#their portraits and then they died right in front of the easel

[moonybemine]

yall i made more hp sims today i might post an intro to some of them in the morning my mary sim is sooo cute😭

[she-talks-to-angels-14]

Homecoming Queen: A School Spirits Story

Part 2: Letting Go

Wally Clark x Reader

Part 1

Y/N is letting go of what happened to her, or so she thought, when she sees her memorial being set up she realizes she wasn’t truly letting go of her death. One person though has continuously been there since she died and is making her death bearable.

4 Days After Hoco Dance

I sat in the gym and watched as people I had never seen before set things up for my funeral. They carried in flower arrangement after flower arrangement setting them up ornately. Then they set up an easel and had a large portrait of me, my senior yearbook picture to be exact. I looked perfect in that picture. My hair was curled and framed my face just right, the strand of pearls hung daintily around my neck and the black velveteen shirt hung off my shoulders slightly, the smile on my face was one of the brightest I had ever seen in a picture, I was so excited to finally be taking this picture. It’s a shame that the first time I ever saw it was at my own funeral. Finally the people wheeled in a metallic blue coffin, which could only be mine, they opened the coffin and arranged a few things seeming to make my body presentable. They finished off the set up with a framed Split River number 32 basketball jersey and then they left the gym.

I wasn’t aware that I was crying until I felt a tear fall from my cheek and land on my hands that were crossed on my lap. I thought I was starting to come to terms with my new life or should I say my death but seeing this setup brought back the stinging pain I thought I was working through. Truth be told I wasn’t ready to die, I had so many things I wanted to do after graduation. The tears kept coming, more rapidly at this point and by now I was full blown sobbing as I sat in the upper deck of the bleachers looking out at the funeral setup.

“Hey there you are,” Wally called as he made his way over to me to sit down. “Y/N what’s wrong?”

“That’s what’s wrong,” I choke out as I point to the gym floor. “I thought I was starting to accept this.”

“It takes time your death is still fresh,” he says as he wipes a tear from my face. “It’s okay to not be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I cried as I started to lean into Wally. “I feel like all you have done since I got here is deal with my pity parties.”

“It’s all going to be okay,” he wrapped his arms around me pulling me into him. “I don’t mind your pity parties, it's normal to feel like this. I felt they same way you do right now. When I died I was depressed for weeks.”

“It’s hard to think about you being depressed,” I laughed. “You give off total golden retriever energy, you’re always so happy.”

“Golden retriever energy huh?” He chuckled, pulling me in closer to him. “You’ve been hanging around Rhonda haven’t you?”

“Only a little bit here and there,” I smiled up at him. “Thank you Wally.”

“For what?”

“For always being here and comforting me when I have one of these breakdowns.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he stroked my arm tenderly. “Seeing you vulnerable when you have always been so strong pained me to see.”

“What do you mean?” I asked confused, “you’ve only ever seen the vulnerable me.”

“That’s not true,” he said, grabbing my hand with his. “I’ve been stuck here for.” Wally was cut off by Mrs. Sheridan’s voice echoing over the speakers in the gym.

“Thank you everyone for attending the celebration of life of Y/N YL/N.” Mrs. Sheridan spoke into the microphone on the podium.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Wally asks, “watching your own funeral isn’t easy.”

“No I need to see this.” I said standing, “maybe this will bring me closure, plus it’s my last chance to see my mama and brother.” I began to make my way down to the first floor of the gym. In the front row of chairs sat my mama and Lincoln both clad in black clothing, on my mothers lap sat my letterman jacket. Her fist clenched tightly to it as the tears rolled down her cheeks. Lincoln had his arm around her shoulder and he was doing his best to stay strong for her.

My heart crumbled seeing them like this, I sat on the hardwood floor in front of my Mama and laid my head over in her lap. I would give anything for her to stroke my hair once more and comfort me but she can’t. I laid my hand on top of hers and laid there for what seemed like forever. My mother stirred beneath me bringing me back to reality.

“In honor of Y/N we would like to officially retire her jersey.” Coach Marshall spoke into the microphone. “She was our fearless team captain and one heck of a ball player she was going places and this season was going to seal that deal for her.” He had so much faith in my abilities. “Please Ms. YL/N we would like to bestow her remaining jersey to you.”

My mother stood and my hand fell from her, I grasped for her once more but to no avail I could not touch her. In my grip though I was graced with my letterman even though my mother still held it firmly in her hands as she approached the stage. How was that possible? How could I have my jacket when she still had it in her hands?

“Thank you coach,” my mother said as she approached the podium. “Retiring Y/N’s jersey is a great honor and thank you for your kind words about her.”

My mom continued to give a speech about me but my focus had shifted to my brother. The strength he showed earlier had dissipated, tears are slowly rolling down his cheek. I have never seen Lincoln cry before, he has always been the tough one of the two of us. “You have always been an amazing big brother,” I cried with him. “I love you bubba,” I hugged him even though he couldn’t feel it.

The funeral ended shortly after my mothers speech and she returned to her seat. I slid my arms into my letterman and then I proceeded to sit in the now empty seat by my mom. “Thank you for being the best mama I could have ever asked for.” I said, wrapping my arms around her. “I sure am proud to be your daughter.” Looking between my mama and Lincoln I bared these last words, “take care of each other y’all are all y’all have left I love y’all.”

I stood from my seat and went to approach my casket, my body laid peacefully in my metallic blue casket. My mom had me dressed in her favorite dress of mine, a light blue lace dress with cap sleeves. She had my hair curled and made sure to put my class ring on my finger and my favorite necklace on me. Knowing what I knew now after the incident with my jacket I took my ring and necklace and put them on me. “You lived a good life sweetheart,” I said to my corpse, “but now it’s time to live your death.”

I turned and walked out of the gym, I had closed this chapter and now was ready to accept this new life, I was ready to accept my death and make the best of it.

——————————————————————

Wally’s POV

I couldn’t leave the gym, I didn’t want to leave Y/N alone. So I stayed in the upper level seats and watched her at her own funeral. I watched her go straight to her mama and sit on the floor with her head placed on her mama’s lap. My heart broke for her knowing this was it. She was savoring every moment with her family. Her mama got up and made her way to the podium where she accepted the jersey of Y/N’s that wasn’t framed. She gave her speech and I watched Y/N have her moment with her brother. I watched her exchange with her brother but I listened to the speech her mama gave. She said everything I had come to know about Y/N over the years she’s been roaming these halls. She was a fierce competitor, a loyal friend, stronger than she knew, and the kindest soul to have graced these halls.

Her mama finished her speech and returned to her seat. Y/N sat next to her and spoke unheard words to her. She then looked between her brother and mama and said something else before she got up and walked to her casket where she stood for a few moments and pulled a couple things out of her then she turned and headed for the gym exit. Her chiffon train of her dress flowed behind her as she made her exit. She looked like a different person as she walked out as if she was letting go of the past and ready to move on.

I gave her fifteen minutes before I went to find her. I checked the cafeteria, the field, the library, and the halls but she was nowhere to be found. None of the others had seen her, she was nowhere to be found, I had checked everywhere. Defeated, I sat down on the floor of the hall when it hit me. I had checked everywhere but one place, how could I forget about the auditorium? That’s where we had kissed. How could that slip my mind when I was looking for her? I quickly stood up and made my way to the auditorium, once there I burst through the doors and sure enough there she sat on the stage, she was gorgeous as ever sitting in her letterman and she had changed out of her dress, she was now in jeans and a basketball t-shirt.

“You alright?” I asked, sitting down beside her.

“Shockingly yes, I made my peace.” She smiled, “I said my goodbyes to my family and my former self. I'm ready to move forward.”

“I’m happy for you,” I grabbed her hand. “You deserve to be at peace with what happened”

“Thank you Wally,” she squeezed my hand. “You have been a big part of getting me through this. You've been my shoulder to lean on and I am forever grateful.”

“I’ll always be there if you ever need me.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What were you going to say earlier about seeing me not vulnerable?” She asked softly.

“I was going to say that I had been stuck here for 30 years.” I sighed, “ I’ve seen many people walk these halls but no one has ever been like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve watched you roam these halls for four years, I’ve seen you put others above yourself even when you were falling apart.” I looked into her eyes and confusion was all on her face, “I watched you hold yourself together when your life at home was crumbling to help someone who’s problems weren’t anywhere near as big as yours. I’ve seen just how strong you are before I ever even met you.” I couldn’t tear my eyes from hers. I could see the tears welling in them. “I’ve seen how loyal you are, I’ve seen what kind of leader you are and I saw the type of person you are well before you died.”

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” she sniffled.

“I’m sorry if I upset you.” I pulled my hand away unsure of how she was feeling. “I honestly never thought I would ever actually meet you but the type of person you were caught my attention.”

“So you’ve watched me since I started going here?”

“Not in a stalker type of way,” I said standing to my feet, I had said too much and creeped her out. “I mainly watched your games and only ever watched in the halls when we happened to be in them together.” I turned to walk out of the auditorium.

“Wait,” she said as I heard footsteps approach me. “Why are you leaving?”

“I figured I creeped you out.” My head hung low, “I thought it was best if I left.”

“You haven’t creeped me out,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Things just make sense now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen countless games, and heard god knows how many conversations I’ve had in the halls.” She chuckled, “you already knew ‘Iris’ was my favorite song before I told you when we danced on homecoming night.”

“I did,” I looked down at her. “You always listened to it before games and I overheard you tell a friend it was your favorite once.” I was extremely embarrassed but I couldn’t stop the words that came next. “I liked you, I wanted to get to know you but I knew it wasn’t possible, I never thought we’d actually be where we are now.

She looked up at me through her long lashes with a sweet smile on her face. “Are you saying you had a crush on me when I was alive?”

“I still do,” the words fell from my mouth before I even processed what I was saying.

As soon as the words escaped my lips, I felt small hands on both sides of my face pulling me down a few inches until her soft lips were on mine.

——————————————————————

Y/N’s POV

“I still do,” Wally said and I couldn’t stop myself. Both of my hands were on either side of his face pulling him down towards me. Ever since we kissed on homecoming night I have been hoping for another opportunity to do it again. Our lips touch as if I’ve taken him by surprise; he doesn't kiss me back.

“I’m sorry that was much smoother in my head,” I say as I pull away, letting my hands fall from his face.

“Don’t be sorry,” he placed his hands on my waist and pulled me into him. “It just took me by surprise is all.”

He dipped his head down to meet my lips once again. Instinctively I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood slightly on my tip toes. He tightened his arms around my waist pulling me even closer to him. This kiss was much different than the first we shared. That kiss was soft and sweet, this one was full of longing and desire.

“I’ve been wanting to do that again since our first kiss,” he said breathlessly, breaking our kiss.

“So have I,” I smiled up at him. “So you wanted to get to know me huh?”

“Yes I did,” he said, grabbing my hand. “I still do.”

“Then let’s go,” I said as I led him out of the auditorium and to a plot of land that overlooks the fields. “This is where I’d come when I needed some time to myself, it was always so peaceful here.”

“It does seem very peaceful.” He said looking around the quaint area.

“I frequented this spot often when my parents were going through their divorce.” I said as I sat on the soft grass. “This was the only place I found comfort during that time, my parents were at each others throats and Lincoln and I were always caught in the middle.”

“I’m sorry you both had to go through that,” he said, tightening his grip on my hand comfortingly.

“It’s alright, that made me who I am today and I wouldn’t change a thing.” I leaned my head on his shoulder, “so what do you want to know?”

“Let’s start off easy,” he smiled. "What's your favorite color?”

“It’s turquoise, what’s yours?”

“I didn’t know the questions were getting turned around on me,” he chuckled. “It’s blue and my favorite song is ‘Don’t stop Believin’.”

“Good choice,” I giggled. “So this one is heavy, what exactly happened to you?”

“I was laid out by a tackle in the homecoming game my senior year.” He shuddered remembering his final moments. “Coach pulled me out to rest my knee, I was sitting on the bench when my mama came down to the field, she wanted to know what was going on,” he sighed and I knew where this was going. “She convinced me to tell my coach I was okay and to get back into the game, she said I could rest when I was dead and that rest doesn’t get scholarships.” The hurt in his eyes was evident and a tear began to roll down his cheek. “Coach put me back in and I was rushing for a touchdown, I was nearly in the end zone when I was taken down, I heard a crack and everything went black. I didn’t feel any pain, but I only wished I could’ve scored one more touchdown for my mama.”

My heart was in my throat, “Wally I’m so sorry,” I choked. “If your mom would’ve just let you rest, you wouldn’t have died.”

“You’re right but you know everything happens for a reason and I’ve accepted that.” He put his arm around me, “so what’s your favorite movie?”

“Titanic and yours?”

“Raiders of the lost ark, speaking of movies, we have movie nights around here from time to time. Do you think maybe you’d want to go to one with me as my date?”

“Wally Clark, are you asking me on a date?”

I said looking up at him. “Of course I would love to be your date to one of the movie nights.”

“Hell yeah.” He kissed the top of my head. “You know I’ve enjoyed this.”

“So have I Wally.”

We sat together just enjoying each other's company until night time had fallen upon the school. “Wally, do you think we’d have gotten along this well if we were alive in the same lifetime?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He responded, “but I’ll take this lifetime any day.” He kissed my temple.

I don’t know exactly what is going on between Wally and I. I know that I am falling for this lovable football player hard and fast, but for now I’m content with where we’re at. He makes being dead much more bearable than it would have been without him.

[alheria]

Off Duty (one-shot)

Ghost's unit has been on a mandatory leave for a week now, and for the first time in the history of having time off, the lieutenant was actually enjoying it.

As always, he was planning on going to Manchester to crash in his flat if it was still there, order takeout, crack some beers in front of a telly and patiently wait until it's time to return to action where he truly belonged. The usual really, been through it dozens of times. However, as they were packing before their flight back to Europe, König, with unusually high level of confidence and burning determination in his prone to avoiding direct contact eyes, said something absolutely unexpected.

Come home with me.

And that's how Ghost ended up in Graz, a big, beautiful city in southeast Austria, because for some reason he couldn't say "no" to this fucking kid.

The why was somewhere beyond his comprehension. König didn't ask for much, he was rather the type to do things for others, but every damn time he was brave enough to express his needs, the lieutenant would go out of his way to make that happen. Because it felt right. Strange as well, that painless heaviness of his heart that appeared whenever the Austrian looked happy was something Ghost didn't mind, but honestly did not understand and often got freaked out by. So, as a strong problem-solver, he decided to ignore this one until further notice, too busy relaxing right now. Because surprisingly, König owned a really cosy, truly incredible place.

It was a three-bedroom apartment on a fourth floor of a very old looking, yellow coloured building near the city centre. Every room was unique, although similar, as if designed by a bunch of completely different people who all loved some form of art. The master bedroom had a heavy, antique bed in the middle, two equally ancient bedside tables with several leather-bound journals lying on them and a definitely haunted, massive wooden wardrobe. The rest was paintings. Every wall was fully covered in colourful oil paintings showcasing portraits, landscapes, flowers, just everything really. The guest bedroom was a library with a bed in it. Hundreds of old books piled up on the tall shelves, ones that didn't fit were put in stacks on the floor. The third was obviously a workspace of sorts: a large desk cluttered with music sheets, dirty easels leaning on the walls, a brown piano standing in the centre surrounded by various instrument cases, a single bed pushed under the window. Even the kitchen and the bathroom were not spared, tiles obviously hand painted, shelves filled with handmade utensils and most random of objects such as a life-sized, pitch black goat statue lurking from behind the fridge that scared the shit out of Ghost one night.

König said this chaotic, amazing space belonged to his grandfather, a man of several crafts: composer, painter, sculptor, writer. True artistic soul. As a child he used to spent here every summer, immerse himself in old man's creative projects, especially eagerly in the ones related to music. He learned to play piano, viola, cello and oboe before the grandfather died three days after his twelve birthday. The Austrian never spoke anything about his family other than "they're all dead or dead to me". It felt precious, hearing something so...personal from a person whose real name was still a great mystery. The Brit suspected he could find it somewhere in this madness, perhaps written on the back of one of the photographs piling in drawers. He wouldn't though. Betraying König's trust was absolutely out of the question. Ghost couldn't risk breaking them apart.

What didn't seem to be a valid possibility, basing on how comfortable the younger soldier was around him. The second they turned into "civilians", the lieutenant became a victim to unfamiliar clinginess, constantly touched or in some way held by his teammate, both at home and in public. Which was yet another slightly troubling, newly discovered element of their unlabeled relation. 

For the first time, the owner felt owned.

If that was not enough, Ghost could sense his hardcore masculinity fade away, soak into the vibrantly orange, squishy pillows of the couch he was splayed on under a heavy, green knitted blanket, as he waited for König to come back from the bathroom, so they can continue watching some outrageous reality show on the completely out of place flat TV. It looked utterly ridiculous, a shiny, brand-new piece of technology standing on an upside down wooden crate in the middle of a literal museum with a whole mural representing a peaceful village painted right behind it. But as the Austrian said: "sometimes I need my brain off and only trashy shows can do that for me", thus he had to buy it and ruin the mysterious atmosphere.

-Argh! It gets so cold in that stupid bathroom in winter! -exclaimed suddenly the younger man upon returning, rubbing his large palms together. -I'm freezing! -he complained, pulling up the blanket and swiftly sliding into the empty space between Ghost's spread legs, leaning into the warmth pleasantly radiating from the Brit's skin. After spending months in hot climate countries, it was rather challenging to tolerate European weather conditions of late January. König was glad he managed to bring his current personal heater back with him.

-You're such a baby. -huffed the lieutenant, instantly wrapping the muscular arms around his partner's chest, because secretly, he enjoyed holding him close. It was the only time Ghost felt König was truly safe in their dangerous world, shielded from the harsh, deadly reality and protected from any harm. 

At least for a short while. 

-Your baby. -he murmured, happily wriggling around to make himself more comfortable in the tight embrace before resuming the show, completely clueless how much his blissful joy meant to his overprotective teammate.

-One and only. -Ghost hummed, resting his chin on the soft hair, inhaling the comforting scent of flowery shampoo, absently gazing at the screen, lost in deep thoughts warning over and over that he shouldn't be here. That he's becoming weak.

Those intrusive thoughts weren't even wrong. Recently, deep cracks appeared in his inhuman mask, possibly caused by the unexpected attachment to the scary on the outside, gentle on the inside Austrian soldier. And as day by day the bond grew in strength, the fractures kept spreading, threatening to break the once solid cover and reveal the person hiding behind it. 

Make his biggest fear come true.

But even though Ghost was scared of getting exposed, not for a second he considered retreat. Returning to familiar seclusion, distancing himself from the strange, new feelings would surely solve the problem, although somehow, the sole idea of leaving König behind made him sick to his stomach, unreasonably nervous and...miserable. How could he ever abandon this beautiful, fragile, warm ray of sunshine? 

He would rather fucking die.

-König, once we're back, I need you to be extra careful. Promise me you will be careful. I can't have anything happen to you. -Ghost blurted out of the blue, surprising both himself and the other man. His hold tightened unconsciously as this pathetic proof of utter vulnerability escaped his lips.

-What are you talking about? -the Austrian asked slightly confused, tilting his head up to send the Brit a questioning look.

-Promise me. -demanded the lieutenant, his gaze dark, dead serious. He already started the subject, could as well end it properly instead of brushing it off like he tended to whenever he said something weird.

-Gee, I promise. -König rolled his unamused eyes, completely unfazed by the sudden atmosphere change, already well-used to Ghost's frequent mood swings. -Nothing is gonna happen to me anyway, you've been watching me like a hawk ever since we started dating.

Since they what?

-Wait. You think we're dating? -he frowned. Never once they spoke about their relation in any concrete terms, there was no need. Maybe they were having sex and often spend time together, but...a relationship? Doesn't it require having fee...oh...dammit. 

-Surely feels like we are. -the Austrian replied nonchalantly. -You told me I belong to you, I am not allowed to fuck with anyone else and if this...-gestured at the two of them snuggling under one blanket-...is not what boyfriends do, then I have no idea what to call our status. Do you have a better name for it? -he wondered, casually averting his eyes back towards the TV, leaving his partner absolutely speechless. 

Of course he fucking didn't.

After all, he's never been in a romantic relationship before.

-I am...no good at it. -Ghost whispered, burying his nose in the fragrant strands. -I don't date.

-Huh? Does it mean I am free to do whatever I want? Flirt with other men? Fuck whoever I want, whenever I want? -questioned König, so calmly as if he already knew the answer, not a hint of hesitation or worry in his steady voice. He didn't even look at Ghost, that's how confident he was he would not get rejected. There was no doubt in his mind they were an actual, perhaps a little different, couple. No doubt.

-I would kill you. -he quietly answered, affectionately rubbing his cheek on the soldier's head, trying to not think about his precious possession being violated by another, curled up in someone else's arms, adoring some complete stranger. Unacceptable.

At those alarming words, with a heavy sigh, the Austrian pushed himself away and rotated towards his partner. The blanket fell off his broad back when he knelt and reached forward to squeeze the surprised man's shoulders.

-Then you have to make up your mind, Ghost. -he said, gazing coldly at the lieutenant as he towered over him, his voice firm, demanding even. -What. Am I. To you?

It was a very simple question with a very simple answer.

-Everything. -Ghost replied, tenderly cupping König's cheek. -You're everything I need.

Something flickered in the younger soldier's darkened eyes, a mischievous glimmer that quickly turned into raging fire. Which could only mean one thing...

-Prove it. -he smirked, wrapping his arms around the back of the Brit's neck, lowering himself onto his wide chest and suggestively rubbing their hips together.

-Don't get ahead of yourself, soldier. -the older man growled, sliding his hands under König's oversized hoodie that didn't belong to him. A small grin rose on his face when he heard a barely audible moan as he began to caress the warm, sensitive skin. -Or I'll be forced to remind you your place. -added, painfully pinching his side. The soldier gasped in shock, but the playful smile returned promptly.

-Please do. -he agreed, leaning down to press a short, sweet peck to Ghost's lips, who in response only deepened the kiss, pulled his lover impossibly closer, so close he struggled to breathe properly under the overwhelming weight of the tall, athletic body. He didn't mind. It was exactly what he always wanted - a large, scary, submissive guy to play with.

König ticked all those boxes.

In addition, was so beautifully responsive, gently thrusting into lieutenant's growing erection as the two tongues danced lazily, entangled inside their hot mouths. Ghost moved his palm down to that perfectly round ass, slowly kneaded the soft flesh through the thin sweatpants material, while the other hand resumed its previous course along the arching spine. The hardening shafts easily found the sweet spot in this familiar position, delicate friction generated sparkles of pleasure, increased the temperature of their already overheating bodies.

-Take it off. -huffed the Austrian tugging on Ghost's hoodie, his fingers sneaking under the clothing, seeking direct contact. The older man snorted but complied, struggling in the limited space as his lover refused to move, he got rid of the interfering sweatshirt and threw it on the floor.

-Happy now? -asked the lieutenant, watching König drag his fingertips along the defined chest muscles, circle around the stiffening under featherlight touch nipples. Tenderness was something he learned to enjoy only recently when they started sleeping together, previously repulsed by it, interested only in fast, rough sex, he now leaned into it shamelessly, letting himself soak in the arousal.

-Not yet. -he hummed, sliding his palm down, through the large pecs and strong abdomen, all the way to the obvious bulge in loose pants he fondled briefly, sending a vibrating shiver down Ghost's spine. He then threw one long leg over the wide hips and sat on the hard stomach, grazing that needy penis with his ass. -Don't touch. Watch. -ordered, with a teasing grin swiftly pulling the layers down, revealing the thick thighs and a fat, veiny dick twitching upwards in anticipation.

Fuck.

What a sight.

König looked like a fucking snack, eyes foggy, swollen lips parted, allowing quiet groans to escape them as his hand, firmly closed on the leaking erection, began to masturbate right in front of Ghost's tense face. It was hell of a challenge to stay still, observe the erotic act while his forgotten cock begged to be noticed, barely brushed whenever the Austrian withdrew before thrusting back into the fist, accompanied by now louder groans reflecting the rising arousal. Not breaking the intense eye contact or pausing the hand movements, he reached to the side table where a small bottle laid, discarded after last night. The lieutenant jerked when the cold liquid poured onto his steaming chest, pooled between distinct abs lines. He didn't even manage to ask what the fuck was this about. König instantly scooped some of it with his fingers that shortly migrated towards the back, pressed the needy, still nicely stretched hole, easily sneaked inside it to prepare for the beefy penis. The high-pitched moan that followed almost sent Ghost to an early grave.

-Babe. -he growled, his voice low, a starved purr. The younger man smirked, still pleasuring himself from both sides, two slick fingers pounded him eagerly while the hand slid on the hard shaft, making the Brit so, fucking, jealous. And so, damn, itchy. His dick impossibly strained, confined by the damp underwear, in desperate need to get some action. To fuck that slutty ass.

-Hmm? Is someone feeling neglected? -König guessed correctly, shifting his weight to put pressure on Ghost's twitching boner, twerking the hips to further tease the oversensitive flesh, forcing out a deep groan. He then took the fingers out, slowly lowered himself onto the man's hot, sticky chest, his erection pleasantly coated itself in the lube when their bodies collided, and blinded with arousal, whispered right into his lover's ear:

-I'm feeling kind of empty.

In a blink of an eye, like in some trance, the lieutenant violently pulled his cock out and slammed into the Austrian's hole, to the very bottom, nearly making him choke in surprise. Not giving him a second to breathe, he began roughly thrusting into those amazing, warm insides effortlessly swallowing him whole. König instinctively lifted his bottom to make more space, safely wrapped around Ghost's neck, rested a cheek on his head, feeling the ability to think fade away. When large hands arched his back inward, the leaking tip started rubbing the smooth stomach with each powerful push, sending ecstatic waves through his whole, shaking body.

-A...a little to the left. -he whined, needing the rushing cock to fully rub the pulsating prostate, not only graze it sporadically. The older man immediately adjusted the trajectory, now hitting that sweet spot with each thrust. 

-Like that, baby? -confirmed, pressing a kiss to König covered collarbone. He must have been burning, bent in such an exhausting position while dressed in warm clothing, but didn't seem to mind, busy chasing the evidently incoming orgasm. Ghost sneaked his palm under, seeking skin to skin contact and indeed, it was crazy hot, sweating profoundly too.

-Mhm. Faster. -mumbled the Austrian, with his eyes closed and nose comfortably burrowed in soft hair, beginning to go numb from the immense pleasure coming from every direction, patiently waiting to cross the edge he was already extremely close to.

And then it all fucking stopped.

-Aren't you awfully demanding today? -Ghost asked, fully submerged holding the younger man's ass firmly pressed down, preventing him from moving. A dark grin appeared on his face when König rapidly pulled away, completely shocked and utterly confused, his foggy eyes tearing up fast.

-What? No! Please! -he cried out, clawing onto his partner's shoulders in clear distress. -I'm sorry! Don't stop! So sorry!

Ghost smiled at that pathetic act of desperation. He cupped the soldier's blushed cheek, caressed it fondly as the man trembled violently from pure frustration, shedding silent tears.

-Good boy. -hummed the Brit, letting go of the impatient body. -Ride me.

König didn't need to hear no more. Supporting himself with both hands flat on the muscular stomach, he hesitantly started raising up and down, increasing the speed upon the arousal's blissful return. Moans came back as well, fueled by the strength of a building orgasm that, once interrupted, began rolling faster on the second approach. Ghost felt it too, watching his painfully hard penis disappear between his lover's trembling legs, all he wanted was to slam deep into that lovely ass and properly fill it up, coat those silky, fiercely contracting insides in his sperm. Close to crossing the line, he grabbed König's jumping, wet dick, making him whine loudly as he jerked it very, very slowly in contrary to the rushed, erratic thrusts.

-Come for me baby. -he ordered, simultaneously tightening the grip and shooting his own hips up to fully bottom down. Came instantly, with the first spasm of the Austrian's body, whose cock spilled heavily over the closed fist as his hole got thoroughly pumped. The lieutenant, blinded by his own orgasm, reached towards the euphorically shaking man, pulled him into a tight embrace, held close until their senses made reappearance, hearts stopped beating like crazy, minds regained some composure.

Through the still cloudy eyes, Ghost looked at his lover peacefully resting in his arms, smiling weakly, lulled to sleep by immense joy mixed with absolute exhaustion. Adorable, he thought, gently tucking loose, sweaty strands behind the dozing off soldier's blushed ear.

-Sooo...am I allowed to call you my boyfriend from now on? -König murmured, nudging the Brit's neck as he shifted into a more comfortable position, even though rather soon they had to get up and shower. 

-Whatever makes you happy. -Ghost sighed, pressing a tender kiss to his warm forehead. 

For you, I'd burn the world if you only asked me to.

[void-of-unparalled-chaos]

   It had to be perfect. 

  Damian squinted at the canvas, absently tapping the end of his paintbrush against the desk.

  The first painting had been hard. He wasn’t supposed to think about Daniyah. He wasn’t supposed to remember her or grieve her. At the league, the dead stayed dead in more ways than one.

  Despite his best efforts to comply with the rule, Damian had always kept his sister with him. That didn’t make it any easier as he sat in front of his easel, digging through his mind for scraps of memory like a feral animal in a trashcan. To do so went against everything Grandfather and Mother had taught him.

  He had started with hesitant brush strokes. The boiling grief and anger that had thrown him into a frenzy that culminated in a single sketch within a destroyed room had long abated. It rested at a simmer as he’d dabbed the bristles of his brush into the paint, and it flowed through him as he touched it lightly to the canvas. 

   It was an arduous journey but by the end, his ukhti was staring back at him. He’d been proud of the painting even with the lingering sorrow that seemed to drape over his shoulders like a heavy shawl.

   Looking at the portrait on the mantel felt blasphemous now. 

   That’s why this one had to be perfect.

   His twin’s spectral visit had been brief, too brief for Damian to truly look upon him and commit details to memory. He was trained to notice minutiae, but he’d been preoccupied with his mad dash to throw his arms around the ghost and his subsequent tumble into the fireplace. 

   Damian spent days in front of the mantel sketching. He hoped that sitting where he’d last seen his brother would help him recall anything he missed. Some of his features remained the same as they had before. The shape of his nose hadn’t changed and neither had the small scar on his brow. His twin’s eyes were as familiar to Damian as the crooked smile he wore, but the long hair that had once been pulled back with a tie had been cut short, windswept upon his head. His cheeks, too, had grown more pronounced with age or whatever mimicry of it the dead experienced. 

   It had taken many pieces of paper until Damian held something that felt right. From there it was simply a matter of translating his work onto canvas in light pencil scratches and gathering his paints. 

   Now he sits in front of his easel once more, his twin’s face staring back at him as if begging to be displayed. The portrait has been done for a while now, residing in his room for the past few days. Never has Damian found the drying time of oil paint to be so tedious. 

   He tentatively pokes the canvas, humming in satisfaction when his finger comes back clean and dry. He inspects the painting one final time, ensuring that every color and brushstroke is flawless. 

   Satisfied with his work, Damian gently lifts it from the easel and exits his living quarters. The hallway is quiet and just as absent of life as the sitting room is when he enters. The first portrait lays face down upon the mantel, banished from where it used to hang by his grandparents. 

   Damian sets the new painting gently against the wall to push a chair against the fireplace. He carefully stands upon the cushion, canvas in hand. Alfred would surely be disappointed, but Damian can’t find it in himself to care when he has a mission as important as this. 

  It’s fitting, in a way. The rule at the league was that the dead stayed dead. Daniyah had died when they’d sent her away, not strong enough to complete a basic training mission. Daniyah would stay dead. 

   But Danny?

   Damian smiles as he hooks the new portrait on the nail, aligning it even. His akhi smirks down at him with mirthful eyes and a mischievous grin. 

   Daniyah was dead, but Danny would remain very much alive.

It wasn’t supposed to be a secret.

If you died while with the league, you will no longer be acknowledged to have existed, especially if you died during a mission. A disappointment will not be remembered.

The bats and birds don’t like speaking about the people they have lost, so they don’t. If someone ask about the dead, they will tell the person they don’t talk about that.

So how was Damian supposed to know that he should have told his father about his dead brother?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Portrait of a Dangerous Man🎨2

Warnings: (series) non-consent sex and rape; slow creep; cucking; (this chapter) nothing as yet.

This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Your dream of having your work hung in an art show comes true but your first buyer is not all he seems to be.

Note: Thank you for your positive response to this one! I hope you enjoy what I have in store.

Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Your Spotify list of redundant tracks flowed through the apartment as you sat typing at your small desk in the corner of the front room. The boxy space was as oppressive as any office space, another reason for your voluntary work at the gallery. Vanessa let you in the studio to paint. Without the privilege, you wouldn’t have the space for your easel.

You stretched your fingers and rubbed your eyes. You felt dizzy from staring at the screen, even with night mode on. The work was monotonous and made you restless. You wanted a pencil or brush in hand, a canvas before you, not this blaring laptop. You yawned and took a sip of your lukewarm water.

Your phone vibrated from across the room and you checked the time. Your lunch started soon but no one was really keeping track. As long as you got your assignments done, it didn’t matter when you chewed on toast and disassociated.

You got up and grabbed your phone from the corner table and leaned against the arm of the couch. You remembered how Marcus woke up there and grumbled as he lifted his head in pain. You couldn’t really feel bad for him going into work hungover. He embarrassed you and it didn’t quite sink in until after Clark left you to stare down at your drunk boyfriend.

An unknown number showed on your screen and you answered tentatively, ready to hang up at the first sales pitch. Your name came from the speaker and you recognized the deep voice in an instant. It took you back to the night before and the canvas hung on the wall.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Clark said, “I only just had the paintings hung and I thought… well, I thought you might like to come see them in their new home.”

“Um…” you chewed your thumb, uncertain how to respond.

“Sorry, I know I can be a bit… to the point,” he laughed at himself, “how are you?”

“I’m good, just… taking a break.”

“You working?”

“Yeah, but I work from home,” you said as you touched the side of your neck, “I could… I could come see them but it might be a while before--”

“When are you finished work?” he asked bluntly.

“Four but I… maybe another day.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy but I did have something else to speak with you about,” he said, “a commission, like I mentioned.”

“Oh?”

“I kinda wanna get it started sooner than later, it will probably be pretty time-consuming,” he explained and you heard a clink and a soft sip, “I don’t wanna get into details on the phone but I promise, you will be compensated nicely.”

“You can’t wait until tomorrow?” you wondered.

“I suppose I can but it’d have to be during the day,” he responded, “why don’t you take some time to figure it out and get back to me by two? You can text me through this number.”

“Erm, sure,” you said uneasily, “I’m sorry, it’s just… very sudden, I don’t--”

“You can bring the boyfriend,” he said casually, “if you like.”

“He won’t be… home,” you said carefully, “I’ll let you know. Thank you.”

“I look forward to hearing from you,” he replied, “have a good day.”

“You, too,” you said and the line died.

You put your phone down and took a moment. Good things rarely happened to you. You struggled so long it was hard to think that might change. The skeptic in you told you there was something behind it all. That it couldn’t possibly be your art.

You went back to your computer and sighed as you waved away the screensaver with your mouse. The blinking cursor made you want to believe it was your big break.

🎨

You texted Clark at one and at four, you were in an Uber. Marcus drove his car to work and you stuck to buses and the underground when you could. The address was at least an hour out, the house among those estates on the edge of the city reserved for the upper echelon. You’d only ever seen the sprawling yards on your way to the next town.

When the car finally turned up the drive and you passed beyond a low brick wall, you felt entirely out of your depth. You tipped the Uber but didn’t feel too bad with the check from Vanessa sitting soundly in your account. You clutched the strap of your bag and walked along the curve of the brick work towards the stairs.

“Hey,” you stopped as Clark called to you, your ankle still tender from the night before.

You glanced over as he came out of the large garage and peeled off a pair of leather gloves. He smiled as he tucked them into his jacket pocket. You watched him and played with the clasp on your bag.

“Just got back from a drive,” he said, “I almost got carried away. I’m glad you made it.”

“Yeah, no problem,” you replied.

“Well, come on, let me show you around,” he waved behind you towards the front doors, “we’ll go on a tour and then we can talk details.”

“Wow,” you uttered mindlessly as you climbed the stairs to the door but kept the weight on your uninjured ankle, “this place is huge.”

“My contractor went a little crazy,” he scoffed, “but I can’t complain.”

He led you through the doors and directed you to the left. In the front room, your work was hung along the opposite wall, arranged in a way that drew the eye to them. You stepped closer and peered up at your work with a hint of awe. They looked even better in a place like that.

“I had my interior designer make the final call on where to hang them,” he explained, “I hope you don’t mind, I gave her your details. She said she had clients who might be interested in your work.”

“Really?” you breathed, “that’s… too nice.”

“Oh yeah? One day, you’ll be sick of rich pricks like me,” he grinned, “I’ll show you the pool, that’s usually the main attraction.”

“Sounds good,” you said as you followed but he paused and watched your stunted gait.

“I forgot, we can go slow,” he offered, “how’s the ankle?”

“I’ll make do,” you affirmed as you neared him, “just need to get my steps in.”

🎨

As you finished the tour of the second floor, you slowed along the long hall and admired the work of artists you only ever saw in museums. You couldn’t help but be enamoured by the historic blots of paint. You almost forgot where you were as you leaned in to read the initials beneath the pastel flowers.

“So,” Clark’s voice brought you back, you almost blanked him out entirely in your mind, “I think you might have noticed the empty space above the fireplace in the front room. I was hoping you could fill it.”

“Oh?” you looked at him and smiled nervously, “did you have something in mind? A landscape or--”

“Well, your portraits are great. I like the old world style. I was hoping you might do one of… me,” he suggested, “I know, it’s vain but why not?”

“I mean, yeah, I could do that,” you said.

“I’ll pay hourly plus materials,” he continued, “three hundred an hour.”

You almost choked at the number. You blinked and swallowed through your surprise.

“Even a small portrait would take at least twelve hours,” you warned, “are you sure?”

“I know it’s a lot of time for you, so… I was thinking, if you have to miss work, I’ll factor it into your rate. I would really like to get the project started as soon as we can,” he put his hand on his hip as he looked down at you, “the only thing I need from you is a list of materials. I’ll have them waiting for you here.”

“Here?”

“Well, yeah, I figure it makes most sense,” he turned his palm out.

“Hmm, sure, I prefer my own brushes but… you know I can just buy the stuff myself--”

“Ah, no, I want it to be perfect. You send me a list and I’ll have my assistant go out and get it all ready,” he assured, “How does Sunday sound?”

“Sunday?” you blanched. That was two days away.

“Like I said, Marcus is more than welcome to come with you,” he offered, “I’d hate to keep you from him too long.”

“I guess Sunday works,” you squeaked, “I’ll talk to Marcus.”

“Great,” he said coolly, “well, that’s business. How about a drink to seal the deal?”

“I don’t know, I should probably get back,” you fiddled with your bag against your hip.

“One drink won’t hurt,” he said, “go on, call the boyfriend and let him know you won’t be much longer.”

“I… thanks,” you murmured.

“You’re humble for an artist,” he joked as he sidled by you, “once you grow an ego, you’ll be unstoppable.” He neared the stairs as you turned to watch him, “I’ll be at the bar, waiting. You like gin?”

“Sure,” you answered as you pulled out your phone, “I’ll see you down there.”

🎨

When you told Marcus about your new side gig, he was even more excited than you. You were anxious and slightly hesitant. You hated to jump in feet first and risk losing more than a few tubes of paint. What if the work wasn’t good enough?

Marcus was more than willing to come with you when you told him about the size of the place. He knew by the area that it was extravagant. You sat in the passenger seat with the most expensive bottle of wine you’d ever bought cradled between your legs. You hated to show up empty handed after all of Clark’s generosity.

Marcus got lost and went down the wrong driveway before you righted your course. As you drove up, you were once more overcome from the rich rosebuds and sparkling fountain at the centre of the mosaic. You gripped the neck of the bottle and got out as Marcus whistled in awe.

“You weren’t kidding. This place is fucking nuts,” he swore, “I should’ve worn the tux from my brother’s wedding.”

“Please, Marcus,” you rolled your eyes, “let’s both try not to break anything.”

“You’re the clumsy one,” he chirped, “shit, you’re so lucky. You get to hang out here and paint all day? God, I wish I had an ounce of artistic talent. I’d trade it for code in a minute.”

You climbed the steps and clanged the large knocker on the right door. You waited a moment before an answer came and Clark appeared on the other side and beckoned you inside. He smiled as he shook Marcus’ hand.

“Thanks for joining us,” he said, “I would’ve felt awful stealing your girlfriend on the weekend like this.”

“Are you kidding me? She said you had a pool and I snuck the swim shorts into the backseat,” Marcus chuckled and you nudged him with your elbow.

“See?” Clark arched a brow, “the pool is always the seller.”

“Here,” you said as you held out the bottle of red, “for everything you’ve done and welcoming us into your home.”

“Ohhh,” he took the bottle and looked over the label, “I got a spot for this right behind the bar. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, I brought my brushes,” you patted the canvas bag on your shoulder.

“Mmm, yeah, well, I’ll just put this away and we’ll give Marcus the grand tour. Then I’ll get you situated,” he assured and rushed off.

He returned and pointed Marcus through to the front room, “you’ll see, just over here,” he directed him to your paintings.

“Oh, wow, babe,” Marcus marveled at the hung portraits, “you really did it.”

You smiled bashfully and Clark peeked over at you and winked. You squirmed as your cheeks burned and you turned away as he beckoned Marcus past the mantle.

“It’s a big place,” Clark said, “I’d like to get you started before noon.”

Clark led you along the same path as days before and slowed as you came back to the top of the stairs. He turned back and clapped his hands together.

“Marcus, if you wanna hop in the pool, we’re gonna start just in there,” he pointed to the one door you hadn’t looked through, “that’s the studio.”

“What about you?” Marcus asked.

“Well, I’ll be a part of the process so I’m afraid I will be just as busy but if you need anything, Nina, she has a crooked nose and mean mouth but don’t let her fool you, she’ll get you whatever you need,” he said, “just don’t track in water from the pool or she’ll string you up.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t sound too bad. Some alone time in the sun and a pool,” Marcus grinned, “I really couldn’t ask for anything else… except you, babe.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, “go, have fun.”

Marcus kissed you quickly and thanked Clark again before he excitedly barreled down the steps. You scratched your neck as you looked back to your host, and you guessed, your new boss.

“I’m sorry about him. He can be such a kid sometimes,” you said.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he waved it off, “so, you ready to see your workspace? I kinda wanted it to be a surprise. Also, a bit last minute so it’s not perfect… yet.”

“Uh, yeah,” you answered, “can’t wait.”

He motioned you over to the tall dusty rose doors and hooked his fingers in the slotted handles. He slid them open and revealed an airy room with a tall ceiling and long windows. An easel stood facing the sun streaked glass, an immense canvas bigger than yourself, bigger than him, propped up on it. There was a ladder nearby and the table was set with a rainbow of paints and a large pallet.

Your lips parted as you neared the easel and stared up at the canvas, “you were right, it’s gonna be a lot of work.”

“I hope it’s not too much,” he said, “but you name your price. We’ll make it work.”

“No, no, I think for what you’re paying, I’ll do just fine,” you put your bag down daintily on the table, “so, uh, a portrait, I guess that means…”

Your voice trailed off as he went to the upholstered chair across the room, at an angle so you could see him from your vantage. Behind it, hung a velvet curtain to add to the scene and a bust on a pedestal. It felt surreal, like a dream.

You turned and pulled out the brushes, “I think you’ll get more tired than me, just sitting there.”

“I’ll make it through,” he assured as he sat, “is there anyway you’d like me to sit? Chin up, or…”

“Hmmm,” you turned to look at him, “I think… if you just put your shoulders back and… did you want a profile or--”

“I was thinking front-facing,” he stared at you steadily, unflinching as his eyes stuck to you, “just like this.”

“Perfect,” you said nervously and looked back to the table. 

There was water to rinse your brushes, rags, pencils, blending sticks; everything you needed and more. You took a pencil from the bunch and pulled over the ladder. You climbed up and looked over at Clark as he sat stoic and still. He looked picturesque in real life, you expected paint would only lend to his figure.

His eyes met yours and you turned to start tracing the basic shapes onto the canvas. You had to stop and steady your hand as you did. His gaze made it hard not to tremble.

[luvidzy]

☆ genre: fluff

☆ pairing: hwang yeji x reader

☆ summary: it’s the day of your first art exhibition and yeji isn’t there to hold your hand

☆ word count: 1.8k

Your fork clattered onto your plate, your hand trembling as you took in the news that your girlfriend, Yeji, wouldn’t be able to make it to your art exhibition tomorrow. You had been so excited and proud to share your artwork with her, having spent a long time on the specific piece being displayed. The display that she would never see.

She stared at you with eyes full of sadness, moving to take your hand in hers. You were still frozen, your lips shaking as you tried to stop the oncoming tears that were making their way to the corners of your eyes.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I really did everything I could, but we are just so close to our comeback that I can’t miss anything.” Yeji’s voice was soft, almost as if she was afraid you might break if she raised her tone. You squeezed your eyes shut, begging yourself to get a grip on your emotions. You needed to calm down, afterall this really wasn’t that big of a deal.

“No…. No, it’s fine. I promise. Sorry, I guess it’s just been a weird day.” That was a lie. Your day had actually been really good (up until now), but Yeji didn’t need to know that. If lying was what it took for her to feel a little less guilty about the situation, then you would lie until the sun began to rise in the morning.

“Will you take pictures? I still want to see everything, and I want to hear about everything. I promise, the minute I come home, I’m all yours,” Yeji said, giving you the smile that always managed to warm your heart and bring you a little bit of solace. 

“Won’t you be tired from practice?”

“Too tired for my beautifully talented partner? Never.” You giggled weakly at that comment, feeling a small smile make its way onto your face. You were still upset, still cursing the fact that you couldn’t have Yeji there for something so important, but you knew that she meant every word she said about staying up to listen to you recall your experience.

“Okay. I love you.” Yeji lifted your hand and pressed the smallest kiss onto the back of it. You felt your face heat up as she smiled at you, continuing to hold your hand while grabbing her silverware with the other one, determined to give you comfort in her touch, even if it was only the smallest sliver of happiness.

The next morning, after a quick breakfast with Yeji, she headed off to do some outfit fittings while you headed out to do last minute checks on your art before it was taken to the small gallery the event was taking place at. Your teacher was already waiting in the classroom, your canvas sitting on an easel.

You took one last look at the piece in front of you, of the watercolors that splashed together on the canvas to create the perfect image, before you let the black cloth drop over it. Your teacher gave you a smile as she patted you on the back.

“It’s going to look great at the exhibit tonight, Y/N. Just you wait,” she reassured. You gave her a soft smile, though you couldn’t get rid of the pit that sat in your stomach. After all, the one person who you wanted to see the piece most wouldn’t be able to make it.

You knew that it wasn’t Yeji’s fault; that it was the price that you paid for dating an idol. You would simply have to get used to the fact that she wouldn’t be available all the time, and that you would simply have to do certain things alone, even if you wanted nothing more than to hold her hand while doing them.

Upon leaving your classroom, you headed straight to your apartment. As much as you would have loved to sit and mope around til the time came for the exhibit, you knew that getting ready would take much longer than you wanted. Afterall, this wasn’t a simple class gathering, this was a public art exhibition, and you wanted to look your best for the masses.

After showering and spending about half an hour wrapped in a towel looking at your phone, you finally decided to get ready. You sent a quick text to Yeji, wishing her luck on their practice tonight, before throwing your phone gently onto your bed and focusing on getting yourself presentable.

It wasn’t until you were on the way to the exhibit that the nerves began to set in. This was your first time showing art to such a big group of people, and you hoped that they would find it as beautiful as you did. Despite the reassurance from Yeji and your teacher prior to this moment, you still found your finger nervously tapping the steering wheel as you tried to get your heart to stop pounding.

This was right about the time that you would have loved to have Yeji’s hand to hold, to squeeze, to ground you and let you know that everything was okay. But unfortunately, it was just you.

Your anxiety only worsened as you walked into the gallery. It wasn’t your first time here, and you usually loved visiting, but for some reason you couldn’t find it in you to step into the gallery knowing that your art was on the wall, waiting to be seen and critiqued.

You squeezed your eyes and pretended that Yeji was beside you, calming you down. You imagined her hand gently rubbing circles on your back, and it felt so real that you almost got chills as her hands moved from your back down to your hands. You could practically feel the weight of her palm in yours, and you squeezed lightly. You felt your eyes shoot open in surprise as her hand squeezed back, except it was too real to be just in your head.

You turned your head quickly, your breath catching as Yeji smiled from beside you. She looked gorgeous, in a simple skirt and a nice blouse, but she looked so much more magical to you. Your mouth opened in surprise as she smiled giddily at you, pulling you into her embrace. In no time, your hands were wrapped around her petite waist, holding her close as you felt the urge to cry again, this time with happiness. 

“I thought you said that you couldn’t make it,” you said, pulling back to make sure you weren’t dreaming. Her laugh filled your ears and you were certain that, no you weren’t dreaming, you were just dating the most perfect girl to ever exist.

“I managed to talk my way out of practice. I owe our choreographer dinner, but it was more than worth it to be here.”

“But, you shouldn’t miss practice! Your comeback is soon and this is something so small, it really doesn’t matter that much.” Your voice trailed off as Yeji squeezed your hands again. You looked at her, your heart melting at the soft smile that was on her face, along with the look of complete adoration in her eyes.

“But it matters to you. If it matters to you, then it is the most important thing in the world. I know that you were looking forward to showing me your art, and you support me all the time, it’s my job to do the same for you,” she explained, her voice warm and steady. Your arguments died in your throat as you let your joy spread to your face, a smile breaking onto your features. You hugged her again, quicker this time, before pulling her into the exhibit.

You walked around, observing the art and talking about the different artists and techniques used, until finally you came to your piece. Yeji let go of your hand, her eyes wide as she walked closer to it, as if in a trance, while you watched from the sidelines with a smile on your face.

Splashes of neutral colors were painted onto the canvas, the watercolor causing the paint to flow from one color to the other. A large tree stood in the background, the brown standing out against the black and gray night sky. Warm white lights were painting along the branches of the tree, the watercolor allowing them to look as though they were truly glowing steady and bright. In the middle of it all was a beautiful girl, your muse. She looked off into the distance, her sweater pulled up above her palms as she held them to her face for warmth. Her brown hair flowed around her shoulders, perfectly messy in the way that only the girl could pull off.

To anyone else, the painting might have looked simple: a girl by a tree at night. But Yeji instantly recognized the photo. It was one of your favorite photos that you had taken a few months into your relationship with Yeji. You had it as your phone wallpaper, and you always gushed about how the picture captured Yeji’s subtle beauty in the best way; you even said this was the night that you knew you truly and wholeheartedly loved Yeji.

Yeji turned to you, tears in her eyes as she looked back at the portrait, and then back at you. She rushed to you, pressing her lips to yours as she tried to convey all the love that she held for you. You kissed back, your own way of letting her know that you loved her too, and that this picture was just one way of how you showed that.

When she pulled away, she was giggling happily, a single tear streaking down her skin. You brushed it away with your thumb, smiling at her fondly.

“It’s me. You painted me,” Yeji said, her voice trembling as she smiled that smile that made her look just like a little kitten. You kissed her nose, nodding as you pulled back.

“Of course I did. You’re a work of art. I’m glad you think I captured your essence. I was worried you’d think I didn’t do you justice.” Yeji scoffed at your statement, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Didn’t do me justice? Y/N, you’ve painted me like an angel. You’ve done me the most justice than anyone could ever do,” she rambled, which caused you to laugh. She turned back to look it over again, before pulling out her phone to take a picture. Soon, she was typing away furiously, a mischievous smirk on her face. You raised an eyebrow as she tucked her phone back into her purse, a satisfied grin replacing the smirk as she took your hand again.

“What did you do?”

“I sent it to the Itzy groupchat. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t rub it in their faces that my partner made a masterpiece of me?” You laughed at her statement as she chuckled along with you.

“Now come on, I want to see the other art. Though, I doubt anything is gonna top yours.” You rolled your eyes softly, but couldn’t help but smile as she pulled you along gently, her hand in yours. 

Just the way it was meant to be.

[redoqs]

i was thinking how would the dimi daughters react to their s/o making a painting of them and writing (My Love) on it aswell? i think cassandra would hella blush

I think she would too honestly

Bela loves how passionate you are about painting. It was one of the things that drew her to you in the first place. She liked seeing your work, talking to you about it, offering you compliments and praises and seeing you light up at them. But now she found out that you were working on a new project for weeks now and you didn’t tell her? Why? And now you won’t let her see it either? She tries not to get too upset about it but she can’t help it. She thought of you sharing your art as something special with her and it tugs at her that you didn’t tell her about this one. Either way she doesn’t ask you about it until you find her in the kitchen

“There you are. C’mere I wanna show you a lil something.”

So Bela follows you to the art room and you lead her to the canvas and the moment she sees what’s on it she gasps. It’s her. It’s her? It’s her! And it’s so nicely done too! It looks just like her oh my god. Bela could only imagine the hours you put into this and you’ve written My Love in neat cursive over her head. Bela’s heart is thundering holy hell you are so talented and she loves you so so much

“This is…it’s me.”

“It is. I’m glad that your eyes work despite your age.”

Bela doesn’t even respond to the jab and keeps staring at the portrait. Now she’s thinking of something that she could gift you that would convey just how much she loves you

Alright so you have been working on a project for weeks now and you had refused to let Cassandra see it and at first she was like “alright, whatever” but then she got a little annoyed because it’s taking your time away from her and sure she’s not gonna actually admit it but she misses you and wants to spend time with you, how dare some colors take your attention away from her. Great, she done mad herself mad and now she’s gonna find you and demand some cuddles because this is some bullshit. She finds you in your room and just comes right in and of course you’re standing in front of that goddamn easel with a paintbrush in your hand. She’s about to start talking but you beat her to it

“I’m glad you’re here! I wanna show you what I’ve been working on!”

You tell her to come over and she does and whatever she’s gonna say dies in her throat because she’s looking at this beautiful and accurate painting of her. It looks amazing! And how was it a painting!? It looked like a photo and what was that written at the bottom? My Love? Cassandra is blushing now, this was so sweet of you. This was what you were working on? She feels bad now for getting upset

“This is what you were working on?”

“Yeah, I wanted it to be perfect for you.”

Cass is blushing harder now and is struggling to find words to express how much she loves the painting and you and she settles for: “you’re a dork.”

“Hmm, that’s a funny way of saying you love it.”

Now Dani? God, Dani loves when you paint, she love watching you because you looks so cute and concentrated! She’s good at painting herself but she would much rather watch you. But when you’ve been working on a certain painting for weeks and you refuse to let her see it or even tell her what it is she gets a little upset. You’ve never worked on any of your projects for this long and you always showed her what you were working on so what made this one different? She’s moping lowkey and she’s in her room when you knock on her door and come in.

“Hey, can you…are you okay?”

“No, I’m thinking about my purpose in the universe.”

“Girl if this is about the painting cmon, I wanna show you something.”

Dani gets up and follows you out of the room and towards yours. You walk in and you take her hand to lead her to the canvas. Dani looks at it, blinks, looks at it and rubs her eyes. This has to be a photograph because there is absolutely no way that this could be a painting. But it was and it was a painting of her! With the words “my love” written on either side of her. You made this for her? No way, for real!? Dani’s excited and she’s literally buzzing and she literally is tearing up

“You made this for me?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I paint the woman I’m in love with?”

Now…that was the icing on the cake because now the tears are falling and she’s planting kisses all over your face because she loves you so much

[jonnyvangelis]

lyfrassir edda needs hobbies and enrichment

2051 words, fluff, artistic nudity and some implied nsfw. In which Lyf paints nude portraits of the crew of the Starship Aurora. Jonny takes a nap. Lyf gets cuddled. It's a good time.

MARIUS

Marius von Raum is laying nude on the couch in front of them. Their brush stills, and they squint a touch, gauging the distance between his relaxed metallic hand where he holds his wine and his knee where the bottom of the glass rests in a way that should be precarious but looks altogether… Bacchic.

And that’s all they can think to describe him, really, the short man so lovely draped before them with the comfortable, crooked smile on their lips.

Indulgent. Exciting, dangerous, beautiful.

Beautiful… the painter’s hand moves again, detached now from their thoughts, laying thin washes of tempura to be elaborated on in a while in oils.

He lays sideways, one leg crooked as to give their wine-hand a perch and to show thick, dark curls between his strong, soft thighs while the leg closest to Lyfrassir dangles off the couch. The hand that is flesh rests on their stomach, curled loosely around the rise of a plush belly, and the artist’s eyes trace up- following the dark, thin stretch marks that rise from his hips and lower belly- and mull over the surprisingly soft slope of their shoulders and the steady rise and fall of his chest, down to the two lighter scars just under each pectoral and back up to the curling hair between and over their pecs. His head leans back comfortably against the cushions, their beard recently trimmed to show the light indent of a double chin and the corners of his eyes slightly crinkled with their easy smile.

The light Aurora provides from two angled overhead lamps casts soft shadows on his golden skin. They are divine.

Lyfrassir presses their thighs together.

Marius takes another drink.

(Later, they lay next to each other in their bed and Marius braids Lyf’s hair and he doesn’t have the energy to talk, but they laugh at one of Lyf’s jokes and hum happily when their fingers make their way into his hair and he murmurs, in the morning, how much they love Lyfrassir and the latter kisses them and whispers back the reply in the breaths after and they are wordlessly happy.)

IVY

Ivy Alexandria sits on the same couch a week later, book in hand, and Lyf nearly forgets how to breathe.

But they paint her nonetheless.

Roving eyes wander over round pink cheeks, the slightest knit in her brow as she focuses on the story in her hand, the way her free hand rests on her chest and fidgets with the necklace there, resting between small breasts. She sits cross-legged and leans back into the couch, giving them a view from the front, and they note the resting downturn of her lips. Her sides roll with the way she’s curled up, and with the positioning of her surprisingly strong legs, nothing much else can be seen. The same lamps are dimmed for her pale complexion, and she nearly seems to glow against the wine-dark fabric she lies on.

Her portrait is more… closed, than Marius’. The moment is for Ivy alone, and where the previous pirate beckoned in every inch of their canvas, Ivy sits for Lyfrassir alone.

Ivy turns the page.

Lyfrassir smiles and rinses their brush.

JONNY

They were not expecting Jonny to be third. They’re more surprised by his request at lunch that morning, though— the mate asks if he can sleep. Lyfrassir nods, a touch puzzled, and when they sit at their easel and wet the canvas, there Jonny is, asleep on the couch and stripped bare.

Jonny d’Ville is… calm. His hands folded over his chest— his right thumb occasionally rubbing back and forth over the skin over his heart, arms too loose and surprisingly un-calloused hands too alive to show any real resemblance to the bodies in caskets he mimics. His pink lips hang parted, small sighing breaths slipping past that bring with them the rise and fall of what Lyfrassir would lovingly be inclined to call a bear belly, blonde hair in a line from the thicket between his thighs to the one on his chest that isn't quite thick enough to mask the white scarring around his nipples. His hair— longer now than when they first joined the crew, to his shoulders maybe— is splayed on the pillow under his head, framing round cheeks and what was a goatee, now a short beard. The most rowdy thing about him is his makeup, smeared from two days’ wear, and even that seems faded some in the quiet of the moment.

Aurora provides no extra light for Jonny’s portrait— Lyfrassir works by the light of the aged sun she passes, casting a dull red on his skin.

Jonny looks almost peaceful. Almost, if not for the weariness etched into every line of his face.

Lyf thinks about the nineteen year old who died on New Texas and chokes up, and Jonny— for all his usual bluster— just gestures for them to come lay down next to him and pets a hand through their long hair, letting them weep into his firm, ticking chest without a word.

ASHES

Ashes O’Reilly is next, a cigarette on their lips.

Ashes’ gaze is caught on Lyfrassir, and though they seem genuinely interested in their working hands, the artist still feels their face grow hot.

Ashes is less stoic than they had expected. The quartermaster is comfortable, a flickering curiosity in their dark eyes and the quirk of their pierced lips. Lyfrassir can’t help but wish they could stand and walk over and cup those round cheeks, brush their fingers over the curling peach fuzz at the sides of their face; they stop themself, though. They’re painting wet on wet, the break would show. And so they paint, and let their gaze wander, and fight with the flicker of the candlelight they’re working by, glad at least that Ashes looks positively dreamy in their element, the tips of their coiled hair diffusing the warm light nicely on their round face and thick neck.

The way their legs part, the way they slump comfortably back into the couch, and the hand not holding the cigarette behind their head all scream power; the hang of their belly, their plush breasts, the shine in their sharp eyes and the thoughtful furrow of their brow… that’s all just Ashes, laid naked without any great scheme or alias.

It isn’t their expression the painter finds themself lost in, though. It’s the lightning-strike stretch marks on their thick inner thighs and on their strong arms and the stretch of their fat belly, sharp lines on plump flesh that catch their attention like a cat watching a laser pointer. Ashes huffs a pleased laugh, drawing attention to their glossy lips and the shimmer of firelight on their dark skin, in their eyes.

The portrait, in the end, is as stunning as the quartermaster, and they kiss the painter gently in thanks. Lyfrassir feels their heart melt a little.

(Later, Lyf makes a point of having dinner with just Ashes; lights some candles, makes their favorite dish, and they talk for hours, giggling from good company and whiskey.)

TIM & BRIAN

Gunpowder Tim, like Marius, doesn’t sit still long enough normally. So he is laid against Brian’s side with a large metal hand in his hair and another splayed across his flat tummy, nimble fingers occasionally tracing light circles into his skin.

That keeps him still enough.

Tim is dozing off as time goes on, idly chatting with Brian whose hands appear to do wonders on his scalp and general tension. In the same way, his whole countenance loses some of its… high-strung nature— his jaw unclenched, limbs loose, metal eyes slipping closed. Metal eyes surrounded by lines of metal like veins where they couldn’t fit under the skin, still doe-eyed and gorgeous. His hair tumbles loosely around him on the pillow, auburn curls like rolling gunsmoke, trailing over his thin cheeks and well-kept beard and muttering lips. The gunner’s own hands rest on his small breasts. The smooth V of his hips leads to a bit of pudge just under his navel, the bulge of it sitting pretty on his otherwise lithe frame. His long legs are crossed, hairy, all smooth muscle and usually ready to break off in a dead sprint at a moment’s notice— for now, though, they’re almost limp. He is small in Brian’s arms, no matter how tall the painter knows him to be.

Brian, wrapped around Tim as he is, is partially hidden by the smaller man (everyone’s smaller than him, he’s got to be over seven feet tall). And for all the hardness the brass and copper of his body should hold, he’s inarguably… the man is shaped like a friend. Round face; kind, drooping eyes; a neat mane of waving copper wire. Whoever sculpted him did so with love and skill— every curve and contour Lyf finds is natural. He peers out over the top of Tim’s head, presses a soft kiss to the gunner’s head, and cuddles him just the slightest bit closer once he’s confident that Lyf has solidified their poses. They look longingly over his barrel chest, the way his sides still somehow form a roll above the hip.

Lyf has to blink to pull their attention back to the canvas.

Brian and Tim have their few quiet hours together, until Tim gets antsy again and the portrait is done and Brian lets him go, sitting for Lyf to sketch him one last time. He kisses them as he goes, and they hum happily into it.

RAPHAELLA

Raphaella la Cognizi proves the painter’s theory that the crew of the Aurora just never sits still, and that Ashes and Brian are anomalies. (Lyfrassir has reached the point of accepting that they can’t get a portrait of the Toy Soldier for a different reason; without its animated movements, it just looks wrong and lonely. They settle for giving it a few dozen sketches of itself in action with its companions, and it delights.)

Raphaella wakes late in the morning cycle to find Lyfrassir sat beside her in the bed— they had been cuddled up together, her wings around them, and she nearly whimpers for them to lay back down before she sees the canvas in their lap and the tray of paints on their knee. She hums, remembering their conversation about this from the night prior, and rolls over onto her back with a wing pulled up around her side and a hand on her stomach, her head turned to face Lyf on the pillow.

They smile fondly down at her and brush a hand through her curls, letting out a coo when she presses her head into their hand. They ask if she’s comfortable, she nods, and they pull away to start their work.

They’ve heard vague descriptions of angels in their travels, heard Raphaella compared to them over and over again, but they don’t think any comparison is right. Raph is Raph, with her slightly crooked lips and wide face and dark brows that they want to pepper in little kisses. She radiates a sleepy sort of contentment, and everything about the scientist is so soft and lovely (at this point in any of the other portraits they would have stopped themself— but she said they could fawn over her, so they fawn). Her breasts are uneven, as their own are, and the smooth curves of her body lead into wide hips, thick thighs, and a pillowy tummy that they’d do anything to rest their head on. Her legs are thick, sturdy, and her arms soft and Lyf is forced to think of the stolen paintings of sprenaissance women that Marius keeps in his quarters. Her pose is simple, and they’ve drawn her so many times before, the painting goes quickly.

Raphaella waits for her painter to set their canvas and paints and brush on the nightstand before tugging them down into the bed with her, pulling a yelp out of them.

Lyfrassir dobs a dot of paint on her nose and she gasps, mockingly affronted, before rubbing up against Lyf’s face like a cat and smearing a bit of yellow paint across their cheek. They grumble lovingly and pull her a little closer, tugging the sheets over their heads.

[fanmoose12]

When they meet for the first time, they don’t really recognize each other. There is a sense of familiarity, though, a fleeting feeling that disappears the moment their paths diverge again.

Levi enters the temple, scowling as a smell of a dozen candles enters his nostrils. If he were at any other place, he’d start complaining right away. But this is a place for worship, and even though, he doesn’t truly believe in the power of gods, he’s not brave enough to defy them either.

Despite his best efforts to mask his discomfort, she sees right through him. She giggles, utterly delighted. Levi looks up, his eyes wide. She’s nothing like any other priestess he had met before.

He kneels before her, kissing her hand.

“I came here at my master’s request,” he begins with his head still bowed. It’s a sign of reverence, but also a way to hide his uneasiness. Those brown eyes of hers are too vivid, too bright. Looking at them feels like he’s staring at the sun. He feels that if he gazes for a moment longer, he will never be able to tear his eyes away.

Maybe, that’s the sign on her Oracle's powers. Or, maybe, divine intervention.

“I know why you are here,” she replies, her voice deep and melodic. She comes closer and grabs his arm, making him stand up. “Your master wants to receive a prophecy. He won’t like it.”

“So the war…”                                                                                                         

“Will not end in your favor,” she finishes for him. “I’m sorry,” and Levi knows she truly is, can see it in the curve of her lips and the remorse inside her eyes.

“Thank you,” he bows again. He reaches out to touch her hand, simply because he wants to feel the warmth of her palm. She intertwines their fingers and squeezes his hand.

She smiles, and Levi has a fleeting thought that in another life, he would have died for that smile.

“Your master won’t listen, right?” she whispers, and her smile turns sad.

“He won’t,” he shakes his head. “So that is our first and last meeting, Oracle.”

“May we meet again, Levi,” she says, and Levi doesn’t quite remember introducing himself to her.

“Watch over us, Hange,” her name slips easily from his lips.

She hasn’t introduced herself either.

 ***

When they meet for the second time, Levi is but a simple servant. He’s working at house of a Florentine banker. His master is an important, wealthy man, who has more money than he knows what to do with. As his servant, Levi spends his days, scraping the marble floors and wiping the golden ceilings until they glisten like a sun in the sky.

He hears about her before he sees her. She is an artist, a rising star and the talk of the whole city. Some say that she’s a genius, whose hands are blessed by the God. And some say she’s a psycho, whose dangerous, heretical ideas would certainly lead her to the deepest pits of hell. Levi doesn’t really care either way, he was never the one for gossip.

What he cares about, though, is the invitation she receives from his master. She is to paint the master’s daughter, so she will be living in their manor, until she finishes the portrait. And so Levi has to work twice the usual, making sure that everything looks perfect for the important guest.

When he sees her for the first time, she passes him by in a hallway. She is walking by his master’s side, gesticulating wildly as she tells him about her next project. The afternoon sunlight dances on her skin and hair, enveloping her in a warm shine. Levi is utterly mesmerized, and so he allows himself to stop for a second and admire the sight in front of him.

He reprimands himself for it later, when he lies in his bed and all he can see are the cheerful grin and brown, excited eyes.

***

When Hange sees him for the first time, she grabs his face in her hands.

“Oh,” she breathes out, an impossibly wide smile on her face. “You’re magnificent.”

She looks as though she lost her mind, but Levi doesn’t even think about taking a step back. He stares back at her, feeling something tighten in his chest.

“Let me draw you,” she whispers. “Just one drawing, please.”

Levi should say no. He’s busy all day, he doesn’t have the time to cater to the whims of some crazy, bespectacled artists. He means to say no, almost says it.

In the end, he doesn’t have the heart to outright reject her.

“I work during days.”                  

“I can— I can come to you at night, you don’t have to be awake, I just—” she ruffles her hair, frustrated. “I just really need to draw you.”

She’s clearly asking for too much, and her offer sounds more than a little bit creepy. Still, Levi is reluctant to refuse.

“It’s best if I come into your room at night, mine doesn’t have enough lighting.”

“Of course!” she beams. “I’ll be waiting, thank you so much!”

She looks so earnestly happy, so excited and giddy, Levi’s own lips almost curl in a smile. He lowers his head, hiding his amusement before she can see it.

“My name is Hange,” she offers, still smiling.

He knows it, of course. It’s hard not to, when she’s practically a living legend.

“I’m Levi,” he answers.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she chuckles. She presses a hand to his shoulder, squeezing it firmly, and then she is gone.

Levi stares after her for a solid minute, standing in an empty hallway like an idiot. It was just a simple touch, a common gesture, but it leaves him shaken to his core. It feels familiar, Hange feels familiar in a way he can’t yet comprehend. He feels like they’ve met before, feels like he knows Hange, even though he doesn’t. He just met her, but it doesn’t seem this way.

He closes his eyes and sees Hange, but that’s not— not the Hange he has seen moments ago. She’s not wearing a white puffy shirt and dark leather pants, the Hange in his mind is dressed in brown jacket and bright yellow shirt. She holds two blades in her hands, but they look nothing like the swords Levi is used to seeing. Hange doesn’t just stand either, she’s flying through the air.

And the weirdest thing – Levi’s flying next to her.

  ***

When he comes to her room late at night, Hange lounges on a couch. There is a glass of wine in her hand and a lazy, dreamy smile on her lips.

As soon as Levi enters her room, she jumps to her feet. The movement is sudden and erratic, and it causes the wine in her hands to spill onto her shirt and the floor beneath her feet.

Levi glowers – he had scraped this carpet clean just days ago - and crosses the room in two short strides.

“Fucking hell, four-eyes,” Hange’s eyes widen as soon as the words leave his mouth. Levi freezes too, his mind scrambling for an explanation for the weird nickname.

Hange is the first to recover. With a soft chuckle she takes a step back. Her fingers are in her hair and she awkwardly scratches the back of her hand.

“I should change,” she says, more to herself.

Levi wants to protest, wants to offer his help, wants to do at least something. His heart constricts painfully at the thought of Hange leaving him, even though the rational part of him knows that she’ll be gone just for a few minutes. With a considerable effort, he persuades himself to relax and nods.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Hange asks, before she turns around. “I’ll be back as quickly as possible!”

Levi sighs, fighting back a smile. “I’ll wait for you.”

“Thanks!” she chirps and then dashes out of the room.

When she comes back several minutes later, she sits Levi down on her coach.

“Make yourself at home,” she winks, gesturing to a table full of various fruits and sweets.

“I don’t think I sh—”

“Don’t be silly,” Hange chides. “What’s yours is mine.”

"Alright," Levi agrees, popping a grape into his mouth. It's too sweet for his taste, but it's not often that he gets to eat anything better than the scraps of his master's dinner. He decides to savor this moment and eats another grape.

Without wasting any second, Hange takes out the easel and sets out to work. At first, Levi feels awkward. Hange looks straight at him, seemingly unblinking. Her attention is focused solely on him, and Levi desperately tries to stop himself from fidgeting. 

"Should I do something?" he blurts out, when Hange starts eyeing him critically. 

"Not at all," she answers with a cheeky grin. "Relax and be yourself. Just try not to move too much, alright?"

"Of course," he murmurs and settles back onto soft pillows.

He lets his guard down completely and closes his eyes. Hange is practically a stranger, a person he met just a few days ago, but he feels safe with her. He trusts her, despite his life teaching him that he should never trust anyone, but himself. However, Hange seems different from all the people he has met before. She is different, there is something familiar about her, as though they've known each other for years. 

Levi doesn't quite know what to make of it. 

Despite his troubling thoughts, he relaxes. The sound of charcoal scrapping against the paper and the softness of the coach underneath him slowly lulls him to sleep. 

He wakes up hours later, when Hange gently shakes his shoulder. 

"Hey, sleepy head," she says with a smile so pretty, Levi feels an acute desire to taste it on his lips. He almost leans in, but, thankfully stops himself at the last moment. He tries to put the blame for the weird impulse on his still sleepy state, but the excuse sounds hollow even to his own ears. 

"I'm sorry for falling asleep. Did I ruin your drawing?" he moves to get up, but Hange's hand on his shoulder presses him back down. 

"No, no," she shakes her head ever so slightly, and the strands of her brown locks hit Levi's face. That's what makes him realize their close proximity. Hange's kneeling by the coach, and her nose almost touches his chin. Levi looks down at her, and the feeling is alienating, so weird and wrong, it makes him uncomfortable. Shouldn't it be the other way?

"I've finished it already. It's only a rough draft," she comments self-deprecatingly. "But I wanted you to see it," she hands him the easel. "What do you think?"

Levi looks at the drawing for a long, long moment. Every single person who had ever praised Hange were right, her art skills are phenomenal. Staring at the easel feels like he is staring in the mirror. Hange got every detail right, down to the crease between his eyebrows and the small scar on his left cheek. In the picture, he is holding two blades in each hand, and with a start Levi realizes that that these are the same blades he imagined earlier that day. 

"What the hell, four-eyes?" he scowls at her. "Don't you know how a real sword looks like?"

Hange rolls her eyes, her smile never faltering. "I just decided to draw them this way. Don't really know why, though."

Levi doesn't know it too, but he knows there is a connection between his vision and Hange's drawing. He also knows that there is a connection between them. He knows with absolute certainty that it's not the first time he had met Hange.

And something tells him that it won't be the last time either. 

Before he can contemplate it any further, though, Hange presses her lips to his. Levi hesitates for just a second, just long enough to settle the easel carefully on the floor. Then he fists his hands in Hange's hair and returns the kiss just as passionately. 

*** Later that night, after they did what a servant boy should never do with a high-born artist, they lay together in bed, basking in each other's presence. Hange’s her arms are around Levi, and his cheek is pressed to her chest. The sound of her steady, rhythmic heartbeat is oddly calming.

"There are so many things we don't know yet, Levi. I have so many ideas, so many inventions I want to create..."

Levi listens to her ramblings with a slight curve of his lips. Hange's bright, excited eyes and hopeful words evoke something in him, something akin to nostalgia. He closes his eyes and sees the endless sky and the green hills beneath him. He sits atop a giant wall, and Hange's by his side, her shoulder pressed against his, and she talks and talks and talks, speaking of a better future and new discoveries. He shakes his head and the image disappears. Levi slowly opens his eyes to see Hange stare at him. 

"After this commission is over, I want— I want to go to Rome, and then I want to visit Constantinople," there is a wide happy smile on her lips, and Levi reaches out to kiss the corner of her mouth. Hange's smile grows bigger and her gaze becomes softer. "Would you like to go with me, Levi?"

Yes, Levi almost says. But deep down he knows that's impossible. Hange's a genius, a prodigy, and he's just a servant. There are miles, worlds separating them. They've found each other, but they're not meant to be. Not yet. 

"No," Levi answers with a rare softness in his voice. "My place is here."

Hange's smile becomes sad, but she nods and presses their foreheads together. 

"Then I'll see you in another life?"

"Later, Hange," Levi agrees and allows himself to smile.

***

They're only kids when they meet again in another life. Hange, as always, is bold and energetic and she befriends the gloomy and awkward Levi almost by force. They become practically inseparable ever since. They stay by each other's side throughout childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. The whole town expects them to marry the moment both of them are of age. Levi’s own mother often nudges him to propose to Hange and start a family. And he wants to, he really does, but not now. What they already have is nice enough.

"There is no need to hurry," Hange says, when they sit together under a shadow of an oak tree.  The soft morning light makes her look absolutely radiant, and Levi loses himself in watching her smile. He leans in and presses a kiss to it, thinking that Hange is right. There is no need to hurry. They have all the time in the world. 

They spend another few years in bliss, carefully toeing the line between friends and lovers, and when the time comes for Hange's twenty-fifth birthday, Levi goes to her house, intent on finally confessing his feelings. He prepares the speech and even robs his mother's garden of a few sunflowers. He feels more than a little bit awkward, he isn't the most eloquent or romantic person, but Hange knows him like no one else does and Levi finds immense comfort in the thought that whenever stupid shit will come out of his mouth, she will be able to understand him all the same. 

Whatever words he had prepared and rehearsed, though, die in this throat the moment Hange opens the door. There is a glint in her eyes and a blush on her cheeks that makes her look almost feverish. Levi has a sinking feeling that he knows the reason for it. The crudely drawn pamphlet in Hange's right hand only heightens his suspicion.

"Levi!" she proudly shows him the pamphlet. "They— they are recruiting! The army is going to pass our town on their way to Saratoga and I'm going to join them. I— I will finally have the chance to do something! To fight back the oppressors! To bring freedom to our people!”

Hange’s speech is strangely familiar, in more ways than just one. Obviously, it’s not the first time Levi has heard about her dreams of building a better future for their nation, but as he stares at the righteous fire inside Hange’s eyes, as he tries to picture her in battle, he sees her fighting giant, ugly creatures and not the soldiers in red coats.

Levi blinks a few times, forcing the bizarre vision away. Evidently, Hange’s departure, although not unexpected, leaves him shaken to the core.

"Oh, you brought flowers!" Hange claps her hands in delight. "What's the occasion?" 

Levi gives her a flat look. "It's your birthday, shithead."

"Oh, right!" she slaps her forehead. "I totally forgot about that."

"Idiot," Levi flicks her nose, making Hange yelp in pain and cover her face. She glares and he smirks, daring her to retaliate. 

She sticks her tongue out and Levi rolls his eyes. He turns around, heading to the kitchen to find the only vase Hange owns. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning," she announces, while Levi rummages through the kitchen cabinet. His hand hovers in the air, as he tries to find his breathing. 

"I can't go with you," it comes out in a shaking whisper. He lowers his hand and grips the table so tightly, his knuckles become white. 

"I know," Hange answers just as quietly. "You have to care for your mother, Levi. I understand." She comes to stand around him, wrapping her arms around his body and pressing her chin into his shoulder. "I'll come back before you know it. Just— wait for me, alright?"

"Wait for you?" Levi echoes, confused. 

"Well," Hange chuckles warmly. "Don't go marrying someone else before I get back."

"Idiot," Levi raises his hand and entangles it in her hair. "Everyone knows I'm crazy for you."

"You're crazy for me, huh?" she shifts her face to kiss his cheek. "Is that really so?"

"Unfortunately," Levi replies, turning around and pressing his lips to her. 

The sinking feeling inside his chest doesn't disappear, but with Hange in his arms, he almost forgets about it. 

*** 

Hange leaves the next morning, and the hollowness takes over Levi's heart. He worries about her, constantly. Day and night, he wonders how is she doing and what is she doing. Hange writes him, of course. She sends letters, where she talks about her brothers in arms, her superiors and trainings. She tells that the food there is horrible and that she hates waking up before sunrise for the morning drills.

Other than that, though, she seems happy, excited at the prospect of fighting for her motherland. She writes about her new friend - Colonel Erwin Smith. She gushes about his intelligence and courage, and as Levi reads it, he imagines Colonel as blonde, blue-eyed man. He sees him so clearly in his mind, as though they've met before. 

In the next letter, Hange confesses that sometimes she feels like she has known Erwin for a very long time. She writes that it seems like they’ve already met before.

"You will like him too," she adds, before she goes on to complain about cold nights and drinking soldiers. 

Several months later, Kenny shows up at their doorstep, claiming that he came to see his dear sister. Reluctantly - Kenny's arrival always means trouble - Levi lets him in. 

In the evening, his uncle gets drunk and starts talking about a new gig of his. 

“I’ve acquired a tavern in the New York,” he smirks proudly. “All the red coats love it. They drink like pigs,” Kenny adds dreamily.

And Levi gets an idea. 

As soon as Kenny passes out, he grabs pen and a paper, and starts writing to Hange. 

She likes his plan and promises to talk it through with Erwin. He agrees to it without hesitation. 

Now, every once in a while - whenever Hange asks him - he goes to help with Kenny's tavern. He pours the drinks and cleans the tables. He listens intently to the talks around him. Sometimes, he drinks with soldiers too - when asking directly, it is much easier to get the information out of them. He is careful not to be too obvious, though. Most of them are drunkards, but not idiots. 

It is dangerous to pass the numbers of their ranks, the location of their troops and the plans for their future attacks in the letter, so Hange comes to get them personally. They meet in the forest that surrounds their small town, careful to be as discreet as possible. Hange never stays for long, always in a hurry. But Levi adds some home-cooked meal to each of his messages, and Hange always stays just long enough so they could eat it together. 

Only during those short meetings, those fleeting moments Levi feels truly alive. 

***

The war lasts longer than any of them had anticipated but Levi is patient. Hange promised she'd come back, and he trusts her. In all the years they've known each other, she had never broken her word. 

In the last letter he receives from her, she is optimistic as ever. The war is almost over, she assures him. Soon we'll be together again, she adds. As always, Levi believes her. 

In the following week, the news finally reach their town. In the battle of Yorktown, the British surrendered.

Levi smiles for the first time since Hange left. 

She is finally coming home. 

*** 

Another week passes, and Levi is in the middle of dough kneading. He hears the knock on the door, and his heart swells. He shouts to his mother that he'll get it and rushes to the door, not even stopping to wipe off his hands. She was never against a little mess, after all. 

When he opens the door, however, it's not Hange who stands at the other side of it. 

The blonde man with bright blue eyes - Colonel Erwin Smith, Levi realizes immediately - wears a grim, solemn expression.

"I'm sorry," he says. "She was a hero," he adds. 

Levi nods, feeling numb, and lets the man in. 

He makes them tea and sits Erwin in his kitchen. It's quiet at first. Levi stares down at the table, his hands trembling and his head spinning. 

He doesn't understand. It's Hange, Hange, his weird and wonderful Hange. She can't be dead. She can't— she can't just leave him. She promised to return, promised to come back to him.

He slams his cup against the wall. It shutters into dozen pieces. Levi stares at it, unblinking. 

Alarmed by the loud sound, his mother runs out of her room. Erwin hurries to calm her down and then he comes back to the kitchen. He cleans the mess Levi made and then firmly squeezes his shoulder. 

"Do you have something stronger than this?" he asks, gesturing to the tea. 

Levi nods, absentmindedly, and gestures to the cabinet above the sink. 

Erwin pours them two glasses of bourbon. Levi downs it instantly. Erwin follows his suit and then he starts talking. He tells him about Hange's days in the army, how brilliant and talented she was, how much dedication she had for their cause. 

"Before her death," Erwin begins slowly. "She— she asked me to tell you - she'll find you again. In another life."

"In another life," Levi repeats, his voice hollow and bleak.

*** The next time they meet, Levi is already dying. He doesn't need the doctors in white coats and with stethoscopes in their hands to tell him it's consumption. He knows very well about the disease, has seen many associates and friends, his own mother die from it. He knows what to expect. What he doesn't expect is a smiling, friendly face.

Doctor Hange Zoe is a genius, or so the nurses say. They say she was asked to work in the best clinics of Britain, but she chose St Thomas Hospital, simply because she wished to help the needy. She's weird and eccentric, too intense sometimes, but also gentle and caring. Most of the patients adore her.

"You look awful," she announces chirpily, when she visits Levi's ward for the first time.

“I’m dying,” he answers bluntly.

“Ah, yes,” Hange bites her lip, shoving hands into the pockets of her coat. “Let’s try to do something about it, yeah?”

***

She tries to save him, she really does. Hange spends days and nights by his side, trying remedy after remedy. In the end, nothing is stronger than the disease.

When his time comes, when Levi lies in a creaking hospital bed, he’s a sweaty, trembling mess. Hange doesn’t leave him even then. She frets over him, adjusting his pillow and fixing his blanket.

“I should— maybe, you want a glass of water?” she paces around the ward, nervously ruffling her hair. “Or maybe, I should bring you another blanket? A warmer one? I can ask one of the nurses—”

“Hange,” Levi croaks, lifting his hand to weakly grasp her wrist. “It’s over. You know it, I know it. Just calm the fuck down.”

“But you— you’re dying. How can I be calm about it?”

“Come here,” with the last strength he still possesses, Levi scoots over to make a place for Hange on the bed. She sits by his side and takes his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. Her other hand is in his hair, and her fingers gently push the sweaty strands away.

“It’s okay, Hange,” he looks up at her, his eyes shining with fever and something much, much softer, something that Levi doesn’t want to name. Not now, when he’s on his death bed. “I’ve lived more than I expected to anyway. And I’m glad— glad that I got to meet you. I wish—” he pauses, clearing his throat. When he speaks again, there is a feeble smile on his lips. “I wish we could have stayed in that forest, though.”

“What?” Hange freezes, frowning in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “Just felt like saying this to you.”

It’s probably the fever messing with his head, but this feels familiar. Hange looking down at his weak, incapacitated form, her expression solemn, worried and exhausted. It happened before, Levi is sure of it. And looking into Hange’s wide eyes, he knows – she’s sure of it too.

It isn’t long before he draws his last breath. The last thing he feels is the gentle kiss Hange presses to his forehead. Levi dies with a smile on his lips.

  ***

When they meet for the next time, they both are finally in their element. They're at war, and amidst all the horror, pain, death and tears, the only thing that keeps Levi together is the knowledge that Hange's here with him and she always has his back.

It's almost unnatural how well they work together. They're two parts of the same mechanism, perfectly synchronized. Hange's the brain and he's the brawl. There is no one else he would rather do it with.

It happens when no one expects it to. It's one of those uneventful days, when the sun shines brightly and the sky is clear.

Levi smokes a cigarette and watches the cadets run drills. Usually Hange stands next to him, teasing the young soldiers. But this morning they've managed to intercept a coded transmission, and she had been mulling over it with Armin for almost three hours now.

Levi is about to take the last drag of his cigarette, when Armin runs out to the training field, his eyes wild.

“T-the enemy!” he shouts and then doubles over, putting hands on his knees and taking a deep breath. “The enemy!” he repeats again. “They’ve discovered the location of our base. They’re coming for us!”

Hange comes to stand behind him, her face grim. “We need to evacuate and quickly. Take only the most valuable.”

“Will we be able to escape?” Jean wonders. “Armin said they’re already coming. How long do we have?”

“Not long,” Hange answers truthfully. “But if you hurry up, you’ll be able to escape.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Connie frowns.

“Someone has to buy some time. I’ll hope up in an aircraft and try to slow them down. Now, shoo, you all. I’ll see you later.”

Levi watches Hange smile and his heart falls. He knows where this is going, knows how this is going to end. He doesn’t wish to repeat it.

“Four-eyes,” he growers. “What the hell—”

“My time has come, Levi,” her lower lip starts shaking and she bites it, refusing to meet his eyes. “I want to look as cool as possible, so just let me go, alright?”

“We can— can do it together, then maybe—”

“No,” Hange resolutely shakes her head. “Levi, they need you. The kids, they’ll need some guidance after I’m gone. Armin is great, but he’s young. Take care of them.”

“Hange,” he knows he won’t be able to stop her. So he accepts it, same as he accepts every part of her, good or bad. They share the same flaw, after all. Their duty always comes first. Their love for freedom and humanity is more important than their love to each other. It’s always been the same, they’ve always been the same.

So Levi presses his fist upon her heart, staring right in her eyes.

“Dedicate your heart,” he whispers. He leaves before he can change his mind. He runs away before Hange can come up with a witty comeback. He gets to work and helps the kids with loading the weaponry before his resolve crumbles.

When he is driving a car, taking all of them away from the fight, he tries to pretend that the sound of crushing aircraft is only in his head. He tells himself that the tears in his eyes are caused by the bright sun ahead of him. He pointedly ignores his broken heart.

  ***

Their next meeting is the most mundane of them all. In truth, it’s so ordinary that Levi doesn’t quite believe it. It’s hard to call any of them ordinary after all.

There are no deaths this time, no war or diseases, or pain. They are common people with ordinary jobs and plain, devoid of any danger lives.

Levi is a simple office worker, who gets a job at Erwin’s firm after he helps him with solidifying a very important deal.

At his first day at job, Erwin gathers a committee meeting, so he can introduce Levi to his new coworkers.

It’s awkward as hell, and Levi feels like he’s a new boy at school. Considering that he’s almost pushing thirties, it’s a feeling he never thought he’d get to experience ever again.

He only half-listens to Erwin praise him and his past accomplishments , as his attention is more focused on his colleagues. They seem fine, but there is one person in particular who gets most his attention.

She wears a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and her hair is put up in some semblance of a pony-tail. She looks at him, not averting her eyes, even when he looks back. Levi glares at her, prompting her to turn away. It has a diametrically opposite effect, though. The bespectacled weirdo smiles and winks at him.

Levi rolls his eyes and scowls. What is she, a child?

  ***

She catches him just after the meeting is adjourned.

“Hello,” she draws, curving her lips into a wide grin. “Erwin has told me all about you. He’s very impressed,” she leans closer to him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Tell me your secret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Levi tries to push past her, but the four-eyed weirdo follows after him.

“He says you have incredible diplomatic skills.”

Levi barely resists the urge to scoff. Diplomatic skills his ass. The only reason why Erwin managed to sign off the deal he needed was because he took Levi with him and instructed him to make “the scariest face possible”.  

“Fuck off, four-eyes,” Levi flips her off, but she is unrelenting.

“C’mon! Don’t be like that!” Hange pouts. “I just want to know what you did to impress Erwin like that! I’ve been his councilor for almost three years, and he had never praised my diplomacy. Oh, how about that!” Hange grabs his arm and links their hands together. “I’ll treat you to dinner this evening, and you tell me about your secret deal with Erwin?”

“No,” Levi replies, shaking her off. Then he glances at her and raises an eyebrow. “A dinner? Are you trying to hit on me, four-eyes?”

“Why,” she asks, her voice and deep and husky. Levi feels his cheeks turn to red. “Is it working?”

“No,” he answers, even though he actively tries to fight off a smile.

“Please,” Hange whines. “Just one dinner!” she pauses, lifting her face and putting on a thoughtful expression. “And maybe drinks afterwards?”

“Aren’t you asking for too much, four-eyes?”

“Nah,” she says with an infuriating grin. “I know you will agree,”

Levi almost growls in frustration. He just met this weirdo, but she already reads him like a goddamned book. He wants to refuse, just to spite her. Something tells me she won’t back off that easily, though.

He sighs, admitting his defeat. “You’re paying for the dinner and drinks. And,” he raises a finger. “You’re going home to change your clothes. This thing,” he points at her shirt, “reeks.”

“Deal!” she beams. “I’m Hange, by the way,” she extends a hand to him.

“Levi,” he takes her hand in his. Her palm is calloused, but warm. Levi doesn’t want to let go. He does let go, though. There is already an abnormal standing next to him. He doesn’t want to join her ranks.

“Ah, Levi!” Hange puts an arm around his shoulder. “I get a feeling we’re off to a great start here!”

He doesn’t answer, but doesn’t push her away either. Maybe, that’s already an answer.

And as Hange starts leading him through the office, he can’t help but agree with her last words.

Maybe, this time it will finally work out, he thinks. Maybe, in this life they’ll be allowed to live happily.

[when-i-was-your-angel]

Hues of Blue

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes (40's and Present)

Word Count: 1486

NSFW: Non-Explicit

TW: Rage attacks, Steve being angry

Tags: ANGST, Minor Fluff but mostly Angst

A/N: This is set between TFA and TWS! Steve still thinks Bucky died in the war. bold sections are flashbacks.

Summary: Steve tries to paint a portrait of Bucky. What color were his eyes again?

Inspired by my good friend Meral, @/CAPSBVRNES on twitter. Love ya, doll.

Steve had a long day.

Said day started with a rather pleasant dream about waking up with Bucky in between his legs. This was quickly ruined by his alarm clock. Little Steve hadn’t seemed to notice that it was, in fact, only a dream. After Steve had er- taken care- of that problem in the shower, Tony called. There was some life or death mission debrief he was needed on. So he drove two hours through New York City traffic to get to the tower, only to find out Tony needed his opinion on what qualified as a “classic” suit. Steve didn’t even dignify him with an answer before he stormed out of the building. Now, four hours later and his day wasted, he was finally arriving back home.

Steve unlocked the front door of his Brooklyn brownstone and stopped dead in his tracks.

Boxes. Boxes upon boxes of… art supplies? Based on the pictures and labels on the boxes they were filled with paints, canvases, brushes, pencils, easels, and more. Steve looked around nervously and spotted a note on top of one of the many cardboard boxes.

Sorry, Capsicle. Had to get you out of the apartment so I could deliver this shit.

Paint me something pretty.

-T.S.

A hesitant smile made its way onto Steve’s face. His day just got a whole lot better.

- - - Three Hours Later - - -

A few hours, a shit ton of cursing, and a helping of elbow grease later, Steve had himself an art studio. He had set up the three easels Tony got him, positioning them in front of the windows in the office of his brownstone. There was also a simple desk in one of the boxes that he rather enjoyed the look of. It was simple but made of solid oak. He could just picture Tony saying ‘It’s old fashioned, like ye ol’ Cappie.’

With a slight grunt, Steve stood and looked around his new studio. He hadn’t had something so… domestic in years. He smiled and unwrapped a canvas, sitting down in front of an easel. He raised a pencil to his canvas to begin sketching… and nothing happened. “S’pose seventy years and a cryogenic freeze gives you art block.” He thought.

Steve stood and walked around the few rooms in his modest house, looking for inspiration. His gaze flickered over his photo album. “That’ll do.”

He picked up the leather book, flipping through it. There weren’t many pictures. It had been difficult to get a photo back in the 40’s, and he didn’t have many people to take pictures of nowadays. A few pictures of his ma, one of him in the third grade, and- Bucky.

A black and white version of his best friend sat before him. He was told not to smile in his military ID photo, but the little shit found a way to flash a grin right as the camera clicked. The photographer had been too lazy to redo it- and that was it. Bucky was smiling like a damn runaway criminal in his personnel file. Steve worked the picture out of the clear film holding it in place. He had gotten the photo from SHIELD’s files. It was one of few pictures of Bucky in existence. Less than a dozen original copies were left on this earth. He ran his fingers over the sharp of his Bucky’s cheekbone and the plump of his lips. He remembered all the cold New York nights when those lips sat on his neck. Bucky would spoon him- ‘For warmth’ - he said. But the pink lips on the shell of his ear, on the pulse carrying his life’s blood, said it was for so much more.

So Steve went back to his new art studio and sat down in front of his easel again. He clipped the small photo to the wooden frame and picked up his pencil. He took a deep breath and started sketching. He bit his lip in concentration as he worked. After thirty minutes or so, Steve had a drawing that resembled something like his best friend. He smiled and set to work mixing his paints.

Steve always started with the skin. Habit of his from before when he was using cocktail napkins and a waiters pen to draw. He managed to nail Bucky’s complexion pretty much spot on. The cool shades of his under-eye and the baby pink ones of his cheeks.

Then came hair. Shades of brown highlighted with yellow and pink in the lightest of spots. Bucky always hated how thick his hair was but loved the effect it had on the ladies. Said it was a pain in the ass to take care of but it was all worth it when he brushed a hand through the locks and had all the girls positively swooning.

Next was clothes. The green of his fatigues wasn’t perceptible in the black and white photograph but Steve knew that color better than the color of his own eyes.

Eyes.

What color were Bucky’s eyes?

Blue. But there were a million shades of blue. Cerulean, teal, turquoise, baby blue, stormy blue- Ah. Yes. A stormy blue-grey color. He could see them now. Staring into the crisp ocean of his eyes as Bucky kissed him for the first time. He was smaller back then, barely came up to Bucky’s chin, but he didn’t care.

December 1941 - Four Days Before Bucky Leaves

“Hey, Stevie.” Bucky said after Steve opened his door to the frigid New York City air.

“Hey, Buck. What’re you doing here?” It was a reasonable question. It was midnight and Buck hadn’t been by in days.

“Can’t visit my best guy before I ship off to war?” Bucky gave him his smirk but Steve could see the fear in his eyes. The unspoken ending to that question- ‘before I never come home’. Steve smiled and stepped aside, letting him in.

Steve smiled at the memory. He looked down at the paints before him. Blues and whites and purples and reds. He started mixing them carefully, hoping to put a physical representation of the color he still saw in his dreams.

“C’mon. I’ll make you something to eat.” Steve said, walking towards his very empty kitchen.

“You don’t have’ta-”

“None of that. What would Mrs. Rogers say if she knew I wasn’t feeding my guests?”

“She’d call you smart and tell you not to waste your food on a dead-” Bucky stopped himself. That’s not what Steve needed to hear. Steve was quiet as he made his way across the threshold back to Bucky. He stared down at his hands, picking at his fingernails.

“You’re going to come back. You’ve gotta.” His voice was small. Bucky’s heart nearly shattered at the sound. Bucky took Steve’s hands in his, squeezing them slightly.

“I will. I promise.” Bucky stared into Steve’s eyes to reassure him that above anything else, he meant the words he was about to say.

The colors weren’t turning out right. Greens were too blue and blues were too purple. Everything was a mess. Steve felt himself growing frustrated and brought his mind back to simpler times. Times with him.

“I’m always going to come back to you because-” His breath hitched and Steve took notice, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“Because I love you, Stevie.” Steve tilted his head in confusion. Why did Bucky seem so nervous? They had said they loved each other before.

“Yeah, I love you too, Buck- why’re you-”

“Oh, not like that- for Christ’s sake.” Then Bucky was kissing him.

‘So this is what love is.’ Steve thought. Then Bucky’s tongue was tracing Steve’s lips.

Oh.

Oh.

Paint was everywhere. Frantically, Steve mixed colors in a blur of tears. ‘It’s not right.’ He thought. ‘That’s not him.’ ‘That’s not my Bucky.’

Bucky shared his bed that night. Unlike other nights, however, they were both naked. Pressed against each other for ‘warmth’, should anyone ask. Steve watched Bucky long after he fell asleep. The crease in his eyebrow, the setting of his jaw, the way his eyes moved behind closed lids- chasing dreams. Soon enough, Steve curled into Bucky’s body as he always did. They spent the next four days like that. Wrapped in each other. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t cold.

Steve screamed as he threw his palette out the window. The glass shattered and rainbows of light filtered through the broken glass- mocking him. Steve kicked and cried and punched until the entire studio was a mess. In the aftermath of his rampage, Steve lies on the floor. Surrounded by glass, paint, splinters, and blood, Steve sobbed. He broke because he was gone. He crumbled because they didn’t have enough time. He was wrecked because ‘if only we had known. If only we had tried earlier.’

Steve lies on the ground in a brownstone in Brooklyn.

Numb.

Broken.

Cold.

[longitud-de-onda]

Porque el querer causa pena, pena que no tiene fin

pairing; mad sad genius (we never got a name) x reader summary; you can love someone with all your heart, but nothing compares to the madness that exists in their absence rating; t warnings; language, a bit of alcohol, angst, it isn’t specifically covid-19 but it is a pandemic science fiction story, so the quarantine and other situations are taken to the extreme which could be potentially triggering depending on how you’re handling the quarantine. word count; 3.0k a/n; this is fanfic for ngozi anyanwu’s for all the lovesick mad sad geniuses which aside from pedro’s amazing performance, is a brilliant monologue. we’re taking the title from the rosalía song (maldición, cap. 10: cordura) that helped inspire this.

You met him at an art gallery. It was your own show, and you were standing in the corner drinking wine from a clear plastic cup, the edge of which was sharp against your lips. You held a paper plate with five almonds, a mozzarella and tomato crostini, and a mini chocolate cupcake carefully balanced in your other hand.

He was standing in front of your favorite piece. No one else was. Probably because the gallery owner told you it wasn’t the sort of work that would stop anyone. That out of all the work in your collection, it was the type that belonged in the back, where it would be found by the people who cared enough to wander there, whose interest would likely be piqued enough for them to enjoy it. It hurt to hang it up on the back wall and not up in the front where you wanted it.

But he hadn’t stopped at everything else. He had walked into the gallery minutes before, giving every painting a quick glance before settling on the one in front of which he was standing. He had been there for almost five minutes before you decided to walk up next to him.

He looked over upon seeing you approach and your heart stopped. He was the most beautiful person you had ever seen. His smile reached his eyes and you found yourself falling into them. You almost asked him if he would model for you.

You didn’t paint portraits.

“This one is beautiful,” he told you.

You smiled and took a sip of your wine. You didn’t need convincing that it was beautiful. That much you already knew. It was the one piece you were confident beyond belief about.

“What do you like about it?” you asked, jutting your chin up at the painting in question.

“The artist seems to have cared. You can see the brushstrokes. They’re more detailed than the others. Someone only spends that much time on something they really care about.”

That was when you fell in love with him. Thirty-three words. That was all it took.

Your first date was dinner after the gallery closed for the night and he dragged you out to his favorite burger joint because he said you deserved it after opening an exhibition. After wolfing down more than enough food and splitting a tub of fries, you spilled out onto the streets in a pile of laughter and joy and you’ll never forget the look on his face when you asked for his number.

Your second date was a night you’ll never forget. He had taken two days to contact you after the first night, and you had begun to worry you would never hear from him again, but he called you and said he wanted to meet you at 6pm the next day and to dress nicely. You showed up where he told you too and he was there with that goddamn smile.

He took you to a Chinese restaurant and said I’d take you somewhere nicer but I don’t think you’re that kind of woman. And you would have slapped any other guy in the face but he looked so earnest and he was right about you. It was like he could read you like a book. And when you laughed he’d sometimes stop laughing with you just to stare with a certain reverence that made you question what you did to deserve the sort of man who looked at you that way.

He took you past all the big theaters showing musicals and stopped at one tucked away with a modest set of doors but the grandest entry hall you had ever seen. You let him lead the way as he took you through the doors into the auditorium and you walked down the aisles to seats near the front.

You didn’t know what you had done to let him know you loved comedies, but he had picked out the perfect play. By the time it was over your stomach hurt from laughing so hard and your eyes held the watery ring around them from your tears. You hit the cool night air just as it started raining, and any other time you would have run for cover but with him and his smile next to you, you didn’t give a shit.

The aimless wandering that night was your favorite part. You were doubled over laughing as he told you the parts of the play he liked, and the parts he didn’t.

“She was a fucking genius and a poet, you know?” he said.

“Who?”

“The playwright.”

“What? Why?” you asked.

“She wrote a play about another fucking genius,” he said. “And despite it being the funniest shit ever made, it still had all those deep-ass lines. You know, like, ‘If you got one friend when you die then most people never have something like you.”

And he didn’t know why you started giggling until you calmed yourself enough to tell him what the real quote was in between fits of laughter. He had that look from earlier that night on his face. The one where it was like he didn’t even know you could see him. He gazed at you like he could see you. Not just on the surface, but underneath everything too. Like he could see every thought that went through your head and took the time to hold every one and appreciate it before letting it go.

He leaned down to kiss you and you tilted your head up to meet him and you wondered how you hadn’t kissed him before. Why you didn’t when you said goodbye your first night. Why you didn’t when you were getting to know him over a burger. Why you didn’t let him kiss you that first fucking moment when you fell in love, right there, after he told you about your own goddamn brush strokes.

You fell in love all over again the following weekend when he took you to his favorite spot in the park, a large grassy hill overlooking all the kids playing below and you spread out a blanket and ate sandwiches that he had put into little ziploc bags. You told him that he should have packed some wine and he said baby, we didn’t need any alcohol our first two dates and you flushed and told him about the wine you had at the gallery and he laughed.

“I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to walk up to you without it,” you protested when he jokingly expressed mild disappointment.

“If you hadn’t walked up, I probably would have shouted ‘where’s the fucking artist, I need to talk to her!’ by the end of the night,” he said, and you found yourself laughing again.

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing that’s happened at one of my exhibits,” you said.

You met him every morning before work to go out for coffee, even if it meant waking up an extra hour early because he’s a morning person. You had his coffee order memorized by the third day.

He invited you to his apartment one day and you found yourself laughing over home videos of him as a kid late into the night. When you said goodbye, your heart yearned to stay. To take one of his shirts and wear it as you curled up next to him in bed. Instead, you kissed him good night.

After dinner one evening, you brought him to your place and showed him the little studio you had in the most well-lit room. He spent almost an hour exploring it, asking you questions about every little thing, the brand of paints you liked best, the angle you preferred to set your easel, your favorite tools, your favorite color, and telling you how honored he was to be in the workplace of a genius.

You didn’t tell him he was the smartest person you had ever met.

You didn’t tell him that he was the genius out of the two of you. That he could talk about his work and you could listen for hours to his voice but not understand a single word he said. That he would talk like no one was listening and then say the most serious shit. The sort of thing that made you rethink life, and by the time you had escaped from your thoughts he was already on another topic, rambling about the multitudes of things he loved. He saw the beauty in everything.

How the hell could a man like him love you?

He was the sort of person you would hear about in movies. The type to never stop dreaming. Someone watching the two of you would think you both mad. He had his head in the clouds and you would watch from below in awe as if his brain was firing off fireworks, and then you would speak about anything and he would give you that smile and that goddamn look that drove you crazy.

Your entire life he was there, living his own life without ever having met you, and you often wondered how many times you had almost met. You lived in the same city, surely there must have been times. Hundreds if not thousands of moments in which your paths nearly crossed. Whether what kept you from meeting was a mere 3 feet of distance in a crowd or a mere 3 minutes of time and space in which one of you was running late or early to something along which way you would have found him.

But you were lucky to have met him when you did. Gotten to share the brief moments while they lasted. That was before the virus hit.

You were sitting on his kitchen counter, covered in acrylic paint he had bought at the grocery store as the two of you detailed messy renditions of Van Gogh’s work on his cabinet doors, and he had wrapped his dirty hands around your waist, leaving two purple handprints on your painting shirt, and pulled you into a kiss. And this one was different. It was deeper, searching for more. There was more heat and passion. Your whole relationship, months of it, had been slow and beautiful and intimate, but there were times where it was more like friendship then romance and neither of you minded as you walked along the fine line between the two, happy with the state of things as they were. But you had loved him since the first day and you didn’t mind the idea of, one day, collapsing naked and sweaty into bed with him instead of snuggling up against his side as he wrapped you in his arms like he usually did when you did decide to spend the night.

But that was for another day. You broke apart after minutes to return to your project. By the end of the night you were screwing the doors back in and he was admiring everything. If you were being honest, he was completely helpless when it came to handiwork. Couldn’t hammer a nail, tighten a screw, sand some wood, or even recreate a decent Starry Starry Night, but that didn’t matter. Because his kitchen looked vibrant and beautiful and the art reminded you of all the ideas you could see swirling in his head. The fucking genius.

The reports had started to come in by then, but it wasn’t until the following morning that you realized how serious everything had gotten. Schools announced that day that they were closing. He called to tell you he was working from home. You got the call that evening that you would be too.

A week later and you had met with him once, in the park. It was a long trek for both of you, living on opposite sides of the city. But the brief kisses, kind words, and soft touches on the waist, thighs, arms, neck, jaw, nose, back, anything? Those were all worth it.

The following day you learned you couldn’t leave your neighborhood. You video-chatted with him in tears. If only you had let yourself follow the thoughts of moving in with him instead of stamping them out as soon as they started to take root in your head. If only you had let him spend the night one more time. So you wouldn’t be clinging to his fading smell on the t-shirt you stole from his closet.

It was like your whole world cut out when the strikes started. No internet. No cell service. No connection. The postal service was all but gone, and you had no way of connecting with him. Your only source of news was the newspaper, three times a week, delivered to your doorstep. And your neighbor who got it every day and would shout to you the important things.

You wished you had photos of him framed around the house. 

Then when you did, the sight of him staring at you from every corner of your apartment was enough to drive you mad with longing that you took them all down. 

When the government got the strikes under control, they started to introduce the plans for rolling out the internet services again. Things had become grim. You spent every night dreaming of him, but you were starting to forget his face. Did his nose curve that much?  Were the creases around his eyes that deep? Was his shabby beard that full? Did he have dimples, or were you just making that up?

You would stare at the photos on your phone, desperately trying to commit him to memory. Remember how he looked when the man in the photo came to life in three dimensions. How did he walk? How did he wave his hands?

By that time, life was different. You didn’t make art anymore. What was once your life had been shoved into your studio room, the light turned off, and the tubes of paint left to dry up. Your apartment didn’t smell like clay and charcoal and linseed oil anymore. You didn’t have it in you to keep painting. You went to the grocery store once every fourteen days, grabbing produce and frozen goods, bottles of alcohol and some cleaning supplies before handing over your newly minted ration card to receive the staples. Rice, pasta, beans, eggs, flour, sugar, a couple bags of dried fruit, a bottle of milk. It wasn’t so bad when you lived on your own, but you felt bad for the mothers and fathers in line behind you, knowing that their children might be too picky to even eat the food they were lucky to get.

The introduction of connectivity services was a slow process. Neighborhood by neighborhood across the country so as not to overwhelm the systems. There were new rules. It was only to be used for three things: education, work, and essential communication between legal family members.

Your finger hovered over the call button next to his name hundreds of times, but you could never press it out of fear that someone would be watching or listening. You knew that when you walked the streets they were. It was likely the same for your phone now too.

One day in a drunken fit of anger and yearning and the craze of love, you deleted all the photos on your phone, hoping that maybe without them you could forget how much you missed him.

You tried to forget him. But every night you dreamt of his slowly warping face. You wondered if he was doing the same.

Sometimes you would watch the DVDs you had and try to replace his image in your head with the actors. Sometimes it would work and weeks would go by with only dreams of the movies. But it would always lose its effectiveness. Usually around the time that you remembered that he was probably your soulmate and you didn’t get enough time.

In every single one of the possibilities of your lives together that you daydreamed about for hours every day, there was never enough time. But this reality was the worst. You were sure of that.

You had read every book in your house. Read every poem you could get your hands on, even the ones you had risked your life for in searching them on the internet, carefully saving pdfs and screenshots and printing them out on the dwindling paper in your apartment. Words didn’t do the same thing they used to anymore. They didn’t bring joy and excitement and escape. You stopped reading them.

You talked with your neighbor for the first time in a month. It seemed that almost everyone had stopped reading books. You wondered if people stopped doing other things too. 

The world before was starting to blur around the edges. You couldn’t remember if the path you liked to walk in the park had such an erratic course or if it was more subtle than you could remember. What did you like to do on the weekends? There was a place, a building, that you liked to go to. You couldn’t remember what it was called or what was inside, but you remember the feeling of standing there. The musty smell and the awe and the sensation that you were staring out at all of humanity. And you had no idea what the fuck it was. 

You weren’t sure how much of the world before you had forgotten. But you couldn’t shake him from your memory. You wished you could. 

When you weren’t working you were cooking or eating or sleeping. And when you weren’t doing that, it constituted the dangerous time where you didn’t have anything to do and nothing to interest you.

And every fucking thing you did, be that making pasta or lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, made you think of him. You had loved him as you’d never loved anyone before. And you never told him. Did he even know that you loved him? Did he know that you knew he loved you back?

You would close your eyes and the only thing you were sure of in your mind’s image of him was that goddamn smile.

.

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[the-dimitrescu-seamstress]

Twelve Yards of Floral Damask - One Shot

(Mun here. I was quiet for the most part of last night, but after Nicole Tompkins stream, a fire was lit under me and I finished a drabble I had been working on ever since I saw that one portrait of Lady Dimitrescu. 

Below is a one-shot I wrote, one of many I have planned. Magdalena Petran is my OC, while Lady Alcina Dimitrescu belongs to Capcom. I hope you enjoy it.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The castle was immense and, if Magda had to admit it, a bit intimidating. It was rather easy to get yourself turned around in the hallways, or initially forget which door led to where off of the interior courtyard. The servants that were around, and willing to speak to her, advised the seamstress that, in order to make life in the castle easier for her, she had better learn the layout as best she could and as quickly as she could.

That was a task easier said than done. She felt safe in her part of the castle, even if safe was only a relative term. If she took a wrong turn or opened the wrong door, she could easily end up in a place where she would not return from. She was well aware of the screams that would echo throughout the castle. Sometimes they came from the direction of the family’s private chambers, but more often they would crawl up from the castle depths. Either way, Magda never wanted her voice to join them.

But, if she was so afraid, why was she quietly walking the halls this late at night? The simple answer was that the servants were right. She needed to learn how to navigate this world; both the physical and the social aspects. That meant she needed to learn all she could about the castle and its inhabitants. Repairing garments they were used to could only get you so far. Anyone could mend a seam or stitch a button, but Magda needed to make sure she was invaluable. The Countess seemed pleased with her work so far, but she had yet to entrust her with creating anything new. She needed to change that.

The other reason Magda was using the late hour to do her self-guided tour was that there were less people around. Most of the servants were already in bed, and she had picked a night that the girls were out on a hunt. The last thing Magda needed was for them to stalk her through the castle for fun. Their laughter in the dark was unsettling.

The lack of individuals also allowed her to take her time on examining the various portraits, busts, and ceramics that were thoroughly scattered throughout the place. She tried to piece together how old Lady Dimitrescu was by the decor, but there were items from across many time periods, keeping Magda from placing an exact age on the woman. The daughters could have been from the mid-1800’s, if the portrait in the Entrance Hall was any indication, but all she knew of the Countess was that she either had lived for many centuries or she was a collector of fine antiques and enjoyed living in great opulence.

The seamstress stood at the top of the stairs in the Main Hall, mentally mapping out the areas through the doorways around her. “That way to the Hall of the Four… Left and to the left again for the Entrance Hall, Carriage Gate, and the decrepit elevator of death. Though all this is a circle as well. Door to the right in the Hall of the Four leads to…” Magda didn’t complete that sentence, but through that door was the receiving room where she… where she became an employee of the castle. That would be a place to avoid for a while. Taking a breath and ignoring the brief ache of her left wrist, she continued.

“Dining Room below, and through to the left is the kitchen, while straight ahead is the courtyard. Once in the courtyard, to the right is the private chambers of Lady Dimitrescu. To the left is the Opera House, and my workspace.” To think that this castle had its own opera house. Yes, it was small, but still incredible to be in. With the bottom floor mostly mapped in her head, Magda began to walk the second floor. Here were the doors to the dressing and sitting rooms, as well as the Wine Room. Knowing that, she turned away from the dressing rooms and quietly went through the doors opposite.

The statue in front of her was large, unexpected, and the subject matter was really almost clichéd. Magda thought vampires were only supposed to have decadent art pieces of the sacrificial sort in works of fiction, and yet here was one being displayed before her. Perhaps it was a family heirloom or a macabre wedding gift. Either way, she decidedly turn her attention from it and continued on her exploration.

Light bled into the hallway from the room to the left, its door partially closed, and there were slight sounds of movement coming from within. Curiosity overcame self-preservation as Magda slowly crept forward, barely breathing in order to be as quiet as possible. Naturally, her careful steps found the one floorboard that squeaked under her weight, causing her to freeze in place and wait.

“To whomever is lingering in the hall, your eavesdropping presence has been noticed and it is not appreciated. Announce yourself before I lose my patience.” Magda closed her eyes and mouthed a silent curse as the voice of Alcina Dimitrescu sounded from within the room.

“It’s… It’s Magdalena Petran, ma’am. Your seamstress?” she replied nervously, before realizing how stupid she sounded. As if there was another Magdalena working here. There was a tense silence before it was broken by a simple command.

“Enter.”

Knowing better than to make her wait, Magda obeyed and quickly entered the room.

She had expected it to be a private study, but instead she found the room to be a simple art studio. No, simple wasn’t the right word. While it lacked the gilded decor of the rest of the castle, the ceiling was high and vaulted, complete with a skylight to let plenty of natural sunlight in during the day. Its simplistic appearance was only due to how older looking, more worn, and used everything was. The darker woodwork and wallpaper contributed to the effect as well. The floor lacked polish and uniformity in board shape and coloring. The few pieces of furniture and large quantities of books were all pushed against the walls, leaving plenty of room for a canvas and easel to sit in the center of the room. This was a place of work. Lady Dimitrescu, clad in an artist’s smock and with brush and palette in hand, gazed down at Magda in her usual authoritative fashion.

“What is your reason for wandering the halls of my castle at such a late hour, Miss Petran? I doubt that you are looking for clothing to repair.”

“I was looking...” she stopped and quickly corrected herself. “I was learning to find my way around the castle. It’s a large estate and I’d rather not get lost or open the wrong door.” Or get eaten, she thought.

“Could you not do this during the day?”

“I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way, mistress. I thought if I did it at night, most of the servants would be asleep, your daughters would be out hunting or otherwise occupied, and you would be…” Magda’s voice died in her throat as she looked down, not quite sure of what to say next.

“You thought I would be secreted away in my private chambers, busying myself with whatever womanly duties a lady of the house tended to do late at night. Is that it? Look at me when I am talking to you.” Magda’s head immediately snapped upward, fear likely showing in her eyes since an amused little smile, one with an edge to it, crept across Lady Dimitrescu’s deep red lips.

“Ma’am, I would never do something like that or presume anything about your nightly activities. I was not prowling or sneaking around. I was just exploring and figuring things out and I saw the light, so I came to look and then… I’m sorry, Mistress. I honestly didn’t mean to intrude.” The taller woman watched Magda for a long while, yellow eyes boring into her unwaveringly, before turning her attention back on the unfinished painting.

“Which is it?” she asked in a clipped manner, adding a few minute details to the wings of the angel depicted on her canvas.

“I beg your pardon?” Magda replied, confused.

“Throughout this entire conversation, you have used both ‘ma’am’ and ‘mistress’ when addressing me. Are you unable to make up your mind, child? Pick one or the other.” A few more brush strokes. “Now, which is it?” Magda was a bit lost. She didn’t know if this was a test or if she was simply making a mistake that needed to be corrected. Not knowing which was the better option, she went for a third choice.

“…Countess?” At that, the other woman paused and slowly turned to look at Magda once more, yellow eyes once again locked onto her, but this time her gaze was one of appraisal rather than judgement. This time her smile was one of satisfaction, as if saying ‘well, the mortal can be taught’. She then returned to her painting, the tension in the room having dissipated. However, Magda did note that she had not dismissed her. Whether this was another test, or the woman just enjoyed toying with her, she couldn’t say.

Rather than run the risk of spoiling the mood or the Countess’ artist moment, Magda took the time to quietly look around the room, taking in details she had previously missed; the large stuffed snapping turtles, the bell tower gears seen through the windows, and the immense portrait hanging in a ornate wood frame on the far wall.

You would think missing something like that upon entering would have been impossible, but then again, the subject in the painting was initially blocked by a living being of the exact same size. Now Magda could see it clearly, and it was gorgeous. It was the Countess, but perhaps a little younger. She still had a pink flush to her skin, still had life in her. No, that was wrong. Lady Dimitrescu ate, drank, and breathed like everyone else, but there was a difference that Magda couldn’t quite place.

The dress she wore was exquisite, and Magda took an unintended step forward before stopping herself. The Countess didn’t seem to have noticed, but she still decided to play it safe.

“Countess? That portrait… it’s you, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she replied with an amused half chuckle. “Unless you are aware of another woman of my stature.” She was clearly enjoying this. Good. Better an amused Countess than a wrathful one.

“May I take a closer look?” A gentle, almost absentminded, shooing motion with one hand was all the response that was given, but Magda took it as a yes, quickly walking over.

Up close, it was even more impressive that she originally thought. She had always been impressed by how artists managed to convey fabric and textures with simple strokes from a paintbrush. There were even minute wrinkles in the skirt. It was beautiful, absolutely stunning. Magda’s gaze hungrily devoured every detail she saw of this garment. At first she thought the fabric was a brocade, and from her initial distance, the mistake could be understood. The print was the proper size and detail for the material, but brocade would have been too heavy or stiff to have the folds of the skirt lay as they did.

“Floral damask?” she asked eagerly, not even thinking that she had just blurted out something in an otherwise quiet room.

“What?” came the terse response.

“The fabric, it’s a floral damask, isn’t it? Sterling gray and white.” Not even waiting for a confirmation, she went back to her examination. Too low a neckline for Victorian, also wrong hairstyle for the time. Late Victorian perhaps? Edwardian? That would make sense. At least she had a decade to work with, but Edwardian fashion changed every year of that decade. Either way, her mind was already clicking, and the desire to make or even see this garment had nestled itself thoroughly into her psyche, digging its damned little claws into her. Magda was like this when she saw a piece of clothing that intrigued her, flaming an odd passion inside of her. There was no way she would let this go so easily.

“Does the gown still exist?” she asked, turning around and looking unexpectedly at the Countess, who was now standing directly behind her. For a woman her size, it was unnerving how quietly she could move if she wished to.

“It intrigues you, doesn’t it?”

“I… If I can… I would love to make this. It’s twelve yards, at least, if that was when… if you were…” The Countess’ eyebrow quirked a little, and Magda immediately changed her wording, knowing it was a very bad idea to mention sizes, especially to her. “Historically, at least twelve yards of fabric would be needed for a Late Victorian or Edwardian dress like that. If… Countess, I know you think I’m babbling, but I believe I can recreate this gown for you. Please. I know I can.”

“Whether you can or cannot is not the issue, Miss Petran. The hour is late and I would rather not hear you prattle on about fabric or garments that have not been worn in quite some time. I believe I have indulged you for long enough. I suggest you retire back to your quarters for the night before you find yourself anywhere else in this castle.” It wasn’t quite a threat, but there was an edge to it, and the seamstress knew better than to test that edge.

“Yes, Countess,” she replied, giving her a bow before heading for the door, her mind still processing the gown.

“And Magdalena?” Magda froze upon hearing her first name spoken, a chill running down her spine. Why the sudden name change? Had she done something wrong? She was at the door, she could have simply continued on, feigning ignorance. But instead, she turned around, ready to face whatever faux pas she had unwittingly done. Alcina was still at the portrait, back to her.

“Yes, Countess?”

“Three days from now, I would like a tailoring session. Mid-afternoon. That is all.” It was good that she could not see Magda’s face, as her jaw went slack and she stared. Three days. She had three days to  ready and prove herself. The workshop wasn’t a mess, per se, but she knew she could make it better for her visit.

“Yes, Countess. Absolutely.” Another bow, and she was gone. Magda may have just made herself useful.

[iammarriedtomothman]

Meet Cute (again)

All Gio had wanted was a new model for his latest piece. Yes he had plenty of beautiful people waltzing around the estate but he wasn’t sure how willing they would be to sit and pose for four hours at a time.

No, he needed a professional, it had been much too long since a museum had seen a Scarafaggio original and now was time. 

He had entrusted his Lex to pick his model, his muse for the week. And maybe that was a mistake, he had been moping around the estate for too long now and they had noticed. True he had a wonderful enclave of people in what he jokingly referred to as “the estates private collection” but he missed his masterpiece. 

Y/N

They had died young again a few years back. Poisoned by a man they had married. He thought that if he stepped out of the picture their next lifecycle they would be safe, wouldn’t die young like they had every time he found them again. But the universe was cruel and he watched from afar at their funeral yet again. 

He had met them in ancient Rome, he was still relatively naïve to humanity but he felt a pull to them, their kind eyes, warm smile. They were sunshine to him, and he fell quickly. He painted them almost everyday, trying his best to capture their beauty. He had a few weeks with them before sickness took them. He had only them in memory and paintings now. He found them again a few years later, they had no idea who he was but their kind eyes still sparkled with affection for him. 

And thus the cycle continued, he held them close and tried to capture their beauty. He tried to protect them, keep them healthy and safe. But they would die young regardless. 

He had loved them and lost them too many times and each go round was a chip at his heart. So he grew bitter and closed off. Allowing only a few inside.

Maybe Lex had grown tired of him staring longingly at their portrait in the side room of his studio, where he would lock himself in days at a time. He had filled the room with the paintings of them and the others over the years. They always had those kind eyes that filled with adoration for him. 

 Lex cleared her throat, startling him as he tore his eyes away from thier portrait. “Porca miseria Lex!”

“Sorry Boss I thought you would have heard me coming, your model is here”

“Thank you Lex” and with that he closed the doors to the small room and went to greet his guest. 

But when he went to go greet them he halted. If he ever had the need to breathe his breath would have hitched. His Y/N was standing right in front of him. Standing next to an old beat up red car, their smile is still wide, eyes that meet his, still kind and loving. 

“H-hello, I’m Y/N, I’ll be your model” And their voice is still sweet even when they’re nervous. “Hello, I’m Scarafaggio Shoggoth but you may call me Gio, everyone does” He extended his hand  “You come highly recommended and I must say, I look forward to working with you” he was going to kill Lex, or thank her immensely, it was really depending on how this all panned out.

They shook his hand and time stopped, they still felt the same in his hand and he stopped himself from raising it to his mouth to press a kiss into it like he had done so many times over.

He set them up in his studio, he wondered if they felt comfortable, like they felt they had always lived here, as their body language showed them relaxed. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, a million emotions rolling through him but, he was more guarded, how many times could he lose them again, maybe just one painting would be enough to sustain him?

“Soooooo” they spoke up, cutting the silence

“What?” he barked and immediately hated himself, he never wanted to speak a cross word to them in his existence, but better to keep his heart at a distance. He winced as they shrunk back a bit, their eyebrows shot up “n-nothing, just you know, most clients listen to music or at the very least make small talk. I just thought we could get to know each other since, we’ll be spending a long amount of time together” He sunk back behind his painting “I can put on some classical music if you’d like but I’m not sure you’d like my conversations” A few minutes ticked by, now filled with soft classical music “So, um, what do you do for work?” He laughed through his nose, if only they knew, “art” he replied. “Well, I’m a botanist but it surprisingly doesn't pay well, go figure. So I took up modeling on the side” and with that they talked through their entire session, it was always like them to break through his tough shell no matter how hard he tried to keep it up.

He kept asking them to come back, he needed them to come back, he wanted to hear them again, see them close to what they had looked before, laid practically naked over a chair, ethereally beautiful. One day they let out a soft laugh through their nose, a noise he missed dearly. “Something funny?” he asked, working on their shading. “No, it’s just… I don’t know Déjà vu? It feels like I’ve been here before, like this house seems familiar?”

He faltered, did they know? Had they figured it out? “Oh well, a trick of the mind I guess, all big houses look alike” He mentally sighed in relief and went back to painting, hoping that as mean as he was, he could keep their distance. Paint them until he got just enough to sustain him and then send them away, let them live a normal life, hopefully a long one this time.

But of course they were curious, and a wanderer. He had only got up for a minute to get them some water. Perhaps it was a ploy by them to distract him, he could have gotten one of his clones to get it but he wanted to do this for them, a slip up by him. When he got back they weren't in the chaise, they weren't even in the studio. His panic only worsened when he saw his private side room door open. The room with his personal collection, where all the portraits of them were stored. He dropped the glass, and ran to the room praying he had simply forgotten to close it. He shoved the door open quickly in a panic, and there they were, staring at themself from 300 years ago. A look of worry and fear across their face. “Y/N, my darling please” He begged as he reached out to gently grab their hand, the pet name all too natural, was a mistake. “Don’t.” He flinched, their words sharp and demanding, making his stomach drop “Don’t, don’t call me that, not when you have all of these paintings of me” their eyes filling with tears “not when you’ve been staring at me practically naked for a week now” They slapped his outstretched hand away “don’t touch me you creep!” They shoved past him, grabbing their bag and running out the door. He watched as they ran, not wanting to chase them. As he heard the front door slam and their car rev up, he accepted solemnly that they had made their decision, and done as he had hoped anyway, left him alone for them to live a normal life. So why did it feel so bad, why did it feel like his unbeating heart was shattered? He sunk to the floor, the reason clear, it’s because they hated him, in all of their lives they either loved him or ignored him, but never hated him. He had never wanted to cause them pain or suffering, he only wanted to protect them. He stood up eventually and stared at his unfinished art piece, anger at himself boiling up inside, he couldn't destroy it, the only thing left of them, but he needed to destroy something. His studio was in shambles when Zhuk found him, anger spent, now numbly staring at the tumblr full of netherworld quality booze. Everything was destroyed except their unfinished portrait. which stood neatly on its easel. “I messed it up Zhuk” He told him emotionlessly “Then fix it, durak” Zhuk replied. Gio flinched at this cold response but he was right, he needed to fix it.

 So he reached out, using the number they had given him, begging for just a chance to explain himself. Luckily they had in fact been putting things together over the times they had visited. “I found it weird I already knew where the bathroom was, and how I knew that there’s a tricky turn at the entrance” They explained to him as he walked them back to the portrait room “things got to much just for Déjà vu to explain and after the paintings, it just began to come together”

 He nodded as he guided them to the portrait room “Yes, you and a couple of others are a rare soul, one that will continue to be reborn time and time again” He held such restraint around them, wanting nothing more than to hold them against him again, overjoyed they had given him a second chance. “You see, it’s said that sometimes a love is so strong that one lifetime isn’t enough to live it, and that’s what is the case with you and the others” “Where did I meet you first?” they asked breathily after a few minutes of silence. Gio smiled and gently took their hand, leading them to the first Fresco he painted of them “Rome in the first century” it felt so good to have them hand in his again “You and I were buying wine and there was only one left. You insisted I take it and that you didn’t really want it, so I offered we share it” He chuckled “we shared a bottle and then a beautiful few weeks together before you passed” “And this one?” They were pointing to the golden framed portrait of them, they looked almost the same as they did back then, they had only changed their hair.  “That was you in 1842, you lived here then and were the head of the house, you made everyone's day so much brighter” He tested the waters by bringing their hand to his mouth, pressing a loving kiss onto their knuckles. “Mine especially” Luckily, they didn’t flinch or tug their hand away, instead they sighed happily, still looking at their old portrait. “I was so beautiful”

He chuckled and turned to them, elated to see their eyes were shining yet again in adoration and love

“My darling you are still as lovely as the day I met you centuries ago” Lovingly stroking their face. They smiled and leaned into his touch, “I can’t explain it, but this feels so familiar, it makes me feel safe and warm, like I’ve done this countless times with you” His heart soared in happiness “Then I will spend everyday until eternity making you feel this way my love” He smiled softly at his little spot of sunshine “may I risk making a complete fool of myself by asking if I can kiss you?” He asked nervously They giggled softly, making his heart flutter with love “Well, it seems like the obvious thing to do” He smiled as he cupped their face, the feeling of their soft skin never truly gone from his memory. He pressed his lips gently to theirs, his moon was home again he would finally have the courage to do everything in his power to make sure he never let them go again.

[sadprose-auroras]

‘Incomplete’ - Ben Hardy!Walter Hartright X Female!Reader

Contains: brief mentions of controlling, objectifying gross men, kissing that gets only very slightly saucy, rambly writing style cause I got excited about plot and including as much as I could instead of making it sound coherent and nice, also it’s shorter than I expected oops sorry

Tagging my soul sister and number one supporter and fellow Walter stan @sparkly-spade-socks !! Thanks Nick for encouraging me to write this and yelling about the woman in white with me, I wouldn’t have been so inspired and deep in my feels without you xx

You were positively aching. For many reasons.

For starters, the stool you were perched upon, despite the unnecessarily extravagant layers of cream-coloured material between your body and the seat, flowing out on either side of you in the cool breeze, was uncomfortable and making it difficult to sit up straight, and still. In fact, your entire body was sore; no one person should be made to sit in the same position for so long. Although, you supposed you couldn’t complain. The portraits were being completed over five days, and today was the last. He was very thorough; you could tell he cared deeply about making your wedding portraits as near perfect as possible. But why should he care? As he told you, he was leaving the country in two days. And nobody really knew him around these parts. He was somewhat of an enigma. So a poor effort would be difficult to trace back to him. You didn’t even know where he was moving, or perhaps fleeing, to. As far as everyone else was concerned, your husband most importantly, yourself and Mr Hartright did not know each other until you hired him.

The strongest ache, however, was not of your body, but your heart. The overwhelming sensations you felt every time you glanced at him licking his lips in concentration, or his soft golden curls dancing across his forehead in the wind, or the slight crease in his forehead that you wanted nothing more than to smooth out with a gentle kiss, were enough to make your hands, clasped in your lap, shake, and your eyes to dart away. To anywhere else. The horizon in front of you, the crashing waves, the rolling mountains to your right. You found yourself thanking God for the myriad of distracting views. Though none of them could compare to the man in front of you. 

“Coun- Miss Y/L/N, could you look at me please? I need to see your eyes.” His voice snapped you out of your wandering thoughts, and you gave him an apologetic smile, ignoring the way your breath hitched at your throat and your cheeks burned even more as you made direct eye contact with him. His pale green eyes bore into yours, although you knew this was just because he was painting them. Right?

“Tell me more about where you are going, Mr Hartright. If you wish to…” Your attempt to diffuse your straightforwardness and lack of consideration for politeness was ignored by him. He raised his eyebrows as he stopped painting and looked at you, a small, amused smile on his face. 

“I don’t quite know yet. I will work it out, I suppose. I just need a change, I feel trapped. Do you know what I mean?” That forehead crease was back. Your stomach flipped. 

“I completely understand.” Your tone was firm but wistful, as you sighed slightly and gazed back out to the horizon, a piece of your hair falling out of its clip and blowing in the wind. You ignored it, focusing on holding back the stinging tears in your eyes. It was because you knew that feeling of entrapment far too well, and Walter knew how your entire life you felt trapped. First, your Father’s control over you when your Mother died. Then, the shockingly terrifying surprise of him basically selling you to be married to a rich, well-known Count to pay off his debts when he passed away. A reminder from beyond the grave that you could never escape his objectifying wrath against his only daughter. 

You had shared your troubles with the man before you years prior, when the two of you were young children running free in green fields and making up worlds, just trying to find somewhere to belong and someone to talk to. Now, he knew of the other man who was even more controlling of your agency than your Father; your husband. 

In the last hours of your five day ordeal, you’d ceased your long rambles about your terribly scary life. Perhaps you realised the dangerous territory the two of you could be getting yourselves into. Just as much as you were telling him about your life and gazing longingly at him, he was doing the same. 

“I’m sorry Miss Y/L/N, but I need to fix-” he interrupted the almost deafening silence, dropping his brush and pushing his sleeves up, walking towards you and bending over ever so slightly, dangerously close before you could even react. “Your-your hair is coming out…” he practically whispered, his delicately light fingers clipping the piece back in place so gently and so quickly that you barely felt it. The rest of your body certainly reacted though. 

Before you could think, you brought your hand up to his lingering hand and placed it on your cheek effectively trapping his hand, and he let out the smallest of breaths in relief, swiping his thumb across your cheekbone as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. For a second, it crossed your mind that perhaps two people staring into each other’s eyes wordlessly would be uncomfortable or undesirable. Yet, you could have stayed in this position forever; your heart pounding, your hand over his trembling, as you studied every feature of his face in detail. You decided that you could write a novel about every one of those details. 

“This-” he murmured breathlessly, but it was drowned in the wind. And by your lips. You felt slightly guilty for stopping him from speaking, but you couldn’t hold yourself back from kissing him a second longer. His lips were softer than you could have possibly even imagined, kissing you with a perfect mixture of hesitancy and precision that made your head spin. The gasps and sharp breaths he let out between kisses were the prettiest sounds you’d ever heard, and, although you thought it impossible, his noises made you lose even more self control; you threaded your fingers through his soft, golden curls, pulling his body against yours as you stood up so you could kiss him at a better angle. When his tongue darted out yet again, your entire body just about melted, and you were grateful for his hands on your lower back basically holding you up. 

When you came up for air, not before pressing another quick, soft kiss to his pink, swollen lips, neither of you could stop the small giggles that came out at the ridiculousness of the situation. His forehead rested against yours, his thumbs now stroking your lower back through your dress (you were disappointed that you could just barely feel it). 

“You appear to have got yourself tangled up in quite a complicated situation, Miss Y/LN,” he whispered, but a huge, dopey smile was plastered on his face. 

“You’re one to talk, Mr Hartright,” you whispered back in the same tone, his smile matching yours. Counteracting your words, you kissed him briefly again. 

“I have two requests of you.” His words caused you to raise your eyebrows in intrigue, but you stayed wrapped in each other’s arms. 

“Yes?”

“Firstly, please drop the formalities… I think we’re far beyond that point. Call me Walter.” 

You chuckled softly in response and nodded, the smile never once leaving your face as you now fixed a piece of his hair. 

“That is very easily done, Walter.” 

“Well then, Y/N, I also want to know if you’d like to come with me.” You didn’t even need for him to specify what he meant, where you would be going with him. Nor did you question for a second your response, despite all of the complications that would most likely follow you. They, in fact, did not cross your mind in that moment. 

“I would love to.” 

You did not know where you were going as you clasped his hand and walked giddily to the train station the next morning, wedding dress left hanging on your wardrobe door and wedding ring left on your vanity, but you had not a care in the world. Nor did Walter; even though his painting was still left perched on the easel on the hill, your wedding portrait left incomplete.

[ikevamp-holiday-exchange]

To: @nordicwannabe From: @chquine

-------

Having played for prestigious people in his time period, Mozart found his apprehension unwelcome and unwarranted. He fixed his gaze on his reflection; his hair was longer now and tied back with a lilac ribbon that matched his eyes. His suit was pristine and tailored specifically for him; in lieu of his music sheet he had a portable tablet - not that he needed a copy of the music sheet, but appearances must be kept. He was called by the concert coordinator to stand by; his name having changed multiple times in multiple lifetimes, before finally arriving at the 21st century.

Her time.

A fresh violet was pinned to his chest and he popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, savoring the sudden bitterness of coffee infused with it. The taste brought back memories of Le Comte's mansion, where he had long left except on days when the rest of the residents came back to remember her. Memories of his anguished stagnation were embarrassing to say the least, but he could not deny that he was thankful for those events, ephemeral as they may be.

He would trade all of his immortality to live through those times again.

Mozart took to the stage and bowed to the audience. Like before, his performances drew the attention of people. Perhaps Salieri had been right; he was favored by God to grant gift to people. The taste of coffee lingered in his mouth and he turned to the full orchestra that awaited his instruction. As much as he enjoyed playing the piano, he took to conducting easily and chose to pursue it for this life.

A letter peeked from his breast pocket, where the violet was pinned at. He raised his hands and the orchestra played. The song was vivacious, loud, and lively and Mozart conducted with much gusto and energy before it gradually became slower, emphasizing the sound of the violins and the harp, like a song for midnight rendezvous. Then it rose higher and higher, until it reached a fever pitch, filling the entire auditorium with the blaring sound of his indignation at failing to protect her. The song tapered off once more; this time it would not rise again.

The song's name?

Nora.

Dearest Wolf,

This letter is an insurance. Something I feel like I should make knowing how limited our time is. I don't want to think about the future, but at this point in time, I know I should.

First! I love you. I love your smile, the way you carry yourself and the way you decided to choose loving me. I used to think that I was just someone who happened to be displaced in time, but that would be an insult to your feelings towards me. So I've decided to love you, bearing everything that entails.

Second, never doubt your music. That actually goes without saying, but I wanted to say it anyway. I know you know how good you are and that your skill has hurt you countless times, but you have to understand how much your creations altered the world that I know. You've made things good and bright and colorful and exciting. Please keep making music, not for my sake, but for yours. Above all else, your music should be for you. I might be thinking too much of you, but that's exactly how I feel and I'm not backing down!

Third, I want you to enjoy the coming years. You're a timeless vampire who'll live on for quite some time, so I want you to live for yourself. It's a selfish request, but I'd really appreciate it if you made yourself happy. The 21st century has a lot to offer: concerts, chocolates, coffee and technology! I'm sure you'll find things that will take you on a new adventure.

It breaks my heart to write this letter, more than the thought that I'll be leaving you. But you know Wolf? Being by your side was more than enough.

Until we meet again, meine liebe.

Yours always,

Nora

-----------------------------------------------------

Vincent sat in front of his easel, pensive. The painting was a bit too bright, a bit too sunny and with too much yellow. His muse was not even here, and it was already too cheery even for him. Theo usually allows some form of restraint when it comes to warm or dark colors, without sacrificing his artistic liberties. The door of his room opened and Theo strode in, holding a vial of Blanc.

"Ah Theo. Good morning," Vincent smiled. "It's a lovely day, don't you think?"

"Yeah..." Theo's reply was dispassionate, like it usually was. Vincent found that it was better to leave his brother in his somber self. "Here's some Blanc, Vincent."

"Thank you," he gestured to his painting. "So, what do you think? Isn't it too bright?"

Theo glanced at the easel, heart tightening. It had been a month and his brother showed no signs of change or recognition.

Or perhaps Vincent knew but refused to acknowledge the truth.

"Theo?"

He snapped back to reality. In the canvas was painted in all manners of yellows and oranges, with the middle left blank for the person Vincent wanted to paint the most. For the past month, his brother had been painting the exact same portrait: hues of yellow and orange framing a blank canvas where someone should be. At this point, Theo was just waiting for his brother to use up all of the bright and cheery paint he had. But to be honest, he had no idea what to do afterwards.

"I'm excited to see her again. She said she'd be back tomorrow," Vincent said with a chuckle. "Say Theo, do you mind if I keep this painting? I really don't want you to sell any paintings of her."

"Yeah sure..." he answered flippantly. "Maybe you should add a bit more blue to contrast. That'll look like an eyesore before long." He had no idea if contradicting Vincent would work, but he wanted to try.

"Hmmmm... I guess you're right. That would make her stand out some more."

Theo nodded and left, wondering if playing into his brother's fantasy was an act of mercy or an unnecessary cruelty.

She died a month ago from a vampire attack. They buried her in the mansion grounds with a single tombstone to remember her by. Vincent had been there with them, but the next day he had acted like nothing changed.

Like she was still returning to the mansion as planned.

My dearest Vincent,

I'm really eager to get back home and see you. 19th century Paris is nice but nothing beats the view of the garden from your bedroom window.

Thanks for letting me go on this tour, by the way. I know you didn't like me going off on my own, so I really appreciate you letting me go here. Maybe next time you'll come join me? I can already see the fun things we can do.

Oh and as promised! I'll let you paint a portrait of me. Should we go out on a picnic? Or just go to the gardens? I guess we can talk about it once we're together again.

I miss you, Vincent. And I can't wait to see you tomorrow.

I love you.

Nora

[hanniiesuckle17]

The Painting

A/n: Okay not requested but like I was watching "The Marvelous Mrs.Maisel" (awesome show go watch it on Amazon prime) and got inspired and thought this would be cute and funny anyway...yeah

WARNINGS: Swearing, mention of nudity.

Summary: Essentially the reader and Jisung have been bestfriends for about a year and you are a Classical Art Major in College. So I guess this is a college au. Jisung is a Music Major obviously and he lives in a shared apartment with all the boys and you have a studio apartment by yourself. It's almost time for your final project to be turned in and you are trying to get Jisung to help you out.

College Au, friends to lovers au

_________________________________________

"Please, Hannie!" I chased my bestfriend of a year around my apartment. "Absolutely not!" He screamed, jumping over my couch. "Please! It's for my master's thesis! You know it's Classical Art!" He ran from me, shaking his head. "No, no, no. Absolutely not! Never in a million years!" I chased him around my kitchen before he sprinted into my living room.

"Jisung I've already seen it, what difference is it going to make!" As I said that, he fell over the back of my couch and crashed into my coffee table. His head of blonde hair lay on the floor while the rest of his body lay limp on the couch. "Oh my God! J, are you okay?" He nodded, clutching the back of his head.

Taking his hand, I pulled him up on the couch and looked down at him. "Wait how did you-" "Jisung, you are my bestfriend. I don't mind if you come over and use my shower to get away from the boys, but you should really close the door."

A bright red tint started to spread over the tips of his ears. "Please, J." He looked up at me as I gave him puppy eyes. "If it's not you I'll just have to ask one of the guys in the art department to do it." "NO!" He immediately stood up at my words, a look of panic on his face.

A smirk fell across my lips. "Fine." His voice drew out the word and his head fell back in defeat. "Yay!" I jumped up and down, success finally mine. I scrambled to get my canvas and paints by the window and pushed him towards my room. "I'm going to take so much shit from the guys if they ever find out."

"Shut up. Now get in there and strip."

_________________________________________

"Done!" I exclaimed marking the finishing touches on the canvas. "Please toss me my pants!" I laughed and tossed him the sweatpants he wore over to my apartment. I chuckled as he put them on in lightning speed. "I swear to God this better be the best goddamn fucking painting ever." He shuffled over and looked at my work.

His jaw went slack as he looked at the canvas. "What do you think?" He lifted it carefully off my easel. "Think I'll get an A?" He just stared at the portrait I made of him. "Are you that self obsorbed?" I laughed trying to get his attention. He finally looked over at me with a smile. "Y/n, this is incredible! It looks like a photograph." He handed it back to me with a huge smile plastered on his face.

"Well it's a good thing you agreed to be my subject, because my due date is in two days." I set the easel somewhere out of the way so the paint wouldn't accidentally get smudged while it was drying. "Umm...excuse me bitch, I prefer the term 'muse'. It's more romantic." He said with a smile while pulling his shirt over his head. "Also as long as you didn't have to ask one of those artsy, smoking, aesthetic, emotionally traumatized, ulzzang boys."

He turned his back to me and mumbled the last sentence. "Aww, J! Are you jealous?" I teased. He laughed as I hugged him. "What are you going to do with the painting after they grade it?" I shrugged as he followed me into the living room. "I think you should burn it." "What? No! I thought you liked it!" He collapsed onto my couch and rested his arm across the back. "Y/n. It's incredible. You are an amazing artist. It also has my bare ass in it." I sat on the other side of my couch and rest my legs across his lap.

"I'll put it in storage when I get it back then." He smiled and thanked me. "You painted me naked, I think I at least deserve dinner after that!" He laughed and handed me my phone while wiggling his eyebrows. "Yes, it isn't like every other day when I buy you dinner." Reluctantly I dialed the number of our favorite takeaway place, while Jisung chose a movie to watch.

A few weeks later, Seungmin, Felix, Chan, and Changbin were all over at my apartment to have a study group for Mathematics. Because we were all literally shit at math. High key we were all arts majors so we suck at everything. Jisung was supposed to show up, but he was stuck finishing a project at the studio. The boys lay in every free space my small living room could offer with books and papers everywhere.

"Hey, Y/n? Do you have any extra batteries? My calculator just died." I told Seungmin that they were in the closet next to my bed. The boy got up to go search for the batteries and the rest of us continued to work. Changbin had stretched across my couch so I was laid across his lap holding a big ass math book over my face, trying to cram its contents into my brain.

All of us jumped when we heard Seungmin scream from my room. This accidentally caused me to drop the three pound book on my face. The young boy ran into the room and screamed for everyone to look. I heard screams and gasps, but didn't get a chance to see, because one there was a book on my face, and two Changbin got up so quickly that I was knocked face down onto the floor.

"Y/n! What the hell is this?" Felix asked with a laugh. I rubbed my head and turned to see Seungmin and Minho holding up the painting of Jisung. My face went pale. "Did you paint this?" Felix asked. None of the boys could stop laughing. "Changbin take a picture!" Before Changbin could pull out his phone, I tackled him to the floor and we began to fight for the phone. Screams and laughs filled my apartment as my friends laughed at Changbin and me.

All of the noise stop as we heard the door open. We froze making the scene look incredibly like a sitcom. Seungmin and Minho stood holding the nude painting of Jisung with gaping faces. Felix stood on the couch cheering on Changbin. Chan was trying to drag me out of the fight, and I was straddling Changbin on the floor, who was trying to get to his phone which was raised high over my head.

The five of us turned slowly to see who had entered my apartment. Of course it was the worst person who could possibly arrive right now. Jisung stood frozen in shock, trying to comprehend the sight before him. Then his eyes fell onto the painting. Immediately his face switched to one of anger and his eyes shot to me, the girl still on top of his hyung.

"Yah! Kim Y/n!" He stormed towards me. Gripping my wrist, he pulled me off of Changbin and dragged me into my bedroom, slamming the door. There was nothing but silence in the living room. Then Minho spoke up.

"You think they're gonna fuck?"

The sound of him being slapped followed soon after.

Meanwhile in my room, Jisung paced my floor while I sat nervously on my bed. "J I'm-"

"Nope. You don't get to talk yet." He continued to burn a track into my wood floor in silence. "Well are you going to?" He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought you said you were going to hide it." "Well, obviously I didn't do a good job of that." I said with a smile. He shot me a look and it quickly fell.

"I'm sorry, Jisung! What did you expect me to do? Buy an entire storage unit for one painting?" "Yes!" Confusion and exasperation read clearly on my face. "No." He ran a hand through his blonde hair. Standing up from the bed, I walked towards him. "This was going to happen sooner or later. You agreed to do it in the first place."

"Only because I didn't want the girl I've been completely and irrevocably in love with for the past six and a half months to paint some other guy's deal!" He shouted. Heavy silence filled the room.

"Oh shit." Felix's voice could be heard from outside the door. Jisung angrily crossed over and kicked the door and many screams could be heard from the other side.

"Fuck." He kept his back to me, head down. "Y/n, please say something." His voice was low so as to not let the other boys hear. I was at a loss for words. "Tell me how you love me." He turned at my voice. "You know I've always been terrible with words. Paint me a picture." I kept my tone low and it felt like it was just a secret between me and him.

Slowly, Jisung made is way over to stand in front of me, his brows furrowed like they always did when he was thinking. He still had yet to touch me, but I could feel the air had changed between us as we stood face to face, closer than ever before. I stared up at his features which I had painted and sketched time and time again.

"When I see you," he kept his gaze on the floor. "When I look at you, it feels like everything I do or say isn't nothing anymore. When I look at you, all of the songs I've heard on the radio start to make sense. When I look at you, I feel like someone took galaxies from the night sky and put them in your eyes so that I could know what eternity looks like. I don't want you to be mine. I'm not worthy of that luxury." His eyes still were focused on the floor, but I didn't mind.

"When you paint or sketch you have this talent for capturing it's most vulnerable state. I have been the subject of so many sketches, and portraits, and paintings, and each time you have stripped me down to my core farther than any clothes or skin could hide. And each time, I think that I have nothing left to hide, but then I see myself through your eyes and I finally understand who I am a little more. I found myself in you and for that I am in your debt. And yet I have the audacity to stand here, and ask something more of you."

Slowly he met my gaze. His eyes reminded me of the first time I ever drew him. He was working on some track with Changbin and I sat in the studio with them. I had only met him a few days prior. I was aimlessly sketching and my gaze fell on him. Their was something about the way his eyes sparkled but held a soft vulnerability when he listened to his music. My hands went to work at capturing that stare, but I could never get the rest of his face to fit the way his eyes looked, so that was all that rested on the page.

He stood before me with the same look in his eyes. "Please, let me give myself to you. Every piece of my heart has been yours for the longest time. Won't you please accept it?" I looked down to see his hands shaking a little by his sides. Taking them gently in my own, I looked back up at him.

"I do not deserve to be the subject of such beautiful words. And I feel my answer would be insufficient to your confession." I let go of his hands to retrieve my sketchbook on the desk. Carefully, I placed it in his hands. He looked from me to the book before carefully opening it. I watched him flip from page to page. Each was filled with scribbled out sketches of a girl or a girl's eyes. But, as he reached the middle, they turned into a pair of eyes that he immediately recognized as his own. Then to pictures of him. On the very last page there was a sketch of Y/n's eyes fully drawn out and not marked over. They were drawn as if looking in a mirror, but in her eyes, was the silhouette of a boy.

I placed my hand gently over his. "I have learned to see myself through my muse." He smiled down at me and he tossed the book onto my bed. He wrapped his arms around my waist and gently pulled me into his embrace. My head rested against his chest and I could hear his heartbeat slow from its previous fast pace.

I couldn't tell how long we stayed like that. But, reluctantly I pulled away. "You should go out and face the music." I nodded towards the door. "Please, just one more minute!" He whispered as he buried his face in my neck, his blonde hair tickling my skin. I slowly pushed him towards the door and he whined into my neck causing me to laugh. "If you are going to make me go out there I need some incentive to withstand my teasing." He mumbled against my skin. I smiled and pushed him against the wall next to the door.

His head shot up in reaction and looked down at me, half in shock and half in interest. My hands traveled up his chest to his shoulders, then to his jaw and then to the back of his neck. I pulled him close and smiled, placing a lingering kiss on the corner of his lips. Pulling away, I opened the door and pushed him in front of me, quickly changing the atmosphere.

"Y/n, you bitch." "You love me." He went silent at that and then the boys bombarded the two of us with questions, holding the painting so everyone could see.

"So was the painting before or after the sex?" Minho asked throwing an arm over my shoulder. "Painting was foreplay. I like it messy." Minho was shocked, obviously not expecting me to respond and so was Jisung.

"So how much bigger did you actually have to make his dick. We all know that painting isn't the real thing." Seungmin said motioning to the canvas. Jisung looked down obviously quite embarrassed about the whole ordeal. I quickly came to his side and wrapped my arms around his torso. "Actually, I had to make it smaller in the painting because I couldn't sketch it proportionately as the canvas was too small. Jisung looked up at me a huge blush painted on his cheeks and ears. While the other boys debated on whether I was lying or not.

Jisung looked down at me, still blushing. "You are incredible." He leaned down and kissed me sweetly.

"Chan can we hang this in our living room?" Changbin screamed.

"THAT'S IT I AM MOVING OUT!"

Masterlist