and you.

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“Not at all.” You shake your head, pretending like you’re just about to start drawing. Your pencil leaves meaningless lines of graphite behind.

“You never gave me an answer, so I thought I’d come ask you again.”

“An answer for what?”

“The dance.”

“Oh. I thought I’d just go with Han since he asked me first.” You keep your eyes on your notebook, refusing to let a telling of your lie show. You hadn’t expected Seungmin to be sharp enough to cut through it all.

“You’re not saying no to me because of Hyunjin, are you?” your hand halts its movement, paused in their journey of discovering the existence of art without your best friend.

When you look up, gaze forward and they naturally fall on him you find yourself struggling to hold the pieces of your heart together, begging them to hold on for just a little more.

You lied they tell you, you said you’d move on you’d spare us this pain they yell, and you ache not because the sight of Hyunjin is devastatingly beautiful, not this time. You ache because Lia is there, right in his space and right where you don’t belong. You’re pushed to the side once more not by him but by your own infatuation that courses through your divine being. It’s cruel and violently honest when it whispers that this is how things were meant to be. When her hand is brushing his arm, there’s a gentle smile on his face, you fall apart, right on the bleachers you so called home.

“no. nothing is ever because of him.” If you repeat it enough maybe, then it will be true.

“It’s okay Y/N.” he says with his hand enveloping yours in comforting manner, tone soft just like his hands.

You kneel into a dream, where you’re loved by Hyunjin, and summer is always surrounding you.

Your friendship with Seungmin had bloomed in a serendipitous manner, taking your sorrowful days with a momentary bliss that you find yourself looking for when being around Hyunjin gets too overwhelming, too heavy for your shoulders to carry. You look for Seungmin when the weight of your very own sentiment overflows your sanity. The string around your ankle burns, too tight, too hot so you run. Away from Hyunjin and right into Seungmin.

Seungmin was so different than Hyunjin, he was soft where Hyunjin was rough, and dark where Hyunjin was light. It was comforting in a sense that you found hard to explain just because you related to him. A familiar murkiness that had lodged itself in your destiny for as long as you remember. So, you bare your soul to Seungmin, in all the little things you can’t show to Hyunjin, he’s there.

You hadn’t anticipated the fall of it all.

✘

It was a gloomy day, dreadful with rain drenching your clothes in misery you were not conscience enough to grasp it. So, you look for leverage in between the walls of Seungmin’s room, in the flooded clothes he had handed you, you don’t get to dwell on his kindness, on the warmth his clothes provide you because he’s in your space as soon as you’re out of the bathroom and he’s pinning you against the nearest wall, harsh and revolting he presses his frostbitten lips to yours.

Your gasp is swallowed by his monstrous desires and your hands are the weakest weapon, barely are when they push at his shoulders.

“W-what the fuck are you doing?” you shake, terror taking claim on you when you notice how wide blown his eyes are.

“Come on. It’s not like you didn’t know I wanted you.”

You fall into a tussle, right on his floor and you’re overpowered by his figure and then he’s pinning your hands to the ground with unbreakable force. An unrecognizable vile flicker in his eyes, one that you hadn’t noticed before and it has your chest tightening around your heart, struggling to breath as your eyes well up with terrifying tears.

“Seungmin please let go of me. Don’t do this.” You plea with desperation lacing your voice and it cascades down with your tears, achingly familiar with fright.

“It’s okay Y/N. You don’t have to fight me this will be quick.” He voices darkly and your panic grows, translating in the trashing of your legs, futile attempts to break free “No! I don’t want this let go.”

His grip on you grows unrelenting, harsh and it burns when they tighten around your wrists, his hips press your body into the floor, and you feel trapped between him and his dirty floor. It has nausea building in the pit of your stomach and anxiety running through your veins.

“Please Seungmin.” You break and he pauses, eyes dancing over features “Why are you crying Y/N? Did you seriously think I spent all that time with you because I cared? Do you really think someone who’s broken as you is worth anyone’s time?” his words sink themselves into your bones, needles into your flesh and you shake your head. He almost coos at you, hand cupping your cheek as they brush over your tears but they’re endless, almost as endless as your pain.

“Who are you even saving yourself for mhm? Hyunjin? You realize how ridiculous that is right? You should be thankful that I’m giving you a chance and touching you right now. No one else would.”

That night, Seungmin had managed to use every little secret you told him against you, mumbling them into your skin until they became the entirety of you. Your wounds, deep and ugly, too hideous to show are all what makes you, you. And resentment fills you at the trivial thought of your existence. A mere cobblestone that only ever holds everyone else back, has everyone stumbling on you.

You leave Seungmin’s house not even half a person anymore but simply nothing, and you find comfort in the nothingness in your mind, a comfort in the numbness that washes over you with the rain. A silly part of you prays the water washes away the feeling of his hands on you, his lips and maybe to steal your mind with it. So, when you wake up none of this would be real, it would be all just a stupid nightmare that gives you temporary panic.

It has your feet following a familiar route in search of comfort, for a rush of sun that would be lovely enough to sanitize you, yet you’re only allowed to wither away in the cold when you see Hyunjin with Lia right outside his house, he’s holding an umbrella over her head and a hue of pink, and yellow surrounded them. A barrier you’re not allowed to break with your greys, so you leave, a whirlwind of emotions carries you through the night, stormy and ghastly.

Catastrophic of the ever so-called love you held onto, it takes you right to the beach, with frigid air, you weep, wishing for yourself to liquify with the water to be taken away, you wish to dissipate, become one with the wind or maybe to deteriorate into nothing but stardust that will fly away, not big enough to be seen or bright enough for intriguing stares. But you stay, you’re there upon the sands and you’re there in cracks of your painful misery, in the heartbreak flooding you with an immense type of agony, resembles the first heartbreak you experienced while witnessing your father’s betrayal. You’re there right betwixt in the sickening layers that coat you.

You wonder how much of your mother has she left in you? The anger, sadness, and the constant waiting for a man to look back at you only to be pushed aside for someone else, someone better someone who’s not always lingering with insanity in their love. How much of your mother’s destiny are you forced to live? Was this heinous heartbreak in your blood or could it be washed away by the winter rain?

The second time you feel utter despair in your life, you die, leaving behind your body unbeknownst to your departure.

You avoid Hyunjin for three full weeks. It all happens so easily amid fake excuses you throw at him. You no longer wait for him after practice and instead you rush home with half-truths like your mom wants you to be home. You watch Hyunjin’s light grow dimmer and dimmer you each time you avoid his eyes, each time you flinch when he touches you and each time he smiles at you, you drown in your shame. In the memory of his friend’s hands on your body, you have been tainted, inside and out so you must leave. How could you stay by his side when he’s so bright it blinds you.

So, you lock yourself away in ignominy, it takes over you every time you and Seungmin are too close in the same radius and a breath of relief escapes you whenever he passes by and pretends you’re not there, he doesn’t look your way and you grow thankful, somehow indebt to him because now you can pretend none of it was real.

Your running and Hyunjin’s burning for you all accumulates to one random Monday, an aching in his heart that draws him to you, looking for you in the faces of everyone he passes by, in the voices of all the girls that talk to him all day but they’re not you. He looks for you in his sketchbook that has been filled with portraits of you he craved carefully, with heedful attention yet they don’t compare to you. Nothing ever compares to you.

His life was a chaotic mess, noisy and he strives on mayhem, has felt it bloom in the middle of his chest and into the districts of his jumbled-up brain. But you’re so different, you’re in the wind, soundless and gentle, you’re in the masses of the ocean strong and beautiful. So, he learns to love you in silence, from a distance. Hyunjin learns to love the moon just for you while you convulsion in loneliness and yearn for him. Constantly missing the sunlight.

“How was your test?” Han holds the door of the class open for you and you pass by him with a thankful smile, your scent loiters right under his nose.

“Not too bad, you?”

“I’m pretty sure I got everything right.”

“As expected of you.” You smile at him, and he immediately looks away with pinking cheeks that you don’t seem to notice, too busy checking through your answers as you navigate your way between the students to your locker.

However, Hyunjin who has been waiting for you right by at it notices, it has his fingers digging into the flesh of his arms in anger. Fresh out of a practice that wasn’t his best. Does not help him in the slightest and instead adds fuel to his already growing anger, it runs straight through his blood, tainting it green with jealously he didn’t know what felt like till he set his eyes on you. It claws at him, plasters itself right in the center of his chest and compresses it into painful tugs.

Why was it so painful to look at you sometimes?

He grits his teeth when the boy next you he doesn’t recognize wraps his arm around your shoulder in caution when you almost bump into one of the students clumsily and you smile at him, mumbling words that he cannot hear, letting another person that isn’t him touch you. It isn’t him so why are you letting it happen?

“Y/N.” He calls when you ‘re close enough and still haven’t spared him a look, too busy listening to whatever nonsense the nerd next to you is saying. Why are you letting a loser like him even be this close to you?

“Oh! Hyunjin.” Your eyes lit up when you see him and yet he fails to notice. Too blinded by his growing possessiveness.

“This is han! From chem class. Remember I told you about him?” Your tone is too cheerful for his liking, and it makes him even more confused, growing angrier at the glowing smile on your pretty face. You were supposed to preserve that for his and his eyes only. How do you dare to throw it around so casually as if it wasn’t dangerous. As if you hadn’t stolen a piece of him with that same smile.

“Hwang Hyunjin, right? I saw your game last week! Dude you’re insane.” The nerdy boy – lanky and comely – Han rambles on, extending his hand out to the taller who doesn’t move an inch. Keep his figure leaned on your locker and his stare hardens into a glare.

“Hyunjin!” you scold in a hushed whisper when Han awkwardly retracts his hand, Hyunjin doesn’t even look at you, keeps his stare glued to the boy as if he looked away something that will only anger him is gonna occur again.

“Okay well! I guess I’m gonna go.” Han’s voice cuts through the awkwardness and the building tension between the glared stares of you and Hyunjin “I’ll see you tonight?” he turns to you, and you nod enthusiastically.

“What was that?” you ask, facing Hyunjin with a raised brow.

“I should be the one asking. What the fuck was that? What does he mean see you tonight?” Hyunjin scowls, features twisting with bitterness.

“The school dance is tonight. I told you he asked me.”

“And I told you we should go together.”

“I didn’t agree to that.” You reply nonchalantly, pushing his shoulder and he moves away from your locker, for you to open it and rummage through your stuff, looking for the book of your next class.

“I don’t know why you’re so against us going together.” He almost whines, annoyed and frustrated at the walls you refuse to break down. At the fact that you have been avoiding him for a while now. He only ever craves you, yet you remain unattainable in ways that only drives him crazy, so he’ll settle for a segment of you, no matter how small or big.

“And I don’t know why you want us to go together so bad.” You shut your locker, throwing him a side look and Hyunjin bites his tongue in attempts to swallow his words down hoping you won’t notice his fidgeting.

“I don’t think Han is good for you. He looks at you weird.” You roll your eyes at his futile tries and he’s growing hopeless.

“We’re just friends, Hyunjin.”

“Friends don’t go to dances together Y/N.”

“What about us then?”

“We’re different.”

“How exactly are we different?” you raise an eyebrow promptly at his words and Hyunjin sighs, defeatedly brushing a hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to answer you, doesn’t know how to tell you that you have contrived to crave open his heart and sat yourself inside. So, he falters instead, hoping your eyes contact is somewhat fulfilling enough for you to listen for once.

“Just go with Lia. Weren’t you telling me all about how pretty she is?” Hyunjin groans louder than you anticipated, capturing the attention of the people around you and so evidently obvious with furiousness when his eyes widen, fliting across your feature “why are you bringing her up now? I don’t understand you Y/N.”

“I don’t understand you either Hyunjin!” you retaliate, your own frustration grows at this seemingly endless discussion that seems to be heading nowhere in direction. At him pretending like he won’t toss you away again when he sees her.

“Just fucking go with me Y/N. Please.” There’s desperation lacing his voice, like he could crumble and fall right at your feet and cry, but he won’t ever tell you about the truth of his feelings, a coward in the act of facing you, facing his growing emotions for you.

“Unless you give me a valid reason then no. you don’t get to order me around.” You shake your head at him, there’s splashes of hurt on your face that he misses, a deflated hope that pokes at you and a hue of grey that reminds you once again of how impolitic you are, and he misses it.

You walk away taking your shine along with you, it drags behind you and leaves the hallway growing cold, cruel, and dark and it looms right on top of his head and body. Filling his limbs with the pain of feeling for you.

Your figure grows further and further away, almost mockingly evoking the stinging reality that he won’t ever get to have you, you’re always slipping between the cracks of his fingers easily. Each time he thought he had a good grip on you, you managed to escape. Leaving him only with a figment of you.

Hyunjin is always missing you.

Later that night when your mother has helped you in a red dress that fitted right onto your body like a glove, there’s a rare almost proud smile on her face as she looks down your reflection in the mirror.

“Your body looks perfect darling.” Your smile doesn’t even look like it belongs there when you force it, your own reflection stares back at you in pity and you wither away alongside your confidence that dies slowly with the brush of her hand.

“Thank you, mommy.”

“I’m so glad you’re not going with that Hwang kid. I was scared you’re gonna end up stuck on him forever.” At the mention of his name your heart falls in your chest and breaks, then it hangs in the air, like it wraps around your throat and you’re fighting against it to breathe.

“He’s not as bad as you think.” You try to defend, tone weak and nowhere near convincing, nowhere near as he is in your heart.

“Your dad saw him smoking with the shady kids from down the street. Trust me when I say he’s not good for you.” She rambles on, disgusted and judgmental as she starts to fold the abandoned yellow dress you refused to put on despite your mom’s likeness, you couldn’t put it on without feeling like a phoney. It resembled the sun too much and you couldn’t bear to feel Hyunjin on your skin anymore. You couldn’t bear to be the only person to be standing in this love anymore.

“Crushes come and go Y/N. believe me when I tell you boys like Hyunjin are never the smart choice.”

Your mother’s words echo in your mind, bumping into the walls of your brain and begging to find meaning in them, truth in the pain that lingers in your chest because of him. Your fingers brush over your bracelet delicately as if his initial is his face and you wish for your warmth to reach him. This feeling bumping life into your heart is lonely, embarrassing and more than anything: persisting. Stubbornly so as it feeds you hope that only breaks your back in half, leaving you walking home only half a person, never full.

You keep selfishly buying specks of the unforgiving sun, collecting them one by one in your soul, keeping count of everything without much effort. It may be fleeting. A minuscule fragment of his smile, his dimple, the mole under his eye. You buy all the time you could afford and spend it watching him unravel his youth in his hobbies, soccer, drawing, dancing and just like a proud mother you cheered, a loving father you had waited and a good friend you listened.

But none of these things could ever change who you are, none of these things have made Hyunjin look at you and he never will.

you who’s still living life in darkness just needed to embrace the truth for once.

And that’s why you had promised yourself to live tonight as a normal teenager would, not a girl who’s broken down by the weight of her dad’s betrayal, not a girl who’s pitifully wilting away with great ardor for her best friend but rather a free human. Akin to a bird flying away from the shackles of the contents of your own flesh, recklessly so-called heart. So, you tilt your head with a smile when Han hands you a bouquet of red flowers that matches your dress when he picks you up, you let him guide you through the crowd with a hand on the end of your back and you let him dance with you, a beam on his face that’s almost as bright as the sun. Almost. And you tremendously cling to it. In pitiable ambition to forget about the existence of Hyunjin just for a mere a night, perhaps a mere moment that quickly turns into you pretending. Throwing yourself a silly play where you’re laughing with your whole chest and there are no residues of stubborn heartbreak that plastered itself onto you. A play where you’re the puppet and you are the puppet master, urging yourself to run away and hide from your own desires.

It's all feigned indifference when Han’s arms are around your waist and he’s pulling you closer, it’s not summer and it’s not genial. But perhaps summer was just not your season, you’re nothing close to a rose, nowhere near pretty petals and you will never be redolent. You’re something akin to stem thorns, grotesque and you’ll stab anything that touches you.

Your play ends too soon when Hyunjin is pushing through the crowds of people, fueled by rage and your confused stare when he’s standing in front of you. It all happens too quickly, your gasps mixed with everyone else around you when his fist collides with Han’s jaw. A gruesome play steals the show instead. It’s all a result of Hyunjin’s cowardness and your self-hatred. Han is only a victim that gets run over in the process.

This is it then, the point of no return.

"Y/N!" Hyunjin calls out to you, breathless and high on adrenaline when he follows you. As if he hadn’t just left a crime scene behind. As if Han wasn’t a bloody mess left behind, an aftermath of his foolish and pathetic attempt to take false claim over you. You, and that’s it. It’s all what he ever wanted.

"Leave me alone!" you shout back, walking faster and away from him. Needing to get away from him with your tears clinging to your waterline like pearls.

"Can you stop running away for once? That's all you fucking do. Face me for a change." he yells back angrily, frustration seeping into his words. And you stop abruptly in your track, turning to face him with venom filled expression and like a sick twisted bastard he’s happy you’re showing him emotions other than nonchalant.

“Maybe I’ll face you when you stop fucking acting like a child that throws a tantrum every time things don’t go his way.”

“What was I supposed to do? You iced me out, you won’t even look at me!”

“So, you go and hit my fucking date?” you yell in complete frustration, your voices echo in the empty street and you explode, overflowed with anger and longing has you marching back to him “Just who the fuck do you think you are Hyunjin? What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re what’s wrong with me Y/N! can’t you fucking see it? You’re everything that’s wrong with me.”

“Then fucking me let me be Hyunjin. If’ I’m so awful if I’m so wrong, why do you care?” your anger evaporates, blends into the waterfall spilling over your cheeks in an achingly familiar manner, burns and you’re nothing but a child pulled together with anger and resentment for the world.

“You’re my friend of course I care.”

“We can never be friends Hyunjin.” You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief as you turn to walk away but he stops you, a hand wrapped around your forearm.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” When you try to break free his hold on you tightens.

“What are you trying to say? What do you mean we can’t be friends?” He questions, voice cracking with his every word.

“I can never be your fucking friend. I can’t pretend anymore. this will never work.” The pain in your voice matches the one starting to swim in his eyes. A part of you scolds you, chastises you for being so cruel how could you inflict pain on him? You should fix it now.

Yet you stand still, remind yourself of the string that wraps around your ankle and when Hyunjin’s grip relents, growing gentle, you break free with a sniffle.

“So, this is it? You’re just gonna leave me behind?”

“You will never understand.” You bitterly chuckle.

“I will never understand what? Y/N Tell me.” He urges like your words had physically hurt him, settled in his heart, and tore it apart.

“You will never understand that I am fucking in love with you!” You feel as if the world around you stills, your own words hang over you, right under the star-speckled sky you had finally confessed to your biggest sin in a blood-soaked dress.

“I love you, okay? No matter what I do this love won’t leave me alone it consumes every fiber of my being, and I can’t do anything but stay still. I can’t be me anymore I can’t exist without you yet being next to you kills me. I don’t know how to do anything but let it take over me completely. it has spread through me like a disease I can’t get rid of it.” You breathe out with a heaving chest.

Choked by your own tears and the spikes of love that were stabbed in your throat finally dies, killed by your affirmations of affections and your salty tears. It’s bittersweet, the love on your tongue and the upcoming end. But then Hyunjin is in your range, dangerously close and he’s pulling you into him and into an unexpectedly dangerous kiss. It’s bittersweet but then it’s only sweet, in his honey dripping lips, peaches and fruity.

His kiss is dizzying, like a carousel going so round and round that you’re almost flying into the night.

“Say it again.” He whispers, the tenderness in his voice washing over you and when his thumb brushes over your cheeks, wiping away your tears it casts a flicker of hope into your fragile heart. ”Please tell me you love me again.” He speaks again and you can only cry, looking for answers in his eyes to the growing confusion in you.

“Tell me you feel the same way I do. Tell me you’ve loved me like I’ve loved you all along.” He pleads with unguarded vulnerability.

“You love me?” The words tumble from your lips in a rush, coated in disbelief and for the first time you let your hope grow, let it flop its wings in your chest and take space.

“I’ve done nothing these past two years but burn for you. I see your face in my reflection and hear your voice in my head. I find your love in the silence of my chaos. I don’t know how to be anything but in love with you Y/N.”

“But how? How is this possible?” Your tears are akin to a river, endless and forceful. When Hyunjin wipes them, they only multiply as if they’re aware of how something like this could not be your reality.

There’s a newfound emotion in Hyunjin’s eyes, in his smile when he rests his forehead against yours in earnest attempt to flower this hope alongside you “How could it not be possible when I’ve found you in every passing moment I breathed? How could it not to be possible when I know I’ll love you till the very last star in the sky burned into oblivion?”

You’ll always remember the night everything changed, the night you stopped falling in love and instead was taken away with it, the night you started walking into love with Hyunjin.

It’s all so fresh in your memory, the beginning of the end, the way it ended when it never really began. It’s all so fresh and it all felt real in your heart even when three months later Hyunjin has missed more dates than the ones you went on. When he left you alone in the hallways of your school. Leaving you once again to grow lonely in the tomb of your short love. It all falls apart before you get to blink.

The yearning for Hyunjin subsides and is replaced by the yearning for him to put you first. You could tell that despite your importance in his heart he grew accustomed to your presence way too quickly. He doesn’t get to miss you long enough because you’re always here, on the bleachers waiting for him, stood up in public waiting for him, and wide awake in your bed waiting for a text back.

You’re always in a state of waiting, like you’ve been in the cold for far too long, you wait for the warmth of the sun.

The lonesomeness melds into your being, becoming one with you and follows you like a shadow. Glued and unseparated. So, you settle, for less, for mere specks of sunlight and you close off. On all the unspoken words that dig your grave deeper and deeper, pulling you right into the darkness you believed you’d be able to run away from.

Fate has managed to prove to you how bloodthirsty it is yet again, sinking its fangs into you and sucking every bit of life that runs through your veins. It’s in the way your life starts to crumble once again.

In the middle of the week, your mother finds you in the living room. A glare plastered on her aged-up face. A cruelness dousing the edges of her scowl when she stands in front of you, hands crossed on her chest.

“Your father saw you with Hyunjin.” She declares as if you should be ashamed and you could only sigh in response, tired in the way your shoulders deflate.

“So?”

“I thought I told you to cut him off already. Your father is angry.”

“I don’t care what my father thinks.” You stand up, already checked out from this conversation and heading towards the stairs.

“You must care. We’re moving away by the end of the week.”

“What? And you’re just telling me this now?” You exclaim in frustration and your mother’s scowl only deepens, displeased with the raise in your voice.

“Just listen to your father Y/N.” she orders like you aren’t human and in that moment, you feel like you aren’t. you melt onto the ground beneath, and you leave everything behind, your skin, your bones, your very self.

Later that night you’re sitting on the edge of your empty bed, your phone tightly clutched in your hand it buzzes with an incoming call, and you wipe your tears with the back of your hand, picking it up seconds later.

“Hello?”

“Hey angel.” His voice is airy and comforting in a way that could only be glued to him. And you swallow down your sob. At your silence he sighs.

“Are you upset with me? I know I promised I’d walk you home today, but practice took longer than I expected.”

“it’s okay.” You whisper a lie, it’s never okay and you have accepted that it never will be. You did the math and now you know there’s no way for you two to last. It was a new revolution, a terrifying one knowing that love isn’t always enough.

“Look out the window baby.”

When you pull your curtains, his figure looking up at you has every negative emotion in you dissolving into nothing but a feeling of abandonment. You realize at the end of this night you’ll be the one to walk away yet you still feel like you have been betrayed. It seeps into your bones and makes them shake, spreading through your spine in painful terror when he brings a singular pink rose before him.

“You love pink roses, so I got you this. Forgive me?” He grins up at you, eyes morphing into their usual moon crescents and your chest tightens in an inhumanly possible agony.

“I’ll always forgive you Hyunjin.” You could only hope the darkness of the nights aids in hiding the tears brimming in your waterline.

An hour later and you manage to find yourself settled upon the familiar sand of the beach. A heavy feeling takes claim on your soul, taking over every cranny and nook of your being and you let it. Because what are you if not defeated, what are you if not a quitter. You grew tired of constantly fighting, resisting with your fists balled up. So, you let go, in honor of all the secrets you’ll take with you, all the white lies that will remain white. Hidden away from Hyunjin because you refuse to take away his shine, you refuse to be the reason he loses trust in the beauty of the world.

So, you’ll play the villain, you’ll welcome his resentment for you with open arms and a crying face.

Tonight, the ocean is a witness to your ending just as it was a witness to your beginning.

“I’m gonna miss you.” You whisper to Hyunjin who sits next you, unknowing of what’s about to come and he leans into your palm that had cuddled his cheek. Nuzzles into it with and places a soothing kiss right into the lines of your palm, draws a map with his lips that will always lead you back to him.

“I promise not to make you miss me anymore.”

A year

Two

And three later you know there will be moments where your hearts will reach out for each other. And so, you lean forward, taking his lips for yours in a gentle kiss, tender, delicate and you tattoo farewell onto his lips.

“You don’t have to promise me anything anymore Hyunjin.” You hadn’t realized you started crying until his eyes flitted across your features in worry and confusion.

“What’s wrong angel?” raw concern laces his tone, and you deem yourself unworthy so you stand up and he follows blindly, a choked sob wrecking its way through your body as his arms embraces you, his heart aches in attempts to hold yours, to ease it and you don’t have the courage to tell him it’s not enough.

“I’m sorry about everything I promise to make it up to you baby.” He tries and tries and tries and it’s almost too late, so you break free of his hug and you attempt to smile at him, unsettling with your tear streaked face and it has his heart dropping right between you two.

“I don’t think we have time for that anymore jinnie.”

“What does that mean?” his eyes search yours in panic, as if they’re sensing your plan.

“I love you.” You ignore his question, standing on your tiptoes to place a short chaste kiss on his lips “I’ll love you for as long as I live.” You whisper against them, a rare truth of yours that will surely linger in the silence he always runs away from. You realize it then, both of you are constantly running so how is it possible for you to ever meet?

“Why are you talking as if you’re saying goodbye Y/N?” his eyebrows furrow and he’s never looked so desperate for an answer.

“Because I am.” Your sweaty palms squeeze his and you can’t understand why you can’t stop forcing your lips into forming a smile. Part of your brain tells you, you want Hyunjin’s last memories of you to be you smiling but it’s so foolish, specially so when you can’t stop crying, when your tears are leaving a trail of hideous evidence on your cheeks.

“You’re leaving me?” The pieces of the puzzle are suddenly falling into place and the pain flashing in his eyes is a reminder of the blood on your hands. The blood on your feet when you step on his heart.

“I’m sorry Hyunjin.” Your words are nothing but a broken record that you repeat to him, to yourself, to your memories and to the beach and then you do the only thing you’re good at, you run, choking on your tears as you walk past him and Hyunjin does the only good thing he’s good at, he chases you.

“what do you mean you’re sorry Y/N? if this is about how I treated you these past months then I’m sorry I promise to try harder I promise to spend more time-“

“It doesn’t matter!” you interrupt him with a yell, a cry for help to not make this harder for you “none of this matters Hyunjin. Let’s just end this before it’s too late.” The words taste foreign on your tongue, you never imagined yourself to mutter them not when you were a carbon copy of your mother, a woman that will always put love first, because what are you if not a cracked stone desperate for love.

“Please Y/N.” and what is Hyunjin if not a mere being desperate for crumbs of you, it’s in the way his eyes shine with tears he hadn’t shed since his father died. Sparkling so beautifully it’s unfair when he’s on his knees for you.

“Please stay. Please don’t leave me. I can’t breathe when you’re not near.”

“Please just let me let you go.” Hyunjin cries at your words and you wonder when did your relationship turn into you two constantly pleading for different things the other cannot afford. Cannot fulfill.

You feel it then, more than ever, more than you were alone in love. You feel centimeters between your bodies stretch farther and farther. Building itself into mountains you cannot climb and oceans upon oceans you cannot cross. You’re suddenly paralyzed. A weak human who never learned how to swim, you never learned to love correctly and how to unlock your heart without a shadow of your lies lingering right around the corner and ready to take over.

So, you leave Hyunjin like a torn-up piece of paper behind you, a poem of broken promises and loving touches that only turn to venom and keeps him awake at night.

You realize you spent half your time wishing for him and he was yours you spent it fighting for his attention, wishing for him to put you as priority and when you lost him you kept wishing to be remembered. You were always wishing, never satisfied. So even when the sun shines the next day, you’re still aching all over.

Three days later Hyunjin strolls to your house, his sketchbook in his hands and apology on his tongue dissolves when he finds it empty. The cruelty of your actions dawns on him, and it breaks his heart into a million tiny pieces, impossible to put back together. Your face in his pages remains unseen to you and instead stays in between his belongings. His muse is gone, and you turn to be a distant a memory. He breaks over you then he hates you, and it blends into him missing you only for him to hate you again.

He realizes he never really knew you, a part of you had always managed to stay hidden. Just like the moon. There was no moment in time when he had all of you and so he resents you.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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allthornsnopetals · 5 months

Text

Psychotic Blond (J.Matthews)

:Description: You should have never kissed her.

:A/n: This took up a lot more time than I intended. If you want a part II, inform me and I'll do that.

:TW: not proofread, a bit of animal abuse, mention of rape, slight spice, a bit of obsessive behavior, mention of stalking, the reader is a bi female :)

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You could have taken another route to advanced math, but Natalie, your new-found friend, wanted to use the ladies-room. When she had exited the stall, you both said your fair-wells and continued to class. You sped-walked as quickly as possible.

When you stepped into the room, you didn't expect the teacher to be absent, leaving no one supervising the oddly silent room. You shrugged and looked around until your eyes settled on your group of blue and white friends, who wave and prob's you over, showing that they had reserved a seat for you. You giggle at their antics and take David's hand as he guides you up the steps, to your seat, where you sit and take out your books and stationery.

The room is round like a circle with hundreds of seats and desks with rows of them layered after the other, like a layered cake with a large white-board plastered on the far front wall that also acts a projector. It's a strange site not seeing your teacher hunched over his large desk with his computer, typing away like he always does when he is finished instructing your class on what to do.

"Where is Mr. Flee?" You ask with your chin in your hand, your eyes scanning the room.

"Don't know," says Chloe while pinning her urban hair into a knot with her pencil. "Oh my days, why is Jeanine hard-core staring at us? Is she aware she's painfully obvious?" Chloe points at Jeanine.

Your eyes follow her finger. You make eye contact with the blonde and smile, but she turns back around, shoving her nose into her book. Jeanine Matthews is your father's friend's daughter, who you have been aware of since early childhood, but never really became friends with because you were always studying and she's... well, she was strange.

She sat at the front, so whenever she turned around, it was obvious. Was there something she found interesting? Did something poke her curiosity?

Chloe throws her head back as she bellows a laugh that almost sounds like a hillbilly, causing the room to vibrate and wake a few heads that turn to search for the source. Your eyes widen so largely at how many neck cranes that you feel embarrassed and clap a hand over her loud mouth, shutting her up.

You smile tightly. "Sorry, something must have been funny." You croak, your voice barely audible as your cheeks flush a hideous pink.

Once the attention of the others re-directs to their own business, you pull your hand away and wipe it—onto your dress-skirt— clean of her saliva she pasted onto your palm. You grimace in disgust.

"Yuck, you're gross and—."

"She's staring again." Said Chloe, this time sounding irradiated—all humor; vanished and gone.

You just shrug. "Ignore her. She'll eventually stop." You said while winching as Chloe dug her finger nails into your thigh.

You love Chloe, but sometimes she can be intense, especially when she's jealous. Everyone knew you and Chloe were dating. You didn't know when your relationship started, but she kissed you, and you kissed back— after you came out as bi and found yourself stunned when she kissed you.

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It has been seven weeks since the last time Chloe spoke to you. She's been irritated and even snapping more often whenever someone mentions Jeanine and her creepy staring. She was over it, and apparently over with you. So, yes, she broke things off because she didn't like the idea of someone staring?

Did she feel self-conscious? You laugh at the thought, after all, you were together for almost three years.

Are you drowning in your own sorrow at a party you don't want to be at while sitting on the staircase of David's house with a glass of untouched wine? Yes. Yes, you are.

You sniffle, ignoring the presence sitting beside you. It wasn't until the presence beside you asks a question that you then decided to acknowledge it. You turn your attention to it, and to your surprise, it's Jeanine. She smiles, her lips stained cherry-pink with her hair flowing over her shoulders, her blue—tight—dress modest yet scandalous with the open V front—exposing her plump chest.

You scan her, your eyes eating her up as if you weren't weeping over your ex. You felt a tingle of jealousy.

Hell, she looks better than me, and I took an hour to get ready, you thought.

You forget Jeanine was watching you and round your gaze back to her face, your eyes blowing open at the reminder.

You clear your throat. "Oh, sorry, I didn't quite hear what you said. Could you repeat your question?" You ask, watching her lean forward, her cheeks awake with color— she must have caught you basically checking her out.

"I asked if you were okay?" Jeanine repeats, her breath warm against your ear.

"I'm as okay as it's going to get, hon. I'll be fine... Eventually. Are you okay? You seem a bit lost." You said, now staring at her and her lost gaze.

Is she okay? She seems misplaced.

She sucked her bottom lip in, nodding. She's even closer now. She was shifting closer, her eyes drifting to your open cleavage dress and to your lips. You lose yourself for a second, but turn your head forward just as Jeanine begins leaning in.

But that doesn't stop her.

"Do you feel lonely now? Do you wish to forget about Chloe?" Jeanine whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. She takes the glass out of your hand, drawing your attention.

She doesn't drink from it but smiles. Her toothy grin was something, not even Chloe could come close to. Before you could stop yourself, you were grinning at her.

She took the opportunity to quickly lean forward and snatch your lips into her own. Her lips were soft, plump, and warm. So you kissed her.

Yes, you felt lonely, and yes, you did wish to forget about Chloe—so, did you kiss her back to hopefully fill the lingering hole in your chest? Yup, you sure did.

You part, taking your glass back and bringing it to your lips, taking some of the red liquid past your lips. You put the glass down and cup Jeanine's cheeks— she opens her mouth and tilts her head back, accepting the now warm contents as you pour it from your mouth to hers.

You grin proudly as she swallows it. "Good, very good. Now sit still and feel me, if you wish." You straddle her lap and lick a rouge drop from the corner of her lip, already feeling her impatient hands groping your ass.

You bring her lips back to yours, kissing her and suppressing a moan as she slaps your ass before gripping it again. Without a fight, she allows you to slip your tongue in, and once you're in; she's diving around, allowing you to take charge. You suck on her tongue, rewarding you with a pleasured moan, tasting the drink.

Her hands climb up your back and feel the opening of your exposed dress —it was exposed in the front and the back. Frankly, Jeanine was enjoying it. But guilt filled the pit of your stomach, painfully burning. You released a sob and pushed her away, stumbling as you stood.

She stares at you with worry in her eyes, thinking she did something wrong.

You shake your head. "I'm sorry... I-." You sob again, hiccuping now.

Jeanine reaches for you, but you pull away. You choke out another apology and make a quick get-away, snatching yourself drinks and chugging them back on your way out of leaving David's.

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The next morning you're pissed drunk and grateful for the weekend. You roll over, now realizing that you slept with nothing but your bar and panties on. You drink the bottle of water on your nightstand with painkillers and roll back over, falling back to sleep until you hear your alarm go off.

You wake feeling a lot lighter in the head and get ready for the day and walk into the kitchen.

"Well, well, well. Isn't it Tulip. How are you, hon?" You smile at the stranger drinking his coffee, hunched over the kitchen island.

"I'm fine, Mr Matthews." You reply, swiftly passing his attempt to hug and go straight for his coffee.

You take a swig and don't give it back until you have your full. He chuckles and rolls his eyes.

"Oh, Y/n you know my daughter, right? Jeanine stop staring and say hi." He waves Jeanine over and immediately you feel like dying.

You can't tell if she's mad at you but she should be.

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After an awkward breakfast that was filled with Jeanine's strange staring your father allows you and your blond guest to leave. But what were you supposed to do with her? Play chess, read, push her out of your house and never breathe around her again?

Your father takes notice of your weird behavior and says, "Y/n, why don't you take Jeanine to your quarters and hangout there?" He suggests with an eager grin.

You mirror his smile and take Jeanine's hand, taking her up the main flight of stairs. You turn right, down the corridor that leads to your quarters and pause.

"I'm sorry about last night," You blurt out as you face her, fiddling with your fingers. "It wasn't cool or fair for you or myself. I swear you did nothing wrong, I apologize."

You expected her to be enraged, perhaps even yell at you. But she just smiled. "No, that's okay. But I will admit, I did feel a bit hurt when you left me there..." her grin grows wider and larger as she stalks closer to you.

"But I'm sure you can always make it up to me at some point."

Her face was only inches away from yours now. The slightest move forward could cause a remake of last night— minus the crying and running out.

"At some point." You remind her, sterner than intended and continue your march to your goal location.

Your father said quarters, which it was. You push the round double doors open and reveal a living room. In the front right corner lived a fire place with a glass coffee table with a chess board on top of it, a white leather lounge on the left-wide side and two smaller cushion-leather chairs on its smaller length sides.

In the center lives another glass coffee table but bigger in size with a matching lounge like the one in the right front corner, resting on it: is a fruit bowl and a glass water pitcher with three glasses. On the left far corner is a black piano and a harp that you learned to play as a child and still play as a way to learn and cope.

The wooden floor clinks against the footsteps of you and Jeanine heeled shoes. Her eyes look around the room in pure awe and curiosity. It wasn't just a living room but also a library with large shelves, holding all sorts of books. On both sides are round staircases, built into the shelves that lead to the second and final floor of the library, which also acts as more shelves for books.

On the left side is a large round window that stares over the main library of Erudite that is also used as a source for natural light. Resting at the feet of the window is an alcove; a large nook in the window, sprouting out a plush navy blue sofa, complemented with white wood that copies the walls.

Lastly, on the back wall is another set of round double doors that lead to your room.

All families with parents and partners with a high IQ—a sign of high status and wealth, due to work—homes look this way, with living quarters or chambers unlike typical homes or apartments like most factions or individuals with lower IQ's/status. Jeanine is no stranger to the chambers concept, but the way her eyes devoured the room almost made you think otherwise.

You pour her a glass of water while eyeing her, observing her carefully as if trying to figure out what was lurking behind her icy blue eyes. She was strange you knew that as fact. But you never knew her attraction to other girls, let alone you. Her constant starting should have been a tell-tale sign but when you were both still tiny humans, she did do odd things that also should have been a dead give away for affection.

For example, when you were just learning how to cook, you sliced your finger open. It bled all over your new blue and white dress and you wept as a reaction to the pain. But there was nothing to stop the bleeding; no cloth, no tissue. Nothing. Until there wasn't. Jeanine had popped your finger into her mouth and used the leverage to guide both you and her to your father, who stared wide-eyed and slightly amused at the sight of your finger in Jeanine's mouth, as if it were the only solution.

Ever since, she kept her distance. Only appearing when you need help or comfort like last night.

"Odd, girl." You mutter under your breath while drawing Jeanine's attention with a slight 'ahem'.

"For you." You offer the glass and sit, tucking your long blue skirt under your buttom.

She takes it with a grin and joins you.

"I like your living quarters, especially the roof," she points up at the painted ceiling. It was a clear blue sky with doves and ravens. "It's beautiful." She compliments.

"Thank you, it took me almost a year to finish."

Jeanine stares at you, wide open, revealing her pink tongue and pearly-white teeth. "You painted that masterpiece?" Jeanine shrike, her finger still pointing upwards.

You couldn't help but chuckle at her surprise. Of course she wouldn't know, she has never stepped into your living quarters before.

You nod. "Yes. I used to paint a lot when I was younger, before my tastes changed and I moved onto music." You explain, pointing your index finger to the two instruments in the room.

"You're a true source of talent, Y/n. You're beautiful, intelligent, and a real aesthete." Said Jeanine while taking a short sip of her water before placing it down on a blue coaster, on top of the table.

Your cheeks burned with color, it made your stomach clench and flutter. Jeanine Matthews: a flirt, who would have guessed it. Your lips curl into a smile, hands shaking as you try to drink from your glass. But her words ring your ear like a broken record, making you feel shy and even slightly giddy.

"Are you blushing, Tulip?" She teases, her delicate fingers caressing your hot cheek.

"Do you need glasses, Jenie?" You say with a laugh, gaze shifting to hers. She laughs with you, her head resting on your shoulder.

Through the fits of laughter, she gazes up at you, her eyes speaking all types of 'I love you's'. But of course you don't see it and place your glass on a coaster.

Resting your head on hers, you enjoy the silents, forgetting last night's fuse and the years lost to a possible friendship. You felt it but didn't register her actions. Her lips devour an exposed patch of skin on your neck, kissing gently. It wasn't until you felt her fingers working at the sleeve of your blouse on your shoulder; do you then register her actions.

You ease her hand away with a polite smile. "Would you like to play chess?" You offer but she shakes her head.

She slams her lips to yours in seconds, forgetting her manners of asking for consent. You groan at the force behind the impact and try to lean away but find her hand in your hair, untying the blue ribbon and holding you in place. Her tongue slips past your lips, entering and consuming whatever it can touch.

Before you could even think straight, you kissed her back, meeting her intense desires. You cup her cheeks and relish in her gentle moans as you suck on her tongue, demanding control. You win but it's short lived when she parts for air.

Your hair falls as the fabric loses its hold. She grins, her lips plush. She drops the ribbon to the wooden floor. "First piece of fabric to go. Several more left." She says before latching her lips on the bare part of your neck, kissing and occasionally sucking. But not enough to leave a mark.

She kneads your clothed chest, cupping, groping. You huff and puff, still trying to take in breath into your lungs as you feel her unbuttoning your blouse.

Stop her, she'll get the wrong message; the voice in your head beckons. But you push it back and allow her to open your blouse, exposing your chest and belly, so she can get a better feel of your tits. Your head falls back at the sensation of her mouth on a tender spot on your neck, shutting your eyes. She doesn't stop, especially when you rack your hand through her hair and hold her hand in place with your free hand.

You didn't want her to stop and neither did she, it felt too good. For Jeanine it felt victorious. Years of waiting and she finally gets to feel you, kiss you and indulge in your small whimpers, moans, and small inhales for air.

"Jeanine, we're leaving." Her father calls, his footsteps echoing through the hallway.

You shoot your eyes open and Jeanine stops, pulling herself away while you button up your blouse with shaky hands. He was drawing closer and the door was wide open, so time was ticking. Jeanine takes charge and buttons up your blouse before dealing with her disheveled hair as you pick the ribbon.

"Forget about it." She mutters, taking it from you and stuffing it into her pocket before dropping beside you, glass in hand.

You mimic her actions, running your fingers through your hair.

Jeanine's father leans against the door frame, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze scanning over the room. His eyes glint with what can only be described as; curiosity. "Come, Jenie, we must go home. The Aptitude test is tomorrow. Let's leave the L/n's to mentally prepare." He grins before starting his walk down the corridor.

Jeanine pouts. "Bye, Tulip." She says disappointingly.

"Bye, Jenie. Good luck on your Aptitude test." You say equally disappointed.

Before she leaves though she cups your cheeks and kisses you, fiercely. You part with a trail of saliva, hers icy blue eyes drinking you in.

"See you tomorrow." She says over shoulder as she struts out, chasing after her father.

◌•·················•·················•◌◌•·················•·················•◌

You in fact didn't see Jeanine the following day. You did, however see Chloe and she seemed a mess. Everyone, especially yourself did as you recall your result: Candor.

Of course that was what your results were. You were blunt, transparent and far too honest. You didn't care who you were honest with, no one was safe from your silver tongue. You were always genuine with your words, especially when you apologized to Jeanine.

You felt like weeping, crying, sobbing. You'll have to leave home and all its familiarity. A tear drove down your cheek as your body shook. You were in the school cafeteria, everyone can see you, especially your friends who now stare at you as your body shook with tears.

You didn't know who pulled you into their arms but you were grateful and didn't care. You wept into their chest, sniffling in a familiar scent that made your stomach curdle. You look up and find Chloe's hazel eyes, staring at you sympathetically.

You knew she wanted to ask why, but the rules were clear. No one is supposed to share their results. But she comforted you anyways and so did your friends as one by one, they cradled around you, holding you. You may never see them again.

Jeanine sat with a bitter scowl on her face. She was sitting with the students who have yet to be assessed. She watched Chloe ditch her friends to comfort you, pulling you into her arms, making her skin crawl. She truly didn't understand what a deal was.

Chloe screams, her eyes puffy and red from crying. "Please. Please stop!" She cries, trying to fight her restraints.

Jeanine shook her head with a disapproving tsk, tsk. "You know pets are forbidden in Erudite." She said with a wicked grin, batting the small dog.

It whimpers in pain, ears tucked behind its head with his tail mirroring its actions, binding it between its legs. Chloe cries again, her throat dry from sobbing and shouting. "Please, I beg you. I'll do anything. Just please stop harming him."

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything. Just, please stop."

Jeanine got what she wanted and Chloe's barely walking dog got to go home. But as Jeanine observes the interaction, she imagines shooting the dog in the head. We had a deal, Miss Brum. Your dog will pay for your failure to stay away. Jeanine thought, clenching her fists until her knuckles were pasty white.

◌•·················•·················•◌◌•·················•·················•◌

Life in Candor was not easy at first, especially during your initiation; where you had to spill your guts. But things went on and no one seemed too distraught about your inner thoughts and sexuality, especially your now husband: Jack Kang.

He found you even more fascinating when he heard about your sexuality and how it affected your life in Erudite. What he didn't expect was: "I had a fling with Jeanine Matthews. That's why I don't want to attend the faction representative meeting. I can't face her, not now." You confessed with ease and without the slightest hesitation.

Jack's mouth flaps open. He was more than shocked, perhaps stunned. You, his wife had some sort of fling with the Erudite rep. You're just telling him now?

"Why are you just informing me now?"Jack spits, pointing his finger, visibly angry, losing his placidness.

"You dated my cousin before being with me. Past relationships mean nothing, or do you not remember saying that," You retort, now challenging him.

Of course he remembers. He was being honest with you at the moment, at the time. You were finding it hard to adjust to your new life, especially after the final stage. Everyone knew about your taste for both genders, everyone had their own opinions, even the boy you fancied before Jack, which was not too good.

Past relationships didn't matter. Jack loves you and he wasn't planning on letting you go, so he said what he knew was true; what was on his mind and heart. Nothing about your sexuality was going to chase him away, make him love you any less.

"Or were you just lying to me."

Jack falters, eyes visibly hurt. "No, my love. Not at all," He calms down, sitting beside you on the couch and wraps his arms around you, shielding you.

You rest your head on his chest, allowing him to inhale your scent: tulips. He relaxes. "It's just... Jeanine makes my job harder. I was under the impression that she was challenging me—pushing me. I thought it was a teaching method, not bullying or disrespect. But I should have known. The signs were there and I didn't question them enough." He sucks in breath, calming himself, trying to prevent another roller coaster of anger.

"What does that have to do with me? What are you talking about?" You ask, pulling away, now frustrated.

Jack pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at you through his fingers. He huffs and slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees. You nudge him.

"Jack." You try to catch his attention, rubbing his back and kissing his shoulder. His muscles fall, he's relaxed.

Before you could ask again he opens his mouth: "It wasn't a fling to her, you maybe. But not her. She's in love with you. You... my wife," He spoke, his tone harsh and irritated.

You froze, stunned and a little guilty. Jack has been stressed out and even hurting because of you. Because you ignored the voice in your head.

Stop her, she'll get the wrong message.

You mentally curse yourself, wrapping yourself in your arms. Now feeling as if it's wrong to touch Jack— the man you loved so much that you said 'I do' and started a family with him.

"Jeanine Matthews has been making my life as the representative of Candor so much harder. She's been bullying me and I didn't even think of it as that." He sounds defeated.

Jack should be yelling, screaming and tearing into you but he doesn't. He just sat there, feeling like a fool.

"Then switch positions with me. It's time that you rest and I fill in the space as the representative." You spoke without thinking.

He stares at you like you were some sort of mad man with two heads. But before he can object, you jump in.

"The reason you took the job was because I was pregnant. It was because I couldn't lead with my mind unclear and unfocused. Let me take the burden off your shoulders, my love." You spoke with ease and care, caressing his cheek with your thumb and kissing his cheek.

God, how you loved this man. His broken eyes tore into you.

◌•·················•·················•◌◌•·················•·················•◌

No one was surprised by the switch of leadership. Jack was losing it and your eldest was fifteen with the life of Erudite ahead of him by how much of his dorm was filled with books, instead of people.

So when the announcement was made, you were welcomed with ease. You were the first to be seated, so you fixed your hair up with a black ribbon and drank some tea, waiting for Marcus to stop chatting to a young Amity girl who serves drinks and unfortunately has no will power to tell him to fuck off.

In time the Dauntless leadership rolls in with your own slowly filtering in with them. Sometime later the Amity rep: Johanna and her team walk in with Erudite behind them, chatting and enjoying each other's company.

When everyone is seated, still waiting on Marcus to take his seat at the high court seats with his team, you grow impatient, feeling a familiar set of icy blue eyes staring right at you.

"Stop talking to the poor girl, Marcus. She wants not your attention but to do her job and move on with her life. So, please do us all a favor and take your seat and perhaps start the meeting." You spoke, eyeing Marcus and his red cheeks.

He grumbles and waddles to where he must be stationed. "That's not very Abnegation of him. Wasting our time is selfish, not selfless." One of your members whispers in your ear, rewarding her with a laugh.

She nudges you with her elbow and you nudge her. Kathy, she's your sister-in-law. A real Candor with the most bluntest of tongues and a life of the party. She always made a way to make you laugh or smile during the worst times. You weren't close but knew each other well enough to like one another's company.

She managed to have four kids before ending her marriage with her ex-husband, who used to be a part of Candor's leadership group before the scandal he pulled. What a shame, he was caught five inches deep inside a drunken prostitute. A shame for him but a winning case for Kathy.

The meeting begins and immediately debates break out, mainly from your team who seem to be having the upper hand and winning, while Marcus and his team are stammering. He wanted to reform laws, regarding marriage and age. In other words nuptial law.

He wants to make it possible for children to marry, due to the faction-less situation. The current problem is that the faction-less young girls, under the age of ten—not women, largely—are becoming pregnant at a rate that not even Abnegation can support. The pregnancies are occuring, either through zero education about sex or unfortunately, rape.

But changing the law, itself affects all of society. It would only lead to immoral and unjust marriages to occur between all age groups, perhaps even trapping young boys and girls into situations that would mark them for the rest of their lives. It could even create child slavery and abuse in the marriage; making it immoral, unjust and unlawful.

This is the wrong solution, made by the wrong man.

"What is needed is better education, for these children." Kathy voices, her tone stern and strong, sending you into cardiac arrest.

You admire her and her talent to say 'fuck you and hell no', without actually saying it. Before you could stop yourself, you're admiring her. Your eyes widen, like a cat finding something interesting. Then she is staring at you, your entire team is and you smile.

"What are you grinning at? Continue with your speech and kill this fucker." She whispers harshly, pulling at the ribbon in your hair until it loses its hold. Your hair flows out, in a river meant to shine and get you in the game.

You nod and your team sits, all visibly angry.

"Understand this, Marcus. Law is for every citizen. We cannot change a law to fit your factions ideals. Yes, marriage is necessary for the Abnegation, in order to produce off-springs. But I don't see how marriage is going to fix the problem," You laugh, with your fingers running through your hair.

"These young girls are either mothering children as a result to no education about sex or unfortunate acts of rape. Which is all proven by the Dauntless police force and the Erudite reports. Anyways, how are these fathers, supposed to financially support a marriage when they haven't any money?" The question hangs in the air with no answer.

You stand waiting. But with no answer, you continue.

"Why is this up to debate? Why do you ruffle our black and white feathers? Why, Marcus? Isn't it your faction's, selfless duty to care for those babies?" Once your words were out, it became clear that he had stepped into the wrong battle.

His own government and friends were whispering among themselves. Their 'solution', now proven foul. But you're not finished.

"Abnegation, I speak with no disrespect but only respect. As a woman of the law—once lawyer, then judge and now Faction rep, I speak only the truth. It is a self indulging thing you are all trying to string together, for the Faction-less. It is admirable, what you do for them. But to issue a change in law for young boys and girls to marry, under the age of eighteen to fit your ideals... it's selfish." You finish and take your seat.

The tension is high as the Abnegation whisper to one another and even argue. It seems that not all agree with Marcus and it's showing.

Jeanine couldn't stop her grin, gracing her lips. She hasn't seen you in years, well not without you noticing. She likes the new you and sees how your test could conclude to Candor. She has missed you dearly and does not blame you for your endeavors.

If I just kept you closer, she thought, eyeing you hungrily like a starved animal.

But Jeanine never miscalculates. She is always accurate.

In time, my Tulip. In time

#divergent #divergent fanfiction #jeanine matthews #jeanine matthews x reader #tris prior #tris prior x reader #four #tobias eaton #tobias eaton x reader #Peter x reader #peter #eric coulter #eric coulter x reader #christina divergent x reader #christina x reader #kate winslet #kate winslet x reader

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miss---lu · 1 year

Text

Little One Part II

A/N: I decided to make this a series because I think the concept is cute.

Summary: Telling the team you are pregnant.

Today was Steve’s birthday so of course Tony threw a big birthday bash. He had organized a full celebration for the super soldier and he was putting everyone to work.

He had bucky moving heavy stuff, and Natasha and Clint on decorating duty. Thor was helping Bucky move tables. Sam was keeping Steve busy. Tony decided he would be on bar duty. And he had decided on having you and Bruce cook.

(Tony conveniently made sure that the teenagers were too busy watching a movie in the living room to help.)

Which was fine by you for you absolutely adored cooking. Tony had decided to order some shawarma so really you and Bruce were baking and not cooking. He was making some cookies while you made the cake.

Decorating it in steve’s uniform’s colors you smiled to yourself. The cake looked amazing and everything was ready for the party. After moving the cake to the table, Bucky came into the kitchen.

He wrapped his arms around you and gently rested his hands on your small bump. Bruce had determined you were around 12 weeks pregnant after doing some more test.

So far only your husband and Bruce knew about the baby. Bruce swore to keep his lips sealed, after all it wasn’t his place to tell people. But tonight was the night you would reveal it to the team.

Seeing that you were alone, Bucky knelt down and pressed a kiss to your stomach. “We’re telling people about you tonight, little one.”

Suddenly you heard the door open, and in came Steve. He smiled when he saw the team and decorations. He immediately went to give Bucky a hug and he gave you a smile.

Tony quickly ushered everyone into the dining room to eat the feast he had prepared. Dinner was fantastic and before you knew it, it was time to cut the cake.

While everyone was eating the cake Steve started to receive some gifts. Some included shield polish, some new charcoal pencils, a new set of pjs with iron man’s logo on them (courtesy of Tony), fancy drawing paper, a few records, and finally the one from you and Bucky.

The box was wrapped in blue paper and had a baby pink bow on it. Steve carefully removed the packaging and saw a white shirt inside. Once he lifted it out of the box, he saw what was written across the chest: Godfather.

Bucky squeezed your hand as Steve immediately jumped out of his seat. He dropped the shirt to the floor and pulled Bucky into a hug. Then he pulled you into one as well, but being careful of your stomach.

Then you heard a loud gasp as Tony held up the shirt to the others. “You’re pregnant?”

Bucky’s smile couldn’t be contained as he nodded. “Yeah, we’re having a baby.”

His hand gently patted your stomach as he said “our own little baby Barnes.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fluff #marvel x reader #marvel imagine

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beloved-calypso · 2 years

Text

・゜ ʚɞ ゜゜𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖔 𝖕𝖊𝖔𝖕𝖑𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖋𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖘𝖊? ♡ ・゜ ʚɞ ゜゜‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓊𝓅 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓈𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝒾𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓊𝓎. ~ 𝒴𝓋𝑒𝓈 𝒮𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓉 𝐿𝒶𝓊𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉♡

All pictures and gifs are not mine but belong to their original artists. ♡

I. -> II. -> III. -> IIII.

ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ a ᴘɪᴄᴋ-ᴀ-ᴄᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ! ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ᴏʀ ᴘᴜɴᴄᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ. ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ɪᴛ.

~ XOXO 💋🎀

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 1 ๑◞꒱ა

3 OF WANDS (RX), THE WORLD, THE CHARIOT

Hi Pile 1! So people perceive your fashion sense as widely varied. They don't know what to expect from you. I don't think you plan your outfits, but just go with what the day feels to you. You may wear a lot of autumnal colors like muted reds, browns, and yellows. I also sense patterns like plaid, checker, and stripes. This makes me think of button-up shirts, sweaters, boots, and jeans (it is winter season where I'm at). You have a style of comfort, warmth, and durability. People may see you traveling a lot and being out in nature. They see you as free spirited and outdoor-sy, and I think you are seen doing a lot of outdoor activities. You may also do sports and wear sporty clothing, or you just go to the gym and are mindful of what you wear there. People think you look strong and mature. You seem content with your life, and you give off a naturalistic, down to earth vibe.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 2 ๑◞꒱ა

THE LOVERS, KNIGHT OF PENTACLES (RX), 4 OF PENTACLES (RX)

OK, Pile 2! Let's get into it. So people think you come from money by the way you dress. You have a very chic type of fashion sense. It's very prim and preppy. I'm seeing high neckline blouses, skirts, stockings, heels, and pearls. I see bright and light colors like pink, yellow, and white. People think by the way you dress that you're spoiled and you flaunt your wealth (not saying you are). You may have expensive tastes. You may also be a perfectionist and somewhat conservative in what you wear. I'm seeing Blair Waldorf (what a queen) or Drew Barrymore's character from Clueless. The lovers make me think you take time to plan your outfits and make sure everything you wear is balancing out. Your outfits are coordinated, and the color and fabric combinations pair well with each other. You may wear a lot of jewelry and accessories. People perceive you to be quite aesthetic and fashionable.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 3 ๑◞꒱ა

THE MOON, QUEEN OF SWORDS, 3 OF PENTACLES (RX)

People see you as a lone wolf pile 3. I think you're very career oriented, and people are used to seeing you in an office setting, either going in or out of work. You probably wear a lot of business clothing, like blouses, pencil skirts, blazers, and heels. I see mostly dark, cool colors like black, navy blue, and gray. Your style may be minimal, not much jewelry on you, and if you wear jewelry, it's small and simplistic. Outside of work, I think you keep it minimal, too, like no patterns and silky, unwrinkled fabrics. Your fashion gives off the vibe of elegance and wealth. I think maybe you have RBF or just come off as cold because people may sense there's a boundary around you and think you are either unfriendly or it's just hard to get close to you. You come off as all business, no pleasure, like people have to come to you correct and with a purpose, no small talk. You're very mysterious pile 3.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 4 ๑◞꒱ა

THE TOWER (RX), 6 OF SWORDS (RX), THE LOVERS-extra-THE QUEEN OF CUPS

I think you've been going through a personal transformation pile 4. This transition has been happening for a while, and it's just starting to project outwards. Maybe in the past you didn't put much attention towards your clothes and wore a lot of the same thing all the time. You could have worn mostly black and grey, and the clothes were loose and baggy so as not to draw attention to yourself. I think moving forward, you'll put forth more effort and thought into your appearance. You're going to be more creative with your clothing choices. I see you playing with colors and patterns. I also see soft colors and fabrics like pastels and lace. Some of you are showing off more skin. People could perceive you as artsy and bold. Others will be seen as soft and delicate. You're going to be more adventurous with your clothing, and people will think of you as being lively and fun and others gentle and calming. Sorry this pile was pretty mixed, but the most important thing is that you will be successful in building a new self. You'll be happy and loving how you look, and people will sense this joy and peace emanating from you.

⊱┈───── ✧

ᴀɴʏ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴍ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ♡

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ

© lolita-bonita — Please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other social media platforms without my permission. This is the only platform that I post this type of content. If you see my work being posted anywhere else, please kindly report them to me. ♡

⊱┈───── ✧

✨️ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Tarot is not an exact science, nor can it produce information that is factually true. All things posted are alleged and for entertainment purposes only. The future is fluid, and what may happen is based on your choices and actions, not what I and a deck of cards say. You are still the creator of your future. ✨️

#tarot reader #pick a card #pick a pile #pick a picture #tarot #tarot readings #tarot cards #tarot blr #tarot blog #lolitabonita's

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fromthedust · 4 months

Text

bird painted on ostracon - Thebes, Egypt - c.1479–1458 BCE

Paul Manship - Crowned Crane - gilt bronze on lapis lazuli base - 13 5⁄8 x 7 x 2 7⁄8 inches - 1932

bird & snake - illumination - Beatus of Liébana, Commentaria in Apocalypsin (the ‘Beatus of Saint-Sever’) - Saint-Sever - before 1072

Ron Mueck (Australian, b.1958) Still Life - mixed media sculpture - 2009

Horus the Golden - Horus standing on the hieroglyph for gold - faience and polychrome inlay - Middle Egypt - Hermopolis - Late Period or Ptolemaic Period - 4th century BCE

Utagawa Hiroshige I (Japanese, 1797- 1858)- Jūmantsubo Plain at Fukagawa Susaki - woodblock print - 1856

Adam Binder (British, b.1970) - Wren II - patinated bronze - 2012

Redmer Hoekstra (Dutch, b.1982) - Pelikaan (Pelican) - pencil - 2015

Bill Mayer (American illustrator, b.1951) - Ibis - painting

Edwin John Alexander (Scottish, 1870-1926) - Griffon (Tawny) vulture (Gyps fulvus) - watercolor & gouache - 26 x 17 cm - Paris - 1891

Eric Fan (born in Hawaii, living & working in Canada) - Kingfisher - painting - 2014

John Boyd (England, b.1957) - Dodo Variations IV - painting

J.K.Brown aka John Kennedy Brown (wooarts) (Welsh, b.1979) - Bird - metal-scrap sculpture

René Magritte (Belgian, 1898-1967) - The Idol - painting - 1965

Michael Sowa (German, b.1945) - Die Rückkehr der Zugvögel (The Return of the Migratory Birds) - painting

Mullanium (steampunktendencies) - Blue Jay - mixed media assemblage

Pelican - painted wood toy

Vojtěch Preissig (Czech, 1873-1944) - Seven Ravens - etching - 1900

Incense container with plovers - lacquer, gold, sea-shell - Japan - late Muromachi period (1392-1573)

Dilhaar (www.instagram.com/hmdbti/) - flying bird - paintings & gif

“Before I ever started painting and before I even started taking drawing seriously, I was in love with the idea of painted animation. Frame by frame, each painting coordinates with the one before and the one after to create life. I still have a lot to learn and there are a lot of technical things I don’t know and will improve on but I like this start. Forget thoughts, focus on actions. Regarding this specific animation I really love the shapes of the shadow on the ground.” - Dilhaar

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amanofbeautyisajoyforever · 4 months

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The Blue House II - 2024

Watercolor, colored pencils and graphite on paper

(14x10 inches) (35x25 cm)

Murilo Pagani

#art #drawings #watercolor #illustration #masculinebody #malenude #nudeman #nakedmen #nakedbody #artisticnude #homoart #homoeroticism #eroticism #gay #gayartist #gayart #pleasure #desire

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skarloeyspa · 1 year

Text

dunky and rust! took me forever but details below

Rusty:

*clutches fists at overalls costing $1.29 in the 50s

ANYWAY uhm Rusty came to the SR in 1957 so I took some inspiration from both 50s and 60s clothing but mostly 50s

But yeah like all the other freethinkers🤖 in this community i subscribe to Rusty being nonbiney (altho they're mostly masc presenting)

I want to say that Rusty's jumpsuit is based off women's workwear but like. women's workwear in the 50's was based off men's workwear so what difference does it make😭

Ripped their boots straight from the bottom right of the catalog here so hehe

Their nameplate is specifically very simple and non-glossy to designate them as a maintenance worker as opposed to for passenger service

I don't. um. intend for Rusty to be that much taller than overhaul 2 loey. they're probably around the same height at best and Rusty is def a bit shorter than overhaul 3 loey

also they're wearing a flat cap. i don't like drawing them but it made the most sense so,

i don't know if they had binders in the 50s? If they didn't then um. I'm sure there was some kind of equivalent shapewear-

Duncan:

this guy was such a damn pain to design for oml

i really need to find a way to save my ref pics when i make my pencil sketches so i can add them to these posts when im done djfdjbfk

i gave duncan beeeaaauuuttifull lushious long blonde locks💅because he's got a long ass funnel HAHAHAH

he's tall. but he's also lanky. he's like a very tall twink sorta. like i get that he's strong cuz he worked at a factory but bro cannot retain muscle like. he's sticks.

oh and also blue eyes because of douglas. yyyyeah

anyway you might be wondering. capy what the hell is that ugly ass band of pattern across his chest

well that was my BIG BRAIN moment.

starting around like the 19th century people would take the fabric used to make sacks for shipping dried goods like animal feed and flour, and turn that fabric into clothing

this originated in more rural communities but became more widespread during world war I and especially world war II with rationing and whatnot. basically when companies noticed people wearing their sacks they began printing patterns onto their sacks for this explicit purpose (cuz you know. marketing)

before arriving to Sodor, duncan worked in a factory. you know who else produces dried goods?? factories!!!

around the time he arrived to sodor was also when American rock and roll was really influencing British youth, particularly with the rise of teddy boys and then the rockers (which is from my understanding, greasers but British). So around the time Duncan was heading to Sodor there was already an air of rebellion among the UK's youth

I took particular inspiration from Rockabilly based on its noted influence on British popular culture, which from what I've seen, adopts some more flashy elements to their clothing in contrast to the traditional suit and dress. I was this close to making duncan wear a bowling shirt

the kerchief is also because of this hehe

so in a moment of genius/delusion, i thought. what if while working at the factory, duncan saw the trends of people using their feed sacks as clothing fabric, and stole a bag or two for himself so he could sew on a strip of the fabric onto his work shirts because he's, ya know, mr. rock n roll

yes i did all that just for a stripe of fabric on his chest i am VERY happy with this choice

btw here's the exact pattern i used (i just ripped it off the internet)

ok that's it thank you for reading through my rambling once again!! lowkey i want to post lil western next but also. i talked abt making rws/formal uniforms for the SR crew so. we'll see what happens next lol

#ttte rusty #ttte duncan #ttte #ttte humanized #wow i typed a lot for duncan #except most of it was just exposition hahaaa #NOW I CAN DRAW THEM INTERACTING YIPPPEEEEEE #pictures in the reception hall #capy posting

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

CAKE FOR A DEAD MAN (I)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER II

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 4.6k

WARNINGS: Angst, problems with food & image, mentions of stalking, unwanted gifts, death, violence, gore, blood, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Color, as most would say, is one of the best aspects of sight. It allows such a myriad of emotions to be expressed—even felt. Red reminds us of passion; navy for elegance and a certain mystique. Not only seen but processed on such a deeper level. Refractions of light that explode into the retina, rod and cone cells that send signals to the brain to help detect that phenomenon like a gift of evolution.

But when you can’t see any of that—color—who’s to explain what the red of the roses actually looks like above a deep shade of gray? That navy blue looks even darker, too. Closer to black. Light purple becomes the same hue as the curtains your mother hangs on the windows, but you can’t tell if that’s really purple or not. How can it be anything other than slate? People tell you it is…at least, those who’ve already met their partners. Their soulmates.

But there’s little hope for you on that front, really.

You wave to the photographer, calling out a broken Russian goodbye as he smiles warmly at you, nodding his head in your direction before watching you walk out of the studio room’s doors. A large gaggle of other finely-clad women surrounds you on the way to the changing rooms.

Even with three-and-a-half years of living in this northern country, your mastery of the native language starts and ends with simple pleasantries.

The modeling agency was packed today and you still had so much to do. You stuff down your internal list of scheduled fittings, meetings, and more booked photoshoots that extend into the chilled evening of Yekaterinburg, Russia. There was just so little time.

Gray hallways and white overhead lights meet your eyes between blinks, potted plants boring and drab. If you could see the shades in between the leaves you’d know you would find them beautiful, but like this…well, they’re just sad.

You shake your head and shuffle to the back of the group, throwing tiny smiles to the kind, and stunning, women who you’ve had little real conversation with. One kisses you on the cheek and pats your shoulder, and you laugh brightly before pulling to the rear, face heating.

“The bastard is finally dead!” The familiar voice causes you to freeze with one heeled foot in the air—fingers picking at the strap of your silk dress absentmindedly before it, too, stills. They were always forcing you into silk with feathered accent pieces of intricate detail. Like a bird, or, Seraph, more precisely.

Blinking in surprise, you turn around just in time to lock onto the drained shades that make up Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova before she grips your shoulders harshly.

Her collarbone-length hair swishes heavily, but it’s not as violent as the smile on her sharp face.

“Finally, little Солнышко! This is perfect news. The bastard is dead!” Alyona’s English is very good, and of course, it would be—when she was younger she dreamed of being an English teacher. That was before she realized she was just about the most attractive woman of her generation. The harsh Russian accent still bleeds through.

You laugh and grip her long, pale, arms; seeing her in a blouse and pencil skirt as you tilt your head, asking, “Christ, Alyona, give me a warning next time. If I rip anything I’m in deep shit.”

“Gah,” Your friend waves a hand and releases you, tiny eyes creasing, “forget about that—did you not hear me the first time? My father, Seraph, listen to me! He is finally dead! It happened just this morning but I only got word ten minutes ago.” She laughs, throwing her hands up, and you hide your amused exasperation, limbs tired but it won’t stop you from appreciating your friend’s enthusiasm. Alyona squeals, “A train hit him!”

You cringe internally, face pulling taunt. “Oh,” your chest sputters as you clear your throat, “that’s, uh, that’s…great?”

“Of course it is!” Hands capture your cheeks, squishing as you worry about the state of your makeup. Alyona speaks brightly, “We need to celebrate, Солнышко. Come.”

Before you can protest she’s dragging you away from the other women and the direction of the changing rooms, all had stopped and were listening intently from behind; nosey. Everyone in the Allurement Modeling Agency building, AMA for short, just had that way about them—your business was their business and vice versa.

And Alyona had no problem airing out her grievances with her estranged father to the choir. She lived for drama.

“Aly,” You huff a soft breath at her and her bobbing hair. She said it was blonde and you had no other option but to believe her. Not yellow-blonde, she had specified. Ice-blonde. “I can’t go out in company property. Plus, I have a photoshoot for Chanel in under an hour. The photographer needs me to be ready.”

But it seems your concerns fall on deaf ears and you can’t help but chuckle and grin at your friend's lack of care about work. She herself was a model, but the entire company halted when she said it should.

You were truly surprised they hadn’t fired her yet.

“And I’m sure Chanel has an absolutely hideous dress for you, my Seraph.” Ashen eyes turn back to stare at you, and once she realizes you wouldn’t fight her, her grip releases. “Some Медовик will do you good before the vultures close in, yes? Let us hope they don’t shackle you to those damning lace lingerie sets over cake.”

Your head tilts with a short sigh, and you walk beside the woman in your clacking heels. The sound of the authentic honey cake seemed to itself to coat your insides with a lust for it—dripping layers of plush gray sponge with pale cream. Your mouth waters.

“I’m only eating half a piece.” You settle slowly, though you hate your own words as your stomach rolls with hunger. Some time outside will do you good, anyway. Perhaps you’ll learn to photosynthesize like a plant. “I still have to be able to fit into those fabric contraptions, you know.”

Alyona squeals and loops her arm in yours easily, bright teeth in a grin like a cat. Ever one to run into objects and lacking a general ability to walk in a straight line, the support from Alyona was much appreciated. Her help with lending an arm went far, especially for you.

Your heart warms with soft care.

“I’ll take it! We can split one.” When you both make it to the front of the building, having grabbed your jackets and purses on the way there, you come to three familiar faces while chatting with Alyona about both of your upcoming bookings.

“I was under the impression you had the day filled,” Petya speaks, heavy accent like stone. The clean-shaven man in his late thirties was built and wearing a dark suit, the tallest out of the other two—Aleksandr and Yefim—who both wear similar outfits. They were resting in the front seating area of AMA as they’d been doing for weeks already, waiting for you to come and go like escorts.

Well, bodyguards, to be more precise. Yours.

You smile politely to them while Yefim sends one back with his boyish charm and dimples. “On break. We’re off to get some Medovik down the street. I can pay for you if you’d want a piece.”

“Of course, the three will have to tag along, hm?” Alyona huffs, staring blandly as you both slow to a stop near the large white entrance, colored as if it was Heaven’s gates. Your friend had said coloring around this building was rare. Whites and grays. Green chairs, apparently. “I’m just ecstatic.”

Petya didn’t like you, and, you assumed, Aleksandr didn’t either. With the ladder, his sharp face was always too blank to tell; body tight and unwelcoming with weasel-like eyes. Petya was simpler, blatantly more outward with his distaste.

“Not a smart idea. This isn’t a game to play, девушка.” Alyona’s face tightens, and you swiftly placate her with a squeeze to her bicep. You level Petya with a tilt of your head and a calm look.

“What harm could a bite to eat do? It won’t cost you your life.” You chuckle smoothly. “Let me get you all something—it’s nearly noon, I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

“I could eat,” Yefim eases in, hands resting in his pockets as he stares at you. His accent was calmer than the others, and his face softer. Out of all of them, you liked him best.

Your eyes rest on Yefim with a thankful expression. He smirks and nods. Aleksandr, as always, says nothing beyond a small scoff and a look around the room with shifting feet.

When the tallest of the group does nothing to push back his sneer and heavy glare, you hum under your breath as you expect the words before they rush from his sharp mouth.

“I will have to speak to your mother about this.” The accent makes him sound so stiff—like a statue. A man built up of gravel and snow; concrete in his veins instead of blood.

“Oh, yes,” Alyona mutters, “the Consul herself.”

Your nose moves in a sigh, but you ease the situation with a simple, “Do whatever you need to, Petya. I know it’s your job and I’m thankful regardless, but we’ll be back in less than an hour. It’s no big deal.” You pause, plastering on an innocent look. “We’re hungry.”

For whatever reason you always envisioned Petya with dark eyes—blacks more deep than the clothes they put Alyona in to off-set your given whites when you two are fitted together. But the man’s eyes were so painfully light it made you not want to stare into them.

Petya grunts and continues to glare, working his jaw. After a moment he lets off a large huff and shakes his head in disapproval.

“Half-an-hour. No more.”

Alyona manhandles you out the door quickly, growling, “I do not know how you can stand this, Seraph. Bullshit, all of it.”

“It’s only until everything goes back to normal,” you reason, hearing three sets of footsteps behind you as the guards follow into the chilled air of Yekaterinburg. There was no reason to take a car, everything was within walking distance of one another in this dense city populated by over one million people. “My mother’s worried is all. I’m not going to make their lives harder while they’re only doing what they’re told to do.”

Light eyes dart to your face, your friend’s hand guiding you along the concrete with a dim concern. “I do not like all of this, Солнышко. It’s been months…Are the gifts still coming?”

Your expression tightens, lips going stiff. Alyona notices and changes the subject for now.

“Ah, but what am I doing—I’m ruining the celebration! Come, come, we will talk about my engagement to Nikifor while we eat.”

Nikifor, her soulmate. The one who brought her color and music with his performance at a nightclub two years ago; the only thing standing in the way of their marriage was Alyona’s strict father. Something about the man wanting someone with higher standing than a musician for his famous daughter.

“How is he?” You ask, blinking away the thought of finally being able to see color for the first time and how that must feel. A piece of you would always be envious of that.

Alyona must have blushed because she always tilts her nose lower when she does. You smile and chuckle under your breath.

“Wonderful,” is all she offers, but the giddy grin on her lips is knowledge enough.

You both make it to the small bakery at the end of the long street, heels clicking and cheeks chilled. People had turned to look at you, gaping at the two models still in their expensive clothes and attempting to take pictures on their phones. All were strong-armed by the three men close behind you who bark things in Russian.

Alyona opens the door of the bakery for you and you accidentally knock your shoulder into the frame, giving a sheepish smile before carefully walking to your regular corner table. Your tall friend goes to order while you take your seat with a sigh, Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim all shuffling in and sending glances to you; looking over the interior with sharp and calculating eyes.

It’s like they think the sky’s going to fall, you surmise, twitching your lips their way. They’ve been here before with me, do they still not trust it?

Back when things had been less serious they’d allowed you to go where you wished with them—parks, for walks, stores—now it was only work and home. As if you didn’t already feel so trapped.

“You boys can pick what you want,” you call to them softly. “My treat.”

“On the job,” is all Petya grunts before he takes his normal seat at the table closest to the door; everything in his bright sight. Your hand lightly tightens on the table, but you keep your expression placid.

You’d tried to get him to lighten up, Aleksandr too, but the two weren’t as open to you as Yefim. There was a blatant distrust of Westerners here, even if you had given up your citizenship to move where your mother works in the Consulate building of this very city.

While she was still employed by the American government, that didn’t stand in any sense with you. But on top of you being a famous model, your mother was well-known, regardless, and that ultimately fell back on you.

Yefim’s gray eyes flickered to a case of Bird Milk Cake with a hidden longing as he grasped the back of his chair and slid into it—floorboards creaking loudly. You notice and chuckle under your breath, cheeks heating at the sight as the man’s gaze moves to you and blinks in surprise. He quickly averts his gaze and clears his throat, fixing the collar of his dress shirt.

You’d buy him a piece before you left; maybe kiss his cheek just to see him go all blurry-eyed. He certainly was adorable.

“The baker’s boy is staring again,” Alyona’s voice snaps into your head, and you peer at your friend’s face, startled.

“What?” You ask as a plate is set in the middle of the table holding a single piece of Medovik. Your mouth fills with saliva, fingers immediately moving like a starved dog to grab a fork and cut into the layers; you shovel it into your mouth before you hiss to pace yourself.

You chew slowly, swallow, and give Alyona a confused look.

She slides you an unimpressed frown. “The boy. At the front.”

“He’s probably gaping at you,” you take another bite, rubbing at your cheek with your free hand as people walking by the front window peek in with wide eyes; your men glare and move their chairs as the ground squeaks again.

Your friend scoffs and mutters in Russian, shaking her head. Her hand waves quickly, barking, “Look!”

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you look over and dab your face with a napkin before you get locked into a staring match with the dark eyes of the man up-front.

He wears an apron, head a mess of curls, and his upper arms stained with flour. You blink and pause, wondering if…perhaps…A pause, a sickly hope in your chest…but nothing happens and the contact is broken when he ducks his head before looking at the counter.

Gritting your teeth, you focus back on your cake and shove aside the sinking feeling in your chest.

Idiot, you criticize yourself. Now why would you think that would work?

“Nothing, then?” Alyona clicks her tongue and takes up her own fork. “Do not fret, we will find him eventually, Seraph.”

“It’s not like I would know.” The air goes a temperature warmer—bodies stilling.

While soulmate colorblindness was simply the reality of life, diagnosed colorblindness was still a curse that couldn’t be solved. If you ever saw your soulmate…you wouldn’t even know it.

All because of that stupid accident.

You act unbothered by the shift in the conversation and sigh. “You said you wanted to talk about your engagement,” your words remind the woman and she sets off into a tangent about the dress and the location after a moment of quiet concern. A church, she explained, the big one down the road where they’ll be a few days after the civil ceremony and the outer city venue.

Alyona is only twenty, but you know that it’s incredibly common here to get married this early. Listening, you offer input here and there, but as it always does, the topic falls back to you as you eat the slice of cake dedicated to a dead man.

Your knife-driven problem.

The gifts.

Already, you begin feeling uncomfortable.

“Aly,” you try to grumble, resisting the urge to eat the entire piece of Медовик as you put your utensil down. Your hand jerks over the table and you glare down at it in annoyance, ignoring the tensed nerves. “It’s not important—”

“How many more pieces of jewelry has he sent, hm? Letters?” The woman shivers and rubs at her arms. “It is horrendous behavior. Total fuck-up. And the fact that no one has caught him? Gah!”

Your spine straightens itself, eyes sliding to the people gawking outside the window and seeing the multiple faces, shuffling bodies that pile next to each other like sardines in a can.

“I just don’t want to think about it, okay?” You shake your head, turning away as a pit forms in your gut; realizing the fragility of your psyche when you think about the fact that anyone outside could be the source of your problem. The stalker. “If it’s just the gifts I can deal with them—the letters I never even read. If I ignore it they’ll stop eventually. All of this can be one big bad dream.”

Your hand continues to shake on the table, not exactly in your realm of control just as the inability to walk in a straight line is. It was no wonder why they never let you do runway shows, you think sarcastically. You’d be stuck in a photographer’s room for the rest of your career.

Alyona pushes a strand of her hair out of her face.

“Seraph…you know it does not work like that.” Of course you did, but asking for help was never your strong suit. And your mother had already given you three well-trained bodyguards to escort you to and from work—that was more than enough protection.

When you think of the expensive parcels that had been dropped at AMA’s front desk you had to restrain the honey cake coming back up your gullet. All of them had been expensive; pieces you could afford on a model's pension but still wildly elegant to even touch much less own in multitude. Gold bracelets inlay with black opal and sapphire, necklaces with Tanzanite, and rings of ruby, your mother had told you this when you had brought them to her off of only seeing washed-out tones on your part.

You never showed anyone the letters; they lived in a lockbox under the bed in your apartment. Concerningly, lately the ‘presents’ had been losing the plot. Random bits of glass and shiny items—a slow deterioration but somehow even more scary.

Even the older women at the front desk were softening the usual sneers they wore when you walked in every day, no longer chiding you in Russian they know you can’t understand. The way they seemed pitiful rubbed you the wrong way.

You pull your jacket closer to you and rub a hand slowly along your thigh in a soothing gesture. Aly pulls her brows in.

“I want to help you, little Солнышко, but I don’t think this is something I can fix with my womanly charms.” Your lips release a snort, tiny chuckles hitting the air.

Alyona joins you before silence once again lapses.

“...Do you feel alright?” Your friend asks honestly. Worry was plain on her face.

You smile, but your lungs tighten in your chest while your heart acts like a dancer and lightly skips beats. “By next month,” your hand shakes over your thigh, “all of this will be in the past. No one could keep this up forever. I just have to…wait it out. It’s only the gifts, I can live with that—jewelry isn’t hurting anybody except his wallet.”

The woman narrows her eyes at you and frowns, but it’s not long before she goes back to her half of the Медовик and takes a bite with a moan of enjoyment. You rarely lied, so you supposed she had no trouble believing you.

If only you could fraud yourself like that.

“Quite a wealthy bastard, though, no?” Alyona slyly pokes fun and you blink quickly.

“Aly!”

“I am just saying!”

You press your hand to your lips to hide your loud laugh, Yefim looking over with a certain airiness to his expression before Aleksandr jerks his shoulder to face him back forward. The two glare at each other as Petya stares violently at the front door—daring those outside to try and come in and ask for a picture.

While you hadn’t come back to this bakery in a while, the three men always seemed to pick the exact same table; the one with the perfect view of everything going on near the door. While it was a small distance away, it allowed for quick action in any direction.

You blink away as the wooden boards under the bodyguards’ table creak again, loud enough to cause Alyona to frown in that direction. Petya sends an annoyed look down and scowls.

“How do you know he’s not just stealing them,” you bring back the conversation, smirking. “You know? Maybe he’s a,” your voice lowers an octave in fake secrecy and Aly’s eyes roll, amused, “jewel thief.”

“God above,” the woman huffs. “That would be the twist.”

The both of you joked and picked fun, but that half an hour went past quickly, and soon it was time to get back to the agency so you could change again. The photographer couldn’t take pictures of air and play it off as you with a smile and a nervous stutter.

As you stand you stare long at the cases of baked goods, licking the remnants of cream off your lips

“We can buy another, Seraph,” Aly suggests, fixing her coat. You shake your head immediately.

“No, no, I’ve already had enough sugar. I had two muffins for breakfast. Chocolate.” Your face pulls into a cringe at the words. “Cheat day.”

Alyona’s lips go tighter, but she says nothing as her hair is puffed out of her face. She out of everyone knows how demanding modeling can be—your entire life is dictated by two things: calories, and appointments.

You turn to Yefim with his wavy hair and his soft, dimpled, smile; casual eyes. Not your soulmate, based on his lack of reaction the first time you had met, but in that time you’d grown a tiny crush on the man, admittingly. He was kind and treated you with respect. Capable and reliable—how could you ask for more than that?

“Yefim?” Your voice calls out, a smile on your lips. The man looks over and blinks in surprise. He clears his throat, stuttering as he shifts in his seat. The wood tilts slightly under him and he steadies himself on the edge of the table.

“Да, Ma’am?”

Restraining a giggle, you cock your head as Alyona snorts.

“Do you want a slice of Bird Milk Cake?” Petya slides you a blank look and Aleksandr taps his fingers to the table. You poke fun, “For when you’re on break, of course.”

Yefim’s eyes sparkle in their colorless state, a handsome smile taking his lips back along his face. He makes a move to stand up, floorboards squealing loudly as weight is lessened.

“I would be in your debt—”

The world explodes into a slate-gray blaze of heat and hellfire.

Your body is thrown back before you can even begin to understand that you’re in danger, panic completely bypassed for a total blank sensation of confusion. Spine slapping into the glass of the window, your form is hurled by a vast boom out of the bakery entirely before it slams to the concrete multiple feet away.

You slide, rolling in a mess of limbs and ripped silk. For a good moment, you have no idea what just transpired, confusedly lifting your head from the ground and blinking below you as everything rings. Your hand grips the side of your head, the thick liquid seeping in between your fingers as you peel it back and look with shaky vision.

Blackened blood is coated along your palm, slipping along your wrist as you tilt your hand up in horrified uncertainty.

Everything comes back in a millisecond of screaming and running feet; like a switch being flipped. You snap your head back to what remains of the bakery as blood slides down your temple.

“A-Alyona?!” Heels sliding, you stand but stumble back down just as quickly, hands slapping against the ground as you raggedly cough more, chest burning from the force at which you’d been thrown.

What the hell had just happened? An explosion?

There was little left of the bakery beside the front door, smoke billowing out of the broken windows as gray flames spark with the familiar sound of burning material—a sharp burn is taken into your nostrils.

Dragging an arm forward, you grasp something warm and wet in an attempt to get up again. You look to the side and immediately scream at what you see.

Yefim’s upper body was completely fine besides the burns and the lack of his hair, the peeling flesh…it was the absence of the entire lower body that struck you with waves of horror. You slam a hand to your lips and wail, slipping back on kicking legs as tears well in your tear ducts.

Guts were leaking over the concrete, and the dark, gaping, wound spread a fast puddle out around the sputtering that made his chest look like it was moving. Eyes flutter, lashes flapping quickly.

He looked confused, and that was perhaps the worst part of it.

Yefim died only half a man, his entrails pooling out of his ribcage, only twenty seconds after you’d asked him if he wanted a piece of cake. Your fingers hide the loud sobs as you stare into this blank expression, hand shaking so bad that it hits your nose.

“I…I,” you stutter, shapes and flashes rushing back and forth at the sides of your vision. Pressure holds at your left shoulder.

“Seraph!” The sentence falls off into feminine Russian cursing and screaming, a grip shaking you back and forth, urging you to listen.

There are wails and the roar of cars, but you don’t have to be given a speech to know the truth about the toll as the fire burns hotter and the blood runs faster. Petya, Aleksandr, and Yefim are dead. They had been sitting on top of something that had triggered when Yefim had released weight from it.

The creaky floorboards.

“Seraph!” Alyona tries again, grabbing you under the shoulders and dragging you away from the corpse as bystanders’ phones flash with pictures being taken. There’s just so much screaming. “Seraph, please, we need to move! The fire is spreading!”

They had been sitting right on top of it. But…but they always sat there…they…they were always…

In the corner of your eye, a dark phantom looms across the street as the first sirens of the police cars race down the road; a burning silhouette of black mist and ashen smoke.

As the bakery burns and the corpse of Yefim grows cold, it slips away into the forming crowd.

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#cod nikto #nikto #nikto x reader #mwii nikto #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #cod mw22 #x female reader #call of duty mw2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #ravishing allure

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