#i simply do not enjoy painting without a pencil base and i do not enjoy sketching nature scenes unfortunately !! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

therenlover · 4 years ago

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The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)

(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)

Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.

Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love

Rating: T

Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot

Word Count: 7000~

This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!

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The University of Novi Grad

Fall 1996

Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.

Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.

From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.

There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.

You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.

That being said there was something else too…

Someone else to be specific.

The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.

He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.

All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.

You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.

If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?

Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.

Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.

Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.

So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.

As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.

Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.

Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.

When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.

The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.

He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.

He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.

You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.

“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”

Shit.

“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.

Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”

“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.

Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”

“It is not an accusation if it is true,”

“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”

“But you were. This happens every week,”

You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”

Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”

“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”

The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.

“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”

Fuck.

Friday was only two days away.

You were so screwed.

The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.

Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.

In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.

Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.

“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”

“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”

He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”

“Who isn’t?”

Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”

Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”

“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”

Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.

A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.

“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.

Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...

There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.

Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.

You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.

Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.

If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…

The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.

Your eyes scanned the wall.

Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…

Gilgamesh!

On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…

You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.

“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”

Of course they had stools.

If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.

In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”

You stopped short.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.

There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.

He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.

“Would you like my help?”

“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.

“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”

“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”

In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.

“Thanks for that,”

“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”

You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”

“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.

You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.

“Your hair is really nice!”

“My hair?”

“Yeah… your hair,”

Smooth move, dumbass.

Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”

Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?

“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.

“It was definitely a compliment,”

Oh.

Your heart skipped a beat.

That was a new revelation.

You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.

“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”

He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”

“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, ��I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”

With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.

“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.

“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”

The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.

“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”

Shit.

Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?

In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.

“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.

“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”

“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”

His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”

Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”

Once again, you were rendered speechless.

“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”

“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.

Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.

You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.

“Who said anything about letting you pay?”

True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.

The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.

Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.

“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.

Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”

“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”

“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”

You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”

“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”

“Absolutely,”

The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.

If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.

“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”

He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”

“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”

“Absolutely,”

“Then I can’t wait to try one,”

The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.

Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.

Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.

“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”

Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”

The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”

“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.

“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”

“Alright,”

There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.

You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”

“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.

He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”

It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”

Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.

“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”

Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”

“I think I would,”

“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”

Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.

“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”

Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”

Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”

The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”

“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”

“Then it’s a deal,”

“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”

“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”

With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.

Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.

He had invited you over to his apartment.

He liked you.

Easel boy really, honestly liked you.

No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.

Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.

You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.

Hel.

It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.

Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.

------

a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx , @be-cautious-around-bri , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car , @frothonthedaydreams

#zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #fanfiction

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boyy-wonder-grayson · 4 years ago

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Seven

Pairings: JJ x Reader

Warnings: angst kinda, mentions of abuse.

A/n: this is my first time writing for jj so hopefully i did some justice. This is based on the song Seven from Taylor Swift, ever since i’ve heard that song i coudln’t stop thinking how much it fit jj, so i tried to write something for it. Feedback is always nice, sorry for any mistakes and thanks for reading! (italics means it’s in the past jic)

*pics mine*

The warm breeze blew among the tall trees, signalling that summer was already settling in North Carolina. The two little kids were running around the woods, trying to find the tallest tree in order to climb it, much to their parents chagrin and warnings to be careful. They didn't care, they were young and full of life. Their laughs echoed through the empty lands, not a soul could be found in the deep end of the woods. They both have heard stories about this part of the town, about how the ghost of an old witch haunted those places, and how she enjoyed tricking kids into following her for them to never be seen again, but they didn't care. Not while they were together.

Seven year old Y/n and JJ ran across the dusty trails that led to their favourite spot under the biggest tree in the island. It was an old oak tree. According to her father that tree has been there for as long as he could remember, he told them that the three was there when he was a kid too,so it was probably a really old one.

A few years ago Y/n's father had set up a swing in one of those trees so the kids could play. Competitions were held against each other. Who would be the one to reach the sky when swinging? It was JJ. Of course he was the one who would always win. Y/n was scared of swinging too high and not being able to come back down. It was a stupid fear,but nevertheless she never tried to beat him. She liked the way he smiled when he came down from the sky smiling triumphant when he realized that he had won yet again.

"You need to go higher Y/n! You can even see the creek from up there!" JJ would beamed at her, but the girl would always shook her head no, too scared to fall, too scared to be able to come back down, but JJ always reassured her that it wasn't like that and that if she were not to come back down, he would simply go up with her.

"Cross my heart and hope to die" he'd said placing a hand over his heart. The girl would smiled and do the same. She loved her best friend.

She snapped out of her trance when her mother called her name. She was supposed to be cleaning her room when she found an old picture of her and JJ under that oak tree. They were probably eight. Both with big smiles, she was missing a few teeths and JJ's hair was blonder than ever that summer. She smiled fondly at the picture letting it take her down to memory lane, only for her mother to interrupt her. She sighed putting the picture down and throwing the box aside, going downstairs to see what her mother wanted. She didn't speak too much during dinner that night, too engrossed in the memories of her best friend. She went back upstairs eager to see what else was inside that old box she'd found at the back of her drawer. Before going upstairs she poured a glass of sweet tea her mother had made earlier that day, she took a sip and sat down on her bed and started rummaging through the box and found an old drawing from JJ:

'Love you to the Moon and to Saturn' she read at the bottom of the drawing. She smiled remembering how did they came out with that phrase.

JJ grabbed a red pencil and finished drawing what was supposed to be a dragon. The girl laughed at her best friend idea of a dragon and picked a blue pencil to finish the sky she was painting. Her mother looked at the kids fondly from the kitchen, she was preparing something for them to eat. Sandwiches and sweet tea. JJ's favourite.

"What's that?" She asked pointing at a weird circle in the boy's paper.

"A planet duh" he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"What planet?" She asked genuinely curious awaiting for the answer.

"Saturn" he said nonchalantly. For some reason JJ was obsessed with astronomy at the age of eight. His favourite planet was Saturn. He'd said that it was the coolest planet because it was one of the biggest and also his rings were super cool.

"And what about the other planets?" She'd asked forgetting about her own drawing.

"There not there because they're not as cool as Saturn" he answered with confident. "Like me" he added.

The girl laughed a little making the boy laugh too.

"You're so dumb" she said laughing harder now.

"You're dumb!" He retorted for lack of a better come back. "I'm the coolest, just like Saturn" He'd said smiling proudly.

"Nu-uh you're dumb, but I you're my best friend and I love you" she'd said a little shy this time. It wasn't rare for them to be affectionate with each other but she was always shy while sharing his feelings unlike JJ who was loud and boisterous.

"You're my best friend too and I love you more" he'd fight her. Making the girl frown. It also wasn't rare for them to compete with each other about every single thing.

"No! I love you more! I-i love you to the moon and back!" She screamed proudly knowing that she had won this time, but JJ was quick to shut her response down.

"Well, I love you to the Moon and to Saturn, which is way further, so I win!"

The little girl shut her mouth, not being able to say anything this time. He had won, again.

Y/n put the drawing down and picked her phone up, snapping a picture at the phrase and upload it on her Instagram. She then looked for JJ's profile. They were following each other, even though their friendship was taking a break of sorts, they still kept in contact with each other once in a while. A 'hope you're doing okay' text that would lead to mindless conversation every few weeks was all that they had now. She didn't mind though, relationships were strange.

She smiled when he saw that he had liked the picture. She put her phone down and kept looking inside the box. She found an old pirate eye patch, it was from Halloween when they not dressed as pirates.

Y/n's mother had finished applying the last touches on her costume while JJ wait patiently on the couch, admiring his plastic sword.

"Done!" Her mother said letting the nine year old take a look in the mirror. The little girl laughed when she saw how cool she looked with her eye patch and her pirate hat. Her white shirt was underneath a red jacket while JJ wore a blue jacket over a white shirt too. Both looked adorable as pirates; her mother did not understood the sudden obsession the kids had about pirates, so when her daughter told her she and JJ wanted to go trick or treating as pirates she didn't think twice before making two costume one for each kid.

JJ's mother had been gone for a year and the kid had been not himself lately. It was hard to live a life without a parent, but it was harder when the only one left wasn't a good one.

Y/n did not understand much about what was going on inside the Maybank residence so she didn't ask. Her mother explained to her how things between JJ and his father were a little rough now that his mother was not in the picture anymore. She explained that Mr. Maybank needed JJ to stay home a little more now than before and that even though the girl didn't like not being able to play all day with her best friend she nodded at her mother's explanation and didn't ask any questions.

It was one of those rare days were Mr. Maybank was in a good mood, so he allowed JJ to play with Y/n in his backyard. His good mood didn't last too long. After a call, in which his father let a string of curses come out of his mouth, the little boy sighed knowing that when his father was in a bad mood nothing good could happen.

"I think your house is haunted" Y/n said one day after JJ dragged her into the woods. They were walking towards the oak tree when she spoke.

"What do you mean?" He asked looking at her confused.

"I think your house is haunted" She repeated "my dad and I were watching this show about ghosts, and the man in the show said that his son was always angry and that it was because they had a ghost inside their house. So you must have a ghost too!" She said making the boy look scared.

"I don't have a ghost in my house, that's stupid" he said annoyed.

"But the man in the TV show said that, and it was just like your dad. You always tell me that he's angry, and that you always hide from him because he'd yell at you. Maybe he's possessed or something?" The girl asked with genuine curiosity.

"I...I don't know, maybe you're right!" He said thinking it through. "I don't want to have ghosts in my house,I don't like them" he said trying not to show how scared he actually was. Luckily for him she didn't notice.

"Well you can come live with me! And we would have sleepovers every day! And my mom would help is built a fort and everything!" She said jumping up and down with enthusiasm. "And then you wouldn't have to hide anymore, because we don't have ghosts in my house" she smiled proudly at the fact that a supernatural creature was not living in her home.

Y/n smiled sadly at the memory and how innocent they both were. She wished that she would still had that innocence that would protect her from the horrible truth about JJ's father. She found out a few years later when they were both fourteen. He didn't mean to tell her it just happened.

Black and purple bruises covered the boys chest, leaving little to none skin left uncovered. Y/n wanted to cry and the sight of her best friend. She wanted to scream,to punch something, someone. But she knew that whatever she'd said she would need to be careful. JJ was a ticking bomb that was about to explode at any given moment. And he eventually did, but not in the way she thought he would. No. He cried in her arms that night, revelling how truly awful JJ's father was. How much of a piece of shit that man was. A coward actually,to beat his son up because he could. She couldn't understand how someone as sweet and genuine like JJ, could go through something like that. She held him until he cried his eyes out. Until he didn't have any more tears. And he told her everything.

"Maybe we could run away" she said in a whisper looking at the boy laying on her bed. He was looking at the ceiling, not showing any emotions,but turn his head around when she spoke.

"What?" He asked.

"I said, maybe we could run away. Leave Outer Banks" she repeated with conviction, which made JJ chuckle.

"Yeah? And where would be go?" He asked amused at his best friend proposal. He would be lying if he said that the idea sound promising but they were fourteen, no real job,no money. How the hell would they achieve something like that?

"I don't know. India" she said smiling a little, that made JJ chuckle.

"Why India?"

"I don't know, we were talking about it today at school and it sounded cool" she said laughing.

"Okay, well go to India then" he said pulling her closer to his body and cuddling her. Her head rested on his chest and she could hear his heartbeat. It was calmer than before.

"I love you JJ. To the moon-"

"And to Saturn" he finishes for her kissing her forehead before they both fell asleep embracing the other.

Y/n wipe a tear that fell from the corner of her eye. She didn't realize how much she missed JJ until now looking at the old photographs inside the box. Of course she missed him but right now it fell as if she figured it out that she missed him more than she wanted to admit.

She sighed and looked at the hour. It was half past two, she picked everything and put it back into the box that once again went to sit at the back of her drawer. She opened the window letting the faint summer breeze enter the room. She climbed into bed after changing into her pajamas. She was too focused on her on thoughts that she didn't hear the knocking on her window. The second time she did. She got up frowning when she saw a figure outside of her window.

"JJ" she breath out not believing that her former best friend was now standing in front of her.

"Hey" he said a little awkward. It's been two years since they actually saw each other face to face alone. He didn't know what came to him to leave his house and walk all the way to hers. But he didn't regret it after seeing the look on her face.

"What are you doing here?" She asked in a small voice, trying to fight the smile that was slowly making its way into her face.

"I... honestly don't know" he chuckled scratching his head. "I just-i saw that picture you put on Instagram and I just, I don't know I wanted to see you, I guess" he didn't know why he was being so honest with her. Maybe it was because he missed the way he was around her, or how she made him feel safe enough to speak what truly was on his mind.

"I'm glad you came" she said shyly "but my mom is probably gonna kill you if she see you here."

"Your mother loves me, I don't know what are you talking about" he said nonchalantly.it was true,her mother loved him like a son.

"You wanna come in, or are you gonna stay on the other side of the window all night?" She asked the boy. He entered her room, and looked around. Nothing changed that much over the last years. Her bed was still in the same place,the colour of her walls was still that pale blue he always liked, and the only different thing inside that room was her. She looked different, more mature. More beautiful that JJ remembered.

He stood awkwardly in the middle of her room while she positioned herself in the bed.

"Are you coming or what?"she asked as if it was obvious that he was supposed to join her in the bed. JJ was surprised at how chill she was with the situation. I guess nothing has really changed.

They spent a few minutes without speaking. Both looking at the stars on her ceiling. They were glowing.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to come back, I just- I wasn't having the best of times" he admitted ashamed.

"It's okay I understand" she said softly turning her body so she was now facing him. JJ did the same.

"I guess i was scared" he didn't seem to mind how the words kept coming out of his mouth.

"Of what?"

"Of you not feeling the same way that I did for you. That I do" he confessed.

"You're always been a dumbass JJ" she said smiling brightly at the boy. "You know my mom always told me that you were in love with me since we were kids, but I refuse to believe her."

"You should have, your mother's wise" he said moving closer to her. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but when I saw that picture o couldn't just not do anything. I needed to at least be honest with you. You've been my best friend since forever and I owe you that" he said caressing the girls face. The look on his face was painful. Y/n could see the vulnerability underneath the strong facade that he would always put up. She could see the sincerity of his statement and the love that was hidden inside of him, trying to come to the surface but not being able because of his fears. She knew he was scared to drown himself in the love he was feeling. JJ was so full of love for everyone, even for the one who had wronged at some point. He didn't have malice in his bones.

She grabbed his face and pulled him for a kiss. An innocent little kiss.

She smiled before she said: "I love you to the moon"

"And to Saturn."

#jj maybank x reader #jj x y/n #jj outer banks #jj maybank #obx fanfiction #outer banks #obx #fanfic

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wolfliving · 3 years ago

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Account of Lord Byron’s Greek residence

*I’m hard put to believe a word of this highly-colored account of Byron’s house in exile, but it’s hard to get more Romantic than this. Extra points for the lack of paintings and the heaps of books covered with scrawled notes.

ACCOUNT OF LORD BYRON'S RESIDENCE, &c.

"The world was all before him, where to choose his place of rest, and Providence his guide."

IN Sailing through the Grecian Archipelago, on board one of his Majesty's vessels, in the year 1812, we put into the harbour of Mitylene, in the island of that name.

The beauty of this place, and the certain supply of cattle and vegetables always to be had there, induce many British vessels to visit it—both men of war and merchantmen; and though it lies rather out of the track for ships bound to Smyrna, its bounties amply repay for the deviation of a voyage.

We landed; as usual, at the bottom of the bay, and whilst the men were employed in watering, and the purser bargaining for cattle with the natives, the clergyman and myself took a ramble to the cave called Homer's School, and other places, where we had been before.

On the brow of Mount Ida (a small monticule so named) we met with and engaged a young Greek as our guide, who told us he had come from Scio with an English lord, who left the island four days previous to our arrival in his felucca.

"He engaged me as a pilot," said the Greek, "and would have taken me with him; but I did not choose to quit Mitylene, where I am likely to get married. He was an odd, but a very good man. The cottage over the hill, facing the river, belongs to him, and he has left an old man in charge of it: he gave Dominick, the wine-trader, six hundred zechines for it, (about L250 English currency,) and has resided there about fourteen months, though not constantly; for he sails in his felucca very often to the different islands."

This account excited our curiosity very much, and we lost no time in hastening to the house where our countryman had resided. We were kindly received by an old man, who conducted us over the mansion.

It consisted of four apartments on the ground-floor—an entrance hall, a drawing-room, a sitting parlour, and a bed-room, with a spacious closet annexed. They were all simply decorated: plain green-stained walls, marble tables on either side, a large myrtle in the centre, and a small fountain beneath, which could be made to play through the branches by moving a spring fixed in the side of a small bronze Venus in a leaning posture; a large couch or sofa completed the furniture.

In the hall stood half a dozen English cane chairs, and an empty book-case: there were no mirrors, nor a single painting. The bedchamber had merely a large mattress spread on the floor, with two stuffed cotton quilts and a pillow—the common bed throughout Greece.

In the sitting-room we observed a marble recess, formerly, the old man told us, filled with books and papers, which were then in a large seaman's chest in the closet: it was open, but we did not think ourselves justified in examining the contents. On the tablet of the recess lay Voltaire's, Shakspeare's, Boileau's, and Rousseau's works complete; Volney's Ruins of Empires; Zimmerman, in the German language; Klopstock's Messiah; Kotzebue's novels; Schiller's play of the Robbers; Milton's Paradise Lost, an Italian edition, printed at Parma in 1810; several small pamphlets from the Greek press at Constantinople, much torn, but no English book of any description. Most of these books were filled with marginal notes, written with a pencil, in Italian and Latin. The Messiah was literally scribbled all over, and marked with slips of paper, on which also were remarks.

The old man said: "The lord had been reading these books the evening before he sailed, and forgot to place them with the others; but," said he, "there they must lie until his return; for he is so particular, that were I to move one thing without orders, he would frown upon me for a week together; he is otherways very good. I once did him a service; and I have the produce of this farm for the trouble of taking care of it, except twenty zechines which I pay to an aged Armenian who resides in a small cottage in the wood, and whom the lord brought here from Adrianople; I don't know for what reason."

The appearance of the house externally was pleasing. The portico in front was fifty paces long and fourteen broad, and the fluted marble pillars with black plinths and fret-work cornices, (as it is now customary in Grecian architecture,) were considerably higher than the roof. The roof, surrounded by a light stone balustrade, was covered by a fine Turkey carpet, beneath an awning of strong coarse linen. Most of the house-tops are thus furnished, as upon them the Greeks pass their evenings in smoking, drinking light wines, such as "lachryma christi," eating fruit, and enjoying the evening breeze.

On the left hand as we entered the house, a small streamlet glided away, grapes, oranges and limes were clustering together on its borders, and under the shade of two large myrtle bushes, a marble seat with an ornamental wooden back was placed, on which we were told, the lord passed many of his evenings and nights till twelve o'clock, reading, writing, and talking to himself. "I suppose," said the old man, "praying" for he was very devout, "and always attended our church twice a week, besides Sundays."

The view from this seat was what may be termed "a bird's-eye view." A line of rich vineyards led the eye to Mount Calcla, covered with olive and myrtle trees in bloom, and on the summit of which an ancient Greek temple appeared in majestic decay. A small stream issuing from the ruins descended in broken cascades, until it was lost in the woods near the mountain's base.

The sea smooth as glass, and an horizon unshadowed by a single cloud, terminates the view in front; and a little on the left, through a vista of lofty chesnut and palm-trees, several small islands were distinctly observed, studding the light blue wave with spots of emerald green. I seldom enjoyed a view more than I did this; but our enquiries were fruitless as to the name of the person who had resided in this romantic solitude: none knew his name but Dominick, his banker, who had gone to Candia.

"The Armenian," said our conductor, "could tell, but I am sure he will not,"—"And cannot you tell, old friend?" said I—"If I can," said he, "I dare not."

We had not time to visit the Armenian, but on our return to the town we learnt several particulars of the isolated lord. He had portioned eight young girls when he was last upon the island, and even danced with them at the nuptial feast. He gave a cow to one man, horses to others, and cotton and silk to the girls who live by weaving these articles. He also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave Greek Testaments to the poor children. In short, he appeared to us, from all we collected, to have been a very eccentric and benevolent character.

One circumstance we learnt, which our old friend at the cottage thought proper not to disclose. He had a most beautiful daughter, with whom the lord was often seen walking on the sea-shore, and he had bought her a piano-forte, and taught her himself the use of it.

Such was the information with which we departed from the peaceful isle of Mitylene; our imaginations all on the rack, guessing who this rambler in Greece could be.

He had money it was evident: he had philanthropy of disposition, and all those eccentricities which mark peculiar genius.

Arrived at Palermo, all our doubts were dispelled. Falling in company with Mr. FOSTER, the architect, a pupil of WYATT'S, who had been travelling in Egypt and Greece, "The individual," said he, "about whom you are so anxious, is Lord Byron; I met him in my travels on the island of Tenedos, and I also visited him at Mitylene."

We had never then heard of his lordship's fame, as we had been some years from home; but "Childe Harolde" being put into our hands we recognized the recluse of Calcla in every page. Deeply did we regret not having been more curious in our researches at the cottage, but we consoled ourselves with the idea of returning to Mitylene on some future day; but to me that day will never return.

I make this statement, believing it not quite uninteresting, and in justice to his lordship's good name, which has been grossly slandered. He has been described as of an unfeeling disposition, averse to associating with human nature, or contributing in any way to sooth its sorrows, or add to its pleasures. The fact is directly the reverse, as may be plainly gathered from these little anecdotes.

All the finer feelings of the heart, so elegantly depicted in his lordship's poems, seem to have their seat in his bosom. Tenderness, sympathy, and charity appear to guide all his actions: and his courting the repose of solitude is an additional reason for marking him as a being on whose heart Religion hath set her seal, and over whose head Benevolence hath thrown her mantle. No man can read the preceding pleasing "traits" without feeling proud of him as a countryman.

With respect to his loves or pleasures, I do not assume a right to give an opinion. Reports are ever to be received with caution, particularly when directed against man's moral integrity; and he who dares justify himself before that awful tribunal where all must appear, alone may censure the errors of a fellow-mortal. Lord Byron's character is worthy of his genius. To do good in secret, and shun the world's applause, is the surest testimony of a virtuous heart and self-approving conscience.

THE END

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hoodoo12 · 4 years ago

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Model Behavior (1/?)

“Writers who start rping slow down writing stories” is a cross to bear, let me tell you. But rping is enjoyable and I recommend it! Here’s a shorter one the incomparable @turtlepated and I did a few months ago. It was an incredible amount of fun and a nice character study, set a bit after the Maitlands have settled into the fact that they are kind of stuck with Beetlejuice and have gotten more comfortable with him around. The Maitlands are good people. We should all be so lucky to have people like them in our lives. SFW but more on the slightly mature side. Contains elements of the movie, but is musical based.

Enjoy! ~

Bored and looking for trouble, Beetlejuice sidled up to the only other male ghost in the house. "Good to see you again, Sexy. Your, ah, wife--Babs--the old ball and chain--she around anywhere? Wanna show me your models? I bet your hands are real strong and you have lots of dexterity . . .!"

He shouldn’t startle as much as he did, but Adam yelped involuntarily as Beetlejuice appeared out of nowhere behind him too close for comfort. He cleared his throat, to try to play it off like it was nothing.

"Oh, Barbara's probably downstairs with Lydia in the dark room. Did you want to see the model? I just got in some nice wainscoting! It's perfectly to-scale and it'll look great on the house!" He frowned as he processed what was actually said, examining his own hands and flexing his fingers "Dexterity? I suppose so?" With a Cheshire Cat grin, Beetlejuice left him without another word, for Adam to ponder over the brief interaction.

⁂

"Adam? Sexy? Where are you?! You were going to show me your model!"

"I’m up in the attic!" the ghost replied automatically, then paused, with a double take that turned suspicious. "Why did you say 'model' like that?"

"Oh, don't worry your pretty little head about it, Sexy. I just really like to watch your hands work. They're so nimble and so careful, and you're so attentive when you're working. I like your focus."

Adam smiled and couldn't help but relax and preen a bit. "Well, I . . . that is, thank you, Beetlejuice. I don't like to brag, but I do take a lot of pride in my work. You can help, if you'd like. Lydia said they're restoring some of the more run-down parts of downtown, so I'm redoing the buildings. Want to get in on the action?"

Oh. He wasn't expecting that!

"I-I-I don't know, Adam," Beetlejuice replied, backpedaling a bit. "I've never done anything like that, I don't want to mess up anything . . ." Beetlejuice looked at his hands, with the grime and chipped black nails, then shoved them into his pockets, ashamed.

Adam tutted good-naturedly, "Nonsense, there's nothing to it, really! The models are built, so really I'm just repainting the exteriors. You could manage that, don't you think? And if you need help, I'd be happy to oblige!"

This sounded less and less like a good idea.

"I don't . . . I'll just mess it up," he repeated, quietly. He stared at the model so he didn't have to look at the man who seemed excited about the help. "I've seen the tiny paint brushes you use, and I know how expensive the paints can be because you so kindly told me about it when I drank one, remember? I think it'd be best if I just . . . didn't."

He gave a quick, tight smile at the memory of coming upstairs to see Beetlejuice chugging the small jar of paint like a shot. He wasn't used to seeing the specter so . . . unexpectedly withdrawn, but rather than press him about it he simply shrugged.

"That's perfectly fine. If you'd rather just watch, you're welcome to."

This was not how he'd expected this to go. Beetlejuice pursed his lips, and wondered if he should just leave. Maybe he could come back later and leave all this 'painting the model' stuff behind. But a sudden thought came to him.

"What if you helped me? You know, how people show other people how to swing a golf club, or play pool?"

Adam blinked once, twice, processing the query and all the connotations.

"You mean like . . . you hold the brush, I hold your wrist and show you how to use it?"

Shockingly, surprisingly, the idea of it didn't appall him. Far from it, maybe? All his interactions with the self proclaimed bio-exorcist had been . . . one-sided, to put it politely. Beetlejuice was obviously a sponge for all forms of attention, and in the absence of freely given positive attention he made do with whatever he could get by any means necessary.

"Well, hang on," he said, stopping the specter, who’d turned to leave, in his tracks. "We can give it a try, see how it goes. It's fiddly work, so maybe a helping hand would be better."

To cement his point, Adam took on of the fine bristled brushes and dipped it into the small pot of paint, holding the handle out invitingly towards Beetlejuice.

He blinked, owlishly, at the offered brush. He never expected his ridiculous suggestion to be taken seriously, and now . . . he discovered he did want to try. With Adam's help, of course. He gave a quick nod and took the wooden handle of the brush.

"If you want Jackson Pollock, I can definitely do that. Anything else, and you're going to have to help," he reminded him.

Adam took a step back, allowing Beetlejuice to approach the work table, chuckling at the half-hearted joke.

"You'll do just fine," he assured the demon, stepping up a little closer behind him. "Keep a light hold on the brush, like you're holding a pencil."

Beetlejuice adjusted his fingers but the grip still wasn't quite there, so Adam reached forward, tentative at first to make a few changes to the set of the brush in his grasp.

"There now, we're ready to go! Don't think about it too hard, you just want gentle strokes, just to get the paint where you want it."

He demonstrated first with his own hand, miming holding a brush and making fluid sweeping motions, keeping his wrist loose.

It was difficult not to squeeze the brush tightly, and his first efforts showed the reason he was instructed not to: the paint was splotchy and uneven. Nothing like the other paint jobs Adam had already completed. He tried again, tongue caught between his teeth as he concentrated, but it wasn't as easy as Adam made it look.

Adam smiled broadly, feeling an unexpected surge of pride in his unusual pupil.

"Not bad, not bad!" he assured him, seeing Beetlejuice's frown at the uneven coat. "We can just go over it again with a second layer, it'll be fine."

Taking Beetlejuice by the wrist, he guided the brush to the paint pot for a fresh load of paint and back to the tiny model building.

"Nice, even strokes like this, see?" he asked, stepping a little closer, almost flush against the other man's back as he raised and lowered the demon's hand, painting a stripe down the side of the wall.

He didn't mind Adam taking and guiding his hand, and didn't even make it into something inappropriate as he concentrated on the painting. Even when he realized that Adam was basically standing against him, he was so invested in the it he didn't made any remarks or gestures. It was nice to just be quiet a moment and see the progress he made, even if it was sloppy.

When that side of the model was done, Adam reached around to spin the lazy Susan he had set it on so they could do the next wall without having to touch it and risk smearing Beetlejuice's handiwork.

"See? You're getting the hang of it!" he praised. "I'm gonna let you do this part by yourself since it's smaller. Just take your time, don't worry about trying to get it perfect. Okay?"

He didn't much like the thought of that; this side was going to be much worse without Adam's guiding hand, and he did like the gentle but firm grip that had been in his wrist. But Adam looked expectant and encouraging, nodding and smiling at him, so Beetlejuice resolved to try. He loaded the brush again, realizing immediately he'd gotten too much paint on it, but did it anyway, using the short, even stroked he'd been shown.

Adam smiled, nodding approvingly. It was a little shaky, truth be told, from Beetlejuice's slightly unsteady hand, but was his first attempt after all, and it would be easy enough to touch up afterwards. What was really impressive was the demon himself. He didn't think he'd ever seen Beetlejuice be so still and quiet for this long, a furrow between his brows and his tongue gripped between his lips as he focused intently. Adam's smile widened at the realization that he was proud of the specter.

"Nice job!" he said, and he genuinely meant it.

Without even thinking, he leaned in and pressed a quick peck to the demon's scruffy cheek, his own eyes widening halfway through the motion but not quickly enough to abort the gesture. It was so natural for him, the sort of thing he did all the time with Barbara and Lydia when he congratulated them that it just . . . happened. If not for the fact that he was dead and no longer had blood running through his veins, Adam felt sure his face would be tomato red when he pulled away, blinking at the demon like a deer caught in headlights.

"I . . . um . . . " he stammered lamely.

The praise startled him and made him happy. The peck on the cheek following it startled him more. Beetlejuice actually dropped the paintbrush he was holding; luckily it only fell on the lazy susan and not against anything important. Adam wore his own surprised expression, all flustered and flushed as he looked over to him.

For once, though, he didn't have an snarky or sexually charged comment to make. Instead, he said quietly, sincerely, "That was nice . . ."

He blinked dumbly and swallowed. That was certainly unexpected. Ordinarily Beetlejuice would have responded with something like "I only do upstairs or over the pants" or any number of other racy jokes from his inexhaustible repertoire of lewd remarks and innuendo. So the soft spoken candor was . . . a pleasant surprise. Tentatively, not really sure himself just what he was trying to achieve here, Adam found himself leaning in again, watching Beetlejuice's face for a cue as to whether or not to proceed.

Gentle hands on him, praise, a kiss, and now Adam leaning in with his head slightly cocked . . . Beetlejuice was frozen for a moment, stunned dumb by everything that had happened. His instinct was to grab and hold and fondle and just go hardcore, but a tiny voice from somewhere deep inside him stilled him, asked him to wait, suggested he go against all his base reactions. So he didn't push forward, only leaned into the man's personal space, and his slightly open mouth brushed against Adam's, a soft press of lips on lips that was light years from the over the top theatrics he'd always ambushed him with. One hand went to Adam's chest, but he didn't grab or pinch. He simply left his palm flat on his chest and enjoyed the moment.

As quickly and inexplicably as it began it was over and the two men separated. Adam blinked a few times, feeling like he couldn't catch his breath. Which was silly, of course, he didn't breathe anymore, but still . . . Beetlejuice's hand was still pressed to his chest and his head tilted down to look at it as though seeing it for the first time: the long fingers and black nails. And he wasn't even groping at him or trying to grab his nipple through his shirt.

He looked up, then, into the demon's face, taking in the apprehensive set of his brow and the way he'd pulled his lips into a tight line as though he were waiting, expecting to be pushed away, for his hand to be thrown off, to be admonished or reprimanded. But Adam . . . just didn't.

"Yeah," he agreed, swallowing again, an awkward smile that was at least half grimace pulling his mouth into some shape. "It was nice . . . "

Before either of them could say or do anything further, he and Beetlejuice both jerked their heads to the attic door, where they could already hear the tell-tale thunder of Lydia's big black boots coming up the staircase.

More nimbly than most people expected from him, Beetlejuice stepped away from Adam just as Lydia made it to the door and threw it open.

"What're you two doing up here?" the teen asked. "Adam, you said you'd help me with math."

She sighed the word dramatically, like it was a chore and a bore, which Beetlejuice totally understood.

"Sexy wanted me to help with his model, but I am not sticking around for a nerd fest," he announced haughtily before making his way to the door too.

It was a poor excuse, but he needed some time to process what had just happened. His poor lie was confirmed when he heard Lydia asking suspiciously,

"You wanted him to help with your model?", but he was too far down the stairs to hear Adam's answer to that. He spent the rest of the day away from everyone else, replaying the events with Adam over and over in his head. It left him as jumbled hours later as it had when it happened. He wondered what Adam thought--

tbc . . .

#writing #fanfiction #rp #Beetlejuice #adam maitland

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pluto-fics · 5 years ago

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Inspiration is Motivation － Prologue

Fanfiction | Artist!Taehyung x SingleMom!Reader

Genres: Fluff, Romance, Humor, Smut

Rating: G (for this chapter)

Word Count: 2.385 words

Chapter Warnings: none

Your brows furrow at the earlier statement of your best friend, Hanna.

"Believe me, it'll help you to relax for a few hours and I'll take good care of Ty."

You have no doubt about the latter. Hanna might be that stereotype single woman who likes to go out for a couple drinks every so often, but she is a reliable caretaker and one ridiculously good cook. Based on this, she was an absolute blessing the last two times she watched over your son. However, you still feel a little uneasy about her suggestion.

"I don't know... Tyler is kind of stubborn and moody lately, how could I leave you both alone for nearly four full hours? Not to mention that I can paint at home if I want to, I don't need to go to some weird art course..." you try to defy yourself. The idea of entrusting Hanna with your five year old son for so long worries you. Just the thought of it causes a bad feeling to spread throughout your body. Hanna just rolls her eyes, however. "Listen. I already signed you up for that course this Saturday. It's supposed to start at eleven, won't go past three in the afternoon and you can calmly come back home to Tyler and me having a great time without setting your apartment on fire."

You can't fight down the amused giggle at her statement before you sigh. "Hanna, I really don't-..." you begin, only to be interrupted mid-sentence. "Yes, you do want to try it. I'll be here at 10 this Saturday and you can either go to that course or stay here with us and bathe in my judgment."

And here you are, two days later and sat on a chair in front of an empty canvas and an A3 sized sketchpad, surrounded by strangers who, just like you, are waiting for the course to begin.

You take this time to inspect the equipment provided to you. Brushes and pencils of rather good quality, however accompanied by a cheap, fizzy eraser. The watercolor paint seems decent enough. But the big bottles of acrylics and oils on the desk in the middle of the room, accessible for everyone in it, clearly are not top-notch quality. That of course does not mean it is bad per se, you just might have expected something fancier in the art department of the local Community College.

Your train of thoughts comes to an abrupt stop when you hear someone opening the big wooden door and entering the room, a deep but smooth voice wishing you and your fellow course participants a good morning. The slender figure who just stepped into the room makes your eyes grow wide the second you lay your eyes on him. He is tall, with model like features, facial as well as bodywise. His fashion sense clearly is a little extravagant, for he wears a way too oversized dress shirt with a pair of what almost seemed to be pajama pants of some sort, and a matching beige colored beret topping his head. The big round glasses topping his nose make you curious. Does he need them to see? Or were they simply added to this retro outfit because they fit the vibe?

"I'm glad you all made it here on time, unlike myself" he then speaks while rummaging in the bag he has just placed on top of the desk in the front of the room. You hear quiet giggles erupting from two slightly older women in the back. His lips curve into a handsome smile, not even needing to show the whites of his teeth to make you doubt the existence of a man with such impressive visuals. Yet, you feel kind of stupid for the way you swoon over his looks like a teenager, despite being a grown woman with a child waiting for her to return home.

The young man claps his hands together as if to catch everyone's attention, even though he already possesses the full concentration of everyone in this room. "Now, I'd like to start by introducing myself, if that's alright by you."

He swiftly turns to the chalkboard behind himself and writes down what you assume to be his name.

"My name is Kim Taehyung and I teach traditional art at the local University. But as you can tell, I'm also hosting art courses like this one once a week, while also working as a hobby freelance artist. So I guess you could say that art is my passion."

There it is again. That charming smile of his as he tends to the attentive group of people in front of him. "But enough of me, I think we're all here to improve our skills, so how about we start with some easy warm ups to get creative first?" You notice everyone responding by nodding or already flipping over the cover of the massive sketchpad in front of them to reveal a blank page. Imitating your 'classmates', you flip open your sketchpad and face Mr. Kim again.

He begins by instructing everyone to warm up their wrists by drawing circular shapes of several sizes and shading them to your heart's content to make yourself familiar with the medium you're using. Another hint of his is to try the different art materials provided to each one of the participants and see which one you'd preferably work with today.

A couple minutes later, you can tell Mr. Kim valued his participants' individuality. Only giving a rough theme for the artwork you are supposed to create, he left everything else to you. "Warm Autumn" was the theme he came up with and your mind immediately drifts off into what you would like to call your ‘creative mode’. Images of brown leaves, soft breezes of air and fluffy fabrics of knitwear come to your mind. Thus, you begin by settling on a color palette in warm brown, red and yellow tones and soon start by sketching an idea.

Mr. Kim does no longer talk to the whole course. Instead, he begins to slowly walk around the classroom and take a look at everyone's approaches on the topic. Usually, you'd get so engulfed in your works that you would blend out most of your surroundings. However, Mr. Kim's presence makes it hard for you to fully concentrate on the sketch before you like you usually would. You don't even need to look up to know where Mr. Kim currently stood at, while he gradually comes closer to where you are seated at.

The sound of his steps approaching you slowly sends shivers down your spine, just like the feeling of him standing right beside you, wordlessly examining your sketch. You can't keep from glancing up at his face as his gaze remains locked on the paper before you, an approving look surfacing on his face. He then glances at your face, his eyes meeting yours immediately as he leans down a bit to speak to you with a quieter, low voice. "Nice choice of motives. Do you have an idea for the final composition already?"

You feel your cheeks heating up as you mumble out a shy "Um, kind of", unsure of how to feel about the genuine interest Mr. Kim shows. It's been a while since someone other than your son Tyler had commented on one of your works. The young artist next to you smiles. "You're a fast one, huh? I like that. But let me know if you need anything, alright?" His voice is just as unique as his appearance. And the more you get to hear of it, the more you come to like the sound of it. Nodding your head with a smile, you thank him before he smiles back and moves on to the next participant of his course.

By the end of the course, you have created a piece you are rather proud of - the motives assembled in a harmonic way, adding to the calm and welcoming atmosphere of your painting. Throughout the creation process of it, Mr. Kim came around every once in a while to praise you for your ideas or help you improve parts of your piece in ways you wouldn't have been able to think of yourself. You have actually truly enjoyed today. At the end of the course, Mr. Kim gives his final speech in which he thanks everyone for participating and gives some last advice before sending everyone home with their final artworks. You had just put the materials you had used back to where you got them from, ready to pack your things to leave, when Mr. Kim approaches you with a gentle smile. "(Y/N), am I right?" He addresses you, your heart seemingly skipping a beat at the way your name sounds when spoken with his smooth voice. "Yes, that would be me" you say, turning to him with faked confidence. In reality, something about this Kim Taehyung makes you feel like a shy teenager again. He smiles apologetically as he asks "Do you perhaps have a minute or two to talk? If you're not in a hurry to be somewhere, that is."

To be honest, you want to apologize and leave right now. Tyler is waiting for you at home, after all. And so is Hanna. But your head nods on it’s own accord before your mind could stop it from doing so. What are a few minutes anyway, right?

"Great! Actually, I was curious to see how your piece turned out. To be honest, I didn't really get to look at it yet," he then says as he regards your artwork which is still on the easel at your seat. Examining it interestedly, he chuckles. "You're really talented, you know? This can't have been the first time you’ve painted something like this."

Your lips curve upwards in a bashful smile. "Ah, well actually... It's kind of my hobby. It's just that I haven't had much time to pursue it recently..." you answer. A soft humming noise resonates in his throat before he faces you again. "Are you interested in modern art too?" He suddenly asks, catching you a little off guard. "Modern art?" You repeat, to which he nods. "There's an art exhibition at the City Hall next friday. The main focus of it lays on contemporary artists and most works shown there are paintings and sculptures, rather than installations or anything like that. But I have a feeling that you might like it." You aren't sure where he was aiming at with this information, but you appreciate it. Mirroring his friendly smile, you say "It does sound interesting, yes. But I'm really busy lately, I'm not sure if I'll be able to go."

Mr. Kim seems understanding as he nods. "Well, if you do make it, maybe we'll meet there." He responds, making you nod slowly as you mumble a barely audible "That'd be nice." You want to ask him if there'd also be works of his exhibited there, remembering that he introduced himself as a freelance artist earlier, but the sound of your phone vibrating in your pocket interrupts you. "Ah, sorry" you then say, quickly looking at your phone to see messages of Hanna coming in. It’s nothing serious, just questions about whether Tyler still takes naps after lunch or not, since he apparently got a little energy boost after having eaten well. But it is urgent enough for you to decide that it is time to go home now. "I better get going now. Today was really nice, thank you. And thank you for telling me about the art exhibition, too. As you said, maybe we'll meet there." You speak as you collect your belongings and art piece, Mr. Kim nodding calmly and smiling as he wishes you a nice day before you leave.

On your way home, you keep thinking about today's events. About the fun you have had while painting for the first time in months and the useful help Mr. Kim had offered. The giddy feeling you got whenever he would lean in to talk to you quietly with that soothing deep voice of his. You have really had a great day, even if you still feel a little awkward for being so affected by the male's looks and kind words. But who could blame you, if said artist looks like a piece of art himself?

Arriving at home, the first thing you notice right after opening the front door is the welcoming scent of warm pancakes coming from your kitchen. Peeking past the doorframe, you smile at the sight of your best friend and son pouring dough into a frying pan together, your little son giggling in excitement.

"Hello you two" you greet the diligently working duo and laugh when your son immediately comes running to you to hug your legs and welcome you back excitedly. Crouching down to meet his eyes, you then give him a kiss on his cheek and smile at him. "Did you have a nice time with Hanna?" You ask, your smile widening when Tyler nods eagerly. "Yes! Hanna knows so many fun games for two! We played hide and seek too!” You give Hanna a glance, relieved to see her smiling just as happily as your little son. For some reason you’re always worried that he might be a little too challenging for her sometimes, but seeing her reaction to his happy storytelling, you have no doubt that she adores your son almost as much as you do.

Getting up to greet your friend properly with a short hug, you then look at the pile of pancakes on the kitchen counter. "Someone seems to be hungry, huh" you comment, Hanna rolling her eyes as she speaks, avoiding the topic. "How was the art course?"

You can feel Tyler leaning against your legs, silently requesting your attention. Picking him up to hold him close, you then begin to tell Hanna about the building, the people there, the fun you had when painting something from start to finish for the first time in ages, and in the end you thank her for having made this possible. Yet, a very specific detail you keep to yourself for now － Kim Taehyung.

Thank you for reading the Prologue to my new series “Inspiration is Motivation”!

If you can’t wait to read the next chapter, check out my Series Masterlist and follow @pluto-fics to be notified of new updates.

Stay safe and see you soon! 💜

- Pluto 🌑

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brxdys · 4 years ago

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( nick robinson, male, he/him ) have you heard about BRADY WRIGHT? they’re a 22 year old TEAM MEMBER in the VIDEOGRAPHY team. i don’t know what their last job was, all i know is that they’re originally from DENVER, CO. carol in hr said that they’re kinda STUBBORN and DEFENSIVE but jessica in marketing insists that they are CONFIDENT and PROTECTIVE. at the end of the day, no one is worthy of the instant hype here. i just hope they get to achieve their dream of being A DIRECTOR one day. According to the latest Vibez quiz, their Disney soulmate is ALADDIN.

hi!! nicole here, and this is brady! below you’ll find some background/bullets abt him, and you can also check out his STATS PAGE for more! i also listed some connections ideas at the bottom, but i’d love to discuss anything just based on who the muses are and what would work specifically for them.

im not actually on my laptop rn for opening unfortunately, so i might not immediately see your tumblr messages. feel free to add me on discord ( john ambrose mcclaren#1627 ) to message me there for plotting etc.!! otherwise i’ll get back to you later. NOW WITHOUT FURTHER ADO:

some background (TW homophobia):

brady is the third child of colonal bradford wright, sr. and isabella wright. his father obviously comes from the military and his mom is one of those stay-at-home military moms/wives with no actual hobbies. they’re also both from well-off families so, you know. they got moneyyyy.

the family moved around a lot due to general relocation and living on different military bases and things like that. as a result, brady and his 2 older siblings were all born in a different state. brady himself was born in colorado, where he lived for the first 7 years of his life. since then, he’s never lived somewhere longer than 5 years.

because of the lifestyles isabella and the colonel both came from in their own childhoods, and then all of the people the colonel was associated with over the years, brady was raised in an environment where appearance was key. his parents have all these rich friends and each of the children had to appear polite, put together, well-mannered, etc. when they went to their fancy parties. arguments were not well-received, so brady and his siblings learned to be quiet and get through it. it was never much of a choice at all.

the relationship with his parents, and especially his dad, is complicated. they’re strict, conservative, traditional... all the things brady isn’t. they were never quiet about the political/societal opinions and ensured the kids didn’t form their own. but of course, that was kinda bullshit, and brady and his siblings learned to think what they wanted. but it was complex at home. political debates just didn’t, or really couldn’t, happen. defying authority was simply not tolerated ― and having a father in the military was no joke. so brady didn’t argue. just like when he was a kid, he’d gotten good at shutting up and dealing with the terrible things they would say at the dinner table.

needless to say, brady discovering his own bisexuality in his early teens became a closely kept secret; his parents’ extremely conservative views and family trips to church every week made sure of that. now that he’s an adult, it’s become much less of a secret. if you’re a close friend of brady’s, you probably know that he’s bi. but it’s not quite something he’s shouting from any rooftops anytime soon. as difficult as things have been with his parents over the years, he’s just not quite ready for everything that would come along with coming out yet. so being totally out and proud is a work in progress for him atm.

more fun facts/info just about brady!

his full name is actually bradford (he’s a jr. named after his dad), but he simply will never tell that to anyone. so that’s brady to you, and always will be.

brady has always been more creative than he was ever truly able to express, so he spent a lot of time in his earlier years with an old camcorder he’d been given, messing around and making movies (and forcing his siblings and childhood friends to participate). it’s hard to tell for certain when it became the most important thing to him, but at some point brady decided videography was his passion and directing was his dream. so now you’d be hard pressed to find brady without his camera.

his sister introduced him to vibez and pushed him to apply as a way to do something he loves and is good at, so... here he is!!!

he’s also an artist, but it’s more of a hobby. he likes digital art and pencil sketches but also enjoys experimenting with paint.

he loves cryptids/true crime/all things paranormal. he even has a podcast just to talk about stories like that.

he played basketball for a long time when he was young. he thought about continuing with it and improving and at some point had dreams of going pro, but an injury in middle school stopped him from playing altogether, so there went that.

he smokes weed a lot.

he absolutely loves movies and keeps updated lists of his all-time and recent favorites.

he loves harry potter & is a gryffindor. also has a rescued black lab named draco.

he has a tattoo of an alien smoking weed on his arm that his friend gave him in their kitchen once.

he’s headstrong, sarcastic, stubborn, cocky, has daddy issues....... what more could you want, really!

we can discuss absolutely anything as far as plotting so hmu and i’ll get back to you asap!! im def quicker on discord. looking forward to writing with you all xoxo.

connections ideas just to get started:

best friends — i would love a few of these. give brady a squad pls!!

roommates — i’d love to have like 3-4 of them in the apartment. chaos

rivals — maybe someone else in the vid. department who gives brady a run for his money and they vie for a lot of the same projects!! could be friendly or genuine pettiness lmao

childhood friends — brady lived in different states constantly growing up so could apply to any muse regardless of where they’re from!!

the bad habits bro™ — he smokes weed a lot and has a horrible sleep pattern and takes too many shots of fireball sometimes so someone who doesn’t exactly help any of that sjdjdjdjw

podcast partner — has a lowkey, just for fun, not well known podcast to talk about true crime/supernatural/cryptid stories!! so anyone who likes that stuff too

mentor — someone higher up (probably in the same department) who gives him tips n tricks

exes/hookups/short flings/fwb etc. — all pretty self explanatory and there are likely quite a few in the last few years, bc brady has been Bad at romance

mutual or one sided dislike — just love the hate n angst

#vibez:intros

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sanderssidesfanfiction · 5 years ago

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Royal Growing Pains - Chapter Four

A/N: I can see that I’ve gained quite a few followers for this particular story over the past week since I posted chapter three! I just want to say welcome, and I hope you enjoy the ride!

Warnings: Homophobia, transphobia, misgendering, sympathetic Deceit

Royal Growing Pains Tag

Roman climbed in the car, where Damien was already waiting. He appeared to have finally gotten some of his voice back, because he said, “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Roman said. “I much prefer jeans and a t-shirt to any dress I’ve had to wear, ever.”

“Understandable, but I wasn’t referring to your clothes,” Damien said. “You’re holding your head high, your shoulders are back and squared, and your voice is more confident and more compassionate at once. You come across as...well...regal.”

“I’m acting like a prince, you mean?” Roman asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I...suppose so,” Damien said with a sheepish grin. “It does sound silly, doesn’t it?”

“Only a little,” Roman laughed. “It’s easy to forget that people see you as royalty sometimes, until it’s thrown in your face. Because I don’t feel any different than any of my other, non-royal friends.”

“True. We’re all human at the end of the day,” Damien agreed. “And human nature seems to be forgetting that fact.”

Roman laughed as they drove into town, and Damien asked, “So, a paint bar? Or grabbing art supplies?”

“I think I’d rather just get the art supplies,” Roman said. “That way, we can save whatever materials we don’t use for a later date.”

Damien nodded. “Sounds good,” he agreed. “Virgil, do you know where the art store is?”

Virgil sighed. “Yes, I’ll take you there, but I won’t be happy about it. And if you get paint splatter everywhere again, I will be telling your parents how your clothes got ruined.”

“It’s nothing a little rubbing alcohol and laundry detergent couldn’t fix,” Damien protested.

Roman snickered. “Not much of an artist, then?” he asked.

“I will admit I have had...multiple issues when it comes to art supplies. It wasn’t just the glitter when I was young,” Damien said.

“Yeah, he tried pottery, painting, dry media, wet media, any and everything, right down to graphite pencils and later, photography. He always ends up covered in something,” Virgil piped up.

Damien sighed. “Thank you, Virgil, for enlightening Roman to my shortcomings.”

“You’re welcome!” Virgil responded brightly.

“No, I—” Damien cut himself short. “You know what? Fine. Whatever.”

Roman laughed as they pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. “Oh, come on, Damien, it’s funny! And it’s nice to know that you’re not perfect.”

Damien rolled his eyes and they made their way inside the store, Virgil beside them all the while, glancing around. “I’ll let you take the lead on finding paints,” Damien said. “I assume you’d know far more about what is and isn’t a good paint brand from experience. Just bear in mind that I’m a beginner, so please be kind and explain art jargon if I ask?”

“Of course,” Roman said with a smile. “I’m always willing to explain to someone who wants to learn! Remus and I used to talk about the things we had learned from different experiments in our preferred arts. I enjoyed painting and drawing, mostly different scenes of places I’d been or would like to go. Remus preferred writing. Often violent, gruesome, and dark stories, but it made him happy whenever he thought of something new. We’d swap creations and tell each other what we liked about them. I miss those days...It’s not that we couldn’t do it anymore, but we have less time to pursue our passion projects.”

“I know the feeling,” Damien sighed. “I am pursuing a degree in History, but I would love to teach philosophy, given half the chance.”

“Really?” Roman asked in mild surprise. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Most people don’t,” Damien replied easily. “But I loved reading about philosophy ever since I was a young child.”

“Huh,” Roman said. “The more you know.”

“Indeed,” Damien said. “Now. The paints?”

“Oh! Right,” Roman said, heading further inside the store in the general direction he thought the paints might be. Damien gave him an amused smile and Roman rolled his eyes. “Shut up. You’ve been distracted by conversation before, surely?”

“I will admit to nothing,” Damien said simply, but he was smirking.

“That’s basically saying yes,” Roman informed him.

“Ah, but it is not a definitive answer,” Damien pointed out.

Roman rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Damien. Damien laughed. “Not very princely behavior,” he teased.

“It’s just us here, no one has to say anything,” Roman shot back.

Damien’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Ah, but what if I want to? You may have to buy my silence.”

“Oh yeah? And how would I do that?” Roman asked.

Damien smiled enigmatically.

“Oh come on, that’s mean!” Roman laughed. “Tell me!”

Damien’s eyes looked around conspiratorially, before he whispered in Roman’s ear, “Get us to lose the chaperone.”

Roman looked at Damien in surprise, and Damien just smirked back. Roman looked around, noticing one of the smaller aisles that had children’s art supplies. He grabbed Damien’s hand and ran down the aisle while Virgil looked behind them, and then sprinted down the back of the store until they reached the paints. Roman looked around, smirking. “Not bad, eh? And we got where we were going!”

Damien grinned. “Oh, Virgil is going to kill us both.”

Roman laughed. “It was your idea! I’m innocent!”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Damien said, nodding.

Roman laughed, looking at the different paints the store had to offer. “What do you think, oil or acrylic?”

“Don’t oil paints require paint thinner to use?” Damien asked.

“In some cases,” Roman agreed. “So maybe not oil today. I should probably make sure that you can paint at all before I bring out the fancy supplies.”

“There’s also watercolors,” Damien pointed out.

Roman shrugged. “True, but those are very tricky to use as well. If you’re not careful, you could wind up with mud as a picture.”

“Acrylic it is, then,” Damien said, walking up next to Roman. “Which brand should we get, and how much paint would we need?”

“A starter’s kit for each of us should be enough for now,” Roman said. “They have a deceptive amount of paint in them. Or, if you want something bigger, we could invest in tubes of cyan, magenta, and yellow. That’s how you can mix more vibrant colors.”

Damien hummed. “I think that if we’re going to be spending some time away from your art supplies, we should get the larger tubes, if only so you have more to work with. Cyan, magenta, and yellow? Should we get black and white as well for shades and tints?”

“Probably a good idea. I’m impressed with your knowledge of terminology,” Roman said.

Damien waved him off. “Trust me, Your Highness, the terminology is about all I’m good at when it comes to art.”

Roman laughed, just as Virgil dashed into the aisle. “You!” he exclaimed, pointing at the two of them. “You two are in huge trouble!”

“Uh-oh, he found us,” Damien stage-whispered, and Roman snickered.

Virgil stalked over, breath heaving in his chest. “Do you two have any idea how terrified I was when I turned back around and you weren’t there?!”

“Virgil, we’re not toddlers, that tactic won’t work on us,” Damien said, arching an unimpressed eyebrow.

Virgil’s nostrils flared. “I thought the two of you were about to be seriously hurt. It’s my job to look out for the two of you and you treat it like it’s a game to get away from me when any number of people out here could be waiting for a chance to kill you.”

Roman felt just a tiny bit guilty. “We weren’t trying to make your job harder Virgil, we just...wanted some privacy.”

Virgil looked between them. Damien’s face revealed nothing, and Roman shrugged as if to say, What else do you want from me?

“Next time you want to make out, at least tell me where you’ll be making your attempt so I can make sure no one’s coming over,” Virgil growled.

“We will, Virgil, rest assured,” Damien said.

Roman sputtered. “We weren’t trying to make out!�� he protested.

Virgil shrugged. “Why else would you want privacy?”

“We could be sharing secrets, or just want a moment to talk by ourselves without worrying about anyone else overhearing, for any reason! We don’t immediately go to the gutter when you’re not around!”

“Just immediately, hm?” Virgil asked.

“I...no! No, that is not what I meant and you know it!” Roman protested.

Damien and Virgil were both smirking to various degrees and Roman huffed. “You’re both being incredibly mean,” he growled. “And if that continues, you’ll both end up covered in paint by the end of the day.”

Virgil’s smirk dropped but Damien just shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he simply said.

“But it would be the last,” Virgil warned. “Because I’m not getting in trouble for you being covered in paint, and I would never allow you near art supplies again.”

Damien held his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right, I’m done.”

“You promise?” Roman pressed.

“Yes, yes, I promise. If it means I get the chance to paint with you, then I won’t push this subject any further.”

Roman smiled, and proceeded to pick out some beginner’s acrylic paint, grabbed two brush sets, and then asked, “Mixed media paper, or canvas, do you think?”

“Canvas,” Damien said. “Much easier for me to work with a bigger surface that is very clearly not a table.”

Roman laughed. “Okay, then. Canvas.”

“Maybe easels, too? We could do some on-site painting with those,” Damien pointed out. “And we have quite the scenery at the base of the mountain. It could be fun.”

“Sure,” Roman agreed. “Do you not have any easels remaining after your painting escapades?”

Damien coughed. “Well...my parents may or may not have tried to deter me from future endeavors by not keeping the materials around.”

Roman giggled. “Oh, it was really that bad?”

“Hush, you’re hardly one to talk,” Damien said. “You have plenty of embarrassing stories, too.”

“True, but they’re not relevant to this conversation,” Roman chirped.

Damien glared at Roman. “Traitor,” he muttered.

Roman just offered him a grin in response. Damien glanced away and gravitated towards a sign that said the easels were in that aisle. Roman followed, paint in hand, and Virgil trailed behind them again. Damien picked out two smaller easels, and then turned to Roman. “Canvases?” he asked.

“Right,” Roman said.

They grabbed a pack of canvases and went to the front of the shop and rang everything up. Once they had everything in the car, Virgil looked at them. “Where will you two be painting?” he asked.

“I was thinking halfway up the mountain, where we have quite the view of farmland, it’s beautiful scenery,” Damien offered.

“Sounds good to me,” Roman agreed.

“All right, I’ll drive the two of you up there,” Virgil said. “But if I see any shenanigans with paint I will kill both of you.”

Damien gave Virgil a playful salute. “Whatever you say, Your Highness,” he said, voice soaked in sarcasm.

Virgil took a deep breath. “You’re really dead set on testing my patience aren’t you?”

Damien shrugged. “Well, you seem to be dead set on telling me what I can and cannot do when I’m my own individual, so it only makes sense to balance the scales somewhat.”

“Oh, you are playing a very dangerous game, Your Highness,” Virgil warned. “Get in the car.”

Damien gave Roman a very satisfied smirk as he did as told and Roman followed him into the car. Virgil shut the door a little harder than necessary as he got in as well. He drove them to a point that Damien picked out and then Roman and Damien got their supplies out of the car, setting up the easels and canvases so they were facing the farmland. “This should be fun,” Roman said with a smile as Virgil continued up the mountain. “And it looks like we’ll be on our own for a bit.”

“We’re close enough to the castle that the guards can watch us from there and pick us up if need be,” Damien said simply. “So we’re not necessarily ‘alone’ but we do have some space.”

“Some much needed space,” Roman said, looking out at the farmland below and taking the paints, before gasping. “We forgot the palettes!”

“Oh, damn it,” Damien muttered.

Roman laughed. “That was not a very princely response,” he teased.

Damien rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Your Highness. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Roman said. “I suppose we could mix the paint on the canvas, go for a slightly more abstract way of painting.”

“Well, unless we want to call Virgil back down here, that’s what we’ll have to do,” Damien sighed.

“Yeah, I don’t want to call Virgil down over this,” Roman said, shaking his head. He grabbed the tube of cyan paint and popped the cap, pouring some onto his canvas...or attempting to. Nothing was coming out. “That’s weird,” Roman muttered. He turned the tube so he could see the opening, and gently squeezed. Paint splattered out of the tube, all over Roman’s face, and he sputtered as Damein burst into hysterics. “Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Roman asked, picking up a glob of paint and flinging it at Damien’s face.

Damien stood stock still for a second, before he slowly reached for the magenta paint and poured some onto his fingers, flicking it onto Roman’s arm.

“Oh, this means war,” Roman said, pointing the tube of cyan at Damien and squeezing again, getting paint all over Damien’s shirt.

“How dare you!” Damien exclaimed, laughing. He poured out more magenta and smeared it across Roman’s face, getting some in his hair.

Roman cackled as he grabbed the yellow and used both tubes to smear paint over Damien, while Damien took the magenta and black and returned the favor. They chased each other around the easels, and Roman squealed as he lost his footing running backwards and nearly fell straight to the dirt, only to have Damien wrap an arm around the small of Roman’s back, catching him in a dip. The two were laughing and breathless, and Roman muttered, “Hi,” to Damien.

“Hi,” Damien laughed back. “Truce?”

Roman considered it, looked at the yellow paint he hadn’t dropped, and grinned, saying, “Nah,” and squirting paint directly into Damien’s wavy hair.

“How dare you?!” Damien exclaimed. “And I kept you from falling, too! I had to sacrifice my black paint to do that!”

Roman laughed and got back on his feet, exclaiming, “Catch me if you can!” as he flung one last glob of yellow paint at Damien before running away.

Now, Roman was fast, but Damien was undoubtedly the taller of the two of them, and he managed to catch up to Roman quickly, snagging the back of Roman’s shirt. He pulled Roman into a bear hug, effectively getting paint all over both of them. “Virgil is gonna kill us!” he laughed.

Roman shrieked with laughter and wriggled out of Damien’s grasp, shoving him to the ground and pinning him there as Roman grabbed all the cyan off his face that he could and painting little clouds all over Damien’s face. He was shaking so hard from his laughter he could barely make the shapes.

“Hey!” a sharp voice hollered from the top of the mountain. “What did I just tell you two?!”

Roman and Damien shared a brief horrified glance before Damien was on his feet and grabbed Roman’s wrist, yelling, “Run!”

They both sprinted their way down the mountain, but soon found themselves outnumbered by guards driving their way down the road to barricade them in. Virgil barrelled down the mountain, breath heaving in his chest. “I said no shenanigans with the paint!” he exclaimed.

Damien pointed at Roman. “Roman started it!”

“What?!” Roman asked. “Did not! It wasn’t my fault that the paint tube squirted into my face!”

“But it is your fault that the paint was subsequently thrown onto my face,” Damien said.

“You didn’t have to laugh!”

“You didn’t have to retaliate!”

“Boys!” Virgil snapped. “I don’t care who started what, you both are complicit in the shenanigans and you’re both covered in paint! What am I supposed to tell your parents, huh?!”

“I imagine you’ll tell them you left us alone for five minutes under the impression that we could be mature and turned to look at how we were faring once you reached the top of the mountain only to find us having a paint fight below,” Damien said, completely deadpan and with a straight face that Roman couldn’t possibly hope to achieve.

“You both are walking up the hill and will be getting cleaned up before dinner this evening. I imagine that most of the dignitaries coming to congratulate you two on your engagement will not want to see the two of you covered head to toe in paint.”

“Why do we have to walk up the mountain, though?” Damien asked.

“Because we are not getting the back seats of any of the guards’ cars covered in acrylic paint!” Virgil hissed. “Do you have any idea how easily that stains?”

Roman raised his hand. “Actually, I do, and it’s not as bad as you might think,” he said.

Virgil glowered at him and Roman promptly shut up, following Damien and Virgil back up to the castle. Damien hissed as they approached the top. “Our mothers are waiting for us,” he whispered to Roman.

“Shit, what?!” Roman asked in clear panic. His mother was going to kill him!

Damien took one look at Roman and grabbed his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t chew into you too much.”

As they reached the top, the two queens looking at them with twin unamused expressions, Damien scratched the back of his neck. “It’s...uh, my fault,” he said quickly. “One of the paint tubes exploded in my face on accident, I started the paint fight.”

“Damien —!” Roman hissed.

Damien held a hand up at hip level to stop Roman. “It won’t happen again,” Damien assured.

“You’re right, Damien, it won’t,” the Queen said. “Because you are not going to be allowed near any of Veronica’s art supplies for the remainder of the week.” Ouch. And not just because of the use of his deadname, even if it was for his safety.

Roman’s mother looked at him and he inwardly braced himself for what he knew was coming. “Veronica, I’m disappointed in you!” she exclaimed. “I raised you better than for you to engage in a paint fight! That’s not very ladylike behavior for any woman, let alone a princess!”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from snarling at his mother, but he just nodded stiffly. “Of course,” he practically growled. But I’m not a princess.

His mother kept staring at him, but Roman was not going to give her the satisfaction of apologizing. Not to her. “Damien, you didn’t get any paint in your eyes, right?”

“Yes, I can still see,” Damien confirmed.

“Good,” Roman said, nodding. “Then we should probably change and get cleaned up. Virgil’s right; I doubt any visitors would appreciate the fine art that is...well, fighting with art.”

Damien barked a laugh, before covering his mouth with a hand. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with mirth in his eyes. “Although I must admit I like you in pants, they seem to do wonders for your confidence. Maybe tonight a pantsuit for dinner would be appropriate?”

Roman felt his heart soar at the excuse right there for him to take. “Sounds perfect,” he agreed, and together the two of them walked into the castle, while their mothers sent them one last look and a warning to behave.

Tag List: @lunareclipse-13 @sanders-sides-crofters @blushy-gigglee-mess @wannacrymetoo @kaytikitty @magicalspacepanunicorn @bootsinthesun @pricklyfish777 @flowersanddinosaurs @leiasolo77 @birdybabybird @enby-phoenix @luna–28 @justagaygoose @the-prince-and-the-emo @fandomsandanythingelse @randommuffinyt @snekky-boi @thesoftestlittlepuffballwegot @twilight-trix @abby5577 @escalatingtoofast @friendlyfacestabbing @remus-is-stinky @foggybanditdreampeanut @ghostskull300 @sprinklestheditty @canvas-the-florist @askthesnake @samuel-the-gay @determination-saved @sparrowofsong @beyondthestacks @juicy-cashew @loganpatton @lilbeanblr @kittyboof8 @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @sanders-trash-4ever @hamilspntrash @swords-and-kittens @phantomfander @narniasfinestavengingsociopath @rjmeta @ambersky0319 @anni-cat-flower @idosanderssidespromptssometimes @nafsbluebery @redisawerewolf23 @voidvirgil

#roceit #sanders sides fanfiction #roman sanders #deceit sanders #virgil sanders #royal growing pains #our creations

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mamcollection · 4 years ago

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Artist Gina Beavers Satirizes Our Insatiable Appetite for Personal Beauty in Her New Show at Marianne Boesky

Makeup as Muse: Gina Beavers

November 28, 2020

Despite my art history background and general love of art, I am less than eloquent when writing about it. Nevertheless I will continue soldiering forward with the Museum's Makeup as Muse series, the latest installment of which focuses on the work of Gina Beavers in honor of her recent show at Marianne Boesky Gallery. Beavers' practice encompasses a variety of themes, but it's her paintings of makeup tutorials that I'll be exploring. Since I'm both tired and lazy this will be more of a summary of her work rather than offering any fresh insight and I'll be quoting the artist extensively along with some writers who have covered her art, so most of this will not be my own words.

Born in Athens and raised in Europe, Beavers is fascinated by the excess and consumerism of both American culture and social media. "I don't know how to talk about this existence without talking about consumption, and so I think that's the element in consuming other people's images. That's where that's embedded. We have to start with consumption if we're going to talk about who we are. That's the bedrock—especially as an American," she says. The purchase of a smart phone in 2010 is when Beavers' work began focusing on social media. "[Pre-smart phone] I would see things in the world and paint them! Post-smartphone my attention and observation seemed to go into my phone, into looking at and participating in social media apps, and all of the things that would arise there...Historically, painters have drawn inspiration from their world, for me it's just that a lot of my world is virtual [now]."

But why makeup, and specifically, makeup tutorials? There seem to be two main themes running through the artist's focus on these online instructions, the first being the relationship between painting and makeup. Beavers explains: "When I started with these paintings I was really thinking that this painting is looking at you while it is painting itself. It’s drawing and painting: it has pencils, it has brushes, and it’s trying to make itself appealing to the viewer. It’s about that parallel between a painting and what you expect from it as well as desire and attraction. It’s also interesting because the terms that makeup artists use on social media are painting terms. The way they talk about brushes or pigments sounds like painters talking shop." Makeup application as traditional painting is a theme that goes back centuries, but Beavers's work represents a fresh take on it. As Ellen Blumenstein wrote in an essay for Wall Street International: "Elements such as brushes, lipsticks or fingers, which are intended to reassure the viewers of the videos of the imitability of the make-up procedures, here allude to the active role of the painting – which does not just stare or make eyes at the viewer, but rather seems to paint itself with the accessories depicted – literally building a bridge extending out from the image...Beavers divests [the image] of its natural quality and uses painting as an analytical tool. The viewer is no longer looking at photographic tableaus composed of freeze-frames taken from make-up tutorials, but rather paintings about make-up tutorials, which present the aesthetic and formal parameters of this particular class of images, which exist exclusively on the net." The conflation of makeup and painting can also be perceived as a rumination on authorship and original sources. Beavers is remaking tutorials, but the tutorials themselves originated with individual bloggers and YouTubers. And given the viral, democratic nature of the Internet, it's nearly impossible to tell who did a particular tutorial first and whether tutorials covering the same material - say, lip art depicting Van Gogh's "Starry Night" - are direct copies of one artist's work or merely the phenomenon of many people having the same idea and sharing it online. Sometimes the online audience cannot distinguish between authentic content and advertising; Beavers's "Burger Eye" (2015), for example, is actually not recreated from a tutorial at all but an Instagram ad for Burger King (and the makeup artist who was hired to create it remains, as far as I know, uncredited).

Another theme is fashioning one's self through makeup, and how that self is projected online in multiple ways. Beavers explains: "I am interested in the ways existing online is performative, and the tremendous lengths people go to in constructing their online selves. Meme-makers, face-painters, people who make their hair into sculptures, are really a frontier of a new creative world...It’s interesting, as make-up has gotten bigger and bigger, I’ve realized what an important role it plays in helping people construct a self, particularly in trans and drag communities. I don’t normally wear a lot of make-up myself, but I like the idea of the process of applying make-up standing in for the process of self-determination, the idea of ‘making yourself’."

As for the artist's process, it's a laborious one. Beavers regularly combs Instagram, YouTube and other online sources and saves thousands of images on her phone. She then narrows down to a few based on both composition and the story they're trying to tell. "I'm arrested by images that have interesting formal qualities, color, composition but also a compelling narrative. I really like when an image is saying something that leaves me unsure of how it will translate to painting, like whether the meaning will change in the context of the history of painting," she says. "I always felt drawn to photos that had an interesting composition, whether for its color or depth or organization. But in order for me to want to paint it, it also had to have interesting content, like the image was communicating some reality beyond its composition that I related to in my life or that I thought spoke in some interesting way about culture." The act of painting for Beavers is physically demanding as well: she needs to start several series at the same time and go back and forth between paintings to allow the layers to dry. They have to lay flat to dry so she often ends up painting on the floor, and her recent switch to an even heavier acrylic caused a bout of carpal tunnel syndrome.

But it's precisely the thick quality of the paint that return some of the tactile nature of makeup application. This is not accidental; Beavers intentionally uses this technique as way to remind us of makeup's various textures and to ensure her paintings resemble paintings rather than a photorealistic recreation of the digital screen. "The depth of certain elements in the background of images has taught me a lot about seeing. I think I have learned that I enjoy setting up problems to solve, that it isn't enough for me to simply render a photo realistically, that I have to build up the acrylic deeply in order to interfere with the rendering of something too realistically," she explains. Sharon Mizota, writing for the LA Times, says it best: "Skin, lashes and lips are textured with rough, caked-on brushstrokes that mimic and exaggerate wrinkles and gloppy mascara. This treatment gives the subjects back some of the clunky physicality that the camera and the digital screen strip away. Beavers’ paintings, in some measure, undo the gloss of the photographic image."

Beavers also uses foam to further build up certain sections so that they bulge out towards the viewer, representing the desire to connect to others online. "Much of what people do online is to try to create connection, to reach out and meet people or talk to people. That is what the surfaces of my painting do in a really literal way, they are reaching off the linen into the viewer’s space," she says. This sculptural quality also points to the reality of the online world - it's not quite "real life" but it's not imaginary either, occupying a space in between. Beavers expands on her painting style representing the online space: "It’s interesting because flatness often comes up with screens, and I think historically the screen might have been read like that, reflecting a more passive relationship. That has changed with the advent of engagement and social media. What’s behind our screen is a whole living, breathing world, one that gives as much as it takes. I mean it is certainly as 'real' as anything else. I see the dimension as a way to reflect that world and the ways that world is reaching out to make a connection. Another aspect is that once these works are finished, they end up circulating back in the same online world and now have this heightened dimensionality – they cast their own shadow. They’re not a real person, or burger, or whatever, but they’re not a photo of it either, they’re something in between."

Let's dig a little more into what all this means in terms of makeup, the beauty industry and social media. Beavers' work can be viewed as a simultaneous critique and celebration of all three. Sharon Mizota again: "[The tutorial paintings] also pointedly mimic the act of putting on makeup, reminding us that it is something like sedimentation, built up layer by layer. There is no effortless glamour here, only sticky accretion. That quality itself feels like an indictment — of the beauty industry, of restrictive gender roles. But an element of playfulness and admiration lives in Beavers’ work. They speak of makeup as a site of creativity and self-transformation, and Instagram and other social media sites as democratizing forces in the spread of culture. To be sure, social media may be the spur for increasingly outré acts, which are often a form of bragging, but why shouldn’t a hamburger eye be as popular as a smoky eye? In translating these photographs into something more physical, Beavers asks us to consider these questions and exposes the duality of the makeup industry: The same business that strives to make us insecure also enables us to reinvent ourselves, not just in the image of the beautiful as it’s already defined, but in images of our own devising."

This ambiguity is particularly apparent in Beavers's 2015 exhibition, entitled Ambitchous, which incorporated beauty Instagrammers and YouTubers' makeup renditions of Disney villains alongside "good" characters. Blumenstein explains: "So it isn’t protagonists with positive connotations which are favoured by the artist, but unmistakably ambivalent characters who could undoubtedly lay claim to the neologism ambitchous, which is the name given to the exhibition. Like the original image material, this portmanteau of ‘ambitious’ and ‘bitchy’ is taken from social media and its creative vernacular, and is used, depending on the context, either in a derogatory fashion – for example for women who will do absolutely anything to get what they want – or positively re-interpreted as an expression of female self-affirmation. Beavers also applies this playful and strategic complication of seemingly unambiguous contexts of meaning to the statements contained in her paintings. It remains utterly impossible to determine whether they are critically exaggerating the conformist and consumerist beauty ideals of neo-capitalism, or ascribing emancipatory potential to the conscious and confident use of make-up."

More recently, Beavers has been using her own face as a canvas and making her own photos of them her source material, furthering her exploration of the self. "Staring at yourself or your lips for hours is pretty jarring. But I like it, because it creates this whole other level of self,” she says.

This shift also points to another dichotomy in Beavers's work: in recreating famous works of art on her face, she is both critiquing art history's traditional canon and appreciating it, referring to them as a sort of fan art. "I think a lot of the works that I have made that reference art history—like whether it's Van Gogh or whoever it is—have a duality where I really respect the artist and I'm influenced by them, and at the same time I'm making it my own and poking a little fun. And so, a lot of these pieces originated with the idea of fan art. You'll find all sorts of Starry Night images online that people have painted or sculpted or painted on their body. It comes out of that. And I just started to reach a point where I was searching things like 'Franz Kline body art,' and I wasn’t finding that, so I had to make my own. Then it started to get a little bit geekier. I have a piece in the show where I am painting a Lee Bontecou on my cheek, that's a kind of art world geeky thing—you have to really love art to get it."

Ultimately, Beavers perceives the intersection of makeup and social media as a force for good. While the specter of misinformation is always lurking, YouTube tutorials and the like allow anyone with internet access to learn how to do a smoky eye or a flawlessly lined lip. "I think for a lot of people social media is kind of like the weather. We don't have a lot of control of it, it just is. It gives and it takes away. There's no doubt that it has connected people in ways that are great and productive, allowing people to find communities and organize activism, it can also be a huge distraction...I approach looking at images there pretty distantly, more as a neutral documentarian, and I come down on the side of seeing social media as an incredibly useful, democratic tool in a lot of ways," she concludes.

On the other side of social media, Beavers is interested on how content creators help disseminate the idea of makeup as representing something larger and more meaningful than traditional notions of beauty. "I was super fascinated with makeup and all of the kinds of costume makeup and things you can find online that go away from a traditional beauty makeup and go towards something really wild and cool...I also had certain paintings in [a 2016] show that were much more about costume makeup, that were going away from beauty. That’s the thing that gives me hope. When I go through makeup hashtags on Instagram, there will be ten or twenty beauty eye makeup images and then one that’s painted with horror makeup. There are women out there doing completely weird things, right next to alluring ones." In the pandemic age, as people's relationships with makeup are changing, "weird" makeup is actually becoming less strange. Beavers' emphasis on experimental makeup is more timely than ever. I also think she's documenting the gradual way makeup is breaking free of the gender binary. She says: "I mean with makeup, and the whole conversation around femininity and makeup—I think for a long time when I was making makeup images, there were people that just thought, 'Oh, that's not for me,' because it's about makeup, it's feminine. But it’s interesting, the culture is shifting. I just saw the other day that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez did a whole Instagram live where she was putting on her makeup and talking about how empowering makeup is for trans communities...some people see make-up as restrictive or frivolous, but drag performers show how it can be liberating and life-saving." Another point to consider in terms of gender is the close-up aspect of Beavers's paintings. With individual features (eyes, lips, nails) separated from the rest of the face and body and removed from their original context, they're neither masculine nor feminine, thereby reiterating that makeup is for any (or no) gender.

All I can say is, I love these paintings. Stylistically, they're right up my alley - big, colorful and mimicking makeup's tactile nature so much that I have a similar reaction to them as I do when seeing makeup testers in a store: I just want to dip my hands in them and smear them everywhere! I also enjoy the multiple themes and levels in her work. Beavers isn't commenting just on makeup in the digital age, but also self-representation online, shifting attitudes towards makeup's meaning, the relationship between painting and makeup, and Western art history.

What do you think of Beavers's paintings?

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baekterflyeffect · 5 years ago

Text

hues / part one

He always considered himself as the colorful one, until she came into the picture and managed to make him realize that there were hues and shades of colors in him he hadn’t discovered.

CHARACTERS: Baekhyun x Reader (name would not be mentioned) AU: fakedating!au, college!au, artstudents!au GENRE: romance, fluff, slight conflict WC: 3.7k A/N: i’m not back lol i’m just bored and i have been writing this and loving this the fullest. if any read it from aff, then yes it is the same fic but i changed from OC to Reader fic!

+ hues masterlist

Baekhyun once again found himself visiting the craft store downtown to get his art supplies. He knows exactly why he decided to visit said craft store. It was not because of the supplies are cheaper, neither because it was closer to his apartment but it was because she was there.

The first time he saw her there was when the craft store he usually went to ran out of the canvas he needed, leading him to meet her. She was a part of his circle of friends, having met each other a few times yet their conversation never grew past a hi.

After their meeting at the craft store, they grew closer. They talked to each other more often, making Baekhyun’s heart thumped every time he was near her. Sometimes, more often than not, they met up in their campus garden to talk about their next assignment, being the only two that shared the same major in their group of friends.

Baekhyun found her again, this time she was choosing a few canvases to put in her basket that was already full with tubes of new acrylic inks. Baekhyun noticed that she didn’t look as bright as she usually did, her frown and slight pout were enough evidence. He slowly walked toward her direction, making himself known by bumping his shoulder to hers.

“Bad day?” He asked, a smile played on his lips as he used his finger to trace the frame of one canvas. He heard her hum, but didn’t ask again; not wanting to push her to talk about her problem.

“Just,” she started, head tilted to the side, “someone is bothering me about something.” She sounded hesitant. Baekhyun waited for her patiently, turning his head to look at her.

“We can talk about it somewhere else. If you want.”

She turned to look at Baekhyun, her lips stretched into a tight smile, giving him a nod, “Yeah, let me pay first.” Baekhyun bobbed his head, telling her that he’s going to get a new sketchbook.

They agreed to walk around to find the nearest restaurant after they put their supplies in Baekhyun’s car. The walk didn’t feel awkward, it was filled with silence, yet it was the kind of silence Baekhyun and her appreciated; looking at passerby and the scenery of the little stores.

For someone like Baekhyun, he really loved walking around in an area that he is not familiar with. Always memorizing every nook and detail of the place for him to paint later when he is free from his assignments.

Both of them ended up sitting in front of each other in a little Pizzeria they manage to find. She has never been here, sure, she hang out a lot within the area but she was never been a fan of pizzas, yet here she is―basking in the homey feeling of the place and how the smell of freshly baked pizza filled her nostrils.

She let her eyes wandered around the place, intrigued by the color schemes of the place’s interior. Appreciating how the majority of red hues adorning the place accompanied by the color green and white. She loved colors, loved how one colors can be differentiated between hues. It was always a wonder for her, how colors worked. How one shade of color can be mixed between others to create a whole new shade, how it could be lighter and darker. It amazes her.

Her eyes automatically stopped at the sight of Baekhyun who was currently reading through his menu, not knowing what to order since she did ask him to order for the both of them. Baekhyun is wearing a t-shirt in the color white. She noticed how his shirt are stretched over his shoulders, accentuating the boardness, making her wonder how fit he actually is. One of the things she also noticed were his chains that seemed to never leave his neck. Always hiding behind any outer he wore.

Baekhyun was attractive, she admitted. With the way he dressed himself and carried himself, the man screams attractive. It was the reason why she never had the bravery to get closer to him. It was not because Baekhyun have a bad reputation; it was simply because she was afraid to fall in love with him way too quickly. Yet, one encounter with him lead to them eating out together without their other friends and it would be a lie if she said she was not enjoying it.

“Let’s order one large cheese pizza and garlic bread as its side-dish, yeah?” His question snapped her out or her thoughts, nodding her head to answer him. Without much thought, he calls out to one of the waitresses to order. After he was done, he put his full attention to her, grinning boyishly.

“Ready to talk?” He asked in a soft voice, fingers drumming on the table.

“That's it.”

She finished her story, making his mouth gape at disbelief. He knew that she is one of the most popular students in their major, yet the fact that someone goes to the length of forcing her to date them makes Baekhyun feels uncomfortable.

“So you're telling me that someone is so keen in dating you to the point they almost harass you,” she briefly nods at his statement, trying to swallow her food. Baekhyun knows that even talking about this is hard for her, “and you accidentally blurted out that you have a boyfriend.”

“..yes,” he noticed that she sounded shameful, “and I need your help.”

Baekhyun arched his brow, asking her in what before he sips his drink―which he regrets because her action makes him choke on his drink.

“In pretending to be my boyfriend.”

“W-what?” Baekhyun stutters, not knowing how to digest her request. After all, he did developed some kind of crush at her and he did want to pursue a relationship with her. Why not date for real, he wanted to ask. But he knew that it would probably be too soon as they only started to get to know each other for a few weeks.

She cringed at Baekhyun’s reaction, sighing. “I mean,” she bit her lower lip, unsure what to say, “if you don’t mind..?”

Baekhyun wiped his mouth with a tissue, silence overcoming the both of them and for the first time ever since they hang out, it was the awkward kind of silence. He thinks through it, he definitely wants to date her. But fake dating her?―not so much. He was afraid that he would develop deeper feelings for her if he accepts her request. But at the same time, he thought of her story. Having someone who harassed someone else to date them is bad news. Moreover, based from her brief story, they started showing up at places that she was at. He’s worried that their liking towards her will grow into an obsession that would hurt her.

Maybe with him dating her―even though it was only for an act―will make the person go away and realize that she has no interest in them. Even though he knew that she always told them that she is not interested. Baekhyun weighed down his options, and came to a conclusion that he would approach his feelings for her later and would be prioritizing her safety instead. So, after ten minutes of silent, he agreed to help her.

“Okay,” He said, shocking himself at how his response sounded too sure. He peeks at her expression through his lashes, finding her smiling shyly.

“Okay,” she repeated, “you’re my boyfriend now?”

“Pretend,” he emphasized, “but yes, I’m your boyfriend.”

That managed to bring a smile to their lips.

Their lunch ended up being filled in a happy atmosphere, somehow it doesn’t feel bad nor awkward to pretend to date each other. They talked about their boundaries, agreed to hold hands, hug, and kiss. For some reason, it didn’t feel awkward when Baekhyun tried to hold her hands on their way back to where their cars located. Their fingers interlaced as she swung their hands gently as they walk.

It really didn’t feel bad.

Baekhyun decided to fetch her from her last class since his class ended earlier. Even though they shared the same major, they did take their specific courses. While Baekhyun classes are more focused on illustrations, her classes are more focused on graphic designs. Of course their line of work that they are trying to reach are different, while she mentioned once she wanted to be a graphic designer, Baekhyun just want to create art.

He takes a seat on the bench in front of the classroom, taking out his carry-on sketchbook and letting his hand do the magic. His pencil move in a direction where he ended up sketching her face, smiling at the rough outline of her face. He stopped himself when the door opened, closing his sketchbook to get up from where he was seated.

And there she comes.

With her hair tied in a messy bun and her fingers stained with inks. She doesn’t seem to realize that Baekhyun is there, though Baekhyun noticed a guy who was standing beside her, his arm reached out trying to hold her. Out of instinct, Baekhyun walk closer to where she was walking and looped his arm around her waist, pressing her body closer to his. She seemed taken aback, though she masked it well when she took a glance at him.

Baekhyun smiled at her, leaning closer to press a kiss on her temple. It did feel a little bit awkward to do that, though Baekhyun managed to push that awkwardness away when she placed her palm atop his chest, greeting him with a soft hi.

He heard a rough cough, drifting his attention from her eyes to the guy who was standing next to her before Baekhyun comes. Before she managed to say anything, Baekhyun beat her to it with his head tilted to the side in a tantalizing manner.

“Yeah?”

“You’re her boyfriend?” His voice is pretty loud, gaining attention from the people who were still hanging out in the hallway. She shifted uncomfortably, pressing her body closer to Baekhyun―he right away got the idea that this guy is the one who keeps harassing her―making Baekhyun tighten his arm around her body in a protective manner.

“I am,” Baekhyun answers with confidence, he doesn’t mind about the people who gasped and gossiped about them, “if you excuse me, I have a lunch date with my girlfriend.” Without waiting for an answer, he lead her to his car right away, leaving everyone to gossip more about them.

Baekhyun kept his arm around her waist the entire time they were walking to his car, with him unconsciously squeezed her waist to comfort her. He reluctantly let go once they stood in front of his car with him leaning on the hood of his sedan and her standing in front of him. She still looked uncomfortable which made him sigh, slowly taking her hand in his to interlaced their fingers.

“You okay?” He softly asked, his eyes never left her face; trying to read her expression. She shook her head, her lower lip jutted out. Baekhyun chuckled at that, and brought her closer to him, making her stand in between his spread legs. Their close proximity almost scared him. He knew that he was being too comfortable with her and the fact that he feels how her body language told him the same, it scared him even more. He managed to push his thought away when she squeezed his hand.

“He makes me feel so uncomfortable, Baek.”

Baek, she said. The nickname is a common thing between his close friends, but when she was the one who said it, Baekhyun’s heart sure did flip at that.

“I understand,” he sighed, fixing a strand of her hair by tucking it behind her ear. He took a glance at his silver wristwatch, only to realize that it was past their lunch time. “Are you hungry?” he asked softly.

She nodded at him, letting him pull her towards the passenger side of the car.

“Let’s eat, then.”

Luckily for them, it was Friday and their classes have ended. After their lunch, she was still in her dazed and uncomfortable state even though Baekhyun attempted to distract her mind from the previous event. When Baekhyun asked if she either wanted to go home or not, she merely shook her head, saying she still needs somebody to accompany her. Which lead Baekhyun to take her to his studio apartment.

He had an assignment that he needed to submit before seven pm, so he just briefly told her that she could borrow clothes from him if she wanted to sleep her afternoon away. She did take the offer of borrowing one of his sweaters even though she doesn’t have any plans to sleep. His sweater that he lent her was big enough to cover her thighs, and it made him realize that she was absolutely short.

(He playfully asked what’s her height―laughing when she answered with 148cm―and earning himself a smack on the chest.)

She was easy to be around with. Not doesn’t budge a little even when he was seated on his study table, working on an illustration in his tablet. The atmosphere between them are comforting, though there are barely words exchanged, they still manage to acknowledge each other’s presence. Sometimes, Baekhyun would turn his head and take a peek at what she was doing; finding her sitting on his small couch with Baekhyun’s blanket draped over her legs, and her laptop resting on top of it. Her eyes never left the laptop’s screen, making Baekhyun smile at how focused she was being.

(She did say she was going to do one of her assignments, but Baekhyun knew that she was watching a movie judging by how her fingers never moved an inch.)

Little did Baekhyun know, she also took peeks of his broad back, admiring how focused he was in his drawing―she was able to see it through his computer screen—a pretty illustration of two figures in the same gender with their hands clasped together in which she assumed as a cover for a book. She took notice of his realistic art style as he was putting effort in the shading of the two characters. Though, she didn’t fail to notice how monochromatic the illustration is.

She paused her movie, deciding to observe Baekhyun’s studio apartment. His apartment is in a decent size for someone who lived alone, and for others’ eyes, the interior would feel too boring as there are barely colors aside from white, grey and black decorating it, but in her eyes, it’s a very minimalist and sophisticated. There are few paintings hanging on the walls, she knew it was his because of the realistic monochromatic style. It did fit him. However, for her, she never thought of him as the type to appreciate simplicity, because in her eyes, Baekhyun is a burst of colors personified.

Getting up from her position, putting her laptop safely placed on the table, she slowly made her way to stand behind Baekhyun who already turned his head to look at her when he heard shuffling.

“Need anything?” Baekhyun asked.

“Just appreciating art,” she said, wanting to sound vague because the art she was talking about is both Baekhyun and his drawing. “What are you making?” she questioned, leaning closer to see what he has in his computer screen more clearly.

“It's a book cover,” her assumptions earlier were right, “my lecturer assigned us to create an original cover for a story that we have in our mind. I really can’t wait to present it next week.” He was back to look at his screen, zooming it out so she could have a better look of what he have come up with.

“It’s pretty, tell me about their story, please?” Baekhyun smiled at that.

“In my mind,” he starts, “they are a part of the military. Finding love in each other, yet they couldn’t be together.”

With his words, she started to notice the shading of his illustration is not in the color of black and grey, it was a deep blue and green mixed with white and a very light green. It was a beautiful drawing, and with his story you are able to feel their emotions.

“I could feel.. desperation and longing by this drawing alone.” She said, her eyes are still focused on his screen. She heard him chuckle, “Very well,” he zoomed out his drawing more, “but I feel something is missing. This looked too bland.” She agreed, slowly taking his tablet pen, adding pale pink and pale orange on his color palette.

“Try adding these colors in their lips, and the shading in their fingertips. As you said, they were in love, right? I think it might be great if you are able to incorporate some colors into them.”

With her advice, Baekhyun tried to incorporate the colors - making his illustration more alive than his other illustrations. He smiled when he finished it, even though it was not his style to color his illustrations with colorful shades; least to say, he’s content with it. His illustrations looked more alive and he’s certain he will get a good score.

Both Baekhyun and her were too immersed with their painting; after Baekhyun was done with his assignment, they decided to kill time by following a Bob Ross tutorial. He was glad he had an extra easels and canvases that he doesn’t use. Their eyes were focused on the tv screen where a tutorial of how to paint Sunset Aglow is playing, and the small space of Baekhyun’s apartment was filled with Bob Ross’ calming voice with their brushes sliding against the canvas.

Baekhyun never knew that he would land himself in a situation where he could paint together with someone aside from his coursemates, knowing how his past girlfriends never took interest in his passion. She felt the same, and loved the idea of spending time just to paint. Moreover, she did manage to get her thoughts away from the event earlier.

Once they are done, she noticed the difference in their art style. While she decided to focus on pastel and pale colors; Baekhyun focused more on vibrant colors.

“We should collaborate someday.” She said with a smile on her face as she admired Baekhyun’s painting. He nods at her, his eyes are memorizing her art work.

“We should,” he carefully took her canvas in his hand, “and I am going to hang this, somewhere in my apartment. Can’t believe I will have the famous you painting here.” She chuckled at his words, her eyes crinkling.

“You’re exaggerating, I’m not that great.”

He rolled his eyes at that, “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” the nickname rolled off his tongue so naturally, making her flinch. He noticed it too, “Sorry, I won’t call you with pet names.”

She shook her head right away, frowning. “But I really like it?”

“You did?”

Grinning, she nodded her head, her cheeks pinked at her own confession. Baekhyun grins at that, “Then I’ll call you any pet names I could think of.”

“Do you have any no-go for skinships?” Baekhyun wondered loudly after he swallowed his food. They decided to order Chinese food for dinner, sitting on Baekhyun’s small couch with their shoulders pressed against each other.

“Mm, I like everything you did so far.” She shyly said, placing her now empty plate on Baekhyun’s small table.

“So you’re okay with the kiss earlier?” Baekhyun finds it absolutely adorable when he is able to see how pink her cheeks are under the lights.

“Kind of,” she hesitated, taking a shy glance at him, “it comforts me.”

He smiled, putting away his plate too and moving his body so he was facing her. “What about a kiss on the lips, will you mind?” He almost punched himself for asking that question, it was shameless and she would definitely be creeped out by it, but he was certainly not expecting her to nod.

“I mean, I don’t mind. It’s just a kiss, right?”

Baekhyun hummed, his heart beating way too loudly. Every rational thought inside his head were being swept away when he leaned closer to her, their noses touching, his palm are cupping the side of her face. He knew he was not breathing when he felt the warmth of her palm against the side of his neck.

“Can I,” he breathed, head tilted slightly to the side, “kiss you?”

He could feel his heart jumping when she nodded her head and her eyes closing in expectation. Ever so slowly, Baekhyun leaned closer to her, their lips touching against each other and with a sigh, he closed his eyes while pressing his lips against hers.

When their lips touched, they could feel colors bursting inside them. It was more than a mere spark, even more than a firework―it was as if a big ball of colorful paints burst up inside of them, coating their hearts with thousands shade of colors. Their lips moved in unison, molding into each other like the color white mixed with black to create shades of grey.

She pulled away after awhile, having the need to breathe. She lied, it was not just a kiss; it was more than that, because if it was just a mere kiss, her heart wouldn’t burst into different shades of colors.

“You’re a good kisser,” she breathed out, still catching her breath.

“Yeah?” He asked, she took the time to memorize his face; eyes droppy, cheeks painted in red and his lips. God his lips, swollen and pink.

She truly felt like having Baekhyun as her pretend boyfriend a bad idea now that she has the image of how he looked like after kissing someone, all breathless and attractive. She knew she’s playing a dangerous game, yet she swallowed the thought away. Not wanting her fears of not being able to see him this way ruin her happy bubble.

She smiled at him, leaning closer to press her lips against his swollen ones again.

“Yeah.”

Her fears can worry about itself later.

#baekhyun #baekhyun scenario #baekhyun fic #baekhyun fluff #bbh-net #exo scenario #exo fluff #exo fic #lmao look at me posting shit again #livia writes

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contrabbandiera-di-elia · 5 years ago

Text

Doodles

I’m full of Elippo energy recently, so I did this thing on my phone. It may be full of mistakes because I’ll probably bother my beta only if I decide to post it on AO3, but I guess it’s still readable.

Based loosely on this thing which made me believe Elia can draw really well, at least in the cartoonish style, and some ‘different style challenges’ I’ve seen recently.

Happy Birthday, @azozzoni! I hope you’ll like it! 🎁

—

“What’s that?” Asked Filippo, picking up a piece of the paper lying on the floor among Eleonora’s papers. She was doing general cleaning, as she used to do always a few weeks after the end of the school year. She was organizing the notes and other kinds of papers, deciding which ones she wanted to keep because they may be useful in the future, and which were to be thrown away because they’re useless. This year Edoardo was helping her, as he was so called cleaning specialist, or at least he claimed to be.

At first glance, Filippo thought what he had picked up was just a piece of paper full of unimportant doodles. But then he took a closer look and realized these were quite interesting drawings. All of them presented one person but in different styles of drawing. All of them were cartoonish. Some of them he recognized, like Winx Club or Adventure Time, but most of them he didn’t. They were mostly black and white, but he knew precisely who they presented. That hairstyle, that striped shirt, and most importantly – red lips, the only thing in every drawing that was not black and white. It was obviously Eleonora.

“Oh, I completely forgot about it,” he heard over his shoulder, as the person in question studied the sketches. “It’s Elia’s. One time he was waiting for Martino at the radio’s room. He got a bit bored and asked if he can draw me. It was not quite what I expected to see, but I liked it, and he let me keep it.”

“It’s good, actually. But I’d never tell Elia could be an artist.”

“Right? I was surprised myself. But when I asked him, he said it’s just a hobby.”

“Who’s Elia?” Asked Edoardo. He didn’t even look at them from where he was putting the notes Eleonora decided to keep into a binder, but Filippo could hear this minimal jealousy in his voice. Well, it was quite understandable. He probably wasn’t too pleased to hear that some random guy spend some considerable amount of time drawing his girlfriend even if these were just cartoonish sketches.

“Martino’s friend. Oh, please, don’t tell me you don’t recognize him! You saw him multiple times!”

Edoardo frowned, but then suddenly he seemed to match the name with the right face. His girlfriend's irritation probably speeded up this process.

“Ah, this Elia! Okay, that changes everything.” Eleonora rolled her eyes at that but didn’t say anything.

Filippo was still looking at the drawings. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked them a lot. They were done with a black and red fineliners (Filippo’s guess, and he knew a thing or two about artistic tools) and in a very clear way. There was no single line made with a pencil, everything was put straight on the paper using only the fineliners. Nevertheless, there were almost no mistakes. Well, maybe there were some slight shortcomings here and there, but Filippo had to pay close attention to even notice them. And the longer he was looking, the more fascinated he was. As he counted, there were seven different drawings, and he inspected all of them acutely. He was never a fan of drawings, neither cartoons, but he found these few little figures interesting and funny. He started to be a bit jealous of his own sister having something like that made about her. Elia had surely put some work and consideration into that, even though it was just a thing he did out of boredom.

“Filippo?” Eleonora’s voice brought him back to the reality out of his thoughtfulness. “If you like it so much you can have it.”

“I don’t need a piece of paper full of your face. I have too much of it every day, darling,” he sighed, putting the drawings aside. “I just think it’s nice. I like how it's done, the style and everything, but also I think it's quite interesting someone took their time to do something like that for the person he barely knows. You know, gazing at you for long minutes and everything. Are you sure Elia doesn't have a thing for you?”

“Elia? No way. He was just bored, and we were the only two people in the room, so it’s not like he had a lot of models to choose from,” she said, not even slightly bothered. Edoardo, on the other hand, seemed to be bothered for the both of them.

“I hope so!” He announced from the other side of the room. Eleonora ignored him, focusing on her brother.

“Hey... Is it me, or you look a bit down? Is it about Dario? Maybe you should talk to him after all or...”

“No,” Filippo answered quickly, shaking his head. “Dario is a closed chapter. It doesn’t make sense anyway. He needs someone calmer and more mature, he said it himself. And I need someone who’d be able to keep up with me. Someone more spontaneous, more confident, more... you know.”

“I know,” she claimed. She did. She knew her brother long enough to know what kind of person he needed in his life. And she hoped he’d find this person someday.

Filippo was never into birthdays. Or rather, he was never into his birthdays. It was simply not a big deal. His parents never remembered, and he never fully got over it, so there was this dose of disappointment every year. He was trying to get rid of it by getting his friends, hitting some club and finding someone to spend the night with, but it was never his dreamed birthday. There was no special birthday parties, no singing ‘Happy Birthday’ over the birthday cake with a group of friends, no more than one present, so it was pretty sad.

The only thing that made everything better was the existence of Eleonora. She always remembered, she was singing ‘Happy Birthday’ over the birthday cake or at least suitable replacement of a one, she was coming up with a present. So every and each year Filippo was grateful for having her because he knew without her none of his birthdays would make any sense.

But that year Eleonora outdid herself. Completely.

Filippo came home from a university with a plan of getting together with his friends and going out, and the last thing he expected to see in the living room was Eleonora with Martino and their respective significant others singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in the most unsynchronized way he had ever heard.

“Look what we have for you! And no, you definitely didn't expect it,” said Martino, as he and Eleonora came up to him with something that was supposed to be Filippo’s present.

It was wrapped in a paper, but judging by the shape, it could be a painting. Or a large photo. Or maybe some framed poster. He looked at Eleonora and Martino suspiciously, but they only hurried him to unpack it, both seemingly impatient. That made Filippo unsure because Eleonora and Martino being excited over the same thing couldn't end up well.

Fortunately, he was wrong.

After he ripped off the paper, he saw a bunch of drawings drew on a framed bristol board. He quickly realized it was exactly what he saw among Eleonora’s papers some time ago – a bunch of drawings presenting one person in different cartoon styles. Except that there was no seven of them, but probably about twenty. And they were sighed, so he knew which drawing was made in which cartoon's style. Moreover, no black and white with small additions of red, but colorful, and made with much more care and precision. And they didn’t present Eleonora. They presented Filippo.

He carefully studied his own face in multiple cartoonish versions. Winx Club Filippo, Adventure Time Filippo, Simpsons Filippo, Flinstones Filippo, Sailor Moon Filippo... And in the middle of the frame, slightly bigger than every other drawing, was Filippo drew in unsigned style. Probably author’s own style. Elia’s style.

“And? What do you think?” Asked Martino, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. Filippo looked at him quickly before turning his eyes back to the drawings.

“It’s... wow, it’s great, seriously. I love it,” he said finally, his eyes tracing every drawing as if he couldn’t believe it was all him. It was a bit weird to look at his own face like that, but interesting nevertheless. “Did you get Elia to do that?”

“Well... yes. But we were helping."

“We just provided him with materials and occasionally some ideas,” commented Eleonora making Martino roll his eyes.

"Well, that's still some kind of help," he decided with a little shrug.

"I think we actually did him a favor, " Niccolò cut in, a mischievous look in his eyes. "He seemed to be quite eager to draw you. I'd say he enjoyed it definitely more than..."

"Oh, come on, Nico," Martino didn't let him finish, hitting his arm playfully. "The most important thing is that Filo enjoys it. Now let's get to the cake." That made Edoardo happy.

"Thank you! I went through a lot of effort to get a cake that has a rainbow both inside and outside. I want to see if it was worth it."

They all spent the whole afternoon eating and talking, but for some reason, Filippo couldn't get the author of his birthday present out of his head. He wanted to believe the reason for that was the gratefulness, but the truth was that Niccolò's words still lingered on the back of his head. He tried to ignore them, but they were coming back to him all the time. Finally, he decided it's pointless just to sit and think about it and decided to do something about it. He was feeling a bit stupid asking Martino for Elia's number to 'thank him for the effort and all,' but in the end, he got it, so he decided to at least try and see how the conversation will go.

After a third signal, Elia picked up with a simple “hello?” Filippo cleared his throat, suddenly feeling uneasy. He wasn’t even sure why exactly he wanted to call him in the first place. But there was no turning back. It’d be stupid to leave Elia hanging at the other end. Nobody liked dead calls.

“Hi, it's Filippo,” he said, but before he managed to add anything to that, Elia spoke up.

“Hi! How did you like the drawings?” He asked, seemingly excited to hear the answer. Filippo couldn’t help a smile forming at his lips.

“I love it, seriously. It’s amazing. Thank you so much for making it.”

“You’re welcome, I’m glad you like it. I’m not sure why Eleonora and Martino wanted so badly to have it as your birthday present, but I guess as long as you enjoy it it’s fine.”

“I’m thinking about hanging it on my wall, to be honest,” confessed Filippo, because he was, in fact, thinking about it. It'd be wasting art not to have it hanging on a wall.

“Woah, so much?”

“So much,” he nodded, even through Elia couldn’t see it. Then he decided to take the risk and try going a step further. It was his birthday, maybe he could get some birthday luck or something. “Listen... I thought maybe I could get you a coffee as a thank-you?”

“No way,” Elia said quickly, and Filippo wanted to punch himself for even asking that. Of course. But before he got to back off and say he was only joking or something, Elia continued. “That’s a present. You don’t need to get me anything in exchange. They asked me to do that, I had nothing better to do, I actually enjoyed doing it a lot, so I don’t need any sort of payment from you.”

“But still,” insisted Filippo, suddenly feeling brave again after those words, “I’d like to thank you in person. Don’t think about it as payment. Think about it as a... nice meeting with a receiver of your art.”

Elia’s laughter reverberated in his right ear and made him a little gooey inside. He closed his eyes to compose himself. That was interesting.

“Okay than. Let’s do that.”

When a week later Filippo was laying in his bed, Elia’s lips moving along his neck, Elia’s hand working on a zipper of his pants, Elia’s drawing hanging on his wall right above the desk, he vowed to himself he’ll never ever refuse Eleonora when she asks him to help her sorting her notes.

#skam italia #skamit #elippo #elia being an artist #filippo moping #eleonora being a good sister #edoardo being a dork #martino knowing everything better #niccolo noticing small things #happy birthday azozzoni #i tried my best #my fic

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brilliantkey · 5 years ago

Text

Wishin’ and Hopin’

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

A/N: This story and, fingers-crossed the subsequent stories, are based on songs by Dusty Springfield. No warnings apply.

Word Count: 1308

When Bucky first heard the song at the Avenger’s compound, he quickly took the lyrics to heart. There was one thing he’d wanted more than anything in the world and that was to hold Steve in his arms. But the woman on the radio, he’d later learn her name was Dusty, was right. He’d never get him by wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’. And if he were honest, that’s all he’d been doing since the 1930′s and 40′s.

For years, Bucky had been hoping that Steve would return his love and affection. But Dusty was right. In order to hold him and kiss him, he had to show Steve that he cared. The problem was how. He decided to take Dusty’s words to heart.

Step 1: Do the things he likes to do.

Steve looked at Bucky with a surprised gaze when he suggested they visit The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“I’d love to, Buck, but I have reports to finish and promised to train some new recruits.”

With a smile, Bucky dragged his friend from his living quarters. “Clint and Nat promised that they’d fill out the reports and present them to you for final approval. I also got Sam to cover the training of the new recruits. We’re all in agreement that you work too hard and need a day off.”

Steve was shocked when Bucky pulled out two tickets for The Met at the adult rate (even though at their age he could’ve gotten the senior rate). Steve was absolutely suspicious when Bucky pulled out two artist folding stools, a sketchbook, and a pencil sketching kit.

“What’s this all about, Buck?”

“I just want to enjoy a day out with my best pal,” Bucky responded, unable to look Steve in his bright blue eyes. Steve must’ve felt Bucky’s honesty, or decided not to push the matter, because he simply nodded, picked up the sketchbook and pencil kit, and led the way down to the garage.

Steve was in his element, a look of wonder on his face, sketching Perseus with the Head of Medusa. Steve normally sketched landscapes but appreciated practicing the human form. He hadn’t truly had a chance to practice it since the early 40’s. Bucky had once again surprised Steve when he pulled out another sketching pad, smaller than Steve’s own, and practiced alongside him. Occasionally, Steve would look over at Bucky’s amateur and rough-looking sketches and provide encouragement and feedback.

At one point, rather than sketch the statues and paintings before him, Bucky attempted to sketch Steve’s profile. Steve, engrossed in the artworks before him, never even noticed Bucky’s longing gaze. After several hours, and only because the museum had closed during their time there, Bucky and Steve made their way through Central Park to the nearby Belvedere Castle so Steve could sketch the landscape.

Before heading back, they stopped at a small ice cream parlor for a scoop of Steve’s favorite flavor.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve whispered. “Today has been an amazing day. I really needed to step away and unwind.”

“Anything for you, punk,” Bucky said with a smile and bumped against Steve’s shoulder.

The smile Steve gave him was transcendent, and Bucky couldn’t help but count the day as a win.

Step 2: Wear your hair just for him.

With step one a success, Bucky decided to change his appearance to something Steve might find a bit more appealing. As he stood in front of the mirror, he pulled back his hair and tried to get it into a ponytail. He’d seen Steve staring at girls with their hair in ponytails while they were training recruits.

Try as he might, Bucky’s hair wasn’t long enough to pull it up (and he probably wouldn’t be able to pull off the high ponytails some of the female recruits wore). Instead, he tried to shape his hair into what Nat had called a ‘low man bun’. He’d allowed her to style his hair into a bun once when he was bored during a movie night. Steve had smiled at him and told him he looked nice. He’d blushed and ducked his head, allowing for the bun to remain until he’d returned to his room and looked himself in the mirror, not ready to accept the person before him back then.

Satisfied with the bun at the back of his head, Bucky threw on a blue jacket over his plaid shirt (similar to the ones that Steve liked to wear) and made his way to the Avengers common room. Tony had arranged for the team to attend a fundraiser to benefit a children’s hospital. Rather than wear his usual attire, a Henley with his hair practically covering his face, he hoped his new look would get Steve’s attention. He’d even shaved his scruff for the occasion.

As he entered the common room, he’d heard a low whistle and chuckle coming from Sam and Nat respectively. As he looked around the room, he saw both smiles and shocked faces from his fellow Avengers.

“Lookin’ good,” Sam yelled out.

“Who you trying to impress, Tin Man,” Tony questioned. Nat and Wanda shook their heads at Tony’s blunt question.

“I think you look wonderful, Sergeant Barnes,” Wanda announced.

“Whaddya think, Steve?” Bucky couldn’t hold back the anxiety in his question.

“I think you look good, Buck,” he responded, swallowing thickly. “Real good.”

Step 3: Hold him and kiss him and squeeze him and love him.

Bucky had done all he could, and still Steve was not in his arms. Still, he had faith in Dusty’s words. He knew he’d always have a place in Steve’s heart, as a friend. But Bucky wanted more than that. He wanted a place at Steve’s side. He wanted to be Steve’s partner in life, romantically, not just platonically.

Bucky may not be the man he once was before, but he could still channel the confidence of a young Bucky Barnes; a confidence he didn’t necessarily feel most times. But he was determined to approach Steve and tell him how he felt. No more hiding his feelings from his friend.

Bucky knocked on Steve’s door, took a steadying breath, and called out, “Steve, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s up, Buck,” Steve answered as he opened the door, a nervous look on his face. He stepped aside as Bucky entered the room. Rather than sit on the couch across from the entrance, he paced before it, trying to dispel his nervous energy. So much for confidence.

“Stevie,” Bucky began. He faltered momentarily, but then continued, determined to regain the confidence he felt before. “Stevie, you and I have been friends for a long time. And I cherish your friendship. But I can’t go on without letting you know how I feel.”

Steve nodded, seemingly resigned to some unknown fate.

“I want more. I want to feel you in my arms at night in bed. I want to kiss you when we’re lying on the couch. I want to be a permanent part of your life, as more than just a friend.”

“Buck,” Steve sighed, a nervous smile on his lips. “I thought you were going to tell me you couldn’t continue our friendship knowing how I felt.”

“How you felt?”

“Yeah, Buck. For the longest time, I’ve known that I cared for you as more than just a friend. But I never wanted to ruin what we had.”

“So, you want to remain just friends, or…,” he started. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, despite his earlier declarations.

“Or. Definitely or,” Steve said with a smile. “I definitely want more than just friendship with you.”

Both men smiled at each other as they slowly stepped closer. Bucky pulled Steve into his arms, pressing their lips together, sealing the start of their new relationship with a kiss.

#Stucky #Bucky Barnes #Steve Rogers #Dusty Springfield #Wishin' and Hopin'#Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

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evangelene · 6 years ago

Text

The Boy Who Lied Wolf

Summary: Hoseok was good at a lot of things, one of them was lying. You, however, were a terrible lie detector.

Based off the request here: “hey there :) I would love to see some not so sappy jhope angstfluff, where the girl is an artist and unsatisfied with her life and art and always sad when she sees her friends (artists too) who always do 'better' than her “

I’d tag you girl, but I know you ain’t comfortable with having your username out and about so :P

"Minji not with you?"

You turned over your shoulder to shoot a pointed glare at your childhood best friend. Despite his kindness in feeding a starving artist with a job, his lack of tact (and utter lack of assistance when it came to you struggling with your painting cart in the doorway) made him a target for your annoyance. You flipped your hair out of your face, hip-checking your cart over the damn metal ridge on the floor only to nearly face-plant when the thing finally rolled forward.

You contemplated letting the cart crash and spill paint all over Namjoon's coffee shop as bitter retribution--but paint was expensive and momentary revenge wasn't worth the cash you already didn’t have.

"Does it really surprise you? Do you see any good looking guys here for her to make eyes at?” You scoffed. “Besides, would she really have been of any use?"

"Remind me why you’re still friends with her?" Namjoon snorted, bending down to clean out the ice tank and further let you deal with all of your shit on your own.

"Because she's an amazing artist; her work is literally just a small mixture of masterpieces. One day, I will prove that brains and practice make better art than blind talent wasted on someone who couldn't give a fuck." You huffed, lifting your chin to the wall in an unspoken question that Namjoon only answered with a nod. "That and," You pulled tables away from said wall—of which you were hired to design a mural for-- "you told me I needed to try making some friends that weren't you and my half-dead begonia. She fits the bill just fine; she enjoys hanging out with me and having me around."

"Then why isn't she here?" Namjoon raised an eyebrow at you.

"Because. My existence isn't one of pure friendship. I am simply by her side to make her look prettier." You mimicked your friend by dramatically flipping your hair over your shoulder and suggestively wiggling your brows at your best friend. "I mean look at me. What guy wouldn't look at me and go ew?"

"Every guy ever? Minji's just a bitch."

"Hey now," you chuckled, "that's an affectionate term now, didn't you hear?" Stepping back from the blank canvas before you, you frowned at the sheer amount of wall space that you were to cover. "You didn't mention that it was that big." You narrowed your eyes on him, trying to catch your breath; damn, you really needed to work out more. "I'll have to rethink my design a bit. But for now, there's more shit in the car I'm leaving to you—since you were no help at all like you promised you’d be. If you break any of it, you're dead."

"You know I will. God of destruction, remember?"

"I will add it to my fees, so make your body work like a normal human’s and we will be fine." You turned to the wall, staring at the hefty weight of a blank canvas. If there was one thing about Namjoon, it was that he was terrible at taking orders. Really good at listening, but just not following through—it was an infuriating combination. As such, he never left your side; instead, he wrapped one arm over your shoulders.

“Don’t overthink things; whatever you do will be beautiful. I wouldn’t have offered you this if you did shit work.” Another infuriating trait of his was knowing what you needed before you even realized there was something wrong.

“Lying will get you nowhere. I know you’re just here to feed your starving artist friend for a few months.”

Namjoon groaned to the ceiling. “And self-hate will only take you backwards, you brat. Realize your worth already.” He squeezed you once more before walking out towards your car, leaving you to stew alone.

Rather than wallowing in your bout of self-pity, you sat yourself down and stared at the texture of the brick, hiking yourself up onto a table to better get a feel for the space your mural would occupy. For whatever reason, your mind was instantly thrown back to when the both of you were in different universities and your idiot best friend invited you to the chaos that was his friend group. For some, stupid reason, someone as destructive as Kim Namjoon decided to join a singing and dancing club. They were great though; they utilized his rapping skills effectively and made him seem cooler than he really was. That didn’t mean the whole dancing thing worked in his favor—the guy was a human wrecking ball after all.

“Jungkook put a shirt on! She’s going to be here any second!” Namjoon was shouting, trying to take control of a situation that looked like it was about ten seconds from burning to the ground completely. Sweaty friends leaned half clothed against any surface imaginable—laughing at each other and reveling in your childhood friend’s pain. “Guys! Please!”

You raised an eyebrow, chuckling to yourself as you waited to see how long it would take for your normally level-headed friend to notice that you were already there.

“Hyung—“ One of the younger looking ones—one with cute baby fat cheeks that you knew would slim out in the future--nodded your way.

Namjoon’s face was bright red, his eyes widening on you. “I shouldn’t have invited you here, omigod. No one look—she’s off limits!”

“But she’s cute—“

“Hey, we’re not that bad—“

But you were already folded over laughing, grinning up at him.

That was the atmosphere you wanted--well, maybe with fully clothed people. But you wanted the dancers in the background, the music in the air, the lightheartedness that came from feeling surrounded by friends and kindness. You wanted that feeling of happiness, of being in a space that was more family than stranger. It was Namjoon’s coffee shop after all; he had a knack for making people feel like they belonged.

Your pencil scratched across the paper, your mind lost to the point that the world dropped around you. For all you were aware, you might have been in a black hole with just you, paper, a pencil and a brick wall. At some point, though you didn’t remember when, you grabbed the priming paint and started to slather white across the wall in thick strokes. And then, when you came to reality with the brush in your hand, that familiar, overwhelming sense of dread settled back in your stomach.

This was awful. This was an awful design, it was going to be horrible—you were going to hate it in the exact same way that you hated all of your other works. It was going to pale in comparison.

Comparison.

Namjoon had once said that was your first problem. You always compared yourself to other people, never seeing yourself as yourself. However, existing in an art space made it difficult to live without comparing yourself to others. There was a reason your colleagues were more successful, there was a reason they did things you could not—you weren’t good enough, you weren’t—

You spun around, the brush still held out in your hand at the exact right angle to slap a streak of white across a very attractive and otherwise confused man. You froze instantly, hearing Namjoon in the background as a mumble rather than a voice, speaking to some customer about what you were doing. It was hard to focus when all you could see and hear was this poor person you had just unknowingly marred with paint that most definitely did not come out of clothing.

“Shit.” You slapped a hand over your mouth, nearly flinging the paintbrush onto the tarp stretched across the floor. “Omigod. I’m so sorry—I’m so, so, so sorry. I honestly didn’t know you were there—ah, omigod.” You didn’t know what to do; you were never good with confrontation and even less good with testosterone. Did you mention that you had only ever had two boyfriends? One of which lasted a week in middle school because he called you pretty and wanted to kiss you. The other was maybe a month and ended with you finding out that you were a side-chick. Needless to say, your experiences with men were scarring and strange—and then there was Namjoon.

The stranger just chuckled, wiping the paint speckling his face with the hem of his shirt. “It’s fine, really—this is just my workout shirt anyways. It could use a little sprucing up.” He was grinning, and you found it infectious enough to sooth the tension in your muscles.

“Ah.” It was the most intelligent thing you could manage. Though that wasn’t saying much; you usually had only two brain-cells and, whenever an attractive man was involved, they always seemed too busy fighting each other to focus.

“Namjoon told me he got an artist friend to paint something for him—I thought I’d check it out.”

Your ears lit aflame and you ducked your head to avoid his direct stare. He had a nice smile—like a really nice smile. Your heart was doing this thing where it was squeezing so tight that there was a 90% possibility you might throw up on his shoes. “Y-yeah? We’re actually childhood friends, so I’m sure it’s not as grand as you were expecting—well, I only started but yeah. Yeah.” Good one, Y/N. Real smooth.

The man’s eyes seemed to light up, his eyes flitting across your face until something visibly clicked and he let out a small noise of surprise. “Yah! Y/N, right? You’re Y/N?”

You were stiff once more, your feet nailed to the tile beneath you. He was excited, you were confused, and he was cute when he was excited which made for an awful bumbling mess in your stomach.

“I was hoping it was you—I’m Hoseok, Namjoon’s friend from university. I know you only came in once to our studio, I remember I was late and just missed you.”

“Oh.” You tried to fish for memories of Namjoon talking about the man but the only thought pulling free from the strangled thoughts in your head was ‘dancing.’ “You’re…the dancer, right?” You winced at the unsureness in your voice.

He grinned even wider and even more infectious in all the ways that made your feeble heart slam into your ribs. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I have a friend who dances in her spare time.” You said stupidly, fishing for anything in front of you that would help you relate to a person as impossibly handsome as Hoseok. Minji was probably not the best choice, but she was the only other human you could maybe slap the label of “friend” to.

“Yeah?” He grinned at you.

“Yeah, she’s pretty amazing at painting too. It’s hard to be her friend sometimes with talent like her; I’m not particularly good in comparison—but I try. I’m thankful for this opportunity.”

Hoseok raised on eyebrow at you. “Is she now? I’ll have to get Namjoon’s opinion of this friend of yours; I trust him fully. He always knows the people around him best—after all, he talks endlessly about you.”

You cocked your head at him, face transforming into an even deeper shade of red.

“Ever since university, he never shut up about you. I mean, it was always ‘my cute sister—ah, she’s not actually blood but she might as well be’ and ‘Y/N is so talented, isn’t she?’ Actually, standing here, I see why he was so talkative.” He nodded towards your open and abandoned sketchbook, eyes glued to the page. “It’s hard to believe there’s someone in this world that can do something better than that.”

“I—“

“Hoseok?” Namjoon’s voice cut through your words, allowing you to pull back within yourself as Hoseok turned to watch his friend come towards him with an emotion that you were not yet ready to understand. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I wanted to see Y/N.”

“I’m sure.” Namjoon’s eyes were unusually dark, his jaw tight. Were you perceptive enough, maybe you would have saved yourself some tears—but you weren’t. ”How about you go let her get back to work.” Namjoon put a hand on his shoulder, spinning him away from you with a quick, worried glance towards you. “We’re meeting up over there.”

Hoseok only laughed, and, for a minute, you thought it sounded nice.

~.~

When you arrived at Beyond the Scene—Namjoon’s name for his coffee shop; it was better than previous drafts—you were surprised to find a person already sitting by your things with a set in stone expression that said he’d wait there until you arrived, no matter how long that would take. The second you stepped through the door, Hoseok’s eyes lit up with an emotion akin to recognition and mischief.

It was the latter that scared you.

He was still too new to you for you to feel like it was possible to act the same as you would around Namjoon. What you wanted to do was raise an eyebrow with your hands on your hips and throw a bickering comment to him. Besides the fact that his mere presence made your heart race, this intruder in your workspace seemed to have a force-field around him that dispelled all of your sarcasm and the meager scraps of yourself that you labeled as confident. Actually, it was probably because your chest squeezed too tight when he was near that you couldn’t be normal around him.

You opened your mouth with stupid words on your tongue. Instead, you swallowed them and said something even stupider: “You’re here.”

Hoseok laughed in a way that you should have found annoying. It was all high and loud and absolutely boisterous. But, it was infectious in all the right ways and you found yourself drawn to him because of it. Somehow, he was a duality of a man—one that screamed fuckboy and safety all at once.

You awkwardly shuffled towards your stuff, dumping your bag into a nearby chair so you could free up your hands to pull the tarp free from your box of miscellaneous paints and brushes.

To make your stiff and wooden movements worse, Hoseok was unfazed by your presence. He was comfortable as can be, leaning forward in his seat to be close enough to see but not close enough to invade your very large bubble of privacy. “I wanted to see an artist at work.”

You raised an eyebrow at him over your shoulder, but even that felt forced and ugly. “You can’t see that in the dance studio?”

“But you’re not there.” He cocked his head, as if the words that just passed through his lips had no effect on the heat of your skin. “Namjoon told you about the studio?”

“That you own one? Of course he told me—Namjoon tells me a lot. While I may not understand every word that comes out of the moron’s mouth, I know that he’s talented. Talent attracts talent; there’s obviously a reason he speaks about you.” You snorted, shaking your head. “I’m just the idiot he grew up with, that’s all. You came to the wrong place if you wanted to see true artistry.”

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees so he could rest his chin on his hands. There was this shit-eating smirk on his face that seemed to incinerate a hole through you, all of your defenses failing to maintain your normal, not lobster-red skin tone. “So, Y/N, what do you know about me?”

You busied yourself with setting the tarp up across the floor below the mural space. Occasionally, your gaze would flicker towards him, but it was easier to focus on other things and maintain your sanity rather than get lost in his pheromones. “All I really know is that you dance. Namjoon doesn’t like talking much about his male friends with me—what he does tell me is that they are all assholes and they play girls like musical chairs; I think that’s the older brother in him showing through.” You chuckled, your gaze drifting to the memory of a worked up Namjoon smothering you with blankets when you told him you had a crush on one of your classmates in high school. “That’s really all I know; to me, you are a one-dimensional character.”

“One without good traits.” He winced, his face effortlessly transforming into a pout that would put a baby to shame. “That’s not fair. Namjoon talks about you like crazy; I feel like I know you personally—like you’re my best friend too. Do I need to start a petition to change those dimensions? Or will you let me if I say please?”

You frowned at the wall with a shake of your head, but it did nothing to stop the heat pooling up to your ears. “Maybe if you say please I will.”

You could see him grin out of the corner of your eye, warmth immediately spreading across your back. Hoseok was like the sun—but not the sun during the day, the one everyone always compared people to. No, Hoseok was the kind of bright like that you could actually look at head-on; he was the warmth of a sunrise, lots of color and promises that may or may not be kept. “Please?”

You felt electricity run up your spine. There was something chemical about this boy; radioactively toxic in a way that no other male could compare to. “You have a lot of ground to make up, you know. Namjoon must tell me to stay away from you for a reason.”

Hoseok stood up and you turned to face him, watching as he stepped towards you and rolled up his sleeves. “Alright then miss, let me start by working while I cover some of that ground, hm? Let me help you.”

You grabbed a brush similar to yours, holding it out to him in a strategic way—one that wouldn’t allow his skin to touch yours.

Hoseok, however, had other plans and grabbed way too far up the paintbrush, his fingers meeting yours.

“Ah--" The heat was back in your chest. No matter how much you thought you could get over his presence, it seemed he purposefully did things that made you take one step forward and three back. “The wall will need a second coat of gesso.” You said, hoping to cover up the obvious fact that you were reacting to his touch.

His smile told you that you were unsuccessful.

~.~

“I should have mentioned that I’m really only good at dancing.” Hoseok chuckled a half hour later as you, begrudgingly, set yourself to going over the ‘work’ he had attempted to help with. He got more paint on himself than on the damn wall—no doubt proving the validity of his statement.

You sighed at him, shaking your head at the floor. “You really need to get cleaned up or your clothing is going to stiffen when the paint dries.”

Hoseok laughed, his hands immediately going to the hemline of his shirt so he could lift it over his head. However, you let out a noise more demon than human and alerted every customer in the shop to your red faced, flustered grasp on his wrists.

“I didn’t say to take off your shirt!” You sputtered, flames igniting under the skin of your face.

Hoseok only laughed at your chagrin, grinning at you in a way that you were positive would make any girl before him melt. You knew it had probably been used to manipulate a cult following, and it was, for that reason, why you wished you could be the exception. “What? Are you embarrassed? You’ve never seen a guy shirtless before?”

You pressed your lips into a line—an expression that half resembled a cartoon frog and half a frown. “This is a family establishment.”

He only shrugged. “It’s fine anyways. Namjoon’s not here-- he’s got the weekend off. I think I’m allowed to play while the giant is gone.”

You cocked your head and furrowed your brows in confusion. Hoseok’s eyes darkened on you with an emotion you had no previous experience with.

“Cute.”

You, realizing you had yet to let go of him, dropped his wrists and shoved him backwards—away from you. Unfortunately, you were a painter, not a weightlifter and you only wound up pushing him back enough for his weight to shift onto his back foot.

“Minji is cute—not me. I’m just average. If you’re going to compliment me, at least bring it down to my level.”

Hoseok cocked his head, eyes shifting somewhere further than the café. “That’s the name of your friend, right? The dancer and artist?”

You nodded. “She’s my only friend besides Namjoon; I can say for sure that she’s definitely something.”

If something was talented, self-centered, oblivious to other people and rude as hell.

“So, this girl, if you’re comparing her to yourself, she must be something of an absolute goddess.”

“Mm.” You confirmed his question with a nod. “She is.”

It wasn’t that you were clueless to the game Hoseok was playing; it was just that you were purposefully dodging every trap that he was setting up for you. You didn’t meet any of his glances; you didn’t let him gain any headway into your heart. If there was one thing you weren’t going to do, it was succumb to him—you were not going to walk right into his grasp like a fool.

Sure, you and people—men specifically—mixed more like oil and water than human interaction, but you weren’t stupid. Your good grades didn’t result in a lack of common sense.

“So?” Another chess piece moved on the board game. “Should I ask her out?”

You shrugged, swallowing the small knot of jealousy and disappointment in your throat. “I don’t see why not? You guys would be a perfect match.” You grinned at him.

“Okay, then could you give me her number so I can contact her?”

Namjoon was right about him. Namjoon was usually right; it shouldn’t have surprised you that this game wasn’t going to end in your favor. However, the blatant womanizing thrown in your face wasn’t an easy pill to swallow.

“Take anything my friends say with a grain of salt, okay? They’re all assholes. None of them know how to treat a member of the opposite sex—I don’t want to see you get hurt, Y/N.”

You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you found Minji’s number. Handing it to him, you gave him a short nod before turning around to face the wall.

You had work to do if you wanted that paycheck at the end of the month.

~.~

Namjoon leaned over your shoulder as you sat at a tarp covered table, furiously scribbling out your original plans for the mural in your sketchbook. “You didn’t like your idea?”

You grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair at the root. “I need a new direction—this one isn’t good enough for this place. It will close in the already small space—I need to open it up, not make it smaller and staler.”

“Oh geeze, thanks. The compliment on my shop makes me feel real good.” Your best friend said in a sarcastic monotone that had you wheeling around to smack his chest. Unfortunately, neither of you were gifted with grace so you wound up head-butting him and smacking him at the same time.

“Yah!”

“How was I supposed to know you were standing so close?” You snapped back. With a guilty sigh, you let your head drop onto the table as you let out a low whine/groan. “I don’t know what to do, Joon. I’m fresh out of inspiration.”

“I’ll say this as I always do: I think you’re being too hard on yourself. What you had was amazing.”

“Not good enough.” You grumbled. “Not good enough to be permanently attached to your café.”

He patted your back lightly, shaking his head. “You are good enough. Whatever comes from your hand will only add to my shop, not detract from it.” He lifted his head up to the blank, now white, wall. “Man, you painted this whole thing this weekend? That must have taken you a while.”

Without thinking, you answered stupidly. “Hoseok stopped by to help me. Said something about wanting to see my work or whatever.”

You felt Namjoon immediately tense, his jaw flexing to the point that you half expected to hear the crunch of his teeth breaking each other. “He knew I wasn’t here. There was no reason for him to be here.”

You blinked slowly up at him. “Correct. I think he just wanted Minji’s number.”

“I know you’re not that stupid, Y/N.”

“No, but I’m amazing at denial.”

He let out a scoff through his teeth, though it wasn’t directed at you. “I’m going to kill him.”

You sighed, folding your arm up under your head as a semi-decent pillow. “He seems decent enough compared to what you’ve told me. I mean, he’s nice, definitely overly flirty, but nice.”

“No—it always starts like that. You don’t get it, Y/N—Hoseok…He—He’s the one I’m the most afraid of when it involves you. He’s relentless. Before he had ever even met you, he had shown interest. Even when he was well aware I had placed you as off limits, he still pushed it. I can’t—I’m going to kill him.”

“Joon, I don’t want to date him. I just said he’s kind of nice.”

“Y/N, I love you, but you have no experience with guys. You’re going to get sucked in and get yourself hurt. The best thing for me to do is murder him so that is not a problem.”

You rolled your eyes, Namjoon folding over you to snuggle into your hair. “I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt because of one of my friends.”

You let out a small sigh of contentment, closing your eyes. “It won’t happen. He’s not as interested as you seem to think he is—neither am I.”

“Who’s interested in what?”

The sudden voice of the devil himself startled both you and Namjoon—however, the male was the one to stand ramrod straight while you remained paralyzed in a quasi-relaxed pose. Namjoon spun, his anger a palpable presence in the air.

“Hoseok.” It was vicious enough to have the other male putting his hands up in surrender without even knowing why.

“What did I do?” He cocked his head in fraudulent innocence, only intensifying Namjoon’s anger.

“I told you she’s off limits to your bullshit—I told you-“

Sitting up fully, you reached out and snapped Namjoon back by his shirt, if only to save yourself some embarrassment. “Idiot! Shut up! It’s not like that and you know it, so stop.”

Hoseok’s eyes flickered between you two, decoding the small touches, the cuddling, the smiles, the way you two interacted all in a few seconds. Whatever conclusion he came to, it wasn’t one that he liked. “I just wanted to see her artwork, that’s all. You always told me she was so talented.”

“See?” You smacked Namjoon for effect. “That’s it.” There was a heavy weight on your chest, the hoof of a horse slamming into your sternum with the force of a car crash. “That’s all.”

Hoseok’s gaze fluttered down to the blacked out paper before you. “What happened to your idea?” He tried to address the question to you, but there was a roadblock of a human being between you.

“She didn’t like it—it didn’t fit the space well, she said.” Namjoon spoke for you, his stare still piercing holes through his friend.

There was some testosterone filled staring contest, some mano eh mano moment that you couldn’t even begin to understand between the two of them.

“She’s waiting for the right inspiration to strike.” Namjoon said, his gaze never leaving Hoseok’s.

“I’m sure she’ll find it.”

With a sigh that was part scoff, part exasperation, you gathered your sketchpad and pencils. Shooting a glare at both males, you pushed up to your feet. “There’s too much maleness happening here—I’m going to go sketch outside for a bit while you guys…I don’t know, cool it in the freezer for a second.” Shoving Namjoon out of your way, you headed out the front door.

~.~

Minji slapped the table with both open palms before actually sitting herself down across from you. It was her way of instantly alerting your attention to the fact that she was overly excited and about to start one of her whirlwind one-sided conversations.

“How come you never told me that you knew Jung Hoseok?” She nearly shouted even though you were maybe a foot away at max.

You ran your eraser along a misplaced mark, the pencil you had been using to sketch held between your teeth. “Probably,” You murmured through the wood base, “Probably because, up until a week ago, I didn’t.”

“Are you serious?” She sputtered. “Are you seriously not recognizing his name?”

You shrugged. “I mean, sure—he’s Joon’s friend, so of course I’ve heard the name.”

“No! You—ugh—you idiot!” She snatched the pencil from your teeth, much to your own outburst of annoyance. She waved you off, preventing any progress on your work with the hostage held in her hand. “He’s the top dancer in Seoul! He literally graduated at the peak of his dance class at the top dance school in the whole country. He owns and teaches a whole studio by himself! How in the ever-living fuck do you not know how much of a big deal he is?”

“Probably because I don’t dance.”

“You don’t have to dance to be educated.”

“And you don’t have to be uneducated to be stupid.” You hissed, waving your open palm in her face to signal your demand for your lost pencil.

She stuck her tongue out at you in one of the ugliest faces you had yet to see from her. “Well, whatever. I should at least thank you, because of your dumb ass I have a date scheduled with him.”

“I just wanted to see her artwork. That’s all.”

“Mm.” You grunted, fingers now waggling as your glare intensified.

With a scoff, Minji dropped the pencil into your palm, nose scrunching at the way you curled back into your sketch—like a snail retreating into its shell. “God, Y/N. You act like this whole painting thing is so difficult.”

If murder were legal, Minji would be your first victim.

You didn’t answer, only shot her a glare through your hair and continued your work.

“You know, what you need is a focal point.”

This time, you actually threw your sketchbook at her.

~.~

“And another thing that pisses me off, she’s actually right!” You shouted to the ceiling, placing your hands on your hips as you watched cars whiz by through the night on the street outside the shop. Beyond the Scene was long since closed, but, since you were hired guns as an artist and also Namjoon’s friend, you had special access.

“You’re really letting Minji get under your skin?” Namjoon raised an eyebrow at you over his stack of books. He was a good friend to keep you company during your ranting, rampaging work at night. Granted, he was doing it more for your safety than your peace of mind. But still, the gesture was sweet. “You know what she’s like—nothing has changed.”

“You know what?” You spat to the wall, trying to merge your sketch and the wall together with nothing but your mind. When that, obviously, didn’t work, you refocused your attention on the passing cars. “She and Hoseok are perfect for each other.”

“No no. No no no no. None of that—take that back. Nope. No.”

“Why?” You stared at his reflection through the glass of the window pane outside, one eyebrow raised.

“Because, when you’re getting angry and that means you’re developing feelings for him. That’s not allowed. Not here, not now, not ever. Not for Jung Hoseok.”

You sighed, groaning to the poor ceiling once more. “I am not getting feelings for him, Joon. How many times do I have to repeat this?”

“Why would you even bring him up in this situation then? This is about Minji, not Hoseok!”

“Because they’re going on a date!” You hissed to his reflection. “This is the situation that caused her little tantrum!”

Namjoon dug his nails into the counter top, his shoulders tightening. “That’s bullshit. He was gunning for you and now he’s doing this to her and you—“

“Of course he’d go for Minji, I didn’t want any part of this—“

“No, Y/N. Not Minji.” He sighed, running one hand through his hair. “Hoseok isn’t the type of man to have just one girl on a string. You know what I’m saying?”

You shook your head, turning around to face him. “No. I really don’t.”

“Hoseok already has a girlfriend. Not Minji, not you, not even the girl he went on a date with last week—someone else entirely.”

Your mouth hung open in a small “O” as your gaze found solace in the pattern of the tiles on the floor.

Silence hung thick in the air, a sort of mulled tension that wasn’t directed at the other person. Rather, you both had things you had to work out in your mind before you could find the right words to say.

“They really are perfect for each other, then. Minji will think that she can fix him and he won’t ever be fixed.” You snorted, staring at the stain on your shoe instead of him.

Namjoon sighed, his head dropping low as he laced his fingers together in a gesture akin to praying. “Please tell me that you don’t have feelings for him; please tell me that my gut instinct isn’t right. Please tell me that you won’t fall for Jung Hoseok.”

“Namjoon, I promise you that I have no feelings for him.”

At the time, that might have been true. Because, at the time, you still didn’t know him.

But Namjoon was always smarter than you, and his gut instinct was always right.

~.~

Curled over your book on the bench outside the coffee shop, you tried to sketch in the desperate hope that the change of scenery was enough to strike a chord of inspiration within you. It wasn’t.

In fact, the only thing you had managed to sketch was the street itself—which you didn’t entirely hate; it was just missing that factor that made it fun. As Minji would tell you “you need a focal point.” So, the street it was, you decided. At least if you started painting the buildings along the side, it would produce more time for you to think about the center.

You hoped by then you would have something you could be proud of.

As you were detailing out the surrounding buildings in your sketch, a body set itself down next to you, spreading its arms across the top of the bench to reach towards you as if he was actually welcome there.

He wasn’t.

You unfurled yourself from your sketchbook long enough to shoot a glare at the man beside you. Unfortunately for you, it was a person you weren’t expecting. You had thought Namjoon, since he was the only one comfortable enough around your aura of “leave me the fuck alone” to dare push the boundaries. However, it seemed that Hoseok was oblivious to such intricate body language.

“That’s beautiful.” He nodded towards your sketch.

You stared at him as if he just called a trashcan stunning. “It’s literally just a shot of the street.”

“So?” He chuckled. “I can’t even draw a straight line-that looks like a masterpiece to me.”

“There’s not even a focal point!”

He only grinned, lightly patting your shoulder in a way that ignited a chemical reaction in your skin—he was warm, and gentle. It was undeniable that you were physically attracted to him, even though you shouldn’t be. “You’ll make one, I have faith in you. You’re not Namjoon’s favorite artist for no good reason. The guy has tastes like fine wine and cheese.”

The sudden idiotic statement had you sputtering out into laughter, snorting to your feet. “That makes no sense.” You chuckled, looking up at him mid smile only to find that his eyes were unable to pull away from you.

Danger. Warning. Run.

Your brain screamed signals that told you to get the hell out of dodge. However, your heart controlled your body better and you stayed there, smiling.

“Hey, I never was the smart one—as I said, my one talent in life is dancing.”

“I’m sure you have more positive points other than dancing.”

He tilted his head with a comedic grimace, his gaze on you so sincere, so pure, that for a moment you couldn’t believe that he was a player. You couldn’t believe a word that Namjoon said about him. No fuckboy smiled like sunsets, smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, and listened to every word you had to say with their full attention.

“Idiot! Shut up! It’s not like that and you know it, so stop.”

There was a moment where Hoseok was awkward, around you, with you—a moment where the fuckboy in him disappeared and he almost didn’t know what to say. Then, it was back with a vengeance.

“You should come to my studio—you need…you need to get out of the headspace that this place offers. Maybe you’ll find some inspiration in an entirely different setting, yeah?” He cocked his head to the side, his eyes reminiscent of a puppy that had never been denied anything in his life.

“No.”

He furrowed his brows on you, confusion settling in between them. “Why not?”

Your eyes flit across his face as you felt a weight peel off your shoulders, a chess game where you flipped over his last piece. You had his last secret, and now he knew you knew his game. Though, it was stupid of you to think that a boy who was great at lying wouldn’t still claim to see wolves. “It’s not appropriate.” You started. “I can’t dance anyways. I also wouldn’t want to hurt Minji in any way, not like that. What would she think?” You paused, seeing the fear in his eyes ignite before sputtering entirely. “What would your girlfriend think?”

You had never seen a look more ‘caught-red-handed’ than the one Hoseok gave you. He winced at his shoes. “Namjoon told you about Soonmi, huh?”

“He never told me a name.” You adjusted your focus back to the sketchbook, the sound of lead on paper the only noise aside from tires crunching on asphalt. “He just told me that you have a girlfriend and you’re pulling this. In a nutshell, he said you’re an awful human being.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when there were no words to say.

You shrugged. “I don’t know if I believe that you are truly awful. I think that maybe you’re fucked up, but not a horrible person. A horrible person doesn’t help someone that slathered them in paint do said painting—even if they suck at it.”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck to alleviate some of his awkwardness. “I don’t suppose you’d let me explain?”

You smiled at your sketch. “I’m willing to listen; however, what I choose believe may or may not be another story.”

His eyes searched your face, even when you refused to look back up at him, you could feel him trying to find the lie in your words—trying to find some part of you that was going to look at him differently. He tried to find the weakness in the guard to your heart, but you thought yourself sturdy—armed to the tens.

“We started off as friends with benefits, you know? Both of us had our own flings on the side. It wasn’t serious. We just enjoyed each other’s company every now and again.”

He looked at you as if you were supposed to understand the sentiment; instead you met him with a deadpan stare. “Can’t relate.”

He let out a bark of laughter that you should have found offensive and annoying, but to you, it was only pleasant. Hoseok was pleasant. Even as a fuckboy, you felt that he had a warm personality—perhaps it was why people with weak souls such as yours were drawn to him like moths to a flame. “It makes sense, honestly. You’re pure—don’t give me that look—you aren’t a woman scorned, just someone who has never had their heart broken.”

“Excuse me, I have dated people.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not seriously. Namjoon said none of them even lasted a year.”

“Because men are stupid and, unfortunately, my sexuality only sways towards them.”

He laughed again, heat swarming your cheeks. “You must be warming up to me to be throwing such insults.” He ducked his head as your immediate glare. “I’m sorry; I’m not good at this whole explaining thing.”

“No.” You pretended to itch your nose in an attempt to pat out the redness to your face. “You’re not.”

“I—I’ve never been good at stating my true feelings, or you know, my actual opinions. I like to make people happy and, sometimes, I think I’ll say anything just to see someone smile. Its one trait that probably handed me the shovel I dig my grave with now. On top of that, I…I was never what you would call handsome. In fact, out of my friend group, females dubbed me as ‘the ugly one’.” His eyes darkened as he scratched the back of his neck, working out the kinks in his mind before he spoke aloud. “I guess I was just charming in a way that was only ever good for a ‘friends with benefits’ relationship at max. I mean, I still don’t think I’m charming, or handsome, or ‘boyfriend material’ but my mindset about how females see me has definitely changed thanks to Soonmi.”

“How kind of you to cheat on her as a thank you.”

“Hey,” He scoffed. “She’s not a saint.”

“She can’t be if she’s with you.”

Hoseok rolled his tongue across his teeth, letting out a deep, repressed sigh. “She told me that she had feelings for me—she was the first girl to see something in me that she wanted to keep by her side. Somehow, she made me believe that I actually wasn’t as ugly as I was made out to be. So I said fuck it and we started dating.”

You cocked your head to the side, lazily running your pencil along your sketchpad. “Maybe Namjoon is right; maybe you are an awful person.”

“I—It’s—Soonmi, you don’t get it, she’s a cunning manipulative bitch—which is, I guess, my type. She’s a horrible person who once put a laxative in someone’s drink just so they would miss out on a test and she would be the student with the highest marks. But she claimed to love me, and that was enough for me.”

You nodded along with his words, soaking in all of the facts laid out before you. Once your words settled into place, you set your pencil down and leaned back into the bench to better meet Hoseok’s gaze. “I was never bullied, never called ugly—but never called attractive either. I was just invisible my whole life—and I continue to be. As such, it is difficult for me to get to know people and become friends. Once I’ve warmed up to a person, however, there are no holds barred. Until the moment you make me comfortable, you are lucky to make me utter a proper sentence.” There was something knotting in your stomach, some pressure from the intensity of his stare as he listened to each and every word with his full attention. If nothing else, in this moment, you could believe that your words mattered to him. “So, Hoseok, I’m going to be completely honest with you. With everything you have told me, your explanation is a shit reason to excuse what you are doing.”

Despite the severity of your words, despite the fact that you saw something in his gaze shatter, his attention never wavered from you. It was intense enough to bring a stutter back into your speech.

Damn, how the hell could girls think he was ugly?

“What do you honestly feel towards Soonmi? What is the truth? Remember that my friend is on the line here and, though she fits the bill for your heartless bitch type, I still won’t hesitate to jam a pencil into your eye.”

Most stupid threats made guys look at you like you had a third eye, Hoseok, however, spoke without a second thought—his gaze so glued to you that you had to use every bit of energy to stop any sort of heat in and outside of you.

“I have no interest in Soonmi.”

Your eyes flit across his face, ready to detect any lie at a moment’s notice; you were shit at such intricate work, but damned if you weren’t going to try. “Then break it off with her—entirely. Don’t go back, don’t keep her number, don’t keep her things. Save her some pain and stop wasting her time.”

It was at that moment, that you caught a glint in Hoseok’s eye that scared you; some light that started as a small spark before bursting to flames. The first fire to the end of a war. A checkmate. “I will—but only if you promise to come to my studio.”

You felt caught in a web; some intricately spun situation that you were entirely unaware was being constructed around you until the final thread was tied around your neck. “Minji—“

“She’ll be there—she won’t mind. If it’s you, she’ll be okay. So just…just come to one practice and I swear on my life that I will end things once and for all.”

The trap snared around you, the fuckboy teeth sinking into your flesh. You were caught.

Because his eyes were so warm and he was so soft and this person before you wasn’t supposed to be a womanizer but totally was.

He was a duality.

One that caught you on the edge, half on either side.

“Okay.”

~.~

Apparently, as you found out when she came bursting into Beyond the Scene a week before you were to ‘attend’ Hoseok’s class, the studio time would be considered Minji and Hoseok’s ‘second date.’

You didn’t think one could count it as a date if it was in front of a group of people the entire time, but it was easier to just let her imagination wander instead of fight her stupidity.

“Y/N!” She shouted, taking a wrong turn the moment she entered the coffee shop. The poor group of people huddled at a table in the corner startled at the sudden outburst before Minji finally got her shit together and noticed that you could be found by the giant, white wall.

The one that she would have been aware of had she paid attention to you like normal friends did.

“Y/N!” You clung to the ladder as she approached, her footsteps more reminiscent of earthquakes than human gait. “You really outdid yourself with this one—he’s so much cuter in person than in his pictures; and he’s hella fine in his pictures.”

You, at first, weren’t sure who the ‘he’ in her reference was; it was only when your focused mindset drifted and reality settled into the cracks that the missing piece clicked. “Hoseok?”

“Who else? Seriously, you can be such an idiot—do you really think I just go on dates with random people all the time?”

You opened your mouth, but her threatening finger stopped you from starting your words.

“Don’t answer that.” As if finally realizing that you had been working on something high up on your ladder perch, Minji’s eyes flit to the blank wall. “You haven’t finished the mural yet?”

“Of course I haven’t!” You snapped. “I’m only just starting to transfer the buildings to the wall in the hopes that it’ll give me time to formulate an idea for the centerpiece.”

She made a face at the meager amount of color you had placed on the wall. “You really should have studied English or something else.”

It would have hit hard, were the words not coming from Minji’s vapid mouth. Instead, you rolled your eyes. “If I throw a glitter lipstick into the street, will you chase after it and get hit by a bus?”

Her expression could’ve fooled a younger version of yourself into believing that she was actually offended. “You’re such a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

You swiped a layer of thinned out acrylic paint across the wall, making the sketchy beginnings of the buildings you had yet to form. “I’m glad that we think the same of each other, Minji.”

“Oh don’t be salty. You know I mean it affectionately.”

“Mmm.” You snorted. “That’s one of us.”

She crossed her arms, letting the conversation go in place of another one you were not willing to have. “I’m going to see if I can get you a date to the studio, okay? You’re going to need a dance partner.” She smiled up at you as if she truly believed she was cupid herself. “Maybe that’ll put a chill pill down your throat.”

“Minji, I am not as dumb as you make me out to be--I’m well aware that you just want me distracted with someone other than the guy you’re eyeing. Just because I’ve talked to him and know him through Namjoon does not mean I have any intention of interacting. I am solely there to make you look better and work on my sketches.”

She tilted her head to the side, studying you. “You sell yourself short sometimes. You could be cute if you actually tried.”

“I really don’t want to. Me and the whole relationship thing don’t get along too well.”

“Well, I’m going to find you a date.”

You shot a glare over your shoulder, one that she only waved away with a laugh. There was nothing more you could say to her that would change her mind—once Minji’s decided on a path, she will run down it even if it means she’s going to burn straight into the ground.

Her headstrong nature was the sole reason you never told her about Hoseok’s girlfriend. She’d get a big head and would believe that she could change him for the better.

“Once you have Minji you never go back to basic.”

It’s precisely that ego that has caused her to be cheated on repeatedly without her knowledge. After all, there was a reason the only fist fight you’d ever gotten into was on her behalf. Contrary to popular belief, Minji was not as much of a shit person as she made herself out to be. Loyalty counts for a lot, especially in the face of absolute shitstorms of arguments. Despite it all, she stayed.

That counted for something.

“Good luck with that.” You murmured to the space where she had been standing, returning back to your work.

You didn’t know how long you sat perched up on that ladder, painting away the basic outlines to match your sketchbook. Maybe an hour? Three? All that you knew was, when your stomach started rumbling, you decided to climb down.

One thing about being so into art that time utterly disappears is that you wind up having a lot of limbs that fall asleep without your knowledge. With the sudden shock of pain at your needle-stabbed foot, your weight shifted and you nearly buckled backwards and sideways off the ladder. It didn’t help that you were about as graceful as a whale on land. If it weren’t for the sudden hands that hurriedly clasped around your hips, you were positive you would have fallen and injured yourself beyond perfect repair.

Steadying yourself with shaky hands on the ladder and noodle knees, you heard the pants of heaving breath from your savior, his hands on your hips remaining as a tether of balance. Despite the kindness intended behind the gesture, it felt all too intimate for your liking.

You turned over your shoulder to finalize your decision to either smack or thank the person who helped you, only to find all of your vocal chords frozen and useless at the mere sight of Jung Hoseok. There was just something about the man that had speech leaving you every time his face popped up unexpectedly. At least when you knew he was going to be there, you could prepare.

Were you blinded by his handsomeness? His charm? The fucking sun? You weren’t positive; all you knew was that, right then and there, he was too damn bright.

Though you were obviously irritated by his touch, he was all smiles the moment your eyes met his; happiness seemed to ooze from his pores and buzz through his skin and into yours. You wanted to be mad at him, you wanted to hate him—but all you hated was the way your heart inflated at the sight and feel of his presence.

“What are you doing here?” You stammered, your hands fisting the ladder with enough of a death grip that, if you were to fall a second time, the thing would come clamoring with you.

He was still out of breath—which was normal considering he probably had to run to save your dumb ass. “I had to tell you the news and then…well then I saw you almost crack open your skull and I just—I—“

You cast a glance down to his hands in the middle of his speech. Though he saw the look, he made no effort to remove his grip from you.

You supposed he would have, had you used words instead of glares.

“Anyways,” He started, trying to tug you down from the safety the ladder promised you. However, you didn’t budge; in fact, you tried to climb higher out of his reach. It was a useless act considering you were an artist and he was a dancer—he was, naturally, physically stronger and you were unable to escape the black hole of emotion that was Jung Hoseok. “I wanted to tell you that I broke up with Soonmi.”

You couldn’t help the way your jaw hung open as you stared down at him, at a loss for words—which wasn’t uncommon when he was involved; this time, though, it was for an entirely different reason. “Seriously?” You whispered. “I—I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it. Like, I know we made a deal but the way Namjoon made you out to be—I just—I—“

He chuckled, removing only one of his hands to grab his phone from the depths of his back pocket. With a nimble thumb, he scrolled to the texts of a furious woman scorned.

You supposed she couldn’t be too happy to hear about her cheating, son-of-a-bitch boyfriend breaking up with her. However—damn.

“She’s got quite the sailor’s mouth, doesn’t she?” You said on the tail end of a low whistle, eyes glued to the proof on the screen.

He actually did it.

Maybe—just maybe--you could believe some of what Hoseok said.

Then again, he had Minji.

Why did he need you to believe him?

Hoseok laughed, causing a knee-jerk reaction in your body that had your cheeks flushing and your palms dampening around the metal of the ladder. “I deserve it, though. However, there’s more at stake for me if I chose to break our deal—wounded pride is just a Saturday for me.” His eyes sparkled with something you weren’t willing to address; especially not when said boy was stringing you along a necklace of pretty girls.

He said these things to every girl he met.

“He’s going to break your heart, Y/N.”

“Was Soonmi a dancer as well?” You lifted your gaze from the continuous strings of slurs and cursing on the phone to Hoseok, signaling that you were done reading. You’d seen enough of his personal life and dick pics of Soonmi’s ex ex to know that he was telling the truth. However, you would not get those images burned from retinas—despite how desperately you wished to forget how ‘well hung’ some asshat was.

He shook his head. “No, she actually went for psychology. Since we were on opposite sides of campus, it made it a hell of a lot easier for me to…well…be an asshole.”

You snorted, letting out a small noise of fear as you finally wobbled your clumsy ass the rest of the way down the ladder. It was only when you were in front of him, both feet flat on the ground, that Hoseok decided it was finally okay to let go of you. The ghosts of his fingers lingered. “Well, at least your date with Minji seemed to go good—or so I was told.”

“It was interesting, I’ll give it that.”

His expression had a mischievous smirk manifesting on your face. It was always fun to hear a guy’s reaction after the first date with Minji. It either went along the lines of “she’s hot” or “she’s batshit.”

Hoseok ran his tongue along his teeth, his chuckle delving into nervous laughter territory as his eyes fixated almost anywhere but you. “I—um—hm…how do I put this nicely? Let’s just…let’s just say I’m glad our next date is in a public setting.”

You frowned at him, arms crossing over your chest. “Keep it in your pants, leading without consulting your brain is what got you into that mess with Soonmi.” You turned your back to him, instead refocusing your attention back towards your open sketchbook. All this talk and no work did not equal food on your table.

“That’s not—“

You laughed, throwing him one quick pity grin over your shoulder. “Its fine, Hoseok—it’s a joke. I know she’s a bit handsy—hopefully my presence will prevent some of that.” Your fingers ran across the page of your sketch. “I am looking forward to this, I guess. You know? With all these dancers suddenly surrounding me, I think I’ve decided that I’d like to put one of them at the center of my mural.”

You couldn’t see Hoseok’s expression with your back turned, but you were sure you didn’t want to see it anyways.

“Yeah? I’m looking forward to it too.”

~.~

Because you hadn’t planned on actually dancing, you didn’t wear the proper footwear—which, actually didn’t matter anyways because everyone switched shoes before entering the studios. However, your unpreparedness didn’t end with shoes; you also weren’t dressed for the occasion. You had just gotten back from your day-job as a secretary for an upstart company, nearly running into the room dolled up in a satin blouse and black trousers.

For your own credit, at least you had your sketchbook in hand.

Minji, who was already there, looked up at you from the floor as she tightened the laces on her dancing shoes. Well, ‘looking’ was the nice way of putting it—rather, she was staring at you like you were flipping her off with a hand that you sprouted from your forehead.

“What the hell are you wearing?” She hissed through her teeth so as not to make a scene. It didn’t really work because you, yourself, were a walking scene and already had the eyes of the other dancers in the room. Apparently, full on business casual coupled with a running asthmatic wheeze wasn’t common in a professional studio space.

“I just got off of work, sue me. You didn’t actually expect me to dance? Did you?”

She waggled her finger at you, her manicured nail within just enough reach that you contemplated ripping the acrylic tip off of it. “You’re just lucky my blind date for you cancelled last minute.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing full well Minji forgot about her half-assed idea and was now making stupid excuses for her memory. Instead, you walked yourself towards the mirror, dusted off a spot you knew wouldn’t be clean regardless, and sat down with your sketchbook and pencil in hand. Pants were washable, as long as the dust wasn’t made of permanent marker or sealant, you were good.

Just as you were getting settled in, Hoseok burst in the door looking every bit the type of person that would make your palms sweat and your throat close. If you had forgotten that he was handsome, you were definitely reminded of it now. His tank was clinging to his thin frame, showing that it was a size too-small based on the skin you saw between its hem and the band of the sweatpants he was wearing low on his hips. Effortlessly, he brushed his hair off his forehead, the strands staying slicked back with sweat.

Hoseok’s eyes found yours before they found Minji’s.

His head cocked to you in an unspoken question that had you raising your sketchbook to him and giving him a small nod. With an “O” of understanding, he then turned his attention to the glaring Minji. Squatting before her, his demeanor changed much like hers did—riding a line between kindness and flirtation. Minji was much less subtle however, her lashes batting excessively as she leaned forward to offer him her towel.

Your hand started moving despite itself, wanting to capture the way the droplets of sweat ran over Hoseok’s Adam’s apple. But, when you finally realized what you were doing, your lines became a smattering of scribbles to blot out the voyeuristic image.

Pushing up to his feet, he made his way towards you to repeat his squat and talk method he seemed to be a fan of. Apparently, unlike you, Hoseok wasn’t the type to get his ass dusty.

“I can get you a chair, you know.”

You shrugged. “It’s too late—these are old pants anyways.”

He grinned at you, that warmth creating an ache in your heart that had your hand itching to draw him again. Maybe it was something about seeing him in his place of passion rather than in the wild outdoors of city life, but he was stunning. Captivating.

Intoxicating.

Even though the room smelled like sweat and he reeked of fading cologne and cheese, you didn’t mind it.

“You sure you don’t want to dance?”

You gave him a look that had him laughing in a way that cracked your forced seriousness into bubbles of laughter.

His eyes flit across your face, his smile a permanent fixture on his features. “I have to go start the class now.”

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you pulled a pencil from your bag. “That would probably be a good idea.”

He was still frozen before you, as if there was something else he wanted to say—some other words eating their way through his brain with the intent to force them into his vocal chords. However, he said nothing more and, with a shake of his head, he was back up to his feet.

Minji was by his side instantly, her arm slinging around his waist in a way that would have been cute were you not aware that it was actually a possessive move on her end. Hoseok started to address the other dancers in the room, but your mind was floating elsewhere, watching the pair before you.

They really did fit nicely. Two attractive, talented people. Maybe Minji would be able to make him see that he was handsome; though she wouldn’t be able to fix him, it didn’t seem like he was as bad as Namjoon made him out to be—at least anymore.

He did break up with Soonmi after all. Not to say that there couldn’t be others, but you doubted it. Despite his airs of confidence, you knew he wasn’t lying when he said he believed he was ugly.

Only people with similar insecurities would be able to see that he was telling the truth.

Except for, you knew you thought worse of yourself than he did—after all, he had enough confidence to cheat in the first place.

And then, they started dancing.

Normally, you watched Minji with a strange sense of awe, a silent follower as she traipsed across the floor with effortless moves. However, Minji, who never once stumbled, looked like a novice compared to her partner. Hoseok was on another level entirely--off the deep end of your capability of understanding. When he moved, you could see every ounce of sweat, exhaustion, fear and happiness that went into his passion. He loved to dance; awful people didn’t hold things as close to their heart as dancing was to Hoseok’s. It made sense why Namjoon would always talk about him so fondly—aside from the whole relationship end—he never made him out to be a horrible human being.

Just a human being sharp enough to hurt you.

And, as Minji’s hand lingered on his chest and their faces got too close for comfort, you realized that maybe you should have listened to Namjoon. Maybe you should have run the other direction the moment you met him.

Somewhere along the way, your hand started sketching his movements, erasing Minji entirely from the scene; you fooled yourself into believing that it was because her form was not nearly as impressive as his. And then, it hit you—Hoseok would make a perfect focal point; after all, the sun is the focal point of the sky.

You ducked your head, losing track of where you were, how long the class was going on for, how long Hoseok was dancing with his date. None of that mattered, because you were staring at your drawing with lead on your fingertips from blending and fingerprints along the edges of your paper. It had been a long time since you truly lost yourself to your artwork, but, in that studio, you tapped into an energy that had eluded you for so long.

“That looks like a masterpiece to me.”

You hadn’t even realized the music had stopped until Hoseok and startled you from your mindless pondering. Throwing your head up, your gaze met Minji’s and she was so starstruck by Hoseok that she actually gave you a pretty cute smile.

It was suddenly very hard to breath in the heavy, sweat-laden air.

“Hit the showers!” Hoseok murmured as the ending to his mini speech to his class, clapping once more to finalize the statement.

You must have looked utterly confused when Minji walked past you towards her bag because she shrugged and let out a snort more pig than human. “The showers were installed after some dancers complained about having to work after practice. Now it’s just a regular thing, you know?”

“Are you going?”

She nodded, grabbing a bottle of shampoo and conditioner along with a change of clothes from her bag. “I’ll be back and then we can go, okay?”

You gave her a thumbs-up as she left the room, shifting enough to be able to start packing up your own things.

“So?” Hoseok’s voice echoed in the room, and when the door gently closed behind the last dancer you—all too late—realized that the two of you were now alone.

“So what?” It was pathetic how meek you were around him again, as if the sight of him dancing suddenly made him a different person that you had to acquaint yourself to.

“What did you think?” He leaned against a wall across the room from you, his eyes boring into your shoulders as your hands deftly tried to find a fallen eraser.

You felt like a rabbit in an open, grassy plain with a hawk staring at you from a tree.

“It was…” You tried not to think of your sketches, of the way Hoseok’s eyes seemed to darken on you across the room, at the way you couldn’t breathe. Instead, you tried to think that Minji wasn’t going to take forever in the shower (she was) and that she was going to be back shortly (she wasn’t). “You’re a really good dancer.”

“Just good?” He cocked his at you, peeling his back from the wall.

“Amazing.” You raised an eyebrow at him. “That better?”

He laughed, sending goosebumps down your spine—you wanted it to be out of fear, but you knew your body better than that. “Much.” His eyes shifted to your sketchbook as he walked towards you, his eyes inquisitive. “Can I see?”

You pressed your lips into a line, pulling the book closer to you. “Nope.”

It was the bullet that broke the tension in the air, and suddenly you were both laughing as he dove for you. With a bout of childish defiance, you slid the sketchbook underneath you, sitting atop it to prevent him from seeing your drawings. However, it had not occurred to you that Hoseok, while in the process of recovering from his adultery, was not in the process of overcoming his fuckboy tendencies.

His arms were around you, his voice high and whiny as he struggled to reach underneath you to rip your sketchbook and all your secrets from your grasp. You held on white-knuckled, putting as much of your weight as you could on top of the sketchbook whilst trying not to get lost in the expanse of chest in your face. He should smell awful; but for some reason, he didn’t.

He was a sweaty, tired mess and yet he still managed to smell like vanilla. He was so warm, his skin practically scalding you every time it brushed across yours. This was dangerous--something so utterly perilous if only because you had never wanted to kiss a disgusting boy and now, suddenly, you wanted to be in Minji’s place. You wanted to go on a date with Hoseok, dance with Hoseok; you wanted your arm to be around Hoseok’s waist, your face to be close to Hoseok’s.

He pulled away from you; the part of you that you had locked away in denial tore away with him. “Fine.” He pouted, unbeknownst to your sudden revelations. “If you won’t show me, then at least have a dance with me.”

“You’re exhausted.” You whispered, the humidity and the sudden, physical struggle breaking a sweat across your forehead.

“So? I invited you here so I could dance with you; at least fulfill that wish for me.”

“I can’t dance.”

“Excuses.” He chuckled, throwing your own words in your face. “Let me teach you.”

“Hoseok--" But he was already up on his feet--already brushing the dust off his sweatpants. You didn’t have any more fight in you, if only because your body was betraying you in his presence. You wanted to dance with him if only to be close to him. There was no rhyme or reason why you fell hard for Jung Hoseok. In fact, everything that you ever knew told you that you shouldn’t even tolerate him. But somehow—a chemical connection maybe?—you found yourself starting to.

You found yourself wanting to take Soonmi’s recently vacated place.

He grabbed both of your hands in his, pulling you up off the floor and into his chest so he could adjust his grip and intertwine his fingers with yours. “I want to see how bad of a dancer you really are.” You rag-dolled in his grasp, letting him do all the work because your sudden gelatinous knees wouldn’t let you do anything but stand there.

You laughed, head falling forward into his chest if only because you tried to duck away but found that he was too close for such an escape. “I’m awful; you’ll see.”

“Mm.” He spun you around, turning so that you got a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You wanted to retract inside yourself at the sight. There you were, an absolute mess, standing with this handsome yet crazy man who somehow inspired you in ways that you couldn’t even begin to explain. It was a contradicting sight.

You looked so wrong next to him.

“You know, Y/N.” He murmured as he twisted you into the first movement that you had seen him pull with Minji. “I realized something about you today—I’ve always known, but it finally clicked.”

“Hm?” You licked your dry lips, trying to imagine that maybe you were good enough to stand next to him. Maybe you weren’t as flawed as you thought.

But the mirror haunted the backs of your eyelids as Hoseok lightly moved you through a dance without music.

“You honestly think that Minji is better than you.”

Your eyes flew open, landing on his face in an expression that said “duh.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he pulled you into a pose that looked utterly stupid until he corrected your form with gentle hands and a smile that made your extremities feel fuzzy. “You shouldn’t.”

“You have your insecurities—let me have mine.” You murmured. “Minji is superior to me in every way—she’s pretty she’s a great dancer, and she can do anything she sets her mind to. We took an art class together and her raw talent made anything I’ve ever done pale in comparison. Even our prestigious professors stared at her work in awe.” You met his gaze for only a moment before shifting your eyes to stare at your own reflection. “Compared to Minji, I am a worm. All I can do is draw and paint—not even well.”

His movements got slower, more languid in a way that was meant to make you more comfortable in the foreign setting. But, there was no such thing as ‘comfortable’ when it came to Hoseok—when he was around you, your nerves were on fire and your mind couldn’t comprehend reality. Hoseok was a black hole for common sense, one that spit everything you ever knew right out the fucking window.

“All I can do is dance and you once told me that I was more than that; what makes you think that I shouldn’t be able to tell you that you are more than your opinion of yourself.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet, letting out a frustrated huff as you made eye contact with the floor instead of him. “Because you don’t get to tell me what to think of myself.”

“I want you to see yourself the way others see you.”

“Y/N! Hurry up you slow bitch!” Despite the brutal words from her mouth, you knew that there was little to no venom to it. Instead, you were gawking at the people gawking at Minji—she was all dolled up in her absolutely breathtaking dress that her mother had bought solely for this gala. For all of your effort, you might as well have been the carpet under her heeled feet as both genders gave heart eyes to the woman you called a friend.

“I’m coming.”

“I’m invisible to others; usually, I’m just a fly on the wall. People don’t notice me, Hoseok.” You chuckled darkly. “Just look at my sorry excuse for a love life.”

He frowned at you, his hand tightening in yours. “Fine—then don’t see yourself how others see you; see yourself the way I do.”

Your expression cracked in time with the rift forming in your chest—a Pandora’s Box to words that you weren’t ready to release. It all came out in a rush, in furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and a mountain of regrets. “Yeah? So I should just see myself as a million girls? A number in a little black book?”

You couldn’t pull away fast enough; you couldn’t gather yourself enough to escape his grasp and his stare. Instead, his hands were on either side of your face and, as tears ran down your cheeks, Hoseok was kissing you.

They say that when you kiss someone that you like, fireworks should go off and sparks should fly. Maybe that wasn’t true unless there was a chemical reaction between the two of you—some elements that, when they click together, explode. Every fiber of your being was on fire, bursting to flame at his touch, at something as simple as the pressure of his lips on yours.

Hoseok kissed you with the same passion he showed for dancing, and, if it weren’t for the buzzing alarms in the back of your head, you probably would have allowed him to swallow you whole.

You shoved him off of you, scrubbing at your face with the back of your hand. “I—“

The door opened and in walked Minji, her body freezing at the sight of both of you.

You could only imagine the two of you, covered in sweat, mouths bruised and swollen. Some of your lipstick was on Hoseok’s chin and there were streaks of mascara on your cheeks.

Minji’s eyes flit between the two of you, and, for a moment, you believed she was going to turn on you. She was going to blame you, she should blame you. You just kissed her date—she had every right to call you every name in her repertoire.

Instead, wordlessly, she grabbed your hand, her bag and yours, and let the door slam behind the two of you.

~.~

For a long while, and for a rare moment between the two of you, it was silent. Normally, Minji would be talking your ear off--her high, raspy voice filling the small space of her car as she sped her way to your place.

However, this tension wasn’t normal. There was nothing normal about this behavior—yours, hers, or Hoseok’s.

The silence was only broken when Minji’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, her gaze burning holes into the road before her. “You like him, don’t you?”

“Hoseok?” You whispered, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“Who else would I be talking about, you moron?” She curled her lip at her dash instead of you, letting out a sigh that seemed to have been building up for the last century. “He likes you too, you know.”

“That doesn’t happen.” You said quickly, turning to her as if that could make her understand that you didn’t want to hurt her—you didn’t want to take from her, you honestly didn’t mean for any of this to happen. “No one chooses me over you.”

“Y/N, Hoseok just did.”

“He—he did no—“

She let out a shout that had you slamming your head against the roof of the car, your eyes wide on her. “You are absolutely infuriating!” Her volume was much lower than her shout; it must have released some pent up energy within her chest because her shoulders were finally starting to relax. “And yes, yes I am pissed—not at you, at him. For now. I’m awful at holding grudges, you know that.”

“But he—“

“He did. Do you really think I’m as dumb as I look?” She frowned at you through the rearview mirror. “Don’t answer that.” With another ancient sigh bursting from the confines of her chest, she shook her head. “He chose you, Y/N. Give me five minutes and I’ll be over him—I go through guys like candy, you know that.”

You ducked your head, frowning at the seat. “No one chooses me over you. No one chooses me—hell, I know he didn’t choose me out of every other girl on this planet.” You whispered, trying to keep it all locked in. But, the ghost of Hoseok’s kiss lingered and it broke your heart to imagine that same passion given to another girl.

“There have been plenty that have chosen you—plenty that have looked at you instead of me. You just don’t notice. You know, despite all the shit I give you, you are not by my side only to make me look better; Y/N, you’re not horrible to look at. Actually, you’re quite cute--that was why I liked you when I first saw you.”

“You hated me.” You snorted, unable to hide your laughter.

Minji shrugged. “Same thing.”

“Who are you and what did you do with Minji?”

She smacked your arm, her eyes never leaving the road. “Look, I’m not going to say that I’m not hot shit and better than 99.9% of the people on this planet—I know I am. But, the one thing I fail at is making friends. For some reason, people think I’m conceded.” She laughed, her nails tapping on the wheel. “But you stayed my friend. Even if this friendship is built on a house of cards and is so fake it would make my mom’s boobs look natural, this means something to me. Don’t let my kindness go to waste. Say something nice to me too.” She lightly hit your thigh with the back of her hand, causing you to wipe your snot nose on your sleeve and give her a good, genuine smile.

“This friendship isn’t fake. Like, 13% of the time I actually consider you my friend.”

“Aww.” She held her chest in mock emotion. “I’ll take what I can get.”

“Same.”

You were both laughing now, in a moment that was so rare you were sure it would take three unicorns, two wishes on a shooting star and a whole field of four leaf clovers to bring another around. But that was fine, because you had this moment.

“You like him, don’t you?” She repeated.

“I—there are so many reasons—“

“That’s not what I asked you. I asked if you like Hoseok.”

You ducked your head, but your hair was pinned back so there was nothing to curtain your expression from Minji. “I do.”

“I’m not going to break a nail for you.”

You stared at the side of her face in confusion.

“I will use my mom’s money to hire a hitman however, and those are expensive. So please, let this shit work out.”

Reaching over the center console, you gave Minji the most awkward, yet genuine hug that either of you had.

“We need to go to the club tomorrow,” she growled, patting your arm in an attempt to reciprocate your hug and drive at the same time. “I need a man and I need a man pronto—I’m not going to lose to you.”

“But you didn’t—“

She let out another howl that echoed in the car. Only this one wasn’t out of frustration, more the sort of light annoyance that siblings had for each other. “Stop being so damn cute! Go back to being broody and depressing so people will feel bad for me and I can get laid tomorrow.”

You grinned at her. “So does this mean that you actually liked my sketches?”

“No.” She rolled her eyes. “I still don’t like them. But remember, I majored in dance, not art—since when have you ever taken my artistic criticisms seriously? Remember when I thought that Van Goat dude was actually just a brand of fancy cheese?”

“Van Gogh?”

She snorted. “Yeah, Y/N. You look stupid taking my words to heart—I flunked art history three times.”

“Four.”

“I slept with that professor to get me a D so I wouldn’t have to take it again.” She winked at you, your face frozen in a horror-stricken expression that did nothing to erase the unbidden mental images.

“Can I change that ‘not fake’ percentage to 12?”

“Nope.” She smiled. “Get ready to have your depressing ass worked hard tomorrow—I need a good man on my arm.”

~.~

Namjoon brushed your hair off your forehead and out of your eyes, groaning at the puffiness. “Please tell me that you were not crying over him.”

You glared at him, shoving your bag into his stomach and nearly through him just to put it behind the counter. It was too far of a walk towards the mural and you currently wanted to be anywhere but in the public eye—even if it was only the public of a small, busy coffee shop.

He watched you brush past him, watch you hide your things as if they were you—as if you wished to crawl underneath the space between the register and the storage bin for paper cups.

“Y/N.” His voice had you curling your lip at the ground, body struggling to stand.

“Fine.” You snapped at your backpack instead of at him, it wasn’t Namjoon’s fault after all. You were your own demise, always had been. “I was. And then I realized I did even stupider shit than cried over him—I cried over my fucking sketchbook which I kindly forgot in the hurry to get the hell out of his studio.” You burst up to your feet, the fight or flight instinct in you broken to the point that you felt like running into a wall. “So your mural is screwed too, and then I cried more over that because I’m…I’m��I—I’m a big cry baby I guess!” You threw your hands up into the air, incoherent words stumbling together on your tongue as you tried to reign in the tears once more; your tear ducts burned and you didn’t think you could take another bout of self-pity crying. “I don’t have anything to put in that giant hole on the wall and you were right, you were totally right, Joon. That’s what you want to hear, right? That I should have listened, should have stayed away?”

His arms were around you, pulling your face into his chest so his sweatshirt could snuff out the dampness of your face. “I didn’t want to be right; it’s not what I want to hear. I--" he sighed, “I wanted you to let me know what’s going on in that head of yours. You keep yourself so tightly locked up that sometimes I’m afraid that you’re keeping me out with the rest of the world.”

“Never. You know too much about me and the destruction cavity most doctors call my brain.” You grumbled through a mouthful of fabric.

He laughed, the vibrations warming the cold in your chest.

“Even if it was all a lie—even if he told a thousand other girls the same things—it meant something to me, Namjoon. I liked the version I saw, the one that seemed so honest. But it’s not true, right? None of it was true? I can’t…I went in knowing I can’t believe anything he says and I still—“

“It’s not your fault.”

You slowly peeled yourself from his grasp, wiping your snot nose on his sweatshirt as a parting gift. “I—I’m going to go clean up my face and come up with a plan b.”

“I’ll get your sketchbook back, Y/N.”

You started towards the “employees only” swinging door, frowning at the porthole window. “I don’t want it; I couldn’t focus on the other dancers anyways. It’s all him; it’s all Hoseok. He really is amazing, you know.”

“But so are you.”

The swinging doors fluttered shut behind you before he could finish his words.

~.~

As you approached the hallway that led out towards the counter and, consequently, into the main hub of the café, a certain voice stopped you from bursting through the employee doors. The part of you that had just put itself back together with cold water and glares into the bathroom mirror shattered to the ground. As if he could see you through solid matter, you pressed yourself flat against the wall and snuck closer—but not too close. No, childish fear had you keeping enough distance that there was no chance in hell he would see you, even if he got close enough to the porthole window.

Through the crack between the rubberized edge of the door and the wall, you watched Hoseok thumbing through something atop the counter. Namjoon partly obscured him and the object from your vision, his shoulders square and angry.

“I’m glad you had the decency to return it; I’ll give you at least that much.” Namjoon said like an overprotective father with a shotgun.

Hoseok seemed unfazed by this persona. “I’m not a thief.” He murmured. “She’s gotten even better. These sketches…they’re amazing.”

“I’m aware.” Namjoon’s knuckles tightened on the countertop as he tilted his clenched jaw into view. “Now what are you actually here for, Hoseok?”

Hoseok’s eyes never lifted from the pages of your sketchbook. “I really like her, hyung.”

“You like a lot of things, Hoseok. You like pretty things, shiny new people and girls who look in your general direction. You latch onto anyone who thinks you’re handsome because you don’t see it in yourself. And then, you leech them dry—you spin your web and play them like a fucking piano before leaving them strung up for the crows to pick at. You have currently ruined any chance of a real relationship—I highly doubt you know how to truly love something for what it is and not what it says, Hoseok.”

Hoseok listened to every word, screwing his eyes shut as he dipped his face into his hands, elbows on the countertop. “Ouch.”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat things for you when you pulled this shit with my little sister—blood or no blood, she’s as important to me as my family.”

“She’s the exception to every rule, every standard, everything.” Hoseok mumbled through his hands.

“No, she is the one rule, the one exception, the one line I told you not to cross and you crossed it.”

“No.” Hoseok growled. “You don’t—you don’t understand. She was the catalyst, the—agh.” His shoulders shook with his frustration, his voice cracking on a desperate plea. “Remember when I first visited your dorm room? Back when we were just starting to be friends—remember? You had that work on your wall, that thing that looked like a sketch but wasn’t?”

“The first lithograph Y/N made? Of course I remember, you tried to buy and trade for it with me the entire year until I finally took it home and out of your sight.”

Hoseok lifted his head, pointing to the wall—though his gaze was lost somewhere else in a distant memory. “Yes, that’s the one. I wanted it because I had seen it before—back when it was on display in the library. You know, Seokjin and I were friends since high school, and he’s always been more into art shit than I ever had. I only gave a rat’s ass about dancing, but when he dragged me and Yoongi with him to that conglomeration showing I—okay, so first off, most of them sucked; don’t believe a word Seokjin tells you.”

Namjoon sighed. “Are you going somewhere with this story? I do have things to do, a business to run, a dog to feed and walk before going to bed.”

“It’s noon, calm yourself.” Hoseok grunted. “I saw that work there—it was the only thing that I thought was worth something. The more I looked around, the more I kept circling back to it. I must have stared at that work for an hour, because Seokjin and Yoongi both left me there to go to dinner by themselves. I memorized every detail about that piece—the name, the title, the medium—fuck if I still even know what a lithograph is. It was just this small thing inside a tiny seedpod, darkness all around it. It couldn’t break the shell even if it wanted to—and I—I--“

“Again, where is this leading?”

“I’d always thought art like that could be done by anyone. All that crap in the show was all the same, could have been done by a million people or by one—but her piece made me believe that only some people can create true art; only some people can make things that actually mean something. You always said I’d shown interest in her without knowing her—that’s why. I wanted to meet her; I needed to meet her. So I went to the art building to find her.”

“I’m glad I’m just finding out about this now.” Namjoon sighed. “It doesn’t change my stance, but it’s somewhat comforting to know that there’s a shred of human kindness towards females in your heart.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And you found Soonmi instead, and it wasn’t until you saw the piece in my room that you realized—“

“Exactly.” Hoseok whispered.

“So you’re an asshole because you’re stupid.”

“Yes—no, but yes.” Hoseok laughed, but there was no humor to it. “If I had found her instead, if I hadn’t believed that—if—god why was I so stupid? If I had just let Soonmi go right then and there--“

“A lot could have changed, yes. And I will admit, as much as I think you don’t deserve her--" Namjoon’s glare silenced any hope in Hoseok’s eyes. “—you two do have some weird chemical connection that I can’t explain. However, you’ve made your choices and I’m not letting you be one of hers. I can’t trust you with her, Hoseok. How do I know you’re not lying to me now? How do I know that, when I turn around, you won’t be making eyes with the next girl that walks in here? Those tendencies, once formed, aren’t easy to break. I can’t let her give you her heart; it’s too precious for your hands.”

“What if I—“

“Hoseok.” The finality and anger in Namjoon’s voice sent a small shock of fear down your spine. “Enough. I am not going to watch her go through this with you. If you come near her—if you dare hurt her again—I swear that years and years of friendship won’t save you from my wrath.”

Hoseok nodded, pushing himself off the counter. “Just…just give this to her the next time you see her, okay?”

Namjoon grabbed the sketchbook, staring at Hoseok’s back as he left the coffee shop.

You, however, remained curled against the wall, your squat turning into more of a sit the longer your thighs burned. But, the physical pain wasn’t what you were focused on. Instead, your mind was still reeling, trying to comprehend the words you weren’t meant to hear.

What parts were lies? What parts were the truth? How did one believe someone who lies as easily as breathing? Did he truly mean those things he said?

How did one trust the boy who lied about there being wolves?

~.~

You leaned back from your work, nearly up to your elbows in paint as you chugged what was left in your beaten and almost flattened water bottle. It was done.

It was finally done.

The paint was still glistening, tacky but fresh, clinging to the wall with all its might so as not to smear and dribble down your depiction of Hoseok’s movements.

As stupid and strange as it was, the process of painting Hoseok oversized on a mural wall was incredibly therapeutic. Maybe because, when there was a brush in your hand, you could believe that you were painting the version of the boy you wanted to believe in. Maybe, when you were painting him on a wall before you, you could believe that this was the boy who didn’t lie and flirt with anything with two x chromosomes—the boy who was handsome and talented, the boy who only saw you. It was enough for you to be able to ease the sickness in your gut and disassociate the Hoseok in your reality to the one that you fell for in your head.

The real one, the one that lied and told a million girls a million things to get in their pants, you could believe that you had not fallen for that one.

Until you turned and smacked directly into a familiar, wired chest with your paint sodden hands. Once again, Hoseok found himself the victim of a cruel and unsuspected attack by paint.

You stared up at him, fingers splayed, eyes wide and body shell-shocked.

And just like that, all the things you made yourself believe—the bullshit self therapy washed down the tubes. The lump was back in your throat tenfold, threatening to choke you as his warm gaze met with yours.

How many?

How many others were looked at like this? How many women were on his cell? How many were waiting for texts? A ring? A call? A message? How many had pictures of him as their backgrounds, his stare warm and loving and lying?

“Is that supposed to be me?” He murmured, his gaze never leaving you.

You, however, looked anywhere but him—only rewarding his words with a short nod.

“He looks better than me. Do I really look like that? Do you really think I look like that?” He felt along his jaw, his lips and his brows as if the feeling from his fingers could translate to the image before him.

“I think so. At least…at least when you dance you do. But don’t flatter yourself too much; you look best when you’re dancing.”

“Part of me wished you would use that half-assed sketch of Minji with her finger up her nose.”

You snorted, muffling your laughter through your fingers; you could feel paint cling to your face. Once you gathered your composure, you straightened your shoulders as if that could do the same to your resolve. “Why’re you here, Hoseok?”

“I—“

“I heard your talk with Namjoon. I was—I was here. If you think that I’m going to believe what you said just because you said them then you—“

“I didn’t expect you to. I figured you were in the building, but I didn’t know you would hear what I said.” The sincerity in his voice shut you up, the way his eyes softened and darkened in emotions that you could feel but couldn’t name tore your vocal chords from your throat. “I didn’t say them with the hope that you would believe them—I am a person who does a lot of things untruthfully; I am a person that you probably will never trust. But I thought I should give it a chance despite it.” His gaze flit back towards you. “I am willing to throw everything I have on the railroad tracks for the artist that made ‘the one that didn’t bloom.’ A long time ago, I thought that, if I met the person who made that work, maybe I would understand why I felt like I couldn’t blossom. But I screwed that up, and so now, I’ll do anything to give that belief a second chance.”

“Well, better hope those tracks are out of service, because guess what, Hoseok? That artist would have and is going to tell you that you can’t blossom because you are already a full-fledged flower.” You brushed past him, stuffing your nearest supplies into your backpack in the hopes that you could escape quickly and come back later when he was gone.

If he was gone.

“So,” you murmured, angrily tugging at your zipper, “mystery solved.”

Before you could start towards the door, Hoseok’s hand was on your wrist, keeping you bolted to your spot.

“Why do you keep running from me? Do you think that I’m not going to chase you? Do you think that, after all this time, after everything I’ve told you and shown you, I’m just going to stand here and watch you leave?”

It was the five stages of grief in a fucked up order when it came to Jung Hoseok. Somehow, anger came after depression, after bargaining and denial.

“Yes!” You whirled around to face him properly. “That is exactly what you are going to do. I can’t stay here, I can’t stay like this—I can’t stand here and pretend like whatever the hell this--" You gestured angrily between the two of you, but you were sure it looked less threatening and more like a chicken. “—isn’t something more. I can’t sit here and know that there are lines of people in your texts just waiting for you to call them up and invite them into your bed. Hoseok, this may come as a surprise to you—why, I don’t know, maybe you’re blind or something—but, guys don’t like me. I’m not too fond of them either; probably, because of this—probably because there’s always better options out there in the world. A million fish in the sea, or some bullshit analogy like it. And you, the man with gold in his bones and a smile like the fucking sun, yeah, you’ll find the best of the best. And it’s not me. It is never me!”

However, Hoseok’s grip on your wrist tightened at the sight of the gloss forming through your lashes. He was fishing his phone out of his back pocket like a man possessed, his gaze rooted to yours. “This phone is what you’re worried about? The people on here? What if I text them? What if I call every girl on this phone with you standing right here? What if I send them pictures of you, tell them to fuck off? What if I block their numbers, delete their contacts? What if I—“

“You’re not listening!”

Hoseok growled, his hand shaking on yours. You were thankful it was 6pm and no one fucking got coffee at 6pm except for college students and tired business men—none of which were in the building. Because damn, the two of you were causing a scene.

“And you’re not listening to me! There is no one better, Y/N! There is not a single person out there that is better than you.”

You pressed your lips into a line, trying once more to feebly pull your grip from his. “You don’t get it! You just don’t understand it at all! I don’t know what to believe in anymore, Hoseok. I don’t know which guy you are—are you the one that’ll cheat on his girlfriend and sleep with an entire campus? Are you the guy that’ll tell this to every girl he sees? Or is it the one that says he likes my artwork—is it the one that says he likes me and only me?”

“That one.” He croaked out. “What can I do to prove to you that I am the second guy? What can I possibly do to show you that I am the guy that would do anything just to see you smile? What can I do to show you that I’ve been stupidly in love with a girl I hadn’t met until the beginning of this year? What can I do to show you that it’s you, Y/N, it’s always been you and it will always be you? I’ll put my neck on a guillotine if it means you’ll let me fight to make this something. I’ve never wanted anything between anyone to be something as much as I’ve wanted this. I’ve never wanted someone as much as I’ve wanted to see you—it scares me to think that if you’re not here you’re gone and I’ll never see you again.”

You scoffed at the drama of it all, finally pulling your grasp from his. “There is nothing, Hoseok. There’s nothing you can do. Short of destroying your phone there’s absolutely nothing you can—“

You were cut off by the glint of light as the fragile touch screen of Hoseok’s phone flashed once in the lights on its deathly plummet to the ground, whipped from his hand. The second the plastic resounded against the tile with an awful thud, Hoseok’s heel was slamming down on top of it hard enough to pop off the back, to shatter the glass of the screen and destroy the camera. The S.I.M card went flying, crunching under his boot.

“Hoseok!” You screeched, shrill and piercing. “What the fuck are you doing?! I wasn’t serious—omigod!” Now it was you holding onto him, shoving and pulling him back away from the bits of his destroyed phone as if you still had hopes of saving him from taking a huge hit to his wallet. You dropped to the ground, flicking the pieces around as if that would make them come back together. “Did you save anything?” You stared up at him from the floor. “Your pictures? Contacts? What if your mom’s phone number was on there? Do you know her number by heart? Omigod, Hoseok! Are you crazy?”

He watched you with amusement glittering in his eyes until laughter finally fizzled down and burst from his chest. “Probably.”

You however, were still absolutely lost. “This…I didn’t…I wasn’t serious. How are you so nonchalant about this?”

Hoseok shrugged, dropping down to squat next to you and meet your gaze eye to eye. “If it gives me a fighting chance, then nothing else matters.”

You brushed your hair back off your face, slicking back your wild baby hairs. “Namjoon is so going to kill you.”

“Well… I don’t have a phone now, so it’ll be difficult for him to contact me and hunt my ass down.” But he was laughing despite the impending death threats looming in the distance.

“So really?” It was a question that made no sense to anyone, but Hoseok seemed to understand because he nodded.

“Really.”

“I like you, Hoseok. I really, really like you.”

He grinned, one eyebrow raised. “But…?”

“You’re batshit insane.” You held up the broken bits to his line of sight with a snort, shaking your head. “I…I can’t trust you, I hope you know that. But I guess I’m into insane too, since I’m falling for it—for you. “

His grin only seemed to grow, somehow bringing in more sunlight into the shop even though it was getting late and dark. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust. Maybe not today or tomorrow or a year from now. But someday. And, hey, that’s what I like most about you.” He murmured, helping you pick up the pieces to his phone--if he was going to try and make it up to Namjoon for breaking his only rule, then he was going to have to start with a clean coffee shop. “You have an insanity kink.”

“Ah, I’ve decided I’m going to download tinder and go on a date with someone else instead. After all, one of us still has a phone.” You pushed up to your feet quickly, throwing away the bits of his destroyed cell while evading his flailing grasp.

“Hey!”

Before you could reach the door, he caught you, spinning you so you were facing him, your back pressed against the wall; butterflies ignited into fireworks in your chest. When you looked up at him and smiled, Hoseok’s lips were on yours instantaneously. This time, you let him.

This time, your smile grew into his.

You reached up to wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer and, when you closed your eyes, you saw his wolves.

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