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musicallisto · 4 years ago

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Hello love,

Congratulations for the 800 followers! You absolutely deserve this and so much more! I'm happy to see how your blog grows and that you're still providing all of us with wonderful content. You're one of the first blogs that I've started to follow here on Tumblr and I'm so lucky to have found your blog ♡

As for your celebration event, could I please request a 🍨 vanilla milkshake with a male Peaky Blinders Character?

I'm more on the curvy side (and insecure about it) and I'm ALWAYS wearing black (which I love, no matter what others say or even more if they object). As for my personality, I'm a highly complex, paradox and complicated individium. I'm unbelievable patient, timid, awkward, kind, forgiving, open-minded, compassionate, thruthful, gentle and calm and I've been told that I have a calming effect on others, that I can easily ground anyone and anything, no matter how troubled their mind is. I prefer vintage over modern things. I think rather deep which often leads me to overthinking everything, which in turn leads me to doubting (very much) myself. You would be surprised how timid and reserved I am, I'm sure you wouln't notice me in a room full of people if it wouldn't be for my different appearance (but I like it this way). I'm always well-meaning, yet often misunderstood (maybe because it's hard for me to articulate myself). I can be incredible lazy, clumsy and forgetful. I've always felt like I don't really belong anywhere, so I've started to distance myself from others a while ago. I'm a outsider, weird, a dork, not normal, a loner and I fucking love it, because I like to be different, I would hate to fit into just one box and to be like everyone else. And I like people who are not ashamed to be their 100% true self, no matter how different that is from the mainstream. I'm the most loyal person you'll ever find, once you earn my trust, I'll always be on/by your side, no matter what. That says a lot, because I'm hard to scare away. Sometimes I feel alienated from the people and things surrounding me and I'm sure that I annoy and bore them. I'm very nervous and insecure around others, which is why I try to avoid people and why I'm not talking all that much around them (though, I'm a really good listener). I'm easily overwhelmed by large crowds and much light/noise, that's why I don't like to go outside, I prefer to cozy up at home. I would never intentionally hurt a animal and I'm not eating any meat, which is very important to me. I believe that there isn't a ounce of cruelty inside me. I'm unassuming and understanding, I only believe what I've witnessed on my own and I have endless acceptance for almost everything. Due to my Insomnia, I'm a night owl. I have strong personal values, am very opinionated and I'm really in-touch with myself and even though I'm extremly insecure, I would never reduce or change myself and views/opinions for someone and I neither have a problem to challenge authority and advocating for my beliefs. I'm a perfectionist and sometimes I really hate it. And, as you can see, I'm unable to be brief. My favourite colours are dark green, black, gold and dark purple. My greatest passion is music, even if I can't sing or play an instrument.(I prefer rock/punk/pop/80s/90s) It's the most calming and therapeutic thing when it comes to my anxiety and depression and I could never live a day without it. You will never see me in the street without headphones in my ears and even when I'm at home there's music playing almost all the time. I could talk for hours about music and what it means to me. And otherwise I love to watch films and series (I like fantasy, horror, psychological thriller, science fiction and psychological drama and almost anything from the 70s, 80s and 90s). I love rainy days and to go outside while it's pouring big, fat drops. What I love the most is to drive around without a destination, while talking and listening to music. And I love to spend time with my cat, if I could, I would have endless animals who live peacefully and loved with me. I enjoy to have deep talks and to be challenged to think. I love to take late-night-strolls, while gazing into the sky and watching the stars/moon. I have a fascination for dark and macabre things.

I really hope that's not too much? But thank you anyway ♡

Have a good day!

thank you so much for your kind words, you have no idea how much it means to me to know that I was one of the first blogs you followed ;; here’s your vanilla milkshake - and it’s also my first time writing for peaky blinders, but I hope it’s alright; and I hope finn shelby will find the portrait I paint of him accurate enough...

Birmingham was a drab and disheartening place enough without the war adding to its joylessness; but somehow the streets are even worse to bear deserted than when they’re bustling and fetid. Especially for a ten year old boy who wants nothing but to play with someone, to talk to someone, to see someone.

With his brothers off fighting somewhere in France and his aunt too busy with her businesses (adult stuff that Finn has absolutey no interest in attempting to understand), the youngest Shelby has been fighting off an affliction worse than consumption and measles, because much more insidious for a boy his age; boredom

and he’s so sad, so irrevocably sad, with no one to bruise his knees with and throw mud at, that he just aimlessly wanders the empty streets whenever aunt Polly isn’t looking, to find a semblance of stimulation

(he used to enjoy the solitude, it gave him time to imagine delirious stories in fantastical worlds and read the most enthralling of novels, but not anymore. four years of reclusion is an awfully long time for a little boy.)

and it’s during one of his escapades that he first meets you

you’re a little girl his age, dressed in a pretty dress, wearing pretty booties and holding a pretty little woven basket, but your face is stuck on the most grouchy frown he’s ever seen on a little girl, and you don’t walk, you stomp down the wet pavement like a wrathful titan

And it’s probably the first time in four years that he’s been this close to making a new friend, so he walks up to you, despite how rusty his communication skills have become

“Girls don’t frown. It’s unbecoming.”

(Yes, pretty rusty indeed; but in his defense, he’s ten, he’s bored, he’s lonely, and he’s only ever heard Ada say it, and Ada is the most level-headed of his siblings, so anything she says must be true, right?)

“Shut up.”

(Well, if it was unbecoming of you to frown, it’s even more to rebuff someone so rudely. You don’t even spare a glance and continue walking; he has to hurry to catch up to you.)

“You can’t say that. It’s a bad word.”

“How do you know that?”

“My family says it all the time, but they told me I can’t say it.”

“Well, my family is not your family. And I hate my family!”

You’ve yelled the last words at the sky, so loud that the crows on the neighboring roofs have taken off in a startled flight.

“They want to wear this stupid dress to go to the stupid market to buy stupid meat. I don’t even want to eat meat, that’s cruel! And I don’t even want to wear a frilly dress! I want to wear black!”

And in saying so you tugged at the pink and white ribbons that encircled your waist.

And Finn couldn’t help being extremely intrigued at this little girl who said bad words and refused to eat meet and wanted to wear black. It was the most exciting thing to ever happen in all the duration of the war.

“You want to wear a black dress?”

“Yes, but my mama won’t let me. She says it’s too sad because of the war. But black isn’t sad! Black is beautiful!”

“Maybe I could find you a black dress. I’m sure my sister must have one. Where do you live?”

And, loyal to his promise, the following morning he had run to your doorstep and snuck into your house - a proper Shelby talent, to be able to go unnoticed or make a ruckus depending on the occasion - with an old, crinkled mourning dress of Ada’s, that had probably belonged to his mother and had been mended several times

And it was obviously five sizes too big for you and you looked more like a ghost from one of Finn’s horror novels, your arms floating in the sleeves and the hem of the skirt pooling at your feet, but your smile was the brightest light he’d ever seen in this whole damn town.

“Do you like it?”

(He didn’t really know why he sounds so nervous. Maybe it was having a friend, a real friend, and doing something personal for them... or maybe it had to do with how fast his heart beat, watching you in that gigantic, shapeless dress)

“I love it! Thank you so much, Finn!”

From then on started one of the most wonderful friendships Finn would ever have, and what would bring a ray of light to the grim existence of a little boy in the midst of a global war

Despite the ration cards, despite the loneliness, despite the worry that tugged at his stoic aunt’s eyes for her son and nephews across the Channel... he found an unspeakable solace in your friendship

And one day, without a trace, you were gone

He knocked on your door; gone. He asked all the neighbors what had happened to the family that lived there; gone. He wrote you letters and sent them to the confines of England; gone. He got scolded by Polly for marking numbers at random on Tommy’s state-of-the-art telephone; gone.

Suddenly he was back to the bleak existence he had battled with before meeting you, and the hollow inside his chest only grew wider as the days went on, because he had no explanation as to what had happened to you, and worried every single day

Thankfully, the war ended not long after, and his brothers came back home, all alive and unscathed - well, for the most part

Fast forward more or less ten years, and much has changed in Finn Shelby’s life and in old Birmingham, but the memory of you still stugs at his heartstrings

One evening, he’s tasked by Arthur to run some errands, send a few messages, scout a few places; the most dangerous thing his older brothers will ever let him do

His task leads him to a bar in the center of town, one that pours its joyous light and music into the street outside; he’s there to meet with a client, arrange a meeting; nothing he’s hasn’t done already

But the evening takes a turn for the unexpected when he recognizes the girl sat alone at a table, enjoying the musicians’ jazz with an air of pure bliss on her face

It’s been ten years, of course, but... it’s unmistakable. That face, that silhouette, and the black ensemble from head to toe... and he’s always had a knack for remembering faces, especially those that mark him deeply

Suddenly he’s frozen on the spot, and he has forgotten why he came to the bar in the first place, what his target looks like - all he knows is you, and how beautiful you look in the dim light of the bar, and the undisclosed and unknown feelings he had for you at the time come flooding back.

Except this time, he understands, and he fears them, because he doesn’t have time for any of this, and it’s way too dangerous for you and him

But he can’t just pass you by and not say a word?

He swallows, hard.

And walks up to you.

“Y/N?”

You open your eyes, and your face flashes with recognition, and a little bit of pain as well. Even if you fled without a word, and left him hanging all these years, he’s incapable of rancor

“Finn... wow, you’ve changed so much.”

“You haven’t.”

He gestures at your face, your clothes, how you savor the music like the finest drink in the world, and you laugh and blush, sending his heart into overdrive

“Where were you all this time?”

“I’m so sorry, Finn... my brother died in the war, and... my mom sent me to live with my grandparents in Scotland. We were all destroyed by grief... I needed to get away.”

“Without explanation? Not even a word?”

“I wanted to write to you, so bad, but... I couldn’t remember your address. I couldn’t remember anything about Birmingham at all...”

He nods, slowly, in understanding.

The war opens wounds that never heal, even after all the most beautiful friendships and love stories in the world.

“But I’m really glad I found you.”

His heart is pounding in his throat. Maybe it’s a sign of destiny that he found you here, tonight, alone, and ready to welcome him back. Maybe it’s a word from fate, that you can never truly be apart.

So he takes the seat in front of you, and you smile, that shy but bright smile of yours, and he forgets all about his mission, his client, and his brothers.

They’ll have to understand.

800 follower sleepover

#lunamooney2406 #sleepover800 #ship request #peaky blinders #peaky blinders ship #finn shelby #finn shelby x reader #peaky blinders headcanons #finn shelby headcanons #for some reason the first thing I write for a new fandom is always SUPER LONG but that's because i get rlly in my feelings

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wildlydeliciouspainter · 4 years ago

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VI - the nighttrain part I

Hi! Been a bit busy lately but here is the next chapter of my stardew fanfic :D This time I added a bit more drama and tension for our adventurers. Hope you’ll like it!

Only a few mornings back Daya stood on the perron with Elliott. Now, she was leaving the valley with Sebastian on her side. It being well into autumn the days were short and nights long. So they waited for their train to arrive under the stars. To Daya it felt so fitting. The autumn sun that made her husbands hair glow fiery red, and now the moons soft light on Sebastians dark hair. The men and their characters could not have been more different from each other, and still each had been important parts of her life in their own way. While Sebastian leaned against a pillar and texted with Sam, Daya texted Elliott. “I miss you.” Almost immediately she gets a heart emoji back. “And I you dear. Can’t wait to come home, this hotelroom feels empty without you.” Daya smiles but her heart sinks when she thinks about the task ahead. She didn’t want to worry Elliott so just never mentioned her plans to help Sebastian in saving Abigail. And with keeping him in the dark, it felt like she was doing something wrong. It would have been so much different if he were home... “The train is here, Dy.”

And indeed, as she looks up a modern looking train silently glides over the tracks towards them. Its colors are peculiar, turquoise windows and a purple body, the exact combination of a piece of iridium. When it stops, a low hissing sound from its engine make it sound like a living breathing creature. “So this monster is going to take us where we need to be?” Sebastian looks at the vehicle with apprehension. He mentioned his preference for his motorcycle multiple times, even though they where both set on following Rasmodius instructions to the letter. When the purple doors open to show a cozy coupé, Sebastian gently pushes Daya inside and follows her closely. The interior of the train is completely different from the exterior. Retro cubicles with gold and wood finish, dark red velvet chairs and blood red wallpaper give the train a classical look. Wall sconces and ornaments on every wall add to the mysterious atmosphere as does the faint smell of cinnamon. “Madam, Sir.” An employee in a spotless purple uniform with golden trimming takes them to their places. When they are seated the man gives Sebastian a golden key with a tag. “This is for the sleep cabin, we are here if you need anything. We hope you’ll have a pleasant journey!” After that the man disappears into another coupe. Sebastian whistles between his teeth. “Rasmodius didn’t spare any expense.” “Its important to him we succeed.” “True, and the rest of our journey will probably be less comfortable.” Daya nodds and picks up her phone again to text with Elliott. When Sebastian notices he scoffs. Daya tenses immediately and looks him straight in the eye. “What is it?” “I don’t suppose you told your husband about this adventure of ours?” “No.” Daya admits, blushing. Sebastian scoffs harder now. “Do you think he wouldn’t approve?” “I can make my own choices, its not that. Though you made sure it would be hard for him to trust you, didn’t you Sebastian?” “What is that supposed to mean?” Sebastian mumbles, his face pointed towards the window instead of her. “I meant what happened in the bar..” thinking back on what happened in the bar the night before the wedding still makes Sebastian cringe. It was a beautiful autumn night, and a lot of the villagers gathered in the saloon to cheer to the engaged couple. Sebastian happened to be in town to hang out with Sam and visit his mother. At first he was set on staying inside, moping and playing videogames with Sam and a couple of beers . It sounded like the perfect way to forget. But he didn’t forget, and the more hours past the more angry he got at everything that happened between him and Daya. And that anger redirected itself towards Elliott as always. He still though if the handsome poet hadn’t shown up he would be in her life. They would be getting married. “Hey, if you feel that way. Why don’t you tell her? Maybe she feels the same?” Sam said. Sam was sweet and supportive as always, and slightly slurring after three beers. Sebastian decided he would do just that. Tell her. Which he did, in front of everyone in the saloon. In the middle of Elliotts ode to his love he walked up to her and started to tell her everything he didn’t say before. The alcohol gave him the courage but the words where his. How sorry he was, and how much he loved her. All she did was sit there, frozen. Elliott stopped talking, everybody did. And then, well, he picked a fight. It wasn’t pretty, and it ended fairly quick. Elliott trew him off and when sebastian tried to lunge at him again Daya smashed a beerglass on the counter so hard that it made the whole of the valley shudder.

“You already up your mind that night.” He said, when his mind moved back to the train and the present, and turned to look at her. How furious she was that night. But now a sadness showed in her eyes. “I did.” She nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “Then why are you crying?” “Because I loved you. I did, so so much. But you didn’t open up to me, and I couldn’t deal with your silence anymore... I was just never really sure how you felt about me.” Sebastian stayed silent but nodded. He wanted to touch her hand, but wasn’t sure that was appropriate. So he just listened. “And I waited for you to do the right thing for so long. Even after we broke up and you left for Zuzu. I was sad for weeks... But eventually I picked up the pieces, and focused on the farm. I healed for a year and that was when I connected with Elliott.” A smile glistened through her tears. “He was very passionate about his writing, and as soon as we became closer he started showing that same passion for me. We connected in a way you and I never did Sebastian, I can say that even though I missed your company.”

Daya stares past Sebastian, at the scenery thats moving past the window. Afraid to look him in the eyes. “And right now, I just don’t want him to worry, thats all...Elliott’s bookdeal is important to him, and I want this tour to go well instead of him worrying over me wrestling shadowbrutes.” “I get that.” When Daya refuses to look at him Sebastian decides to stare out the window as well. They sit in silence for another hour when Daya asks for the keys. “I want to go to bed.” “Sure.” He puts the key in her hands but holds on to them. “Am I allowed to join you later? Or do you want me to sleep here?” Daya looks at the small bench and prays the cabin is spacious. “Sure, I won’t force you to sleep on the floor or this uncomfortably small bench.” “Thanks, I appreciate that. I won’t be late, just need to process this day a bit.” Daya nodds. “Take your time, I’ll leave the door open.”

The corridor with the sleeping cabins is long and small. On Daya’s left the rooms and her right windows that now show the vague outlines of the mountains, shrouded by the night. “Found it.” She turns the key of the cabin and then texted Sebastian the location before she closed the door behind her, leaving the lock off. She takes in the room and curses. Its as she feared. The room is as cozy and romantic as the rest of the train, and one big matras stuffed in between two wall closets. There even is a fairy rose positioned on the bedspread. Her favorite flower. There is a little space between bed and door to walk and on both sides of the door a small rack for shoes. Above the door the luggage space, and thats it. Daya quickly stores her bag and takes of her shoes and clothes to get into her sleeping t shirt and leggings.

After that she seats herself on the bed, leaving the curtains open and a bedlight on. She picks up the fairy rose and smiles. The blue variation is her favorite, and even in de dim lamplight its extraordinary aray of blue tintes shine through. It takes her back to the time she would visit her Grandpa’s farm in autumn. There would be fields filled with them, and she was allowed to pick one to keep in a vase in her bedroom during her stay. She always picked a blue one. Gently Daya puts the flower in the open closet space behind her head. Her phone is lying besides it, and shows a new message. Its from Elliott “Traveling gave me new inspiration. I’m thinking of a story inspired by a train. There is an idea for a chapter in the link under this message. I can’t wait to talk through concepts again from the comfort of our home. Missing you, mind and body.” Daya smiles softly, and let’s her feelings for Elliott wash over her as she reads the chapter he send. She falls asleep with the memory of his face and the low rumbling sound of the train engine, dreaming of the day of their reunion.

Meanwhile, a few coupes back, Sebastians night is less peaceful. He’s a nightowl, used to writing and programming till deep in the night, fueled by caffeine and sushi. It pushed his sleeping schedule to an, as his mother would call it, ungodly 3 am. That combined with the excitement of this journey made him sit on the train bench with a restless mind. His eyes wander off to the mountains outside. It started to snow, and ice crystals would get pressed onto the glass before melting and forming tears on the window. Sebastians mind is wavering between rescuing Abigail and a deeply uncomfortable set of feelings towards Daya. He knows she is the most skilled swordswoman in the whole valley, and if anyone could help him succeed its her. But he felt frustration when he saw her again after years apart. Living in Elliott’s cabin, content with harvesting snails and living in the shadow of the writer. He knew her as a fierce warrior that would stay in the mine till late and defeat monster after monster, gaining the respect of the adventurers guild and the rest of the valley. She used to approach Sebastian with a similar attitude, passionate about their relationship and doing whatever it took to remove the obstacles in their path. It still feels like a stab to the heart to realize he couldn’t keep that flame awake. All she needed was for him to open up, and let go of that shroud of anger he used to shield him. But he couldn’t see it, and it drifted them apart. He moved to Zuzu city and only kept contact with Abigail and Sam, while Daya got closer to Elliott every day. Elliott wasn’t particularly brave or outspoken, but his love for Daya was unquestionable and it made her bloom in ways Sebastian could not achieve. Staring at the pattern of melting snow he clenches his wrist and pushes it against the cold glass. As it hits him harder than ever before he mutters “I’m still in love with her.” “Sir?” The employee with the purple costume is back, a notebook in hand. Sebastians bewildered look doesnt scare him off in the least, and set on giving travelers the best experience possible he repeats his question. “Would you like something to drink sir?” Sebastian eyes the cart behind him, filled with bottles and glasses. It would be nice to turn of his thoughts for a bit.. but he shakes his head “No thank you.” Alcohol wouldn’t help him, he learned that the hard way. He just had to be brave. Brave in rescuing Abigail, and brave in allowing himself to have feelings for both her and Daya. He had to allow them to exist untill they faded. His feelings for Daya where eventually going to fade he reassured himself. Sebastian sights and checks his phone for the time. 1.30 pm.

As his eyes move from the window to his phone he notices a glimpse of a shadow by the door but when he looks again its gone. It could have been the shadow of the man with the cart, but he wasn’t sure. “Yes, time for bed. I’m starting to hallucinate.” He mutters, and gets up to find the sleep cabin.

All the coupes Sebastian passes on his way are empty. The other passengers retired to their sleeping cabins, and he tries to find his own with Daya’s text as his guide. “Number 230, okay, that should be the next corridor.” As he moves into the corridor something immediately feels off. He notices movement in the back of the wagon, but can’t make up if there is someone standing in the shadows or if it looks like that because of the movement of the train itself. Cabin 230 is in the middle of the wagon and the door is slightly opened. “Daya?” Silence. He pushes the door open and feels something crush beneath his boot. As he bents over to pick it up and hold it to the light it seems to be a fairy rose, only its petals aren’t any of the usual colors. Instead of its vibrant blue or purple the flowers are black as coal. A sense of dread fills him when he touches the rosebuds. Its a feeling he remembers from some of Rasmodius relics, magic.. He walks back into the corridor, all the way to the end. There is no one there... when he returns to the cabin he locks the door behind him. Then he notices Daya’s, lying still on one side of the matras. “Daya, are you okay?”

He moves onto the matras and turns her around, positioning her head on his lap. When she stays silent he slides one hand into her neck to support her head and holds the other in front of her mouth. The soft pulsating motion of her heart is noticeable in the veins in her neck and her breath is warm on his fingertips. “Yes, dear.” She murmurs in a sleepy voice and wraps her arms around his body, burrowing her face into his lap. “Oh thank Yoba.” Sebastian whispers with shaking breath. He strokes her head gently. She tightens her grip around him in her sleep, unaware of the tenderness in Sebastians voice. Unaware she his touching him instead of her husband. “Well, your grip is still firm as ever.” He jokes, looking down on the sleeping woman. Its tempting to let her sleep like this, but apart from all the moral reasons not to, he also realizes he can’t get any sleep this way. Especially with all his clothes still on. So he softly wriggles her arms loose to take of his jacket and his shoes. His jeans he quickly switches for his sweatpants and climbs back into the bed. In the meantime Daya is still talking in her sleep. When he lays next to her she is murmuring about shadows. She reaches out to him with her hand and touches his chest right above the neckline of his t-shirt, resting her fingers there. “Saw one on the station today. A friend from the shadows. Linus...” That didn’t make any sense, why would Linus follow them? “Don’t worry about him now.” He whispered, as much to Daya as to himself, because the dark rose is still on his mind. “I think he is in the cabin with the blue ones, Elliott.” She then continued her riddle. In the back of his mind Sebastian had hoped she knew it was him when she held him close, and would have wispered his name but he pushes back that though and tries to go to sleep instead.

#fanfic #stardew valley #stardew sebastian #adventure stories #night train #love #dramatic scene

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tasharii · 6 years ago

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Your Colors: Ch.9.

A/N: Sooo life caught up with me basically. I've got a new full time job in a new state that's taking some getting used to. But I'm not giving up! I love this story and I'm invested and it's killed me to not have time to write. This is my happy place. In order to accommodate and hopefully get a new chapter out every week, or every other week if things don't work out, my chapters are going to get a little shorter. I'm going to try and restrain myself, but still be proud of them.I hope you guys can work with me and stick around. I've got another Bucky story coming up involving ghosts and circuses...... BUT I'm forcing myself to at least finish a rough draft before I start posting it. This is the only story I'm going to allow myself to write on a week by week basis.Thank you guys so much for all the feedback on the last chapter and for giving me so much support. It really means a lot to me and I love hearing everything that you have to say. Enjoy! <3

Summary: Art was the one good thing between college, work, and the grey minutes in-between. Sometimes, it felt like she wasn’t alive at all. Just drifting. When she joined her new art class, she never expected to start experiencing everything in an entirely new light. All thanks to him. Or: Where Bucky Barnes gets more than he bargained from his new drawing partner.

Pairing: Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 10K

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Language, unrequited love angst

Masterlist

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13

****

Sharp pounding on her door drew her out of a very deep sleep. It dug into her temples and instantly pissed her off. Groggy, Y/N reached out a heavy arm and patted around on her nightstand until she found her phone. The light made her eyes squint, and she brushed her tangled hair back off her face. 10AM. It was 10AM on a Friday morning. Her day off. One of the few days she didn’t have anywhere to be until the afternoon. Just fantastic.

Annoyed, she tossed her phone beside her on the bed and groaned, scrubbing at her face. As if that would make the dust bunnies in her head clear up. Then the banging started up again. Growling, Y/N sat all the way up and kicked at the knotted blankets around her feet. They fell off the bed in a clump, and chills sliced down her spine from the brisk morning air. Pale blue sunlight filtered in from her drawn curtains.

Somehow, she managed to clamber out of bed and shouted, voice rough from sleep, “I’M COMING!” The knocking stopped for a minute, and she yanked at her tank top, straightening it. The air nipped at her toes, and she stumbled over to her bathroom door. Fluffy robe in hand, she loosely tied it on. Covering her bare legs, and underwear. Not a care in the world about how she might look. Just brushed a hand through her hair to get it out of her face and headed to the door.

Flinging it open, Y/N automatically glared at the three men across the threshold in the dimly lit hall, “Can I help you?” She asked, yawning halfway through. Words muffled by the hand over her mouth, she slumped against the door to keep herself standing.

The first guy gave her a very unimpressed once over, and scratched at his balding head, “We’re here to fix a leak.” He drawled. When she continued to stare at him, dumbfounded, he slowly elaborated, “Your landlord said you’ve been complaining about a leak in your kitchen.” Even from where she was, she could smell his abundant amounts of aftershave. See the sweat stains along his shirt. Could even count the little scabs littering his neck from nicking himself shaving. Yet he was looking at her like she was an idiot.

Blearily, Y/N blinked and glanced over at her kitchen in question before it finally dawned on her, “Oh! Ya, there’s this huge stain. Luckily, it just drips into my sink. Not the floor.” She nodded, happy the landlord finally listened after months of complaining, but then frowned, “He didn’t tell me he scheduled anything.” Eyebrows together, she stood up straighter and fidgeted with her pale blue robe, adjusting the belt. The man’s dark eyes were roaming across her just a hair more than she appreciated.

Shrugging, the balding guy, his nametag called him Rick, tilted his head, “Do you want us to fix it or not?” He asked. Behind him, the other two were playing around on their phones. Already checked out for the moment. Lazily, Rick glanced down at his notepad, and tapped at it with a pen.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder and bit her lip, “How long’s it gonna take?” The open doorway let a cool draft that fluttered the edges of her robe around her legs. Goosebumps covered her thighs, and she really wanted to be doing anything else but this.

Yet again, his shoulders bobbed up and then down, “Depends on the damage. Hopefully we’ll get it done today. If not, we’ll come back tomorrow. Got someplace you can go to kill some hours? We’ll be out no later than 7 tonight.” A hint of impatience made his words sharper at the ends. He scribbled something down with his pen, scratching it on the top corner like he was trying to get ink to come out.

Ya, Y/N had somewhere she could go. Just hadn’t planned on actually going today. It took her just a minute to think about it. To hesitate. There was no guarantee that her landlord would follow through with rescheduling. He was flighty like that. And if the leak got worse, she could see him trying to pin it on her. Make her pay for it. Say that it was her fault.

Reluctantly, she stepped back, and waved them in, “Ya, just let me get around. I’ll be out of your way in a bit.” When the door shut behind them, she tried to hide a grimace. Their shoes were muddy, and no one offered to take off their boots. Well, the carpet was already stained to hell. Not like it would be very noticeable. But it was rude.

After showing them the leak, Y/N disappeared into her bathroom for a shower. Took her time, and even blow-dried her hair instead of letting it dry on its own. Dressed and ready for the day, she could hear them banging around in her kitchen. Loudly. She peaked out and saw that they had started digging in the ceiling. Her kitchen had a dropped ceiling with panels. They had at least three panels scattered along her floor. Along with debris and questionable dust.

One of the other guys, David, spotted her over by her bed, and called, “It’s going to take us at least today to fix the pipe. Nothing too bad, but we want to be safe.” He offered her a thin-lipped smile. At least he was trying to be polite. Toolbox in hand, and handing supplies to the other two up on stepstools. Distantly, she wondered why it took three big guys to fix one leak. Rick cursed and yanked a wrench from David’s hand, growling out something she couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it didn’t make David happy. He rolled his eyes and dropped the toolbox down on her counter, hard. Before she could get too stressed out, she turned away and tried to not think about the mess they were making.

Honestly, Y/N didn’t know a thing about plumbing, or maintenance and she didn’t care. Even if she should. So, she walked away and picked her phone off her nightstand and shot her landlord an email to thank him for finally sending guys over to fix the issue. And to also, subtly, verify that he did indeed send them. That they didn’t just pick an unfortunate mark for a robbery. Even if they had, she didn’t have much they could steal. Just some ridiculously expensive, used, art supplies that probably didn’t have a good resell value.

Legs crossed up on her bed, she felt a shot of pain twinge through her ribs. A quiet, tired sigh left her as she racked a hand through her hair and stared up at her ceiling for a second. Despite feeling better after her shower, Y/N’s stomach twisted as she glanced back down at her phone. Specifically, at her text messages. Bucky had messaged her around 9, before she woke up.

Bucky: Still want me to come over at 1?

No. No she didn’t. At least she had a legitimate excuse as to why he couldn’t come over. Before, she planned to just fake a stomach bug or something equally juvenile. Her thumbs hovered over her keypad, debating on what she should send back. If anything.

Things weren’t ok. Hadn’t been in nearly a week. Since last Sunday, she’d only seen him in class Monday and Thursday.

Monday had been the worst.

Monday, December 3rd

If it hadn’t been for the fact that they were presenting their final watercolor projects, Y/N would have skipped class. She felt sick enough. Dehydrated from crying. Exhausted from a restless night of tossing and turning. Between intermittent bursts of pathetic sobbing. It was obvious that she was nothing more than a reanimated corpse. Shadowed rings under her eyes, ashen skin, and she could barely manage to stand upright. All wrapped up in an oversized cozy hoodie, and unwashed hair scooped up in a tangled knot.

“Y/N?” Ramsey’s voice tickled her ears, and she blinked, looking over at him curiously. Standing only a few students away from her, annoyance radiated from the firm grinding of his jaw. Right along with the way his mouth disappeared in a fine line within the bushy hair of his beard. He raised his equally thick eyebrows at her, pointedly gesturing to the front of the room, “I was asking if you had any thoughts on Mr. Barnes’ work.”

Embarrassed, fiery scarlet crawled across her skin, and she reluctantly looked over at Bucky. Fully acknowledging him for the first time that day. The entire class was gathered, as usual, for a critic. She hovered near the back of the crowd, arms buried in her deep front pocket, barely registering the class at all. Everything was just white noise. Like flickering static on a TV set. And Y/N just floated above it all. A specter to her own life.

Bucky was staring at her, eyes shining with hesitant curiosity. She’d not said anything about his project since he got up there. Hadn’t even reacted. Which was uncharacteristic of their relationship. Even meeting his eyes made her want to cry. Like his mere presence was crippling. It was pathetic. She averted her eyes to the painting instead, taking a step to the side so she could see past an older guy in front of her. Nails digging into her palms to distract her.

The painting was good. Emotionally moving even. It was of a group of men. Soldiers. Walking together towards the viewer. They’re all beat up, and obviously exhausted. The color pallet was limited to brown, green, white and red. The red was used sparingly, careful to not muddy it up with the green and brown. She could just make out Steve and Bucky in the painting. They were the focus, closest to the viewer, and leaning on each other. Bucky’s arm was around Steve’s shoulder, using him as a crutch. The painting was so impressionistic, that Y/N figured most people wouldn’t even recognize Bucky in the work.

Just a group of men, walking into the light with their shadows stretched out behind them. Like they’re heading towards something better. Hoping to leave the worst darkness behind them.

Bucky had vaguely mentioned it was inspired by different events he witnessed during his time at war. Men grateful to finally go home.

Suddenly aware that she’d been silent for too long again, Y/N awkwardly shrugged, “It’s beautiful. Like all of his work.” The words were stilted and cracked somewhere along the way into the air. Chin down, she shuffled her feet. Tried to ignore the eyes on her. Ignore the momentary flash of disappoint across Bucky’s face, before it was buried again. He stared away from her too, at a point on the floor a few feet in front of him. His eyes distant, and expression perfectly chiseled into nonchalance. Like he wasn’t bothered by anything at all. Lately, he hid behind a blank mask. Just shut it all down.

If only she could too.

Ramsey stared at her, surprised, and waited for her to add anything else. It was her most pathetic critic ever, and she was entirely aware. But her head and heart both hurt. And when she accidentally met Bucky’s eyes again, all she could think about was the ache chewing away inside of her.

If it didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be anything left inside at all.

Pressing her lips together, Y/N hit call on her phone and held it up to her ear. Her hand was sweaty, and she hugged her free arm around her ribs. Like maybe she could hold back the overwhelming sense of dread if she just squeezed hard enough. There was a string of banging, and clattering to her right just past her dividing bookshelf. Along with deep, monotone strings of buzzing conversation. But she barely heard any of it.

Just let it ring to voicemail. Please don’t pick up. Eyes shut, she bit her bottom lip hard enough to almost drop blood.

It rang three times before Bucky answered, “Hey! I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep the day away.” He chuckled, the melody to unlock her heart. The smile in his voice made her lips turn up a little, making her teeth release their abusive hold. But hers was a bittersweet sort of smile.

“If only,” She huffed and covered her other ear to block out the noise filling her apartment, “I’ve got some bad news. My landlord schedule maintenance on the leak in my kitchen. Didn’t even tell me. These guys are gonna be here all day, so we can’t meet up.” Her toes curled under her thighs, eyes drifting up towards the ceiling. With every word, she wondered if he could hear the tremor of anxiety in her voice. It was so embarrassingly obvious to her.

Of course, Y/N didn’t mention alternatives. Like the library, or even one of the studio classrooms at Orion. Because she didn’t have the heart to see him. Or the heart to disappoint him by bluntly admitting to being too weak to see him. Neither felt like an option.

Bucky was quiet for a moment, but then he offered, “We can work at my place if you want.” He sounded hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. The offer made her suck in a surprised breath and sat up straighter.

To be fair, Y/N couldn’t believe it either. She’d never been to his apartment before. Had started to think she never would. Immediately, she had a war going on inside of her. She wanted to but didn’t want to. Was so damn curious about his place, but it hurt to even be around him at this point. Wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to do him the curtsy of keeping her emotions in check. She covered her face with her hand, and curled forward, like she might hide inside of herself. Elbows on her knees, she tried to calm her mind, blocking out the sudden blast of music from someone’s phone in her kitchen. Some obnoxiously loud rock band.

As of late, she felt like a ticking timebomb. One wrong word, or touch, and her façade would rip apart. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him. Other times beg for an explanation, or just cry like a baby. Then, every other minute, she was just numb, but that didn’t make for good company either. All those emotions were just barely held back by her fingers, and she was tired. So tired.

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked softly, standing up and walking over to the window in her bedroom area. Restless. She parted the thick curtains and stared up at the heavy, grey sky, “They’ll be out of here by Sunday, you could just come over then.” If he’d just agree to a reschedule, maybe she could put herself back together by Sunday. Bury it all and be the friend he wanted her to be.

An early Christmas miracle. Afterall, it was December.

Sometimes Y/N wondered, if given the option to go back. All the way back to two months ago. To the moment she asked him to be her partner, what she’d do. Would she still ask him? Honestly, she wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe it would just be easier to have never met James Buchanan Barnes.

“I really don’t mind.�� Bucky replied, conviction getting stronger with every syllable, “You need all the practice you can get with acrylic.” He added, and he wasn’t wrong. Y/N fiercely loathed acrylic. It was the next section of their class, now that they were done with watercolor. And it was Bucky’s favorite. Which made his help very valuable.

Biting her bottom lip, she let her forehead rest against the cold window. It was starting to snow. Thick, heavy white drops drifted down from the darkening sky. Pure crystals that blotted out the muddy streets of the city below. Y/N huffed, trying to keep the frustration out of her words, “They want me out of here till 7. I don’t want to get in the way.” She tried. It was the last excuse she could come up with. At least, without making it obvious that she was actively avoiding him.

Another beat of silence passed. Despite the harsh weather outside, throngs of people passed under her window. Finishing their work before the weekend. Rick cursed behind her and yelled at one of the guys to steady the ladder. The sound of Bucky’s voice focused her hazy mind, “I’d really like to see you today.” It was a timid, sweet admission, that made her lungs stumble. He added, “But if you don’t want to, I get it. Really.” Of course he did, because he could read her well enough to understand. Understand that she was practically a raw nerve left out in the winter wind.

Closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump in her throat, “I’ll be over in a bit.” She wanted to see him too. Because the really fucked up part about it all, was that the person who made her feel better also hurt her at the same time. A perfectly figurative double-edged sword.

“See you soon.” Bucky finished before hanging up. For a second, he sounded just as grim as she felt. With just those three words. She pressed her phone to her chest and tried to ignore the bubbling excitement at getting to see him. Because right along beside it, was a flowing tar river of dread and heartbreak. Things weren’t getting any easier like she had hoped they would over time.

Desperately, Y/N wished she could skip the heartbreak part. Skip ahead to the point where she figured out how to be Bucky’s friend. Just his friend. Figured out what was ok to do and say. To a point where she knew what crossed the boundaries he was trying to set. To a place where she wasn’t an emotional ball of knotted string.

Bucky met her at the entry way of his apartment. Soft snow clung to her hair, and she dusted it off her backpack. His footsteps echoed off the walls as he stood up from the stairwell, coming over to meet her at the door. There was a moment where his arms came up, like he was about to hug her, but then he stopped. Let them fall, and gave her a small smile, “Just got to um, get my mail really quick.”

“Ok,” Y/N replied, ignoring the disappointment that he hadn’t hugged her. It shouldn’t be surprising. Since Sunday, he’d avoided most physical contact. Didn’t stand too close to her. Didn’t touch her arm to get her attention anymore. And, of course, hadn’t hugged her since Sunday either.

If it wasn’t for his obvious attempts to spend time with her, and talk, she’d think they’d only just met again.

He turned away from her, and she shuffled away from the door. Out of the way of a couple who were coming in from the weather. A gust of air chased them in and swirls of snow swept across the stained, tiled floor. The lobby was cold, and she rubbed at her gloved fingers. Bucky clicked the lock of his box, just to the left of the door, and she watched him quickly sort through the mail. Up ahead, the staircase started, and beyond that, under the stairwell, was the landlord’s office. As well as the laundry room. The building was old and drafty. Too much brick and not a lot of windows. If she looked up, she could see the twisting of the creaking staircase up all five floors.

The woman snickered as she started up the stairs, and then squealed when her boyfriend yanked at the tail of her scarf and chased after her. Y/N could hear them laughing and the echoing of their footsteps all the way up. Until a door slammed and cut off the carrying sounds of their joy.

Bucky glanced over at her, locking it back, and held up the mail, “Just junk and bills. Shouldn’t have expected much else.” She noticed how tense he seemed. Nervous and tired under the mask of content, casual banter. It showed in the deep circles under his eyes, and the jittery way he moved his hands and held himself too straight. Not too long ago, she’d concluded that Bucky didn’t sleep much. Somehow, it seemed he was sleeping even less.

“No one writes letters anymore.” Y/N mused, trying to mimic his casual pointless chatting. She could do this, “It’s a shame.” Hands tucked in her pockets, she shrugged, and took a step closer to the stairs. Part of her was excited to see the inside of his apartment, but she had no idea how she was going to survive 7 hours of this. Pretending everything was ok.

“Damn right it is.” Bucky snorted, waving for her to follow him to the staircase. Didn’t have an elevator, so she enjoyed a three story climb up the echoing, wooden and iron stairway.

By the time they reached the third floor, Y/N was winded. Bucky hadn’t even broken a sweat. He grinned cheekily at her over his shoulder, “When it gets warmer, you should come on jogs with me.” He pulled his keys from his pants pocket and shuffled through the ring with his free hand. Distractedly glancing between the keys and her as he stopped in front of a dark wooden door. His gloved hand tapped his mail against his thigh, impatient, or just nervous.

Unimpressed, she rolled her eyes, leaning against the pale green wall next to his door, “What? You gonna drive all the way to my apartment, and drag me to Central Park?” It would take him 30 minutes alone to just drive there.

Bucky’s smile didn’t fade as he unlocked his apartment door, “Maybe. Don’t tempt me.” He swung the door open and held it for her to come inside. When she stepped past him, she made sure to keep her arms close to herself. To keep from accidentally touching him.

His apartment wasn’t what she thought it would look like, but it suited him. It was about the same size as her studio apartment but broken up with walls. From the doorway, she stood in the small pathway between the living room and kitchen. The back of a couch to her right, and a counter to her left. The living room doubled as a studio. A couch, two black beanbags, and TV stand took up half the room closest to the door. To her left stood the small kitchenette, no bigger than her own, sectioned off with a counter. A hallway opened past the kitchen, disappearing around the bend. Likely leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

Bucky was watching her observing everything. Hands propping him up against the back of the couch. Mail and glove discarded on the kitchen counter. In a soft blue sweater, and dark jeans with paint stains he was the epitome of a dreamy artist. Eyes bright against the color of the shirt, and dark strands framing his face. Dried green paint clung to his fingertips, even speckling the silver of his left hand.

After taking off her soggy boots next to his at the door, Y/N dropped her bag next to the armrest of the couch. Bypassing it to cross the far side of the room. Next to the only window in the room, stood a wide wooden desk. A tall silver lamp and bookshelf beside it. The bookshelf was overflowing, and scraps of paper littered every available space. Sketchbooks were stacked haphazardly against the wall on the floor, most too big to fit into a drawer. Drawings and notes covered every spare inch of the cream-colored wall around the window.

Quietly, she studied every drawing she could. Some she recognized. The bakery where he worked, half sketches of the street view from his apartment, Steve, animals, scenery from the park, a girl she suspected was his sister from the dimple on her chin, and even a few of herself. And more. So many more.

Distracted, she unzipped her coat, slipping it off and holding it against her chest. After a minute, Bucky cleared his throat and she jerked, he was right behind her, “These are just some I’m proud of, or ideas I haven’t finished.” He explained, standing to her right. The grey light from the window made his eyes shine molten silver, “I was thinking, maybe would watch a movie while we work?” He lifted his dark eyebrows, gaze darting over her features, and rubbed the back of his neck.

Already feeling her nerves getting the best of her, Y/N nodded and made her way back to her bag. Just wanting to keep her hands busy, she tugged out her art supplies, “Sure, what you got in mind?” First her 9x12 Bristol sketchbook, then travel set of paints, pencils, bag of brushes and eraser. She sat on the couch, flipping to the page she’d already been working on. A drawing of the Brooklyn bridge.

Bucky’s lips flickered like he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite manage it, “I was thinking a Marvel marathon?” He grabbed his own sketchpad off his desk, and two cups for rinse water. He tucked a clean paintbrush behind his ear, his sketchpad under his arm, the cups stacked in his one hand, and a few other brushes in his other. Tubes of paint were already scattered on the coffee table, along with a pallet stained with green paint.

Pencil in hand, Y/N snorted, “Don’t know if we’ve got that kinda time, but sure. I haven’t seen Captain America in a while.”

They worked without talking too much until close to 6. Only stopping to pop a frozen pizza in the oven and eat sometime around 2. Bucky on one of the bean bag chairs closer to the left side of the TV. She ended up on the floor, back against the couch, so she could spread out her paints. The hardwood floor underneath her made her butt numb, but she didn’t have to worry about being too messy. It’d clean up easier here than her carpet. Which had plenty of paint stains she’d have to pay for when she moved out.

It wasn’t as unbearable as Y/N expected it to be, but every so often she still felt a knife twist around inside her. With a constant weight on her body, pressing her down like a shadowy shroud, every action was strained. She was attempting to paint a robin on a branch. Had given up on her bridge an hour ago. Was about to give up on the bird too. The feathers were getting clumped together, and kind of starting to look like a mutant falcon of some sort. Her fine pencil lines lost in her clumsy use of a paintbrush.

“I really liked your watercolor piece.” Bucky stated, pretty much out of the blue. Y/N paused and peeked up at him for the first time in a few hours. She’d made it a point to stare at her horrible painting the entire time, and even when she needed help, she didn’t ask for it. Because she didn’t want him to be as close to her as he would need to be to help save her painting.

It took her a second to pull her mind away from her work and focus in on him and his words. Her paintbrush stilled, and she lifted it up, holding the top edges of her sketchbook. Slowly, she stretched out her legs, flexing her ankles to regain feeling in her feet. The sketchbook came to rest flat on her thighs, and she frowned. Oh ya, her painting from Monday, “Thank you.” That was all she had to say to him Monday, and that was all she could think to say to him now.

Monday, December 3

Ramsey, spurred on by spiteful annoyance at her lack of response to Bucky’s painting, made her go next. Y/N didn’t want anyone to look at her, or her work. Didn’t want to have to try and explain why she did what she did. The heart behind her painting wasn’t there anymore.

“I um love Greek mythology,” Y/N started, words immediately failing her. Flying out of her mind like wisps of smoke, “So I chose to use Aphrodite, goddess of love, as my focus. White doves are symbolic to her.” She stopped, arms crossed and leaned back against the white board. Already finished.

Everyone stared at her, waiting for her to continue, but when her silence stretched on, they finally focused on her artwork. It felt like needles were pricking at her skin. Too hot all over, and mouth dry as the summer sun.

The painting had been one of her favorites. A beautiful woman with a flowing dress, arms back holding up the tail end of it like a cape. Serene while she glided forward across the canvas. Then two doves flew right in front of her, together like they’d come directly from her heart. The ends of the dress melted down into a stream of colors and brush strokes near the bottom. Shifting into a galaxy. The doves were mostly white and surrounded by darker colors to help contrast them out.

When she’d painted it, Y/N had been thinking about love. Not just Bucky. Love in general and how scared she was to fall in love. How fickle Greek gods were, just like emotions, and prone to mistakes in many of the stories. Love and gods were both tricky things. It was fueled with so many of her emotions, all poured out onto a page.

But now, she didn’t feel anything like before. Nothing but achy longing.

“I was just wondering if I could buy it from you. After the show.” Bucky’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she met his eyes, surprised. His sketchbook was propped against his knees, a pallet of paints on the floor to his right. Brush in the cup of water, he swirled it around and wiped it clean on a stray paper towel in a practiced motion. Not even looking down when he did it. Just studying her.

“Buy it?” Y/N asked, eyebrows pinched in confusion, “Why would you want to buy it?” Iron Man played in the background, the sound of him working on his first finished suit filled up the apartment. She set aside her bird, a lost cause, to dry. Despite the paintings being awful, she’d have to turn them in Monday. Maybe after it dried, she could clean it up some.

Bucky’s mouth curved into a teasing smile, setting aside his brush, “Cause it’s awesome? And I want to hang it up?” He asked slowly in return, like he was spelling it out to a child. Elbows propped on his knees, he pushed aside his own sketchbook. From where she sat, it looked like he was painting one of his original sketches of her. From her apartment. One of the poses where she sat in her recliner, reading.

Once again, he made her beautiful. Y/N could tell that much, even from where she sat.

Blinking, she shook her head, a bit reluctant to the idea of him paying her. Especially for that piece. Which had revolved around him so tightly. Tense, she sat up straighter and rinsed out her brush. The water was just a tint away from scarlet now, “Mn I guess so, but you don’t have to buy it. You can just have it.” Water dripped dark splotches from the brush onto her jeans before she wrapped it in a stained paper towel and dried it off. Dried paint coated under her nails, and fingertips. Coating them crimson.

Immediately, Bucky scowled at her, “No, I’m going to pay you for it. I personally know how many hours you spent on that. I’m not just going to take it from you.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke, sweater rolled up to his elbows, and scratched at his jaw. There was a smudge of paint across his scruffy cheek.

Flustered, Y/N stood up with her pallet of colors and cup of dirty water. Stepping around the couch, her socked feet slid just a bit against the smooth floor, “I don’t really know what to price it at.” She stopped at his sink, picking up a few dirty breakfast dishes, and setting them out of the way. Then she started rinsing off her supplies. Water cold against her skin, but slowly warming as it ran. Soft scarlet, black, white, and green paint swirled against the silver sink, and away with the water. Fingers against the pallet she scrubbed the dried paint off, and then picked as much of the paint out from under her nails as she could.

She figured once she was cleaned up, it’d be close enough to 7 to justify her leaving. AKA bolting. Bucky followed after her with his own dirty pallet and water, “I was thinking about 100. Maybe more depending on what you’re offered at the art show.”

Sputtering, she sat aside her pallet to dry and finally meet his eyes. He was suddenly close, and she had to take a calming breath. Or else her heart might stop beating, “That’s a little much don’t you think?” He was standing at her left and tilted the faucet towards himself, so he could rinse his own materials. Arm brushing hers, she got to feel that his sweater was softer than it looked.

Bucky shook his head, and she stepped aside so he could better use the sink, “No, I bet if you price it at 100 someone will buy it.” She wiped her damp hands on a brown kitchen towel.

“Someone crazy.” Y/N grumbled, but then shrugged, “I’ll make sure Ramsey puts a ‘sold’ sticker on it for you. You don’t have to pay me till you get it, though.” There wasn’t any good reason to justify her not letting him have it. If she was being honest, she didn’t really want to keep it. It just reminded her of dark thoughts that she didn’t need to dwell on.

Bucky nodded, and glanced up. It looked like he was about to say something else, but then he frowned, “It’s really coming down out there.” His eyes were over her shoulder, focused on something across the room. Hands dripping water, he turned off the faucet and placed his supplies next to her own and dried his hands on his jeans.

Y/N turned, following his line of sight towards the window. Her heart dropped into a pit, and she quickly paced around the counter, bundling her cold fingers against the hem of her shirt. Crossing the living room, she peered out the window over his desk. It was a blanket of white outside. No cars passed through the road, and the ones parked along the side were nothing more than little white hills. Barley distinguishable. Part of her, the artistic part, wanted to draw it. Try to capture the shining white crystals contrasted with the stark grey of the buildings. Splashes of cover peeking out, about to disappear under a blanket of freshly falling snow. But that part of her was background noise to the roaring anxiety that made her grit of teeth.

“Shit.” She groaned, racking a hand through her hair. Hadn’t even noticed that it was snowing so hard because she was too busy not looking anywhere but at her artwork. It was quiet too. That sort of peaceful silence that came from the snow dulling out noises.

Back over at the couch, she picked her phone off the cushion and sat down to investigate. Darcy had messaged her, sending a selfie of her snuggled up with a cup of something steaming, and the caption ‘Snow days rock!’. A little later after that, Peter had let her know that he was super bummed because Mr. Stark made him leave work early.

Her weather app had issued a ‘winter weather warning’. High freezing winds, lots of snow, and lots of ice. Y/N carefully shut her sketchbook, the paint barely dry but she didn’t have the time too care. Then began gathering up her stuff, “I better get going. Before the roads get any worse.” Before she got stuck there. Hastily, she unzipped her bag and stuffed everything back inside. Then hurried to the kitchen, snatching her damp pallet off the counter.

Bucky stood by the window, watching it come down, and turned back to look at her, perplexed, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” His arms were crossed, fists fight against his shirt. Lips in a fine line, he kept glancing between her and outside.

Y/N snorted a very thin, awkward laugh, putting her tubes of paint in her bag, “What’s the alternative? Stay here?” Her heart skipped at the thought. It was ridiculous. No, she couldn’t do that. For her sake and his, it would be better if she went home.

“Well ya, I mean, you could.” Bucky shrugged, taking a couple steps away from the window. Arms still crossed, and shoulders tense near his ears. It was obvious he didn’t seem to like the idea either, and that only made her feel worse. Guilty, and uncomfortable.

She shook her head, “No, I can get a cab. They drive in all kinds of weather.” The weather app had said to stay off the roads and inside if at all possible. It was getting dark. Earlier than normal due to the heavy clouds blotting out the sun. But Y/N couldn’t imagine staying the night after this week.

Maybe last week it would have been a fantasy come true. Like in some stupid romcom, but now? After Sunday? It was a fully-grown monster of an awkward, awful idea. Complete with horns and a snake tongue.

At the door, she slipped on her shoes and zipped up her coat. Bucky grabbed her arm just as she was reaching for the doorknob, “Stay.” He stated, quietly, but seriously.

She glanced up at him, swallowing the lump in her throat the formed from being able to smell his cologne, “I can’t.” Y/N was surprised at how vulnerable her voice was. She hadn’t meant to sound like that. It was supposed to be stronger than that. More resolute. Jerking, she pulled her arm from his grip and shook her head again when he opened his mouth to argue. Hand on the doorknob, she opened the door and stepped into the hall. It was even colder now, and the dim lights overhead flickered, buzzing. Even colder without Bucky’s hand on her arm.

Only just making it to the stairs, Bucky caught the strap of her backpack. Y/N whirled around on him, “I can’t stay here.” She repeated, managing to be just a bit firmer this time. Not even flinching, he took another step closer to her. Her hands trembled slightly as anxiety started to pour into her veins, clawing at her head.

Cautiously, Bucky guided her heavy bag down. Taking it off her, and she found herself letting him. The way he stared unwaveringly at her, as if seeing the dark tidepool of emotions behind her eyes, made her face grow hot with bit back tears. He shouldered it, and placed a hand on her arm, “You can.” He took a breath, closing his eyes as if to gather his thoughts then continued, “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you out there.” Bucky squeezed her arm and then stepped away, giving her space back.

“But it’s,” Y/N’s breath hitched, panic making her stomach feel sick. The cold bit at her fingertips and her hands balled into fists. Nervously shaking her head, she tried to swallow all the wrong words and find the right ones to explain herself, “It’ll be so awkward after—”

“It’ll be ok.” Bucky assured, giving a light smile. It reached his eyes, making them shine with tender light, “We’ll just watch movies and have fun. I’ll even make you dinner.” Slowly, he took another step back, edging closer to his apartment door. A hopeful expression making his handsome face soft, and sweet.

It didn’t take much for her resolve to crack. Too exhausted and strung out to even put up a real fight. She let out a shuddering breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding in, “I can take the couch then.” With that, Y/N stepped past him and retreated into his apartment. Taking off her boots again, she cursed the weather. Cursed winter. Cursed her landlord. Cursed everything that led her into this position.

Bucky shook his head, going back into the kitchen. Her bag made a solid thunk against the countertop when he plopped it down, “No way, you can take my bed. It’s fine.” She wanted to argue some more but then he was opening the fridge, changing the subject, “I was thinking tacos?” Bucky offered, and she unzipped her coat, throwing it over the back of the couch.

Leaning against the counter, she watched him pull out a thawed pound of hamburger. Then shrugged, “Works for me. Guess this means you’re finally going to cook for me.” She couldn’t help the small upturn of her lips. Every time they were at her house, they usually ordered takeout. There were a few rare times where she made easy stuff. Like hamburgers, mac-n-cheese, or stir-fry. But not all that often. Whenever they first started working together, Bucky never stayed long enough to need food. Once they did start eating together, Y/N didn’t feel like she had enough skill to even try and fix anything for him. It was only recently that she got comfortable enough to try.

“You are a guest, and it is dinner time.” Bucky waved a spatula at her, flicking on his stove. A light blue flame burst to life under the burner. Once the hamburger was in the pan, he used his spatula to divide it into chunks, starting to cook it.

“Anything you want me to do?” She asked, and Bucky shook his head.

“Nah, why don’t you go finish the movie? I’ve got it.” He waved his free hand towards the living room. Then he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, rummaging through some of his cupboards near the stove.

Nodding, Y/N left him in peace. Somewhat relieved that she didn’t have to try and carry conversation. It was getting easier to ignore. The awkwardness fading back just a bit, but it still couldn’t be considered comfortable.

After dinner, which was delicious, Bucky disappeared with their plates. Y/N relaxed down into the couch, pleasantly full, and continued watching the Incredible Hulk. Since she was staying the night, they might actually make a dent in the Marvel franchise.

Bucky returned with a bottle of scotch and two glasses with ice. He set them down on the table in front of her and she eyed him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. He snorted, lifting the amber and black bottle closer for her to see, “Just thought you might want a drink.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” She asked skeptically but didn’t deny it. She wasn’t much of an alcohol person, even less of a scotch person, but a buzz did sound tempting. Y/N was a happy drunk. The giggly kind, and she liked how it made her feel. As long as she didn’t get too sad. If she got too emotional, then it didn’t go well.

Bucky poured himself a glass, and tipped the bottle towards her own, waiting for the go ahead. Huffing a sigh, she waved her hand towards him. He smirked and filled up her glass, “I don’t want you to get drunk. We’ve just never drank together. Thought it might be fun. A buzz and Marvel movies could be a good mix.” Then he screwed the lid shut and sat the bottle on the table, taking up his drink. Fluidly, Bucky moved back over to his seat on the beanbag, dropping down heavily. Not spilling a single drop.

She picked up her glass, stirring the ice with her finger to try and thin out some of the scotch, “Never been to your apartment either.” She quietly mused, crossing her legs up under her thighs. His apartment ran warmer than her own, but her feet were chilly even in her socks.

“Guess tonight’s just full of firsts.” Bucky agreed, sipping on his drink. They were sitting further apart tonight. Further apart than they had in a while. It made her heart heavy, so she took a drink as well. Bucky didn’t even flinch, and she full on grimaced.

“God it’s awful.” She laughed, shaking her head, lips smacking to chase the flavor away. It made her tongue feel dry and bitter.

Chuckling he took another drink and hummed, “It’s an acquired taste.” His eyes danced with mirth in the dim lighting of the living room, a smirk made his mouth tilt in a sinfully charming sort of way. She had to look away, back down to the melting ice in her glass.

“I think you mean that you drink enough until your tongue goes numb and then it’s not so bad.” Y/N translated, taking another mouthful, and flinching again. It burned all the way down to her stomach. Nose wrinkled, she blinked as her eyes began to water, but she tried to school her expression. Not liking that she could hear Bucky trying to stifle his laughter.

“Try not to let it hit your tongue so much. Come on, haven’t you taken shots before?” Bucky teased, eyes flickering from the TV back over to her. The light made his jaw sharper and caught streaks of his hair, making them almost blue. From her position on the couch, she could still see snow coming down through the window across the room. It glowed like fluttering glitter past the streetlamps. Not slowing at all.

She nodded, focusing back on Bucky, “Ya, some but I always had a chaser.” Her skin was already feeling honey glow warm. A little tingly. It was good scotch. Bucky hummed, the sound of the movie filled up the empty space between them. At least, it was empty if you ignored all the things left unsaid.

Over the next hour, Y/N finished her first glass, and poured herself another. Right alongside Bucky, who refilled his glass a few minutes before her. By then, she could tell she was tipsy. Giggling at some of the terrible humor in the movie, and really at anything at all. Until she found herself watching Bucky more than the movie. If he noticed, he didn’t say so.

By the time her body started to feel flickering warm all over, Y/N didn’t have a clue what was happening in the movie anymore. It was nearing the end, and the apartment was faintly lit from the kitchen. Mostly flooded with the light from the TV. It reminded her of their situation a week before, but she didn’t want to think about that. In fact, she wanted to focus on another problem at hand.

Standing up, Y/N felt her head swim just a bit, but she managed to walk perfectly fine. She wasn’t that far gone. Just the kind of buzz that gave a false sense of bravery, and horrible impulse control. Right then, she couldn’t understand why they were sitting so far apart. So, she closed the few short steps between them and plunked herself down on the second beanbag chair next to Bucky’s. His eyes widened, and he stared at her, snorting a laugh when she grinned cheekily at him. Then she wiggled in the seat until she was comfortable and leaned over to let her head rest on his right shoulder. All without saying a single word and took another sip of her half full drink. It didn’t taste bad anymore.

A few beats of silence passed, and she tried to focus back in on the movie, rather than the obvious fluttering of her heart. From her position, she could feel the strong muscle resting just under the sweater. Bucky finally shook his head in disbelief, the beads rustled as he relaxed back into his own chair, and asked, “Comfy?”

Y/N hummed and nodded, nuzzling against his arm because god he smelt good. And damn if he wasn’t cozy and perfect. Her hand curled loosely against his sweater, thumb rubbing the soft material. Knees up on the beanbag, and her body contorted into a small ball.

When she didn’t offer a verbal reply, Bucky didn’t push. Instead, he shifted his arm until it was wrapped around her shoulders, forcing her closer. Head on his chest, Y/N laughed again at the awkward adjusting she had to do to get comfortable again. Shift till she was halfway on his beanbag and hers. Legs stretched out further to balance, and her hand holding her glass rested up on his waist, other tucked underneath her to stay propped up. His arm around her shoulders, and other hand still holding his own scotch on his thigh. But then everything was flawless. And she didn’t want to ever have to move again.

“Why don’t we do this all the time?” Y/N asked playfully, fingers rubbing nonsensical circles against her glass. She could feel every breath he took, and faintly hear the beat of his heart under her ear. He was so warm and strong underneath her. It was comforting. The credits of the movie were starting to play, and she loathed the thought of one of them getting up to put in another.

Bucky tensed, but didn’t move. He rubbed his thumb against her bare arm. Sometimes it felt like everything he did was the most natural thing in the world to do. Like their relationship had reached a point where it should have been as easy as breathing. If he would just let it. Then he shrugged, the motion jostled her just a little, “I guess cause it’s not really what friends are supposed to do.” Words mumbled and stilted. Awkward. He wouldn’t look at her when he said that, just stared down at the cup in his hand. Metal contrasting against fragile glass. Both glinting in the harsh light from the TV.

Before he could pull back, she caught his wrist and sat up to meet his eyes. Her hand kept his arm around her shoulders, and she only adjusted herself just enough to look at him properly. Their faces were dangerously close, but she barely noticed, “But we do it, and we’re friends, so it can’t be too bad.” Her voice was soft, insistent. Eyes betraying the sadness welling up deep inside of her. It felt like the burning in her stomach was heading up into her throat. His skin was smooth against her fingers, and his arm was a reassuring weight over her shoulders. Bucky made her feel safe. Even when he was breaking her heart.

Bucky whispered her name like she was squeezing the life from his chest and sighed harshly. His eyes darted away from her own, lips pressed into a fine line, “Ya but it’s wrong, and makes things complicated.” He closed his eyes and tapped his finger against his glass, the sound sharp over the TV. She could already see his walls closing, shutting her out again.

“It doesn’t have to.” Y/N shook her head, clasping his hand tighter to try and keep his attention. His callused fingers were rough against her own, and she could see his chest rising and falling faster. Like he was trying to keep himself calm. Still, she pushed, “If it makes you happy, and me happy, and doesn’t hurt anyone, then why is it so wrong?” She spoke quickly, and her voice was starting to slur just a tad. Like her mouth was running faster than her head. The hand holding her drink gripped it tighter. Condensation making her fingers slick. Head tilted, she tried to make him look at her. Suddenly desperate to make him understand.

At that, Bucky did tug away. Stood up and moved a few steps over to the other side of the coffee table. He picked up the bottle of scotch and refilled his drink. Again. His hands were shaking just a tad, and he slowly put the lid back on and sat the bottle down. Then he waved his glass in the air as he tried to explain, nearly sloshing it over the edge, “Because it can’t happen. And that—” He jabbed a finger at the beanbag chair he just vacated, like it was an example, “Will lead to things happening, and nothing can happen between us.” He pointed between the two of them, face flushed, and took another drink. Eyes sharp and glistening, his hair fell across his forehead as he swallowed. Then he carded his fingers roughly through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He sounded so sure. So stubborn and it just pissed her off.

“Does this make you happy?” Y/N stressed, gesturing between them. She stood up too, stumbling a little when her feet caught on air. Still, she steadied herself, head high, and finished her drink. When he didn’t respond, she sat her empty glass down on the coffee table a bit harder than necessary. It echoed over the music filling up the room with background noise. When had they started arguing?

Frustrated, Bucky groaned and turned so he wasn’t facing her. He shifted his glass to his right hand, knuckles white. Delaying time, he swallowed another mouthful, quiet. His shoulders were tight, the muscles rolling as he clenched his fist. When he glanced back at her, his face was blank again.

Seeing his emotional barricades up again made irritation burn the back of her throat like hot coals.

A whine caught in her chest, and she shut her eyes tight. The anger melted into something darker. Something harder to swallow that had her arms wrapping around herself, and made her shift awkwardly from foot to foot, “Don’t I?” Her tone dropped at his silence, vulnerable and nearly drowned out by the end credits music. Hurt at him shutting down again. Shutting her out again, “Make you happy?” Y/N clarified. Emotions switching on a dime as she stared at his broad back.

The TV cut out to the title page, and he turned, snatching the remote off the table and flicked it off. Then tossed it back onto the table, only for it to clash and skitter off the edge onto the floor. Shadows clung to the room, only pushed back by the small light from the kitchen and window behind her. Then silence pressed in on the room and highlighted all the words not being spoken. Ears ringing in the sudden quiet, Y/N tried to keep her breathing even and to stay quiet. Let him boil in whatever emotions were making him pace between the couch and wall.

In the cluttered space of his apartment, she felt small because he took up so much of it. When he got like this, she could see the soldier. Could see everything he tried to keep in control burning just beneath the surface. All the things he tried to never say. The panels of his left hand hummed and shifted, flexing into a fist and relaxing again when he finally stood still.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he brought up his hand to rub at his face, messing up his hair. When he glanced back at her, he grimaced, and exclaimed, “Of course you do!” His eyes were shining bright in the dark, glimmering with bit back pain. Eyebrows pinched and jaw tight, like he was fighting to keep everything in check. Even every perfectly measured breath he took.

“Just not enough?” Y/N asked, still soft and stepped closer. She reached down for the bottle, eyes never falling from his cooled expression, body swaying in a fluid motion as she stood back up. Bucky silently watched her as she unscrewed the top and watched him. Forgoing a glass, she took a drink from it. The edges of the cap bit at her fingers. Desperate to feel anything but what she was feeling right then. Maybe it’d numb her the rest of the way out. Make her pass out, or black out to a point where things just didn’t hurt anymore. With the way things were going it might be nice.

It’d be a blessing. Even for a minute.

“It’s not like that.” Bucky denied, words cracking in his throat at the end. Y/N edged just a bit closer, until they were chest to chest. The bottle brushed against his thigh where she let it swing at her side. She had to stare up to meet his eyes. He finished the last drink from his glass, then stooped to sit his down too. Every movement tickled the air around him and made her skin tingle from how close they were. His shoulder brushed her hip when he straightened back up. Then his hand cupped over her own and he took the bottle from her loose fingers. Forging his glass as well. His touch still burned. He didn’t offer to clarify what he meant. That it ‘wasn’t like that’ didn’t explain much of anything.

Instead of rounding another pointless circle with him, Y/N asked, “Why do you want my painting?” She crossed her empty arms, rocking back on her heels, but not moving from her stubborn position in front of him. Not yielding again. The scotch made her stupid brave, and she was cracking up. The façade she tried to keep up falling apart piece by piece. Part of her understood that this conversation would lead to nowhere good.

That she was tearing everything apart. Messing everything up. Spilling all their rotting issues out between them. Ripping up her heart for him to see as she desperately tried to understand his. But she couldn’t bring herself to shut up again. Too angry and hurt and frustrated and tired.

This had been a bad idea from the start. She should have just stayed in bed this morning.

That jarred him a bit. Bucky snorted incredulously, “Because it’s beautiful, and I love your work.” His full lips wrapped around the bottle and he took a swig. Rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, he let out a slow breath. Disheveled, he dropped the bottle back on the table, almost spilling it. The cap still bit at her thumb where she pressed at it. Flipped it around between her fingers. Something to fidget with.

“Do you know why I painted it?” Y/N continued, licking her lips, mouth full of cotton. She rocked back forward, nearly toppling into him, but he caught her shoulders. Steadying her and almost smiling, but it died before it could reach his eyes. Her hands came up to balance herself and she dropped the cap to the floor. It clattered, but neither of them bothered to try and pick it up, “Why I picked the subject?” Her fingers curled against his chest, enjoying the touch and slow to pull back.

Bucky shrugged, shaking his head, hands running down her arms to her elbows before he released her, “You were pretty cryptic about it in class.” He took a half step back, but she caught the hem of his shirt, and stubbornly held onto it. Stopping, he glanced down at her hand, but didn’t force her to let go.

Willing her fuzzy mind to focus, she explained, “It’s about love.” She pressed a free hand to her chest, hysterical laughter bubbling from her as she continued, “It’s basically my heart poured on a canvas.” Y/N tugged at his sweater, voice cracking at the end. Jaw clenched like she could keep her words from shaking, she stepped forward challengingly, “Still want it?” Her bottom lip trembled, but she kept her head high and proud.

Bucky’s voice dropped and sounded rough like gravel when he replied, “Of course.” His eyes held her own, and she ground her teeth, exasperated. Nearly stepped on his toes when she let go of his shirt and threw up her hands, catching her fingers in her hair, yanking roughly.

“I was thinking about you.” Y/N whispered, flinging her hand in his direction, nearly hitting him, “Not just you, but enough. Doesn’t that bother you?” Bucky was quiet, so she continued, shaking her head as the words tumbled out, “It’s about how scared I am. To care about you this much. About how messed up these feelings are, and how happy I was.” The tears were coming now. All the ones she never wanted him to see. They caught in a knot in her throat, making her words thick. Her cheeks were wet, and she didn’t know when she started crying, “And I couldn’t explain it in class because I don’t feel that way anymore. It just hurts.” Her hand curled in the front of her shirt and she clawed at it, like maybe she could just dig out her beating heart and give that to him too, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, but I don’t know what to—”

The words were stolen from her lips. Immediately forgotten. Taken the moment she felt his breath against her mouth, and then nothing but soft warmth. His hands caught her wrists from where she’d been wildly gesturing, and he stilled her. Cold metal and warmth contrasting against her skin. He tugged her forward, arms caught between their chests, and his hair tickled her cheek when he stooped down. So much taller than her that he had to duck his head.

Bucky was kissing her.

Y/N’s eyes fell closed, and her lips parted against his. Everything floated still around her. His hand released her wrist, and cold metal cupped her cheek. Confused, she pushed her hands against his chest, pulling back just an inch, “Why? What—” Then he tilted his head and kissed her again. His teeth nipped her bottom lip and he crowded against her. A soft groan caught in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, stretching up on her tiptoes to be closer. Questions buzzed through her head, but her world was spinning too fast. Everything suddenly felt warm and happy with him anchoring her to the apartment floor. In that moment, she couldn’t imagine to trying to ask him again. Not while he was finally kissing her.

Bucky shuddered when her tongue brushed his top lip, and his fingers curled gently in her hair. Leaving her no room to move away again. For just a second, he broke the kiss, and let his hands rest against her shoulders, thumbs brushing across her neck. He kissed her forehead, and then her cheek, tongue lightly brushing against the tears still damp on her skin. A soft bubbling giggle left her. Relief mixed with euphoria and disbelief left her insides sparkling like liquid gold.

Nearly floating, Y/N fisted her hands in the back of his shirt against his shoulders. Then took a step back, making him follow her. Still bent over but his hands came to rest against her hips. A tender smile spread across Bucky’s lips while a grin made her beam back at him. Every step she took he matched. Never more than an inch apart. A breath of laughter escaped him when she stumbled, nearly taking him down with her.

When she sat on the couch, he pressed her back until he was hovering over her and kissed her again. It’d been a long while since she had a make-out session like a desperate teenager, but everything fell into place with him. It wasn’t hard to remember why she loved kissing.

Not when she was kissing Bucky.

Next Chapter

Tags: @boy-leave @wtfholland

#Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #marvel #Marvel AU #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #reader insert #artist au #slow burn #Fluff and angst #fluff and feels #tashariiwriting

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descieux · 6 years ago

Text

Not in Lone Splendour, part 2

Summary: A Jedi on the run needs to travel light. Without attachments. But maybe, this boy can be an exception.

Excerpt: Not a stitch of clothing extends above the sloping ridges of his lower abdominals as he slants his upper body above the sink and lightly shakes his dye-wettened hair = my convoluted way of describing shirtlessness ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Author’s note: Part 2 of this Star Wars AU/crossover in response to day 7 of ichiruki month. I’m sorry about the lack of timeliness 😬. You can also read here.

“Stop. There’s someone with aggressive intent waiting to attack us.”

The sense of a lurking peril started as a tingle along the back of Rukia’s neck and now flares as they stand on the threshold of the Kurosaki family home.

Alarm momentarily flashes across Ichigo’s face before he appears to realize something and simply rolls his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s not a real attacker, it’s just my —”

A long metallic shaft swings out from the shadows of the darkened home, meeting the bisecting arc of Rukia’s lightsaber, ignited out of instinct. Rukia’s sword arm is already twisting to deliver a reverse grip counter-attack when she discerns that what she just cleaved in half was a household vibro-mop. The middle-aged man holding the remaining half of the mop tosses it and bounds toward them as if Rukia were not brandishing a blade of pure plasmic energy near his limbs.

“Now that’s my boy! I send him out to get groat chops for dinner, and he brings home a girl!”

“Dad, she’s not a girl!” Ichigo hisses, promptly wincing at the erroneous assertion. “She’s a Jedi! She’s the one who helped Yuzu and me in the market earlier.”

Extinguishing her saber and tucking her loose padawan braid back into her ponytail, Rukia attempts a smile. “Sorry about that, sir. I haven’t encountered many friendly strangers these last few days.”

“There’s a lot of people trying to arrest Rukia,” Ichigo elaborates.

“Considering what just happened in the marketplace, I’d say there’s probably a lot of people trying to arrest you too,” she shoots back.

“I see…,” the amused father remarks. “Well, why don’t we get both of you past the doorway, and we can speak in less conspicuous and less audible quarters?”

Rukia allows them to guide her deeper into the house, but protests as the sandy-haired sister emerges to offer her steaming sapir tea from a thermajug. “Thank you for your hospitality, but the longer I stay here, the more danger I place you all in for harboring a Jedi. I have to find this smuggler Urahara and get off Corellia as soon as I can obtain a serviceable ship.”

“Oh, but Daddy knows Urahara!” Yuzu tells her, insistently pressing a sticky sweetmallow square into Rukia’s hand to pair with the tea. “We visit his shop sometimes, but Urahara-san always warns us to not touch anything because it might explode in our faces. Or it tends to be illegally acquired.”

“Indeed I do know the man,” Isshin affirms. “Old friend of mine. I’ll contact him right now and ask him to come over. Ichigo, find Rukia-chan something to wear from your sister’s wardrobe. She’ll attract less attention out there if she looks less like a Jedi.”

It’s a cozy home, Rukia observes as she trails Ichigo into his sisters’ room. At the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, she, adhering to the ascetic lifestyle of the Order, retained only the most basic of material possessions — a rigid boa-wood cot, a workbench, a week’s worth of rough-spun brown and black Jedi robes. Everything else was communally shared, and her eyes inquisitively study the various personal items in the girls’ room.

“Is this droid broken?” she asks, brushing dust off its ochre plating.

Ichigo glances over his shoulder, snorts, and goes back to rummaging. “I don’t even think that mishmash of junkyard metal qualifies as a droid. Yuzu spotted it in Urahara’s shop years ago. She thought it was cute so he gave it to us for free, but I never managed to fix its programming and get it working. It’s an EG-9, and its logic circuits are a complete mess because his components are from at least three different droid models. Here, see if this dress fits.”

A quick, soft laugh escapes Rukia as she shakes out the rolled up fabric. She hasn’t ever owned anything this flowery. Even when she’d lived with Nii-sama and worn dresses more frequently, the silk had been of the plain, unpatterned variety in accordance with her adoptive brother’s tastes.

“Oh, um, you might also want to do something about your hair.”

“My hair?”

“Well, that braid signifies that you’re a padawan right? You keep tucking it back, but it’s probably easier to just wear your hair in a style less preferred by Jedi but more common among girls generally.”

Rukia blinks owlishly at him. Sure, she can unravel the braid, but she’s in low possession of ideas of how to alternatively style one’s hair; training and fighting have never demanded that she cultivate such knowledge.

Sighing, he strides over to her, snatching up a brush along the way and muttering, “Well, Yuzu wore it like this for months.”

Ichigo moves behind her, and this time, it’s the skimming graze of his fingertips dividing her hair into two parts that elicits a lingering tingle at the back of her neck. Running a warm hand over her right temple to smoothe the hair back, he gently loops one bunch of hair through a fastener before coiling the interim pigtail into a bun above her right ear.

“You do this for your sisters?”

“When there are three kids on the continual verge of being late for school and a dad’s proposed solution to hasten morning routines is to offer to chemically perm everyone’s hair, you learn things.”

As he finishes securing the twin bun above her left ear, Rukia uncoils the plait of hair he’d left alone, her padawan braid, and decides to let the strands hang loose, framing her face with slight curls.

She does not look like a girl on the run, as Isshin excitedly proclaims upon their rejoining the rest of the family in the room where Urahara has arrived.

“Kuchiki-san, it’s a relief to see a member of the Order still standing,” he tells her, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. “I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to access the HoloNet recently, but the news from Coruscant is that former Chancellor and now Emperor Aizen issued Executive Order 66 on some fabricated basis that the Jedi tried to assassinate him and seize power for themselves. Since then, there’ve been reports of clone troopers slaughtering Jedi on —”

“Every planet where we’ve been stationed during the end of the Clone Wars,” Rukia finishes grimly. Names, belonging to strangers in relation to those currently in the room but names of people precious to her, coat the tip of her tongue — is Kaien alive, is Renji okay? “We were on Kuat for months with clone troopers that we trusted with our lives, as our comrades. When the first person fell from a shot in the back, the others were still processing that it was going to be our fellow soldiers gunning us down.”

“Do you have a plan, Kuchiki-san?”

“Admittedly, not really. I was just planning on finding some route to the Outer Rim and reaching out to any other survivors. I can’t stay here, especially since our wrecking of the bazaar earlier will doubtlessly reach Imperial intelligence.” Rukia jerks her head in Ichigo’s direction. “An Inquisitor in the marketplace specifically identified him and was out to capture. Apparently, the boy’s Force-sensitive.”

Said boy does not confirm or dispute her words, instead seemingly immersed in contemplating the holographic portrait of a smiling woman above the family’s dining table.

“Ah, I suspect the Inquisitor’s effort may have been part of Project Harvester,” Urahara supplies. “Rumor circulating around that Arkanis Academy has stepped up their recruiting of youths recently, and they’re not just looking to produce your typical Imperial cadet. If all this is true, they seem to be trying to develop a distorted substitute group, loyal to the Emperor only, in place of the Jedi Order. May I suggest an alternative to your plan?”

Pivoting to address Isshin as well, Urahara continues, “I don’t know if Imperial agents have flagged your son by name for capture, but at the very least, they will receive reports of a young man with such a...distinctive hair color causing a ruckus in Treasure Ship Row as well as —” He swivels to gesture with his fan at Rukia. “A young woman with a well-crafted but currently impractically flashy sword — we shall get you a nice blaster pistol Kuchiki-san, and yes, I know you Jedi regard it as comparatively uncivilized, but it’s more prevalent among civilians. Isshin, what I think would be best is for you to take your family off-world and lay low for a few weeks in case more Inquisitors come looking for your son at your address here on Corellia.” Urahara’s eyes focus past Isshin’s shoulder, toward the same holograph Ichigo was gazing at. “Masaki-san’s ancestral home is still intact in Naboo’s Lake Country, is it not? You could comfortably keep a low profile there.”

Scowling, Ichigo retorts, “That’s the Emperor’s homeworld too. We’d be right under his nose if we went there.”

“Oh I think he’ll be quite preoccupied in Coruscant for a while, trying to subjugate the galaxy and all. If anything, I predict that like other despots, the Emperor will reserve his more lenient border policies for his homeworld’s economy while cracking down on other worlds. As for you Kuchiki-chan, I think you should go to Naboo with this lovely family.”

“I already sent a message to my brother Senator Byakuya,” Rukia objects.

“And has he responded?”

Rukia says nothing, the jut of her lower lip, stifling excuses she would otherwise make for her brother, and her tense posture telling enough.

“Alright, that’s settled then. Kurosaki-kun, those are some singular auburn locks on your head truly, but might I suggest a temporary coloring agent?”

The family disperses speedily to prepare for their journey, Isshin to ready the Corellian light freighter that will carry them to Naboo, the twins to pack — lightly, their father emphasizes, and surly-faced Ichigo to apply whatever hair dye Urahara has procured for him. Rukia’s pacing in the hallway, debating whether she dares sending Byakuya another plea for help via subspace transceiver when Ichigo sticks his head out of the ‘fresher doorway to ask, “Hey, want to give me a hand with this so I don’t walk out with random orange patches in the back of my head?”

Inside the ‘fresher, not a stitch of clothing extends above the sloping ridges of his lower abdominals as he slants his upper body above the sink and lightly shakes his dye-wettened hair.

With tufts of his hair already turning black, he looks like Kaien, she realizes with an ache.

“I don’t think shaking like a dog helps the pigment spread,” Rukia mutters as she enters his radius cautiously. She hates asking people to bend down so she gingerly places her fingertips on his clavicle and applies enough pressure to direct him to sit at the edge of the bathtub. Sheathing her hands in disposable gloves, she squirts out more of the dye, attentively combing the inky substance through his orange spikes root-to-tip with her fingers while trying not to press too close in his personal space.

“So you have a brother?” Ichigo asks, shoulders rolling and neck arching slightly. His eyes are closed so she can’t decipher if teasing the dye through his hair is producing an unpleasant sensation or a more relaxing feeling, but she figures that he’d be the type to gripe openly if she were really hurting him.

“Sort of. We’re not blood-related. It’s simpler to refer to him as brother, but in truth, he’s my brother-in-law. My sister’s dying wish was for him to bring me into the family, give me a home so I wouldn’t persist as some feral gutter orphan.”

A tick of silence before Ichigo ventures, “How come he hasn’t responded to you? Did your message get through?”

“Nii-sama,” she says slowly, trying to describe the man who still remains an imposing enigma to her. “Has very strict views on the importance of abiding by the law, and technically, I’m on the wrong side of the law right now.”

“The law isn’t always right.” Ichigo’s eyes are open now, brown irises flaring with conviction as he says, “Adopted or not, he accepted you into his family. That’s not a promise he can revoke. That means you should get every protection an older brother owes to a younger sister.”

Rukia shifts her position a step over; it’s awkward standing in front of him between his lanky legs so her fingers run through the roots at his hairline with particular efficiency before transitioning to smear colorant across his right temple. “Maybe that’s true for other people, but I don’t even know if I can really call him my brother anymore. You give up all your attachments when you commit to the Jedi Code because the Order becomes your family and because you’re to cherish all lives equally. So that we can protect as many lives as possible.”

“Are those words straight from the Code? I like the sound of that…” he says softly.

She leans in to brush the excess dye from the shell of his ear, and their noses nearly graze as he abruptly turns his head toward her to add, “But that seems very hard for any flesh and blood person to practice.”

Rukia straightens immediately, her lashes flitting over irises determined to not reveal her discomposure. “Looks like we’ve sufficiently converted you from a ginger to raven-haired for now. Finish up and rinse. I’ll see you outside. About time we say farewell to this world.”

#ichirukimonth #ichiruki

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sugaroons · 7 years ago

Text

good-luck charm | M (2/2)

“Where else do your claws come out, I wonder?”

(image credit)

pairing: min yoongi x reader wordcount: 8012 summary: You don’t expect to see Min Yoongi again, but a month after he falls asleep before your drunken hook-up, he’s producing a track for the group you manage. Your various attempts at getting him out of your system only leave you with tingling lips, increasingly dirty texts, and tender moments you can’t seem to ignore. (contains smut—it’s at the very end—dirty talk, and far too much teasing than expected. x-posted on ao3.)

(one) | two

It’s six in the morning on a Wednesday. You’re watching the boys practice their routine for tomorrow’s taping, noting who might need pain relief patches once the first practice session is over. Your eyes are on Joshua as you round up the bottles they’ve left behind—they still don’t quite remember to pick up after themselves—and you’re hoping, praying he can do the last moves of the dance exactly on the beat. Hoseok is a patient choreographer, but the awards show is a crucial performance, so everyone’s just a little on edge.

Once a break is called, you listen in on all their little conversations, paying attention to what Hobi tells Joshua. If he needs someone to watch him practice later on, you’ll be available and ready to watch for whatever mistakes Hobi’s pointing out. You don’t notice your phone buzzing at the table until Jimin picks it up and calls out your name.

“Do you want me to read it out for you?” Jimin says, tapping lightly at the back of your phone. You nod, one ear still trained on Hobi and Joshua. “It says you missed a call from—who’s this—Agust D?” Your cheeks color immediately, and you throw one of the used towels at Jimin. He dodges it gleefully, moving away slowly as you get up and stalk to him. He holds your phone above your head, his eyes crescents as he speaks. “He says he’s so far away, but he misses you! How sweet.”

You shove all the towels you’ve collected in Jimin’s face. The smell of sweat is too much for him, and he lowers his hand slightly, allowing you to grab your phone. Your face is red—from the exertion, you tell yourself—and you unlock the screen to read the message.

09:40 AM [amber]: yo we still on for sat 09:40 AM [amber]: dont flake on us again 09:42 AM [amber]: ur boys won’t burn the dorms down and its jimins turn to watch them

These are the texts you’re expecting to see, but you can’t help but feel a tinge of disappointment. It’s irrational for you to hope that Min Yoongi has texted you, especially considering that you haven’t seen him since he left his number on your bedside table.

“So far away,” Jimin sings by your ear. As if you could have forgotten the last track Yoongi released. You swat at him while sending a reply to Amber.

09:47 AM [you]: i wouldn’t miss it for the world! 09:47 AM [you]: haven’t seen u girls in forever. ㅠ.ㅠ

When the boys start dancing again, you sit at the small table beside Jimin, who looks sideways as you sit down. You continue to watch the boys, but in the corner of your eyes, you see Jimin open his mouth only to sigh. “I know, I know,” you say, scrunching up your nose.

“It’s been a month, Y/N,” Jimin says gently, “and you’re clearly not over it.” With how busy your boys have been the last couple of weeks, you’ve had no opportunity to meet up with any of your friends outside the company. Jimin is the only person who knows what happened that fateful Saturday when you first met Min Yoongi.

You pout, sulking. Your cheeks are still warm from earlier; your infatuation with Yoongi is not something you need to broadcast at the same company that manages him. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, we were supposed to fuck, but I bored you to sleep?’” You know Jimin is being serious because he doesn’t roll his eyes like he usually does, instead reaching out to pat you on the arm. You bury your head in your hands. “It was going so well, Jiminie. It really was.”

“What’s stopping you from texting him, then? He was clearly interested in you, if that ‘good-luck charm’ business was any indication,” Jimin says, smirking.

“I’ve been—” you say, hesitating. You look Jimin in the eye, but your eyes drift down to his chest when you speak. Your voice is small as you mutter, “I’ve been burned before.” You wince at the memory of every person you’ve ever confessed to or made the move on. While some of them continue to be your good friends, others never talked to you again. Your last boyfriend had thrown it in your face when he’d broken up with you, calling you desperate and stupid. It’s ridiculous for you to have taken it to heart, but you have, and that likely won’t be changing any time soon.

Jimin watches you for a while before sighing again. “That’s fair.” He squeezes your arm, an odd look on his face. “Just make sure you’re open to whatever comes your way,” Jimin says, his tone cryptic. You find this a little strange but say nothing. Jimin’s always said the strangest things, and this is probably no different.

Right before the afternoon singing practice, while you’re massaging Seungcheol’s shoulders, the senior manager calls you around in a huddle. “Boys,” she says, “you’ve been working really hard for your performance, so we have some good news for you.” Jimin loops his arm through yours and grins, so you know something’s up. “The new song we’ve been rehearsing the past few weeks will be recorded next week and produced by Bulletproof Entertainment’s own Min Yoongi!”

As the boys begin to talk among themselves excitedly, your grip on Jimin’s arm tightens. “Is this the surprise you warned me about?” you say through gritted teeth. He shrugs at you, mouthing the words, ‘Namjoon-hyung told me,’ before looking back at your senior managers.

“Managers,” your senior continues when the boys begin to do run-throughs, “we’ll be having a working dinner with Yoongi-sshi later to finalize everything, so you can go home a little earlier to freshen up.” You nod, still a little flustered, and spend most of the afternoon tidying up the mess distractedly. Jimin ruffles your hair affectionately before you part ways, jokingly reminding you to bring your tiger pin.

Min Yoongi is at his studio, mulling over the arrangement he’s been working on. It’s clean, but he can’t fully judge how well it’ll fit until he hears it done live. Namjoon’s mentioned this group once or twice, so Yoongi’s looking forward to learning more about them from their managers tonight.

Right on schedule, his phone buzzes and he hears a faint knocking sound outside his office. When Yoongi opens the door, he comes face to face with you, surrounded by your three co-managers. Your eyes widen slightly before your face assumes a more neutral expression, but Yoongi doesn’t know how to react. The memories of that night come rushing back, and a faint shade of pink dusts his pale cheeks at the thought of how he’d left you.

He had woken up as soon as the sun streamed through your blinds, warm and cozy under the blanket you’d placed over him in the night. He’d taken the painkiller on the living room table, rubbing his aching head as he made his way to your room. Inside, you’d been fast asleep on top of your covers, your hair still damp from the shower. Yoongi had smiled at your knee-high striped socks and matching orange sleep shorts. A tiger indeed, he’d thought, one he would love to see again. He’d left his number on a sheet by your bed, then waited for a call, a text, or anything that let him know you were remotely interested.

You hadn’t, and now you’re here, looking far more professional than you had at the part but just as attractive. Yoongi swallows, fiddling with his bangs for a second before smirking and saying, “Shall we?”

With the older managers sitting up front, you are sandwiched between Yoongi and Jimin at the back of the car. Your right thigh is pressed against Yoongi’s left, and he tries his best to ignore it. Jimin turns to face the both of you with a smile. “Yoongi sunbaenim,” Jimin says, “you remember Y/N?”

Yoongi smiles in reply. Of course he does: he remembers exactly how your breath feels against his neck, how hard it was to let you go once he’d made the shot; the sounds you’d made in his mouth in the dimly lit street, sweeter than the traces of peppermint and soju on your tongue; and your hips against his, you a dream-like vision in his lap right before he’d fallen asleep. “I do,” he says, looking at you. You hold his gaze for a few seconds before looking down, biting your lip.

Before he can say anything more, you arrive at the restaurant. Yoongi holds the door open for you, helping you out, and you brace yourself on his arm as you exit the small car. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining things, but you seem to hold onto him a second too long. Not that he minds.

His hand goes to the small of your back to support you, and it feels like a brand through the thin fabric of your dress. You breathe in his familiar scent—citrus and something floral—and try to avoid thinking about the last time you’d been this close. You smile at him in thanks, urging him to go ahead. When he does, Jimin exits the car and whispers, “Go get ‘em, tiger,” in your ear. You poke him in the side and walk quickly to the restaurant, but his words from earlier echo in your head. Yoongi’s been on your mind the past few weeks, and maybe some flirting tonight will get him out of your system.

You walk into the restaurant with purpose. Taking the seat beside Yoongi, you keep your manner business-like as you iron out the details over appetizers and soup. Yoongi agrees to produce the track, and your senior manager orders a bottle of the place’s best flower wine. When you tap your glass against Yoongi’s, your finger grazes his. You give him a coy smile and sip at your glass, making a sound of satisfaction only he can hear. Yoongi chokes slightly on his wine at how sexual it is. You put your glass down and tilt your head towards him, placing your hand on his own. “Are you alright?” you say, looking into his eyes.

Yoongi nods once, not trusting himself to speak properly while he collects his thoughts. In the brief moments you’d spent together, you hadn’t shown this side of you. He was intrigued and even more attracted, and this could be his chance to make a better impression on you. Yoongi strokes your thumb with his own, smiling. “I’m good,” he says. “Thank you.”

He prepares himself for whatever you have planned, but you behave for the rest of the dinner. By dessert, Yoongi’s ready to make a move of his own. He scoots forward, his knee touching yours. You shift in response, the napkin on your lap slipping over his thigh. Your hand reaches down to catch it, and you make sure to graze his inner thigh with your fingers. Yoongi swallows before grabbing your hand with his own. The smile on his face is lazy, but the heat in his gaze is anything but.

Beside you, Jimin clears his throat. “Hyung-nim,” he says to your one of your senior managers, “maybe we can move to the bar once dinner is over?” Your senior manager laughs, saying something about the energetic youth. He insists that you, Jimin, and Yoongi go on without him and the head manager, who pays for the bill with a smile.

The three of you move to the back of the restaurant where the bar is found. You place your orders—soju for you and Yoongi, and a sweet cocktail for Jimin—before the latter makes a detour to the restroom. You pour out two shots and hand a small glass to Yoongi. He raises his eyebrow, tapping his glass against yours. “Already?” you say. “You might fall asleep before the night really starts.” You take the shot anyway, savouring the sensation as it flows down your throat.

“Easy there, tiger,” he says, grinning. You smile sweetly at him, pouring out another round of shots. The two of you are on your fourth round when Jimin returns, taking the seat beside yours.

“Why do both of you suddenly look so guilty?” Jimin picks up his glass and sips from it, looking at both of you. “Planning your next beer pong strategy?”

Yoongi moves closer and puts his arm around you. His warmth is welcome in the slight chill of the bar, and you lean into him, resisting the urge to rest your head on his chest. “We don’t need a strategy when we’re the best.”

You turn to him, a smirk playing on your lips. “Are you sure?” you say teasingly. “Didn’t seem that way during our first two games.”

You feel Jimin’s eyes on you, but keep your gaze locked on Yoongi. His eyes sweep down to your collar for a second. “My little tiger is an excellent good-luck charm.”

“I think that’s our cue to go home.” You roll your eyes and push him away, breaking the moment with a grin. Your left hand lingers on his chest a beat too long, and Yoongi thinks this might be another opportunity to ask you out. Before he can say anything, however, you stand up and hand Jimin some bills, excusing yourself to go to the restroom.

Yoongi looks questioningly at Jimin, who shrugs in response. They sit in silence while you’re gone, and Yoongi can think a little more clearly without your sweet little mouth and bright eyes there to distract him. He doesn’t want to mix work and play, and he vows not to try anything with you until the recording has been released. Yoongi cares about the integrity of his work, and he knows you do too. This is the best plan of action, even if it means having to resist your considerable charms for the next couple of weeks. He has that much self-control. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

“I’ll go ahead,” Yoongi says. Your physical presence would make it doubly difficult for him to leave, especially tonight. “Tell her I said goodbye, and see you both on Friday.” He leaves the exact payment for the full bill before getting off the seat and exiting the restaurant. Seconds after he reaches the exit, you come back. Your crestfallen expression at the lack of Min Yoongi makes Jimin laugh, and he pats you on the shoulder consolingly.

“We might as well get through the rest of this bottle,” Jimin says, holding up the half-empty bottle of soju, “especially since Yoongi hyung-nim paid for all of it.” You take the shot he pours in silence, wondering how you could have been so stupid to think you’d be able to forget Min Yoongi so easily.

The next day is a blur as your team spends the whole day preparing for the award show taping, though both Jimin’s muttering “my little tiger” every so often and your hangover make it a little rough. You return home, exhausted, promising yourself that tomorrow you’ll be far more professional. You only spend a little time thinking about how Min Yoongi’s number is still on your bedside table before falling asleep.

You wake up early the next morning to prepare two thermoses of fresh ginger and water for the session later. This will be their first day running the song in the recording studio and the last day for Yoongi to make big modifications to the boys’ lines. The senior managers are negotiating more performances with the tv networks today and have left you and Jimin to hold down the fort, which has you elated and nervous at once. You’re at the studio twenty minutes early, carrying your thick sweater in preparation for the cold of the holding area where you’ll be watching the boys. It’s only coincidence, you say to yourself, that it’s got cute little tigers and lions embroidered at the hem. “Fighting,” you mutter to yourself before entering.

Bulletproof’s studio is fairly small but well-equipped. Without all thirteen of your boys crowding the room, it seems bigger than usual, and your eyes take in the records lining the wall—mostly Agust D’s achievements—before landing on the person reclined on the couch. Yoongi’s eyes are closed, but you know he’s not asleep. In his black beanie, loose black shirt, and dark-wash jeans, he’s a lot more dressed down than he was last night. Before you can do anything you regret, you quietly take a seat on the chair beside the couch, bringing out your phone for want of something to do. You’ve just finished checking your emails when you feel someone watching you.

“Good morning, Yoongi-sshi,” you say, giving him a small smile. He nods silently in reply. Today, it seems like his attention will be entirely on production. The fan in you grows excited at the opportunity to watch him in action. Yoongi enters the production studio proper, and you follow him in, stopping at the machine room that doubles as the waiting area. He glances back at you, gesturing for you to enter the mixing room with him.

You don't wait long for Jimin to arrive with the boys, some of them still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Still, there's an excitement thrumming through them: it's in the slightly awed and very respectful way they greet Yoongi hello, in the cheerful energy with which they practice the song in the vocal booth. You and Jimin offer to help Yoongi bring out the equipment, but he refuses politely. Your nose is almost pressed against the glass as you watch him set up, entranced by the great care with which he handles each microphone and cable. Once Yoongi is done, he stays in the room to listen to the boys sing, his eyes shut. Wonwoo and the others glance nervously at him every so often, and you can't blame them.

Yoongi returns to the mixing room and sits down. The boys gather round the mics, as poised as they are on the stage. Yoongi pushes a button and says, "Today, we'll be recording the group vocals." At his words, they move around, arranging themselves according to the groupings on the score. Yoongi nods. "Right. Seungcheol's group will go first. The rest, head to the waiting room." They've always been obedient, but the speed they move at Yoongi's command is impressive. You exchange looks with Jimin, who only shrugs.

Despite their jumpy nerves, the first two groups finish their recordings with few issues. While Yoongi doesn't bark orders nor raise his voice, the calm with which he speaks is unnerving. And, if you're honest with yourself, a turn-on. As each set of boys files out of the live room, you flash them a smile and a thumbs up. The last group enters, and you take a deep breath. This is the weakest set so far, and you know Chan's been struggling with the song since the sheets were given to them. You worry at your lower lip, not noticing how Yoongi glances at your face, lingering at your mouth. He clears his throat. "From the top," he says, and that's where everything begins to go wrong.

Yoongi stops the first run within seconds. "You're nervous," is all he says, which does little to reassure the boys, especially Chan, whom you see gulping. "Again." By the third repeat, Yoongi's looking directly at Chan, his gaze unreadable. "Chan." You're proud of the way Chan looks Yoongi straight in the eye despite the fear that has his hand shaking. "alone."

"Again," he says sternly after Chan sings the lines. "More power." It's a couple of notes outside Chan's natural vocal range, and his voice cracks on his second try. You see Chan's eyes widen, and a look of panic crosses his face for a moment. Yoongi sighs, steepling his fingers and leaning forward. His eyes don't leave Chan's face as he speaks slowly through the intercom. "Will you need to sit this one out, Lee Chan?"

You look angrily at Yoongi, your brows furrowed. Chan blanches, but before you can say anything, he stutters out a weak 'no.' Yoongi sighs again, calling for a break. He and Chan disappear to one of the soundproof practice rooms, and it takes everything in you to stay where you are and continue to hand out concentrated ginger water. Chan returns twenty minutes later with his eyes puffy, the tear tracks not properly wiped from his face, and you see red. Jimin places a calming hand on your shoulder, shaking his head in warning. You squeeze Chan's hand reassuringly before returning to your place on the sofa behind Yoongi. Recording goes smoothly from there, and you manage to finish the day's agenda earlier than usual. This means rare time off the rest of the day, though you'll pass by the dorm before you go home to watch the boys practice the next parts of the song.

All of you breathe deeply once you're outside the recording studio. Soon, the boys are chattering in excitement, except Chan, who stays behind. You fall into step with him, throwing a comforting arm around his shoulder. "You alright?" you say. Chan nods. "What did Yoongi-sshi do to you in the room?"

He swallows, looking away. "He sat me down and made me rehearse line per line," Chan says. "I know you're worried, manager-noona, but it's really the stress and nerves that had me crying. Yoongi hyung-nim was nothing but nice." You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, smiling at Chan one last time before letting him go. You signal to Jimin that you'll be staying behind, and he frowns for a second before going on, asking the boys what they'd like to have for dinner. Chan brightens up at that, and he soon joins the others with a smile.

You walk with them for a little bit more before turning around, walking straight to the mixing room. You hesitate for a moment, before making up your mind and knocking. Before you can knock again, Yoongi opens the door, his beanie in hand. Your eyes soften for a split-second at his hat-hair, then you remember why you've come here. "Yoongi-sshi," you say, pausing as you try to remember the speech you'd come up with while brisk-walking back to the recording studio.

"Yoongi is fine," he says, scratching the back of his head. He had seen you flare up in the reflection of the soundproof glass, but he didn't expect you to do anything about it. You're here interrupting his work and he ought to kick you out, but the way you stand arms akimbo, your cheeks flushed from exertion and nose scrunched up in anger, has Yoongi smiling instead.

"Yoongi," you say, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach, "I don't approve of what you did to Chan. He was visibly shaking, and all you did was aggravate him. And don't give me that bullshit about the music industry being this difficult." You cross your arms over your chest. "Kim PD-nim started this company wanting to be different, and we both know that." You sigh, feeling all the anger bleed out of you, replaced by the exhaustion you haven't let yourself feel. "Please be more careful next time. A little kinder."

His eyes narrow at you, and he opens his mouth to speak. You reach out to touch his hand, adding, "But thank you for practicing with him. You have to know how much these kids look up to you." You drop your hand, suddenly shy. “That's—that's all."

You turn as if to leave, but Yoongi catches your elbow, pulling you back. He won't apologize for what he did because he knows it was the right thing to do. "You clearly care about these boys," he says instead, his tone soothing. His eyes fall to the hem of your sweater, and Yoongi laughs at how perfect the designs are for you. "A tiger indeed.” Yoongi touches an embroidered lion close to where your sweater has ridden up, and your breath catches. “Where else do your claws come out, I wonder?” he murmurs, tracing the hem of your jacket, his fingers just barely skimming your skin.

“Have a good night, Yoongi!” you squeak, squirming away from his treacherous fingers and freeing yourself from his grasp. You shut the door none too gently behind you, and Yoongi is left to mix the tracks with the faint smell of ginger and your perfume lingering in the room.

After a well-deserved afternoon at the spa with Jimin, you’re ready to spend your Saturday night the way you used to before your job got too hectic. You put on your favourite black dress and make your way to the bar you haven’t been to in almost two months.

Sulli and Luna whistle when they see you, and Krystal pulls you onto her side of the booth before resting her head on your shoulder. You’re smiling, listening to them resume their conversation from before and trying to figure out how to bring up everything that happened between you and Yoongi. That's when Amber returns with a bottle of some greenish liquid and six shot glasses. “Y/N!” she says. “Are you fucking Jimin yet?”

At that, you laugh hard, and it doesn’t take long for you to talk about what’s happened in the last month. Jimin had been a wonderful listener, but there was nothing like hearing your girls howl in laughter over Yoongi’s corny lines. “You should have slapped him when he fell asleep. You’re way too nice,” Victoria says.

“I just don’t know what I should do,” you say, your head in your hands. You don’t know if the nausea is from the alcohol or the thought of how crazy you still are about Min Yoongi.

Krystal pats you reassuringly on the back. “Just be yourself, Y/N,” she says, “and you’re sure to win him over!” Luna nods in agreement, and you sigh.

“Being myself hasn’t really worked out before, has it?” You blow a raspberry into your glass, the harsh smell of the alcohol making you dizzy.

“Snap out of it,” Sulli says, pouring shots out for everyone. While you’re coughing with what feels like gasoline burning down your throat, she adds, “What are you going to do, drag him to bed? It’s effective, sure, but we all know how emotional you are.”

“I really think my crush on him has me confused,” you insist. “Maybe I will sleep with him, just so I can get him off—“ Amber makes a face at this, but you wave your hands frantically, continuing, “off my mind.” The others look unconvinced, but that’s the last you’ll hear about that for the night, and you move to a karaoke bar to sing your hearts out in true girls’ night out tradition.

Monday comes and you arrive with your boys in tow, your sleeveless silk blouse and pencil skirt giving you the boost of confidence you need for what you’re going to do today. The recording proceeds smoothly, with you acting the consummate professional. If you lean over a little too much, your shirt slipping down a little, or your fingers linger a second too long on his as you hand Yoongi a bottle of water, well, that’s not your problem.

The boys file out behind Jimin once they finish, bowing to Yoongi in thanks. You’re ready to pretend to leave, but Jimin tells you to stay behind, right on schedule.

4:54 PM [jiminnie mouse]: you’re on laundry duty for the next week 4:54 PM [jiminnie mouse]: have fun! ^.~

Yoongi senses something amiss when you don’t leave. You’re making it far harder for him to keep his promise and stay away, at least until the track is finished. When you sit beside him on the too-small mixing bench, your side pressed against his, Yoongi takes a deep breath. You turn to him then, an innocent look on your face, and he knows he’s in for it. “Anything wrong, Yoongi?” He makes a non-committal sound and places the headphones back on, clicking around the tracks.

You seem satisfied enough to watch him work, though soon he feels your head against his shoulder. Yoongi often struggles getting work done around other people, but your quiet presence is oddly soothing. Still he gets distracted each time you nuzzle against him, and the work goes by slower than it ought to. He saves the file and pulls the headphones off with one hand, his other lifting your chin up. “You’re a distraction,” he growls before leaning down to kiss you. Your mouth opens to his, and you moan as his tongue strokes against yours. He gets up and you follow him, drugged by his kisses, and soon you’re both on the couch, Yoongi hovering above you. “What do you want?” he breathes against your lips.

You shiver before pulling at his belt loops, rolling your hips against his. He groans, half-hard at your thigh, and bends to kiss you again. Your lips are chapped in the cold of the room, but he bites at them greedily. Your arms tighten around him in response, one of your hands creeping under his sweatshirt, your fingers sneaking below the hem of his pants.

Yoongi lifts his head, breathing hard. “Not yet,” he chants repeatedly under his breath as he pulls himself off you. He takes you by the shoulders, leading you towards the door. He sees the tips of your ears turn red, and you can’t seem to look him in the eye. “Make no mistake,” he says, caging you between the wall and his arms. Yoongi mouths at your neck, one hand skimming down the front of your body to pull your hip tight against his. “I want you.”

“But there’s work to do,” you say breathlessly, a hint of disappointment still in your voice. “I get it. I’ll be going now.”

He smiles at you, caressing your face one last time. “You have my number,” Yoongi says. You smile at him, then, genuine and sweet, and he thinks about asking you to stay one last time.

Within the hour, he receives a text from an unknown number. Yoongi sends a reply before putting the earphones back on, suddenly energized.

Back at the restaurant where you’re having dinner with the other managers, you make a face at his response before chuckling, your heart lighter than it had been moments before.

5:43 PM [you]: do u always smell like fruits, mr. genius producer? 5:45 PM [mr. genius]: just trying to be as sweet as u, tiger

You hear from the senior manager that Yoongi is producing other tracks, possibly releasing his own work with Namjoon, so you don’t see him the rest of the month. Just as well, because the boys begin shooting the music video for Yoongi’s song, and you’re in a flurry travelling to different locations, making sure no one leaves anything behind. Throughout all this, you and Yoongi continue to text.

4:30 AM [you]: good morning from bumfuck nowhere! [attachment] 11:50 AM [mr. genius]: learn to love urself 11:50 AM [mr. genius]: only misanthropes are awake before 9 am

You’re worried you’re bothering him because you always text first, but he greets you a couple of days later with a selfie featuring Namjoon.

6:09 AM [mr. genius]: [attachment] 6:09 AM [mr. genius]: namjoon’s studio is way more impressive than mine 6:10 AM [mr. genius]: note he can’t read half the english titles on his shelf, the pretentious ass 7:01 AM [you]: don’t worry, yoongi, i like u more.

Yoongi grins widely and subsequently has to ward off Namjoon’s grabby hands. “The world must be ending for you to smile so widely at your phone, hyung,” Namjoon says, and Yoongi can only shrug in reply.

Later, he gets a text that has him glad he’s alone in his room, already settled in for the night.

10:52 PM [my little tiger]: i’m sad. [attachment]

He loads the attachment and finds a picture of you. You’re in your skimpy pajamas again, the left strap slipping off your shoulder, and you’re pouting at the camera. The picture cuts off just below the hint of cleavage your tank top reveals. Yoongi swallows, staring at the picture for another minute before remembering to reply.

10:54 PM [mr. genius]: any way i can help ?

You type write away, smiling at how eager he is.

10:54 PM [my little tiger]: send me a pic of your hands?

Yoongi finds the request odd, but sends it anyway, curious to see what you’ll say next.

10:55 PM [my little tiger]: now it’s easier for me to imagine how big your fingers’ll feel. 10:55 PM [my little tiger]: thank you, yoongi, and good night.

Before he sleeps, Yoongi comes on his fingers, wishing he’d thought to ask you for pictures of your own.

The weeks go by, and finally, it’s time for the boys’ comeback.The music video is a success, of course. The hits are far more than even Kim PD-nim anticipated, and he throws a celebratory black-tie affair for the company to commemorate the boys’ sixth month. You’re delighted to see everyone looking sharp in their suits, though you find yourself longing to see one man in particular.

You and Jihoon are discussing his plans for the group’s next song when he recognizes someone behind you, his eyes lighting up. “Yoongi-hyung!” he says, the smile wide on his face. You turn to find a suit-clad Min Yoongi, his dress shirt and slim-cut pants making your stomach do backflips. He nods at Jihoon with a small smile, and his hand strokes lightly down your back, lingering at your hip. Internally, you congratulate yourself for keeping a straight face, though your ears are likely the colour of tomatoes at this point.

“Congratulations on the video, Jihoon,” Yoongi says. “I may be the genius who produced the track,” he adds, smirking, “but it wouldn’t have done so well without your hard work.” You roll your eyes but can’t keep the grin off your face.

Jihoon watches the two of you for a moment before saying, “Yoongi hyung, are you and Manager-noona dating yet?” Your eyes widen and you take a small step to your left, not willing to look at Yoongi. “She found me the cutest when she first became our manager, and Jimin-hyung says it’s because I looked like Agust D.”

“That’s enough, Jihoon!” you say, though the blush on your cheeks discredits the threatening tone of your voice.

“Is that so?” Yoongi smirks at you, placing his hand firmly on your lower back.

“Why don’t you tell Yoongi about your proposed recording?” You’re too flustered to participate in the conversation, so you listen to Jihoon talk for a minute before excusing yourself to hide in the ladies’ room.

10:02 PM [mr. genius]: 2117 10:02 PM [mr. genius]: i’ll see you there

You return to the party with a gracious smile on your face, determined to play the perfect host till the event is over. You manage to secure possible collaborations with other artists, and this makes your heart soar for the boys. Still, it does nothing for the thrumming desire you feel to go to room 2117, to find out what the weeks of texting and flirting will lead up to.

Later, the team gathers, and Kim PD-nim gives an unexpectedly sentimental speech. You’re still drying your eyes in the elevator up to the 21st floor, the warmth you feel at such a successful night being replaced by a more sensual tension. Every step you take down the hallway has you more acutely aware of the soft material against your skin.

Hesitation grips you as you lift your hand to knock at the door. You stall, bringing out your phone to reread Yoongi’s texts and make sure you understand things right. In the two hours since he last sent you a message, he sent a couple more.

10:46 PM [mr: genius]: you’re so hot when you’re negotiating, little tiger 10:59 PM [mr: genius]: i’m going up to resist pulling you into a small corridor somewhere and having my wicked way with you 11:04 PM [mr: genius]: door’s open. i’m inside

You enter the room and remove your earrings and heels, placing them in the dresser near the door way. The richly carpeted floor makes your feet tangle as you pad towards the main room.

There, you find an achingly beautiful sight: Min Yoongi on the bed, his eyes closed and tie loosened. You smile at the fact he’s fallen asleep again and walk to him quietly, reaching out to smooth his hair away from his face. Before you can, he catches your hand, pulling you down on top of him.

“My biggest fan,” he says with a smirk. You try to squirm away from his grasp, not wanting to admit your need and your nervousness melding together to form the strangest feeling, but it only places you more firmly against him. You gasp at the evidence of his arousal at your backside. It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does, and you bend down to kiss him. Before you can, he rolls you over so you’re beneath him and finally, finally kisses you. “Missed me?” he says against your lips. All you can do is moan in reply.

He mouths down your jaw, moving up to bite at your ear. Yoongi feels your breath against his neck, hears the small noises you’re stubbornly holding back, and chuckles. He’d been worried you wouldn’t show and was trying to meditate when you arrived. It awes him, how quickly your expression had changed from one of innocent surprise to that of need, written as it was in your flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. He props himself up on one arm and lets the other wander to your chest. Yoongi palms at your breast through the slinky material of your dress, the weight of it heavy and full in his hand.

Yoongi’s touch is so different from your own that you lift your head to watch, your eyes transfixed as his hand traces the fabric of your dress, slowly making its way to your warm skin beneath. Your jaw falls open and your eyes flutter closed, and you reach down to skim your hand against the front of his pants. Yoongi bites harder at the lobe of your ear, moving to worry the skin at your throat with his teeth before kissing each red mark softly. He laughs before going lower, mouthing at your chest through the dress. You push his head away, muttering something about marks. You bite his neck when he laughs, laving the spot right under his ear before nipping at it. You try to sit up, pulling at his jacket and wanting to feel his bare skin against your own. You fumble the buttons of his white dress shirt while his hand moves along your back, trying to locate the zipper.

You both laugh, then, and you stand at the side of the bed to unzip your dress, letting it pool at your feet. Yoongi watches you, his eyes tracing over the curves of your body as he pulls off his socks and unbuttons his shirt. The thirst in your eyes mirrors his own, but he’s still surprised when you climb on top of him, pulling at his tie to bring him closer for a kiss. Both of you finally manage to remove his shirt, and your hands run over his bare skin with a frenetic energy he didn’t expect. Yoongi bites at your left breast, right above where your strapless bra holds you up, smiling as you pull him closer. He pulls away to bite at your lip playfully, pressing your foreheads together before saying, “You like me.”

It’s hard to look him in the eye, and you feel ridiculous and shy even as his arm wraps around your head. Yoongi’s running his finger through your hair, dislodging hairpins along the way. They clink as they hit the table, and the sound, along with the way Yoongi is looking at you, helps you let go of all your fears about being too much or too little for Min Yoongi. “Well,” you say, pausing to peck at his lips, “you clearly like me, so I have to like you a little bit or it’d be embarrassing for you.”

Yoongi pulls you against him tightly, and you melt a little. “I do,” he says. “I do like you.”

The words are simple, but make you feel like you’re floating. The boyish way he bites at his lip, looking up at you through his eyelashes, has you more playful, and when Yoongi opens his mouth to say more, you interrupt him. “Like this?” you say, grinding down on him. You reach behind you to unhook your bra, letting it fall to the side. You press yourself against his chest as kiss at his neck again, still entranced by the smoothness of his pale skin.

He groans, and his hands tighten around your waist, stopping you. He sits up and cradles your face in his hand like he did that very first night you met. “Date me,” he says seriously. “Let me make it up to you.” Your heart flutters when you hear the words he’d only written before, but you can’t ignore how his new position has his bulge closer to your heat.

You pull him close, muttering, “Be cute and dramatic later, please.” You smile into his mouth. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you for ages.”

“You’re not alone, little tiger,” Yoongi says, growling, your words unlocking the dam of lust he’s kept at bay since the day you came onto him at the studio. His hand rubs at the damp spot on your panties before pushing them aside. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he says, his voice suddenly calm and collected, like he doesn’t have two fingers thrust into you. “Sending a text like that before I went to bed, like you didn’t know I’d need to be early the next day.” He tsks as you clench around his fingers, a clear sign you’re interested in this kind of talk. He grins, pushing it a little further. “How does it feel to have my hand fucking you?” With his thumb, Yoongi rubs at your clit, accentuating each word with a pass over your bud of nerves. You moan, then, and he adds, “If I’d known this was all you’d wanted, maybe I would have taken care of you in my recording studio. Is this how you want the night to end, with you cumming all over my hand?”

You shake your head, your hand reaching down to grasp him through his pants. “Not right now,” he says firmly, catching your hand and pinning it to your side, your fingers laced together. “If you get your pretty little hand on me,” Yoongi says, his fingers crooking to rub at your inner walls, “this’ll all be over too soon.” He finds a spot that is slightly rougher to the touch and presses against it. You keen and arch your back as he plays touches your g-spot. “Your little noises already have me so worked up, and your cunt’s squeezing so tightly around my fingers.” Slowly, he adds a third finger, still stroking your clit.

The pressure mounts inside you, and you find yourself breathing harder. Sensing how close you are, Yoongi increases the pressure against your clit, his three fingers moving constantly inside you. “Come for me,” he says in your ear, his voice husky with want, and the thought of him being just as wrecked as you are has you coming harder than you have in months. He holds you through your orgasm, his fingers moving slowly inside you until it subsides. You fall against the bed with a huff, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run a marathon. While you slide off your panties, Yoongi lifts his hand to his mouth, licking at it before wiping his hand on his pants. You’re catching your breath as he undresses, leaving him just as naked as you.

“Still up for this?” he says, rifling through his pants for something.

You get up and reach out, grasping his dick firmly in your hand. You pump your hand once slowly, grinning like the cat that got the cream. “As up as you are,” you say coyly, your tongue between your teeth, and Yoongi groans at the both the pun and the feel of your hand against his skin. Yoongi finds the packet in his back pocket, tearing at it with his teeth. He moves your hand away to roll on the condom, slipping the fingers of his other hand to check how ready you are. You pull him over you, his hardness sliding against your clit in a way that has both of you moaning. “Don’t tease,” you say, thrusting your hips up and clenching around his fingers.

Finally, Yoongi pulls his fingers out and lines himself up at your entrance. He slides in so smoothly you’re almost embarrassed, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It feels so good, even if you don’t think you can come again, and you wrap your legs around him and urge him deeper. You squeak in surprise when you feel his hand at your clit again, teasing it lightly in contrast to his slow, hard strokes into your cunt, and the pressure builds at the pool of your stomach. You pull him down for a kiss, tangling your tongue against his, your hands roaming his back, nails scraping lightly against his skin. Everything builds and builds, and soon you’re coming around him, like a wave meeting the shore. It’s less intense than your first orgasm, but the aftershocks last longer.

The feeling of you around him and the sheer pleasure on your face, a hint of perspiration at your temple and your collarbone: all of these drive Min Yoongi crazy, and the sounds you make as you come have him following soon after, his movements growing jerky as he finishes.

Yoongi falls on top of you gently, letting his weight rest on you for a moment. It’s a little stifling, but you welcome the heat of his body against your own, your limbs tangled together, feet dangling off the foot of the bed. He pulls out out of you, standing up to dispose of the condom properly. You watch him, unsure of what to do now that you’ve finally gotten what you’ve been waiting for.

When Yoongi turns around, you’re not on the bed, and his brows furrow until he hears the sound of the toilet flushing. You emerge from the bathroom a little later, your hands still wet from the sink. Yoongi doesn’t think he’s seen anything better. Your lips are swollen from all the kissing, your body glowing in the low light. You smile sleepily at him, and he beckons you closer. You snuggle up to him, your hand on his abdomen while you pull the covers around you. He presses a kiss at your hairline, and soon you both fall asleep.

The next morning, you’re nowhere to be found. When Yoongi checks his phone, however, he finds a couple of messages from you, the last of which has him grinning.

6:52 AM [my little tiger]: boys have a promotion taping today, so i had to dash. 6:53 AM [my little tiger]: [attachment] 6:54 AM [my little tiger]: i can’t stop smiling at this pic of us. u in ur natural state (sleeping) 6:53 AM [my little tiger]: holding you to your promise, min yoongi. i’ll see you soon.

#yoongi smut #yoongi.net #yoongi scenarios #bts smut #bts scenarios #mine #fic #yoongi #bts #suga #fic: glc #verse: bpe

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