#tried to paint more to get me through this art block and it has thrown me out of my comfort zone but yeah!

[fruitmixtape]

my pieces for this year's Dean Cas Big Bang! based on @briston4274's fic The Things We Leave Behind

[chiwhorei]

pollock

paring: art major!k. tsukishima x fem!reader

genre: a dash of angst, hurt/comfort, smut, 18+ minors dni

wordcount: 3.2k

warnings: dom/sub dynamics, fingering, spitting, dacryphilia, praise, daddy kink, breeding kink, impregnating kink, soft and kinda hard dom!tsukki, sub!reader

a/n: ahhhhh!! this is my first longer fic to come out in a while and i am ~so~ excited to share this with everyone. i have been keening over the idea of art!major tsukki and i hope you all like him as much as i do! this is piece is brought to you by the hqhq monthly server collab, so please go check out everyone’s amazing writing, the masterlist can be found here!

hymn: validation by herrick & hooley, cherry hill by russ

“Your work is always technically very well executed, Tsukishima-san.” The round, bald-headed man shuffles through the photos on his desk, pieces of Tsukishima Kei’s senior project that he’s tried to fit together before his final exhibit only four months away.

“But,” the dreaded word has Tsukki restraining himself from a long eye roll, “It seems like you’re stuck. You still need one more piece for the show. What inspires you?”

You hear a resounding slam of the front door swinging open and meeting the frame again, followed by a shuffle of feet towards where you’re standing in the kitchen of your shared apartment. Tsukki’s mouth is set in a flat line, expression softening only slightly when he sees you leaning against the counter. You greet him with a warm, but cautious smile. It had been a horribly long day, grating on every thread of patience Tsukishima has. The bubbling of anxiety and frustration mixing into a sour look on his handsome face. You hate seeing your boyfriend so defeatus, much preferring the sardonic, confident air he usually holds. Both of your final years of college have been exceptionally taxing, Tsukki’s final art project being the most stressing of all. It seems like as days propel forward, closer to his due date, the less assured he is of his talents, his passions. It’s heartbreaking to see someone so brilliant struggle through a million half fleshed-out ideas and crumbled up leaves of paper.

You pull one of his hands to you, examining the stains of paint and ink across his long digits and kissing each finger softly. You wish you could get inside that big head of his and help in some way.

“Did you have a hard day at the studio, Kei?” You wrap your arms around his neck and search his eyes. He’s not always the best at talking to you, especially when he’s upset, so you don’t expect him to give you an answer. Instead, you rub his shoulders, trying to coax the tension out. He sighs deeply at the contact, hands moving to rest at the plush of your hips and gripping tightly when you work at a particularly sore spot.

“You’re too good to me, princess. Thank you” He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you nuzzle into him. You don’t have the answers to his current road block, you don’t pretend to. But maybe, you think, you can offer him a more carnal outlet.

“Of course, Daddy.” The name hangs in the air for a moment, any response hitching in his throat. The title is familiar after years of being together, always being both comforting and electrifying. Since the title slipped out years ago for the first time, your boyfriend feels his cool demeanor snapping like a glow stick, leaving hot lust in its wake upon it rolling past your lips.

He pulls you closed to him by your ass, inhaling sharply at the contact on his jeans. All you have on is one of Tsukki’s loose, paint stained sweaters and a thin pair of cotton panties. You brush one of your bare thighs against his crotch, and he feels the stresses of his day falling out of frame. Your body is always a buoy to pull him back from the drowning of self doubt. A perfect slice of heaven he became addicted to from the moment he spotted you across the dusty stacks.

“What inspires you?”

The question rings in his head again, but with a new perspective. Tsukki hears pieces clicking together with your lustrous body pressed against him.

“Babygirl, I think I have an idea. But I’m going to need your help.” His hands move to cup your cheeks, scanning over your features and finding a devious glint behind your soft, e/c eyes. Tsukki trails a thumb over your bottom lip lightly, admiring how you lean into the contact. Always so eager to please him, your temperament goes straight to his cock every time.

“Anything for you, daddy.” You press your forehead against his, waiting patiently for his next move. There’s astounding beauty in the glossy, temperate look in your eyes that he wants to, has to, to freeze in time.

“I have a few things to set up. Come to the office when I call you,” Tsukki pushes a stray hair from your face with a fond smile before walking away, he stops for a moment to look at you over his shoulder, “Naked.”

Your mind races as to what exactly he wants to do with you tonight as you busy yourself with peeling off your clothing. There is very little that you and your boyfriend haven’t tried at least once, but the tone in his voice has left you reeling at the possibilities.

Your eyes catch your reflection in the hallway mirror, naked body completely exposed to your own scrutinizing stare. Had it been the stress causing the image in front of you to be so unsavory? Every plane of skin promoting a different insecurity. A blasted thing a hallway mirror becomes when you’ve never truly loved what stares back. You fuss with your hair in a feeble attempt to make yourself more presentable. The question of how Tsukishima sees you always rattling around in the back of your head, especially standing completely naked and waiting in your own insecurities.

“Princess, come here.” You are pulled from your deprecating thoughts at the sound of Tsukki’s warm voice. You walk into his office, and notice he’s changed into just a pair of grey joggers. The sight of the low hanging garment making you salivate so much you almost miss your surroundings. He’s struck some kind of inspiration, you can see it in his eyes as he adjusts his easel and props up a large, blank canvas. You fiddle with your fingers as he looks up at you.

“Jackson Pollock.” You meet your boyfriend’s eyes, confused by his seemingly random statement as he parses out different colored paints into small bowls. Red, blue, green, yellow. “He poured paint on a flat surface so that he could view every angle color could create, every curve.” Tsukki muses, dipping two fingers into the bright yellow hue sitting next to him, bringing them towards his face with contemplation. “But I think this sweet little body of yours will prove a much better canvas.”

His eyes provide no sign of bluffing, but you stare back at him dumbly. Sure, he’s used you as a muse before. Studying your hands or the way your hair falls in the sketches you see hanging up by his desk behind you. You love when he wants to use your body for inspiration, but is he really going to cover you in paint?

“We both know you don’t mind getting a little messy,” He trails his wet pointer finger across your collarbone, following a line towards your chin. He tilts your head up to meet his eyes, “Open your mouth.”

Your bottom lip parts from the top, eyes following the line of spit that drops from his mouth to your tongue with a resounding put.

You swallow thickly, the feeling of his control already bending your will to meet him at every pass.

“I want you to look nice and fucked out for me, baby. I want to show my stuffy professors where my inspiration comes from. I’m going to capture how sweet and submissive my little princess is and then everyone will get to see what I get to enjoy every night.” His unmarred hand moves towards your already disastrously wet pussy. You’re drooling at even the most slight contact, bucking into his hand in a plea for more. His words, complimentative but unmistakingly domineering, have your head becoming fuzzy.

“Daddy, please. Please touch me.” Your whines are music to his ears.

“Oh princess, I plan on it. But I need you to be good for me. You don’t want to mess up all my hard work do you?” His voice is steady, authoritative but still soft around the edges in a way that makes you feel gooey.

Tsukki leads you to the stool sitting in the middle of the room, and you perch on it with his hands keeping you steady. You are his muse and medium, his subject and his canvas to use in any way desired.

Smudges of color brandish every inch of your skin, each stroke is a reminder of where your lovers hands have been. Blue and pink splatter against your stomach, a vibrant red outline on each curve of your breast and purple fingerprints against your pert nipples. Your legs wear a trail of hand prints towards your glistening cunt, wanton cunt. Each marring of paint sits beside paths of hot, opened mouth kisses.

All that is keeping you balanced on the squeaky wooden stool is Tsukishima’s strong arms holding you captive in place. Your legs had been thrown over his shoulders after painting across your upper thighs in a sea of greys and greens. As soon as Tsukki’s eyes met with your bare cunt, his mouth was quick to follow.

He’s a mess of paint now too, muscular chest and arms covered in pigment and face covered in you. He’s always insatiable, drinking you in like it’s the only source of sustenance left in the world. He knows how to work you, how to propel you towards orgasm in a way no one else has ever been able to do. Worshiping your body with langued strokes of his tongue. You let out a pitchy moan in response to his mouth, pushing you towards an end you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I bet you want to cum don’t you, baby? I can feel it. Such an eager little thing.” Tsukishima ghosts his lips across your hot cunt, blowing at your clit to make you yelp. You’re so close, too close. Dangling above bliss but not tipping over, knowing you need permission. You’ve been so good for him, he has to give you your release.

“Please, daddy. Please let me cum.” Tears wet your cheeks as you beg, holding onto Tsukki’s blond locks like an anchor. All you need is his approval, but instead of persimmon you are met with a bawdy laugh.

You really should have known he wasn’t going to let you go that easy.

Tsukki stands up, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. You’re wrecked in every way. Hair loose and disheveled, body dipped in a thin layer of sweat and thick splotches of paint. The look on your face is equal parts pathetic and fervent.

“I need you to sit pretty for daddy, I want to capture how desperately beautiful you look right now.” His words make you preen, but it’s a compliment and a warning at the same time. He wants to capture the look of sweet pain of denied orgasm to display at an art exhibit of both peers and his seniors. Sadistic in Tsukishima’s own unique way.

You should have known better, Tsukki’s patience has always been astounding. You know all he wants to do is bury himself in you, but he wants even more to make you suffer under his stare. There’s plenty of times he unleashes his frustration out on you physically, ripening your ass cheeks in bright red handprints and ensuring you can’t walk in the morning. But it’s these moments that can be even harsher, when he regards you with steely eyes and a aloof threat, that make your nerves catch fire more than a spanking ever could.

He sits down to start sketching on the large canvas in front of him, pinning you to your position with a practiced glare and playing on your desire to please him.

You sit as still as you can, listening to the scratch of pencil on vinyl in an attempt to keep calm. Your cunt is still twitching, puffy and slick propped uncomfortably atop the wooden stool. Tsukki hums along to the rhythmic music coming from his phone speaker, a playlist you know to be the one that helps him concentrate on his work. His brow furrows in concentration, pushing his glasses back in place as he stares at you again. His eyes are calculating and coldly observant, but his mouth quirks up in a surprising smile.

“My perfect baby. So stunning in every way.” His thoughts start tumbling out without his usual sarcastic filter.

“I have never wanted something more in my life than you. All of you, all the time.” A genuine regard for you in the lilt of his voice clamps down on your chest. He’s called you pretty, told you he loved you a million times before, but there’s a calm resonance in his words as his hands move across the white caves in front of him that catches in your throat. With the pressure of graduation looming over the two of you these past few months, romantics have been pushed to the side to make room for laser focus on finishing your degrees.

Your eyes well at his confessional, struck by the vulnerability so unfamiliar to him. You missed this side of your boyfriend, unlocking it incrementally through the years and finding it virtually non-existent recently. He sees your shoulders trembling slightly and tears his eyes up to your form.

“I told you to stay still.” His voice comes out harsh, but melts away when he sees fat tears rolling down your puffy cheeks.

“Y/n, are you okay? Did I upset you?” He moves to console you, the action causing another round of sobs, your body on edge in every way after both the teasing and his impromptu affirmation. Your response surprises yourself just as much as Tsukki, not realising how starved of his affection you had become.

“I’m sorry daddy, I-I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I just- do you mean all that?” You lower your head in embarrassment, and Tsukishima’s heart breaks at the realization. Had he unintentionally disregarded you? Had he been ignoring you?

“Fuck baby, of course I mean it. I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” He pulls you up into his strong hold, he lets you cry into his shoulder until your wracking sobs simmer to sniffles. He holds you tightly in an attempt at atonement. He has to do something to show you how he feels now that he knows his words have failed him. His actions have to speak in his place.

Tsukishima pulls you away slightly to meet his gaze before colliding his lips against yours. He traces his tongue in sonnets across your mouth, tasting the lingering essence of your arousal and the salt of your tears. He writes prose in the breathy gasps as you part for air, chests heaving. He has to show you what his words won’t always allow him to.

It’s bodies tangled together, covered in the colors of a man trying his best to show you how much he loves you. You had fallen to the floor at the behest of passion, Tsukki’s body covering yours, lips kissing any extension of your skin, uncaring of the paint covering both of your writhing frames.

You paw at his sweatpants as if they are the most offensive thing you’ve ever scene, Tsukki’s cock springs out to slap against the hard muscle of his abdomen. You don’t waste any time lining him up to your dripping folds, you’ve waited long enough. Hips crashing together like a fever dream, you’re wrapped in each other as if there’s nothing else in this world outside of a set of paints and four walls of a dimly lit apartment. The sun could be hurling towards the sidewalk just outside and Tsukishima, usually observant to a fault, would have no idea. All he knows is your body beneath him, clawing desperately at his back with every deep thrust, and the love poem he has written on your body. Reds across your breasts and brandishing your thighs. Greens and yellows across your neck, up your arms. Messy, sticky, covering the thin sheet Tsukki laid out to spare the hardwood.

Your panting, crying out for your daddy and consumed in the salty taste of love and lust crashing together like waves. His cock is heavy inside you, filling you up so completely. Tsukki rowes on, not daring to stop now, not with the resounding drumming of two hearts beat so perfectly together and the feeling of your clenching, velveteen walls hugging him like he’s coming home.

“I am so desperately in love with you. I want you like this, with me, forever.” He’s delirious, drunk on your body. Primal, as he stares down at you, colorful and completely conquered. He sees everything in your eyes, every baser desire, every hope for the future.

“I want to fill you up with my cum, princess. You are mine in every way. God, I want to see you swollen with my baby. Right here.” He presses against your belly, feeling his cock moving inside you from the splotches of pick and blue.

His confessional spurs you on, the emotions overwhelming. Feeling so loved, so needy, wanting everything the blonde above you is willing to give.

“Ah, Daddy! Please, please fill me up. I wa-want you to put a baby in me, I need it.” Your clenching tightly, each pump of Tsukishima’s cock better than the last.

“You are such a good girl baby, always saying exactly what I need to hear. Cum for me, princess, let me see how good I make you feel.”

His warrant is all you’ve needed this whole time, snapping to hours of tension with a sharp cry. You’re thrown into the pooling, honey-sweet feeling of release. Sinking every inch of your aching body into a blissed haze. Your walls spasm violently, tightening around him like a vice. He meets your hips with his own, knocking hip bones together like pool balls and holding himself in your heat as you milk his throbbing cock, stealing every drop of hot, while cum he has to offer.

He crumbles to the floor beside you, pulling you to his chest. Lying in a mess of paint and sweat and staggered breathing. Through the fog still resounding in your head, you hear Tsukki laughing lightly, “How’s that for inspiration?”

-Four Months Later-

You shift on your toes in anticipation, waiting for Tsukishima to release the hold he has around your eyes. You hear the bustle of people around you, the laughter and tinkling of glasses clinking together filling your ears. He kisses your temple before letting go, and you are met with a new reflection of yourself hung proudly on display. All of the places you see blemishes are drawn with vibrant purposeful color. Every curve of your form mapped out with the care only a lover could administer. Your naked form exhibited for hundreds of critiquing eyes, but there’s not a bone in your body that could feel embarrassed in this moment. As reflection so beautiful it’s unbelievable is staring back at you.

“Is this really how you see me, Kei?” You turn around to meet his eyes, his stare holds the love of epics. He would write you novels if he could, but this picture is worth a thousand words.

“Of course it is, baby,” He brings a hand to thumb at your slightly swelling belly.

“Of course it is.”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[bts-weverse-trans]

201128 Weverse Magazine ‘BE’ Comeback Interview - Namjoon

RM: “I spend a lot of time thinking about where I am now” BTS BE comeback interview 2020.11.28

The story of BTS’ new album BE started on April 17, 2020 when group member RM announced its production on the BANGTANTV YouTube channel. In the seven months that followed until the album’s release, RM’s mind was full, his thoughts flowing in and out of his head.

How do you feel about the unique approach you took to making your new album, BE? RM: The other members were a ton of help to me. My lyrics made it on the album, but the music I composed didn’t, so I’m really thankful to the group for the music. How should I say this? I feel like everyone is doing a great job. There are so many parts in these songs that I’m indebted to them for. “Stay” was originally going to be the title song on Jung Kook’s mixtape, but everyone liked it so much, and they all agreed to put that on our album. That’s how much influence they had. I’m really happy my room idea was chosen to be the album photos. Since we’re spending a lot of time in our rooms because of COVID-19, we laid out the idea of each of us decorating a room in our own style. I can’t remember for sure (laughs) but I think I’m the one who came up with that. I made a comfortable room, one that’s modern and warm because that’s what I like.

There’s a painting in the middle, and symmetrically arranged figurines. RM: The figures are from my own collection. I wanted to show one of my paintings, but that didn’t pan out. But still, those are the things I hold most dear to me right now, so I let the room embody the things I wish I had, too.

It’s well known that you like art and frequent exhibitions, but how do you feel when you look at art in your home or another space where there are no people, like in the album art? RM: Someone said, “You don’t have to buy this painting; it’s yours so long as you’re looking at it.” That’s my favorite sound bite these days. What I most envied about painters was that, even after they died, their work would be hanging up somewhere, maybe even in another country, still defining that space. Musicians leave behind their songs and videos, too, but it’s only through fine art that viewers in the future are able to completely meet artists from the past. I’m envious that this is only possible for painters. These days I’m trying to find spaces where I can have more relaxed viewing experiences.

There’s a full experience involved, from the time you get ready to leave your house until the time you’re actually looking at artwork in the gallery. RM: That’s perfect to me. There’s art you can keep at home, and then there’s art that should always be viewed in museums.

What effect do you think that type of experience has on your music? You didn’t compose any of the songs but instead participated in writing the lyrics to all of the tracks. Did that experience affect your lyric writing in any way? RM: I think it’s helped me develop a way of thinking using all the senses. I used to be attuned to speech and focus on language and auditory textures, but now I can look at my thoughts from many different angles. That’s why I spend more time studying art now. I’m waiting for the day that it all comes to the surface, like when you paint the base on a canvas over and over so the colors pop. It’s hard to answer in one word if it has a direct influence on my work, but I think people who create music develop a way of seeing the world through their personal experience and their creative process. Painters naturally exhibit their art over a very long period of time. I think it gave me an eye for looking at the world in one long, continuous stroke. So now it’s become a little challenging for me to write lyrics these days. I’ve become more cautious.

Why is it so challenging? RM: I used to have so many ideas pouring out that it was hard to pluck one out. So I would stack them up like a Jenga tower and ponder over which one to remove. But now, it’s hard to even add a block to the stack. I’m not sure why but, when I look at these artists whose works span their entire lives, I sense that the rhythm of my creativity is slowing down more and more. That’s the source of my dilemma. I’m only 27 years old. I still need to wander around and get tripped up a little. But am I just trying to imitate what the fine artists are doing? Or maybe BTS experienced so much in the past seven years, that now it’s time for us to take a breather? I’ve got so many questions, I feel like my hair’s turning white. That’s why none of my songs are on the album. I wrote some, but they were too personal to use there. I don’t exactly like myself like this, but I have to see through to the end in this direction and find the answer.

Maybe for that reason, your rapping has shifted focus to the lyrics more so than trend or musicality. It emphasizes the feeling of the words over a particular format or beat. RM: Exactly. In—was it 2017? Pdogg was talking to Yoongi, Hobi and me about our style, and said, “Namjoon, it feels like you’re becoming a lyricist,” and it really stuck with me. I have a lot of thoughts lately when I watch Show Me the Money or listen to hip hop songs from the Billboard chart. My music started out all about my life as a rapper, so I spend a lot of time thinking about where I am now.

So you’ve started to ask yourself who you are as a musician? RM: I listened to Lee So-ra’s seventh album again today. I keep changing my mind but, if I had to pick between her sixth and seventh album, I like her seventh a little more. And then I listen to the most popular songs on Billboard, and I feel kind of thrown off. Um … There’s something Whanki Kim said that’s been running around in my head lately: After moving to New York, he embraced the style of artists like Mark Rothko and Adolf Gottlieb, but then he said, “I’m Korean, and I can’t do anything not Korean. I can’t do anything apart from this, because I am an outsider.” And I keep thinking that way, too. That’s my main concern lately.

You can feel that on BE. As the members take on more prominent roles as songwriters and producers, characteristics of old Korean music—the kind of music you likely listened to in middle and high school—gradually entered your sound. But your music isn’t from that era, and it sounds like pop, but not quite. RM: The sound has to fit with the whole album so I couldn’t incorporate that feel into BTS songs, but the songs I’m listening to most lately have been Korean. Songs like P-Type’s “Don Quixote,” Dead’P’s “Spread My Wings,” Soul Company’s album The Bangerz. The impressions the songs from back then have left on me, the lyrics from back then and the lyrics from now, they’re different. So BE is both Korean and pop; it’s very unique, in my view.

I think that’s especially true for “Life Goes On.” It’s got a pop melody, but compared to “Dynamite,” it has a very different feel. It doesn’t slip deep into the sentimental, instead allowing the melody to flow naturally. RM: Exactly. The chorus is totally pop, and one of the writers was also American. But the song doesn’t really follow American music trends, weirdly. So I don’t know how “Life Goes On” is going to be received. It’s really calm, almost contemplative. So there’s lyrics, like, “Like an echo in the forest,” and, “Like an arrow in the blue sky.” The song kind of feels like that: It could just float off and disappear. It might even come off as bland next to “Dynamite.”

If nothing else, it seems the song will stick around for a long time. Maybe kids now will listen to it later on in the future. RM: I hope so. That’s the one thing I really hope for, people in the future, thinking back and saying, “Oh, right! Remember that one song?” That’s what my favorite artists and other people who leave a lasting impression on me have in common. One thing common among the songs that have affected me a lot, like Lee So-ra’s seventh album, is that the lyrics they utter in their voice along with the overall sound stick with me. I hope when people look back, my words uttered with the sound of my voice, echoes for a long time in an auditory or visual way, or even throughout their entire lives. But that’s the dilemma: We have all these bling-bling symbols of our success, but we’re not that kind of team.

And yet, BTS’s career path is even more “bling-bling” than ever. “Dynamite” was the top song on the Billboard Hot 100. RM: I was the first one to check our position (laughs) but I didn’t want to get too excited about it. I was scared of facing disappointment so I put the brakes on out of habit, and restrained myself. But on the other hand, I feel like I should relish this moment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing; shouldn’t I enjoy myself a bit? But I disliked that sensation of only feeling elated so I tried to be as objective as possible. I was just one small part of everything that made this happen.

It reminds me of that part, “Running faster than that cloud of rain /  Thought that would be enough / Guess I’m only human after all,” from “Life Goes On.” RM: “Only human” sounds so appropriate for me right now. One time, I saw a dark cloud over the N Seoul Tower while I was walking along the Han River. I was with a friend and we talked about where the border between where it’s raining and where it’s not might be, and suddenly, we came up with the idea to run and find that spot. But after running for 10 minutes, the cloud was even further away than it had been. At that moment, the puzzle pieces snapped into place. You think you can go faster than that dark cloud? No. That’s what I realized then. And I just like what Whanki Kim said, that maybe I can’t do anything not Korean, because that’s what I am. I used to work late and then stay up all night when things weren’t working out, sometimes walking from Samseong to Sinsa station, thinking everything through. But now, like the saying, I realize that maybe I can’t do more than what I am.

On Weverse, you said that you gained some muscle from working out. Could the change to your body improve your creativity in the long term? RM: I started to think I better change myself a little, physically or mentally. I’m talking about being steady. I used to bombard myself with challenges and worries and just get over them, but now I think it’s time to find that one sturdy thing and plant myself there. The best choice was working out, and I think it’s changing my behavior a lot. I’m hoping that, if I keep working out for a year or two, I’ll become a different person.

Music is your job, but also your life. Like you expressed in “Dis-ease,” how would you say you feel about your work? RM: This is my job and my calling and I feel a great sense of responsibility. I think I’m lucky and happy that I can solely worry about my creative process. And I feel very responsible to those people who put their trust in me, so I try not to cross any lines, judge myself honestly, and always be professional. Those are the responsibilities that come with the job—the things I have to do and the promises I won’t betray. But if I’m going to do it, I’m going to be happy while I do it. That’s not always going to be possible, but that’s generally how I feel.

Well then, how do you feel about BTS at the moment? RM: BTS is … Well, it’s really hard to tell. (laughs) When BTS started out, I thought, “I know everything there is to know about BTS,” but now it’s, “I don’t know a single thing about BTS.” In the past, I felt like I knew everything, and that anything was possible. Call it childish or ambitious. But if I were to ask myself, “What is BTS to me?” I would say, we’re just people who met each other because we were meant to. But it feels like the stars aligned and a startup company became a unicorn, with perfect timing and lots of smart people. Looking back, there were a lot of ironies and contradictions in this industry. I thought I figured them out one by one, and then finally understood the whole thing. But now I feel like I don’t know anything at all. Anyway, to sum up: My young, reckless twenties. The events of my twenties. There were a lot of contradictions, people, fame, and conflict all tangled together, but it was my choice and I got a lot out of it, so my twenties were an intense but also happy time.

And what about you, as one individual person? RM: I’m a real Korean person. (laughs) A person who wants to do something in Korea. I think millennials are charging into society stuck between the analog and digital generations, and what I chose is BTS. So I try to integrate myself into our generation, try to understand what people like me are thinking, and try to work hard to capture that feeling without being a burden on them. This might be another kind of irony itself, but this is who I am. I’m a 27-year-old Korean. That’s what I think.

Trans © Weverse

[bored-storyteller]

Okay, I can't find where this request went anymore, but I'm sure it existed (or I wouldn't have written this). I'm going to try to look again in the mail. Anyway, our boys (Vil, Azul, Leona) a little sad and the reader comforting them with hugs.

54- Twisted Wonderland, Vil, Azul, Leona x Reader

His life isn't that easy. Back straight, head up, be elegant, be polite, never show the weight that falls on your shoulders. This is Vil's life, nothing more, nothing less.

As beautiful as a marble statue, a precious object that can only be admired, not touched. Sometimes he himself forgets that he is human.

It's hard to never break down, it's hard to keep up appearances, and you make it more difficult. You, the most precious thing he has.

He should feel free with you, right? Isn't that the cliché of every love story? But he can't really know, he's always the bad guy in stories.

So even with you it is the appearance that counts him, because you love him for that, right? It's not like there's much more to him than just his appearance - and apparently not even that is enough to give him any real value.

He is tired, that's why he has such negative thoughts. A restful sleep and the next day it will be a fragrant flower again, but it is still early to go to sleep.

"Vil?" Your angelic voice rouses him. You are there, stuck a few steps behind him, you look at him doubtfully and his heart trembles. Oh, did you notice too much wrinkle in his expression?

"Vil." You call his name again, and he is already preparing to tell you how tiring his day has been to clear the doubts that are likely creeping into you.

Vil is not someone used to being touched, he is a precious work of art after all, yet he is convinced that even a caress from you could at that moment bring him relief. But he has to keep up appearances.

"My dear?" His questioning smile tries not to be too guilty under your worried eyes that scrutinize him.

After a few seconds of silence, you are moving. You are slow, yet fast. Your arms slide gently under his, and your body tightens to his chest. Your warmth invades him as your face seeks refuge under his chin, lovingly rubbing your nose against his neck.

"It's cold ..." You murmur, and this is the justification you use, but he knows that you have only read inside him, and you have simply taken some of his weight for you.

"You smell good." You continue, while his arms hold you slowly, in a silent request for affection.

“Oh yeah… it's a new perfume you know? I thought…"

"Yes, that perfume is good too, but you also smell of something else."

He just walks away, so that his purple eyes can look for the answer in yours for that doubt you have posed to him. There is no need for him to ask, he knows that you will give him the answer.

"The scent of Vil." Your cheerful and affectionate smile erases all poison from his heart, and he smiles at you as he does not smile at anyone else as he silently welcomes you back against him.

Who knows, maybe with you appearances are completely useless.

 

A faint sigh comes from the dorm leader's lips to confide only in the air the pressure he is feeling inside him.

He is an excellent trader, a businessman, an excellent speaker and a perfect gentleman. Is not enough. He is never enough, and he probably never will be.

Sometimes the slander and contempt of many also burn him. Not everyone looks favorably on him, Azul knows, it's the price he himself chose to pay - at least he got something in return, right?

He isn't sure. Days like this, flat and heavy, occasionally bring back the most latent insecurities of him. Not that he shows it, only his eyes barely reflect the weight in his heart if you look at them carefully.

You are a relief, usually. Like every day he waits for you to come and greet him, but more than every day he would like to drop everything else, take you in his arms and hold you there. Yet despite his appearances he is still so shy. Sometimes even your gaze makes him blush, you know it, and you also know how much he cares about his figure and his representation in front of others, so you never take a step too far towards him, and he never has the courage to ask.

"Azul?"

Your voice finally reaches his ears, your bright eyes peeking through the crack of the half-open door before you allow yourself to enter.

"Oh, here you are ... give me a second, I'm almost done." His voice is as firm and calm as ever. He doesn't look at you, it's not strange, but the way he bows his head to avoid you sends you strange meanings.

He doesn't have the courage to look at you, the need he has for you makes him feel ashamed. A child who needs pampering, that's what he is at that moment. A nullity in front of you.

He feels you close, you are next to his chair, standing, looking at him. You don't move away, and he understands that you want his attention, he won't be able to ignore you for long.

"Do you need something?" He finally asks you, and his eyes force them to lift to your face, and he is surprised when he sees you smiling.

You just stare at him for a few moments, without giving him an answer, and then suddenly your arms are around his shoulders, his cheek gently resting on your shoulder.

"I missed you, Azul!" Your light but cheerful voice caresses his ear, while you hug him protectively, full of affection.

"We only met last night ..." he murmurs, in a tone that wanders between wonder and relief.

“I know, but I don't care. I missed you." You confirm again, as you make your way into his lap and let him hold you.

Your weight on him is reassuring, your touch and your presence welcoming.

"I can't hide anything from you, right?" He whispers in your ear, as if he is afraid of being heard by others, even if only the two of you exist in the room.

"No, I would say no." You mutter satisfied, snuggling up to him.

 

Usually he is so good at silencing that part of him, but when that black feeling arises it feels like a living being inside him struggling to get out and leave him weak, empty, mocked. He always swallows it, never allows it to peek out. Sometimes it curls up in the stomach, other times in the lungs, or gets stuck in his ribcage making his heart heavy, almost blocking his breath.

Leona is good at silencing those wounds to his pride, but sometimes it happens that a gesture, a laugh, a word at the wrong time weaken his defenses, taking him away from the already heavy looks of others.

In the greenhouse he is alone with himself. No, he's not there to sleep, he just needs to calm down. For some reason today it is difficult, more than usual. The weight in his chest causes him to hunch over, head bowed, ears down. His hands are left in his lap as he sits hidden among the plants, he almost seems to be meditating. Calm down, calm down, calm your anger. It is what he repeats to himself like a mantra as he listens to his own breath. Nobody can beat you, nobody can hurt you.

No, no one is going to hurt him - no one thinks he's worth hurting, do they? All that he is, all that he knows he is worth, is always trampled on, torn to pieces, thrown away by others, as if it were of no use.

"Caught!"

Your weight is never too violent against his sturdy back, but his surprise causes him to lean forward slightly.

You laugh as your hands gently tighten around his neck, and he growls.

"Idiot! Are you crazy ?! " His words are acidic, but by now you've got used to it. You are the only one who can ever afford to do such a thing with him, you are the only one he can forgive.

He doesn't realize it right away, but that little leap to his heart you gave him has suddenly lightened his mind. He only knows when your arms go away from him.

Wait, stay still.

That thought unexpectedly reaches his mind, but he is quickly kicked out. He won't beg for mercy, not even from you, especially with you.

Still, even if he doesn't speak, your weight doesn't stray too far. Your arms now slowly encircle his stomach as you drop relaxed on his back, like a lion cub on his father's back.

With your head resting behind his ribcage, Leona knows you're listening to his heartbeat. He knows this because he is listening to you too, he listens to your breath which naturally coordinates with the muscle moving slow and powerful in his chest. And then he understands that you understand his need that he pretends not to have.

"You are so strong, Leona."

And that's enough.

A light sigh caresses his lips: "Of course I'm strong, otherwise you-"

"I'd be fine!" You defend yourself, knowing full well where he wants to hit.

You don't see him, but a proud smile is painted on his face as he continues on his way: "Otherwise you would have already been eaten by now."

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Hi love!

Can I please beg for Tangled Geraskier?

Rapunzel Jask. You know I’m a sucker for angst so including the scene where he cuts her hair would slay me 💖💖💖💖💖

TYILYYYYY

Hello, Stina dear! Sorry this took me actual months to write, but it broke me out of my writer’s block and for that I am eternally grateful.

I chose several pieces of the Tangled narrative to write Geralt and Jaskier into... enjoy! 

2k-ish words (please leave me comments I’m so tired my dudes)

tw: blood, injury, major character (near) death, if you’ve seen Tangled you’ve seen this

---

“So,” Jaskier smiles playfully up at the thief sitting beside him. “Roger Eric, huh?”

Geralt rolls his eyes but Jaskier catches the flush that settles high on his companion’s cheekbones. “It was… It’s a long and boring story about a lot of sad little children that I’m sure you don’t want to hear on such a lovely evening.”

Jaskier scoots closer, until the sides of their arms are pressed too tightly together for even a slip of paper to slide between, and leans his weight against the thief. He bats his thick eyelashes and pouts his lip in a way that always seems to work with his Father. “C’mon, Geralt, please won’t you tell me? Just one little story? I told you about my magical hair, after all.”

“Hmm,” the thief glares dawn at the doe-eyed blonde for a moment before nervously clearing his throat. “Fine. I… I got the name Geralt of Rivia from a collection of short stories that I used to read the other boys at the orphanage in Kaedwen; they were all about this knight who was loyal and brave and courageous despite his hideous appearance. He was rejected by princesses and noble women but was beloved by the people. Having been born with white hair… well, a lot of the folks that came looking for children thought I was under a spell or curse so…. I wasn’t their first choice for adoption.”

“You and Geralt were a lot alike, then. Different. Special… Kind.”

“I wouldn’t say I was spe-”

Jaskier’s hand darts forward and his long, slender musician’s fingers grasp Geralt by the wrist. The fledgling bard clings onto his escort tightly, his large blue eyes suddenly brimming up with tears. “Don’t you dare say you aren’t special, Geralt Roger Eric whatever your surname really is. I’ll never forgive you if you spew such nonsense where my delicate ears can hear it.”

Geralt swallows thickly and glances away. Jaskier always looks so sweet and sincere; the features on his boyish face flicker in and out of focus as patterns of light thrown by their small campfire play across his pale skin. His gaze is intense, focused on Geralt and Geralt alone. The thief panics and asks: “What is it, Jaskier? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You saved me, you know. You saved me from those men back there at the inn, you saved me from being trapped in the tower all my life, you saved me from getting lost in the forest, you… you’re a good person, Geralt. Don’t let the world or the Captain of the Guard or anyone else change your mind, do you understand me? You are-” Jaskier’s hands scrabble frantically to grasp Geralt’s, as if the white-haired man might disappear entirely if Jaskier so much as loosens his grip “- you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me since I’ve been locked in that foul, awful tower!”

“Well I…” Geralt clears his throat again. He stands slowly, disentangling his hangs from Jaskier’s as he takes a slow step back. And then another. “I should go get more firewood.”

Despite the uneasiness in their parting, Jaskier smiles after him. 

The momentary spell cast by their closeness is only broken when Jaskier hears a familiar voice from just behind him: “Well, I thought he’d never leave!”

The blonde jumps up from his seat and spins on his heel to face the black-cloaked wizard. “Father? How… How did you find me?”

Stregobor wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders and squeezes so tightly that it feels more like a threat than an embrace. “It was easy, I simply followed the sound of absolute betrayal.”

Jaskier flinches and tries to pull away but cannot yet escape. 

“I just brought you this,” his Father continues. He finally releases Jaskier and hands his son the worn leather satchel he’d found hidden in his tower. “If this Geralt creature really is the man you think him to be -and don’t deny it, little flower, I can read your thoughts- give this back to him and see how long he stays.”

“Father, I-”

“Goodbye, my child. See you soon, I’m sure. Just remember that Father knows best!”

And in a swirl of black smoke and confusion, Stregobor disappears.

---

“Why do you look so scared?” Geralt asks. He slows the small gondola he’s rented to a stop, turning it slightly more to the side so that they have a better vantage point to see the lanterns spread over the harbor from the city. Jaskier sighs deeply and shakes a stray flower petal away from his eyes, the enormous golden braid shifting ever-so-slightly against his shoulders.

“I’ve been looking out a window for eighteen years,” he says softly. Nervously. “What if… What if it’s not what I expected? I’m terrified to see what it all looks like up close because what if it doesn’t meet my expectations? What if it’s not everything I dreamed it would be?”

“It will be,” Geralt replies without thinking. 

“And what if it is?” Jaskier queries, voice growing frantic. “What if it’s even more spectacular than I could have ever hoped? Then my dream will have been fulfilled and I’ll just… go back to the tower again.”

“You’ll just have to find a new dream, I guess,” Geralt offers. When Jaskier settles down into the boat a bit more comfortably and smiles shyly back at him, the thief knows he’s hit the right mark for once. Behind Geralt, the first lantern lights up the sky. Jaskier gasps and points, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement; Geralt is utterly enchanted by his easy beauty. The thief digs two paper lanterns out from beneath his seat and offers one to Jaskier, giddy when he grins even more excitedly than before. “I got this for you… I hope you like it.”

“Oh, I love it! And I have something for you, too.” Jaskier turns and pulls something from behind him. The bardling hands Geralt his very own satchel, which the thief briefly accepts and then drops to the floor without a second thought. The anxious blonde musician beams over at him more gloriously than the midday sun and then turns away, blushing a sweet shade of pink. “I should have given it to you earlier, but I was so scared… and now I’m not! I’m not scared anymore!”

“Good,” Geralt smiles back. He’s elated. It feels as if his heart is glowing twice as brightly as any of the lanterns floating past and around them. “That’s very good.”

I know what my dream is now, Jaskier. Now that you’re here by my side I never want to see you frown again. You don’t deserve to be hidden away in a tower where your art is stifled… even if you don’t want to love me back in that way, I’ll still protect you. I want to see how you see the world, Jaskier. I lo-

“Geralt! Look! That one has runes painted on it, what does it say!?”

---

Geralt pulls his daggers from his belt but before he can stab them into the craigy stone wall and begin his ascent, the familiar tresses of Jaskier’s long golden hair topple down to reach him. Thank fuck, he’s still alive. 

“Jaskier! I thought I’d never see you again!” he calls as he grabs hold of the thick blonde strands. 

The thief climbs quickly, his arms and legs nearly cramping with the effort to hurry back to Jaskier. As he hauls himself through the large window and into the tower proper, however, he’s met with a confusing and unsettling sight: Jaskier stands across the room, a cloth gag pulled tightly between his teeth, his hands manacled together behind him. A short length of spare chain attached to the manacles keeps the frightened, struggling blonde tethered against one of the building’s thick support beams. Someone had knocked down a mirror or vase during the previous fighting; shards of pottery and silver lie scattered across the floor, working as a weak barrier to keep Geralt away from the bound man. Jaskier screams out in warning as their eyes meet: “Ghmphh!”

If Jaskier is being held captive then who let his hair do-

Before Geralt can finish fully forming his question, a bright flash of pain arcs out from his side and sends him toppling to his knees. A wet, sticky heat begins to spread from a spot beneath his ribs and when he presses his hand against his shirt it comes way red. 

Oh. Oh, no...

He hears Stregobor’s voice addressing the sobbing blonde, “Now look what you’ve done, Jaskier.”

Geralt collapses to his knees and then falls to his side, curling up in the fetal position and clutching at the wound as if that will be any help at all. He knows he’s doomed, but there must be some way for him to help Jaskier… to save his… his love. 

“Don’t worry, little flower, our secret will die with your little thief, here, and then we’ll be safe again. Just the two of us.”

Jaskier keens loudly and the sharp, desperate sound of it makes something deep in Geralt’s heart ache. The younger man pulls and yanks against the chains that hold him in place, his bare feet slipping against the polished floor as he tries and fails to reach the wounded Geralt. 

Stregobor yanks at the lead, pulling Jaskier back harshly by the arms. The young musician’s shoulders burn with the strain of it but Jaskier pulls forward anyway, uncaring. He must save Geralt, he must. The wizard tugs him back again, more roughly, and the jarring movement loosens his gag. He spits it from his mouth and cries out: “Stregobor! Strego- Father, listen to me!”

The wizard pauses, his interest piqued by Jaskier’s use of the word Father given the circumstances. “Yes, child?”

“Father,” Jaskier pants, turning to look at the man who’d held him captive for eighteen years. The man who kidnapped him from his cradle and forced him to grow up without the love of his real parents. The man who had, mere moments ago, stabbed the love of Jaskier’s life with the full intention of killing him. “I want you to know that I won’t stop fighting you. Every moment of every day for the rest of my life will be spent trying to get away from you. I will scream and kick and struggle and yell and you will have to keep me caged away as a bird or a mouse to make me stay by your side unless-” Jaskier pauses to take a breath, his shoulders sagging as his gaze drops submissively to the floor between them “-unless you let me save this man. Let me save Geralt’s life and I will follow you all around the Continent without a single word of complaint. I will never attempt to run away or hide from you, not once. Everything will go back to being exactly like it was before, Father, I swear on his life.”

Stregobor considers for a moment. 

He nods. 

“Alright, then. Let’s be quick about it, little flower.”

He removes the shackles from Jaskier and clamps them tightly around Geralt’s wrists instead, securing him to the bannister at the foot of the stairs. To keep him from following us, he remarks offhandedly. 

Jaskier pads his way across the floor as quickly as he can in his bare feet and falls to the ground at Geralt’s side. He pulls the wounded thief against his side to steady him and gathers two heavy handfuls of his own long hair. “I’m so sorry! Everything is going to be okay now, Geralt, I swear it.”

Geralt shoves his hands away weakly, “No, Jaskier.”

“You have to trust me, Geralt, I-”

“I c-can’t let you d-do this,” Geralt grunts, teeth gritted against the pain. 

Jaskier stares down at him, tears already gathering at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. His voice trembles when he whispers, “And I can’t let you die. I won’t let you die.”

“But if you do th-this then you-” Geralt coughs and Jaskier wipes a trickle of blood away from the corner of the thief’s mouth “-you will die.”

“Shh,” Jaskier quiets him, dropping one fistfull of blonde tresses to cup Geralt’s face instead. “Everything will be alright.”

Geralt smiles sadly up at Jaskier, his decision already having been made. He lets the back of his knuckles ghost across the musician’s peach-soft cheek. Jaskier’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and then open again, curious. “Jaskier, I…”

The thief uses the last of his strength to push up into a sitting position. The hand on Jaskier’s face slides back and gathers his hair at the back of his neck. Geralt’s other hand comes up, a shard of glass gripped tightly in his fist, and slices through the long blonde strands. He watches as Jaskier’s hair turns from radiant gold to chestnut brown. Geralt falls back with a short, sharp sound of agony, his vision already fading around the edges. The shard of mirror, dagger-sharp around the edges, clatters to the ground beside Jaskier. 

“No!” Stregobor screams, gathering up an armful of Jaskier’s still-blonde hair. The golden hue is already fading, shifting to match the short brown hair still fluffed around his head. The lost prince watches with wide, horrified eyes as the wizard trips over a loose floorboard and goes careening out the open window. 

More worrying than his kidnapper’s death, however, is the man lying in his arms, breathing shallowly. Jaskier gathers Geralt close, tucking the thief’s head against his neck and wrapping his arms around the older man’s broad shoulders. “No, no, no, no, Geralt. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me, right here.”

He grabbed at Geralt’s hand, holding it against the top of his head as he sang desperately. “Flower gleam and glow, let your power shine, make the clock reverse, bring back was once was mi-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt says, pulling his hand down to cup the prince’s face. He can feel his limbs growing cold and numb, distant from him and out of his control. “You… You were my new dream.”

Jaskier sobs, clinging to Geralt with all he’s worth. “And you were mine.”

Geralt manages to smile up into those beautiful blue eyes one last time. And then the world goes dark and his hand falls to the floor, limp.

---

Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and screams. He throws back his head and howls like a wounded animal, his heart shattering to pieces within the confines of his chest cavity. Then he quiets himself down, adjusts Geralt’s body on his lap, and finishes the song the way he’s been taught to do: “Heal what has been hurt, change the Fates’ design, save what has been lost… bring back what once was mine.”

A single tear falls from his eye and lands on Geralt’s cheek. A cheek that will never blush again, never turn up in a smile, never-

A faint yellow glow catches Jaskier’s vision, just from the corner of his eye. He turns his head to look at Geralt’s wound and gasps: the outline of a golden flower covers his abdomen, glowing so brightly that Jaskier must hide his eyes and turn away to keep from being blinded. When the glow fades enough that can safely look back again, Geralt’s wound is gone and the blood that was once staining his jerkin has disappeared. 

He leans over the white-haired thief with bated breath, waiting for a movement or a breath or something… anything. 

After a long moment, two honey-hazel eyes blink open. Geralt inhales quietly and then asks, with the sweetest smile Jaskier has ever seen in all his eighteen years of life, “Did I ever tell you I had a thing for brunettes?”

Jaskier squeals with glee and throws himself into Geralt’s waiting arms, pressing their eager mouths together for the first kiss of their Happily Ever After. 

[kyunisixx]

chiaroscuro

artist!Robert Plant AU one shot.

a/n: this really started out as a song I wanted to write. But I knew I had to turn it into a longer writing!!

themes: fluff, mild implications of nsfw and tw: childhood trauma.

summary: in which Y/N becomes a muse for Robert, a landscape artist in more ways than one. (Man, that summary is so shit but let's roll with it)

pairing: artist!Robert Plant x fem!reader

chi·a·ro·scu·ro

the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.

an effect of contrasted light and shadow created by light falling unevenly or from a particular direction on something.

"Lean back for me a bit more, darling. That's right, relax."

As she moves, the old sofa creaks beneath her. Chilled air gusts through a partially opened window, making her shiver and sending miniscule bumps all over her bare skin. Her eyes drift over the fixtures inside the cozy cabin, illuminated by an outmoded oil lamp situated on the man's table. Several tiny moths were floating around it as the flame wavered ever so slightly from the breeze.

Scattered were all paintbrushes and smudges of paint were messily smeared all over the table. A round board was placed so close at the edge (one she heard him call before —a palette). In the middle is a rustic cup with half-empty, now cold tea. But a paint-smudged hand grasped on its handle and swiftly brought it over to a mouth. 

Then her eyes met his.

His frizzled, curly blond locks are pulled into a disheveled bun. One he pinned up so carelessly with a thin, unused paintbrush as to prevent it from obstructing his view but a few ringlets managed to escape and are now framing his face.

Ivory-colored shirt, a few buttons undone to reveal smooth skin of his collarbones which were also marked with a few shades of paint. Some scattered across his jawline to his cheek. 

Lips are pursed and eyes are pulled into deep concentration, they are set into a particular part of her. As if to capture the exact curvature of the crease on her waist.

Salient was the cleft on his chin and the sharp edge of his cheekbones by the incandescent light lent by the lamp, making him look like a contrast between sinister and elegance.

He dipped a brush and carefully made short strokes on the canvas, pausing every now and then to look at her.

The sun was setting and the sky was shaded a dull gray, providing so little of brightness which seemed to have darkened even more being situated in a lush forest.

Many months ago at this time of the day, she would have just been getting up from her sleep. Wake up and get ready for a long shift. It was a routine she had gotten so used to every day.

Take a bath. Eat. Pick out an outfit. Put on makeup. Be into the persona.

She would become a completely different person as soon as she stepped into the establishment she knew for as long as she moved into the town a few months ago.

From having to move into different cities and using different names to hide her identity. All of it to escape the filthy and haunted ghost of her past. 

Screaming. Glass breaking. Bruises. Slamming doors.  All of the things a child shouldn't have to go through. She took a risk and ran away from it.

And here is where she ended up thirteen years later.

Lacklustre eyes unmoving as they steadily stared back at her in a blurry mirror inside the changing room. All the girls' chattering seemed to have been muted and faded in the background as she gazed at her reflection. She picked up the small item in her hand, before taking the cap off and swiped the crimson lipstick across her chapped lips, creating a thick shade.

"Y/N, you ready to go?"

She turned her head back to Don, the club manager. She smiled and moved her head in a single nod.

“Sure, Don. Just give me a short moment”. She adjusted the strap of her black velvet dress and walked on the familiar, dimly lit hallway. Her stilettos clapped quietly on the floor as she padded and stopped in front of a red curtain covering the doorway from the side to the stage. 

"How's it going, folks? Alright, alright. I'd get right into it. This is the moment you've all been waiting for. The crowd favourite, slithers like a python, mistress of the night; Marilyn"

Then, she waited as the main lights switched off and took her cue to enter as smoke filled the platform. Coloured lights gleamed right through. She situated herself right in the middle then circled her hand on the pole as the first note of the song started to hum quietly. Like a distant patter of rain—calm before the storm. Her hips moved into the rhythm and fluidly sneaked around the pole as the cloud of smoke started to clear out. Gazing into the crowd of men, her blood-red lips quirk into a smirk.

It was the only time she knew she had complete power and control. And she relished it, savoring the potency. 

Her hands smoothed all over her now slightly perspired skin as men clamored and hooted for her. Bills were haphazardly thrown into the dancefloor. Something that she wasn't used to when she first started, it made her feel cheap. Dirty. But her routine carried on almost every night, she eventually got used to it and had even grown to like it.

Then she spotted him. 

Big ball of golden hair illuminated by stage lights. He was situated amongst the sea of predators, his eyes followed the fluidity of her movements. But what struck her the most was the way he was watching her. It wasn't shadowed by lust, but more of an intense wonder and curiosity. It was as if he was memorizing each part of her curves, but for another purpose.

Her gaze somewhat mirrored his. He definitely wasn't strange-looking. Hell, he might have been the most beautiful man she has ever seen. He didn't belong to a place where no good men wander around. Both his beguiling beauty and aura was completely out of place for such a place like this.

The song then came to a stop. Her number was over but her eyes remained locked with his. It was only then she came back to consciousness as Don's voice boomed into the large speakers, signalling the end of her performance. She collected the bills scattered on the floor and walked off the stage, throwing a last glance into the crowd as she took her exit.

He was gone.

He wouldn't show up for a couple of days. She was sure, of course. The moment she steps out, her eyes would already be skimming through the lounge, and would sigh in disappointment if she didn't spot any sign of him.

"Have you seen your mysterious man yet?"

One of the girls she was closest to, Hershey, asked as she counted the thick block of bills on her hand.

"He wasn't out there tonight"

"You could have been hallucinating. Anyway, you told me he was 'like an angel'"

Hershey laughed, mimicking the way she had said the last part with a breathy tone and added, "Or could have been disappointed in your dance number, ran away and swore to not step a foot into this place again"

She stopped momentarily, chuckled lightly and sighed, "You may not be far from the truth but we'll see."

Then he would be there the next night, positioned right at a table at the back. His curly locks gave his identity right away, with his elbows propped up and fingers poised against his chin, bearing the same gaze. 

Later that night, he'd be waiting right outside of the club.

"The show was spectacular."

She tilted her head to him, nodded and smiled.

"Thank you."

She wasn't sure how it ended up with her sitting on a stool inside a cozy 24-hour operating diner so late at night, chatting with her "mysterious man" late at night, who introduced himself as Robert. He was apparently a landscape artist and has traveled the world where he finds inspirations for his works.

"The best place I have ever been to? Hm. I'd say Machu Picchu, set in the high mountains of Andes in Peru, above a river called Urubamba. I had to hike all the way up, and you could see the breathtaking view when you reach the top."

"That does sound very lovely." She sighed wistfully.

"Have you ever traveled anywhere outside the country?"

"Oh no, I have not. I move to different places a lot but I've never gone out, never had the chance to."

"Ah, you should! It's wonderful."

She nodded, "Do you only do landscaping?"

"Well, no. I do a little bit of abstract art but I focus mainly on landscaping. I was thinking of expanding more, though. Maybe portrait, or nude art."

"That's a good idea. An artist has to come out of his comfort zone and be able to become great."

"Yeah…", he trailed off, as if lost in thought. "I hope this doesn't come off as strange or I as a creep. But may I ask you to be my muse? Don't worry! We'll only do portrait." He added the last sentence quickly.

She tilted her head to the side and looked at him, her brows furrowed deep in thought.

"You don't have to s—"

"I'll do it."

A few days later, she was again popped up on a stool inside his flat just a few blocks away from the club. His place was spacious, but had a very rustic feel to the interior design. A few souvenirs from different countries were neatly placed on a shelf and most of his paintings were hung stylistically on the walls (in which she stared at in complete awe for what she could tell an hour each painting until he had to drag her away to his studio)

Her fingers fiddled as she tried to stay still under his calculating gaze. She never had much problem with how she looked and never had insecurities. Perhaps she just didn't care enough to be insecure. But at that moment, she thought of how she must've appeared to him and if she was good-looking enough to be an inspiration for his art.

"Are you alright there?"

"Yes! Yes, I… Yeah I'm alright."

His hand stopped and placed the paintbrush on the table. "Are you sure? If you're not comfortable or if you need a break, we could stop for a bit."

She shook her head vigorously, "No, it's okay. Don't worry."

"If you say so."

She let her eyes travel from his bare foot, to his khaki trousers, to his satin shirt with top three buttons undone, to his face. Oh, his gorgeous face. It was pulled into a deep concentration as he stared at his work, giving her some time to study his majestic features.

His eyes flickered to hers as if sensing her stare and playfully frowned, a small smile curled on the side of his lips.

"What?"

"What?"

He laughed, "You were staring."

"I was. Is it a crime?"

"No, I wouldn't say it is." He said with a teasing edge to his voice. 

It was their arrangement which they stick to a few times a week. On her day off, after work if she wasn't feeling too exhausted. There was an obvious attraction lingering inside the room of his small studio but none of them acted upon it other than just casual flirtations thrown around. He was a perfect gentleman and had always been accommodating. A couple of times he would insist on paying her in which she would always refuse to accept. 

"The tea you make for me is enough for a payment." She had jokingly said. "Do not worry about it, Robert. Really, it's okay. I'm making enough from my job."

One night, after their sessions, they had too many drinks and bottles were littered over the table along with his paint brushes which had long dried of paint. 

"Tell me about you, Marilyn. Mistress of the night, who apparently, slithers like a python." He mused, mentioning her alias. His glossy eyes filled with mirth.

She snorted, took a long swig of beer and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth. 

"Marilyn is… Nobody. I'm nobody. I came from somewhere that in my mind, ceased to exist." She stared ahead. "I ran away from home. Who calls it a home anyway?" She laughed humorlessly.

"My parents fought a lot. They spent so much time fighting, they didn't even have time for me. Looking back at it now, I could have just preferred that. But then, they turned their anger towards me." She sniffed and quickly wiped the salty tears before they even slid down to her flushed cheeks.

"I went to my grandparents. They loved me so much and I loved them so dearly. But they were not my parents. Eventually, both of them passed away and I was left on my own. But I was eighteen. I didn't have to go back to my parents. So I went to different cities, finding places where I could feel like I could fit in. Looked for jobs, and then I ended up here. I made friends and I have my own place, but it still never felt like home."

He was quietly staring at her, and the silence was deafening. Then he lifted his free hand to her face and ran the back of his index finger to dry her cheeks. Her hand caught his and brought it to her lips and placed a soft kiss. 

"But with you, it feels… different. I like hanging out with you. I like being with you. You feel like home to me, Robert."

Her voice echoed softly as he took his time to reply. But he didn't, instead, he leaned down and sealed his lips against hers. 

He layed limply on top of her body as he shuddered from his release. Both tried to desperately catch for their breath as her hand smoothed down his back and the other combed through his damp locks. He slid out of her and dropped beside her, not too long before he enclosed his arms over her and pulled closer. He catches her lips on his in a lazy kiss and smiled.

"You feel like home to me too, Y/N."

Her heart soared and nuzzled her nose against his.

"I want to paint you like this. May I? You are so beautiful. In light and in shadow."

She blushed, "Yes, but right now? I'm tired."

"No, no. We'll do it tomorrow. I'll take you somewhere." His warm breath hit her skin as he whispered.

"Where?" She whispered back.

"Well, I'm not telling you that. But it was what I helped my Father build when I was younger. It's somewhat like a special place for me, and I want you to see it."

He gazed at her as he waited for her to respond.

"Okay."

Under the light of the lamp, she peers at him under her lashes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Mm? I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You know what it is. Cut it out or I'll never get to finish this."

She huffs. "You're no fun"

"I can prove you otherwise in a few minutes."

He continued to do his finishing touches and leaned back to admire his work.

"That isn't too bad. But nothing compares to the real art."

"And what might that be?"

"You, my love." He stood up, walked over to where she was, placed his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her to him.

"I've been waiting for this for hours."

"I've been giving you hints and you insist on finishing your art."

He chuckled. "Of course I had to."

His fingers danced their way from her sides to her hips, rubbing along the marks littered across her skin.

"Are you ready to see it?" He murmured against her neck. She shudders as she nodded, giving their playful banter a break. 

He bit her earlobe softly, "Okay."

He walked over to his canvas and carefully turned it around to face her.

She gasps.

.

⭐ writings list ⭐

.

taglist: @jonesyjonesyjonesy , @princesspagey , @ritacaroline , @jimmys-zeppelin , @rebel-without-a-zeppelin , @reincarnated70sbaby (if you wanted to be added in, let me know 🤘🏻🤗)

[sprnklersplashes]

songwriter!janis fic (unrequited crush, no-very-happy-ending) 

also on ao3

It all started because she loved Taylor Swift when she was in middle school. Who is she kidding, she still loves Taylor Swift, but that’s where all this began. A middle school girl’s obsession with Taylor Swift. A confused, sad girl with a broken heart and smudged black eyeliner, finding refuge in lyrics about loneliness and anger and revenge. They became anthems for her, mantras to mutter when the warzone of middle school became too much for her.

“Someday, I’ll be living in a big old city, and all you’re ever gonna be is mean.”

“Cause I knew you were trouble when you walked in.”

“I can still see you, this ain’t the best view.”

It amazes her. It’s honestly as if Taylor Swift has managed to look into her life and given her a bundle of songs for whatever she needs. For when Regina has thrown her one too many snide looks, for when she’s standing at the door of North Shore High on her first day, for when she eats lunch alone, for when her mom is the best mom she could have asked for, for when she and Damian are lying on the grass in her backyard, staring up at the sky, laughing at absolutely nothing. The songs become the soundtrack to her life, the chords and those raw, honest lyrics an emotional outlet she so desperately craves. Taylor, and her songs, become a confidant, almost a close friend who always knows what to say.

With all that in mind, perhaps it was only a matter of time before she asks for a guitar for Christmas. She’s fourteen, braces and a slight lisp, and jumps up and down like a mad woman when she sees it under the tree.

She practices for three days straight, until her fingers bleed, but Should’ve Said No is the first song she learns off by heart. She yells the lyrics with maybe a little too much passion, but her parents applaud her nonetheless.

Like she said, that’s how it all started.

Because that same Christmas, she realises that screaming her feelings while playing guitar actually feels pretty cathartic. And that if it worked for Taylor Swift, it could work for her. So she writes stuff down, plays around with chords and strumming until the beat on the guitar matches the one in her head. She grabs a page and a pencil and writes and re-writes her innermost thoughts and feelings on the page until they sound the way she wants them to. She plays around with rhyme schemes and structure and everything she’s been taught about in English class, and a thrill runs through her as she does so. It’s the same breathless high she feels when she paints or draws, the rush that comes from creating something.

Her parents sit on the other side of her bedroom door, no doubt exchanging worried glances as she repeats the same verse, same chorus, with only a word changed. She watches them when they think she can’t see, peering through the crack in her door. The conclusion they seem to come to is ‘well, as coping mechanisms go, it’s pretty good, and she’s happy, so who are we to stop it?’.

It takes her four days to finish her first song. And it sucks. But she keeps it, writes down the lyrics and chords in one of the few empty notebooks she has, and there’s no going back from it now. She writes, and she writes, and she writes, near enough every day. She likes to think she gets better with each one. She learns more chords, buys a cheap ukulele the summer after freshman year, tries her hand at piano during a particularly difficult few weeks. She doesn’t plan on doing anything with them. They’re just her little pieces to hold on to. Her therapy sessions outside the carpeted office.

No-one knows about it. She has a reputation to keep up, after all. The loner-by-choice, too-cool-for-school, aloof art freak. Everyone has their roles to play in the ecosystem that is high school and, much as she hates the entire system, that is hers to play. And she plays it well, if she may say so. The fact that hardly anyone knows her past that facade suits her just fine. After all, if people think she doesn’t care, she can’t get hurt. No-one needs to know that Janis Sarkisian actually has feelings.

Even less need to know that she writes songs about said feelings.

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By the time she reaches her junior year, she’s onto her third notebook. She keeps them tucked away in her sock drawer, expertly hidden so only she can find them. Damian teases her about it, calling her “the protagonist of a Disney Channel Original Movie”. She just rolls her eyes and reminds him that “if either of us is gonna be Disney’s first openly gay character, it’ll be you”. He can’t argue with that.

It should be noted that when Janis said that no-one knows about her songwriting, Damian was the obvious exception. He found out just weeks after she started. There’s no keeping secrets from him.

Between all her notebooks, she’s written around forty songs.

Then she meets Cady Heron one day. The human embodiment of a labrador puppy, complete with wide, lost eyes. She likes her instantly, decides to take her under her wing because Lord knows the girl needs it. Cady’s smile is infectious, her laugh like a summer breeze. She has dimples and caramel-coloured hair and really likes maths.

She meets Cady on a Monday.

By that Saturday, song number 41-titled “Dimples and Curls” is more or less complete.

She plays it for Damian, hands only slightly shaking as she changes chords, the strumming short and upbeat, the melody strangely happy for such a bittersweet song.

He applauds her, but the subject of the song hangs in the air even after she’s played the last chord and the music fades. Unsaid, but not unknown. Just like her songwriting, Janis couldn’t keep a crush from Damian if she tried.

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“Hey, check it out.”

Cady drops onto the seat across from Janis, the whole table shaking as she does so. Like a small meteor just hit Earth. Janis looks up from her lunch, pretending like she had been doing her own thing and not watching the door until Cady came in. Pretending like her stomach doesn’t do little flips at the sight of her crossing the cafeteria. She pulls the flyer towards her and hums in amusement.

“The winter talent show,” she reads before chomping off a carrot stick. “Oh, is it that time of year already?”

“Seems like only yesterday we was welcoming the young’uns into this brave new world during the harvest season,” Damian sighs, putting on a delightfully over the top Southern Belle accent, no doubt influenced by their reading of Streetcar Named Desire in English class. Janis cackles, and nearly chokes on her lunch as she does.

“And now the cold winds of winter are descending upon us,” she replies, her accent equally heavy. She bats her eyes for good measure, because she can and because it makes Cady laugh. “Oh but I pray the children will survive this season, it is often rough for them.”

“I am never showing you two anything winter related ever again,” Cady says.

Janis just shrugs and runs her hand through her hair before her eyes go back to the flyer. Clearly, whatever sophomore they got to design it this year did their best; found the prettiest looking snowflakes on Google Images to put on the cartoon stage, decided to write in some swirling, slanted font rather than the start-studded block lettering they usually went for. It’s still the same as it is every year, meaning just as mockable, but she’ll give them points for tying.

“Well, anyone here going for it?” she asks. She looks from Damian to Cady and back again, a teasing smirk on her lips. “Last year and all that.”

“Not sure I can,” Damian sighs. “I mean, I’m booked up with Spelling Bee rehearsals and spring cabaret auditions happening next semester.” He drums his fingers against his throat. “Gotta give the little vocal chords some rest, you know?”

Janis’ response is to sing the lowest note she possibly can before turning to Cady and giving her a pointed look, the corner of her mouth quirked up.

“Who? Me?” Cady’s cheeks turned crimson and she shakes her head so much that the caramel curls bounced around her shoulders. “No way. Damian can take the stage, I’m fine with my calculators and textbooks.”

“You could always solve equations in front of everyone,” Janis says. “I could call out college-level questions from the audience and you solve them in under 30 seconds.”

“I think I’ll pass,” she giggles. She leans forward slightly, eyes glittering, and Janis does her best not to squirm. The effect Cady Heron’s eyes have on her should be studied by scientists. “What about you, Janis?”

“I don’t know.” She thinks back to when she helped on stage crew last year, as well as helping out (or taking over) with the set design. It had been fun, the kind of challenge she needed to keep her mind off the slowly-going-off-the-rails plan. And she was told it looked good on her college applications, because all people can think about apparently is college, college, college. “Maybe. They might need another genius stage manager.”

“And you’ll step in if they can’t find one?” She digs Damian in the ribs for that comment.

“But not performing?” Cady asks, and Janis freezes. Performing had never even crossed her mind before. She’s used to backstage, hell, she likes backstage. It’s not that she has stage fright or anything, and if she had, her stunt at Ms Norbury’s little healing session would have squished it. She had just never thought about it.

But Cady had, apparently.

“I-No, I-I don’t think so,” she stammers out. “Um, I might do backstage again, but not actually doing something, you know, talent related.” She bites her tongue and clamps her lips shut before anything else can come out.

“Okay then,” Cady replies slowly. She gets up from the table, her little empty water bottle in her hands. “I’m going to go for a refill, save my seat.”

“No problem,” Janis says, but Cady’s already jogging away.

She doesn’t know if it’s good or bad that Cady’s known her too long to think of her as cool, and so this kind of awkward babbling isn’t really surprising to her. Instead of thinking about it, she just sets her head on the table and lets Damian rub her back.

“You were nowhere near as bad as you think you were,” he assures her.

“Title of your sex tape,” comes her murmured reply. Damian chuckles and runs his fingers through her hair, like she’s his pet cat. It helps.

“So you’re definitely not going for the talent show then?” he asks.

Her first instinct is to say no, because of course she isn’t, because she never has before and she sees no point in breaking a three-year streak, but the answer catches in her throat. At the same time, something begins forming in her brain, pieces of a melody she’s already known, words filling in blank spots in her brain, and her fingers twitch involuntarily, playing the chords on an invisible guitar. Without a word, she grabs a notepad and pen from her bag and scribbles the words down before she forgets them, quickly becoming breathless just by sitting there. She forgets, for a moment, everything else, the talent show, Cady, even Damian next to her, and just revels in the task and the quick buzz she gets just from writing. Just like that she has one eye on the clock, itching to get home and put her notes into the rest of the song.

But with those notes came an idea, an idea so completely out of left field she almost laughs at it.

“Janis?” Damian asks, just slightly unnerved by her. If anyone else were at this table, even Cady (especially Cady), she would have had to excuse herself and run to the bathroom, or just hope the words stayed in her head long enough for her to get a quiet moment. “Did the Goddess of Music just possess you again?”

“Maybe,” is her response. He doesn’t know it, but she answered both the questions he asked in the past minute.

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She sits on her bed that night, her homework half-done and strewn across the desk, abandoned in favour of the guitar sitting in her lap and notebook open on her bed. She’s been working on his song for the better part of a week, inspiration and motivation seemingly striking and then fading whenever she gets a free moment. Abandoning it has crossed her mind-she’s no stranger to abandoning things that aren’t working-but for some reason she hasn’t quite been able to shake this particular song off.

Maybe it is Euterpe, the Goddess of Music, descending upon her because this song has to be finished, it has to be, Olympus willing it so.

Or maybe it’s because this song is one of the most personal things she’s ever written, a love letter she’ll never send, and the idea of it sitting unfinished drives her crazy.

She plays another chord and sings the line again, changing the ending slightly, and makes the adjustment in her notes.

She’s crazy. This is already crazy, her secret double life as a wannabe T-Swift, but now she’s gone beyond that. Thinking of actually playing it. On a stage. In front of people. She doesn’t care what people think of her, she stopped caring about that a long, long time ago, but holy shit what will people think of her after she does this? Life isn’t like the movies, she knows that much. It won’t be some pretty, softly-lit moment where the crowd sits with teary eyes, Cady runs onstage and kisses her and she’s offered a deal by some big shot producer, and they all live happily ever after the end. What could happen is people think she’s even more of a weirdo than they do now.

Or she gets tomatoes thrown at her head and she’s booed off the stage. That’s a possibility.

She calls Damian, because that’s the only way she sees out of her little thought cul-de-sac. She puts the phone on speaker and props it up against a pillow, keeping her hands free for her guitar and her pen. He picks up on the third ring, just as she’s strumming out a G chord.

“Oh, is someone prepping for her Grammy?” he asks. “You’re still taking me as your date, right?”

“Only if my dog can’t go,” she replies. She taps her nails against the wood, the rhythm too fast and frantic to just be a habit. Yes, she can tell Damian anything, and being nervous in front of him is laughable, but sometimes her body forgets that. “So, I was thinking about the talent show.”

“Oh? You’re going for stage crew again? Cool.”

“No-not exactly.” She knows he can’t see the smile creeping across her face, but she’d wager he can hear it through the phone. A small swarm of butterflies flutters in her chest, leaving her just slightly out of breath. “I… I. think I’m going to try performing in it.”

A burst of laughter comes through the phone, slightly tinged with static, and Janis wishes he were here so she could slap him. Even if it’s not malicious in intent at all, and she’s laughing right along with him. Slapping is kind of a love language for them.

“Okay, okay cool. What’re you going to do?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says, and then she plays the opening chords to her latest experiment. She doesn’t add in the lyrics, not yet. Still, she sits back and basks in his applause when she finishes, cackling into her hand. He might be one person, but he’s got enough enthusiasm to match a packed auditorium. “What do you think?”

“I’m into it,” he tells her. “So… that’s the one you’re doing?”

“Think so.” She tosses the pick between her fingers. Like he could feel her smile, she can feel his raised eyebrow through the phone, the elephant in the room poking her with its trunk. “Yes, I know.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it,” she tells him, and he doesn’t deny it. She looks back over the lyrics she’s written and re-written. Despite some adjustments, it’s still in essence the same. Still about a girl with pretty hair who smells like vanilla and cinnamon, who has a boyfriend and is unknowingly breaking the heart of a girl with black eyeliner and paint stained fingers. Because her boyfriend is pretty and clean and smells like soap and can do math, and how is the poor art girl even meant to compare to that?

“Yes,” she says after a while. “It is about Cady.”

“Aw, my poor lovestruck songstress,” he sighs. He shifts then, and the air shifts with him. “You sure that’s the one you want to sing? I mean you have dozens of other non-Cady related songs. I’m sure Mr Duvall would love to hear Angry Teenage Lesbian Anthem.”

“First off, I gave that one a title, it’s called Shattered,” she reminds him. “And-” She freezes, the rest of her sentence catching in her throat. He’s right. She could perform one of her other songs, that are already finished and therefore removing the pressure to have this one finished, polished and stage-ready. And of course, it would mean she wouldn’t be standing in front of her entire grade and telling them all how badly she’s in love with her best friend. Showing her deepest secret to the people who have already driven her out of school once. It’s a far safer, potentially less traumatic option for her.

But…

“No,” she says. “I know it sounds crazy but I feel like… I feel like I need to do this.” She swallows thickly and picks softly at the guitar strings. “It’s like… like this way at least I’m telling her, you know? Even if she doesn’t know it.”

Of course, Damian gets it.

“That’s beautiful, babe,” he tells her. “So you’re actually doing this?”

“I’m actually doing this,” she replies firmly. “And tomorrow, I need you to make sure I don’t chicken out before I sign up.”

“Got it. I’ll just order you to do it as Senior Co-Chair of the Student Activities Committee.”

“That’s an abuse of power.”

“Then consider yourself abused baby.” He laughs and she laughs with him, and then she hears something on Damian’s end. “I have to go. A certain little sister of mine has a princess costume that needs attending to. See you later.”

“See you later,” she replies before he clicks off the call. She looks down at her paper, then at her guitar, and thinks about what she just committed to. “I’ve got some work to do.”

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The song goes through four rewrites in the weeks leading up to the talent show. The whole first verse is changed, the chorus scrapped and replaced with a new one, then that one is scrapped and she goes back to the old one. She sits hunched on her floor with a pencil in her mouth, wondering if what she’s written is too personal or not personal enough. If it’s too obvious that Cady, smart cookie that she is, will work it out and that’ll lead them down a new, scary path. She cuts some lyrics that give the game away, opting to replace one about love for numbers with love for learning, because that opens up the pool to half their grade. She writes about Cady’s blue eyes rather than specifically those double dimples that make her melt. Maybe she’s compromising her artistic vision, but it might be worth it if it’ll keep her crush a secret. She keeps the old lyrics tucked in the back of her notebook, just to have them.

Meanwhile, she’s also dealing with the fact that people know she has signed up for the talent show. That Miss Too Cool For School Loner Art Freak Janis is actually performing at a school event. And she doesn’t even get extra credit for it. They’re surprised, and curious, and none more so than Cady. The other girl appears at her side almost instantly after first period, skinny little arms wrapped around her bicep and blue eyes alight.

Oh, the things those eyes do to her.

“Janis!” she squeaks. “I saw-on the sign up sheet-your name! Oh my God, is this a joke? Did Damian put you up to it?”

“No, no, I signed up of my own accord,” Janis tells her. That only makes Cady bounce more, ponytail bobbing up and down.

“Oh wow, that’s amazing!” she says. She stops then, her mouth freezing in its place and her cheeks turning pink. Slowly, she comes down to Earth, like a balloon that had the air let out of it. Janis can almost hear the wheeze. “I mean um, it’s pretty cool, I guess.”

“It’s pretty grool,” Janis replies, and just like that Cady bounces back up again.

“Oh my gosh, what are you going to do?” she asks. “Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

“You think I have some secret knife-throwing talent?” she grins. She hesitates for a moment, looking down at Cady’s excited face, because even if this isn’t telling her… it’s telling her. “I’m… I’m going to sing.” She pulls on the strap of her backpack and avoids Cady’s eyes. “Something I wrote.”

“Okay,” Cady says. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

“Hey!” she laughs. “I can write stuff. I can be deep.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about it,” Cady says, bumping her arm against Janis’. “But for real, Janis, I can’t wait to see it. I know you’ll be amazing.”

Warmth spreads across her pale cheeks, a pink blush no doubt colouring her face, and she somehow manages to choke out a “thanks” as her brain turns to static. Her only thought is ‘Cady thinks I’m going to be good’, and it’s written in glitter pen across her brain.

“This is going to be great,” she goes on. “Oh, wait until I tell Aaron. He’s got a break in his schedule that week so he’s coming up to see the talent show! Isn’t that great?”

And just like that, Janis’ good mood falls. Her face stays the same, because she’s trained to do it, but everything behind it crumbles.

“Yeah, that’s great,” she replies. Cady squeezes her hand, oblivious, and drags her along the hallway, chatting away about some lion documentary she had watched last night.

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She finishes the song that night. She arrives home with a heavy chest, so full of complicated, messy feelings, and her conversation with Cady still so fresh in her mind, her ears still ringing from the emotional whiplash. Her parents barely get a ‘hello’ as she enters and bolts up to her room, her hands shaking, the thoughts swirling around her brain desperate to be let out.

And let them out she does. She writes so quickly they look more like smudges than words, her fingers flying over rapidly changing chords, her voice broken and panting as she sings. The words almost write themselves, like the song has taken on a life of its own and she’s just along for the ride. She barely remembers to pause, to breathe, so wrapped up in the storm she’s created with just her guitar and pen.

It’s only when she finishes and falls back on her bed that she notices the tears in her eyes. She blinks them away and pulls herself up, her notebook in her hand. It’s done. The perfect blend of her own honest feelings and just enough smokescreen to keep people from knowing who it’s really about.

There’s no backing out now, she thinks. Her stomach drops, like she’s on the top of a roller coaster about to go down. A laugh bubbles up in her throat and leaves her breathless, her head spinning while she’s still laying there.

If holy shit were am adjective, she'd use it to describe how she feels. Because holy shit.

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Being backstage when she’s not on crew is a strange experience. She stands with her guitar slung around her body, in the middle of a current of students moving around her, half with the clunky microphones and walkie-talkies she’s used so many times before. She asks five of them if she can do anything to help-because they’re her people and she needs to do something to occupy her time-until she finally takes the hint and leaves them to it. Stagehands are the most efficient parts of any production, as she told Damian once. They’re a well-oiled machine at this point.

“Yo!” For a second, Janis thinks she imagined the whisper, just one in a jumble of backstage noises, until Damian appears at her side. A tiny ‘shit’ escapes her mouth, her body jerking. Barely anyone bats an eye at her, except him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“Don’t worry. I think at this point a small breeze could knock into me and I’d crumble.”

“The great Janis Sarkisian gets nervous?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“Only when she’s doing something incredibly personal and scary in front of her entire grade,” she whispers back. She swallows past the lump in her throat. “Aside from that I’m a beacon of confidence and unshakable will.”

“Hey.” He taps his knuckles against hers. “Remember how scared you were at Norbury’s assembly?”

“You mean after I had my picture all over the school with the d-slur written underneath it?” she mutters. “Yeah, I was shitting myself.”

“And yet, look what you did there,” he reminds her. “You were amazing. And you’re going to be amazing here too. Once you get on that stage, all those butterflies are going to make you fly, kid.”

She smiles, her heart warm, and pressed her face into the crook of Damian’s neck.

She doesn’t know how she got so lucky to have him, but she knows better than to tempt fate.

“Janis Sarkisian?” She lifts her head to find a freshman girl with a headset around her neck looking at her. “You’re up next.”

“Okay.” It’s only now she becomes aware that the last minute of Fairytale Of New York is playing, the notes will soon fade out, and that’s her cue. She turns to Damian and lets him straighten her black cardigan and fiddle with the collar of her shirt. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it.” He drops a whisper of a kiss to her nose. “But good luck.”

She holds her half-heart necklace as he goes, the twin to the one around his neck. It’s as close as she can get to having him with her. Her chest tightens as she makes her way to the stage and she tries to breathe through it, because the next thign she knows, Mr Duvall is announcing her name, and she’s being greeted by a blinding spotlight that thankfully obscures most of her peers’ faces.

“Uh, hi,” she says into the microphone placed out for her. It’s just people , she reminds herself. Somewhere in that crowd, second row, seat 14, is Damian, and she breathes easier. And next to him is Cady, the girl this song is about, and for some reason that straightens her spine and irons out the shaking in her voice. She takes the pick out of its holder and tosses her hair back. “This is a song I wrote about being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.” She blinks and hopes no-one sees the tears in her eyes. “So sing along if you get into it, because we all know it’s a shitty ass feeling.”

She plays the first chord, and then any and all doubts she had about this flee her. As cliche as it sounds, the song takes over her, and she blows through the nerves in the first verse. The experience becomes cathartic instead, like releasing a pressure valve on her soul. Even with the little diversions she threw in, she hasn’t felt this open and god damn free since last year, paraded on her peers’ shoulders with both middle fingers up. Except now she’s not flipping anyone off, or proving a point, she’s just finally telling someone how she feels, and holy shit, it’s amazing. Whatever the aftermath of this is, she won’t care, it’s worth it just for this feeling.

As she sings the last word, and that final note rings in the auditorium, her hands are shaking, her cheeks wet with tears and her hair sticky with sweat. She touches beneath her eye and her fingers come away stained black.  She hasn’t cried in front of people since middle school. She doesn’t care.

The cheers of her classmates ring in her ears, Damian’s whooping the loudest of all, and as she takes her bow, she hopes she’ll remember this moment for a long time.

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“Oh my God!” she’s barely into the auditorium when Cady launches herself at her, arms wrapped around her neck and legs circling her waist. Janis nearly topples over, digging her back leg into the ground just in time, and hugs Cady with the same ferocity. “You were amazing!” she yells into her shoulder, the sound muffled by Janis’ hair.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She sets Cady down, but the other girl keeps a tight grip on both her arms. Janis wonders if it’s to keep herself from flying away, given the amount of bouncing up and down she’s doing. “I can’t believe you wrote that! It was so good! You need to record it, Jan. Do you have any other songs?”

“Just a few,” she says. “And I don’t know if I’m in the business of making an album any time soon.” She swings her guitar case a little. “This might have been a one-time thing.”

“Well, even if it was, it was awesome,” she says.

“Thank you, Caddy,” Janis replies. “That means a lot.”

Her mouth runs dry as Cady smiles, all baby pink lipgloss and sparkling eyes and full cheeks. If this were a movie, she thinks, this would be the part where they kiss. No need for talking, or an explanation. Because Cady would have just known. The music would turn soft and twinkly, and the lighting would match it and it would look like they’re in a dream and they’d just kiss, and it will fix all of Janis’ problems. Maybe a single tear will run down her cheek. And then they’ll run off into their new lives as the end credits roll.

How sweet that would be.

But her life isn’t a movie. If she wants anything, she has to go for it herself.

And that includes-

“Caddy.” Her name is delicate on her lips, handled with care. Cady looks at her, giving a simple ‘mm-hm’ in response, and Janis’ heart beats out of control. “That song I just sang, it-”

“Hey, guys.”

Also if this was a movie, Cady’s sweet, lovely, nice boyfriend would not be barging in right now. He’d either be a douchebag who she doesn’t feel bad about hurting, or he’d be nonexistent.

Unfortunately, this is not a movie, and Aaron Samuels exists and is the human equivalent of a squishmallow.

“Hey Aaron.” He slings his arm around Cady’s shoulders, and she leans into his touch almost instinctively. “Janis, you were great up there. I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

“It’s a bit of a new hobby,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, and finds a bottle of water being handed to-thrown at-her.

“Hydrate those chords,” is Damian’s greeting.

“This is what I get for being friends with a theatre kid,” she sighs before she takes a drink. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was until now.

“Okay, so we’re all going for pancakes,” Aaron says. “I take it you two are coming?”

“How can I say no to pancakes?” Janis asks. “Uh, you guys go ahead, I have to get my stuff from the green room.”

“Okay, we’ll wait for you,” Cady says. “Aaron brought his car so he can drive us.”

“Grool.” Cady and Aaron turn around together, Aaron spinning his eyes around his finger and Cady lacing her fingers through his, talking about something she can’t hear. It’s like watching them through a sheet of glass.

Not a movie. Not unless it’s one of those really, really sad movies. Sad homophobic movies.

“You okay?” Damian asks. She snorts at the question. Nothing has changed, so of course she’s okay. But then, nothing has changed, so she’s not really okay.

“I did it,” she sighs. “It’s out there. I told her, unofficially. Whether or not she works it out…” She runs her hand through her tangled hair. “That’s something else entirely.” Damian hums in agreement, a sympathetic look on his face that soon morphs into a grin.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks Mom.” They snort, Janis caught between a laugh and a sob, and squeezes Damian’s hand. She’s not optimistic about any romance in her future, at least where Cady is concerned. She and Aaron are still rock-solid and she’s happy for them, whenever she isn’t angsting about it. It’s a weird combination to have.

And at least she’s done this now. Despite a future for her and Cady not being in the cards for now, she’s glad she did it. The secret isn’t out, not entirely. Just written on the walls in invisible ink.

“Come on,” she tells Damian. “I actually do have to get my bag, and you can use this as an opportunity to double check the ghost light is on.”

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Cady and Aaron keep their promise and wait for them, waving off their apologies as they jog across the parking lot. Cady lets Damian take the front seat with Aaron and slides into the back with Janis instead. Janis frowns, confused as to why she isn’t taking her normal seat up front, and Cady rolls her eyes.

“There was a draw on the way here, and we lost,” she explains. “And now Damian has control of the aux chord,” She gestures with her head to the passenger seat, and Janis turns just in time to see him open his Spotify and scroll through his playlists. As the opening notes to Waving Through A Window fill the car, it’s met with three loud groans. Damian only turns it up louder, and adds in his own backing vocals.

“So, that song you sang,” Cady asks, leaning back in the seat. “Was it about anyone in particular?”

Janis looks down, her hands pressed together in her lap. If this is the moment the universe decided to give her, it’s a really terrible moment. Not only is Cady’s whole boyfriend sitting an arm’s length away from her, but she left her nerve back in the auditorium. Clearly, her and fate aren’t on each other’s wavelength.

“You wouldn’t know her,” she says. “She doesn't even go here.”

“Oh,” Cady replies. Her face falls, but she’s not too put out by it. Why would she be? She nudges Janis’ shoulder, a proud smile on her face, and squeezes Janis’ hand. “Well, if she has someone like you into her and she hasn’t taken the chance yet, then she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

Janis only thanks her, and quickly changes the subject.

Someday she might tell her for real, but for now she'll stick to the songs.

[baekhvuns]

I just read your “ateez as dad’s” reaction, and it was so adorable that could we see the members of bts as Dad’s?? thank you!!

bangtan reactions ; requested

。。。bangtan as dad's ( this is definitely my favourite type of reactions to do )

── kim seokjin ;

imagine him making his kids sit on his broad ass shoulders while they play with his chocolate brown hair.

his kids getting his worldwide handsome looks from the minute they pop out the womb.

he’s a sag, we know his kids be the best dressed.

omg imagine when his kids grow old, and he’s teaching his daughter how to drive, he’ll be so soft with her, “nooo, take the right—yes yes good job!”

and then when he’s with his son, the asian dad comes out. “aY, WATCH YOUR SPEED— OHMYGOD DID YOU JUST RUN A RED LIGHT?”

“dad, the light was green.”

“YOU JUST RAN A LIGHT, YOU IDIOT!” smacks his kid on the head.

i think when as his kids grow older, the more funny jin gets, random dad jokes being thrown around.

imagine getting ready for a wedding event or some party, and he’s yelling that he’s starting the car when he’s sitting on the bed with his phone scrolling through the army cafe.

── kim namjoon ;

man, i don’t even know (this is too soft)

best dad, wbk (i think it’s a leader thing, all leaders in kpop, would be such amazing dad’s)

buys his kids magical and deep meaning story books that he reads to them every night before bed.

he finally put the baby shoes he bought to a proper use, and then buys every single colour in it because his kid really liked them.

imagine joon, in his tux with glasses (the fit he wore to grammy’s) while he’s holding his son while standing tall and the media gushes over how adorable the pair is. crying

his kid holding one of his fingers while walking down the streets or the red carpet while wobbling on their feets.

“dada?” his kid calls for him while he’s in his office, he pauses and smiles, waving his kid to come over and places them on the table. while he writes songs, his kid plays with either his hair or the jewelry he was wearing.

definitely as his kids grow older he gets a bit stricter, cause he has his moments here and there.

when it’s time for his kids looking for girlfriend’s or boyfriend’s, he’ll have the talk with them and give them advice while walking back and forth like a lecturer.

── min yoongi ;

he’d be the sweetest dad ever, 🥺

calls his kids his angels, imagine his kids get his gummy smile (I WOULD DIE)

imagine yoongs buying his kids small little bucket hats that cover their entire faces and he just takes selfies with them and posts it on the army cafe with the caption, “look at my angels, army.”

i think he’d be a very open minded dad, although he’s on the quieter side many would think he’s really strict and stern kinda like a sergeant.

but in reality he’s a dad who gives his those ticklish kisses when someone puts their face in the kids stomach (ifykwim) and they’d fall into a giggly mess.

whoever hurts his kids, better start running, whether it be teachers or some random kids on the block or heck even the “fans”

no one hurts his family, he’ll work in quietness and place a lawsuit on the people who hurt them.

agustd mixtapes would include a song that would be titled the birthdate of his first born as a present to them and army. as well as have a separate song for his kids titled ‘my one and only’

as his kids grow older and his daughter introduces her boyfriend to him, i think we all know the poor young man would be scared shitless of the agustd.

“if you want to date my daughter, rap better than me.”

yeah, goodluck.

── jung hoseok ;

get ready for a very adventurous dad,

wakes his kid early mornings for random trips down by the bay, all while they whine and he stands there in his dad sandals grinning proudly.

jiwoo would spoil the shit out of hobi’s kids, his kids would be dressed in those pretty aesthetic outfits.

he makes them smol little rainbow bracelets and puts them around their little baby wrists. 🥺

always has his kid propped up on his hip, whenever he dances or shows other trainees and teaches them how to do certain moves, his kids watch him with bright shiny eyes.

the trainees awe at his kids, omg imagine his kids bopping their heads to the beat while clapping their hands like dolphins while hobi dances.

his kids would be dance prodigy’s, i said what i said.

matching outfits with his lil babies !! imagine hope comes home and finds his kid playing with his colourful glasses with his shirt over their heads, softly giggling 🥺

── park jimin ;

ma’am, i will tell you, he would be the strictest dad in bangtan.

i think we all watched that hello counsellor episode where he was angry at the boy who put his dolls before his family.

he’d be a great dad, of course, he loves kids and would do anything for his own. but of course, he’d be on a stricter side.

i see him constantly comparing his pinky finger with his little kids because he finally has someone who’s pinky fingers aren’t bigger than his.

his relaxing time is whenever his kids are close to him, imagine his kids hiding their faces in jimin’s neck because they’d be shy by the amount of people taking their photos and you would just hear the armies go, “AWWWWWW.” honestly same.

he’d bring his kids to bangtan’s concerts! as toddlers he would bring them out during the encore time while holding his hands and making them sing a little bit of bangtan’s songs in their baby voices 😩

as more adults, like around 8-9, he’d bring them to more music shows but send them home early because it’s bed time, but not before kissing them a goodnight.

let’s face it, his kids be the hottest. his kids would be listed as the hottest celebrity kids alongside many other’s and jimin would just boast about it everywhere.

he’s really proud of his kids and won’t hesitate to show it in private moments or even in public moments.

dance classes with dad jimin >>>

── kim taehyung ;

he loves kids, a lot.

he’d do anything for them, the friend dad, his kids would forever be his first priority.

watch his kids get the entirety of his facial genes which would automatically make them prettier / handsomer than 99% percent of the population.

takes his kids to art gallery’s around the world, shows his artistic side to his kids who also enjoy.

painting with his kids would be his favourite time of the day, imagine his kids little fingers doing finger painting and showing it off to tae who would be more than proud and start clapping loudly.

tae’s big hands would cradle his babies faces and squish their cheeks as they fall into fits of giggles, tae’s heart just swells whenever he hears his kids laugh.

bro honestly, tae’s treated like a president, his kids would like the first kids of the country, constant headlines of tae and his kids holding hands would go viral while we all suffer bc we could never 🙃

so, uh, if you mess with his family, consider yourself done, after all he’s the kim taehyung.

as much as he’s proud of his kids, he would be secretive about his private life, as in he wouldn’t want to expose his kids to the world of being a celebrity and being famous beyond.

but imagine, the day he introduces his kids to the world (idk but i’m seeing his son) while wearing a nice tux with black hair, one hand in his pocket while the other over his son’s shoulders.

people would be shocked because his kid is the exact copy of him, but we would be shocked because another kim taehyung is born.

── jeon jungkook ;

welcome to world of wholesomeness, your stay would be making you uwu a lot.

imagine his kids playing with kooks long hair and he lets them hairstyle it however they want. with pretty pink rubber bands

hIS KIDS WILL GET HIS BUNNY TEETH OR WE RIOTING.

his (idk but i’m seeing a son again) son would have his shiny eyes and bunny teeth, overall would be so adorable that kook would have a heart attack whenever his baby would look at him.

imagine you coming home and seeing both your kids sleeping on him, one over his chest while the other his sprawled over his stomach, and you hear the soft snoring of the three of them echoing around the room.

takes candid pictures of his kids whenever they’re having fun in the playground or at road trips, omg imagine him and his kids singing singing to songs while kook drives down the pretty road.

whenever a bangtan song comes on ten radio his kids would start screaming and kook would be smiling all brightly while glancing at them through the mirror while shouting the lyrics himself.

writes songs for his kids, his lullabies would be heavenly.

i also think he’d be a strict dad, after jimin, i think he’ll take on that position.

only when they are slightly older, because kids make mistakes and kook will take it to his responsibility to teach them the right things and to repeat what’s the righteous.

he would be more stricter towards his sons while being more favourable towards his daughters because they got his eyes and he can’t ever say no to them.

no, but he would be great friends with his son, they would play almost any sports together, whether it be online or in person.

really tries his best to be the best dad for his kids and no matter what happens he’ll always be by their side.

[lovely-necromancy]

A Cure for Insomnia CH 16

////TW SA mentioned/hinted at/// Depiction of a panic attack as well

The hospital was a buzz with energy, which was a bit weird considering how small the town was. Were there really this many patients today? You honestly didn't know, hell for the longest time you weren't even sure this was a hospital when you moved here.

That was changed recently, like very recent. Last night in fact when you had been forced awake by medical staff trying to determine your condition. That sadist doctor of yours kept a small smile on their face the entire time you groaned about wanting sleep. They had simply tutted at you saying you needed to be monitored for several hours before they could let you rest.

Thankfully you hadn't seen them today but it was only ten thirty. A lovely nurse had been checking in with you all morning, even before you woke up. He'd come in when you had buzzed after waking up in pain and given you a dose of your medicine through your IV drip. When you questioned him about where you were he seemed to still in concern. Worried that you hadn't remembered your accident that lead you here.

After assuring him and giving him a play by play of your day yesterday, giving him the assumed day, and answering who the current president was he let you off the hook. Mark, your nurse, had been very keen to tell you the Cowell family is in charge of your care and will be here later in the day to visit with you. Granted you actually feel up to visitors. Which you take as code for 'would you like me to deny visitors?'.

You let him know you'll be fine with visits after ten. Knowing full well how fast news can travel in the small town it's only a matter of time before a parade of Hornets meander through to check in on you. First you wanted to grab your bearings before being thrown to your overly concerned friends.

Or maybe they weren't overly concerned after all you did just experience a home invasion that left you hospitalized. Simply being concerned is a natural reaction to your situation. But your head hurts just thinking about anything right now. So, you'd like to take a moment for yourself, have a bit of time to process everything.

Either way you'd been right, news travels fast in this small town. Nearly all the lodge residents had been waiting for an hour to see you when ten rolled around. At ten on the dot Aubrey, Barclay, and Jake stormed into your room and surrounded you like piranhas in a frenzy. You looked towards Dani, Hollis, Kirby, and several other lodge staff members for help only to get small smiles and a shake of the head.

They wouldn't be helping you out of this anytime soon. You just had to endure the genuine concern and affection from your friends. Luckily for your splitting head the visit only lasts thirty minutes before everyone has to leave. Life still goes on even when a loved one is in the hospital. With several promises to return tomorrow and requests that you take it easy the rambunctious group was gone.

You relax into your bed before turning on the TV and finding something mind numbing to watch. The food network works! You hope Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives is in the roll today. You're in luck as it starts playing right after the commercials.

The voice of your doctor is getting closer to your room. Great if you weren't already upset by the atrocity happening with the pizza at that restaurant then you are surely in a sour mood now.

“Well sir we hope you can reason with the child. They have simply fought us each time we've brought up the tests. We'd say it was mildly impressive that they held such coherence last night, had it not been for the headache it has given us.”

Oh here we fucking go again.

“I don't need the tests.”

No one had made it through the threshold before you spoke. Everyone froze at your cold tone. Until the doctor makes a motion towards you.

“As you can see, they're very stubborn.”

“I'm not stubborn you're just not listening to me. I haven't had sex in a year so I don't need a pregnancy test and I just got bashed around last night. I don't need an invasive search done.” You ignore the Cowell family as you speak to the doctor, “I find it concerning how keen you are to do a rape test on me even though I've repeatedly told you I just got banged up in the scuffle. Nothing more.”

The doctor still has their small smile placed just ever so on their face. There's something really off about them. Even under normal circumstances you hate hospitals and doctors. Mainly because they never listen to you about your issues, something you know would be even worse if you had 'Autistic' labeled in a medical file. But something about this doctor seriously rubbed you the wrong way. Perhaps you two knew each other in  previous life and it was coming back to bite you in the ass now.

“Doc, the kid says they don' need a test, then they don' need the test.” Big Jo says breaking the staring contest between you and the doctor as they slide their gaze away from you to look at Big Jo.

You take no little satisfaction from seeing their stupid smile finally leave their face. It isn't long before it's replaces and they bound over to you. Poking and prodding you, jabbing with a lot more force than they should need to. After a small adjustment to your IV they clear you for this check up and allow the Cowells to have their visit with you.

“Something's off about them.” you say cautiously after the family steps into the room.

Big Jo sighs, “Ye' but they took care 'o ya last night kid.” Ushering his family through he closes the door behind them only to turn back to you with a stern expression, “so ya better play nice with 'em got it?”

Fighting back the intense urge to roll your eyes you nod, before turning to Little Jo who's made her way over to your bedside in her hands several thick graphic novels. The same ones your store started to carry a few weeks back. Looking up from the books you see her watery and puffy eyes. What she takes from Big Jo in personality she takes from her mother in empathy.

“I-I-I yip-yip I thought yip you might get bored so I yup wanted to let you borr-yip-borrow these.”

When she places the books onto the small table beside your bed you can see the tremors that rake through her hands. Choosing not to comment or bring any attention on the tween's obvious nerves you settle for an ice breaker.

“Thanks, don't know how much more crimes against pizza I can stomach.” motioning to the TV where a man is making paper thin crust on pizza to have a pizza that cooks in a minute.

That's not pizza it's cooked cheese and tomato sauce with toppings. Not pizza at all.

Jo nods softly, her normal enthusiasm no where to be found today. A pang rips through your chest as you watch her eyes cast downwards. With no clue how to help her feel better you have to swallow the sigh in your throat to not make the air heavier than it already is. Dia and Big Jo aren't much help either when you spare them a glance.

Dia herself is wiping her eyes with a tissue and sniffles escape her every few seconds. Not much is different bout Big Jo, he may have more prominent eye bags today but you weren't going to judge him for not sleeping. Even under normal circumstances you didn't have ground to stand on. Mark mentioned Big Jo was the one who found you from what he'd over heard at the nurses' station this morning.

Knowing this made the foreboding feeling in your stomach grow. The way he's looking at you with his cold stoney stare-he's not even really looking at you more through you. But his stare pierces you and sends the pit in your stomach lower than you thought possible. If it wasn't so chilly in the room you'd probably be sweating right now.

“Dia, why don' ya take Josephine home.”

Hearing this you lift your hand up to Little Jo before she has a chance to scurry out of the room with her mother. She looks at your hand and then back to you before launching herself into you with a crushing hug. Gravity doesn't help your case as the child's entire weight is on your prone form, you hadn't sat up when they came into the room.

“Get better soon.” the pain was worth it to hear the small plea. She at least felt a little better if she could talk without her vocal tic interrupting her.

After you pat her on the back and promise to rest up she's out the door with her sobbing mother. It's a quiet few moments after the door shuts before Jo takes a step towards your bed. If the pit in your stomach went any lower you're sure you'd be able to see your insides. The hulking man takes a seat in the chair next to your bed sighing as he leans back rubbing his face.

“Tell me what happened kid.”

You relay the events of your day to him. How you and Toby had gone out of town for slushies, gotten caught in so much traffic that you felt it was a punishment from God himself. The funny feeling you had after dropping Toby off, the one that said just to go straight home. And how you had a feeling someone had just been in your home. You left nothing out about the altercation with ski mask. That wasn't saying much because you only remember the ski mask and how you tried to claw their face off. When Jo pressed you for a physical description you weren't any help. Having been too caught up in survival mode you only registered the stupid frowny face on the ski mask as being a key detail...but any fool could laser transfer a decal. And the same went for that painted mask, anyone could grab an art store face mask and block paint some black over the features.

Vaguely you recall them wearing a jacket. Had it been red, yeah like a burnt burgundy maybe? It wasn't a lot to go on and seemed to frustrate Jo even more, if the pinching of his nose was anything to go by.

“You are aware of the situation, yea?” his accent has dropped, he's speaking in a more neutral tone and inflection. This might be the most rattling moment of the week-and it's only Tuesday.

He isn't looking at you so you give a quiet 'yes sir' in response.

“Kid your car got broken into on my lot. Your home gets invaded and you get bashed around/ All this a few months after my other front end girlie disappears in the middle of the night.”

A lump forms in your throat at the mention of Bambi. You can see the pattern he's stringing together, honestly you saw it long before today. You'd just been sloppy and took too much time to gather evidence of your stalkers' existence.  Bambi's disappearance wasn't voluntary and it looks like you may be next.

“Called Lydia already and we're upping the security at the cottage. Until I'm satisfied with the level of security you will be staying with us.”

“I co-cou” the lump was hard to speak around, “I can't impose like that, it's fine I'll-”

“You'll just what sleep in your car become an easier target? Go gallivanting to towns miles away where no one knows you.” his harsh words cause you to sputter, “For Christ's sake YN we don't know who we're dealing with right now!”

You don't make eye contact with Jo. You can't make eye contact he's raised his voice. You're lucky you're laying down or else you'd be rocking back and forth right now.

“Unless you have a clue who's out there and the police catch them, this decision is final. This isn't up for debate YN.” he finishes harshly

Even though he's finished you still can't look at him, your nerves are so shot and all you can do is bite your lip.

“Look I...I'd feel a lot more comfortable knowing you weren't out on your own while this gets handled. Josephine looks up to ya like an older sibling, she'd be crushed if you ended up like Bambi. Same goes for Dia. And I don't want that for my girls.” he says softly, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir.”

With that Jo leaves you in the room after informing you that they'd be back to check you out of the hospital tomorrow. And that you could expect a visit from Sheriff Owens at some point before then.

Even after Jo leaves it feels like someone has your heart in a vice. And every few beats they squeeze it, constricting the flow of freshly oxidized blood to your body. For good measure they try to yank the organ straight from your chest cavity but just end up bruising your rib cage.

Oh God you can't breathe, you're trying but you can't tell if you are or aren't anymore. The beeping of you heart monitor is increasing with each second. It's annoying ringing is too much and you need to rip the cords from you immediately. That just makes the ringing worse as it flat lines not finding any beating or rhythm under your skin.

Soon you're swarmed with a team of nurses trying to settle you down in your panic induced haze. Their grabbing hands and forceful touches burn your skin and light a fire that travels through your veins; and only serves to make you thrash more. Taking a swing at the nurse who holds a needle you continue your struggle against the other bodies holding you down as she stumbles away.

A few nurses rush in from the door to help her, not that you notice.

So many of the sounds are merging together and you can't understand anything. From the shrill beep of the heart monitor, the voices calling out at various pitches, footsteps. Everything forms into one gigantic frantic pitch in your already fried mind.

A growl rips through the room, you can feel the vibration of it all over you. Did that come from you?

In an instant all hands are off of your panting form and just before you can sit up a deep pressure is applied to your torso. Warmth seeps into you as the pressure lowers itself onto your body. Effectively ending your meltdown and lulling you into a dissociative state.

Floating is the only way you can describe it. The sensation of weightlessness and a gentle rocking caused by the adrenaline trying to defuse itself back into the body. Or the foggy haze that clouds your mind as you try to remember what just happened. Trying to rational the series of events and this outcome. But nothing comes to you except more brain fog. A confusing storm of frustration and vulnerability hits you. And you are left powerless to do anything. You can't kick your legs or scream as much as you want to.

The weight on top of you is forcing a calm to wash over you while the emotions inside wish to break free like a whirlwind. Your distress kick starting the whirlwind back up again only to die like a camp fire in a thunderstorm when you can't get any sort of momentum to your tantrum.

You can only loose yourself to the fogginess drifting further away from your psychical body. Completely unaware of the world around you as it washes away into nothingness.

When the floating feeling finally lifts you have to blink to shake off the remaining stupor. You're able to tell there is still a heavy weight on top of you but also something holding down your left hand. You turn away from the wall that you've been staring blankly at for hours, if your sore neck is anything to go by, and see Connor perking up at your movement.

“Hey bud,” you raise a hand to ruffle his ear and he lays his big head back onto your chest. “hey Tobes.” voice cracking as you greet the man you assume is holding your hand in a death grip, not once looking up from Connor.

There's a tight squeeze on your hand and you have to close your eyes and take a minute to collect yourself before turning to face him. The last thing you remember before drifting off was a group of nurses trying to sedate you. Having no clue what went on after that and when Toby came in you're preparing for the worst. Finally facing him you pause when you make eye contact.

“Jesus! What happened to-to-to you!?”

When you'd last seen him you'd dropped Toby off in the same shape you got him. Now he's sporting a heavily swollen black eye, one that looks pretty bade considering his nose bridge is also swelling a bit. It almost looks like it's pulsing. The dark purple bruise and deep red bleeding from under it to spread away from the injury is such a drastic contrast to his weirdly grayish complexion. You aren't sure if the black eye is actually that bad or if it just looks that way due to Toby's lack of melanin.

“Tim and I got into a fight.” his one good eye cuts to the side, “Barkclay had to split us up. Drove me here to get it checked out, it's fine.” He's dismissing it, they probably can't figure out if his eye really is fine right now, since he can't feel pain and that thing looks tightly swollen shut.

“Barclay.” is the only thing you can manage to say. Your brain wasn't prepared for most things right now and it's having trouble processing the gnarly injury mixed with complete nonchalance.

His lips pull back into a smile and not one you've seen from him before. Sure you've pulled a couple genuine mirth filled smiles out of him, or seen his teasing smirks, or bashful shy smiles when you've been out with others. But this smile, if you could even call it that-it was more like he was barring his teeth. Toby looked ready for another fight or like he was a feral predator about to rip out it's prey's jugular. There's a brief flash of a image that pops into your mind's eye, one of Toby's bloodstained face with this exact expression, teeth soaked red with blood and chunks of flesh in between . A chill runs through you at the thought. Had Connor not been laying on top of you, you would have shivered.

The instant you squeeze Toby's hand, the smile wipes off his face and he stares down at your interlocked hands. He returns the gesture before bringing his other hand over. Looking up at you through his eyelashes he flips your hand and when your expression doesn't change and you don't pull away he begins to play with your fingers.

“What was the fight about?”

“I don't have to answer that.” his tone is short and clipped.

You don't press the subject, obviously Toby doesn't want to talk about it. And you're fine with that, anyway if the fight was bad enough for Barclay to need to break it up and he drove Toby here you can assume Tim instigated and is probably getting kicked back out into the RV with no AC. As bad as it sounds you could care less. Toby's your friend not Tim, you only care if Toby's ok and while he may have a very fucked up eye in the future, right now he seems like normal Toby. A bit more irritated and on edge but that's normal after a stressful day. Hell you punched a nurse a few hours ago.

“What happened to you?”

There's a small part of you that wants to sass Toby, that you don't have to answer that. Thankfully the rational side reminds you that fight with a roommate is very different than having been beaten in a home invasion. Once again retelling your story but this time starting after you dropped Toby off. No need in going into as much detail as you went into with Jo or how much you'll need to go into with the sheriff. Toby's hands would grip yours tightly throughout your recounting. It's one of the reasons you didn't go into a ton of detail. Understanding your friend is barely holding on by  a string on his good days you aren't about to load your stress along with his already eventful day.

“You can't stay there alone.” he says after you finish the recap.

“Uh duh? Like Jo's already ordered me under house arrest at his house.”

It's like the tension leaks out of him like air leaving a balloon with the way he deflates after you say that. His grip loosens on you hand and he goes back to idly playing with your fingers.

“Good...that's good.” he nods to himself.

In the silence of this hospital room with his service dog on you instead of attending to his clear anxiety ridden form, you realize Toby's a lot more caring than his exterior lets on. The brunette might not wear his heart on his sleeve but it's easy to see it once you know what you're looking for. In this moment as battered and bruised as he is, even the potential possibility of loosing function in his left eye, he's more concerned with you. Whether it's low self worth or just how he treats friends you'll have to find out later.

“Hey...Tobias, I'm here y'know?” you start to sit up waving off a pecking Connor. Once you're far enough up you retract from Toby's grip, which he does fight you on a little. And you reach out further to his bicep, you can't quite reach his shoulder in this position.

“I'm ok Tobes, I'm here.” for some reason 'Tobias' doesn't sound right for this moment.

Toby doesn't give much of a reaction which is fine since you weren't really expecting one. He places his hand over yours for a moment before bringing it back into his grip and fixates on playing with your fingers once again.

With a smile you go to pet Connor with you free hand, hoping Toby might shake himself out of this funk. After a bit of petting you grow restless with the lack of stimulation and ask Toby to pass you on of the graphic novels Little Jo left for you.

It's easier than you thought reading with one hand would be, especially since you can prop the book on Connor who doesn't seem to mind. Pup is resting across your legs now that both humans in the room are stable enough to function without his intervention.

When you finish the first book Toby speaks up, eye still focused on your hand in his. And you find out that although the series isn't his normal thing he did enjoy the art style and a few of the jokes. He waits for you to finish each book before talking more about them and the arc of the story they laid out. Opening up for the two of you to have a nice discussion on the fantasy game based series. It's honestly so much fun for you, where you lack in background awareness Toby is quick to fill you in and point out little ques the writers and artist dropped. In return you're right there explaining character motives and the subtle looks of a character's eyes.

It's a fun few hours before visiting hours are over. And Toby paused at the door before he left, he looked like he wanted to say something but held back. Just as he turned to leave you call out.

“Get home safe.” it's normally his line but you aren't going anywhere tonight.

“I will....get well soon. I'll see ya later.”

There's that awkward smile! You can barely contain the beaming one you sent him before he left. Despite being hospitalized for injuries sustained by a home invasion from your potential stalker...well plural now, you've had a pretty great day.

Fuck that sounds so bad. Should you feel guilty about forgetting your messed up circumstances? No, no everything is getting sorted out. If anything this is going along with your plans for Big Jo to help you out. This was more than enough evidence to prove that you aren't just paranoid. And you're about to have a safe place to hang while this all gets settled.

The fact that you got injured is less than ideal but this is what you get for being sloppy and unfocused.

You have a lot of faith in your boss, you know this will be dealt with. Thinking back to everyone who came to see you today...you just hope everyone can be as confident as you are that this will all end soon.

[elatedmarvel]

Arms

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky learns to accept all parts of himself, even the vibranium parts. 

Word Count: 5,353

A/N: This is the longest one shot I’ve ever written, and it took me like a month. (I’m very slow lol). In keeping with BLM and inclusion, please let me know if you feel the reader is described a certain way that is not encompassing of all. I’ve tried my best, but I’m only human and editing is hard. Hope you enjoy!

He remembers when he first woke up with it. 

He could have sworn that he was dead, and he was in hell. All he could feel was pain everywhere, but specifically in his left arm. Pain he had never felt before and now he thinks he’ll feel forever. His parents always joked him that he would go to hell if he didn’t stop flirting with every skirt he saw, and now he wishes he could tell them they were right. 

Voices float above him, but he can’t make out what they’re saying, everything sounds garbled and distorted to his ears. 

It takes a moment for him to realize that the men are speaking in a different language. 

Blinding white lights greet him as he opens his eyes and squints against the harshness. Silhouettes of shapes is all his brain can comprehend, and he blinks a few more times before he is able to actually see.

The dingy room has seen better days. The walls are lined with tile, with mildew and mold in between them. It’s dark everywhere else, except the bright light that shines down on him. 

It’s hard for him to move his head side to side, let alone move the rest of his body, but he tries to wiggle his toes and fingers. 

A metal appendage lays at his left side.

He stares at the foreign object, trying to make sense of the fact that he can feel his left arm, but what he sees is not the limb he remembers.

His brain commands him to lift it, to see if this was real. When it not only moves where he wanted, but he can see his fingers wiggling, he realizes that this is worse than hell. 

He runs his right hand up the entire metal limb, and he can feel the dull sensation. His panic increases the higher he can feel metal. He gets to the edge of his chest before he feels flesh and bone again. 

Gasping, he claws at where the foreign object meets his chest, trying to get it off of him. The more awake he becomes, the more pain radiates from the arm, like his body was rejecting it. 

His sudden movements and noises of pain alert the men in white coats around him. He’s sure his eyes are frantic; he must look like a caged and frightened animal. 

They rush to him, trying to undo the damage he has clawed in.

When they get close enough, he grabs them both by the neck, trying to protect himself. This only causes them to start shouting and the doors burst open.

It’s hard for him to process what is happening, all he feels is adrenaline pumping through his body, and it reacts accordingly.

He can feel the pop of the bones before he hears the sickening crunch. If he was more aware of what was happening, he’s sure he would have thrown up.  

The man he grabbed with his left hand falls to the floor in a heap, unmoving.

In all his time serving with the howling commandos, he’s killed a few people, but never as intimately. He could just pull a trigger, throw a grenade, or stab someone. He’s never had to look them in the eye, and feel the life drain out of him. 

Sweat and fear pour out of his pores now, he didn’t mean to. His hand moved faster than he could react. 

Not his hand, the weapon attached to him now. 

The shouting only gets louder around him, but it’s muffled now. He stares in horror at the metal fingers, and the lifeless body on the floor. 

He can’t even feel when they prick him with a syringe filled with tranquilizer.

The image burns itself into his mind as everything grows dark.  

The next 10-15 years follow the same pattern. 

He wakes up slowly out of cryo. In his groggy state, he panics every time he sees the arm. He goes to claw at his chest where it is connected, but he’s eventually stopped when they realize he’s awake. 

They try to break him. 

Hydra does everything they can, any form of torture. But he’s strong. He resists every attempt, and finally they have had enough.

One day, they plop him in a metal chair and run currents through his skull. 

It takes 2 more years of this before finally he stops scratching at the arm. Before he fully loses himself.

~~~

When he finally escapes from Hydra’s grip, he hates the arm with everything in him. He tries anything he can think of to remove it from his body, short of just cutting into himself more. 

The arm only causes death and destruction. It is synonymous with Hydra and the evil he unwittingly committed. 

He still remembers how they thought they bestowed a great gift upon him, making him into the fist of Hydra. They think they saved him, but they chipped away at his soul until there was barely anything left in him. 

When Shuri was kind enough to erase the trigger words from his brain, she had offered him a new arm. One that was not tainted with the bloody memories of Hydra. 

It took him months of therapy, and many long, late night talks with Steve, Natasha, and Sam to accept the arm. He wanted to repent for the blood he has spilled, intentional or not, and he couldn’t do it with one arm. 

It was beautiful, gun metal grey with gold intertwining the plates. It reminded him of the exhibit that Steve had dragged him to at the Met. 

Kintsugi, Steve had told him. The art of repairing something with gold.

“It was never broken to begin with, just being made whole and better” Steve had said to them as they wandered around. He pretended the tears in his eyes were from the dust in the museum, and lightly punched Steve on the arm. 

~~~

You were in the ring with Sam. 

Someone new, and that scared Bucky. He had slowly built a relationship with the rest of the team in the last few months he had been at the compound, and trust didn’t come easy. Countless nights he would be invited to movies, or dinner and drinks. He turned them all down the first few weeks he had been there. It wasn’t until Sam and Steve literally dragged him to the bar that he started to open up.

You somehow got along with everyone on the team, and had won everyone over in a matter of weeks. You geeked out over the newest electronics with Tony, and tried to help Bruce with his research. Wanda and you had holed up in a room for days binging the newest season of some reality show you loved. Natasha and you had survived multiple Barre classes, something that even made Sam cry. You and Steve had even started painting to Bob Ross videos together. 

It was like there was a you-shaped gap waiting to be filled on the team. 

He watches from his sparring dummy as you tease Sam. You dance around him easily, and dodge out the way of yet another unsuccessful punch. 

His sensitive hearing picks up on Sam’s heavy breathing, but anyone could see the exacerbated rise and fall of his chest, and the buckets of sweat gleaming under the fluorescent lighting. 

You laugh as he tries to distract you with a kick and punch from opposite sides. 

“Nice try birdy” you call out as you evade him once more.

“Stay still!” Sam huffs, he hasn’t felt this out of shape since he was a chubby 13 year old with a love of cheetos and hate of exercise.

In his last effort to take you down, he swipes left and right, never giving up. You move further and further back, unsure how to handle the sudden change in tactics.

You don’t notice how close to the edge of the ring you are. 

Tony, being the dramatic shit he was, decided to build the sparring ring higher up then normal. Like a pedestal he once proclaimed. He wanted all to be able to watch.

Sam and you had forgone putting up the side ropes, wanting to get in as much sparing as possible. 

The fall was probably only a few feet of the ground, but definitely enough to sprain something, or even worse, get a concussion. 

He sees you near the edge, Sam still swinging a way. His lust for revenge prevented him from seeing you were about to fall.

Bucky leaps the 10 feet in between him and you right as your foot falls off the edge. He reaches up and puts most of your weight on his left arm, catching you before you fell to the floor, holding you for a few seconds before slowly bringing you to floor level.

He sets you down gently and almost laughs at the comical expression on your face. Eyes wide and jaw dropped, unable to comprehend what had just happened in the span of a few seconds. 

“I-I… thank you” you stuttered. Stilled flustered by the fall, but even more flustered that it was Bucky that caught you. You two had maybe exchanged 20 words total in the 2 months that you had been on the team. 

Bucky does a once over at you before nodding and walking back to the sparring dummy.

Sam watches this all with amusement, before coming down and offering to buy you ice cream to make up for the fall. 

~~~

Hit. Block. Punch. Duck. Repeat. 

Watching you take down your opponents was like watching a ballet. You were graceful, and lithe. Moving with your counterpart, they never even realized you were a threat until they were out.

Since your fall a month ago, you and Bucky have been growing closer. It was hard not to when you were so light and bright. It blinded him slightly, before he grew accustomed to the warmth he felt when he was near you. Now he never wanted to be parted from it. 

Naturally, when this mission had come up, Bucky had begged Steve to pair you with him. He knew he would only have peace of mind if he was with you at all times.

Not that you needed the help.

About a dozen men lay sprawled around you, and the last three were soon to join their colleagues on the floor. If they weren’t such vile men, he would almost feel bad for them. Being laid to waste by someone who didn’t look like she could hurt a fly. 

He registers the movement about a second too late, his mouth won’t connect to his brain and shout what he wants it to. One of the men you had already taken down lifts his head and arm, he just sees a flash of silver in the man’s palm before he sprints the length of the room. Your back is to him, and you still have 1 more attacker to take down, he takes all of your attention.

It happens in a second. You take your final shot at the henchman and then you see Bucky running to you. You feel the warmth of him as he embraces you, pulling you forward. The momentum causes you to stumble and brings you both down, you on top of him.

The ping of the bullet is thundering in the echoing, concrete room. He barely even registers the feeling before pulling out his gun and shooting the attacker. Watching for a moment to make sure he was actually dead, he looks down at you.

“Bucky” you stutter out, and he can feel your slight tremors. The whiplash must be settling in and the adrenaline wearing off, not a fun combination.

He looks you up and down, and even though he knows he blocked the bullet with his vibranium arm, he can’t help the anxiety that rises in his chest. He doesn’t see anything wrong besides the bruises and small scratches.

Meeting your eyes, it instantly takes the breath out of him. The look of pure awe spread on your face, but he can feel the admiration that is in your eyes,

It takes everything to not close the 5 inch gap to your lips and see if they are as soft as he’s imagined. 

“You ok?” he asks one more time, voice cracking from the dryness in his throat.

You nod up at him, keeping eye contact. 

Without a warning, you press your face into his neck and wrap your arms around him. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you” you say profusely. You move to sit on top of him in a flash and grab his left arm. He’s powerless underneath you as you examine the shiny appendage. 

“Does it hurt?” you ask, wonder in your voice as your fingers graze the sides of his arms. He’s glad for the pain he endured when they fitted him with this new arm, he can feel the softness and warmth of your hands, almost like if it were his own flesh. 

“No” he replies, eyes locked on where you hold his wrist.

Gently, so gently he can barely feel it, you press a kiss to the slight dent where the bullet impacted. Now he swears he’s died and gone to heaven. 

There’s a lingering heat where your lips touched, maybe even burning. 

If his mouth was dry before, it’s now the desert, and he clears his throat before looking away. His face is hot, and he’s thankful for the dim lighting in the basement. 

He misses the sly smirk on your face before you get up and offer your hand to him. 

~~~

After the mission, you had gone with him to get his arm repaired. He tried to tell you that it would take a few minutes at most and you didn’t need to go with him, but you just smiled and led the way. You held his flesh hand while they fixed some wiring issues and un-dented the hand. If he squeezes your hand more often than necessary, then who would know?

One month passes and he is always at your side. He goes more often to movie nights, team dinners, and outings. There’s always a spot right by your side, and it takes only a few days for everyone to know it was reserved for a certain brunette. 

The second month rolls around and it finds him as your permanent partner. Missions for two would always be assigned to you and him. You two would spar for hours on end, touches lingering for longer than needed. If you needed to run errands, he would be right there with you. 

Month three passes in a loving haze. It’s rare to see one of you without the other. Even nights were spent in your room after you had both fallen asleep while watching Star Wars. You made him come with you to your yoga classes, and he made you go with him to cooking classes.

It’s like the sun had finally come out. The permanent scowl and dark circles were replaced with grins and smile lines. He can’t remember the last time he was as carefree as he was around you. 

It was hard to ask you out. He was nervous. What if he misread the hand holding and cuddling? Could he go back to being just your friend if it didn’t work out?

But the moment he saw you across the gym, sweaty and heaving but with a giant grin on your face as you box with Steve, he knew it would be worth it.

So here he was, your favorite flowers in hand, buttoned up shirt and nice jeans adorning his body, walking to your door to pick you up for your first date. 

In the back of his mind, he mocks himself for being so scared to ask you. Your face had lit up when he had.

Knocking on the door, he steps away and gives himself a once over. He tells himself he’s not nervous, but the erratic beating of his heart tells a different tale. 

The door opens, and there you are. A vision in your favorite dress, small smile on your face. 

All he can do is stare dumbstruck at you. While you were always gorgeous to him, the fact that you had dressed up for him makes him want to cry.

“Bucky?” you ask, waving a hand in his face and giggling. 

“You’re stunning” he says back, hand coming up to rub his neck. He suddenly

remembers the flowers when he feels the water drip on the collar of his shirt.

“These are for you” and the smile on your face grows. You take a big whiff of them

before sneezing 3 times in rapid succession. 

“Guess I got carried away” you giggle, and just like that the nerves fade. 

The drive to the restaurant he had reserved was filled with would you rathers that made you laugh so hard, you couldn’t breathe. Your impression of the stuffy waiter had him choking on his water.

Everything was going so well, he let his guard down.  

The men in ski masks that came from the kitchen to round everyone up were a shock to both of you. Instantly, people scatter, some making it out of the door in time, and others being held hostage and led to the kitchen.

You can both tell when they realize they have avengers in their midsts when the guns turn to aim at you. He flips the table to its side as you move to duck behind it. Drawing a gun from your clutch, you hand it to him. Bucky was always the better shot. And you arm yourself with a widow bites and click the button on your Stark Watch 3 times in rapid succession. 

He hears the panic in their voices as they radio to each other. Obviously, they were not expecting any resistance, let alone 2 highly trained agents.

You look at him, and he knows exactly what you have in mind.

The moment you leap sideways and engage, he pops over the table and aims at anyone with a gun. You move quickly and gracefully around those that were foolish enough to actually engage you. He takes down as many as possible with the gun, and when the clip runs out, he engages the targets closest to you. 

Soon there is only 1 left, shaking and yelling at you both to back up. Bucky is pretty sure he’s new, the tremor in his voice and hands gives him away. It wouldn’t be that difficult to take him out.  

Bucky joins your side, and you both approach hesitantly, not wanting to spook him. 

“Stay back” he yells. Bucky sees the glint of green before the man fully pulls out the grenade. His heart sinks into his stomach.  

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Bucky states, already wedging himself between you and the man. He calculates if there was anyway to get you out of the building. 

“Just stay calm, we’re not going to hurt you.” You say, laying the widow bites at your feet. Bucky does the same with his empty gun. 

His wild eyes keep glancing between you and Bucky. He slowly tries to inch his way towards the man, hoping he makes it to the grenade before he throws it. 

The stand-still comes to an end when the man pulls the pin and launches the grenade in the air.

“No!” Bucky shouts, and he pulls you both under the nearest table, his body covering yours. The deafening blast goes off right as you both get under the table.  

He feels your fast breaths against his chest, and he pulls your head into the crook of his neck. Arms in a braced stance, supporting him as he tries to keep his weight off of yours. He’s pretty sure the table above them cracked with the weight of the rubble falling on it. 

He looks down to your face and sees the fear in your eyes. It was one thing to be shot at, but another to be buried alive.  

“It’s gonna be ok” he whispers, and you nod. You know that Bucky would do everything he could to get you both out. Forcing yourself to take calming breaths, you knew it wouldn’t help to panic right now.   

Once he feels the dust settle, he braces himself against the broken table, trying to see if he could lift the ruble off of you both. There’s a groan as the concrete settles more firmly in place, but nothing lets up. 

The Stark watch on your wrist vibrates, and though he can’t see the screen, he knows it means the Avengers are coming. 

“Bucky” you say, voice trembling. It brings him back to the conversation you had about your biggest fears. Being buried alive was at the top of the list after falling into a pit when you were 7 years old. 

“It’s going to be ok” he tries to reassure, but the fear in your eyes has him trying to break you out. 

Slowly, he shifts his weight to his right arm, and braces the broken table with his left. Putting all his weight behind the vibranium arm, he pushes up. He’s not sure if the groans are from him or the concrete slabs, but he feels something pop and then shift above him. 

Suddenly, the weight feels lighter and he can hear the concrete falling. Hope bursts in his chest as more light floods into the burrow and space starts to expand.

Moving his knees and feet, he gets into a crouched position to give himself more power as the rubble starts to fall away. 

Your voice and encouragement gives him a surge of energy and he finds himself standing in the dusty opening of what used to be a restaurant. 

“Y/n!” he calls as he moves back down and cradles you in his arms, lifting you on top of the pile of rubble. 

“Bucky that was incredible!” you shout as he comes to join you and helps you down. Your arms come around his neck and before he knows it, he feels your lips against his. It takes a second for his brain to compute, and by the time he realizes that it was a kiss, you had already pulled away. 

“Thank you!” you shout again with glee as he chuckles. 

He tries to move in and capture your lips again, but the moment is ruined when a certain blonde super soldier clears his throat.

You both pull away, faces warm, to see the captain dragging to handcuffed criminals out of the wreckage. 

“Glad to see you’re both alive.” Steve states smugly, shooting Bucky a not so subtle wink.

“It’s all thanks to Bucky and his amazing arm.” you tell him brightly, pressing a kiss to the vibranium bicep before jumping into to help apprehend the rest of the men. 

Steve had never seen Bucky turn that shade of red before, and lets out a laugh as he escorted the men out of the restaurant and into the cars waiting outside. 

~~~

You’re not sure what triggers it.

One moment you're laying on the couch with your head in Bucky’s lap, content and happy while watching a movie. You’re half awake, no idea what’s going on in the movie, instead paying attention to the way Bucky’s fingers glide through your hair.

It happens suddenly, and you jump up. 

You pace for a moment, before breathing is hard, and the world starts to get blurry. A cold sweat breaks out all over your body and you swear you could throw up at any moment.

Lowering yourself onto the floor, you put your head between your legs and slowly start to rock. Blood rushes to your head, and all you can hear is the loud thumping of your erratic heart. 

Everything is reduced to the few inches in front of your face, you almost don’t notice the cool hand on your forehead, pushing away hairs and trying to soothe you.

You focus on the cold hand moving from your head to the back of your neck, and then going down to stroke and pat your back, before starting the cycle all over again. 

Bucky.

Slowly, you start to break through the surface. 

It takes a few moments, but you start to hear his voice calling to you, and you want to follow the warm sound. 

He moves your hand now to his chest, the gentle up and down continuing to bring you back, and it registers that he wants you to follow his breath pattern.

The first few are too shallow, the next few are too fast, but soon you match his calm in-and-out to a tee. 

Your name, smooth and gentle in his voice, finally reaches your ears. You listen as he tells you how great you are at matching his breathing. He switches between compliments, random, one sided small talk, and humming. 

The heat from his embrace and the coolness from his left arm creates a cocoon of warmth and safety, making you lose sense of time. The cramping from your legs is the only indicator that a significant amount of time has passed.

Sluggishly, you lift your head from Bucky’s chest and look up at his face. Intense blue eyes stare back at you, it’s not hard to tell that he’s trying to stay calm, but the slight worry in his eyes wasn’t hard to pick up on. 

Laying your head back on his chest, you feel his arms start to slide under you. Soon enough, you’re lifted up and he’s walking to what you assume would be your room. 

You close your eyes, when he doesn’t take the right to go down to your room, but continues straight into his wing. 

“Thanks Bucky” you mumble as he sets you on his bed and gets in himself.

Face to face, you use your finger to trace the slope of his nose and the edge of his jaw before bringing your finger to outline his lips.

Pressing a small kiss to the tip of your finger, he smiles before leaning in kissing your forehead. 

“I love you, doll.”

“Love you too.”

~~~

He can feel the drool on his face as he comes too. His face squished into the pillow underneath him, so hard, he’s sure he’ll have indents in his face.

One arm slung around a sleeping you, he breathes in, slowly waking up. Moving his arms, he can feel the soreness that settles in after a good night's sleep. 

A small sniffle from the nightstand catches his attention, and he realizes why he woke up. 

Gently, he crawls out of bed, and tucks in the remaining comforter around you, and grabs the device from the nightstand. He hopes you can get a little extra sleep, he’s pretty sure he fell asleep long before you got into bed. 

Bare feet meet carpet as he paddles down the hallway, a short walk to his destination. He waits outside of the door for a moment, listening for movement in the room. When he hears shuffling, and another small screech, he opens the door.

Against the adjacent lilac wall, a white crib is placed. A sleep dischevaled baby stands, clinging to the bars, blowing spit bubbles and babbling to herself.

As soon as she sees Bucky, her arms extend towards him and makes whining noises.

“Hey baby” he chuckles as he steps fully into the room, and picks her up, nervous that she’ll start screaming if he doesn’t.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, patting her back, and checking to see if she needed a diaper change.

The raspberry she blows answers the question.

Gently and efficiently, he sets about changing her diaper, talking to her all the while.

When he sets her upright to try and find a new outfit, preferably one that doesn’t have stains but the options are slim, she squeals again.

Quickly, he picks her up and sways her against his chest.

“Shh shhh shhh, don’t wake up mommy, you kept her up half the night.” Bucky implores. She tilts her head up at the sound of his voice, her eyes slightly wet and he knows she can’t help it. 

Rebecca was a good baby, usually did not fuss, ate like a champ, and slept well. But lately, she had been colickly. 

It had panicked Bucky at first, thinking she was sick or he was doing something wrong. You had quelled his fears by showing him the small bump on her gums, signalling that she was teething. 

Switching his right arm for her support, he brings a vibranium finger up to her mouth. Immediately, she latches on to the finger. 

He can feel the nubs of teeth about to break through the surface, and lets her chew on his cool finger for relief. 

It had started as a joke one day when the teething ring had melted and Becca still wouldn’t stop crying. In your half groggy state, you had stuck one of Bucky’s vibranium fingers in her mouth to let her chew on while you grabbed something else, he couldn’t quite feel the pain the same way his flesh fingers could. But, once Bucky’s finger was in her mouth, Becca happily chewed on it until she fell asleep. 

It was well known now that wherever Bucky was, Becca followed, gnawing on his fingers. 

“Does that feel better Becca?” she couldn’t even spare a second to look at her father, too busy drooling all over his hand.

With Becca in tow, he sits down in the rocking chair, hoping that he could get her to fall back asleep.

Holding her close, he hums some forget tune and rubs her back, moving them back and forth slightly.

The rigid dark grey was such a contrast to the soft baby skin around it, it startles Bucky sometimes.

The same arm that killed people and caused so much destruction was the same arm that his baby daughter used as a teething toy. She would never fear it, or see it as anything other than a part of him. 

He’s unfamiliar with the emotion that bubbles up in his chest and the tears that build up. Sniffling himself, he presses a kiss to her downy soft head, and cradles her underneath his chin.  

“You know, if it hurts that much, you can take it out of her mouth.” you say, startling him slightly. 

Padding into the room, you perch yourself on the armrest of the rocking chair and tuck your feet under his legs. You reach a head out to caress Becca’s perfect cheek, brushing away a few tears with your thumb, as her eyelids start to droop. 

“What are you doing up?” Bucky’s gravely voice cuts through the silence a few moments later. 

“I had a feeling you were getting sappy with her again” you tease. There hasn’t been a day that’s gone by without Bucky marveling or crying about Becky in the short 7 months of her life. 

“I can’t help it, she’s perfect.” he whispers back, getting choked up again. 

“Oh babe” you coo at him. Dropping to sit in his lap, you place your head on his chest, just above Becca, and wrap your arms around him. 

He sits there for a while longer, slowly rocking back and forth. Every once in a while, Becca will snuffle and snore in her sleep and you both chuckle at the cute noises. 

Sitting there, arms wrapped around the loves of his life, he feels calm. 

He can feel your breathing start to even out as you follow Becca’s lead to slumber. 

It still amazes him how much you both trust him. Never looked at the thing that made him a killer with anything but love, and never treated him with any differently. 

There will always be scars, physical and emotional, but slowly falling asleep in his baby daughter's room, he knows everything will be ok. He’s not afraid anymore.

~~~

Thank you for reading! Feedback is always welcome!

[official-michael-afton]

Could you teach me how to draw please? I love fan art but cant draw it ( also I’m failing art class so..).

Anon, that is... a very loaded question. Considering one can draw literally anything, I can't really give you specific advice. I'll try to give some general tips though!

For your art class- I'm going to assume you're in high school, apologies if I'm wrong(I doubt you're taking college-level art courses if you don't know how to draw, no offense XD ... And I hope there aren't middle-schoolers under the age of 13 here sjbjdksf) But art class is a class, therefore has assignments and a whole grading system other than "does it look good". If you can, talk to your teacher, try to find out what it is that's making your grades drop. I haven't taken an art class since I was 12 so unfortunately I can't pin down what exactly the issue might be. But talk to your teacher, maybe they can help!

For actual art advice, again, I don't know what you're trying to draw so I can't give anything specific, but some general advices I want to give are:

PRACTICE

I know that doesn't seem very helpful, but one doesn't become a doctor in a day, one doesn't become an athlete in a day, and one can't become a great artist in a day. My motto is "the only way to be good at something is to be really bad at it for a long time". As you practice and grow more, you'll discover how to better use your tools(whether that be a tablet+software, paint, pencil, etc), what methods work for you, what you like and don't like, and generally get the muscle memory for it!

USE REFERENCES

Seriously, this will save your life. The internet is a blessing for artists, make use of it! Look up images of what you're trying to draw, study how things look so you're not just trying to create something from scratch. Use tutorials to figure out how to get that effect you're going after! There's countless resources that will help you get specifically what YOU want, way better than asking someone on Tumblr could XD

THE CHERRY-PICK METHOD

This is a term I've coined for myself. For me, I tend to mostly draw humanoids, that's been my main thing ever since I got into art as a kid. But you can tell by my art style... it's not mimicking any thing in particular, it's kind of a hodgepodge of all sorts of other things making it's own style... my style! I like bold lineart, bright colors, big eyes with expressive faces, rounded shapes, cell-shading, etc etc. I didn't all pick this up at once though, over the years I picked things that I liked, and tried to put them into my style! It was shaking at first but through trial and error I found things I really like to draw and put them in my style!

My advice here is: if you see an artwork or an artist you REALLY like, try to figure out WHY you like their art. Is it the way they color? Is it the way their piece seems to look so fluid? Is it the expressions? So on and so forth. Try to study their art and find out how they make it the way they do, and take some notes so you can try similar methods or stylization choices!

SIMPLE FIRST, COMPLEX LATER

Sometimes a piece of art can be daunting, like, where do you start? My best advice is: Start as simple as you can, and go from there. Humanoid bodies are just a bunch of shapes thrown together with details. Nearly everything you want to draw can be built with circles, triangles, and squares. Start simple, then move on to details, shading, etc. Backgrounds used to terrify me until I realized you can just- block in a bunch of super simple shapes, and then add small details as you go until you're happy with it. For example, here's one piece I made a couple months back(featuring humanized versions of my dnd ocs because heeheehoohoo):

See how their faces are similar to circles? The torso and limbs are just rounded rectangles? And the background: almost entirely made of simple rectangles. Just start small and work your way up, it'll be WAY less daunting.

HAVE FUN

BIGGEST piece of advice I can give. Because artists are NOT going to be good when they start, and I've seen plenty of people beat themselves up for not being "professional" right off the bat. But if you're not having fun making art... then why are you making art?(Not directed at you anon, just an existential question to my fellow artists) The joy in making art should come from "Hey look I made a thing!" So don't sweat it if things don't look good off the bat, or if something you try fails. Art should be fun, so draw what you want to draw and have fun with it!

I hope these tips help!

[fyeah-bangtan7]

RM: “I spend a lot of time thinking about where I am now”

The story of BTS’ new album BE started on April 17, 2020 when group member RM announced its production on the BANGTANTV YouTube channel. In the seven months that followed until the album’s release, RM’s mind was full, his thoughts flowing in and out of his head.

How do you feel about the unique approach you took to making your new album, BE? RM: The other members were a ton of help to me. My lyrics made it on the album, but the music I composed didn’t, so I’m really thankful to the group for the music. How should I say this? I feel like everyone is doing a great job. There are so many parts in these songs that I’m indebted to them for. “Stay” was originally going to be the title song on Jung Kook’s mixtape, but everyone liked it so much, and they all agreed to put that on our album. That’s how much influence they had. I’m really happy my room idea was chosen to be the album photos. Since we’re spending a lot of time in our rooms because of COVID-19, we laid out the idea of each of us decorating a room in our own style. I can’t remember for sure (laughs) but I think I’m the one who came up with that. I made a comfortable room, one that’s modern and warm because that’s what I like.

There’s a painting in the middle, and symmetrically arranged figurines. RM: The figures are from my own collection. I wanted to show one of my paintings, but that didn’t pan out. But still, those are the things I hold most dear to me right now, so I let the room embody the things I wish I had, too.

It’s well known that you like art and frequent exhibitions, but how do you feel when you look at art in your home or another space where there are no people, like in the album art? RM: Someone said, “You don’t have to buy this painting; it’s yours so long as you’re looking at it.” That’s my favorite sound bite these days. What I most envied about painters was that, even after they died, their work would be hanging up somewhere, maybe even in another country, still defining that space. Musicians leave behind their songs and videos, too, but it’s only through fine art that viewers in the future are able to completely meet artists from the past. I’m envious that this is only possible for painters. These days I’m trying to find spaces where I can have more relaxed viewing experiences.

There’s a full experience involved, from the time you get ready to leave your house until the time you’re actually looking at artwork in the gallery. RM: That’s perfect to me. There’s art you can keep at home, and then there’s art that should always be viewed in museums.

What effect do you think that type of experience has on your music? You didn’t compose any of the songs but instead participated in writing the lyrics to all of the tracks. Did that experience affect your lyric writing in any way? RM: I think it’s helped me develop a way of thinking using all the senses. I used to be attuned to speech and focus on language and auditory textures, but now I can look at my thoughts from many different angles. That’s why I spend more time studying art now. I’m waiting for the day that it all comes to the surface, like when you paint the base on a canvas over and over so the colors pop. It’s hard to answer in one word if it has a direct influence on my work, but I think people who create music develop a way of seeing the world through their personal experience and their creative process. Painters naturally exhibit their art over a very long period of time. I think it gave me an eye for looking at the world in one long, continuous stroke. So now it’s become a little challenging for me to write lyrics these days. I’ve become more cautious.

Why is it so challenging? RM: I used to have so many ideas pouring out that it was hard to pluck one out. So I would stack them up like a Jenga tower and ponder over which one to remove. But now, it’s hard to even add a block to the stack. I’m not sure why but, when I look at these artists whose works span their entire lives, I sense that the rhythm of my creativity is slowing down more and more. That’s the source of my dilemma. I’m only 27 years old. I still need to wander around and get tripped up a little. But am I just trying to imitate what the fine artists are doing? Or maybe BTS experienced so much in the past seven years, that now it’s time for us to take a breather? I’ve got so many questions, I feel like my hair’s turning white. That’s why none of my songs are on the album. I wrote some, but they were too personal to use there. I don’t exactly like myself like this, but I have to see through to the end in this direction and find the answer.

Maybe for that reason, your rapping has shifted focus to the lyrics more so than trend or musicality. It emphasizes the feeling of the words over a particular format or beat. RM: Exactly. In—was it 2017? Pdogg was talking to Yoongi, Hobi and me about our style, and said, “Namjoon, it feels like you’re becoming a lyricist,” and it really stuck with me. I have a lot of thoughts lately when I watch Show Me the Money or listen to hip hop songs from the Billboard chart. My music started out all about my life as a rapper, so I spend a lot of time thinking about where I am now.

So you’ve started to ask yourself who you are as a musician? RM: I listened to Lee So-ra’s seventh album again today. I keep changing my mind but, if I had to pick between her sixth and seventh album, I like her seventh a little more. And then I listen to the most popular songs on Billboard, and I feel kind of thrown off. Um … There’s something Whanki Kim said that’s been running around in my head lately: After moving to New York, he embraced the style of artists like Mark Rothko and Adolf Gottlieb, but then he said, “I’m Korean, and I can’t do anything not Korean. I can’t do anything apart from this, because I am an outsider.” And I keep thinking that way, too. That’s my main concern lately.

You can feel that on BE. As the members take on more prominent roles as songwriters and producers, characteristics of old Korean music—the kind of music you likely listened to in middle and high school—gradually entered your sound. But your music isn’t from that era, and it sounds like pop, but not quite. RM: The sound has to fit with the whole album so I couldn’t incorporate that feel into BTS songs, but the songs I’m listening to most lately have been Korean. Songs like P-Type’s “Don Quixote,” Dead’P’s “Spread My Wings,” Soul Company’s album The Bangerz. The impressions the songs from back then have left on me, the lyrics from back then and the lyrics from now, they’re different. So BE is both Korean and pop; it’s very unique, in my view.

I think that’s especially true for “Life Goes On.” It’s got a pop melody, but compared to “Dynamite,” it has a very different feel. It doesn’t slip deep into the sentimental, instead allowing the melody to flow naturally. RM: Exactly. The chorus is totally pop, and one of the writers was also American. But the song doesn’t really follow American music trends, weirdly. So I don’t know how “Life Goes On” is going to be received. It’s really calm, almost contemplative. So there’s lyrics, like, “Like an echo in the forest,” and, “Like an arrow in the blue sky.” The song kind of feels like that: It could just float off and disappear. It might even come off as bland next to “Dynamite.”

If nothing else, it seems the song will stick around for a long time. Maybe kids now will listen to it later on in the future. RM: I hope so. That’s the one thing I really hope for, people in the future, thinking back and saying, “Oh, right! Remember that one song?” That’s what my favorite artists and other people who leave a lasting impression on me have in common. One thing common among the songs that have affected me a lot, like Lee So-ra’s seventh album, is that the lyrics they utter in their voice along with the overall sound stick with me. I hope when people look back, my words uttered with the sound of my voice, echoes for a long time in an auditory or visual way, or even throughout their entire lives. But that’s the dilemma: We have all these bling-bling symbols of our success, but we’re not that kind of team.

And yet, BTS’s career path is even more “bling-bling” than ever. “Dynamite” was the top song on the Billboard Hot 100. RM: I was the first one to check our position (laughs) but I didn’t want to get too excited about it. I was scared of facing disappointment so I put the brakes on out of habit, and restrained myself. But on the other hand, I feel like I should relish this moment. This is a once-in-a-lifetime thing; shouldn’t I enjoy myself a bit? But I disliked that sensation of only feeling elated so I tried to be as objective as possible. I was just one small part of everything that made this happen.

It reminds me of that part, “Running faster than that cloud of rain / Thought that would be enough / Guess I’m only human after all,” from “Life Goes On.” RM: “Only human” sounds so appropriate for me right now. One time, I saw a dark cloud over the N Seoul Tower while I was walking along the Han River. I was with a friend and we talked about where the border between where it’s raining and where it’s not might be, and suddenly, we came up with the idea to run and find that spot. But after running for 10 minutes, the cloud was even further away than it had been. At that moment, the puzzle pieces snapped into place. You think you can go faster than that dark cloud? No. That’s what I realized then. And I just like what Whanki Kim said, that maybe I can’t do anything not Korean, because that’s what I am. I used to work late and then stay up all night when things weren’t working out, sometimes walking from Samseong to Sinsa station, thinking everything through. But now, like the saying, I realize that maybe I can’t do more than what I am. 

On Weverse, you said that you gained some muscle from working out. Could the change to your body improve your creativity in the long term? RM: I started to think I better change myself a little, physically or mentally. I’m talking about being steady. I used to bombard myself with challenges and worries and just get over them, but now I think it’s time to find that one sturdy thing and plant myself there. The best choice was working out, and I think it’s changing my behavior a lot. I’m hoping that, if I keep working out for a year or two, I’ll become a different person.

Music is your job, but also your life. Like you expressed in “Dis-ease,” how would you say you feel about your work? RM: This is my job and my calling and I feel a great sense of responsibility. I think I’m lucky and happy that I can solely worry about my creative process. And I feel very responsible to those people who put their trust in me, so I try not to cross any lines, judge myself honestly, and always be professional. Those are the responsibilities that come with the job—the things I have to do and the promises I won’t betray. But if I’m going to do it, I’m going to be happy while I do it. That’s not always going to be possible, but that’s generally how I feel.

Well then, how do you feel about BTS at the moment? RM: BTS is … Well, it’s really hard to tell. (laughs) When BTS started out, I thought, “I know everything there is to know about BTS,” but now it’s, “I don’t know a single thing about BTS.” In the past, I felt like I knew everything, and that anything was possible. Call it childish or ambitious. But if I were to ask myself, “What is BTS to me?” I would say, we’re just people who met each other because we were meant to. But it feels like the stars aligned and a startup company became a unicorn, with perfect timing and lots of smart people. Looking back, there were a lot of ironies and contradictions in this industry. I thought I figured them out one by one, and then finally understood the whole thing. But now I feel like I don’t know anything at all. Anyway, to sum up: My young, reckless twenties. The events of my twenties. There were a lot of contradictions, people, fame, and conflict all tangled together, but it was my choice and I got a lot out of it, so my twenties were an intense but also happy time.

And what about you, as one individual person? RM: I’m a real Korean person. (laughs) A person who wants to do something in Korea. I think millennials are charging into society stuck between the analog and digital generations, and what I chose is BTS. So I try to integrate myself into our generation, try to understand what people like me are thinking, and try to work hard to capture that feeling without being a burden on them. This might be another kind of irony itself, but this is who I am. I’m a 27-year-old Korean. That’s what I think.

© source

[returnto-dust]

Three in the Morning

Summary: Set right at the beginning of season 1. Reader’s back in Hawkins after graduating from college a couple months ago. As she searches for a more permanent job, she works part-time at the police station. She loves the job, despite the... history between her and her boss, Chief Hopper. A troublemaker in high school, she’s had her fair share of run ins with Hop in the past. But, that’s just it: it’s all in the past. Or is it?

Pairing: Jim Hopper x unnamed female character

Word Count: 3553

Warnings: smut (18+), car sex, cursing, three OCs (is that a warning?)

A/N: this is probably OOC Jim because I’ve never written him before, but i had a lot of fun writing this! I hope you enjoy it!

Based on the dialogue prompts: “It’s three in the morning.” and “I’ve been waiting a long time.”

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

The wind is howling but the rain hasn’t come yet. Hawkins is alive with tension tonight, search parties out and about looking for the missing Byers boy. She feels bad for Joyce, she does, but there’s something else on her agenda tonight, else she’d be out there with the rest of the volunteers, right alongside her boss, Chief Hopper.

She’s only been working at the station for a couple months, but she loves the job, despite how mundane it seems some days. She files documents and fetches coffee and lunch for the deputies and Hopper, and even for Flo when she’s too busy taking bogus calls from nosy neighbors and old cat ladies. 

But it hadn’t been easy getting the job, regardless of her qualifications. She’d just graduated college and moved back home to Hawkins before applying to the help wanted sign outside the window of the station. She’d hesitated at first, her reckless past weighing heavy in her mind as she contemplated calling the station from her new living room. But she needed to pay the rent and eat somehow, and there was no way she would get her old job back at Melvald’s General Store. So she sucked it up and called in, snagging an interview for the next morning.

Luckily, Deputy Callahan gave the interview. If it had been Chief Hopper, he would’ve sent her packing the second she walked through the door. But she got the job, and a week later, when Hopper finally decided to show up to work, he just looked at her with disdain, shook his head, grumbled low in his throat, and slammed his office door behind him.

Now, six months later, she makes a decent living working a job she enjoys, even though her boss still doesn’t trust her, or give her the time of day. She doesn’t blame him though, not necessarily, but it is annoying and frustrating to deal with on a daily basis. She wishes things could be different.

She’s thinking of all this as she treads down the sidewalk of Hawkins town square. It’s nearing two in the morning, and she’s shivering under her dark coat. She wouldn’t even be out here if it weren’t for the phone call that interrupted her dinner. She’s grumbling now, hands shoved deep in her pockets, hood up to protect her ears from the wind. Dammit, Cindy. This better be worth it.

There’s laughter and the flickering of flashlights up ahead, Cindy’s tell-tale snort, followed by the low timbre of a male voice. She rolls her eyes. Of course, Cindy’s brought along her boyfriend, Micheal. She continues walking until she turns the corner into the alleyway behind the library. Sure enough, Cindy and Micheal are there, now locked at the lips, also joined by Jeremy, who shakes his head at the couple and pretends to gag at the sight. 

She chuckles and it catches his attention. He strolls over and throws an arm across her shoulders, leading her further into the alley. There’s a spotlight set up, aimed toward the brick wall of the library, shining bright. Several cases of beer are stacked next to it, with an open duffel bag in front of the wall. As they get closer, she can see the spray painted graffiti on the brick, the cans of paint thrown haphazard into the bag. Her stomach drops.

“Hey, look who finally decided to show up!” Jeremy teases, squeezing her shoulders and moving around her to pick up a beer. He holds it out for her, but she shakes her head. She looks at her best friend in question, an eyebrow raised high.

“Oh, come on! Don’t look at me like that! I told you we were just having a little bit of fun,” Cindy says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and skipping over to stand in front of her. “C’mon, have a drink! It’ll be just like old times.” Cindy takes her hands and tries to pull her toward the paint, but she stands her ground. Cindy huffs and crosses her arms over her chest.

“What are you doing? We’re not in high school anymore,” she says, looking at all three of them. She can understand the appeal, but to actually come out here and do it? After all this time? They’re not kids anymore.

“We’re just trying to have some fun. Geez, lighten up,” Michael insists, popping open a can of beer.

She scoffs. “Some fun? This is illegal, you know. And this isn't the first time, is it?” She’s filed multiple reports of graffiti sightings around town. Never would she have guessed it was her old high school friends.

“You think you’re all high and mighty now that you work at the station? Whatever, buzzkill,” Michael tosses his can to the ground. “Let’s get out of here.” He throws an arm over Cindy’s shoulders and they start walking away. 

“Way to ruin the party,” Cindy tosses over her shoulder.

Jeremy steps around her, walking slowly backwards out of the alley. “You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, are you?”

She sighs. “Just get out of here, Jeremy.”

He jogs off to catch up with the others.

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

She’s tossed all the empty beer cans in the garbage and moved the other cases to the sidewalk. Free beer for anyone who wants it. She regrets not taking her car, because now she has to leave the spotlight and the graffiti on the wall. Despite their foolish behavior, she doesn’t want her friends to get in trouble.

She turns the spotlight off just as a car drives by the alleyway. “Shit.” She rushes to zip up the bag of paint cans, throwing a strap across her shoulders and booking it out of the alley.

But it’s too late. The Chevy Blazer has already backed up, and Chief Hopper is rounding the car just as she slows to a walk. Shit. She wishes there was a dumpster or something, so she could ditch the bag, but of course, she has no luck. Hopper pulls out a flashlight and clicks it on, and shines it directly in her face.

She’s blinded momentarily, raising a hand to block out the light. He lowers it from her face, but keeps it shining on her so he can see, his eyes shifting down to the bag on her shoulder. “It’s three in the morning. What are you doing out here?”

She needs to think fast, because she knows how this looks, and she knows he knows about her past. They’ve been in this exact position before, only four years ago. Except this time, she’s innocent. “Um… just out for a stroll.” Fuck. Not smooth. 

He looks her up and down, and then shines the light down the alleyway behind her. “At three in the morning?”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, letting the bag drop to the concrete below. “Look, Hop, I know how this looks-,”

“Really? Cause it looks like you were out here maybe doin’ some recreational art,” he puts one hand on his hip where his cuffs glint in the light.

Dammit, Cindy, you are so dead! “Okay, now, before we jump to conclusions, this is definitely not what it looks like.”

Hopper raises a brow and makes a show of shining the light at the graffiti on the wall, then down at the bag on the ground. “Oh yeah? Unzip the bag.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not gonna do that.”

His jaw clenches. “No? Because there’s spray paint in there?”

“Of course there’s spray paint in there!” she throws her hands up in exasperation. “But it’s not mine!”

He already has the cuffs unhooked from his belt and is moving closer. “Mmhmm, sure it ain’t. Turn around,” he motions with his hand for her to spin around.

She shakes her head wildly, holding her hands out in front of her. It gives him the perfect opportunity. He slaps a cuff on one wrist and twists her arm around, shoving her face first into the brick wall, securing the other wrist.

“Stop! This isn’t fair! You’re not listening to me!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” he pulls her away from the wall and escorts her forward by the shoulder. They stop by the passenger side of his truck. “Wait here.” He leaves her there to retrieve the bag of paint cans, tossing it in the back of the truck before coming back around to stand in front of her. “Now, you wanna start tellin’ the truth here?” 

“I am telling the truth! It wasn’t me!” she looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“I’d be more inclined to believe you if I hadn’t just found you with the evidence at the scene of the crime,” he presses on her shoulder to get her to lean back against the truck.

“Please, Hop, you have to believe me! I’m not that same girl, I don’t do this stuff anymore.”

He takes a moment to search her eyes, then he pulls her away from the truck and turns her around. He lifts her hands up as much as they will go and shines the light on them. No paint residue. He turns her back around. “Can you prove it?”

Screw it. If Cindy got her into this mess, she can get her out of it. “Yeah, yeah. I know who did it. They’ve been doing it all over town.”

“Who?”

“Do you remember the group I used to run with in high school?”

“How could I forget? It was always the four of you when something went wrong in Hawkins.”

She chuckles, “We had to give you something to do.”

Hopper rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile. “So it’s them then? Cindy, Michael, and Jeremy?”

She nods. “Yes. Cindy invited me out to have some fun. I had no idea this was what she had in mind. They’d already painted the wall before I got here.”

He purses his lips and squints at her, rolling over her story in his mind.

“I swear Hop, it was them. I don’t have to spray paint walls or steal cases of beer to get your attention anymore,” oh shit. That wasn’t supposed to come out. She can feel her face burning. Thank god for the dark.

“Oh yeah? That why you made my life a living hell your senior year?” there’s a playfulness in his voice. He’s teasing her.

“Oh, god. I’m never gonna live this down,” she whispers. “Yes, okay? I wanted your attention. You think I did all that stuff just for fun? I could barely get into college with my record.”

He laughs out loud and makes her turn around again. Seconds later, her wrists are free, and she rubs the soreness out. “I can’t believe you went through all that trouble just for me.”

“Well, it was the only way I could get you to look at me,” she admits, refusing to meet his eyes. “You were new in town and married. I’m not a homewrecker. And I was just a kid. It was fun, playing cat and mouse, even though I knew I could never be with you.” 

“Is that why you wanted to work at the station?” he tries to catch her eye, but she still won’t look at him.

Damn, way to put a girl on the spot. “It’s not the only reason,” she chuckles and rubs the back of her neck, finally meeting his eyes. “I do need the money.” 

A gust of wind blows by and she shivers, burrowing further down in her coat. “Why don’t I give you a ride home?”

“Okay.” He opens her door for her and waits for her to climb in before he closes it and walks around to the driver’s side. He sits in front of the wheel in silence for a few seconds. “Hop?”

He slowly turns to look at her. “Get over here.”

The chill leaves her body, and suddenly she’s on fire from head to toe. “What?” Her mouth is dry.

“You heard me,” he rests one arm on the back of the seat, the other on the door, opening up the space around him.

Her heart races in her chest, pounding in her neck and in her head. There’s a tsunami of nerves in her stomach, and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “Really?”

He smiles, “yeah, really.” 

She searches his eyes, and nods her head, pulling her legs up under her to sit on her knees, crawling over the seat towards him. He grows impatient and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into his lap. She yelps in surprise, bracing herself with hands on his chest. He laughs with her, resting his hands on her hips. She has trouble meeting his eyes, practically trembling in his hands.

“Hey, look at me,” he tilts her chin up and their eyes meet. “It’s okay. You’ve got my attention.”

She bites her lip, shaking her head at the situation she’s found herself in.  “I thought… I thought you hated me.”

“No, of course not. I thought I couldn’t trust you. I wanted to,” one hand finds its way under her jacket, rubbing up and down her back over her shirt.

“Yeah? Six months, and I thought it was all one sided,” she slides one hand up his chest, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck.

 “You grew up. You’re right, you’re not that little girl anymore.”

“You never said anything,” she adjusts herself in his lap, one knee on either side. She can feel the muscles in his thighs flexing with every movement, and it sends a shiver down her spine.

“Wasn’t sure how you felt, didn’t want to make things weird,” he scoots down a little in the seat and takes his hat off, tossing it up onto the dashboard. There's a tension in the air now, shifting tides now that they’ve admitted everything. 

“What now?” she licks her lips and his eyes follow the action. His hands grip her hips.

“Well, I can take you home, and we can call it a night. Or, if you want, I can kiss you… and we can see where things take us,” he raises a brow, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. 

She flicks her eyes between his and his lips, “Or I can kiss you.” He’s smiling as she leans down and captures his lips with her own, holding his jaw with both hands. He opens his mouth to her, and her tongue finds his, massaging them together. He groans and pulls her body closer, their tongues swirling around. She gives an experimental roll of her hips, finding a bulge already formed in his khakis. She moans into his mouth, their lips parting just inches, breathing in each other’s air, foreheads pressed together.

She rolls her hips again, harder this time, and he growls, fingers digging into her hips. She pulls back from him, smirk on her swollen lips. She makes a show of unzipping her jacket, sliding it off her shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboard. 

“Are you sure?” Hop asks, fingers pulling her shirt from the waistband of her jeans. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time. I’m not waiting any longer,” she pulls the shirt over her head and it joins the jacket on the floor. 

Hopper finds himself speechless, hands on her sides and stomach, back and shoulders. Countless times he’s imagined himself in this scenario, and he never thought he’d actually get to do it. She leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his chin, down his jaw, to his neck, sucking gently, trying to find the spot that makes him tick. He leans his head back and moans softly when she kisses the spot just under his right ear, working gently at it until there’s a small purple patch of skin left behind.

“Take this off,” she tugs on the collar of his uniform shirt, and he quickly gets to work on the buttons, fingers fumbling when she rocks her hips back and forth, running her fingers through his hair.

 He finally gets it undone, and leans forward to slide it off, pushing her into the steering wheel, causing the horn to blare. They both startle, Hopper’s arms wrapping protectively around her waist, and then they’re laughing, so hard they have to clutch at their sides.

“Oh, man,” he has tears in the corners of his eyes. “Sorry about that.”

She waves him off with a smile, pulling his white t-shirt out of the waistband of his pants. “This next, Hop.”

The shirt gets caught around his head, but he pulls it over to find her unbuttoning her jeans, lowering the zipper, and pushing them down as far they will go with her sitting in his lap. Everything she’s doing makes his cock swell, and he groans at the sight of her matching bra and panties. She looks up and meets his eyes, smiling sweetly at him. “Give me a sec.”

She climbs off his lap and sits back in the passenger seat, toeing off her sneakers. She pushes her jeans the rest of the way down and off, picking her socks off as well, before crawling back into his lap. 

“Damn,” he breathes, hands back on her hips, thumbs dipping below the waistband of her panties.

She chuckles, “Kiss me again, Hop.”

He does, licking her lips first, then firmly pressing his lips to hers, squeezing her ass and rocking her into him. She moans into his mouth, their tongues dancing again, nails scratching down his chest to his belt. It jingles and jostles as she undoes it, pulling it from the pants and tossing it aside, popping the button and lowering the zipper.

They break apart again so he can lift his hips, pushing the pants and underwear down just enough to let his cock spring free. He groans as the cold air hits it, looking up to watch her remove her bra, throwing it in the back. His mouth finds her nipples, licking and sucking and nibbling until she’s a moaning mess above him. She’s light-headed and breathless when he pulls away, clit throbbing with need for him.

“Hop, I wanna ride you.”

He could cum right then and there, but then he wouldn’t get to feel her wrapped tight around him. “Whatever you want, baby.”

She grips his cock and strokes him a couple times, using his precum as lube. He’s hard as a rock, warm and heavy in her hand, pulsing with every stroke. His head falls back until he feels her climbing up, the warmth from her pussy right above his cock. She’s using two fingers to pull aside her panties, the other hand holding his cock at the base. Hopper replaces her hand with his, guiding his cock and she sinks down, taking him in inch by inch. She’s soaking wet, whining low in her throat. She buries her head in the crook of his neck, breathing heavy, gripping his shoulder. She’s wrapped impossibly tight around him, he can feel every inch of her, her walls fluttering, her thighs quivering.

“Shit, Hop, you feel so good.”

He groans low and deep, their hips now flush together. He grips her ass as she lifts her hips, almost coming completely off of him, before dropping back down. The windows are fogged up, and they’re both breathing heavy. He guides her hips and she continues the motion, taking him slowly at first then picking up the pace.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. You’re doing so good,” he praises, fingers digging into her ass, lifting her off, then pulling her back down, their thighs slapping together. She’s moaning right into his ear, every little sound going right to his cock. He’s throbbing, not sure how much longer he can hold on.

“Oh shit, Hop, you’re gonna make me cum!”

He growls, one hand moving to grip her tit, pinching her nipple, making her whine. Her walls are clamping down around him, her hips faltering with every movement. She’s got a hand down to massage her clit, fingers brushing his cock.

“Hold on, baby, I’m almost there,” he’s sweating and his thighs are straining. 

“You make me feel so good, Hop. You gonna cum for me? You gonna cum inside me?” she’s whispering in his ear, walls tightening impossibly around him.

There’s a tightening in his stomach, and he pulls her down flush on his cock as he cums hard inside her, her teeth clamping down on his shoulder to muffle her scream as she squeezes him, milking him for all he has. He groans loud and long, nails raking down her back.

It’s several long seconds before either of them are back on earth. She pulls back to look at him, a sheepish smile on her pink lips. “Good?”

His head falls back to the seat, hand caressing her sides. “Amazing.”

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

The next morning at the station, Hopper greets her with a pleasant ‘good mornin’ before heading back to his office. She can’t keep the smile off her face, and she avoids the eyes of everyone else in the office for the rest of the day.

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

I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to like, comment, or reblog if you did! Please do not repost!

[ravenbrenna09]

When Isak is Also Even

This story is partially based on this post and here’s AO3 Link

...

Since wtfock season 3 has ended, I dived further into the lore and mythos of the Skam universe. Skam was a fandom that I always followed (when it was trending) but it was really Robbe and his season that fully brought me into it. Now, I’m in the midst of watching through Skam NL—I’m at the very beginning of episode 5—and I’m planning on watching España later on because I just love all that I’ve seen with the girl squad. 

But, Lucas always surprised me as a character—but especially as an Isak because he always seemed to have Even-like traits. From what I’ve seen, he’s primarily headcanoned to go on and study art. Because of this, I decided to play around with the idea that he has equal traits of the two. 

Because of this, I wanted to explore the idea that our “Isak” is given the storyline that Even normally represents especially given that Lucas’s own mother is bipolar as well. But, I did write Lucas as closeted as the other Isaks typically are at the beginning of their season—maybe more so?—so that is something to note. Now, of course, this is all fun and it’s just something that I wanted to explore—especially in a one shot. 

but, this is also my birthday gift for @peaceoutofthepieces (who is currently still sleeping rn) and it’s basically midnight for me SO THAT MEANS IT’S OFFICIALLY YOUR BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATALIE AND I HOPE YOU HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY.

It’s really short (about a length of a clip of Jij Verliest) but I wish it was so much longer but I couldn’t manage it. I hope you enjoy it <3

…

The second that an Even sees their Isak is when their story starts changing, for the better, and life goes on to form something more precious than it was before.

But, this story is different.

Lucas van der Heijden is an Isak—technically, in someone else’s story—but he moved to Antwerp to get away from his father who tried to control his life and breathe down his neck about his medication. His mother had encouraged him to do so—to try new things—and with the Academy sending him an acceptance letter, it seemed so perfect, to go live in his cousin’s spare bedroom and get away from his father. So, because of this, Lucas van der Heijden is also an Even—technically.

One day, in the midst of it all, Lucas spots someone who instantly has his attention. Because Lucas is technically an Even—as much as he is an Isak, the person in his sight is his Isak, in every sense of the word. But, his “Isak” also happens to be another’s “Jonas.”

...

Lucas van der Heijden

Standing in front of the classroom, his photography teacher, Mr. Maes, a recent graduate from the Academy who returned to teach, lectured on and on about the various lighting techniques and what they tell the viewer. Mr. Maes had his brown hair meticulously styled. Today, he decided to wear a long-sleeve black shirt that clung a little too tightly to his biceps and a pair of jeans that clung tightly to his hips. Despite Lucas’s interest in the class—photography was his favorite medium and this class was his favorite of the semester—his brain kept fading in and out of the lecture. 

For whatever reason, his eyes kept returning to the curves of his muscles with a frustrating intensity. It was ridiculous that Lucas was getting distracted by something that didn’t interest him at all—outside of an artistic standpoint, of course—and he kept trying to force himself into the lecture. But, his brain also seemed to remind him of the text messages on his phones, the ones his father sent him as a botched attempt to bring him home despite his upcoming exam.

Dad: Come on Lucas. Your mother doesn’t understand.

Lucas: Really? She seemed fine when I called her. I have an art history exam next week that I have to study for. But I guess I don’t understand.

Dad: Lucas, that wasn’t what I meant.

Lucas: I know exactly what you meant.

Shoving away the thoughts of his father’s texts, Lucas’s eyes drifted back to Mr. Maes. Lucas was talking about lighter settings now, but his voice was growing increasingly muffled as the seconds stretched on. Lucas could feel his mind working, mentally sketching the scene in front of him—Mr. Maes enthusiastically talking about the various types of lighting. Normally, Lucas was always attentive during this class—as mentioned previously, it was his favorite class—but his mind continuing to wander was frustrating, to say the least. 

His dad had to message him before his class, didn’t he?

There was a tap on his shoulder, jolting him out of his thoughts. Glancing around the room, Lucas realized that their class had been dismissed and Mr. Maes was conversing with several students who lingered. Lucas felt his cheeks flush, his thoughts returning to his head, as he tried to shove them away. 

Eager for a distraction, Lucas turned to the person who broke him from his trance. His classmate, and friend of about a month, was standing beside him with his leather jacket thrown over his shoulder. Sander Driesen was shorter than Lucas with short brown hair that was growing out. He always wore some sort of graphic t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans and Doc Martens. His Instagram was covered with pictures of him with bleach-blond hair—something that Sander insisted was returning as soon as his hair grew out again.

While they had bonded in the classroom, Lucas had met Sander two weeks before the semester starting… at their therapist’s office. Once they found out that they went to the same college—and found out they shared a class, they had become close. Sander was taking the class as an elective, but they still collaborated when given the chance. Sander knew about Lucas’s father and the spiral that ended with his diagnosis and his grief over leaving his mother. Lucas knew about Sander’s fascination for spray painting and his diagnosis at the age of sixteen and his artistic muse—his boyfriend who had hair that curled when it was too long.

A week ago, Lucas learned from his new roommate, Zoë, that Robbe, Sander’s boyfriend, had his room last autumn—but Lucas still hadn’t gotten the chance to physically meet him. Even though Sander had shown him every picture that he had of Robbe. 

Sander stepped out of his way to let Lucas out and they slipped past their professor, who didn’t seem to notice Lucas’s absent mind. But, Sander did, asking as they headed out of the college, “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Lucas said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s just my dad being an ass, trying to get me to come home because my mom doesn’t ‘understand’ or whatever.” Sander scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I called her and told her that it was because of my Art History test next Wednesday.” 

“Yeah, those Art History tests can be brutal,” Sander admitted. 

“Thanks for the support.”

“You’re welcome.” 

As they stepped outside of the building, the sunlight shined down upon them. On most days, the sun was energizing and bright. But, today, it felt daunting and tiring to Lucas. It might’ve been his text messages with his father, but the fact he got little sleep wasn’t helping matters. His cousin was… loud and Lucas didn’t have noise-canceling headphones like Zoë had acquired. Before Sander stepped away, Lucas asked, “What are your plans for the day?”

“Robbe and I are going out to dinner with some of his friends,” Sander said. “What about you? Did you want to come?” 

“No, thank you though. I can’t today. I’m going to buy noise-canceling headphones and study some more for that brutal Art History test,” Lucas said. 

“Milan?” Sander asked, grimacing. Lucas fervently nodded his head and Sander chuckled. “Maybe, one of these days, you can get him back someday.” 

“I doubt it,” Lucas said. There was a flash of movement over Sander’s shoulder and Lucas’s eyes found it immediately. A person was running in their direction—or more specifically at them—with curly brown hair and a face that Lucas knew intimately for someone he never physically met. Before Lucas could even form a warning to Sander, Robbe was jumping onto his friend’s back. The force had nearly knocked Sander over and Lucas moved to help

Sander quickly found his balance, gripping onto Robbe’s thighs like a lifeline to keep him stable. The leather jacket that Sander held in his hand had hit the pavement and Lucas bent down to pick it up. His boyfriend’s legs were wrapped tightly around his waist and his arms bound around his shoulders. As Robbe pressed kisses against his boyfriend’s cheek, Sander exhaled, relaxing, “For fuck’s sake, baby, don’t do that.” 

“Sorry,” Robbe said, giggling with a wide grin on his face. Sander reached out his hand to Lucas, making a grabbing motion for the leather jacket, and he handed it over without hesitation. As if noticing Lucas for the first time, Robbe glanced over at Lucas. “Oh, you must be Lucas, right? I’m Robbe.”

Lucas chuckled, glancing at Sander. “Yeah, I know who you are.” 

“What do you mean?” Robbe asked. “I’ve never met—” There was a look of realization on his face and his cheeks flushed instant. Immediately, Robbe turned shy, burying his face in the crook of Sander’s neck. Lucas was barely able to hear a muffled, “That’s so embarrassing.” 

Sander chuckled. “Don’t worry, I only showed him the PG sketches.”

Robbe pulled himself from Sander’s neck to say. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?!” 

“Woah,” Lucas said. He waved his arms as though he could somehow block out the newfound information tainting his mind. He covered his ears and took a step back away from the couple. “That’s too much information.” Still holding Robbe on his back, Sander nearly doubled over in laughter and Robbe gripped onto him tighter. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sander. If I can even look you in the eye anymore.”

“You’ll understand one day,” Sander said, moving in the way Robbe had come. He lifted Robbe a little higher on his back as they walked away. “Goodbye, Lucas! I hope your dad stops being an ass and you study for your test!” 

“Thanks,” Lucas said. “I’ll do my best. Nice to officially meet you, Robbe!” 

“You too!”

Sander turned away, taking Robbe with him. Lucas watched the happy couple moved away from the school intertwined and holding onto each other. Robbe was still high on Sander’s back, clinging to him like a koala, and his face buried into Sander’s neck. The two of them looked so happy and proud, intertwined with one another so easily and simply. Lucas felt a sense of longing flash briefly in his chest as he watched their retreating forms.

Lucas moved in the opposite direction. His mind was already marking the path to the video store to buy a pair of the best noise-canceling headphones. As he pivoted to leave, his eyes caught sight of Sander and Robbe with someone else and—for whatever reason—Lucas halted to a stop without having gone too far away from his original destination. 

There was a tall guy was walking up to Sander and Robbe. Behind him, two guys were chatting loudly but Lucas couldn’t hear him—and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the guy in the center. The guy in question was taller than all of his friends, but his shoulders were slumped a little. Even though he had a maroon hoodie over his head, Lucas could tell that his hair was a jet black. Lucas could see his sharp jaw and the upturn of his lips as he teased Sander and Robbe.

He was beau—

Lucas cut off his thoughts, abruptly turning around. 

Lucas’s brain was screaming at him to turn around, to make up some excuse as to why he can join, simply to find out the name of the beau—no, the man there. But, Lucas knew that he couldn’t. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to change his mind now. Forcing one foot to move in front of the other, forcing himself away from the guy that had captured his attention, Lucas swallowed deeply as he tried to keep his thoughts even. 

Lucas had never been like that before. 

It wouldn’t make sense for him to be like that now. 

But, as he turned the corner, Lucas snuck a glance back to him—just to see the guy smile dazzlingly at Robbe and Sander.

...

Note: There was supposed to be a second part of this from Jens’ POV a few weeks later where Jens would actually meet him, but I wasn’t able to get it on time. I hope you enjoy this section and maybe I’ll do Jens’ POV after Jij Verliest ends?

[misssophiachase]

For KC Bingo @klaroline-events - “Throne”

He’s a Prince hiding out from a pending arranged engagement in downtown NYC and she’s a school teacher minding her own business. On FF and AO3

Art Imitating Life

St John Atelier: Soho (Manhattan) New York City, NY

“Please tell me Rebekah doesn’t know your whereabouts?”

“That’s really the first thing you’re going to say after I’ve travelled 3,500 miles to visit. I know my younger sister scares you but...”

“She doesn’t scare me, well not that much,” he mumbled. “Did I mention how good it is to see you, Niklaus?”

Klaus had barely stopped to think before hastily packing his belongings, offering a feeble excuse and boarding a private flight to the United States. First stop, Enzo St John’s Atelier in downtown Manhattan. 

Klaus had met Enzo in Paris where they both studied art at the Sorbonne ten years earlier. They had immediately hit it off and formed a solid friendship that transcended many different time zones over the years. 

Enzo moved to New York three earlier to start his own art school and gallery. He wanted to support and promote local and upcoming artists who couldn’t afford to do so themselves. Klaus had championed his friend’s endeavours over the years and wished he had the freedom to pursue something similar. 

Unfortunately, the Prince of England had other more pressing priorities.  

“Better late than never I suppose,” he muttered. “I hope you don’t mind putting me up for a few weeks?”

“How about I stay in the Royal Suite at the Waldorf Astoria, that your aides have no doubt already booked, and you can stay at my lowly loft in Tribeca?”

“Always about you, isn’t it, Lorenzo?”

“Well, when you’re the best friend to a Prince it seems fair,” he teased. “So, can I ask why you’ve decided to show up unannounced at my atelier? And might I also add, where is your usually extensive entourage? I may be fit but not enough to protect you from out of control females throwing their panties at you on the street.”

“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” He joked before answering one question at a time. “Vacation to avoid my upcoming, arranged engagement. They are in England but I have two bodyguards Scotland Yard insisted upon and my life isn’t a Tom Jones concert, there is absolutely no throwing of undergarments just FYI.”

“Damn, I always hoped there’d be panties.”

“Nice to see nothing ever changes with you,” he chuckled. “And if I didn’t mention it earlier, Rebekah sends her kindest regards.”

“I’ll bet she does,” he smirked knowingly. “Your sister really can’t get enough of me. Now, how about we get a drink and discuss this engagement? I’m assuming I'm the best man and have approval over all bridesmaids?”

“How about we drink here?”

“Worried about those panties, hey?”

“You know me too well. Let’s just say I’m keeping a low profile,” he murmured, tapping his New York Yankees hat. “Also, I seem to recall a bloody expensive bottle of single malt, top shelf whiskey I sent over for your birthday.”

“Do you really think I’d save that? Although, I do have a less expensive bottle of middle shelf whiskey, Your Highness.” 

“I suppose that will have to do.” 

2 seconds later

“I don’t understand why you can’t tell Esther and Mikael that it’s the twenty-first century and you’re far too old to be beholden to such an outdated practice like an arranged marriage.” 

“You’ve met my parents,” Klaus growled. “Their greatest joy in life is to make me do something I don’t want to do and after Finn decided to elope with a questionable commoner and Elijah entered the priesthood, they’re worried I’m going to do something similar.”

“So, what you’re really telling me is that they’re more worried that, if you go rogue, Kol will be the only hope of carrying on the family tradition and it scares the bejeezus out of them?”

“Exactly.” Enzo didn’t respond immediately, just let out a knowing laugh. “So, you see my eternal dilemma.”

“Tell me with the impending nuptials you’ve at least met your bride-to-be for more than five minutes?”

“It’s rather difficult when she lives in Bulgaria,” he replied. “Tatia Petrova is beautiful, that much I know, but other than that we have nothing in common.”

“Now I know what this is about,” Enzo grinned. “You sly dog, you’ve come to the states to find yourself an alternative wife.”

“An alternative wife? Someone has clearly been watching too many of those romantic comedy movies.”

“It’s called a rom-com, Your Royal Highness, and one of the most popular movie genres.”

 “Well, whatever they are, I am doing no such thing. Also, never call me that, it always seems so tawdry when you utter it. If you must know I needed a break from all the pressure, some time to unwind and pretend I’m not a Prince and have a life of my own.”

“Sounds just like the plot from a rom-com” he teased. “All we need is a strong, intelligent, independent, beautiful and slightly feisty woman to come into the atelier and sweep an unhappy Prince off his feet.”

“Do you ever think you’re working in the wrong industry?”

“So, what exactly did you tell Esther and Mikael you were doing?” He asked, choosing not to respond to his smart comeback. “They know from experience that I’m an incredibly bad influence over you, Niklaus.”

“Exactly why they have no idea I’m with you.”

“You lied to the Queen? Wow, I don’t want to be around when she catches you out and she will because, if you hadn’t noticed, everyone knows who and what you are.”

“I said I was going to a world-class meditation retreat in Sedona to relax before the big announcement.”

“So, not only does she think you’ve taken up meditation, she thinks you’re in Arizona and not with yours truly in New York?”

“That’s about the gist of it,” he replied simply. “So, I was thinking it might be best to stay indoors, order copious amounts of Uber Eats and paint so I don’t draw attention to myself. I’ll only burden you for a couple of weeks, Lorenzo.”  

“Do you even know how to order UberEats?” Klaus rolled his eyes by way of response. “Wow, that’s my idea of a wild vacation, Niklaus,” he sighed. “Fine, I’ll keep your secret if you insist. But if the Queen finds out and tries to behead me, I am counting on you to organise a speedy pardon.”

2 days later

Klaus rolled out of bed trying to block out the invading sunlight peeking through the crack in the curtains.

Enzo had kindly offered Klaus his large loft on the top story of the atelier he used to store paintings. A passionate art fan, Klaus couldn’t think of a better place to spend his next two weeks. 

He stumbled down the stairs and toward the small kitchenette on the floor below. Being half asleep and struggling with jet lag he didn’t bother to dress. The area was completely off limits to the public and Klaus figured his fitted, grey boxers would suffice in order to get his much-needed caffeine fix.

“Don’t come any closer, I have mace,” a voice warned. Klaus looked up, not expecting an extremely attractive blonde to be there rifling through her handbag. No doubt attempting to find said mace but, by the looks of it, failing miserably. Klaus was tempted to lecture her about carrying around so much junk, as Rebekah tended to do, but thought better of it.

“Hold on,” he murmured, finally finding his voice. “Why are you trying to attack me, last time I checked you’re the one breaking and entering.”

“And last time I checked, you’re not Enzo.” Her expressive, blue eyes ventured lower and Klaus was fairly certain she liked what she saw.

“What gave it away, love?”

“That arrogant self-assurance for starters.”

“Are we talking about the same guy?”

“I know what you’re doing,” she growled wearily.

“And what exactly am I doing, well you know besides trying to fulfil my caffeine fix to ward off this horrible case of jet lag.”

“You forgot to add barely dressed,” she shot back, as a slight blush crossed her cheeks. “No, you are trying to distract me so I don’t mace your ass.”

“And here I thought mace was meant for the face, you Americans are funny creatures. I’m staying here, love, no need to attack me, especially this early in the day.”

“It’s lunchtime,” she huffed.

“Really? It feels so much earlier. Now, maybe I should be the one asking the questions since you are encroaching on my space.”

“Glad to see you’re making friends,” Enzo interrupted. “As the welcoming committee you could have at least thrown on a shirt.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone,” he hissed. “In fact, she broke in here and threatened to, and I quote, ‘mace my ass.’”

“Why do you have a conceited, half dressed, smart ass in your attic, Enzo?”

“Tell me what you really think, sweetheart,” he chuckled. Klaus thought she was beautiful but her feisty and unapologetic charm was an unexpected and not wholly unwelcome surprise.

“Okay, children,” he chided. “Kl..” Klaus gave him a knowing look, he was supposed to be undercover after all.

“Caroline Forbes this is an old friend from England, although I use the word friend sparingly, uh James.”

“What? Just James? Like Madonna or Cher?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions, Caroline?”

“Says the guy half dressed.”

“You seem incredibly distracted by that fact, love.”

“I have no idea what’s going on here and to be honest don’t really want to know,” Enzo groaned. “But Caroline is one of my students and does a few errands around the place, hence why she has a key.”

“Oh, so you two are...” Klaus trailed off, gesturing between them.

“No!”

“Ew, yuck.”

“Gee thanks, darling, give a guy a complex. We’re friends, well except when she says things like that, it has been since Care Bear demanded I share my artistic gifts with her and I was kind enough to oblige.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly how it went,” she drawled, rolling her eyes for extra effect. Klaus couldn’t stop thinking just how adorable she looked doing it. “I teach at the local public school and given the complete lack of funding for an art program Enzo offered his atelier for weekly classes. Turns out it wasn’t just the children interested in learning.”

“Who knew you had a heart, Lorenzo?”

“And who knew you had a freckle right above…”

“How about I go get dressed? Will that make you both happy?”

“Well, I’m bringing kids here in two hours so I think that might be a good idea,” she replied, a slight smile tugging at the edges of those pink lips.  Klaus didn’t respond just shook his head as he took the stairs one-by-one, his caffeine fix a long and distant memory.

2 hours later

Caroline Forbes wasn’t the kind of person to get distracted, in fact she liked to think that her ability to focus was second-to-none. Well, that was until two hours earlier when a shirt-less, English Adonis decided to interrupt her daily routine.

He was clearly a big fan of himself. overly opinionated and frustratingly cocky but Caroline couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like to do more than look at his partially naked body.

Yes, maybe it had been too long, as Katherine would say, but those crimson lips curved into a knowing smile, those disarming dimples and those messy, blonde curls she wanted to run her hands through were flashing through her mind with no sign of stopping.

“Miss Forbes,” she was broken from her thoughts by someone tugging on her dress. “I need to go bathroom.”

They’d arrived at the atelier not long ago. Her class, excited to see Enzo, were milling around the room but her attention was on something else. Or someone else.

Caroline figured he probably had better things to do like sight see but she really didn’t know much about him at the end of the day. She didn’t even know his last name.

There was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on either, he seemed so familiar, like she knew him from somewhere, which was crazy. Well, she kept telling herself that.

“Okay, Hudson,” she said, “let’s go to the bathroom.” Hudson always needed to go to the bathroom so Caroline wasn’t altogether surprised. As they made their way down the long corridor, she took in the walls filled with art not paying much attention to where she was going and running straight into something. Or someone.

“Oh, I’m so sorry…” Before she could finish her apology she saw his smirk. It was the kind of smirk that screamed you ran into me on purpose.

Bastard.

“Well, that tends to happen when you’re not looking where you’re going.” His smirk only grew wider at that point.

“I’d say it was a pleasure but I’d be lying,” she shot back, that same feeling of familiarity returning. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like someone?”

 “Well, we all look like someone,” he answered, his awkward pause not lost on Caroline. “And who is this? A friend of yours?”

“I’m Hudson and I really need to pee.” Caroline watched the discomfort cross his face and couldn’t help but gloat inwardly. That would teach him for smirking at her like that.

She sent him her best counter smirk and ushered her mini companion to the nearby bathroom. At least he was clothed this time but why did he have to smell so damn good?

What she wasn’t expecting was for him to be taking part in the class when she returned with Hudson in tow. It was like he was doing it to frustrate her and it was working. 

“I set you up here,” he smiled, gesturing to the easel. 

“Oh, I don’t paint during this class,” she stumbled. Caroline loved to draw but only when she was alone and not surrounded by seventeen sets of prying eyes. As a teacher, Caroline knew full well that kids could be the worst critics. 

“You should, I can help out with your class if you like?” His blue eyes were gazing into hers now, imploring, pleading almost. What was this guy doing to her? “Or we can share?”

“You don’t want to share with him, Miss, he’s got boy germs,” Lucy cried out from across the room. Trust her children to make an awkward moment more awkward.

“I wouldn’t want you to be subjected to my boy germs, love,” he smiled, his mouth dipping low so he could murmur it in her ear.

“Am I interrupting you two?” Enzo asked, clearly amused by the situation. “Do I need to punish you both because I will.”

“Not at all, Mister St John,” he mimicked, placing a paintbrush in her hand gently. Caroline was struggling to breathe now and not just because of his close proximity but the way his hand grazed hers. 

“Miss Forbes and the teacher sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” Chanting broke out from the corner of the room and she knew it had to be Claudia, Sienna and Scarlett leading the chorus. 

“Ew, gross! Girl germs!” That was Liam, Cory and Jack attempting to drown them out. 

“You are unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“You really need to stop complimenting me so much, Caroline.” She was trying to ignore just how good her name sounded rolling off his tongue but was struggling to say the least. 

“For embarrassing me in front of my students you will pay, mark my words.” He didn’t respond just laughed. 

Class passed relatively quickly with only a few more interesting observations from her kids. Caroline found herself enjoying his company, not that she’d admit it.         

It was after she’d left the atelier and finished classes for the day that Caroline began to revisit those niggling thoughts at the back of her mind. The ones that kept reminding her just how familiar he looked. 

Then it came to her.

2 hours later

“I really should have suspected something, given that pathetic introduction. I mean besides celebrities who really goes by one name?”

“Excuse me?” He asked. Klaus had been minding his business, sitting by the window and nursing a cup of tea. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since she left with her class and now here she was. “Does Lorenzo know just how much you use his key?”

“Stop changing the subject, Your Highness.”

“Oh, I see,” he murmured knowingly. Klaus would be lying if he wasn’t a little disappointed his cover had been blown. He was enjoying being around her and conversing like two normal people and then she had to throw in those two dreaded words. “You don’t need to call me that. Between you and me I actually preferred conceited, half dressed, smart ass.”

“So do I,” she grinned. 

“Please tell me this isn’t going to change things between us because I happen to like those adorable eye rolls and steady stream of choice insults.”

“As long as the fact that I threatened the Prince of England doesn’t come with any kind of serious punishment.”

“Well to be honest, Caroline, I don’t think anyone would believe me if I said you threatened to ‘mace my ass’ between you and me.”

“You’re being awfully cocky for someone who finds himself in a precarious position.”

“And what position might that be?”

“Well, I could blow your cover, tell everyone the Prince of England is hiding out in an atelier in downtown Manhattan.” 

“Well, you could but I don’t think you will,” he murmured. 

“Well, you did embarrass me in a room full of my students, they may be young but that doesn’t mean they are not going to hold this over me for some time given their extremely long memories.”

“I’ll admit, I could have been less embarrassing i suppose. So, how exactly can I acquit myself?”

“Well, I am behind on my life drawing assignment.”

“So, what exactly are you suggesting?” 

He was standing now, his gaze trained on Caroline. She looked beautiful in jeans, ballet flats and a sweater that matched the colour of her eyes perfectly. Klaus had to admit, his mind was going to places they probably shouldn’t be but he decided to blame it on another part of his body that was threatening to betray him. 

“You could pose for me, I mean it’s not like I haven’t seen it before.”

“If you liked me all you needed to do is admit it, sweetheart.”

“We’ll arrange some fruit for your nether regions don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to inflate that already sizeable ego any further.” 

“So, let me get this straight. I pose for your assignment  and you keep my secret?”

“And you also tell me why you’re here hiding out in Enzo’s atelier.” 

“Wow, you drive a hard bargain, love, but I’m up for the challenge.”

Turns out one complicated story about an impending engagement and life drawing later, school teacher Caroline Forbes and Prince of England Klaus Mikaelson took commoner/royalty relations to the next level.

In fact, they were both fairly certain they fell in love then and there.

Although his parents fought his wishes initially they came to love Caroline just like he did. Not only that but her grace, kindness and passion for humanitarian causes made her one of the most admired and beloved members of the British Royal Family. 

Meanwhile, Tatia Petrova who was also against the arranged marriage, married her bodyguard whom she’d secretly been in love with for years. 

And they all lived happily ever after.

[lovemecharlie]

When Erik Met King Jade

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be in a romantic relationship where both parties alternate between "driving the boat" so to speak? It requires a lot of communication. You need to be willing to listen and follow as well as assert yourself and lead. You have to care about your partner's needs and be aware of your own.

N'Jadaka and I like to believe that we have found the balance because we make an effort to learn about each other continuously, but the thing about balance is that it requires great effort to maintain. Our relationship always wants to tip one way or another, and we're not perfect enough to stop it when it does. The thing that rights us is when we check the issue instead of each other.

At the beginning of the relationship though.. I won't lie. We had issues. We power struggled in a way that was not fun for us. I'm sure you wanna hear that too and I might as well tell you since I've shared so much as it is.

Let's go back to before the baby.. before the marriage.. when N'Jadaka and I were somewhat new and I still lived on the east coast.

◇

Erik strolls close beside me through the Maryland art exhibit, hands in his plaid pants pockets while I hang onto his bicep, arm linked in his. I've pulled out my 22 inch wavy unit for this occasion.

It's our mid-week date but we've specifically come to this rather liberal museum to support a college friend of mine who has a section of the gallery dedicated to her sculpted works. Signing her guest book I put in a bid for sculpture titled Womb in Motion.

"It's the low-hanging fruit," he says. "She didn't work too hard for that message, don't you think it's generic?"

"Because movement suggests life and the womb is life.. I love it," I explain to Erik. He's not completely sold. I'm glad Alice, the artist is not there to hear his honest opinions.

"It's a good fertility representation," I shrug, silently agreeing. He's not wrong. "I have another colleague who does Lamaze."

"I guess.." He moves us smoothly to the next piece, a sculpture called Rapture where it looks like a man is having an insane orgasm by the expression chiseled into his face.

"Well..." I bite the inside of my lip and look slyly to Erik. "That's a familiar face if I've ever seen it." When he sighs, my cheeks lift.

"Charlie this is the ugliest statue I've seen in my life and I don't look a damn thing like that... I don't," he adds when my brows go up.

Smiling with closed lips I glance to my right and that's when I see it.. a blatant symbol of a conversation I've been purposely avoiding. Immediately my reaction is to stand in a way that blocks Erik's view.

Draping my arms around his neck, I tilt my head to capture his gaze. "Let's go look at some paintings, I want to get at this Llama picture I saw briefly before someone beats me to it." ...But it doesn't work. Logically we both know it only makes sense to see what's in each exhibit as we walk and appreciate each individual work. It's what we do.

I know he sees it when his eyes stare past me and he pauses leaving me to roll my eyes. He puts his arm on my waist to guide me to it, unaware that I've already seent it through the corner of my eye..

"This one's interesting," he allows. Of course this would be the one he somewhat approves of. He's into this one, I can tell because he tries to view it from other angles and he's really looking at it. I try to talk about it as far as technique and material, but the subject matter is too obvious to ignore.

"Perfect Submission," he reads. It shows a woman kneeling and holding onto a man's leg and the man projects heavy alpha energy. It's a loud piece, skillfully created.. but loud.

"Baby... How would you feel having me as your dom,” he asks innocently. "You ever have one?"

There it is, the question I've been trying so hard to avoid.

"Have one?... No." I let him put two and two together. Suddenly, he's staring at me and I can feel it. When I look up, he looks confused and I don't like this intensely focused silence. "...What?"

"So, you've been one?" Sculpture forgotten, I'm now the focus of this conversation.

"No, I wouldn't say that..," I squint, "But I am used to.. calling the shots if you will. That's just how it's always been." I can see in his confused stare that it's a foreign concept to him. He can't picture it. "...Is that it?"

"Are you interested in experiencing sex differently? Seeing what it's like to give away control?"

I tilt my head, "Are you?"

"Honestly?" Wild brows high, he smiles humorlessly and I already know his answer, but I still wait for him to say it. "...No."

"Same.. I'm not cut out for taking orders. I don't like being told what to do."

"Neither do my wives, but in the bedroom it's different.. They feel good knowing they always have a firm hand and a strong dick."

"Pftt," I nearly spit, but cover my snickering. "Boy bye. I'm not your wife." That comment he made was enough to make my sides hurt.

"I'm for real. There's something I haven't told you yet," he says gauging my expression and I try to compose myself. "...I am a dominant." His eyes are serious. After a beat, I know I have to be serious too. I take a deep sigh.

"I could've guessed that," I admit. He didn't have to tell me and I was hoping that he wouldn't.

"My wives are all my submissives. We are into kink. We do fuck in the open. We do have group sex. We also do things that normal people do in relationships because we love our family."

"It's the weirdest family I've ever heard of..," I mumble, thrown by the explosion of TMI.

"We believe in full disclosure."

“Well, I'm not a submissive so it would get awkward really fast if you tried to dom me.”

"Is that facts?"

When I smile so to say 'yes indeed it's facts' he smiles as if he's thinking 'wtf' and his brows shoot up again like I'm some foreign object he can't figure out. He looks like I've just told him I have six husbands and want him to be the seventh... and he's just staring.

“Is something wrong?”

"Eh..," he mutters and it's like he wants to say something but changes his mind. "Charlie." Grabbing my hand to briefly kiss my fingers, he moves in closer and holds my hand in close to him. “Close your eyes and picture this.. You and me making love in Cancun.. music playing.. I lay you down and tease your body until you need the real thing and then I give it all to you.. I hold you down and have you take all of me.. and all you have to do is say yes. I'll buy you white lingerie from Agent Provocateur.. lace teddies and heels.. and I'll let you model them for me, while I touch you with my eyes.. Then I'll tie you up and kiss you all over your body from head to toe till you beg me to fuck you some more.. Now open your eyes. You don't want that?”

“Not really. One, that's boring and I'd rather explore and party if I'm in Cancun. Two, I can buy my own lingerie and I don't like white. Three, I'm not about to beg you for anything.. You can beg me," I tease. "Honestly, I'd probably end up tying you up and doing what I wish with you.. edging you. Imagine you in all your glory, naked in an apron cooking me breakfast because I turned you out and tore that cherry out,” I grin loving the image.

"Hell nah," he blurts moving onto a different sculpture where the sculpted couple is entwined around a third party. Any excitement he had deteriorated when I mentioned my lil fantasy.

"Um.. you good?" I follow closely, noting the shift. He says he's good, but I know I burst his little bubble.. this is exactly why I avoided the topic. "Look," I grab onto his arm linking mine again "I understand that this is different for you. Being in a serious relationship is different for me. I'm not used to this.. this is new."

"I know that. I respect you for being real with me, I just didn't see this coming. I have to adjust.."

"I tell you what. I have a suggestion and you just tell me if you're with it.. Okay?" Following him to the next exhibit, we stand side by side before an abstract painting that looks like the night.

"Mhm?"

"Well," I sigh, "What if we tried taking turns, that way both of us could orchestrate our fantasies and bring'em to life. I think we should try a situation where I dom you and then we'll switch it and.. you'll dom me?"

"Reverse it, I want you first," he blurts. It's not a big deal. Shrugging, I agree and we take time to finish looking through the exhibits before heading out  to my car. After grabbing milkshakes, I take him to his hotel and drop him at the front before heading home.

◇

Little did I know this would be the start of our complicated journey, but I'll tell you more.. after I put this baby down for her nap. By the way, I have more to tell you about that too.