#her name is poppy and she’s deranged and i love her | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

suntrastar · 4 years ago

Text

abstract: chapter 3

chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

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

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh. And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

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jupibu · 5 years ago

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“I am that bitch” Playlist

Here is a description of an all women playlist featuring super varied genres and feels for dancing and raging to all at once. No boys allowed! (in the list of artists. All can feel free to enjoy the jams!)

1. Little Simz - Venom

Song description: Little Simz is a highly skilled UK rapper who has been killing it for quite some time now (“do you want to see a dead body? prolly not”). This track features some spooky strings and a beat you can bounce to while you smolder with rage. What’s not to love? This and the rest of the album, Grey Area, are absolutely fantastic.

Choice lyrics: They would never wanna admit I’m the best here from the mere fact that I’ve got ovaries. It’s a woman’s world, so to speak. Pussy, you sour, never givin’ credit where it’s due ‘cause you don’t like pussy in power. VENOM.

2. Poppy - Bite Your Teeth

Song description: Switching gears to some heavy metal (forgive me if this characterization is off, rock sub-genres are very difficult to tease out if you’re not paying close enough attention). This soft spoken lady will rock your face off with very to-the-point lyrics. Though Poppy is a bit of a controversial figure, I salute her emancipation from the clutches of a shitty dude and bow down to the achievement that is her most recent album, I Disagree.

Choice lyrics: Bite your own teeth, don’t cry just bite your own teeth. Don’t cry, keep on trying. Don’t cry, keep on trying to bite. Creeps are creeping, teeth are sinking into my teeth.

3. Saweetie & GALXARA - Sway With Me

Song description: From the Birds of Prey soundtrack (which may have served as a bit of inspiration for this playlist) this pop banger is too much fun. You can imagine yourself kicking ass and taking names with Harley and the crew. Saweetie and GALXARA are awesome together and make you want to dance.

Choice lyrics: Tell your people to call me if it is ‘bout that chicken, the most wanted in Gotham, all your diamonds is missing!

4. The Like - What I Say and What I Mean

Song description: A little early 2000s indie rock from girl group, The Like has fun crunchy guitar chords and a couple cool harmonies for jumping around and shout singing along to. Rock on, girls!

Choice lyrics: Never going back and forth I’m only going forward, that’s what I keep saying. Never going back and forth I’m only going back, that’s what I mean. Something haunts my dreams. Don’t know what it means.

5. SOPHIE - HARD

Song description: Deranged electronic music is what this is. Just industrial, sexually charged, clanging metal and snapping polymers to oppress the senses. SOPHIE’s music is excellent and interesting. Her songs almost always have fun juxtapositions like the sweet little voice in this track against the noise that is the beat. Shout out to all the trans ladies!

Choice lyrics: Latex gloves, smack so hard, PVC, I get so hard. Platform shoes kick so hard, ponytail, yank so hard.

6. Doja Cat - Rules

Song description: Meme goddess and all around fun artist, Doja Cat has a very eclectic style. This track features a sexy, laid back vibe, and Doja just has the coolest attitude on it. (She also has a club banger on the Birds of Prey soundtrack!)

Choice lyrics: Look at me like I’m alien, bitch, I’m fucking reptilian. Bitch, bitch, ah. All y’all bitches was wrong, talkin’ bout how I fell off, you ain’t even get on. Bitch, bitch, ah.

7. Amy Winehouse - Me & Mr. Jones

Song description: A swinging, slower-tempo, horn band backing Amy’s fabulous vocals and attitude-filled lyrics. She is that bitch. Rest in peace, girl.

Choice lyrics: What kind of fuckery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig.

8. Lily Allen - Insincerely Yours

Song description: The anthem for an office party where you resent your bosses for making you work long hours and not recognizing you. Lily Allen may have a sweet voice but she cuts right through bullshit and makes it clear why she’s at this lame event anyway on this track. This pop tune features a smooth R&B feeling beat accompanied with very jaded lyrics. Everyone can relate.

Choice lyrics: I’m not your friend and I can’t pretend, I ain’t being funny, funny. Let’s be clear, I’m here, I’m here to make money money money. If I force a smile I can make it worth while. Don’t touch me honey, honey. Let’s be clear, I’m here, I’m here to make money money money.

9. Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Heads Will Roll

Song description: Another early 2000s indie rock song but with a very different feel to The Like. What can I say? When Karen O says that heads will roll, you believe it, and it makes you want to dance!

Choice lyrics: Off with your head, dance ‘til you’re dead. Heads will roll, heads will roll, heads will roll, on the floor.

10. Beyonce - Formation

Song description: I mean come on, it’s Beyonce. This track in particular has such a weird beat that I love and the predominant mood here is “I slay.”

Choice lyrics: Always stay gracious, best revenge is your paper.

Enjoy!

#little simz #Poppy #saweetie #galxara #the like #sophie #doja cat #amy winehouse #lily allen #yeah yeah yeahs #karen o #beyonce #grey area #i disagree #birds of prey #i am that bitch #playlist

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thatcanadianfangirl · 6 years ago

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Colours -Part 2-

Jackson Whittemore X Jen

Requested: yes

Plot: Every single soul sees in color until they lose the hope of finding a soulmate.

Word Count: 2,949

A/N: I'm still struggling. Sorry, but here the second part to colours. I know it took forever and I'm truly sorry. Also only most of this is edited, not all of it. If you are younger than 13 please don't read my works, mature content.

part 1

It’s been a week of hiding out in my apartment and that day had become unspeakable. Avoiding life’s reality became my new routine, even if the voice deep down inside whispered ‘Snap the fuck out of it. That’s your damn soulmate.’ I never did, It wasn't known as logical in my anxious working brain.

I replayed every step of that day in my head over and over again. The moments of my heart having a panic attack in my rib cage. The way Jackson’s now blue eyes sparkled, vibrantly, and the way I dashed off from him and away from my favourite café. I was scared, I was overwhelmed. If I’m being honest I thought I would never find him. As the horrid thought started to settled in ,he suddenly rolls up out of fucking nowhere.

I was startled, like a spooked horse from a gunshot.

In my mind there was nothing else I could do, I believed I was destined to level down for less. I was wrong and it happened incredibly fast, one minute I was okay with only having a soulmate. The next, I was facing my true soulmate, In my mind everything was unfolding too fast.

The anxious and eager knock on my apartment door threw me out of my strangling mind. I settled the chip bag I was devouring just seconds ago, down beside me. Grabbed a hold of the remote, pausing the Disney picture on the screen. Searching for a clearer sound of who decided to disturb my depressed peace.

Jen don't ignore me, I left you alone for a full seven days. You know rule number three. I bribed your co-worker to cover your ass, so I better get a thanks because it wasn't easy. Also I know your in there, I could The Little Mermaid playing before you paused it. I mean where else who you be, lets be real.” Monica yelled through the door, only coming out as a loud murmur. Though I could hear every word perfectly fine.

Rule number three:

If something emotional or personal happens to the other. Leave them alone for a whole seven days, then you can act like a psycho .

Rule number Four..

I sighed loudly rolling my eyes to the back of my head, I yanked the comfortable blanket from around me. My seven days are up and I'm not too happy about it. I’m glad Rule number three wasn't made any longer, because I don't think I’d ever go back to reality if more days were added.

once the Seven days are up it’s time to let reality flow again, no matter the conditions. Within those days on vacation from the real world my house has turned into a disgusting hibernation cave.

Turning off the T.V I scooted my butt of the couch and towards the door to let my crazy bestfriend inside. I pushed the door in a little bit with my body before turning the dead bulk and swinging the door open.

I had to admit she looked different, maybe it was because I’ve always saw her in a colourless state. Or that she actually did change within the days we haven't seen each other. Her hair now a dirty blonde, almost reaching a light sandy brown. Her eyes a dull grey with small hints of blue specks. Monica’s skin was peachy with a tinge of a tan, flawless like the rest of her.

“Whoa” The word was shared between us. like and echo through an abandoned house. I faintly smiled at her, I didn't know what that meant. “I never thought I’d see you again.” Monica spoke defiantly sensing my confusion.

“I know the colourless me was almost like an alter ego, a depressed alter ego that hid me under multiple layers. That Jen is a distant memory now... God I missed your ass.” I spoke understanding where she was coming from.

We’re both captured in silence before colliding into each other’s embrace. My arms wrapping around her neck as her’s circled around my waist. I breathed in relief, god I missed her more than I would of liked to admit. We stayed into each others arms, taking this moment all in. Without her. I couldn't see a life without her, She’s my sister.

“I missed you too.” She mumbled but I heard her clearly. I started to pull away while she continued to talk. “But I knew you needed the time and space to gather yourself again. And of course rule number three.” Monica said light heartily.

“Yeah I did and I’m ready to return to my life, clean my apartment. Go back to work and when I’m ready, I’ll find him at the cafe down the road. And Jeremy is a sweet guy all you have to do is tell him that you already have a soulmate. He’d understand.” I smiled at her, happy to have her back.

“It’s okay you can tell him for me and while you're at it tell him I’m a lesbian too.” We laughed together at her comment. Jeremy was a dork and so damn clueless, but I couldn't ask for better co-worker.

Monica obviously chose to stay over, helping me clean up the pig’s den I’ve been currently living in for the past week. I truly don't know how I survived in this filth, it was absolutely disturbing. After taking my beats pill from the bathroom, Monica played her music an we began our cleaning marathon.

We danced and goofed around, having fun and making the most out of it. With her anything can become fun, she was that kind of person. Though through the process I heard a lot of ‘Holy shit you’re so disgusting’ or ‘I think you’re brother came to visit early’ which got boring after the first ten times she said them.

But what can I do, I love the girl.

waking up to a clean and quite atmosphere felt refreshing for a recovering mind. I remembered just days ago, I woke up to a loud TV playing something from the Disney Channel. I didn't usually fall asleep watching T.V, but when I do. I’m mostly likely not feeling the best and always something Disney.

Disney is my comfort blanket bringing me back to my childhood-self. Guarding me from the adult world that happened to be my reality.

I tapped on my Shawn Mendes playlist from my phone for it to be heard from my Bluetooth speaker. I loved the way Shawn’s voice soothed me to a calming state that felt so unbelievable. Gathering myself in the shower today felt different, maybe it was the first time in forever I felt like my old self again.

The cold water cascades down on my body waking up every tired muscle and cell. feeling more refreshed than I’ve felt in a very long time. It was amazing. My hands slipped all over my body, once they reached my left shoulder blade they slowed. Feeling the soulmate mark embedded into my skin, rough and texturized. I could the shape at the tips of my fingers, it’s a simple leaf.

what’s the meaning behind it, there has to be a reason why it’s that, right? My mother and father share a poppy on their wrists. They say they know what it means, but didn't want to tell me till I found my soulmate. Now they can, but I don't think I want to know. It’s their mean I didn't want to intrude.

I had gotten out of the shower and began to get ready for the day ahead. somewhere deep down I could feel this day is going to change my life forever.

Pulling my olive green bootie on I said goodbye to the cat and I was out the door. Hoping that they give me enough courage to enter the café that my soulmate was employed at

To relief stress from taking controlling of my body, leading me back to the apartment. I lost myself to my workout playlist, finding the beat and slightly dancing to it. Surprisingly it felt amazing, my spirit felt free and happy.

It wasn't long before I found myself standing in front of the beautiful café. Removing my earbuds with a quick yank I stared at the café’s big words. ‘The Black Rose’ The place I adored and happened to hold my mate hostage.

One thought crossed my mind, why haven't we made eye contact sooner? I mean I have been going to this coffee shop since I moved here. I think I've seen him a few times before, but no eye contact. It seemed weird, almost unnaturally strange.

“Miss are you going to go in or stare at it like you're banned from it?” A smooth and gentle voice flooded my ears. My head snapped to the source, a little boy, no older than thirteen. “Um-.” My words got caught in my throat, I must of looked deranged just staring at the sign.

The boy smiled at me sweetly before walking forward and opening the door. Still the smile stayed as he held the glass door open for me. There was no chance for me to deny him now, especially with those brown puppy dog eyes. Brown was a gorgeous eye colour, But blue seemed to be above it.

I looked around quickly, not catching anyone who had saw my strange staring. I return his bright smile as I walked in , “Thank you, you're such a gentlemen.” words spilled out before any thought. “Of course, my mom taught me to be.”

I was a little amazed at his manners, because I’ve bumped into teenagers around his age before. They didn't have anything close to what he had, rude, anxious little demons. This boy a pure angel with his adorable smile and politeness.

“Than she was doing something right.” Was my last words to the young boy, my mind no longer distracted. My mood changing from happiness to determination, it was now or never.

This is my soulmate, nobody else's.

This is my life, nobody else's

I walked my strong path up to the barista having one thing on my mind. I need to talk to Jackson, not even worrying, if he was working or not.

Melting brown eyes stared into mine, “Is Jackson here?” I asked breathless, his name just rolled off my tongue like it was the most natural thing. Amusement showed on his face. his one eyebrow lifted, as if testing me like I wasn't worthy.

“And who are you exactly?” He asked carefully,

“His soulmate.” With those words the guy’s head was over his shoulder immediately. “Jackson!” He hollered loudly and waited. My heart pounded hard in my chest, this was it. I’m going to see my soulmate, actually see him.

“Yeah?” His husky voice muffled behind a door. My mind slipped out of confidence, this was a terrible idea. What was I thinking, I obviously wasn't!

“There’s someone here for you.”

Well it’s too late to back out now. remember, now or never.

“I’ll be a few seconds.”

You know never seems like the better option.

The barista’s head whipped back towards me, “Tell him I headed outside, thank you.” I spoke before walking towards the door. Outside I glanced down at a broken crack in the pavement, it felt strange, in a perfect world nothing was meant to be broken, maybe bent, but never broken. It reminded me that this world was far from perfect.

“Listen,” Jackson’s voice wavered, I turned around startled by the way it had affected me. Seeing him forcing his vibrant eyes to the ground was confusing. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Last night was a complete and utter mistake. It was only a distraction, not an attachment. Honestly it didn't help like I thought it would, but it cant happen again. I have a soulmate...” He trailed off.

It took milliseconds to put two and two together, he slept with someone else to forget me. it didn't work, but my soulmate had sex with another women. I didn't want it to hurt, but god did it ever. Like a rope wrapped it’d self around my heart and pulled until it cut into two. It was a bloody crime.

My throat grew to a throb as my eyes stung as tears lined my eyes. Fuck it hurt. “I know because she is me.” I choked my words out before turned my way back home. My hand clutched towards my mouth trying to stop my sobs.

“Shit.” Jackson mumbled under he’s breath. I heard his feet charging after me, I wanted on of those unnatural cracks to open up and take me under. It was too late, Jackson hooked his hand in mine. Tingles erupted and made their way through my body. Making my mood change rapidly. He yanked me back and towards him.

My free hand made it’s way under my eyes and wiped my warm tears away. My throat’s throb no longer in tact. “Wow you're breathtaking.” His tone dreamy as I raised my eyes to his blue ones.

I’ve never seen anything more memorizing than the shade of blue in his eyes. His perfect and sharp features, his skin having no flaws. He was perfect and couldn't be more blessed.

“She really meant nothing, It-”

“Stop, Jackson, I know.” I said softly.

“God your voice sounds as if you stole it from an angel.” he said in the same tone as before. It made a giggle erupt from my chest at the way he said it. “I think you just took my breath away.” He spoke seriously as his expression was blank.

“Jackson I think we need to start again if you want your slip up to be left behind.” I slide my hand out of his as my rational thoughts came back to me. Regretting it because I was know missing how his physical contact made me feel.

“Okay, well at least I'm on break.” He said lifting up his wrist and checking the time. “I have thirty minutes, now walk a little ways down the sideway.” He directed. I smiled with a confused expression I started walking backwards, “And why exactly I am I doing this?” I asked him still looking into his vibrant eyes, I don't think I could ever get tired of that color.

“You wanted to start over, so we are. You’ll come walking back, distracted my your phone or that cute dog across the street..” I whipped my head to the other side of the street when he said ‘cute dog’ and there was in fact a beautiful dog.

It was a white German Shepard, It was almost like I was colourless again. except the colour of it’s fur happened to be brighter. I had spotted it’s light honey coloured eyes once it glanced in my direction. One beautiful creature.

“Jen” At the sound of my name rolling off his tongue I mentally purred. I loved the way he said it. I turned towards him pulling my lips inward as I got distracted before I was meant to. “Sorry.” I laughed out.

He rolled his eyes but nevertheless his smile remained. “anyways. you’ll get distracted and ill bump into you. Its an easy plan should go easy.” He said and at that moment I realized he was being completely serious about this. I know it wont be that hard to fall in love with Jackson cause I already adored him.

I did exactly as told and bumped into him, my shoulder pressed against him and the sensation of sparks had me gasping. I dropped my phone that I used for my distraction, Jackson held onto my waist and skillfully rescued my phone from hitting the cement flooring.

A sly smile made it’s way onto his lips as he said “My bad I didn't see you there.” I wanted to laugh because this was already planned out, but I kept my act on. “It’s fine I wasn't watching where I was going.” I responded back. “A beauty like you shouldn't have to.” He spoke out. I couldn't help but feel the blush creep up my neck.

“The names Jackson and I think I just found my Soulmate.” I giggled slightly at the way he said it. He handed me my phone back after I watched him save him number into my phone.

“Jen,” I smiled up at him as he pulled my body closer, “Well, Jen Let me take you out for a cup of coffee.”

I frowned and loosened his grip on me, his face fell just slightly. Just the reaction I was wanting. “I don't do coffee.” I spoke with a vaguely disgusted face.

“What are you talking about? The day I met you. you had a coffee with two sugars and two cream. and you have the audacity to say you don't do coffee.” He spoke in some kind of rant. I rolled my lips in to stopping my laugh, But I knew I couldn't hold it in as I raised my hand to my mouth and laughed.

“That wasn't funny.” He said through gritted teeth playfully. He captured me into his arms and squeezed my to his chest as I continued to laugh. It felt as if we’ve know each other our whole lives instead of a few moments.

Jackson still held me in his arms as our giggles began to diminish in the air. his hold on me loosened a bit and I enjoyed the moment we were in before he had to go back into work.

“Yes I’ll have coffee with you.”

“You didn't have to say I already knew.”

#Jackson Whittemore #Jackson whittmore imagines #teen wolf imagines #teen wolf #thatcanadianfangirl #jackson #Whittemore #teen #wolf #TW imagines

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aiylabaysal · 11 months ago

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"Right here now. Of course my apologies." Aiyla gritted out and turned sharply to avoid flying cookies that crumbled against the wall with impact. "Now is the time for your tone? I mean I'm just asking but if you have any more fun pet names you want to call me get em out now, Suresh. I'll just be busy trying to think of a plan." She shrugged, "There was some lovers quarrel when someone I assume Poppy is seeing kissed a couple people under the mistletoe." She explained innocently, "Poppy yelled, then I missed how the rest happened but spies for Silas Chamberlain. Look it doesn't matter what kiss started what fights or what deranged parents have spies..." She shook her head the absurdity of it, "I'm sure the council will have a lovely time discussing it all." She pinched the bridge of her nose, "It was the first thing I did. I've instructed all the fae to get to safety but I haven't found them all. I haven't-" Her voice broke at the thought of one of the fae winding up injured. She felt sick with the thought and took a brief moment to steel her expression. She shook her head, "Compulsion doesn't cause all black eyes. Does it?" She implored, grabbing hold of his arm, "You are not leaving me to deal with this-" She gestured emphatically, "Quand le chat n’est pas là, les souris dansent." Aiyla laughed, truly laughed, "The thing is you truly believe that." She curled her fingers, "Portal to where that they couldn't escape or do more damage Suresh? Full ideas please. I am literally begging." I'd rather you not be the last of us either."

Suresh scoffed at that, wincing a little as a fight appeared to break out in a corner of the room. He looked up, balling his fists to tussle should he have to. "Aye! I'm right here, ain't I? And don't look like much of a party to me, do it? Your Highness." He gestured vaguely about the space, as if he could hardly be blamed for ditching this disaster when he had. "Reed? Reed? Who's Reed? The witches? What does any of that shite have to do with us? I say we all hightail it back to the Emerald and let 'em kill each other." Still, Aiyla's words did seem to strike him in some way as he pieced the bits around him together in his mind. "They're acting different? Are they being compelled?" He trailed off with a huff, agreeing that, yes, he did not want a tail right now. "Well, best wishes and god-speed. I'm not much good unless you're in the market for a blizzard here, love." He grit his teeth, looking, really, that he did want to disappear again. Another crash sounded nearby, however, and with a grunt, Suresh allowed his nostrils to flare. "Oh, fuck it. I ain't ruining this shirt." He slipped his tee over his head so that he could deploy his own wings and give himself some leverage in the room. "You wanna make a portal, and I'll toss fucks into it? I ain't lookin' to be the last of our kind tonight even if I'd be the best suited for it."

#violence tw #lunarcoveevent9 #chat.suresh

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dearmyjimin · 7 years ago

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BTS as Actors (Hollywood AU)

I read the tags people left as they reblogged my latest edit: Bts as Actors Mockup and many requested to know the full synopsis of the movies, so read on if you are interested on the individual storylines. These are just some thoughts of the complete plots that were in my head as I designed. If you want to write fics based on any of my plots, you’re welcomed to do so but please credit + link back to my tumblr account & edit. Thank you!

TAEHYUNG: THE PRISON GRENADE

Taehyung plays the role of Jang Hyun who was captured for suspected arson. Jang had been seen and nabbed at the Port of Busan when the containers caught fire. Arrested, he was detained and eventually jailed when sufficient evidence worked against him. He doesn’t have a clean record. But his past crimes were mostly petty theft. The police and prison wardens saw him as nothing but an amateur criminal, and left Jang alone. Little did they know that this was his ploy. They had underestimated his abilities, the way his sweet words cold cajole criminals to work for him, his touches in the dark could seek favours from those who lusted after him, his face: pretty, charming and handsome, could make the nastiest men follow his heel like dogs after their masters. Jang was the slyest criminal the police didn’t know they would face, and he’d intentionally let himself be caught, so that he could be thrown into prison, and test his abilities to get himself out. It was all just a challenge to him, a dare that the genius in him gave his conscience. Jang burst his way out of jail with the criminals as his syndicate, just to prove that he was a serpent. He would be caught if he wanted to, and released if he desired.

HOSEOK: THE BRIDGE ACROSS MEMORIES

Hoseok plays the role of Edward Kang Shin, a child who grew up in the farms because his parents passed away during a fishing trip. Ever since his parents’ passing, he had been left in the care of his grandmother. She raised him single-handedly, worked in the fields so that she could send him to the village school. When he’d reached a certain age, Edward started to beg his grandmother to let him do some chores, because he’d wanted to help out at home or in the fields. Deeming him too young to work, she’d told him to focus on his homework or he’d fall back in school. Defiant, and struggling to prove himself, Edward left home one day to pluck seaweed for dinner when his grandmother made a short trip to a neighbour’s house. He’d wanted to show her that he was old enough to do it. So he took his cart, wore his shoes and set off towards the beach. Neighbours who’d passed by looked at him quizzically. It’s odd that Grandma Kang would let her beloved grandson roam around unattended. But he tripped on a rock, and fell into the sea when the waves were dangerous. He’d hit his head against a breakwater and promptly fainted. By mysterious luck, he survived and drifted until a fisherman found him. He took Edward him, raised him, until he was found a job in Seoul to pursue his dream of being a radio DJ. Edward was renamed as Lee Hyojun and he lived under this identity due to lost memories. He started to have dreams that he’d a grandmother, although his adoptive father did not have a mother. He talked about this dreams, and created a radio segment called “Dream and Recall”, where listeners could call in about their dreams. Hyojun (Edward) shared his until he realized that they were too realistic to be considered dreams. They felt real, like Déjà Vus that clung onto his memories. His program started to grow famous, and one day his grandmother tuned in from their village to listen to his segment. She listened to him describe about their past, listened to him describe the poppies and sunflowers in the vast fields, listened to him say he used to have a basket where he’d keep his toys. Stunned, she received help from the younger villagers to call the radio station to request for the radio DJ’s name. Hyojun? Her grandson’s name is Kang Shin. With dimming hope, she’d asked the young villagers to search through Naver for the radio DJ’s program and profile, and found an interview where he’d talked about losing his memory and being discovered by a fisherman. Eventually, his grandmother realizes that he is Kang Jun and she rushes to Seoul to reunite with him.

JUNGKOOK: THE DERANGED BEAST

Jungkook plays the role of Aaron Byun who had been snatched by child traffickers when he was only three. HIs parents had brought him for a trip to the Haeundae beach when he was kidnapped. When he was told he’d been kidnapped, he did not shed a single tear, neither did he cry. Young and innocent, he was the perfect candidate to be the syndicate’s next heir. Raised by the leader (who’d always wanted breed an heir), he was ruthless. Aaron was trained to kill when he needed to, and was told to be as unforgiving as a harsh winter. He grew up strong, fearless and unwavering even with men begged to be kept alive. He forgets that he has two loving parents, forgets that he could have the chance to go to school, grow up normal and have friends, forgets that he is just a boy from busan, one without the blood of innocent people on his hands. Then, one day, he is tasked to kill a aged couple because they had passed through a murder scene and were core witnesses to the syndicate’s crime. He kills them both, but almost falters when his first victim stares at his neckless rather than his face. She whispers, shell-shocked “My son. You’re my son!” The man kneeling beside her starts to cry, not at the situation, but at her words. Aaron fires two bullets and they slump forward. Even then, she crawls towards him and places a hand on his shoe. “You’re my son. My son,” she sobs, tears trickling down her bloodied face; eyes glassy from the life that seeps through her skin to the blood the stains the carpet. “we’ve been looking for you. Always.” After that night, Aaron start to investigate and question his origins. He realizes that he’d killed his biological parents, and they had never stopped searching for him every since he’d been kidnapped. Deranged, Aaron swears that he will destroy the syndicate and crush them into pieces, for they had taken his childhood, his life, his parents and crushed them to smithereens.

SEOKJIN: DRIFTING CLOSER

Seokjin plays the role of Yong Seongu, a neurosurgeon born into a rich, and unrelenting family, where his parents dictated his path, decided what was the best for him and sieved away what wasn’t. He lived through the vast majority of his life trapped and unhappy. He hated being a doctor, but he had to be. One day, he speaks to a random stranger in the park, an old man whose eyes were wiser than his father’s. The old man speaks to him like he speaks to a child, and asks him simple but piercing questions. Seongu realizes that he isn’t happy and that life will pass in a blink of an eye if he continues to let himself stay within a rut. Inspired and somewhat reckless, Seongu quits his job and flies to Europe without the consent of his parents. He lives a carefree life, travels from city to city to take pictures, and explores the reasons why he’d lost his dreams in the first place. He starts to heal, starts to gain inspiration, starts to find a sense of direction in his life. Eventually, he goes back to Seoul and lives away from his estranged parents. He starts a photography company with his savings. Months later, his mother visits him unannounced and notices the difference. There are sparks in his eyes and his footsteps are so light she wonders just how heavy his heart once was. In the end, his parents accept him for who his is and they rebuild their relationship.

JIMIN: WHITE HELL’S MONSTER

Jimin plays the role of Julian Kim, a poor college student studying in Seoul National University. One day he goes for a party and his friends tell him that there is a paid experiment looking for students. Naive and simple, Julian signs up for the paid experiment and arrives at the venue of the centre. He is met with a doctor, who explains that he will be blindfolded and lead to a room to sit to await his turn. However, time ticks and the room gets quieter by the hours. He doesn’t know why he is left alone and peels off the blindfold. When he does, he is shocked to find himself in an empty white room, with no windows and a truckload of ceiling cameras. Unknown gas fills the room and Julian passes out. He wakes up and discovers that the room has changed. There are two beds, no windows, pristine sheets and more ceiling cameras. Worse, his ankles are bound to the bed. He ends up tortured, cut open with invasive surgeries without painkillers, passes out when he gets stitched up, almost loses his limbs from the extreme, inhumane experiments conducted on him.... until he starts to go insane, loses control of his body and mind, and lets himself succumb to the darkness. When the police eventually find him, both his body and mind are beyond repair.

NAMJOON: A BROTHER’S PROMISE

Namjoon plays the role of Nam Gyeongwan, the sole breadwinner and older brother to his visually-impaired sister Nam Gyeongah. They were born from alcoholic parents, who would beat their daughter, so hard that she’d lost 60% of her eyesight due to a head injury. Their alcoholic parents died in a car accident and Gyeongwan has been providing for his sister ever since. Although he was a brilliant student, he had to quit university and take on odd jobs to earn money for her treatments and school fees at the School for the Disabled. One day, triad goons drove into the petrol station that he was working as, and they humiliated him by throwing trash at him. Angered, Gyeongwan has a rough fistfight with the gangsters and although they lost, the gangsters swore to take revenge. Their revenge came in the form of a kidnap, when they took Gyeongah from when she was waiting for Gyeongwan to pick her up at the school gates. Gyeongwan begs the triad to release her, but because of his combat skills, the gang decided to make use of those skills. They bargained that if he would work for them, they will leave his sister unharmed, but if he failed on the mission, they would add a cut on her body. Gyeongwan goes through hell, and spills blood with his bare hands. Each time he kills, he tries to think of her face, her sweet, radiant face whenever she held his hand as they walked. Gyeongwan eventually saves his sister from the triads.

YOONGI: KEYS & CLOSURE

Yoongi plays the role of Yang Junyeong, a budding concert pianist that struggles to make a living by performing at night and delivering pizza in the day. He’d come from a good family, and was pressurized to pursue the path of an engineer. When he’d quit university to chase after his passion, his parents deemed him a disgrace and kicked him out of the house. Dejected and penniless, Junyeong began to take up part time jobs to sustain his love for piano. Throughout this ordeal, his childhood bestfriend and girlfriend, Lee Yunsa, does not leave his side, but stays with him even during his darkest moments. Young and very much in love, Junyeong works harder so that he can provide for the both of them. Yunsa’s parents disagree with her involvement with a university dropout, but she ignores their protests and moves out to stay with him. They scrimp and save, until they are wealthy enough to start a family. She’s bright, cheerful and whenever she talks about starting a family and raising kids, she always has a spark in her eyes. But before the night of their marriage, she jumps off the Mapo bridge and drowns. This shatters Junyeong’s view of their world, the world they had painstakingly built together. Wasn’t she happy? Weren’t they happy? What could have possibly driven her to her death? Junyeong ransacks their shared apartment, desperately hunting for clues; a suicide note, a diary, anything that could give him answers. But he finds nothing. He sinks into depression and mopes. His friends help him and they encourage him to play the piano to seek comfort. A few months later, he finally has the strength and courage to play the piano. And when he does, he realizes to his horror that she’d written her suicide letter as lyrics to his melodies, scribbles in fine ink below each note on the music score. She explains that although she loves him so much, she’d cheated on him, and it was her fault because she was drunk. But she couldn’t live past her guilt, especially when Junyeong had been so loving. Hence she killed herself and left him behind, as a chance to redeem herself because he’d be free to love again. Knowing this and extremely heartbroken, Junyeong composes a piano piece and dedicates it to her as he performs it around the world, often ending the performance with tears streaming down his cheeks. Even though, she’d cheated on him, he finds it difficult to forget his first love, his one and only soulmate that decided that her death would not be strong enough to drag his soul along with hers. He doesn’t find another lover, doesn’t marry another woman and he also doesn’t stop playing the piano.

#personal #I really wanted to write these down!#it's almost like a story lmao i wrote a little too much

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picturestees · 6 years ago

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If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt

Picturestees - United States Trending T-shirt If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt

Good luck with your hospital move etc. and getting your health problems sorted. If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt. Try to ignore BC, she’s being even more of a bitch at the moment because you’re not giving her any control. You handled that like a pro. Thank you very much. I don’t doubt that it’ll escalate over the coming days; she thinks that because I’m ill, I’m weak. And the thing is, I am weak right now. Weaker than I’ve been for a long time. But I’d still get myself out of this bed and face her down if she dares show her face. You’re in the UK right? Harder to avoid visitors as with the wards I’ve always been on, they never seem to give much of a shit. What you can do is ask them to put a different name on the ward bed board so she can’t see your name on there should she turn up and try to find you.

If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed.

Warn the nurses that you have a deranged family member who would physically hurt you. If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt. That should mean security race up if you alert them to her being there. Thank you; after she tried to phone the ward I’m on the other day, I made sure everything has a password. It is definitely harder in the UK, I think, but one of the first things I’ll be doing once I’ve transferred is making sure she can’t get anywhere near me. Yes, please do. Our wards aren’t nearly as secure as the US (more’s the pity!) but the nurses do their best. Ehhh it’s a tradeoff I guess. Private rooms and more security at the cost of (depending on your insurance or lack thereof) crippling debt, bankruptcy, foreclosures.

If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt, ladies, v-neck t-shirt, tank top.

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Gotta love how they try to kick you when you’re already down. If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed Shirt. I hope you can get better care at the new hospital. Stomach problems are no joke. I’m currently wrestling with a relapse of one of my more severe issues and life has not been great. New hospital potentially means new care regime and going home sooner. Best of luck. I’m so, so sorry you’re having to go through that; it’s bloody horrible. If you ever want to talk, please feel free to PM. Hope all goes well for your recovery and I’m sorry you are dealing with your sibling as FM. I am so happy for you, however, that your spine is so shiny despite being a human pincushion right now. Go you! Big hugs!. Wow, Betti Confetti properly knows no depth which is too low for her to sink to! That’s awful. I hope the transfer & treatment go well for you.

Official If Poppy Can’t Fix It We Are All Screwed, sweater, hoodie, and long sleeve.

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readbookywooks · 8 years ago

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Eddard

Lord Arryn's death was a great sadness for all of us, my lord," Grand Maester Pycelle said. "I would be more than happy to tell you what I can of the manner of his passing. Do be seated. Would you care for refreshments? Some dates, perhaps? I have some very fine persimmons as well. Wine no longer agrees with my digestion, I fear, but I can offer you a cup of iced milk, sweetened with honey. I find it most refreshing in this heat." There was no denying the heat; Ned could feel the silk tunic clinging to his chest. Thick, moist air covered the city like a damp woolen blanket, and the riverside had grown unruly as the poor fled their hot, airless warrens to jostle for sleeping places near the water, where the only breath of wind was to be found. "That would be most kind," Ned said, seating himself. Pycelle lifted a tiny silver bell with thumb and forefinger and tinkled it gently. A slender young serving girl hurried into the solar. "Iced milk for the King's Hand and myself, if you would be so kind, child. Well sweetened." As the girl went to fetch their drinks, the Grand Maester knotted his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach. "The smallfolk say that the last year of summer is always the hottest. It is not so, yet ofttimes it feels that way, does it not? On days like this, I envy you northerners your summer snows." The heavy jeweled chain around the old man's neck chinked softly as he shifted in his seat. "To be sure, King Maekar's summer was hotter than this one, and near as long. There were fools, even in the Citadel, who took that to mean that the Great Summer had come at last, the summer that never ends, but in the seventh year it broke suddenly, and we had a short autumn and a terrible long winter. Still, the heat was fierce while it lasted. Oldtown steamed and sweltered by day and came alive only by night. We would walk in the gardens by the river and argue about the gods. I remember the smells of those nights, my lord—perfume and sweat, melons ripe to bursting, peaches and pomegranates, nightshade and moonbloom. I was a young man then, still forging my chain. The heat did not exhaust me as it does now." Pycelle's eyes were so heavily lidded he looked half-asleep. "My pardons, Lord Eddard. You did not come to hear foolish meanderings of a summer forgotten before your father was born. Forgive an old man his wanderings, if you would. Minds are like swords, I do fear. The old ones go to rust. Ah, and here is our milk." The serving girl placed the tray between them, and Pycelle gave her a smile. "Sweet child." He lifted a cup, tasted, nodded. "Thank you. You may go." When the girl had taken her leave, Pycelle peered at Ned through pale, rheumy eyes. "Now where were we? Oh, yes. You asked about Lord Arryn . . . " "I did." Ned sipped politely at the iced milk. It was pleasantly cold, but oversweet to his taste. "If truth be told, the Hand had not seemed quite himself for some time," Pycelle said. "We had sat together on council many a year, he and I, and the signs were there to read, but I put them down to the great burdens he had borne so faithfully for so long. Those broad shoulders were weighed down by all the cares of the realm, and more besides. His son was ever sickly, and his lady wife so anxious that she would scarcely let the boy out of her sight. It was enough to weary even a strong man, and the Lord Jon was not young. Small wonder if he seemed melancholy and tired. Or so I thought at the time. Yet now I am less certain." He gave a ponderous shake of his head. "What can you tell me of his final illness?" The Grand Maester spread his hands in a gesture of helpless sorrow. "He came to me one day asking after a certain book, as hale and healthy as ever, though it did seem to me that something was troubling him deeply. The next morning he was twisted over in pain, too sick to rise from bed. Maester Colemon thought it was a chill on the stomach. The weather had been hot, and the Hand often iced his wine, which can upset the digestion. When Lord Jon continued to weaken, I went to him myself, but the gods did not grant me the power to save him." "I have heard that you sent Maester Colemon away." The Grand Maester's nod was as slow and deliberate as a glacier. "I did, and I fear the Lady Lysa will never forgive me that. Maybe I was wrong, but at the time I thought it best. Maester Colemon is like a son to me, and I yield to none in my esteem for his abilities, but he is young, and the young ofttimes do not comprehend the frailty of an older body. He was purging Lord Arryn with wasting potions and pepper juice, and I feared he might kill him." "Did Lord Arryn say anything to you during his final hours?" Pycelle wrinkled his brow. "In the last stage of his fever, the Hand called out the name Robert several times, but whether he was asking for his son or for the king I could not say. Lady Lysa would not permit the boy to enter the sickroom, for fear that he too might be taken ill. The king did come, and he sat beside the bed for hours, talking and joking of times long past in hopes of raising Lord Jon's spirits. His love was fierce to see." "Was there nothing else? No final words?" "When I saw that all hope had fled, I gave the Hand the milk of the poppy, so he should not suffer. Just before he closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered something to the king and his lady wife, a blessing for his son. The seed is strong, he said. At the end, his speech was too slurred to comprehend. Death did not come until the next morning, but Lord Jon was at peace after that. He never spoke again." Ned took another swallow of milk, trying not to gag on the sweetness of it. "Did it seem to you that there was anything unnatural about Lord Arryn's death?" "Unnatural?" The aged maester's voice was thin as a whisper. "No, I could not say so. Sad, for a certainty. Yet in its own way, death is the most natural thing of all, Lord Eddard. Jon Arryn rests easy now, his burdens lifted at last." "This illness that took him," said Ned. "Had you ever seen its like before, in other men?" "Near forty years I have been Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms," Pycelle replied. "Under our good King Robert, and Aerys Targaryen before him, and his father Jaehaerys the Second before him, and even for a few short months under Jaehaerys's father, Aegon the Fortunate, the Fifth of His Name. I have seen more of illness than I care to remember, my lord. I will tell you this: Every case is different, and every case is alike. Lord Jon's death was no stranger than any other." "His wife thought otherwise." The Grand Maester nodded. "I recall now, the widow is sister to your own noble wife. If an old man may be forgiven his blunt speech, let me say that grief can derange even the strongest and most disciplined of minds, and the Lady Lysa was never that. Since her last stillbirth, she has seen enemies in every shadow, and the death of her lord husband left her shattered and lost." "So you are quite certain that Jon Arryn died of a sudden illness?" "I am," Pycelle replied gravely. "If not illness, my good lord, what else could it be?" "Poison," Ned suggested quietly. Pycelle's sleepy eyes flicked open. The aged maester shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "A disturbing thought. We are not the Free Cities, where such things are common. Grand Maester Aethelmure wrote that all men carry murder in their hearts, yet even so, the poisoner is beneath contempt." He fell silent for a moment, his eyes lost in thought. "What you suggest is possible, my lord, yet I do not think it likely. Every hedge maester knows the common poisons, and Lord Arryn displayed none of the signs. And the Hand was loved by all. What sort of monster in man's flesh would dare to murder such a noble lord?" "I have heard it said that poison is a woman's weapon." Pycelle stroked his beard thoughtfully. "It is said. Women, cravens . . . and eunuchs." He cleared his throat and spat a thick glob of phelm onto the rushes. Above them, a raven cawed loudly in the rookery. "The Lord Varys was born a slave in Lys, did you know? Put not your trust in spiders, my lord." That was scarcely anything Ned needed to be told; there was something about Varys that made his flesh crawl. "I will remember that, Maester. And I thank you for your help. I have taken enough of your time." He stood. Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair slowly and escorted Ned to the door. "I hope I have helped in some small way to put your mind at ease. If there is any other service I might perform, you need only ask." "One thing," Ned told him. "I should be curious to examine the book that you lent Jon the day before he fell ill." "I fear you would find it of little interest," Pycelle said. "It was a ponderous tome by Grand Maester Malleon on the lineages of the great houses." "Still, I should like to see it." The old man opened the door. "As you wish. I have it here somewhere. When I find it, I shall have it sent to your chambers straightaway." "You have been most courteous," Ned told him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "One last question, if you would be so kind. You mentioned that the king was at Lord Arryn's bedside when he died. I wonder, was the queen with him?" "Why, no," Pycelle said. "She and the children were making the journey to Casterly Rock, in company with her father. Lord Tywin had brought a retinue to the city for the tourney on Prince Joffrey's name day, no doubt hoping to see his son Jaime win the champion's crown. In that he was sadly disappointed. It fell to me to send the queen word of Lord Arryn's sudden death. Never have I sent off a bird with a heavier heart." "Dark wings, dark words," Ned murmured. It was a proverb Old Nan had taught him as a boy. "So the fishwives say," Grand Maester Pycelle agreed, "but we know it is not always so. When Maester Luwin's bird brought the word about your Bran, the message lifted every true heart in the castle, did it not?" "As you say, Maester." "The gods are merciful." Pycelle bowed his head. "Come to me as often as you like, Lord Eddard. I am here to serve." Yes, Ned thought as the door swung shut, but whom? On the way back to his chambers, he came upon his daughter Arya on the winding steps of the Tower of the Hand, windmilling her arms as she struggled to balance on one leg. The rough stone had scuffed her bare feet. Ned stopped and looked at her. "Arya, what are you doing?" "Syrio says a water dancer can stand on one toe for hours." Her hands flailed at the air to steady herself. Ned had to smile. "Which toe?" he teased. "Any toe," Arya said, exasperated with the question. She hopped from her right leg to her left, swaying dangerously before she regained her balance. "Must you do your standing here?" he asked. "It's a long hard fall down these steps." "Syrio says a water dancer never falls." She lowered her leg to stand on two feet. "Father, will Bran come and live with us now?" "Not for a long time, sweet one," he told her. "He needs to win his strength back." Arya bit her lip. "What will Bran do when he's of age?" Ned knelt beside her. "He has years to find that answer, Arya. For now, it is enough to know that he will live." The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." "He was going to be a knight," Arya was saying now. "A knight of the Kingsguard. Can he still be a knight?" "No," Ned said. He saw no use in lying to her. "Yet someday he may be the lord of a great holdfast and sit on the king's council. He might raise castles like Brandon the Builder, or sail a ship across the SunsetSea, or enter your mother's Faith and become the High Septon." But he will never run beside his wolf again, he thought with a sadness too deep for words, or lie with a woman, or hold his own son in his arms. Arya cocked her head to one side. "Can I be a king's councillor and build castles and become the High Septon?" "You," Ned said, kissing her lightly on the brow, "will marry a king and rule his castle, and your sons will be knights and princes and lords and, yes, perhaps even a High Septon." Arya screwed up her face. "No," she said, "that's Sansa." She folded up her right leg and resumed her balancing. Ned sighed and left her there. Inside his chambers, he stripped off his sweat-stained silks and sluiced cold water over his head from the basin beside the bed. Alyn entered as he was drying his face. "My lord," he said, "Lord Baelish is without and begs audience." "Escort him to my solar," Ned said, reaching for a fresh tunic, the lightest linen he could find. "I'll see him at once." Littlefinger was perched on the window seat when Ned entered, watching the knights of the Kingsguard practice at swords in the yard below. "If only old Selmy's mind were as nimble as his blade," he said wistfully, "our council meetings would be a good deal livelier." "Ser Barristan is as valiant and honorable as any man in King's Landing." Ned had come to have a deep respect for the aged, white-haired Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. "And as tiresome," Littlefinger added, "though I daresay he should do well in the tourney. Last year he unhorsed the Hound, and it was only four years ago that he was champion." The question of who might win the tourney interested Eddard Stark not in the least. "Is there a reason for this visit, Lord Petyr, or are you here simply to enjoy the view from my window?" Littlefinger smiled. "I promised Cat I would help you in your inquiries, and so I have." That took Ned aback. Promise or no promise, he could not find it in him to trust Lord Petyr Baelish, who struck him as too clever by half. "You have something for me?" "Someone," Littlefinger corrected. "Four someones, if truth be told. Had you thought to question the Hand's servants?" Ned frowned. "Would that I could. Lady Arryn took her household back to the Eyrie." Lysa had done him no favor in that regard. All those who had stood closest to her husband had gone with her when she fled: Jon's maester, his steward, the captain of his guard, his knights and retainers. "Most of her household," Littlefinger said, "not all. A few remain. A pregnant kitchen girl hastily wed to one of Lord Renly's grooms, a stablehand who joined the City Watch, a potboy discharged from service for theft, and Lord Arryn's squire." "His squire?" Ned was pleasantly surprised. A man's squire often knew a great deal of his comings and goings. "Ser Hugh of the Vale," Littlefinger named him. "The king knighted the boy after Lord Arryn's death." "I shall send for him," Ned said. "And the others." Littlefinger winced. "My lord, step over here to the window, if you would be so kind." "Why?" "Come, and I'll show you, my lord." Frowning, Ned crossed to the window. Petyr Baelish made a casual gesture. "There, across the yard, at the door of the armory, do you see the boy squatting by the steps honing a sword with an oilstone?" "What of him?" "He reports to Varys. The Spider has taken a great interest in you and all your doings." He shifted in the window seat. "Now glance at the wall. Farther west, above the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?" Ned saw the man. "Another of the eunuch's whisperers?" "No, this one belongs to the queen. Notice that he enjoys a fine view of the door to this tower, the better to note who calls on you. There are others, many unknown even to me. The Red Keep is full of eyes. Why do you think I hid Cat in a brothel?" Eddard Stark had no taste for these intrigues. "Seven hells," he swore. It did seem as though the man on the walls was watching him. Suddenly uncomfortable, Ned moved away from the window. "Is everyone someone's informer in this cursed city?" "Scarcely," said Littlefinger. He counted on the fingers on his hand. "Why, there's me, you, the king . . . although, come to think on it, the king tells the queen much too much, and I'm less than certain about you." He stood up. "Is there a man in your service that you trust utterly and completely?" "Yes," said Ned. "In that case, I have a delightful palace in Valyria that I would dearly love to sell you," Littlefinger said with a mocking smile. "The wiser answer was no, my lord, but be that as it may. Send this paragon of yours to Ser Hugh and the others. Your own comings and goings will be noted, but even Varys the Spider cannot watch every man in your service every hour of the day." He started for the door. "Lord Petyr," Ned called after him. "I . . . am grateful for your help. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust you." Littlefinger fingered his small pointed beard. "You are slow to learn, Lord Eddard. Distrusting me was the wisest thing you've done since you climbed down off your horse."

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