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therealvalkyrie · 4 years ago

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Painter’s Hands and Guatemalan Coffee: Part 4

the ackerman influence

Pairing/setting: Levi Ackerman x Female!Reader, modern!college!AU

Summary: When you catch your idiot boyfriend cheating, your grumpy roommate is there to pick up the pieces and watch your back as you toe a carefully drawn line in the metaphorical sand.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: consumption of alcohol and weed products, intoxication, swearing, pretty dang fluffy

AN: SURPRISE BITCHES it’s out tonight!! An infinite thank you belongs to my beloved @ghostlightprincess for her keen eye for editing and swoon-worthy compliments and encouragements. Seriously, this chapter is dedicated entirely to her. I hope y’all enjoy!! I hope y’all appreciate the love I gave Sasha this chapter because........reasons. Pleease feel free to come scream/squeal/chat in my DMs or askbox! In love with you all<3 ~valkyrie

(read part 3 here)

“Here, thisun ‘sblue!” Hange slurs as she passes you yet another shot glass with Greek letters etched on the side.

“Mmm, I like blue,” you giggle, then clink your shot with hers before you both tip your heads back to pour the liquor down your throats. It tastes inexplicably like turquoise, and you laugh loudly over the thumping dance music in approval.

The poor freshman charged with staffing the drinks table eyes the pair of you skeptically. “Maybe you two should slow down, you seem like you’ve had enough—”

You round on him, offense written across your face. He’s definitely right, but you aren’t exactly gonna let some pimply, snot-nosed teen tell you how to drink. “Woah, Nelly, this ain’t cocktail hour, this is fuckin’ Greek row an’ I won’t have your judgment,” you waggle a finger in his general direction for emphasis, “harsh my vibe.”

“You tell ‘em, girlfriend,” Hange approves vaguely, hanging off your shoulder.

The freshman holds his hands up in defeat, amused. “No judgment.”

You nod once.

“C’mon, Han, let’s see if we can find the snacks.”

“Pleeeeeeease…”

You turn away from the drinks table to do just that, angling towards where you remember the kitchen to be — honestly, this frat is huge — and set off through the crowd. Hange trails after you, fingers tangled with yours like they have been all night, yammering on about something you can’t be bothered to follow.

“‘Scuse us, comin’ through, on a mission!” You push past jostling bodies until you reach the far wall and lean against it for the last leg of your epic journey to the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

Someone calls your name and you look up through squinted eyes to see Sasha leaned up against the counter by the fridge, bowl of chips in her arms and dab pen tucked behind her ear. She’s dressed casually, sweatpants and DIY cropped t-shirt contrasting your jeans and flashy top.

“Sasha! My love! My dearest, sweetest darling!” You stretch your arms wide towards her, Hange jolting forward where you’re connected. “We come in search of snacks.”

Sasha laughs and lazily deposits her bowl on the counter, stepping forward to stabilize you both with a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve come to the right place, my friends.”

She steers you both to sit at the island, wedging you between the only other two people in the kitchen. You vaguely recognize them as soccer players on the university team: a shaggy-haired brunette and a tall blonde. Sasha passes you her dab pen before ambling over to the pantry. You take a hit, then pass it to Hange, who’s looking much better now that she’s sitting down.

“Sash, these your friends?” the blonde asks, peering down at you through red-rimmed hazel eyes. You pluck the pen out of Hange’s limp grasp and offer it to him in greeting, along with a drunk smile. He takes it and grins back.

“Yep,” Sasha confirms with half her body still stuck into the pantry. “It’s the mad scientist one and the architect.”

“Almost architect,” you correct. “Not official until I have my degree! Although, I will agree, Han’s a mad scientist.” You poke her in the side and she swats you away with an eye roll.

“Oh,” the brunette soccer player pipes up from Hange’s other side, now looking at you curiously as well. He’s also high, startling green eyes hooded and posture relaxed. “So you’re Braun’s ex.”

You hide your shudder of distaste by turning back to take a drag off the pen. “Please don’t tell me that’s all I’m known for,” you sigh out with a cloud of smoke.

“Eren, don’t be an ass.” Sasha finally returns with a box of chocolate pretzels and a bag of hot Cheetos. “Pick your poison, hot stuff,” she offers each in turn. You ponder for a second, then reach for the Cheetos. “That’s Eren—” she points to the brunette, who raises a lazy hand “—and that’s Jean—” the blonde reaches for the pretzels. Sasha makes an offended noise and cradles them to her chest.

You introduce both yourself and Hange while Sasha plays defense against Jean’s long reach.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes to you, leaning over Hange to grab some Cheetos. “I heard what he did to you. Really shitty.” His tone is casual, but the way he’s practically pinning you in place with his eyes makes you twitch.

“Puh-lease,” Hange pulls out the word, long and sarcastic. “‘Twas more than shitty, what that douche did. I’d’ve wrung him out to dry, but she didn’t—”

You cut her off with a sharp poke to her side. “Drop it, Han, I don’t wanna think about it.”

“But— ooh!” She’s sufficiently distracted when you shove your food in front of her face.

“Sorry,” Eren apologizes again.

“S’okay,” you sigh and take another drag, then hold the pen out to him in a peace offering. He smiles slowly and takes it.

“You guys staying over? There’s plenty of room in the basement, and friends of Sasha’s are always welcome.” It’s Jean who offers, returning to his seat beside you with a singular pretzel for his trouble.

“Hmm, might be nice,” Hange muses, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Thank you, but my roommate’d probably have a conniption if I wasn’t home in the morning.”

Hange actually snorts at this, then starts coughing violently because of the hot Cheeto dust suddenly up her nose. You pat her back in mild concern.

“What, they got a stick up their ass or something?” Eren asks.

“Or something. Levi’s just protective.”

“Levi?” Eren’s eyes are suddenly wide, almost fearful. “Levi Ackerman?”

“Yeah.” Your tone edges on defensive. “Why?”

He takes a hit and shrugs before answering. “He’s just my foster sister’s cousin. Interesting family.”

“Oh, you mean Mikasa?” You didn’t know exactly how they were related, but she’d helped Levi move in and it had struck you how eerily similar they were in disposition.

“Yeah, Mikasa. She’s around here somewhere…” As though by magic, he turns to look over his shoulder just as Mikasa and another blonde boy you don’t recognize mosey in from the hallway. She’s leaning down to catch his soft words and he’s talking with his hands, stalling as his eyes light on the little group in the kitchen.

“Oh, hey guys,” he greets.

“Armiiiin,” Eren greets with a genuine smile. “Come meet some new friends.”

The pair rounds the kitchen island, Armin allowing Eren to pull him in by the arm and Mikasa going to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sasha.

“I know you,” Hange pipes up, tilting her head to observe Armin. “You’re in the sophomore biochem class I TA for. Arlert, right?”

Armin ducks his head in a nod. “Yep. Professor LaBelle is a wonder, I had a great time this semester.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Hange’s grin is almost slipping to the dangerous side of intrigued. “I graded your final paper, by the way, and just between us, you set the grade curve.”

He blushes red but his eyes shine with something akin to satisfaction. “Really? That’s a relief, it was a bear to write.”

Eren leans back behind Hange to gesture to you, looking across the kitchen at his foster sister. “Mikasa, this is—”

“—Levi’s roommate,” they say at the same time.

“I know.” Her dark eyes regard you interestedly. “Hi, again,” she greets, saying your name even though she’s maybe heard it once in her life.

“Hi!” You give a small wave.

“What, uh, what,” Jean clears his throat and you look up at him to catch a blush staining across his cheeks and nose. He’s looking at Mikasa. “What’re you guys up to in the basement?”

“We were just going to start a movie, Connie’s setting up the projector,” Mikasa says, eyes flicking from you to Eren. “Wanted to see if you guys wanted to join.”

Jean stands suddenly, his stool rocking from the force of it. “Y-yeah, we’ll join!” Sasha hides a snicker behind her hand.

Eren stands, too, between Armin and Hange, who are still chatting. He looks down at you and says your name like a question. “You coming?”

You find yourself shaking your head again. “I’m so crossed, I think if I even look at a couch I’ll fall asleep. And I, uh,” you yawn, slipping your phone out of a back pocket to check the time. 12:11 AM. “I should be getting home.”

It’s earlier than when you would normally call it quits, but suddenly all you can think about is going home and falling into Levi’s clean, soft-smelling sheets. Plus, it’s the Saturday preceding finals week and tonight was only meant to blow off steam between intense days of studying.

“You stayin’?” You bump Hange with your shoulder, and she looks around at you with wide eyes as though she forgot you were there.

“Hmm?”

“You stayin’ for the movie?”

“We’re watching It: Chapter Two,” Armin supplies, eyes crinkled in excitement.

Hange’s eyes grow impossibly wider behind her glasses and she grabs your elbow a little too hard. “You wouldn’t mind, right? I’ve been meaning to watch it.”

You smile and shake your head. “Wouldn’t mind at all. You stay, I’ll call an Uber.”

The whole group starts migrating in the lazy way drunk and high people do: Mikasa helps Sasha with the snacks; Eren and Jean grab canned drinks from the fridge; Armin and Hange gravitate towards the door, talking fast with words you’ve never heard before. You stay sitting at the island, tapping away at your phone to order a car.

When you stand to find the front door, your high hits you from behind like a fuckin’ baseball bat and you sway dangerously. You whistle through your teeth, low and soft, planting a hand on the counter. Sasha looks over at you in concern, her arms full.

“You okay, babe?”

“Yeah, I just… what is in that dab pen?”

She laughs, head tilting back. “Good shit, right? Got that one new last week.”

“For real…” you trail off, getting your bearings.

“Here,” Mikasa starts, piling even more food into Sasha’s arms, “I’ll walk you out. Levi would skin me if he knew I didn’t make sure your driver’s not an ax murderer.”

Normally, you’d protest, but the room really is starting to spin.

“Okay,” you sigh and allow her to hook your arm through hers. She’s surprisingly solid, and you find yourself leaning heavily into her. “How’re you still sober?”

“I don’t drink or smoke,” she answers, gently pushing past Armin standing in the doorway. “Doesn’t affect me, anyway, so it’d just be a waste of money.”

“Huh,” you grunt, then twist to wave to the group. “Night, everyone.”

A replying chorus of “goodnight” chases you and Mikasa through the dark foyer littered with drunken party-goers.

“Oh, wait,” she pauses with a hand on the doorknob. “Did you bring a jacket?”

“Oh,” you wrinkle your nose and think back to getting ready in the afternoon. It had been unseasonably warm and your coat didn’t match your outfit. “No, I didn’t bring one.”

Mikasa gives you an odd look and deposits you by the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Your body feels light as you lean back, tucking your hands into your armpits so they don’t float away. Your eye catches on movement in the dark shadows by the staircase and you squint, trying to see who’s there. It takes a second, but you eventually make out a pair of people, well… making out. They’re completely absorbed in each other, bodies impossibly close and you giggle quietly to yourself before your stomach rolls. No, don’t think about… too late.

You shut your eyes tight and turn away from the couple to lean sideways against the wall. The image is too similar, too gut-punchingly familiar.

“Didn’t mean what? Didn’t mean to stick your tongue down my best friend’s throat? Didn’t mean to practically fuck your best friend’s girlfriend in public?”

The biting words and stuttered apologies are still rolling around in your head when Mikasa comes back, thick puffer coat in hand. She hands it to you and you mutter a subdued “thanks,” twitching to dislodge the dull pain that’s settled in your ribs.

“It’s Eren’s, but he won’t mind. He doesn’t wear this one a lot, and you can just give it back next time we see you.”

“Right,” you nod, head moving a little too easily as you slip your arms in and fumble with the zipper. The faux fur around the hood tickles your face as Mikasa flips it up over your head. She’s clearly experienced in the art of taking care of intoxicated people.

Outside, you’re grateful you bundled up because the temperature has dropped significantly since the afternoon. Chilly December wind bites at your face and you bury your hands in coat pockets to save them from the same fate. Your fingers brush against something cold and metallic, and before you know it you’re pulling out a fistful of crumby objects: a super plus tampon, the packaging split down the side; two “for her pleasure” condoms; and, inexplicably, a Hot Wheels matchbox car. An ugly snort escapes your nose and Mikasa looks over at you in alarm. You raise up your fist and she chuckles through her nose as well. Squinting in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, you find the expiration date on the condoms to be several months ago, so you lean over to a convenient trash can and toss both them and the tampon. The matchbox car returns to the pocket. Who knows, maybe Eren’ll miss it if it’s gone.

Mikasa doesn’t look affected by the cold, only winding her red scarf more securely around her neck as you both quietly wait on the sidewalk for your Uber. A quick glance at the app tells you that it’s three minutes away.

“Are you and Levi close?” You find yourself asking into the night sounds of Greek Row on a Saturday night.

You almost think she doesn’t hear you over the sound of a group spilling out of a neighboring sorority, but then she answers.

“Not particularly. We didn’t grow up together and only connected because of Uncle Kenny a couple years ago.” Her tone is light and casual as she talks about her family, as though you should know who Uncle Kenny is. Should I know who Uncle Kenny is?

“Oh,” is all you can think to say.

“We may not be close,” she starts again, eyeing you closely, “but I think we’re very similar. And I can tell he cares a lot about you.”

“Oh. Right.” Your palms are suddenly sweaty in your pockets.

“He may not show it,” her tone is careful, “But he does.”

You smile faintly and kick your boot against the curb. “He does show it, in his own way. He’s been really good to me.” Somehow, it’s easy to talk about this to Mikasa, even when you get all stuttery and weird having an identical conversation with Hange. Maybe it’s the drugs and alcohol, or maybe it’s because there’s not a hint of judgment in Mikasa’s eyes. Either way, it feels good to speak your feelings into the world.

“Good.” She nods and follows your gaze to where you’re still scuffing the curb. “Some unsolicited advice for you: if you ever want anything besides mutual pining to come out of it, you need to be really obvious. Or make the first move outright.”

This makes you stutter and wring your hands, she just puts it so bluntly. “R-right, the first move…. Oh, I think that’s my car.”

“What’s the license plate number we’re looking for?”

You read it out from the app while Mikasa steps to the back of the blue sedan that just pulled up. She nods, confirming it’s the same, then circles to the driver’s side window, which is cracked open.

“Hi,” you greet the driver, a blonde woman in her late twenties, and confirm her name matches the one in the app before sliding into the back seat. Mikasa leans down to murmur something to her and she nods, glancing back at you in the rearview mirror.

“G’night, Mikasa,” you call out the window. “Thanks for everything. And tell Eren thanks for the jacket.”

She waves as the car pulls away. You settle into the quiet hum of the car and let your mind wander.

Mutual pining. Make the first move outright….

—

“Mikasa texted me,” Levi says by way of greeting as you stumble out of the car and thank your driver. He’s leaning on a lamp post outside your apartment building when your Uber pulls up, jacket and boots pulled on over flannel pajamas.

“Levi, stand ominously on the sidewalk often?” you ask, dragging out his name long and sing-song.

“Only for you, kid.” He loops an arm around your waist and steers you towards the entryway

“Not a kid,” you grumble, masking the stutter of your heart at his usual pet name for you. Somewhere in the last couple of weeks, it’s gained a weightier significance, at least to you. It’s endearing and a little distancing and charged all at once and it makes your head spin as you climb the stairs up to your floor.

At your door, Levi unlocks it while you drift slowly in a circle next to him, trying to expend the sudden nervous energy you’ve gained in his presence.

The first move, first move, first move… Mutual pining. Mutual.

“What are you muttering about?”

You hadn’t realized you were thinking out loud.

“Nothing,” you say quickly and pass through the door he’s holding open for you. Your momentum carries you farther than you mean to go, and he catches you by the elbow, reeling you back to the coat rack by the door.

“Whose jacket is that?” He shrugs off his own and eyes the faux fur around your face skeptically.

You fumble with the zipper for a second before he sighs and reaches for it himself, stepping into your space. His face is so close to yours you can feel his breath ghosting over your collarbone as he unzips the jacket.

“Eren’s,” you finally answer. “Look.” You pull the matchbox car out of its pocket and show it to Levi with a wide grin. He stares at it for a second, then the tiniest smile twitches onto his lips.

“He’s a weird kid.” It’s almost fond, with an undertone of exasperation.

“You know him?”

“Yeah, he’s in the art department, too. Graphic design major, marketing minor. I TAed his freshman seminar last year.” Levi slips the coat off your shoulders as he speaks, then hangs it by the loop next to his.

“Ah, that makes sense,” you muse, wandering farther into the apartment. “He looked terrified when I mentioned you. What’d you do to those poor freshmen?”

“Nothing they didn’t deserve.”

“...ominous,” you hiss, your eyes wide as you let him gently push you into your room. The nervous energy hasn’t quite been expended, and you find your hands wringing with it. Suddenly, you’re rambling about your night as he sits you down on your bed among the laundry that’s taken residence there in its disuse. The stupid song they played at the first frat; Sasha’s excellent food; the blue mystery shot.

“It tasted like turquoise, I swear, Levi! It was like magic!” Your eyes are wide, insistent as you lean forward into his space.

“How does something taste like turquoise?” He ducks his head to avoid your face, fingers untying the knotted laces of your boots.

“You’re the artist, you tell me.”

“I don’t eat my paint.”

“Not even once? Not gonna lie, your paint looks very tasty, sometimes…”

“Are you always this annoying when you’re high?” He tugs the second boot off your foot as you let yourself fall back onto your bed.

“Come on, you love me,” you crow to the ceiling. Mutual pining.

Levi mutters something under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. Where do you keep your pajamas?” He stands and looks around your room.

“Middle drawer, left side,” you direct, lazily motioning to your dresser with an arm. Your eyes flutter shut as you listen to Levi pick his way across the floor and slide the drawer open.

Normally, you can get yourself in bed after a night out just fine. Normally, you slip into the apartment making as little noise as possible, and fall into bed without Levi even waking up. But it feels nice to have his steady hands on you when it feels like your organs might start floating apart at any second. It’s anchoring and reassuring and you can feel the safety of being near him lulling you into a doze.

Come on, you love me.

You shoot up to sitting, mind whirling and chest tight. “L-Levi?”

“What.”

“D-do…” Do you love me? “Do you think I’m pretty?” It feels petty in your mouth and you immediately regret the words, but it would be worse to try and take them back, so you just bite your lip and look down at the floor.

A hand plops onto the top of your head. Levi’s gray eyes meet yours, soft with something you can’t describe, when he tilts your head up. He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches his other hand to thumb your bottom lip out from between your teeth.

“I think you’re very pretty.”

(read part 5 here)

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maplecornia · 3 years ago

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chapter 29

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 1.44K

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: this one is kind of lighthearted, but a very much needed interatction eheheh

Why is this so annoying?

Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, at the luminescent lights surrounding it, as though he were preparing for a show, a concert, he can feel a cold icy feeling begin to creep around his heart.

Funny to think about.

A concert after all this time.

Will he be able to dance the same? Perform the same? After years without practice will he be able to meet their expectations?

Or will he disappoint them all over again?

Now, now Jimin, we promised we wouldn't do this.

Right?

Sighing, he runs his hands through his hair, the slight crunch of hairspray and dye that comes with it making him wince.

It's not that easy to forget, is it?

So then why does he want to do it?

Sighing, glances up at the far corner of his mirror, spying Tae in the background.

How long has it been since there was empty air between the two of them? When was the last time Jimin had struggled for something to say? He bites his bottom lip before glancing away.

Why did things have to change?

"Come on, I'm sure we can find you something." At the sound of the door opening, and an erratic Jin bursting through, Jimin jumps, his eyes flashing to the top of his mirror once more. Jin's smiling over his shoulder at someone, and Jimin can't help but smile himself.

How is it that with Jin, nothing changes? How is it that he's able to pretend that everything is fine, even when it isn't? Always a smile on his face even when he doesn't feel like it.

How is that possible?

Jimin can't help but wonder if one day...

...he might break.

When the girl comes into his line of vision, however, his thoughts are broken and he jumps up, spinning around to catch a good glimpse of her.

Yen.

As she raises her eyes, she catches sight of Taehyung, who just so happens to have his shirt off at the moment. His clothes are forgotten in a pile on the desk, and she blushes at the sight, frantically looking away.

Jimin tries to be amused, he really does.

But a strange feeling erupts in his chest at the sight, something that makes him cold and numb.

Glancing towards Taehyung, he notices his ears are a bright pink and he has gone still. Rolling his eyes, Jimin tries to ignore the feeling that's swirling in his gut.

What concern is their relationship to him?

"Oh, I didn't know you guys were in here." Jin smiles before stepping forward, and stunned, Yen holds him back. Shocked, he stumbles before turning to her and raising an eyebrow.

"What are you doing? I'm trying to find you an outfit to change into."

"Outfit?" When Jin turns to Jimin and your eyes raise to his, he wonders why he opened his mouth. It was a lapse of curiosity, but now he can't tear his eyes away from your large ones. They remind him of eyes he's seen before...perhaps in a dream.

Large and full of life, sparkling green eyes with soft eyelashes at the corners, eyes that touched his heart and helped him move on.

Not quite unlike yours, but not the same either.

"Yeah, she spilled coffee on herself." Jin begins to explain in answer to Jimin's question before another newcomer interrupts.

"Again?"

Startled, the room turns to the door, looking beyond you and Jin to find Jungkook standing at the entrance with an amused smile on his face.

With wide eyes you stare at him, wondering if this whole thing is a dream.

He smiles softly before stepping forward into the room.

At the silence, he rolls his eyes before finding a shirt on a table and throwing it Taehyung's way.

"Get dressed will you?" he scoffs, and Tae, as though waking up from a dream, starts and immediately pulls the shirt over his head. You make sure that your gaze is expertly averted, your cheeks heating up.

It's one thing to watch his chest be exposed at concerts or performances.

Quite another to see it in real life.

Jungkook notices your not-so-subtle attempt to hide your face behind an oblivious Jin, who has since made it his job to personally make sure Taehyung is humiliated.

Jimin, growing distracted from their futile bickering, turns to you once more and watches as Jungkook steps a bit closer.

With tenderness, Jungkook brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, startling you. You flinch away from his touch, turning to him. If he's hurt by the act of distance, he doesn't show, just smiles down at you.

"Yen, I know where I can find a new shirt for you."

"Oh, so you're Yen!" a voice at the door breaks the contact between you two, and you turn to the newcomer, surprised to find J-Hope standing there, Namjoon not too far behind.

Hoseok nearly bounces into the room, pausing a little too close for comfort in front of you, inspecting your face.

"I knew I recognized you!" He exclaims, his face breaking into that smile that melts hearts worldwide, and you fumble for words to say. Leaning back, he places his hand on his chin as though he were a painter preparing for his next project. "I must say, you look cuter this way."

You furrow your brow, about to ask what he means, but he boops your nose before you can say much else.

"Hoseok," Namjoon says behind him, a bit preoccupied with a conversation on his phone. "What did we say about personal space?"

J-Hope rolls his eyes before dancing away, claiming one of the seats at the mirror. When Namjoon reaches you, he lowers his phone, giving you a slight smile and a moment of reprieve.

"Strange to see you here, Yen. Did you need something?" You open your mouth to give him a response, but Jin interrupts you using your head as an armrest.

"She needs a new shirt, she spilled coffee on herself." He explains. Namjoon narrows his eyes at Jin, brushing his elbow off of your head before pocketing his phone and turning to you, concern clear in his eyes.

"Are you alright? Did you get burned anywhere?" He leans forward, inspecting the spill, and you blush, crossing your arms over your midsection. Confused, he stands, and you chuckle nervously.

"No, I'm fine, thank you." You murmur, avoiding eye contact as much as possible.

"Let the girl breathe for heaven's sakes." Jimin snaps from his perch in the back, and J-Hope clucks his tongue.

"Grumpy?"

Jimin snarls his way, and J-Hope makes a face before laughing and continuing to inspect the multiple assortments of makeup at his mirror.

"Jin, I don't think you'll be able to find a shirt her size in our dressing room." Namjoon begins, inspecting you as though he could guess your size just by looking at you. You don't know why but the stare makes you feel just a tad bit exposed, and you narrow your eyes his way.

"So what if it's oversized? She'll be fine, it's only for a day anyway." Jin scoffs, glancing around the room for a worthy specimen. "I'm sure we have something to spare."

"How about one of Jimin's shirts? He's already changed and is closest to her size." Jungkook suggests, but Jimin literally throws himself over his discarded clothes. He narrows his eyes Jungkook's way and nearly hisses.

"Don't even think about it." Jungkook holds his hands up in mock surrender and you have to look away, hiding a smile.

However, that proves to be difficult as the room erupts into a chaotic mess of people trying to find some form of clothing to exchange for your soiled ones.

You can't help but smile at the way they interact, their brotherhood, and their friendship. Wherever they are, the place becomes warm and welcoming, and you can't help but feel a tinge of nostalgia.

Seeing them together reminds you of a time where you were dedicated to watching them on your TV screen. A time where they were the reason you smiled, the reason you were able to continue.

It's a bit different now, but it doesn't change the impact they've had on your life.

The impact they will have for an eternity to come.

You would have stayed there like that for a while if it weren’t for the cold icy voice that cuts through the joyous energy in the room like a knife.

"What the hell."

Your smile vanishes as you catch sight of who's at the door.

Min Yoongi.

And he doesn't look too happy.

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: we finally got interactions with all of BTS! ehehehe i'm so excited for NO REASON

chapter 30 here

check the Infinite Stars masterlist for more chapters

check my BTS masterlist for other BTS content

check out my masterlist for other kpop fanfics

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taeescript · 3 years ago

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IX. Script of the Angel (m)

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 >> This is the story of three very different people. A successful novelist, a blossoming artist and a dedicated cop. They seem to have nothing in common. Yet, they are continually drawn to each other. It is as if their fates have been intertwined. Written. That they must meet.

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> ft. jungkook and jimin primarily.

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 >> policeman!jimin, author!jungkook, painter!freader, serialkiller!XXX; a classic game of cat and mouse

𝔴/𝔠 >> 4.8k

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 >> mature themes depicted. due to the explicit nature of the topic (serial killers, murders, violence, sexual content, infidelity etc.) this is rated 18+. to spare storytelling: please consider yourself warned. chapter warning: mentions of self-harm and infidelity; depictions of blood and murder.

𝔞/𝔫 >> topics discussed in this chapter may be brief, but they are serious. please take the warnings mentioned above seriously. if at any point this makes you uncomfortable, please stop reading.

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Jimin pulls up to the house, and his GPS beeps to tell him that he has arrived at location. He observes the scene from his spot in his car. He then steps out, walks to the door and rings the doorbell.

“Did you forget something?” Liza’s mother opens the door with the question. “Oh!”

Jimin gives an apologetic smile. “Sorry to bother you ma’am, but could I ask you a few questions? S.F.P.D.” He flashes his badge.

A few days ago, he had discovered that a vehicle had been rented out under the name Jeon Jungkook. Consequently, he had put in a request to his friends at the station to inform him of any and all movements of this vehicle. His friends had laughed at him, sending him quickly away as they did not have time to do this for him. Jimin thoroughly pleaded his case and had been given a simple tracking program in which he had used to follow Jungkook around today.

Liza’s mother steps out of the house and quickly closes the door behind her. However, she is not fast enough to hide Liza peering out from Jimin’s observant eyes.

“Your daughter?” he asks.

She becomes flustered. “I…You…Yes. Sorry, who did you say you were?”

He holds out his badge again. “S.F.P.D.”

“R-Right. I see your identification.”

The badge is put away.

“It’s just that we don’t usually have policemen coming to our doors and well, I didn’t want to scare Liza, my daughter,” her mother continues.

“It’s not a problem, ma’am, and I’m very sorry to have to interrupt your day like this.”

Shaking her head, she waves his concern away.

“Would you be available to answer a few questions right now? It won’t take much of your time,” he tells her.

She nods.

“Did you have any visitors at your house today?” he starts.

“Visitors? Well…” she rambles off a few names and then stops. He hopefully looks on and exhales only when she speaks again. “There was also a man who stopped by. A few minutes before you actually.”

Finally, he is getting somewhere.

“I see. This man you speak about. Have you seen him before?”

“No. That was my first time. I think he worked for an insurance company? He wasn’t even supposed to be at our house; he was looking for a Mrs. Fallon perhaps down the street,” she tells him. A sudden thought dawns upon and she gasps, horror splashing ugly across her face. “He’s not some criminal, is he? Heavens! He seemed like such a nice man as well!”

He places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “There’s nothing to worry about. Could you tell me a little more about him? You said he worked for an insurance company?”

The woman is extremely nervous. He can read it off her body language as she continues to tug at the hem of her shirt. His previous words had not been any consolation to her at all. He appeals one more time.

“Truth be told, I’m here investigating claims about a group assuming fake identities to sell illegal goods to occupants in this area.”

“You don’t think….!” she holds a hand over her mouth.

He shrugs. “We’re not too sure yet. However, if you help answer some of these questions, we’d be able to track down this group quicker.”

“O-Of course! The man showed me some papers. I couldn’t get a real good look, but I think I saw a logo on there. That one with the giant “L” and the twigs that stick out on the side. I can’t remember the name of the company, however…” her voice trails off.

She doesn’t need to explain further as Jimin recognizes the logo.

“Not a problem. Well, that’s all for today. Thank you so much for your time, ma’am,” he nods and begins to leave.

“That’s all? I haven’t even given you the name!” she calls after him.

“You’ve been very helpful!” he shouts behind him, “Have a good day and stay safe!”

He enters his car quickly to prevent her from calling out at him again. The logo she had explained is one he is familiar with. It is one he’s seen often at the building two blocks away from the station, and he knows for a fact that Jungkook does not work for that company.

All Jungkook had done was talk to the woman. They had barely exchanged enough words for her to even remember who he was. However, he was also clearly not there to sell any type of insurance.

If so, what had Jeon Jungkook been doing at that house then?

…................

“Excuse me, would you be able to tell me where I can find this gentleman?” she slides the wallet sized photo of herself and said man to the receptionist.

The pretty lady on the other side faintly smiles upon seeing it. “Your husband?” she asks.

Krystal blushes. “Oh no. He’s my boyfriend. I was hoping that maybe you can locate him.”

The lady’s eyebrows furrow upon her words. “Is he missing? I can direct you to the Missing Person’s Unit.”

“No!” Krystal immediately blurts, “Sorry. I mean, he’s not missing. He had told me previously that the station had called him in for an interview? He’s not involved in any crime. They only wanted to ask him some questions.”

Her fingers fly across the keyboard while chewing on her pen. After a few moments, the receptionist looks back up at Krystal for a brief moment. “What did you say his name was?”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

More typing. “Ah, yes. He came in quite some time ago. I have him signed in to visit the Homicide Unit with Lieutenant Wang.”

“Ah, would you be able to direct me to the Lieutenant?”

“Well, I can’t just have you going in…” the receptionist bites her lips in thought. She scratches something down on her notepad before her head snaps up again.

…...............

Namjoon and Jimin had returned from their lunch break. Jimin had only been planning to go down for a quick sandwich at the cafeteria but he had been dragged along by Namjoon to go to the nearby Thai restaurant. It all started when Jimin had observed that Namjoon had an unopened lunch bag on his desk.

“Youngji made lunch for me,” Namjoon had said.

Perhaps this is the opportunity to bring up his suspicions on Jungkook; he hadn’t spoken of the matter to Namjoon for a while now. In fact, he hadn’t even told his supervisor about the vehicle tracking he did a few days ago.

“Oh? What did she make you?” Jimin had innocently asked. How he regretted the decision.

The entire time they were out, Namjoon had complained about his wife’s cooking – especially her renewed passion for cooking green foods (for a brief time, Youngji had stopped). His complaints had paused while they were physically partaking in their lunch meal, and Jimin had thought Namjoon forgot about it, but on their walk back to the station, Namjoon began ranting again. He hadn’t even had the chance to bring up Jungkook’s name let alone his recent observations.

“I don’t even like green beans. I try to tell her, but she insists on making them because they’re healthy,” Namjoon groans, “How does one tell their wife to stop cooking for them?”

Jimin sighs. “Maybe simply saying ‘Please stop cooking for me’.”

That causes Namjoon to roll his eyes. “This is why you’ll never get married. You can’t just tell your wife that her food sucks. I have thick skin when it comes to speaking up to anybody else, but her… I’d rather just down it.”

“You didn’t though. You threw it out and we went out for Thai instead.”

Namjoon does not seem to hear what Jimin has said; as they are walking into the station, he harshly jabs Jimin in the ribs.

“Namjoon what – ” Jimin glares at his friend.

Namjoon nods his head in the direction. “Hot girl, alert. Like 10/10.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You’d better not let Youngji catch you saying that…” his sentence trails off when he notices the girl who stands at the receptionist’s desk.

She is immensely pretty. Her light brown hair hangs in waves down her back and her smooth, long legs are accentuated under the black skirt she is sporting. She is also wearing a body-hugging turtleneck that wraps around her athletic body, naturally drawing attention to her flushed curves.

“Damn,” Namjoon whistles lightly under his breath, “Do you think she’s a good cook?”

This time, Jimin fails and the laughter bursts out. The sudden sound draws both the receptionist and the beautiful woman’s attention towards the two of them.

“Lieutenant!” the receptionist calls over.

The two men shuffle over like shy school boys.

Now that they are standing closer and that they could see her face, they are even more impressed by her natural beauty. Her make up is light and makes her skin appear soft and dewy. Her bright eyes greet theirs and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, an unconscious seductive gesture in their minds. When they finally reach her, she beams them a smile of perfectly aligned white teeth.

“Howdy,” Namjoon goofily says. He clears his throat once and tries again. “Um, hello. I’m Lieutenant Kim Namjoon.” He extends a hand.

Krystal shakes it.

“Detective Park Jimin,” Jimin introduces himself sequentially.

She takes his hand as well. He notes how warm yet strong her grip is.

“They’ll be able to help you better,” the receptionist smiles.

“Oh?” Jimin tilts his head at the question.

Krystal opens her mouth to explain the reason she is at the station when Namjoon interrupts before she can speak.

“It’s rude to make a lady wait and stand here. Perhaps I’d be able to invite you to his office so the two of you can talk comfortably there?”

“His office? Are you not the Lieutenant?” Krystal asks, slightly confused.

Namjoon laughs. “Yeah I am. But uh… I just remembered that I, um, have some business to take care of for the other… thing. I mean, case. I have to take care of a meeting to see a case.”

Jimin glares at Namjoon.

“You’ll be left in capable hands though. Detective Park is the best in our unit,” Namjoon says. He gives them a quick wave and the wiggle of his brows towards Jimin before leaving the station despite having just returned to it.

Jimin wants to hit Namjoon, but he really could not leave the mysterious stranger standing by herself. He turns to Krystal again.

She is regarding him with a slight grin. “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?” she comments.

“You can’t even begin to imagine,” he returns with a roll of his eyes, “This way.” He leads her towards the elevators up to his floor.

“I’m really sorry to be a bother,” she says while they wait. She waits until he has pressed the button before continuing, “It’s really nothing much. I’m just looking for somebody.”

“If you’re looking for somebody, shouldn’t you be speaking to the MPU?”

“MPU?”

“Sorry, slip of the tongue. Missing Person’s Unit.”

She scrunches her nose. “He’s not missing… He’s somewhere here. The last time we spoke he told me he had been called in here, so I thought to try my luck. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

Her words are confusing to Jimin. They don’t make sense.

The lights above head start to slowly flash as the elevator comes down to meet them.

“I’m sorry, this is probably really bizarre right now; I haven’t even introduced myself formally. I’m Krystal,” she extends her hand again. It awkwardly hangs there for a quick second before she retracts it a second time, remembering that they had already exchanged handshakes.

Jimin gives her a warm smile. She was nervous, for some strange reason. “Not to worry, Krystal. Do you have a name?”

“Jeon Jungkook,” she says.

“No, he isn’t,” Jimin mumbles. “At least for now,” he keeps that part to himself. He turns back to Krystal. “I saw him. He came in to do an interview for me.”

He is not fast enough to conceal his disgust at the mention of the man’s name.

Krystal catches the brief microexpression, however. “Please don’t tell me that he’s in trouble.”

“Oh! So you did see him! Would you be able to tell me where he is staying currently? I tried to call him earlier but he was busy…”

“I could. But first you are his…”

“Girlfriend.”

Ah. So this was the woman Jungkook had mentioned. Again, he is relives the bitter taste in his mouth from when Jungkook had told him that he had been out with another woman. Jimin tightens his fist when a thought crosses his mind.

“Girlfriend, you say?” he repeats. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone.

She nods, animatedly. Krystal is excited that she had been able to bump into the handsome detective. He seemed to know about Jungkook’s whereabouts in this foreign city.

“He’s staying with a friend of mine. I could give you her address, if you’d like,” Jimin tells her.

She takes his bait. “Her…?” she repeats silently to herself.

“Is something the matter?” Jimin asks.

Krystal looks back up at him with a smile. “Nothing!” she says, “I’d appreciate that a lot, Detective Tuan.”

Jimin nods. He writes out your address on a piece of paper and hands it to her. “I hope you find him,” he encourages her.

The elevator doors before them open and wait for its passengers.

“Mhmm,” Krystal says. The initial excitement her voice held is audibly dampened. She thanks him and walks away.

Jimin enters the elevator alone. There is a knowing smile on his face. Perhaps this lady would finally be able to get Jungkook out of your life once and for all.

…...............

We all have that thing, don’t we? That one thing we know we should not do, yet we succumb into its temptation each and every time because it’s so good. Despite it destroying our body, the thought of not being able to yield torments the passing thoughts in our mind and coaxes us to believe that it is okay.

Let us listen to it this one last time. Just this one last time and we promise ourselves that we will never do it again. Just this one last time and we will then walk away. That is the argument we have and boy.

We’ve lost.

The feeling of absolute bliss washes over your body as you stand in the shower, allowing the hot water to run across every inch of skin. It feels like a large warm hand that massages your shoulders, calves, back – each muscle on your body. You are aware that the temperature is too high but it feels too good for you to turn it down.

After avoiding the studio for so long, you had finally brought yourself around to go back to it. Min had been ecstatic when you walked in. You had not seen each other in a little over two weeks and with you not responding to any of her nor mutual friends’ calls, she had thought something had happened to you.

Min is your best friend. There is no doubt about it. The two of you shared everything so Min had been slightly disappointed when you failed to tell her why you had suddenly disappeared.

You had taken out the large canvas from your bag instead after the initial hug ended. You rolled out the painting and asked Min for her opinion.

“It’s a little… sporadic,” was all Min could say.

“Sporadic… that’s one way to put it,” you grimaced, “I don’t like it. But it’s nearly complete, and I don’t have time to make a new one.”

“Are you making it for a client?”

“No.”

Min was seen biting the inside of her cheek with all of your mysteries. You had felt bad so you told her, “Remember that guy I told you about? It’s for him.”

Her eyes seemed to light up now that you were speaking again. “Oh yeah! Jungkook! You had been working on it for quite a while, right?”

You nodded.

“Well, how about I go out and get us our favourite donuts from the bakery? I know good food always helps me get over artist’s block!” Min had offered. Before you could tell her otherwise, you were looking at the back of your petite friend rushing out the door into the autumn wind.

With not much of a choice, you had settled down at your usual corner. The studio was quiet. There were a few people here and there, but they were mainly minding their own business. They gave you a small smile as you walked around collecting your usual art utensils.

Once you were sitting in front of the painting again, staring at the blacks, navy, bruise-like purples, you started falling into darker thoughts - the same thoughts that are infesting you now that you are alone in the shower again.

You grab the shampoo and start lathering it into your hair.

Baekhyun… How many years has it been since that happened? Why was it that he continued to torment you like this despite the fact that he was gone? The most difficult moment had been the few weeks right after the incident. Every little thing you did, you were reminded of him. You couldn’t even go out without breaking down into tears; going out meant walking on the path to the studio that you had done so many times with him.

It had taken time, but slowly you thought your wounds had or were at least beginning to close. Yet, Jimin had opened them when you discovered he was still searching for Baekhyun. It wasn’t entirely Jimin’s fault. He was only doing what he thought was right. Still, he shouldn’t have hid it from you.

You blamed that for your moment of weakness. Seeing yourself physically wounded made you think of the wound that had been reopened in your heart. It made you think of the safe haven you used to have with the man you loved. They had been so close to saying their vows – till death do us apart – that was only supposed to be the case when they both grew old. It wasn’t supposed to be their truth so early on.

Baekhyun, am I allowed to fall in love again?

Turning the water off, you step out of the shower. The blast of cold air that hits you makes you tremble, and it is like a clear ring of water in your muddled pool of thoughts.

You shake your head, causing droplets of soapy water to fly everywhere.

You are not in love with Jungkook. There is absolutely no way that can be true. You are grateful to him for being there when you needed – and that is quite often lately. However, you could not find another reason for your speeding heart and dizziness you felt whenever he came home. Could he really be the one to blame for all the moments of breathlessness and chest aches?

Is it okay for me to have new feelings after losing you?

The mirror has been fogged up and you wipe away the condensation with a hand. Peering back at you is a tired girl with long, dark hair that is plastered to your cheeks. Your skin is flushed pink because of the heat and pressure of water. Your lips are flattened and slightly downturned. Your eyebrows are unkempt, and a pimple pushes it way at the side of your nose and all along your T-zone. Fingernails are too long because you have forgotten to cut them; still with chipped pink polish coating the pinky.

You let out a low chuckle. Who would love someone as broken as you? Your eyes dart to a pair of tweezers that sit on the shelf. You pick it up and observe how sharp the edge of the metal object is. You press your fingertip on it until they dig in and you feel the familiar lullaby sting of pain run from that sensitive area down your spine.

You didn’t need to actually draw blood to feel it. Your body is already messed up enough that this is where you momentarily pause.

The one person who had always been there as your supporting foundation is long gone. You had not found the strength to admit it, but you had been flailing in quicksand for a while now.

What’s a house without its foundation? It can only sink until it becomes no more.

You press harder, sending another chilling flash over your body. Your breath quickens and you feel that your lips are dry, although you have only stepped out of the shower.

Is this what others have felt? The addiction that comes the moment you start.

You close your eyes, forcing your body to continue when the sound of a door being slammed shut scares you.

The tweezers fall to the floor.

…................

Shit.

Jungkook thinks as he takes off his shoes. There are still dark brown spots on it despite him intensively scrubbing them for five minutes straight in the car with a cloth. He contemplates on throwing his jacket on the ground, but seeing the state of shoes, he needs to be careful. Bending down, he picks them up and decides then that he must burn them.

He is so engrossed in his thoughts he doesn’t notice that he is not the only one home.

Looking around the floor, he finds the closest source of water and strides to it. He lets the water from the kitchen tap run until steam rises from it in which he then proceeds to take off his clothing. He throws in both the jacket and his stained white shirt. He then presses them down until the scalding water hits his own skin.

He hated acting out like this without a plan. He hated it with such a passion, but he hated even more the reason he went out and did it. His kills were always methodically thought out and never without reason. That homeless man in the alleyway shouldn’t have said anything when Jungkook walked by. He should have stayed mute, crammed in that dark corner, and harassed the next person that walked by. Not him. No. That decision only resulted in him lying lifeless in his own bloodied mound of dirt.

How could he have let somebody into his car? How was it even possible that he had allowed someone to monitor him to this extent? To have somebody take this much control of his life.

Each stab, a way to release the frustration he felt to his unknown attacker.

He is reminded of the knife at that moment. He should dispose of that as well. It was likely not possible that they would be able to trace the kill back to him – many people died out in the streets each night – but he needed to be careful, nonetheless.

He drains the water and watches the red-brown liquid swirl down the drain. Lifting his white shirt, he sees that the stain is still there. With a clenched jaw, he throws the heavy cloth against the wall, creating a loud smack.

The kill should have calmed him down. He should be feeling much better, but he doesn’t. Instead, he feels worse than before because now he has lost a perfectly good shirt and a jacket along with his pride.

With one hand braced against the counter of the kitchen, he takes out the bloodied knife from his pocket. He fumbles to flip it open but cannot due to the temporary paralysis on his fingers from drowning them in the hot water. Bracing the bulk of the item against his side, he forcefully digs into it with his fingertips. It slips and nicks his bare skin on the side.

…...............

You had had to sit down on the floor after your scare from Jungkook slamming the door shut. The unused tweezers had lain beside you for a while before you could pick it back up and return it to its spot. You busied yourself with getting dressed and going out to greet him.

As you throw the long-sleeved t-shirt over your head, you let out a bitter laugh. You were too weak to even do something like inflict pain on yourself. Jungkook’s perfect timing of returning home had stopped you.

You are twisting your damp hair into a bun when you hear a loud yell from the kitchen area.

“Fuck,” Jungkook snarls. It is deeper than it should have been. He had been aware how much force he had been trying to use to snap the knife out. The self-inflicted wound above his hip continues to ooze, mocking him red in his anger.

“Jungkook?!” You run towards him. You turn the corner and see him shirtless in the middle of the kitchen, one hand holding his side with a reddish liquid running between his fingers. “Oh my god! What happened?”

He feels the drape of your wet hair against his chest before anything. You are immediately by his side, putting your hand over his to place pressure on the wound. Not bothering to ask why he is standing without a shirt, you look up at him concerned.

“My hands slipped while I was trying to take out the knife,” he explains to you.

Again without questions, you lead him to the couch and order him to sit down. He obeys and you leave momentarily to get the first aid kit. When you return, you start to dress his wound. Everything is starting to resolve until Jungkook suddenly chuckles, wincing when it causes his wound to slightly tear.

“Jeon Jungkook!” You reprimand.

He grips the couch while you pour medical alcohol over it. “How ironic,” he says, voice laced with fatigue.

You had thought your heart had fallen out of your chest when you found him bleeding. All the worst possible scenarios had suddenly flown across your mind, and you thought that you were going to watch him die before you.

Not again, your heart has screamed before you could stop it.

Even now, as you were faced before the relatively small but deep wound, you could not stop the racing sensation you felt both mentally and physically.

“What are you talking about?” you say.

He hears the tremble in your voice. How strange.

Lilacs. That is what he is smelling from your shampoo.

“I’m usually the one to patch you up when you’re hurt. Now it’s the other way around,” he sighs.

“You haven’t even begun to explain what you were doing, trying to take out a knife while standing shirtless in our kitchen.”

“Our…” he laughs again.

You had fully been meaning to smack him for making it harder for you to clean the wound until it registers in your mind what he had said. What you let slip.

“You said ‘our kitchen’. I thought I was only a tenant here,” he says.

“Well you’ve… I mean… Y-You are…” you stutter.

Jungkook rests his head back, feeling an extreme form of tiredness on his body. Everything that had happened that day comes crashing down, knocking his breath out completely. It is as if somebody had thrown consecutive punches and he is now feeling its after effects. His stalker, the random kill, this self-inflicted wound.

You mumble something.

“What was that?” He is knocked out of his thoughts. He looks down at the top of your head. The wound has been covered but your fingers linger on his body, and he feels their coldness on his heated skin.

You mumble again.

He is tired, but you have been kind enough to help him with any questions. He can at least humour this by being patient towards you.

You don’t know what has come over you. You hadn’t meant to say it, but Jungkook’s words had flustered you. You let a single word slip out and it had acted like a key to unlock the next ones that tumble out.

“I like…” you whisper, your voice still buried beneath the veil your hair creates. You don’t even know if you truly mean what you are about to say.

You feel his fingers slip beneath your chin and tilt your head up to him. He stares at you with an unwavering type of patience and attention.

“It won’t help if you keep whispering what it is you want me to hear to my chest. Talk to me like this,” he says slowly, holding your eyes with his. There is an intense fire blazing when you meet them.

Your palms prick as they start to sweat. You gulp and wet your lips.

“I like you!” you blurt, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks immediately after, “I know it doesn’t make sense but – ”

He silences you with his lips.

...................

𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 (open): @yoonchrisgull

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mothfishing · 4 years ago

Note

can agree vi is the most underrated member of team snakemouth

I LOVE VI...i love kabbu and leif too but also: vi

vvv spoilers vvv

even though her story isn’t quite so dark as leif or kabbu’s, i did like it a lot and i thought it was like...nice cause a lot of people tend to use angst as a crutch? but vi didn’t really need it and she still

you can really see in vi’s dialogue even from very early on that what happened with jaune seriously bothers her. like i’m still thinking about how in the intro when eetl says he can’t give her a permit because she’s just a kid, she spits back that oh, does he expect her to make honey? paint? and the painting thing struck me on my first playthrough as a bit incongruous, but i figured bees just paint a lot in this universe. and while the beehive certainly has more of an artistic flair than other kingdoms, it’s also not something every bee is interested in, and it’s not enough of an association for vi to say that. what is is the fact that her sister is a painter...

and i’m betting that jaune tried to encourage vi to stay in the hive and not become an explorer by saying something similar to what vi says to eetl - she can make honey, or she can even become a painter like jaune.

and just in general, you see it in how like...dedicated she is to the fact that people should be able to pursue any path in life that they want, and she’s far more passionate about this than leif or kabbu are. the earliest example of this is in how she talks to samira to encourage her, saying that no one else’s opinion matters, and samira can pursue a music career if she wants to. this is also her reaction to the worker termite in the colosseum who says they’re going to be a champion no matter what anyone says, and even in how she talks about the soldier termite who’d rather not fight - to kabbu and leif’s surprise, even, since she herself loves fighting. but she of course maintains that it’s only fun if it’s fun for you - and it’s not fun for the soldier, so she doesn’t think they should have to be a fighter

also i liked this tidbit from her spy text for weevils, which initially is like ???

E-Eep! A Weevil! I don't have the best memories of them... L-Let's get Kabbu to take the hits, while we beat them up!

...until later on you find out it’s not something like, oh, she literally met a weevil and had a bad experience. rather, it’s her last words to her sister being “you draw like a weevil”, which...well, i don’t really see how that’s so completely horrible dsjkhdfjg but to vi and jaune it seems to be so !

i also really like how, as you get closer and closer to chapter 3 and entering the hive, you like learn more about vi’s feelings about the hive...initially i thought the hive totally sucked and they had expelled vi or something like that, and while the hive isn’t free of fault, that also isn’t quiiiiite how things went down.

which doesn’t actually mean that the other bees did nothing wrong, because...vi was right, and melbee, bianca, the overseer, and jaune were all wrong. she thrives as an explorer. it’s what she was really meant to do. and if she listened to them, she would’ve never gotten to do that. melbee, bianca, and the overseer all see that firsthand, and vi’s reconciliation with them has to start with Them recognizing they were wrong...

idk, vi like having mixed feelings of anger but also worry that her relationship with her family is permanently ruined was nice. especially when it comes to jaune...

jaune’s relationship with vi is interesting because like, they’re sisters but their relationship really clearly isn’t one purely blood-based since every bee is vi’s sister. yet, jaune is more important to her, they have a more personal bond...so like vi wanting to reconcile with her isn’t really just “blood is thicker than water” but like...wanting to salvage an actual relationship that’s clearly important to her and which affects her greatly

and vi has to go to great lengths to even get jaune to talk to her again...but she also can’t just completely let what JAUNE did wrong slide, and has to talk to her about how maybe she lashed out and hurt jaune, but jaune was the one who hurt her first by discouraging her and acting like she’s too weak and childish to attain her dreams.

ok i don’t know where im going with this but i really love vi. also im thinking about how she says bianca’s love her for isn’t special since bianca loves every vi, and as she says that she stands in a room filled with VIOLETS...

#bug fables #i can maintag whatever i want...#Anonymous #asks

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purity-town · 4 years ago

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Little late getting to these -- that's fully the fault of a class project I spent all of Monday/Tuesday and most of Wednesday working on -- but I finished my project and wrote up some long replies to these!

(Apologies for any funny formatting -- I'm trying out the beta for the new post editor!)

Absolutely not.

Nope! There are a few people who do know (other guides Andrew's met before, the Dryad, and I'd imagine the Witch Doctor knows something's up even if he doesn't know why), but none of them live in Purity Town proper, and the Dryad and Witch Doctor aren't the kind to participate in rumors or spread what isn't theirs to share. The old man is also aware just because he and Andrew have talked about their curses, but he's 1) not currently in town and 2) not going to share even if he were.

Most folks don't know much about Andrew in general; Becca probably knows the most out of the townsfolk, knowing a little bit about his family and where he's from (he has some pretty specific skills as a hunter that betray this, but he doesn't talk about his exact town of birth), but no specifics and certainly not time periods.

Andrew is good at keeping things quiet; he has to be.

I would actually appreciate if you didn't post to Pinterest -- usually I'm fine with people reposting with credit (several of the things I've posted to my DeviantArt have found their way to Instagram, for example) but Pinterest has something of a reputation for stolen art (things being reposted from another Pinterest post without credit this time, or credit being hard to view for users not logged in or just viewing through Google). So reposting elsewhere is fine (though if you repost to Reddit or Instagram, tag me at u/Ariibees or @Ariibees)! I'd just prefer my works stay off of Pinterest.

The terminology related to The Guide/Andrew/The Guardian/The World’s Core/The WoF is all confusing because on some level, they’re all the same being. Kind of like trying to talk about Jekyll and Hyde -- same guy, different looks/actions, haha.

For all intents and purposes, references to the WoF being the barrier/core/whatever behind or within which the spirits of light and dark are contained is equivalent to saying “these spirits are held trapped by the magic of the Guardian, who when summoned appears as the WoF.” I do break slightly from the official lore in how the WoF/Guardian/thing holding back these spirits works (mostly because I don’t really like the idea that the Hallow is a “temporary guardian” or whatever), but the basic concept of “these are trapped by [thing that makes up the WoF]” remains unchanged.

If “loony cultist” is a reference to something, I’m so sorry, but I’m lost on it. If you’re just talking about the lunatic cultist in a funny way, then yes, they’re in here as a very plot-significant character!

I had to google what meme you were talking about, but it did make me laugh.

Andrew’s most annoyed by the nickname because people do like to call him Guide, and for someone who’s dedicated his whole life to his role, it can get tiring. He doesn’t really *mind* being called Guide -- it’s fine, that’s what he is and as long as people are respectful of his job he’ll take what he can get -- but at the same time, he’d like for people to stop thinking “Aah! Monster!” or “Weird academic know-it-all” and just...treat him like a normal person sometimes. So he fights to be called Andrew. And...Malik comes along and gives him a nickname that he doesn’t like and doesn’t allow others to use, save for maybe a small group of people of which Malik is not a part. So, not cool, man!

People love to overcomplicate explaining shading/lighting, and if you wanted to you could certainly go on and on about reflections of light off the ground and shading colors and all sorts of things, but as I’m writing this at 1 AM I don’t really care to.

If you really want to get into shading, I see nice ones on DeviantArt or Tumblr from time to time, or you can always watch a YouTube video on it. Really, though, just keep at it, think about how the shadows should look and work, and you'll get better at it eventually and pick up new ideas on how it all works. (And this is coming from someone who is new to making comics and actually started as a painter.)

Purity Town’s shading comes down to this: simplicity. As much as I’d love to spend hours and hours redrawing the panels I don’t like and carefully shading every fold of fabric and painting detailed backgrounds, I’m a full-time college student and will be working full-time over the summer -- I don’t have the time. So, I cut corners: I reuse backgrounds or use brushes (see: bricks, trees, clouds) that make certain details easier, and I try not to obsess too much over panels I’m not fully happy with. Shadows go where they feel right, and light on the opposite side.

For shading, this comes down to making things quick and easy. For these last few pages, character shading/lighting has only been five layers. One hard light layer for the bluer soft shadows, one overlay layer for darker soft shadows, one linear burn layer for hard shadows, one soft light layer for soft lighting, and one overlay layer for hard lighting. I’ll often also make use of glow dodge layers for lighting, or change the color balance or add more hard/soft light layers if there’s a very heavy color filter on the scene (such as a celestial event, blood moon, or outdoors at night).

Using all the different layer types is essentially a cheat code to fancier lighting -- don’t want to use flat black? Boom, hard light or overlay or burn will give you colored shadows. Want to make your light brighter? Glow dodge will make it burn your retinas.

Sorry that this isn’t a very comprehensive guide, but in my mind, shading and lighting is really something that you pick up over time and it’s hard to sit down and write a guide for it without making it into a massive essay on art theory that I don't even know proper terminology for because I'm not an art student. Of course with some googling you’ll find *proper* guides for this sort of thing from art majors and the likes, and those can be super helpful and technical! But for Purity Town, I just sort of go with what feels right and what's easy to replicate.

Firstly, I’m happy to hear you’re liking the comic!

Secondly, those buttons are actually there due to the theme! (For those on mobile who can’t see it, I have the theme set to only display on desktop as I prefer the current mobile layout on phone.) I’m using the simple webcomic theme (a quick Google should tell you how to install it for yourself) -- except I’m not actually using it for the webcomic features; rather, it’s a case of “this is the most simple, nice-looking non-default theme I could find.”

The previous/next buttons are added by the theme with the intent that the blog is being used as a typical webcomic website, with nothing but comic pages being posted. However, I post asks and other art here too, and I do so with the intent that people looking at #Terraria or their dashboards in general will see it. So...I use html formatting to make the first/previous/next/last links, along with an index and chapter-by-chapter viewing (using /tagged/chapter##/chrono) so that no matter where you’re coming from, you can still navigate just the pages!

If you want to add just the previous/next buttons, I can’t really help you -- web development is not my area of study in the slightest. But you can check out the theme that they come from and if you want to install only them, you can surely find a tutorial on it somewhere!

(As a side note, the comments section is not from the theme, it’s from a site called Disqus. I don’t expect many people, if anyone, to leave comments, but since I link back to this site a lot and many folks don’t have Tumblr accounts, it’s an option I like to make available.)

Hiya! My hike was pretty nice; it was a short and easy one, but that was quite appreciated as the trail is unmaintained from November to April, and the trail was covered in fallen trees and quite rocky. Still had fun, though!

And for backgrounds, it depends! For indoors scenes (or outdoors scenes with buildings) I don’t tend to use references, outside of looking up things like “which side of a door is the handle on.” I will, however, integrate real-life textures (see: the quilt and rug in Guide’s house, the wood walls on the building in the background of this week’s page), and paint over paintings from the Terraria wiki.

For outdoors scenes, for simple backgrounds (such as foliage-heavy) ones, I typically don’t need references. I like the difference between detailed, lined indoor/man-made object scenes vs. painted, messy outdoor scenes. But for things like mountains, I do sometimes look up references to help with color choices and the likes.

The town’s layout is a bit strange in that depending on the scene, the background could be drastically different. One side of town faces more mountainside, one side faces the orchards/open hillside, and the other two sides face various degrees of open space and more mountainside/forest. References taken on top of mountains are helpful to get an idea of what degree of foliage I should include between the characters and the sky.

Though this is very specific to the town of Purity -- other towns/villages will have significantly different-looking backgrounds, even the foliage-heavy ones.

That said, what's even more helpful than looking at photos is looking at paintings. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron is really good for getting an idea of how to draw grasslands and distant mountains, plus Studio Ghibli movies in general!

#purity town #pt asks #terraria #not an update

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stevepotterwrites · 4 years ago

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A Review of David Lynch Biography/Memoir “Room to Dream”

As one might well expect from a book about the life and work of the eccentric auteur David Lynch, Room to Dream is by turns hilarious, heartbreaking, and a little strange. Biography and memoir in one, each chapter contains two sections separated by three or four pages of black-and-white photos from the time period covered in the chapter. First, we get a well-researched and clearly-presented biographical take featuring input from Lynch’s friends, family members, and collaborators. Former L.A. Times journalist Kristine McKenna does a fine job of keeping the story of Lynch’s improbable rise moving along. She gets out of the way and lets her interviewees do the talking when that’s best and weaves their recollections effectively giving us glimpses of the different stages of Lynch’s life and career from multiple angles. In the second section of each chapter, Lynch takes over and revisits the past in his own words. He goes into greater detail, sometimes, focusing on an aspect of the story that wasn’t covered in as much depth in Ms. McKenna’s section sometimes building on what others said. On a few occasions, he remembers things differently and disagrees with what others have said. For example, Lynch believes that Anthony Hopkins tried to get him fired from directing The Elephant Man. Ms. McKenna’s conclusion, based on her research, is that Hopkins complained bitterly about Lynch but stopped short of demanding he be fired and replaced. Who can really say for sure which account is closer to the truth? Either way, Lynch had the last laugh. The Elephant Man was a critical success and received eight Oscar nominations including Best Director. His career was launched. As much as one may be put off by Hopkins’ snotty attitude and presumption, regardless of whether or not he actually pushed to remove and replace Lynch or merely complained about him, his concern about being directed by a complete unknown isn’t really too surprising. Lynch was an inexperienced young director whose only full-length film was a bizarre, unclassifiable, no-budget, black-and-white surrealistic nightmare starring a bunch of actors no one had ever heard of before and which had only been shown as the midnight movie at a handful of art house theaters in the States. Yes, it’s recognized as a classic now and, yes, Lynch has become a legend, but at the time he was a completely unknown young American directing a cast of highly-acclaimed British actors including stage legend John Gielgud. Incredible. Thankfully, producer Mel Brooks had great faith in Lynch and admirably threw his full support behind him despite the reservations Hopkins and, quite likely, though less vocally, others had.Lynch’s rise was an astonishingly steep career trajectory by any measure. He made the animated short loop Six Men Getting Sick in 1966 and the live-action short The Grandmother in 1968 while a student at Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia. Those opened the door to the American Film Institute in California where over a five-year period, on a tiny budget, with a small dedicated crew, he made Eraserhead. That film, in turn, convinced Mel Brooks that Lynch was the guy he was looking for to direct The Elephant Man starring his wife, Anne Bancroft, among many other fine performers. Then came hard lessons learned from the $40 million (estimate according to IMDb) big-budget disaster of Dune. Despite that not going so well, producer Dino De Laurentiis gave Lynch the go-ahead to direct Blue Velvet with full creative control. Lynch found his groove and went on to create the body of work he is best known for. What we see examples of repeatedly throughout Room to Dream that at least in part explains his success is how Lynch’s charisma, contagious enthusiasm for his projects, and dedication to his craft and vision engenders a sense of loyalty from his actors, crew and other collaborators. The section of the book which recounts Catherine Coulson’s final performance in her iconic role of Margaret Lanterman, AKA the Log Lady, may well have you weeping when you read it. Her scenes will take on a deeper poignancy when you watch Twin Peaks: The Return again. Ms. Coulson was a key member of the Eraserhead team who worked tirelessly to help get that film made even donating her waitressing tips to the cause. Many of those sharing stories in the book are world-famous — Isabella Rossellini, Kyle Maclachlan, Laura Dern, Sting, John Hurt, Sissy Spacek — but some of the most illuminating insights come from lesser-known behind-the-scenes talents. One of my favorites is handyman and jack-of-all-trades, Alfredo Ponce. Mr. Ponce was doing some landscaping work in Lynch’s neighbor’s yard in the mid-nineties. Lynch struck up a conversation with him and the two hit it off. Lynch hired him to do some cleaning. He has been working for Lynch ever since taking care of everything from landscaping to plumbing to electrical work to mechanical repairs to building a set for Inland Empire. “People see me here cleaning or raking leaves and they think nothing — they don’t know how much I know,” Mr. Ponce says. “I can smell things from far away, and I can see immediately when someone comes up here who doesn’t have David’s best interest at heart. The negative energy — I can see that, and I’ve seen a lot of people come and go. David’s an easygoing, nice person and he can be taken advantage of, so I try to protect him. Anybody who works here has to be somebody I trust.” Ponce’s picture jibes with the overall depiction of Lynch in the book. While he’s had his fallings out, breakups, business deals gone wrong and so forth the general consensus seems to be that he’s a pretty nice guy. On a scale of Dale Cooper doppelgangers, he’d likely hew more toward the Dougie Jones side of the spectrum than the Evil Coop zone. No doubt the man can be cantankerous, cranky, foul-mouthed and ill-tempered when confronted with realities that get in his way, as demonstrated in this clip below from the making of Twin Peaks: The Return, but some Hollywood veterans who’ve worked with him describe the experience as among the nicest, most pleasant and least dysfunctional gigs they’ve had in their long careers. The man has manners. He’s considerate. He knows everybody on set by name and acknowledges their contributions far beyond the directorial norm. This may in part be due to his long commitment to the daily practice of Transcendental Meditation. We also see Lynch’s maniacal attention to detail. He’ll fuss over something on set that likely won’t even be visible on screen in the end. To get the feel of the scene just right, it is important for him that all of the details be just so, just right. And, of course, if one gets to the point of fussing over minor details that won’t ever show, it’s only because there’s nothing left to fuss with. Everything is just right and ready to go. He’s like the short story writer who knows he is done with a story when he finds himself putting commas back in that he’d previously cut. Yet coupled with that powerful desire to get the set to look just the way he envisioned it is the seemingly contradictory willingness to embrace chance and serendipity, to spontaneously incorporate a new element that presents itself into the work. Lynch’s best friend since high school, the production designer and artistic director Jack Fisk, who has worked with many of the finest directors in Hollywood including the Coen Brothers and Terrence Malick and is every bit as well-respected as Lynch in the movie industry (though far less famous to the general public) gives an example of this from when they were teenagers obsessed with painting. A large moth flew onto one of Lynch’s wet paintings, got trapped and flailed away trying to break loose. While another painter might have been upset and set to work to remove the moth and smooth over the disrupted section of paint, Lynch was thrilled and at once accepted the dying moth’s struggle and eventual death as a part of the painting. Many years later, in a now famous incident, set designer Frank Silva accidentally got himself trapped on the set of Laura Palmer’s bedroom when he blocked the exit door with a dresser. He hid behind the bed during the filming of a scene. Lynch was intrigued by the thought of an unseen character hiding in the room. In a later scene in the Palmers’ living room, Silva’s face was accidentally shown reflected in a mirror. Clearly, he was supposed to be in the show. Lynch incorporated Silva into the series as a central figure, the evil, interdimensional being BOB who possesses Leland Palmer and makes him do bad things. It is hard to imagine Twin Peaks without BOB but such a version might have been if Mr. Lynch was less open to influence, if he didn’t allow himself the room to dream. Room to Dream. What a perfect title. Mr. Lynch managed to find himself the room to dream and to bring those dreams alive on film, on record, and on canvas so the rest of us can dream along with him. He got past the most common destroyer of artistic ambition — concerned, well-meaning parents who don’t understand what you’re doing — and found collaborators who did get it. That this is a book Lynch fans will enjoy goes without saying, but it’s also a good choice more generally for anyone interested in how movies get made or those who simply enjoy a good memoir.

-- Steve Potter

https://bookfreak.us/2018/10/21/david-lynchs-room-to-dream/

#david lynch #room to dream #biography #memoir #moviemaking #eraserhead #blue velvet #muholland drive #dune #the elephant man #lost highway #wild at heart

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shreddedparchment · 5 years ago

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Pseudo Princess Pt.03

The Portrait’s Success

10/02/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 7,071

Warnings: Language, exhaustion (both reader’s and mine), Medieval Bucky

A/N: Welp, finished the chapter. Went back to edit. Ended up adding another thousand or so words to it. Went from 5k to 7k. Sorry they seem to keep getting longer but this isn’t new for me so...enjoy! Also, I’ll probably be using a lot of dresses from Reign as they are gorgeous costumes and fit the semi-historic style but not exactly as accurate as they should be that I’m going for. Let me know what you think. What you love. What’s your favorite part? I love y’all. Sorry I’ve been slow to update. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Not enough sleep. You have been up all night practicing your letters and sounding them out as you trace them.

With burning eyes, you reach for the modest serving of bread, ripping a piece and then dipping it into a small dish of strawberry jam. It’s full of seeds and they stick in your teeth a bit, but the sweet taste is too good to pass up. You have never had such tasty bread, or such tasty jams.

The food is by far the most enjoyable thing about your new life here in the castle.

You’ve been practicing your writing, but you’ve focused on three words only. All proper nouns, but words that you will come to live by.

The first is obvious, for he is your benefactor now. Your adoptive father.

S-T-A-R-K. You write, in big loopy letters that squiggle unevenly across the top of your parchment paper.

With a lick to your lips, you dip your pen back in its inkwell, and start on the second word that you’ve spent all night practicing.

This one will be the most important for yourself. Because it is who you are. It’s you’re name. Letter by letter, same loopy shapes, sloppy lines, but thankfully legible.

You write it out three times before you’re satisfied with it then move on to the word that will change your life forever.

R-O-G-E-R-S. Here in Malibia, Queen Virginia, or Pepper as you’ve been told to call her, was allowed to keep her own surname. Morgana has taken the King’s but in Broklin, you know that you must take King Rogers’s surname.

You don’t really mind. You must belong to that kingdom entirely and not having to lie about your surname by pretending that it’s Stark will help you feel like you truly do.

As you write out his name a fourth time, you tap against the bottom of the S creating a dark pool of ink, blotting across the bottom of the page as you remind yourself that King Rogers hasn’t accepted you just yet.

You’ve decided to dedicate your life to becoming a good Queen. A good wife to his Majesty King Rogers, but that doesn’t mean that he will want you.

You’re poor. Of course, he doesn’t know that but all of this, not knowing how to read or write will no doubt bother him.

You’re also common in your looks. Natasha tells you otherwise but how can you believe her when she’s so blindingly beautiful herself?

She should be the one marrying a king. Not you. What will you do if you fail his Majesty and can’t make King Rogers fall in love with you?

No. You don’t need him to love you. Just accept you.

As long as he marries you, then everything will be fine.

Is it wrong that you want him to love you?

The subtle creak of your door surprises you and you jump, sitting up straight. Like you were taught.

A young girl no older than fifteen squeaks at the sight of you. She’s wearing a plain maid’s gown, white and gray and brown. Stiff and of good quality. Prettier than anything you’d owned before but sturdy like your old tunic.

Hmph. Even the common folk in the castle are different.

“Forgive me, your Highness.” She gasps with a curtsy and stays ducked down. “I did not know you were awake. I was sent to mend your fire and deliver your morning tea.”

You spring to your feet, waving both hands at her, hoping the smile on her face is not full of surprise and helps to reassure her.

“No. Please, stand up. It ain’t—It’s no problem. Don’t let me stop you from doing what you were told to do.” When she doesn’t rise, you hurry to her and place your hands just underneath her elbows to coax her up.

“Thank you, your Highness.” She watches you with curiosity as if she’s trying to read you, but she goes about the room doing her work while you keep out of her way.

Soon the fire is roaring again and she’s serving your tea while you munch on a biscuit smeared in purple jam. God, this food is going to kill you, it’s so delicious. Once more the door opens, and you jump.

This time, you see two figures, one tall with red hair. The second shorter with fluffy brown hair.

“We’ll wake her gently. Then we can-” Natasha is telling Peter then stops and straightens out of her stooped posture as she spots you standing by the small cards table that’s been cleared for you to eat on. “Oh. You’re already awake.”

You smile at her, then look beside her at your guard. “I am. Good morning. Good morning, Peter.”

“’Morning your Highness.” Peter smiles.

“I thought you’d be exhausted after all of your lessons yesterday.” Nat confesses, a small chuckle in her voice as she moves towards the thick curtains that have blocked out most of the light from coming in through the floor to ceiling windows in your room.

“I was tired.” You admit, feeling a little bit of shame for not sleeping. “Do we have a lot to do today?”

You put your teacup down, biscuit dropped on its plate as you move to take a seat. Your body is finally catching with your fatigue and feels a hundred pounds heavier suddenly.

“Well, we’re meeting his Majesty for breakfast, then we are to go meet with the painter for your portrait. We must get something out by tonight if not tomorrow. King Rogers is eager to see you.” Natasha finally wrangles the curtains open and her smile slowly fades into an expression of dour disappointment. “Oh, Y/N!”

She chastises you, the maid staring with wide eyes at the apparent liberties that Natasha is taking. Peter also looks shocked. You however cringe because you know that she can finally see you for the sleep deprived mess that you are.

“Um…if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to get changed and…yeah…” Peter says, ignoring your pleading looks for him to stay as he slips out, following the maid, then shuts the door.

You’re chewing on your lip when Natasha reaches out to touch the space underneath your eyes.

“You’ve always looked a little tired—and I figured it was just because of your circumstances—but this is unacceptable. We’re supposed to be painting you today to entice King Rogers not warn him. I told you how important this portrait is.” She growls and goes to fixing your hair.

“I’m sorry.” You whimper.

“Were you up all night?”

You nod as she finishes with your hair.

“Why?” She asks and you can’t help it, you jump to your feet and skip to your desk.

You pull out the piece of parchment you’d been writing on then hand it to her.

“I was practicing. When I must sign my name, I wanted to be able to do so nicely and I thought…maybe, to help him see that I want this as much as he does, that I could write to him? But my writing is so terrible. I needed to practice.” You lean around the paper as she looks it over.

Her expression seems to soften, her hand running over the repeated letters and finally that ink blot at the end. It’s almost as if she can guess what you’ve been thinking, and her eyes wander to the desk where you left the small compact with King Rogers’s portrait open to look at as you wrote.

You hurry to grab it, shut it, and hold it in both hands. Slightly embarrassed but it’s Natasha. If anyone is going to know your mind inside and out, it should be her. She’s your lady.

“This looks good, your Highness, but you’ll need much more practice before you’ll be able to write an acceptable letter.” She says as gently as she can manage.

You deflate, your sleep deprivation suddenly too much.

“Does it look that bad?” You look at your scriggles again, trying to see them with fresh eyes and not with the effort that you’ve spent the night using to do them.

“No.” Natasha’s hand finds your shoulder. “No, your Highness. You have made much progress. I only mean that it’ll take time before you can write to his Majesty King Rogers. You still need to learn how to spell other words. Not just names.”

It feels like you’re being hammered into the ground. Every word, although she means it in comfort, makes you feel as if you’ll never be good enough.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We have time. Not much, but I’ll help you.”

As she wraps an arm around your shoulder, you frown and reach out to touch the last iteration of Rogers that you’d written.

“He’s going to be so disappointed with me.” You worry, knowing that you’re nothing special. Worse because not only are you not a real princess, but you’re uneducated.

Then, like the flipping of a switch, Natasha says sternly, “We don’t have time for that.”

She pushes you away and hurries to your wardrobe.

“I’ve allowed you to wallow in a bit of self-pity the past two days because this is not your fault and you’re taking on something that even I would find hard to do but if you’re going to do this, you need to go in with your chin held high. Can you do that?”

You stare as she rifles through your dresses, frowning at each one as if none of them are right.

What answer can you give her? There’s only one answer. You wouldn’t have agreed to do this if you weren’t sure that you could dedicate yourself completely to it and you have! You haven’t even tried to run away.

Part of that is because this place is nicer than any place you’ve been before. But it would be a lie to say that you don’t miss your village. You were no one there but at least you were on somewhat equal footing with all of them.

Even in the village you were slightly lower, uneducated as you are, but you were accepted. You belonged there in a sense. You were your own woman. Hungry most of the time. Alone. But it was home.

“Your Highness?” She checks, turning back to you. “Can you do this? Truly?”

There’s a wavering of confidence in her green eyes and you realize that you don’t want to let Natasha down. Or the Kingdom. Or his Majesty.

“I can.” You nod, hating the way sleep seems to call you making your words slur a little and your shoulders slump. You stand up straighter, chin up. “I will.”

Natasha’s face relaxes, her smile more than makes up for her rightful scolding. “Good. Your dresses aren’t finished yet.”

“Oh.” You worry. “Then, maybe we should wait to do the portrait for when they are? I need to look my best for King Rogers.”

She sees through your attempts to ditch and gives you a knowing smirk.

“Nice try. You should have slept.” With a sigh she places her hands on her hips.

“Who didn’t sleep?” You turn towards the familiar voice eyes bright but worried too as King Anthony moves in with Peter trailing behind him.

“I-”

“Our new princess was up all night practicing her writing because she wants to impress Steve.” Natasha’s tone is teasing, and your neck and ears burn in slight embarrassment.

Wait…why does she call King Rogers by his first name. That’s weird right? Not normal?

The King smirks. “Is that so?” He moves to the parchment on the table and gives it a look.

“I…I wanted to write to him.” You confess, but now that you think about it, it was a silly plan.

You don’t know how to spell. You don’t know how to read. You’re learning but it’s only been two days.

“I’m guessing you saw his portrait?” The King checks.

“I gave it to her night before last.” Natasha moves away from the wardrobe to stand beside her king.

“They all fall for his looks.” The king teases. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Y/N. Steven Rogers might be handsome, but he comes with baggage. Really big, heavy baggage.”

“I know.” You counter, moving to lean against your bed post. “Natasha told me.”

His dead wife. What sort of man has he become since that? You can’t think that it will be anything but bad.

“He’s marrying you because he has to. And he still might not. Which is why we have to trick him into it. Maybe we can make him feel responsible for you somehow?” He wanders deep into thought as Natasha finally looks up at Peter and what looks to be a bunch of shiny burgundy fabric.

“What’s this dress?” She asks.

Oh, it’s a dress. Stupid sleep deprivation.

“But I don’t wanna trick him.” You say quietly, everyone else too distracted to hear you.

“That’s her dress for the portrait. I started having it altered the moment she arrived. Steve’s preferential to reds.”

“This isn’t red.” Natasha laughs. “This is burgundy. Like wine.”

“It’s in the red family.” The king argues.

“Tony…” Natasha laughs.

You’re too sleepy to keep paying them any attention and your eyes are glued on the dress as Natasha holds it up and out to look at.

Damask burgundy silk with golden embroidery along the waist, sleeves, and bust make up the bodice. The skirt is long and slightly ruffled underneath with rough tulle. Your under dress will help you keep from feeling it but this dress is slightly puffed at the skirt.

It’s beautiful but nicer than anything you’ve worn to date.

“Isn’t that too nice?” You wonder, maybe his Majesty made a mistake? You’re not going to a ball. More importantly, can you do the dress justice?

“What?” He turns to you, eyebrow quirked as he eyes you with incredulity. “Nothing is too good for my daughter.”

Your heart skips a beat and warm flutters fill your tummy as he looks back at Natasha and begins to explain something fully unaware of how his claiming you as his daughter has made you feel.

Peter on the other hand moves around them towards you and holds his arm out for you to take hold of. “Are you alright, your Highness? You look a little sick.”

“I’m okay.” You assure him. “I just…”

Wait…Peter doesn’t know about you, does he?

“It’s been a long time since his Majesty called me his daughter. I forgot what it felt like to hear.” You confess which is not a complete lie.

“Was it hard in that school you went to?” Peter asks, concern written all over his kind face, hazel eyes laced with secondhand sorrow.

“It wasn’t easy.” You tell him, again, not a complete lie. “Everything is better now that I’m here. I only hate to leave it so soon.”

“But you’ll be going to another castle, right? And Natasha and I will be coming with you.” He promises. “You won’t be alone.”

“Yes, that does make me feel better. Thank you. But I hope-” You steal a glance over at Natasha and the king as they rummage through your wardrobe and argue about the dress.

“You hope?” Peter urges.

“I hope I can make him happy. King Steven? I really want to make him happy, Peter.” You worry.

“You will.” He nods. “You’re really pretty and nice and you don’t act stuck up like most of the other ladies at court. He’d be crazy not to like you, your Highness.”

His words nearly make you float. “Thank you, Peter. That means so much to me.”

He beams and Natasha’s voice pulls your attention. “Come, your Highness, let’s get you into this burgundy gown.”

“Oh, will you drop it? You’re like a dog with a bone.” King Anthony tells her.

“Did you just call me a dog?” Natasha glares at him and it shocks you how comfortable around each other they are. How relaxed in convention. Even Peter. He calls Natasha by her name instead of her title.

Is that normal?

“I said like a dog. There’s a difference.” King Anthony says, but he chuckles. When his eyes fall on you as you stop before her, he sighs. “We’ll just have to tell Tom to make her prettier than she is at the moment. We can’t have him painting her looking that tired.”

“You won’t lie through my portrait, will you?” You demand, feeling strongly about giving King Rogers exactly what you are. If he doesn’t want you, you’d like to know now instead of later when he’s married you and he’s unhappy with what he has.

“No, not lie. We’ll just paint you more rested than you are.” His Majesty assures you. “Peter, Tom should be in the main hall by now. Show him to the third courtyard out by Pepper’s vegetable garden. We’ll have him paint her on the bench in front of the pink and white peonies. It’ll look good with the dress.”

“Right away, your Majesty.” Peter affirms and hurries out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Once gone, the king turns back to you, frown in place. “Look, kid. I really need you to start playing your part. The modesty is a good touch, there aren’t many people from privilege with it so, keep that but you can’t keep questioning every time I want to lavish you with a gift. You’re a princess. Start acting like one.”

Feeling remorseful, you nod. “Of course. I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

“Also, I’d really prefer it if you called me ‘father’. You should only refer to me as Majesty when you are referring to me to someone else or introducing me to someone I haven’t met. We’re feeding everyone the story that you were sent abroad but I don’t really need them to think that I shipped you away without affection to keep you out of sight.” He urges. “If I’d really had a daughter with emotional problems, they’d have had to pry her from my arms if they wanted to send her away.”

As he speaks the words, you know that he’s thinking of Morgana. She’s still missing. But you get what he’s saying. If you act distant with him, people will think that he never visited and sent you away so that he could pretend you didn’t exist. That’s not what you want for him either.

He’s been nothing but kind to you and considerate.

“Yes, f-father.” You frown. “Sorry. Father.”

That’s better. Sounds more natural.

“She’ll pick it up, Tony. Don’t worry.” Natasha assures him.

“Right.” He says. “Get her changed, curl her hair a little. Waves. Maybe a braid or two but keep it simple. Steve will respond more to her innocence than regality.”

“I thought we weren’t trying to trick him?” Natasha challenges.

“We’re not. I’m trying to sell him my daughter.” He looks at your stunned expression and shakes his head. “Not like that. We’re not getting any money for you. I just mean, I have to make you appealing to him.”

“What if he doesn’t like me?” You ask for what must be the millionth time.

“He doesn’t have to like you.” Tony nods. “He just has to marry you. Breakfast in ten. Hurry up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sitting still for hours and trying not to fall asleep is one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do.

Natasha keeps clearing her throat to remind you to sit up straight and you hear her most of the time, but Peter catches you once or twice when you’ve teetered to the side after dozing off.

Tom, the artist painting your portrait clicks his tongue every time you move and you bit your lip which makes him frown.

“Sorry.” You mutter, then sit still.

Your only solace is that the cool breeze, in combination with the warmth of the sun, is bliss. It’s this comfort that seems to lull you to sleep repeatedly so, good and bad.

Normally, according to Natasha, portraits like these are usually done over several days but because of the urgency to get your portrait to King Rogers, you sit on the white marble bench for nearly ten hours before you’re allowed to get up.

No bathroom breaks. No food. No water. It’s not torture but after two days of constant feeding, it hurts.

“Thank you, Tom.” Natasha tells the painter as he packs away his brushes and paints, staring proudly at his portrait.

“Can I see it?” You ask, Peter scurrying up to help Tom balance his bag as he begins to pull away the canvas he’s painted you on.

“Get that to his Majesty for approval immediately.” Natasha continues, ignoring your question.

“Wait,” You struggle to move.

Your ass feels numb, legs weak, head is splitting, stomach growling, eyes burning. Before you can get two steps, Tom and Peter are gone.

Disappointed, you’re so done with the day and yet, “Are you ready? You’ve got your reading and writing lessons in five minutes.”

You almost whine, complain that you’re exhausted, and you need to sleep when Natasha’s questions from the morning remind you that you’d told her you can do this.

“Yes.” You reply, tired and not doing a very good job at hiding your drowsiness with the saddened lilt of your voice.

“Just a few more hours, princess, and then you can sleep.” She assures you, wrapping her arm around your shoulder to help support you as you walk towards the door back into the castle.

“Okay.” You relent as your stomach grumbles loudly.

You’re pulled to a stop.

“Damn.” Natasha exclaims, stopping just inside the doorway to look at you apologetically.

Your shock at her swearing is maybe not pronounced enough but you’ve sworn lots yourself back home. And much worse than a simple ‘damn’.

“I’m so sorry, your Highness. You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Natasha’s remorse is touching but you shake your head and give her a smile.

“It’s okay. I’ve gone longer without eating.” You assure her.

“Not under his Majesty’s care you haven’t. Can you make it to your lessons without me? I’ll run and get you something to eat if you can.”

“Of course, I can.” You nod. “I’m not completely useless.”

She smiles and then grabs the front of her navy dress and rushes off down the hall and out of sight.

She moves so gracefully and her navy dress and its sparkling silver embroidery make her look like a piece of floating night sky.

You hope that you can move with her grace soon.

Halfway to your lessons room, you begin to teeter from left to right. Shutting your eyes for steps at a time and all you want to do is sit down and sleep. You’re very tempted, as you pass several sturdy wooden chairs and benches as you make your way through the light limestone halls of Castle Stark.

But you persevere and keep going.

When your eyes close a third time, they stay shut much longer and you don’t realize you’re sleep walking until you’re slammed into a large firm body that very nearly knocks you off your feet.

Eyes shooting open, you watch as a tall man with shoulder length dark chestnut hair and gorgeous ice-blue eyes drops his bag and an array of scrolls he’d been carrying under his arm. The contents of said bag go spilling out across the floor along with his scrolls. Books and quills and a box of what looks like cookies that spill out across the floor.

“Oh, damn!” You exclaim, unthinking. “I’m so, so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I had my eyes closed.”

In a panic you throw yourself to the ground and begin to gather the spilled contents. Ignoring the cookies because those are ruined now. Fuck.

Way to go, Y/N.

“It’s alright. Please, don’t trouble yourself.” The man says, his deep tone easy and flowing.

As you both reach for a small black journal, you gasp at the sight of his left arm. It shines in stunning silver. It’s not a glove. Of that you’re sure because his metal fingers close around the leather book and he pulls it to him.

“You lost your arm.” You blurt without thinking, so surprised and no filter in your exhausted state.

The man swallows and you finally look up to take him in properly. He is indeed handsome, and his blue eyes are stunning. His lips are full and pink, his brow intense but kind. A full beard covers his otherwise strong jaw. You can see the peeking of a dimple on his chin.

He’s wearing a black leather tunic, black pants, tall knight’s boots and several pieces of armor. Primarily a shoulder guard on his right shoulder, emblazoned with a plain white star.

The collar of his black silk shirt peeks out from the neck of his tunic, laced shut. Around his hips rests a long sword and on the opposite side a dagger.

“I’m sorry. That was so rude of me.” You gasp, flustered by your slip. “I didn’t mean…”

“No.” He smiles. “Don’t apologize. Forgive me, I was also not watching where I was going.”

“Here.” You reach for a scroll and hand it to him. “I’m sorry about your tin of cookies. I…I can see if I can get you some more? There are these good biscuits that they make in the kitchen here. With jam they are very tasty. Or if you like plain cookies, I can make them myself?”

It’s been a while as you hadn’t been able to afford the flour to make them, but the kitchen in the castle is well stocked. You could make them if Natasha and his Majesty let you.

“That’s not necessary. Really.” The man says, smiling at you kindly.

Together the two of you finish picking up the mess you’ve made and when he has the last scroll tucked underneath his arm, you step back with a smile.

“I really am very sorry that I bumped into you.” You fuss. “I haven’t slept and I’m a little out of sorts.”

“You haven’t slept?” He asks curiously, adjusting his cargo.

“No. I was up all night practicing my writing.” You confess, not thinking. If you’d been well rested, you might not have told him any of this.

“Practicing?”

“I don’t know how to write.” You nod. “Or read. And I’m supposed to get married soon. I…I’m terrified of disappointing my husband.”

The handsome stranger smiles and looks down at the ground, then back up at you with those kind blue eyes. “I don’t suppose any man who marries you will be disappointed. Unless he’s a fool? Not many ladies would have stooped down onto the ground to help me pick all this up, much less offered to make me cookies when there are so many servants to do it for her.”

He seems to think about it for a moment.

“In fact, they would have probably held me responsible for crashing into them and left me here to pick it all up myself.”

“That’s not very nice.” You shake your head. “Besides, I was the one falling asleep while walking. I really am very tired.”

“Can you not go to bed early?” He asks, purely out of concern.

“No.” You shake your head, lips sloping into a pout. “I need to go to my lessons. Writing and reading and etiquette.”

Oh! This is a good chance to practice your lying in the heat of the moment.

“I spent a long time away from my family and now that I’m back I want to make them proud.” You sigh.

“Why were you away from your family? If you don’t mind my asking?” He steps closer so that the two of you aren’t speaking across the hallway at each other.

“I was ill. I had many issues, emotionally, and my father and mother sent me away to get help.” You explain and the young Knight’s eyes seem to brighten with recognition.

“You’re the Princess…uh…Y/N. You’re the daughter Tony and Pepper had before they were married!” The Knight exclaims.

Oh, shit. You hadn’t even thought about it from that angle. The fact that you’d have been born out of wedlock, considering your age. Wait…Tony and Pepper? Someone else going by first names? What’s going on here?

“Don’t you think that maybe they sent you away because of that and not because you were sick?” He jokes, pulling your attention away from the lack of convention.

“Are you saying that my parents cared more about their reputations than they did for me?” You frown, not liking this point of view at all. “That they didn’t love me enough to keep me?”

The Knight goes a little pale. “No. Oh, God, no. That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is.” You frown.

“Okay, it is what I meant but I did not mean to cause offense. Forgive me. Sometimes I speak when I shouldn’t.” And he does look sorry. “Please, your Highness, forgive me.”

You consider him for a moment then maybe it’s because you’re so tired and don’t have the energy to stay upset, you nod. “Okay. I forgive you.”

He beams, his smile wide and stunning.

“So, it is you set to marry Steve, and not the Princess Morgana?” He asks, stepping closer as two maids walk by giving you both curious looks.

“I am.” Your worries are brought back by his mention and you remember that you should be at your lessons. “I should go to my lessons. I need to work hard if I want to please him.”

“He’ll be lucky to have someone so pretty and kind as his wife.” The Knight says. “I think you might be just what he needs. His old queen was kind but stern, like him. Fixated on duty. I think a sweet-tempered queen with eyes that shine like the sun will do him a world of good.”

Your ears burn hot like fire. So many compliments loaded into one statement…how does a woman recover? However, you are distracted enough by the way he sounds so familiar with King Rogers that you can ignore the flattery.

“Do…do you know his Majesty King Rogers?” You gasp, astounded by the luck you have. He sounds as if he knows him intimately.

“I’ve known him my whole life.” The Knight says. “My name is J-”

“James!” Natasha’s voice makes you jump, echoing around the hallway and turning your heart into mush.

“Lady Natasha.” The Knight named James says, and his voice wraps around the name like a caress. He likes her!

“Barnes.” Natasha frowns as she comes to stand beside you, a small basket held in her hands. You can hear the slosh of liquid—probably wine—coming from within. “Why are you keeping her Highness from her lessons?”

“We bumped into each other. She helped me pick up my things from the floor.” He tells her, smirking with amusement as she turns blazing green eyes on you.

“Your Highness, a Princess does not get down on the ground. You call for someone to come and pick whatever is dropped for you.”

“Oh, don’t do that to her Natasha. Don’t turn her into one of your stuck-up court ladies. She’s perfect just as she is.” James pleads, genuine in his praise and in his desire to keep you the same. For King Rogers?

“It’s my job to help turn her back into the princess she was born to be and that’s what I’ll do.” She gripes.

“Steve won’t like her if she’s like those ladies. Let her be who she is. He needs a little sugar in his life.” James teases, making your neck hot again.

“Did you just refer to the Princess of Malibia as sugar?” Natasha demands.

“Oh, come on, you know that’s not what I mean. She’s nice. And look at her smile. She’s perfect for him.” James assures her and for the first time since you’ve come to the castle and seen King Rogers’s portrait do you feel any sense of relief.

“Am I really?” You beam up at him, your smile wide but sleepy.

“You bet your bottom you are. I guarantee he’ll be worshipping the ground you walk on.” He smiles.

“James!” Natasha gasps, then hands you the basket. “Your Highness, off to your lessons now. Go on. I will follow.”

“But…”

“Please, your Highness, you’re already late.” She urges and because she’s always there for you, you go.

You don’t go far, however. You stop around the corner to listen. Not very princess-like behavior but you don’t care. You’re sleepy and you’re so curious about King Rogers. This man, James, he knows him. Childhood best friends! It doesn’t get any closer than that.

“First off, don’t refer to her bottom. She’s a princess and she’s going to marry Steve. What is wrong with you?” Natasha demands.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Secondly, what are you doing telling her things like that?” Natasha demands, glancing down towards the hall where you’re hiding with worry.

“What?” He chuckles. “She is sweet. And nice. And honestly, if I didn’t have my eyes set on someone else, maybe I’d have tried to make her fall in love with me a little?”

“You think every woman wants you.” She frowns at him.

“All but the one that matters.” He flirts, moving a step closer. “When will you agree to marry me? I’ve asked you six times already.”

“Ask me six more times.” She quips.

James chuckles again.

“I really wish you hadn’t filled her head with all that ‘perfect for him’ nonsense.” She frets.

“But she is perfect for him. Margaret was always so…She was kind and strong and after what happened to her, I think maybe Steve needs to have someone he can watch over. Someone he can protect.” James reasons.

“Yes, but she’s expecting love, James. She’s told me that she must make him like her nearly a hundred times since she saw his portrait and I’m afraid that she’s only going to make herself unhappy. He’s closed himself off from feelings like that since Maggie. I don’t think he has it in him to love like that again and the princess is already so enamored and I’m pretty sure she’s never been in love before. What if he breaks her heart?

“Then she’s stuck living with him in that castle and she won’t be able to leave, so she’ll just have to deal with it. I keep wanting to beg Tony to cancel this stupid plan because she’s the one that’ll suffer, and she doesn’t deserve that. Because you’re right, she’s nice and sweet, and she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.

“What if he’s cruel? What if he resents her? He needs to marry her and have children because that’s what he must do but he doesn’t love her, James. What if he never can? Maybe I should take her away from here?”

“Shh, Natasha,” James closes the distance between them, his hands finding her shoulders which he caresses with affection. “Don’t worry about Steve, I’ll do what I can to help them along. And Steve isn’t cruel. You know him. He’s just…dealing with everything that happened.”

“It’s been two years, James. He still won’t dance. He won’t smile. When’s the last time he laughed?”

James sighs, “I know that things don’t look promising, but he’ll love her. I know it. She is perfect for him. And once she’s pregnant, I know that those protective instincts will kick in for him and he’ll devote every second of his life to her. And you’ll be there, too. Always by her side.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Natasha sighs, “I will be.”

“I think this girl is special.” He says, “For her to get you to love her so much so quickly?”

“The princess has had a difficult life. I want her to be happy now. She takes on so much. She just came back home and now Tony’s sending her away again, just to bury the hatchet?”

“That’s not why they’re doing this, Nat.” James chastises.

“Oh, really? When’s the last time the two of them were in a room without going at each other’s throats? All because of that stupid treaty the team-”

“Nat.” James frowns. “Not here.”

“Sorry.” Natasha says.

Team? What team?

“I know it’s frustrating. But they’re talking. They’re writing to each other. That’s a good thing. And as for the princess, she’ll be happy. I promise. She will, just, maybe not right away. You and I can be a team. We’ll do what we both can to ensure that her heart is as unbroken as when she first arrives.” James insists.

“You can’t promise that. I can’t promise that.” Natasha says, relaxing a little as James closes the distance a bit more, pulling her to his chest, arms wrapped around her torso.

“I can. I will do everything in my power to make sure that he sees her for the blessing that she is. For you.” He smiles at her, seducing her with his kind manners and consideration.

“I’m still not going to marry you.” She smiles, a half smirk with the corner of he lip sloping up seductively.

They both seem intent on seducing each other.

“Aren’t you?” He checks.

“No.” She shakes her head but stops when his lips meet hers.

Quickly you slide back, moving as quietly as you can down the hall until you can walk at full speed without being heard.

Natasha has been your champion since arriving here. Her positive attitude has kept you certain of the task you have set before you but to see her doubts spill out so quickly and numerous, your heart begins to writhe with fear because what if she’s right? What if you’re dooming yourself to a life without love?

There are worse things. You remind yourself again. You know that all you can do is hope that he marries you.

At least, if you marry him, you will have a place. Your home will always be Broklin’s castle and your family will always be the King, even if he doesn’t love you and would rather have his first Queen. You will finally belong somewhere and on one will be able to take that away from you.

Reaching into the pocket of your dress, you pull out the small silver compact that Natasha had given you and pry it open to stare at King Steven’s handsome face.

Those storm blue eyes…

Now all you have to do to ensure your survival is make sure that you don’t fall in love with him. And really, how hard can that be?

It’s late afternoon and you’re making your way from your room with Peter at your side, sharing a bag of berries that his Majesty had sent to your room.

“They’re tart.” Peter chuckles. “Here, keep the rest, I might not stop eating them if I keep going.”

You laugh with him. “So? Help me finish them. I’m eating too much as it is with all of this food they send to my room.”

Your dress is simpler today, plain white with a sheer pink underlay. You’re a gleaming pearl underneath warm yellow light. Your corset is still tight however, so despite the comfortable dress, there’s a hint of discomfort in the way you stand.

“No. I’ll finish them.” Peter argues.

“That’s the point.” You laugh.

“Princess!” A shout from the end of the hall startles both you and Peter.

He drops the bag of berries into your open hand and jumps in front of you to shield you on instinct. You nearly drop the berries but just manage to catch the small sack.

A man you’ve seen every day but never spoken to marches towards you, his short graying curly hair and stocky build give you comfort for some reason. He looks like a teddy bear, even though you’ve seen him grumble and roll his eyes a few times at his Majesty. Everyone acts different than they should. You still don’t understand it and are beginning to think you never will.

“Happy?” Peter says, then looks back to you as if he’s let something slip. “I mean, Harold, Sir Harold Hogan. Your Highness, I’m not sure you’ve officially met the King’s personal secretary?”

“I haven’t.” You assure him and try to look as unphased as possible by the nickname slip up. “Sir Harold, it’s nice to meet you.”

Harold ‘Happy’ Hogan bows to you, then stands up with an excited gleam in his eye.

“Your Highness,” He smiles. “His Majesty would like to see you in his office.”

“Right now?” But, what about your lessons?

“Yes. Now.” He nods and begins to walk away.

You hand Peter the bag of berries and begin to follow Sir Hogan.

“Don’t worry.” Peter says, “I’ll run and tell Master Rymond that you’ll be late.”

“Thank you.” You call out to him just before you turn the corner. “Is it very important, Sir Harold?”

“Please, call me Happy. Everyone does.” He smiles at you, no sign of the severe man you’ve seen over the past few days.

“H-Happy, have I done something to anger my father?” You check, keeping up the lie even with the King’s right-hand man. Does he know the truth?

“No.” He shakes his head. “Nothing like that. He’s actually really pleased with you.”

“Why?”

“King Rogers has written back about your portrait.” Happy begins, shocking your arms into numbness from nerves. “We sent it last night and he got it early this morning.”

“A-and he’s written to father about it?” You ask, your voice barely above a nervous whisper.

“He loved it.” Happy assures you.

“King Rogers loved my portrait?” You ask, all astonishment and disbelief. “He actually said that he loved it?”

“Well, no. Not exactly. But he said he wants to marry you as soon as possible.”

You can’t breathe. “And wh-when is that?”

“Day after tomorrow. We leave in the morning for Broklin. You’ll meet him tomorrow night and, in the morning, you’ll be married. Y/N Rogers, Queen of Broklin.” He looks back at you and you stop walking, the sound of blood rushing is deafening, like the sound of roaring carriage wheels as they crash into puddles of water.

Then everything goes black as your body falls backwards.

Happy’s last cry of, “Princess!” echoes in your ears.

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years ago

Text

across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. III)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

Bokuto only saw Akaashi two more times since he last left the Elysium Manor. The first time was three years after that unforgettable summer in a secluded house. Thanks to finishing the portrait commission that pleased Mikoto, a woman of relatively high social standing, Bokuto gained a bit more status within the artist circles. Rich nobles commissioned him for portraits, scholars and other writers and artists commissioned him to create paintings of fantastical scenes, and almost any painting that he made was guaranteed a spot in a museum. Bokuto was invited to join the upper social circles at their dinners and luncheons or visits to the opera, but he would politely decline. He couldn’t imagine himself being a part of that social circle and let them paint a picture of mystery around him.

Instead, he decided to teach. He used his money to open a studio for young artists and taught them the basics of sketching and painting with different mediums, instructing them the way his master did. Bokuto had his own studio situated on the floor above where he would teach that came with a bedroom. At night, he’d open the windows for the smell of turpentine and oil to air out, but he’d keep the windows closed, the lights off, and the backdoor open for Kuroo to come in.

He was a male model, one quite famous with fellow artists for being a good one. There were probably a number of sculptures in the nearby museum, Asphodel, based on his physique. He didn’t discriminate when it came to preferring the company of men and women and hit his preferences just as well as Bokuto did. Kuroo was a nice man, a kind one, and Bokuto knew that maybe the dark-haired model had feelings for him. And yet, he never crossed that line. Most likely, Kuroo could see that faraway look in Bokuto’s eyes when he woke up in the morning, his eyes searching for the sea and whatever was across it.

The first time he saw Akaashi was in Asphodel. Bokuto had recently finished a painting that was going to be a centerpiece in their main gallery. On that day, he wore his best shirt and tried to wet his hair and comb it down but to no avail. ‘It’s alright. You’re known for your skills. Not your looks,’ he told himself before putting on a coat and heading out to leave.

The museum was already packed when he arrived with a good number of people circled around his painting. Bokuto pushed his way through the crowd, muttering ‘Excuse me’ along the way, until he was standing near it with his back to the wall. He was aware that he was drawing attention to himself looking like a sentinel instead of the painter but he couldn’t help but wonder about the things people would say. One of the viewers, a young couple, were in conversation as they scanned the painting.

“It’s that Greek legend, isn’t it? The one with Orpheus.”

“Yes. And his wife Eurydice. He traveled to the Underworld after she died with the hope of being able to bring her to life again.”

“I remember! But then there was a condition, right? He couldn’t turn around.”

“That’s right. Although… most painters and writers depict Eurydice already just as Orpheus turned around. In this one, it’s as if he turned around just in time to see her fall.”

“Kind of like he expected it?”

“Maybe. It’s quite an interesting take, if you ask me.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Bokuto smiled to himself, satisfied at the exchange generated by his painting. It was all about the exchanges, the different conversations that his art generated. He stayed by his painting for a few more minutes, listening to conversations, before deciding to stroll through the museum and peruse the other collections. His best sources of inspiration were other artists, but during this visit, it wasn’t just inspiration he found.

It was another portrait of Akaashi Keiji.

It hung in one of the museum wings that they dedicated to portraits. Bokuto rarely needed inspiration for those but something about that day pulled him into the wing to view the collections until he caught a familiar painted face. ‘Is it really him?’ he wondered, eyes flying to the placard to the right that confirmed his suspicions: Portrait of Akaashi Keiji, oil on canvas. It was him. In the portrait, Akaashi was sitting on a chair, elbows on a desk, hands holding up a book. His posture was impeccable as always but his face was completely absorbed in what he was reading. But it was him: same high cheekbones, same curly brown hair, same delicate fingers, same emerald eyes.

Bokuto didn’t know how long he stood there just drinking in the portrait and attempted to memorize every detail when he came to the book in Akaashi’s hands. The worn spine, the burgundy leather jacket, even the size of it: it was his book on Greek Mythology. The book was angled just so, enough for the viewer to see the top corner of the righthand page. “Page 57,” Bokuto whispered, overcome with sheer sadness and joy at the encounter, “You remember.”

The second and last time Bokuto saw Akaashi happened two years later at the Museum Greek History, this time in a different city. Bokuto was there working on a commission for a noblewoman who wanted portraits of each of her children. It was a lot of work, but the money was good and he got to see much of the city. Bokuto decided to explore the museum during a day off. His favorite part was the collection of ancient texts and scrolls that were each displayed in a glass case. He couldn’t read anything that was written, but he liked knowing that they had such a collection. ‘Maybe this time they won’t keep the homosexual subtext out of translation,’ he thought with a smile. He still held out hope that maybe someday, people would accept that Achilles and Patroclus were lovers.

With that thought in mind, Bokuto decided he was done looking around for the day and get ready for the amount of work he would have to do on the way back home. He was walking down the flights of stairs, deep in thought, when a voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“Bokuto-san.”

He had to hold onto the railing to keep himself from falling. It was just like that time he saw Akaashi’s portrait two years ago. Nobody else said his name like that: all crisp syllables and with more than a little warmth in the tone. Bokuto remembered the last time he actually saw Akaashi back at Elysium Manor, and turned around.

There he was, standing at the top of the staircase. He looked as if five years had barely laid a finger on him and looked just as surprised as Bokuto did. Akaashi took a hesitant step forward and walked down two steps. Bokuto felt as if he was back in Elysium Manor as their surroundings fell away.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“H-how… how have you been?” Bokuto stammered. So many questions overwhelmed his mind and yet he could only pick out that one. An inkling of a smile appeared on Akaashi’s face as he nodded his head in understanding. ‘Even now, we still have this connection,’ Bokuto thought.

“I’m alright. Married. We live in a nice house. My wife is kind, beautiful, friendly. Sometimes we play card games at night,” he enumerated, tapping absentmindedly at the railing of the stairway. “A good life actually.” He looked back at Bokuto. ‘But you’re not in it,’ he seemed to say. “How about you?”

“I could say the same,” Bokuto managed a smile. “My paintings have been pretty famous. I get commissioned often. I teach young artists. I make enough to keep my studio and do some traveling here and there.”

“Sounds like a good life.”

“It does.” But it was just that: good. Bokuto opened his mouth to say something when a child came running down the staircase from above.

“Father!” he exclaimed, barreling into Akaashi’s side. ‘Father,’ Bokuto echoed in his mind. The little boy looked to be about five or four years old. He mostly took after his mother as he had fair hair and fair skins, but when Bokuto looked at closer, he could tell that the boy had his father’s eyes.

“Hiro. Please don’t run down the stairs, you could slip,” Akaashi gently scolded him, leaning down a bit to fix his tie. It was such a small gesture but it made Bokuto’s heart ache just to watch.

“I saw this really cool looking spear in the Weapons Wing. It looked just like the one in the book you read to me!” the young boy exclaimed excitedly.

“Is that so? I hope you remember it well then,” Akaashi fondly patted his son’s head before turning to Bokuto. “Hiro, this is one of my… good friends, Bokuto. Bokuto, this is Hiro. My son.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bokuto smiled down at him. Hiro cocked his head and waved shyly, making Bokuto chuckle. “He has your eyes, Akaashi.” During the past five years, Bokuto had held out hope that maybe he and Akaashi would cross paths again, that maybe they could run away like what Akaashi dreamed of. But now, he knew that he was too late. Ever since he left Elysium Manor, it was all too late for that.

“It was great seeing you again, Akaashi,” Bokuto cleared his throat and feigned a smile. “I… I have to take my leave now.” He didn’t want to leave. With every fiber of his being, he didn’t want to leave. He would hold this encounter in his heart for the rest of his life but nothing good would come out of him speaking his mind.

“Alright, say goodbye, Hiro,” Akaashi said, tight-lipped. ‘You know it too,’ Bokuto thought.

“Bye,” Hiro waved shyly. Just as Bokuto was about to turn and leave, Akaashi quickly ran down the rest of the steps and wrapped both of his arms around him before he could say anything. Bokuto held his arms awkwardly at his sides before wrapping them around Akaashi’s waist. He wondered how much Akaashi had tried to hold himself back from doing this.

“Koutarou,” he whispered. “Until now, do you…?”

“I do. I think of you every single day,” Bokuto whispered back. “I still love you, Keiji.”

“I’m glad,” Akaashi swallowed and pulled back, leaving the feeling of that loss of warmth that Bokuto would carry with him for the rest of his life. And with that, he nodded once, and left.

Five more years passed. Bokuto had begun to grow tired of the fame and attention and decided to move to a provincial town along the coast. He left his studio to one of his young apprentices, packed up his materials, and bought a small house with a garden that sat near a cliff, overlooking the sea. He still painted, it was something he never grew tired of, but he chose to paint nature or the people at the countryside instead of the portraits of noblemen and fantastical scenes. He liked getting to know his neighbors, going to the festivals held at the town square, and looking out of his window to see the birds that chirped on the trees or dove into the sea for food. He was sitting on his chair outside, trying to sketch the charming woodpecker he saw that morning from memory, when Kageyama came.

“If it isn’t Elysium Manor’s most loyal butler,” Bokuto grinned at him as he saw the familiar head of black hair approach his porch. He looked different from the last time Bokuto saw him. His arms were thicker and his complexion was slightly tanned. But it was still him.

“It took a while for me to find you, Bokuto,” he returned the smile.

“Find me?” Bokuto said, puzzled. “Did you suddenly become a fan of my paintings?”

“No, it’s…” Kageyama paused and exhaled, the look on his face somber. “Can we talk inside?” Bokuto felt his stomach drop. He knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it is Kageyama was going to say.

“Sure. I’ll make tea.”

Once they were sitting at the table with two mugs of tea between them, Kageyama broke the news.

“Akaashi-san passed away last winter.”

The news hit Bokuto like cold water to the face. Akaashi Keiji. The man that Bokuto had loved ten summers ago. The man he just saw five years ago. The one that haunted him at midnight, tossing and turning and longing for that touch and wondering about all the what-could-have-been’s. His Akaashi Keiji. His Akaashi Keiji whose sketch Bokuto still kept in a small pocketbook close to his heart. Who grew up a lonely, sickly boy in a house full of books. His Akaashi Keiji, who would mumble ‘Koutarou’ every time they woke up together during those numbered mornings. His Akaashi Keiji.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto. I truly am,” Kageyama sighed, reaching out to touch his fingertips.

“How—how did you know?” he stammered.

“I received a letter,” he said. “It said that he contracted tuberculosis from a trip abroad and, well you know how sickly he is. He wasn’t able to survive it.”

“God…” Bokuto rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I… I didn’t think… of all things…”

“I know,” Kageyama nodded. “The letter said that I was mentioned in Akaashi-san’s will. He entrusted two items to me to deliver to you.” With that, he pulled a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twin from his satchel and placed it on the table. Bokuto made no move to accept it. All he wanted was Akaashi back. He didn’t care if had to take ten, twenty more years for them to meet again. He just wanted to know he was alive somewhere and still thinking of him.

“I…I think I know why he had these sent to me instead of having them delivered directly to you,” Kageyama cleared his throat. “Akaashi-san cared about you, and yes, I know he cared about you in that way. I could see it in the way he looked at you. I was skeptical at first of your relationship but ten years after, the moments I witnessed of the two you stand out starkly.”

At this, Bokuto could feel himself collapse with his head on the table, the dam of tears finally breaking as he sobbed into his arms. “It’s true. We did love each other.”

“I know he thought of you in those last moments,” Kageyama consoled him. “You were too important for him to think of breaking the news to you through just a letter.”

Bokuto didn’t know how long he had cried there on the table for. He could hear Kageyama busying himself in the kitchen and the smell of dinner being cooked, as if they were both back at Elysium Manor. Finally, when his tears had all run out, he sat up to open the package that Akaashi had entrusted to Kageyama. Inside, there were two books: the Greek Mythology book that Akaashi loved so much, much worn down than the last time Bokuto had used it to sketch a portrait of himself, and a soft, leather-bound notebook.

It was late so Kageyama stayed the night and slept on a roll-out cot beside Bokuto’s bed before he left the next morning. “It’s a nice place,” he told him, as they stood at the cliffside overlooking the sea. “I could see why you chose to be here.”

The next few months after that was the longest that Bokuto spent without painting. Every time he tried to pick up a brush or a piece of drawing charcoal, his hands shook and all he could see in front of him was the half-finished portrait of Akaashi, and Akaashi himself posing in the distance. And at night, he’d find himself looking over his shoulder more than once to see that vision of his beloved, pale as a ghost.

Finally, he picked up the leather notebook that Akaashi left for him. He had expected it to be a diary but it ended up being slightly more than that. It was a story: about a lonely boy who spent his days reading books in an empty house and the beautiful painter who entered his life and made it worth living. ‘He came on a little lifeboat from across the sea,’ it began. Bokuto found himself tearing up again at the sight of Akaashi’s handwriting.

Every day, little by little, he read a bit more of the story, mostly while he was sitting on a chair near the cliffside. He relived everything: the time Akaashi drank the sea from his cupped hands, the look on his face when he saw the ruined portrait, Akaashi dancing around the maypole with his crown of chrysanthemums, the summer night kiss, the feeling of their bodies pressed together, the sound of his voice when he read out loud, Akaashi’s emerald green suit in the portrait, their last night together, the morning after and the sketches to remember each other by, Akaashi illuminated by a single shaft of light in the middle of the floor, the portrait of him hanging in the museum with the pages of his book turned to the 57th page, the last time Bokuto heard Akaashi say his name.

At the very last page of the notebook was a note, directly addressed to him: I know for a fact that there are others like us, Koutarou. Afraid of the punishment, afraid of the scorn. I don’t think I’ve ever cared about what people would think of me once I died, but if there is one thing I want people to remember about me, its that I was yours, always yours. Maybe someday there will be a place for people like us, a better place. And I want them to know that we’ve always been around. We’ve hid. We’ve suffered. We’ve lost. But we’ve also loved.

“We have loved, haven’t we Akaashi?” Bokuto whispered, closing the notebook. He knew that he was going to finally pick up his charcoals and later on, his brush. He remembered what Akaashi said about how texts were continuously misinterpreted to remove the homoerotic subtext and as much as he knew it would be difficult to do so with Akaashi’s journal, Bokuto wanted to further ensure how history would remember them. He would sketch and paint everything he could possibly remember. But for now, he wanted to finish his day staring out across the sea.

Kageyama knew why Bokuto purposely chose to make his home here. The town and house he lived in was just on the other side of the sea, across where Elysium Manor still reportedly stood. Nobody went there and it was still Akaashi’s name, but the land and the manor would eventually be donated to the nearby town. Under the condition that Akaashi Keiji’s final resting place wouldn’t be disturbed.

“That clause in his will was only allowed for me to hear,” Kageyama had said a few months ago before he left. “That small plot of land next to where Akaashi-san is buried is entrusted to me to be passed on to you. Bokuto-san, I will ensure that that will be your final resting place. And if I pass on before you, I will entrust the task to my nephew. I can promise you that.”

“You do love your Greek myths, don’t you Akaashi?” Bokuto smiled to himself. He could almost hear his laugh in the back of his mind. As he looked out to the sea, he could just barely make out what lay across it. It made Bokuto remember how Orpheus and Eurydice’s tale truly ended. After losing his wife a second time, Orpheus wandered the Earth, lost and mourning, until he was torn apart and killed by Maenads, Dionysus’ traveling followers. When Orpheus soul traveled down to the Underworld, Eurydice was there, standing on the banks of the River Styx, arms outstretched to her lover who finally came home.

#across the sea #bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #bokuaka fanfic #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! fanfic #across the sea: act. III

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steele-soulmate · 4 months ago

Text

Princess of Candy Coated Lies, Modern Royalty AU- King Peter Steele & Single Mother OFC, Soulmate AU

Chapter 14

SUMMARY: Single mother Molly Anne Harper does the best she can do, given her circumstances- since she broke up with her ex-boyfriend by sending him to jail, she’s been struggling to be the best mother to twin daughters while working barely minimum waged jobs. But when she meets her soulmate- King Peter Thomas Ratajczyk of Brooklyn- she quickly finds herself falling heads over heels in love with the guarded, battle damaged ruler. Likewise, Peter finds himself with a family of a women and two little girls who call him daddy. But what happens when their father gets out from behind bars and starts to cause mayhem?

A Soulmate AU where you never know what the first words your soulmate says to you until they say it

CHAPTER WARNINGS: talk of body dysmorphia (nothing graphic)

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORESS: This fic is dedicated to SkullWoggle on AO3 and @rock-a-noodle on Tumblr.

WORD COUNT: 1161

I leaned in the open doorway of Aria’s bedroom, where the room has been cleared out and a giant painter’s tarp covered the floor. The king was showing the girls where best to paint on the walls so that the colors could be viewed under different lights. Aria translated for her sister, pausing from time to time to teach him sign language.

“Daddy, can me and Evie sleep with you and mommy tonight?” Aria asked innocently.

“Sweetheart?” The king turned to face me and the two of us had a silent conversation using our eyebrows and nose crinkles to talk.

“I don’t see why not,” I answered after a minute of this.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY…” cheered Aria as she and her sister began a war dance in the middle of her bedroom.

“But you two need to be on your best behavior,” I told them both with a firm voice and firm hands. “Understand?”

“Yes mommy!” Aria chirped as she and her twin went into their shared Jack and Jill bathrooms to get changed into their pajamas for bed later that night after dinner.

“Come on down to the kitchen when you’re done!” I called out as the king led me downstairs.

“Hey sweetheart, I stopped by the palace on the way home from the library earlier today and I grabbed this…” He pulled his wallet out from the back of his pants and took out a ring, which he held out to me. I took the pretty bauble from him and examined it closely- a simple rose gold band that was inscribed with the words, A STRONG FAMILY, A STRONG FOUNDATION. I recognized it as coming from his mother’s personal collection, and found myself smiling at his thoughtfulness.

“Can I wear it on a chain around my neck?” I asked him as I fitted the ring onto my finger and discovering that the band was huge on my finger. “I have a history of always losing my rings.”

“Of course,” he stood up to his full height, watching me as I began to pounder over what to make for dinner that night. “I’ll look into getting one for you tomorrow, alright?”

“Alright.” I came to a decision and started to pulled a giant soup pot out. “How does vegetable soup sound to you?”

“Uh…” I paused at the tone in his voice. “Yeah, sure. That sounds delicious.”

“Or I can make something else and serve a vegetable side,” I contested with a shrug. “The girls didn’t have any greens for lunch, and I don’t like having an unbalanced diet.”

“Just no turnips,” he begged me as I reached for the vegetable drawer. “My mom loves turnips and would try to sneak them into every meal when I was little.”

“Okay, fair enough,” I told him, taking out carrots, green beans, corn, peas and celery. “No turnips. I promise.”

I felt his eyes supervising me as I chopped everything before setting off to the side as I waited for the soup pot to come to a rolling boil. Next, I grabbed tomatoes, potatoes, a yellow onion and garlic.

“This is a recipe by my mom.” The smile slid off my face. “I always wondered what she and daddy did with my hope chest.”

“What exactly is a hope chest?” I could feel the king’s puzzled facial expression through the back of my head as I fussed about, getting ready to serve up dinner to the king and my daughters.

“A hope chest is something that single woman pack household necessities into in preparations of moving out from their parents’ and starting a family,” I explained. “Bed quilts, dishes, bath towels, kitchen utensils… little things that I would either buy or make. I would really like to have access to that stuff now, make your house more at home to live in.”

“Sweetheart, no,” he protested. “This house isn’t just my house anymore- it’s your house now, yours and the girls.”

“Okay,” I muttered as I dumped everything into the pot before closing the lid. “Your majesty, do you want a big wedding?” Anxiety gripped onto my throat with iron tight claws.

“No, I don’t really fancy the idea of a big, fancy wedding,” he reassured me. “I’m just as happy having a simple chapel wedding, just the two of us, the girls and my sisters as the witnesses.”

“Will your other sisters like me?” I asked, my voice tight with worry.

“Cathy likes you,” he pointed out in a dry voice, leaning his hip against the refrigerator. “She told everyone that you are a sweet soul, a kind and devoted mother, and overall, a good being.”

I scooped up some bubbling soup into a spoon and motioned him down to taste. A small smile crossed over my face as he smacked his lips.

“Delicious,” he snarled as soft little pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pats to sound out, signaling the twins approaching the kitchen quickly, on the hunt for dinner. “I wonder what you taste like, pretty sweetheart of mine.”

“You want to have sex with me?” My anxiety fit me once more, making me feel self-conscious of myself. Since I had carried the twins and given birth to them, my figure had become lumpy and flabby in all the wrong places and I had developed ugly stretch marks on my tummy and thighs.

“When you’re ready, sweetheart,” he reassured me in a soft voice, reaching over ma and grabbing some bowls for me to scoop the food into. “And not a moment before.”

TAGLISTS ARE OPEN/ ASK BOX IS OPEN/ REQUESTS ARE OPEN/ PLOT BUNNIES ARE WELCOMED

If you liked this, then please consider buying me a coffee HERE

http://ko-fi.com/A0A4A4UDIt only costs $3!!!

PETER STEELE TAGLIST

@rock-a-noodle

@elianafilthyrose

@ch3rry-c01a

@rockstarslutt

@angelxfuckk

#Type O Negative AU #Modern royalty AU #Royal AU #King Peter Thomas Ratajczyk #FanFiction #Soulmate AU #AU #Molly Anne Harper (OFC)#Chapter 14 #Aria Harper (OFC)#Evie Harper (OFC)#Chapter Fourteen

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gunnerpalace · 5 years ago

Note

When ever people analyze bleach and its flaws everyone always seems to convinetly leave out Kubo getting really sick, his injury to his arm, the Voltile relationship he and Shonen had, him runing out of time and missing deadlines because of said injury anf constantly being sick. Shonen telling him he had so much time to finish stuff.

I’m awake right now because I have mild heartburn, and I saw this. And it pissed me off so much that I decided to get up to go to my computer so I could answer it properly.

What a miserable pile of fucking excuses.

He was sick? Who gives a shit. Here’s a list of famous writers who dealt with crippling illnesses. You might recognize names such as Dickens, Updike, Wharton, Proust, Orwell, Milton, Joyce, and Melville. His arm was injured? Boo-fucking-hoo. You want painters? How about Frida Kahlo, a true badass? Here’s a list of famous painters who dealt with physical disabilities. Do Michelangelo, Van Gogh, and Matisse sound familiar? Hey, how about Peter Longstaff, a contemporary artist who is missing both arms and paints with his feet? Or Mariusz Kedzierski, who was born without arms but still paints? You want to go into other arts? How about Beethoven, who was deaf? We can go on!

A truly passionate artist creates regardless of their circumstances, because they want to or, more accurately, have to, in spite of their health.

“Hey, it’s really not cool to suggest that artists should put their work ahead of their health!”

I agree! And that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying in general that a truly committed artist will do so regardless of what you tell them to do, because they can’t stop themselves. And more often than not, that artist will also takes steps to mitigate the damage to their health in the process.

Let’s talk actual manga and mangaka. There’s Berserk, which has been running since 1989, and is frequently on hiatus because Miura focuses on other things. Maybe you think that’s not a fair comparison because it’s seinen and appears in a monthly publication. Okay, are you familiar with Hunter × Hunter? It’s been running since 1998. It’s published by Shueisha in Weekly Shounen Jump and is constantly on hiatus, sometimes for years, because Togashi deals with illness.

Hmm. Why does Shueisha treat Togashi so differently, I wonder?

Here’s the thing: That Man explicitly chose not to take a break. You’re telling me he couldn’t have? He clearly could have. Togashi proves it. Maybe Shueisha discriminated against him, you say. Okay, so whose fault is that likely to have been, and why? It clearly doesn’t have to do with taking your time.

Bleach went inexorably downward in popularity following the conclusion of the Soul Society arc. Its volume sales plummeted. It was consistently at the bottom of Weekly Shounen Jump’s ratings. Aizen was defeated in chapter 423. The manga ended on chapter 686. That’s 263 chapters, or 38% of the manga’s runtime, to wrap things up with rock-bottom ratings. 263 chapters published across more than 5 years, because chapters 424–432 were released in a volume on April 11, 2011, and that happens many months after their original publication. And you’re trying to tell me that he was on a deadline?

What the fuck did he spend all that time doing? Because it sure wasn’t answering most of the questions he’d posed or explaining his manga.

And when they finally said “No more,” what did he do with his remaining chapters, pray tell? Draw shit like Mayuri Kurotsuchi fighting a literal fucking giant hand, like Kenpachi getting a bankai that did literally nothing and advanced his fight not one jot, and spend his last 5 chapters very deliberately and very methodically producing the shittiest ending possible that assassinated all of his characters. Bleach would’ve ended with more integrity if Yhwach had literally just killed everyone.

Could there be a little more nuance to his relationship with Shueisha? Sure. Every story has two sides. But the truth is not always somewhere in the middle.

The evidence is pretty clear that Shueisha gave him plenty of time, and he pissed it all away on completely self-indulgent and frivolous shit that essentially nobody wanted.

It seems evident to me, if less substantiated, that he became embittered and burnt out at the lack of embrace of his grand vision by both his editors, publisher, and audience, and decided to cut the nose off the face of his work to spite all parties in the end.

From where I sit, Noriaki “Tite” Kubo was a primadonna whose bad working relationship with his publisher stemmed from his own arrogance and hubris. I think that is self-evidently clear from what he chose to spend his time focusing on and how it was received. He was not ever interested in exploring his work. He was interested in giving the appearance of depth through the shallowest of means, of designing ever more characters, and in focusing on “cool fights” (none of which were actually particularly good compared to many of those of his peers).

“But shouldn’t an artist show integrity?”

Yes. To their work. That Guy showed integrity to himself. The two are not the same thing. The former is passionate creation. The latter is masturbatory self-indulgence. Individual artists or assemblages of artists will often do stupid shit that is poorly received and try to say that they were being “true to their vision” ex post facto to excuse it, when even a casual investigation will show that their “truth” was a betrayal of the premises, tone, themes, or characters in question, which is precisely why it was stupid and poorly received. Bleach is no different in that regard than say, Mass Effect 3.

I have talked before about how he betrayed his creation in an aesthetic and ethical sense. I stand by that completely. We were presented with what he thought was good, not what was true to the work itself. He put his ego ahead of everything else, and in my opinion that is reflected in his bad working relationship with his publisher, in his refusal to take breaks, in his refusal to plan or plot ahead properly, in his refusal to properly pay-off his story, and in his refusal to provide a proper conclusion.

He blew his property up, dumped his notes on Narita, and promptly fucked off.

To compare to another mangaka, look at Gintama, where Sorachi was shuffled from Weekly Shounen Jump to Jump Giga, and then finally to his own app when he just couldn’t finish it in time. That is passion and dedication in being true to one’s work.

Fuck Noriaki “Tite” Kubo and fuck his fucking excuses. Less privileged people have done vastly more, vastly better, with vastly less.

And don’t even get me started on that almost certainly bullshit story about the anonymous sick child who told him to stay true to his “original vision.” Fuck that. Fuck that in detail, and fuck it in general. That kind of tunnel-vision bullshit is what leads to train wrecks like the endings to How I Met Your Mother or HBO’s version of Game of Thrones. Art evolves and grows. Courage is not desperately clinging to your original vision in spite of your work having taken a different course than you imagined. Courage is allowing your art to blossom and bloom naturally.

I said I could call him much worse than just Noriaki? I can. He’s a fucking Art Criminal. I hope he legitimately never makes another creative thing again for the rest of his miserable life. I will never forgive him and in my opinion he is the ultimate example of how not to conduct yourself artistically. He is The Donald Trump of Art. He is Anti-Artist One. He is the Art Antichrist. If I wanted to show my real feelings regarding him I would call him The Shitlord instead of Noriaki or That Guy. He deserves the epithet.

Fuck him.

#Asks

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tender-history · 5 years ago

Text

On Research: Worldbuilding and Culture

Hullo, in this post I’m going to talk about how I research and do world-building for my stories!

I’m doing this through the following ways:

1) using chapter 1 of my historical Taegi fic to illustrate what I did to research the era and the culture for that period,

2) providing the templates and tools I used in the hopes that it can help some of you all writers if you ever want to write your own research-intensive stories or original fiction that requires world-building!

While I’m using my BTS Taegi fic as a means to explain my process, this post is for any sort of writing project - original or fanfiction. If you follow me for fic, though, there will be chapter 1 spoilers for it. So if you haven’t read that yet, be-warned that there be spoilers below!

> How I do my research/world-building:

If your idea for the actual story is agnostic of time-period or setting, identifying that is possibly the first step. My initial idea for this story was to have it take place during a war (the Imjin War between Japan and in 1590s was the first choice) but finding the spooky landscape to set it against while also maintaining the drama and tension of a battlefield was going to dilute the characters and their inner conflicts.

So I went back to reading about Korean history in broad terms (Google Books is your friend) , trying to locate a time-period to set my story in. I finally chose this time-period because it was very interesting to me in multiple ways.

- it’s still a way away from the big social reforms in Korea in the 1800s that would push it into the Modern Period of history

- it was a time period when common people and peasants began to lose trust in the king and the upper-class bureaucracy, leading to peasant rebellions and some villages stockpiling their own grains

- it is a time when global influences were beginning to creep into Korean society, including Christianity. In fact, just a few years from this, a major wave of persecution would be unleashed against Catholics in Korea.

- I chose this time-period also because I wanted the level of organization of society that’s in this fic. It’s been established already, which means the characters are at a point of history where things are more or less stable in terms of what is expected of them as a member of this society. I needed that stability to create a quieter sort of period mystery.

To research for this story (or any other), once I pick the time period, I start looking for answers to my biggest questions:

1) how did they live: this includes food, travel, interests, societal hierarchy and organization, family structure, music, religions, and mythology. Basically, anything that they shared as a cultural group. In doing this, I had to separate royalty from common folk, because so much history is written about the royals and there’s so less about the folk. I looked up everything from the food that the common people ate to the issues they faced (winter and the gap between rice and barley cultivation was a huge aspect; so huge, in fact, that the popularity of kimchi can be attributed to needing a protein source in the winter that wouldn’t go bad). I looked up clothes and fabrics and the layout of villages. I looked for traditional crafts. And when I did, I found myself going down rabbit holes about caste professions (the shaman, for example, is of low caste in Joseon society, which was surprising to me considering so many period fics I’ve read has depicted them in a different fashion.)

I know that this feels very disorganized and random, but that’s because I have been doing world-building—both fantasy and historical—for a long time, and my process is built basis what I’ve historically realized works for me. But to make this post more useful, I’ve figured out a template that helps to look into culture. I used to use this to build original fantasy worlds, and I think it is useful.

And here is a graphic where someone has analyzed Japanese culture through this lens:

Most cultures share elements of commonality. You can use this graphic above to figure out how to research. For example, the culture of Joseon Korea as I have tried to research for this fic comprises of:

1) Language (written and spoken - so Korean; Hangul, + Chinese characters);

2) Religion (shamanism + neo-confucianism)

3) Government (caste system + agrarian bureaucracy + royalty) etc.

You can fill in the blanks this way for any time period and thus get a better understanding of the culture you’re writing about.

Additionally, I’ve spoken about the cultural iceberg on twitter before, but I find it very useful when I’m researching to pick up on each element in it and look up information pertaining to them.

This is how I use the iceberg:

> the top portion is usually the things that we’ve picked up on, through Run episodes or general Bangtan stuff. Like, we know hanbok is Korean traditional dress. We know the kind of food they eat. We know the music scene in SK, and that the major festivals are seollal and choseok.

> the bottom portion is where you gain deeper intercultural understanding. Notions of modesty, for example. We know that gender roles in Korea are more entrenched than they are in the west. In this fic, men are the ones mostly occupying spheres of influence, but women have their own spheres—we’ll get to that in a while. If you see, there’s an aspect called ‘nature of friendship’. This is where the concept of hyung-line/maknae-line/same-age friends all fit into this culture. It’s less visible than the top half, but you can still gain knowledge of it. Similarly, ‘attitude towards elders’ or ‘concepts of beauty’ are both aspects of culture. These are keywords you can use to learn more about culture. Again, you can also use this in original writing projects to build your fantasy world. I know I do :)

Now that I know how my characters live, I come to the second stage of planning/world-building:

2) where in society are my characters: since I’m writing a mystery, I need someone who wants to solve it. I need detectives. I read up on everything I could about the Joseon lawmaking process, going through scholars and bureaucrats and ministers before I found a smaller, quieter force: the podocheong. I also need medics, people in charge of administration, senior officials, and so forth. For each of this, I tried to look into how my character could have entered that role, what that role comprises of, and where it puts them in that society. Seokjin, because he is a senior official, would require to have taken a test to enter into that force. His family would have to be of a particular class status to even enable him to take it. Knowing this, I looked up everything I could about the gwageo because I found it so fascinating! There were whole coaching centers dedicated to just teaching children of upper-class bureaucrats so they could pass the gwageo! If you belonged to an upper-class yangban family, and you didn’t pass the gwageo for four generations, your titles could be stripped from you. This is another nugget of information that I thought would be an interesting premise for a character being a in a particular conundrum—you’ll see that later in the story.

For Taehyung, being an artist in that age would have come with interesting baggage. Calligraphers and painters were usually higher-class folk. Peasants simply did not have the time or the materials to pursue art. But there are outliers—inkstick craftsmen, for example, are among what was considered the ‘vulgar common caste’ but they were the ones who made ink and color pigments.

This just helps me create a richer world than I would have without putting in this research. It also makes your world seem more cohesive, lived-in, and deep.

So now that I know how they live and who they are, we come to:

3) what are my external/internal conflicts: my characters behave the way they do because of the culture and the customs of the time period. My external conflict—the murders—have to be set against a background of this, and informed by this. So I chose to make Yoongi a sort of disgraced scholar because it allows him to operate outside of his station: he needs to talk to Taehyung, or villagers for example who are all beneath his station, and he wouldn’t be able to do that to the same effect if he is a regular scholar like Jin is. The culture simply won’t allow him to. That also leads to friction between yoonjin, and secrets once they start appearing. His current station helps him integrate better into Tae’s world, while removing him from the world he’s working for. It also serves for his internal conflict, fears and grief.

Now if I were to extend this example to a more contemporary story: say your characters are in modern Seoul. Your external/internal conflicts can still be tied into the culture. Expectation on children to look after their aging parents OR the character’s family values vs. individual outlook OR Korea’s culture of students studying late into the night vs. the slowing job industry etc. For a Jinkook fake-dating AU, say, consider what are the troubles that Jin and Jungkook, who have 5 years between them, individually face. 27 year old Jin’s place in society, social spheres and worries will be very different from just-out-of-college Jungkook’s.

Why does any of this matter?

I just think putting in some effort to understand culture makes for richer characters, a richer world, and better writing. Not to mention it lets you learn about a new culture, which I think is fascinating, especially if you spend so much of your time thinking/talking about 7 Korean boys.

So to summarize— I guess this is how I research/worldbuild:

1) Find out when and where

2) Find out who, and how that character is affected by the customs/culture of that era/setting

3) tie my external/internal conflicts back to the era/setting so that the world feels truly lived in and alive.

For truly good world-building, make sure that your conflicts are caused by limitations imposed on a character due to their cultural setting, or because whatever is happening is outside of their comfort zone. Human beings don’t live in a vacuum. The society and the values that we grow up in affects everything we do, every decision we make. Even rebelling against that culture is an aspect influenced by that culture. Your world (fantasy or otherwise) will feel way less flat if it follows the rules of actual cultures world over.

*mic-drop*

If you found this post useful as a resource for writing/world-building, please consider a small ko-fi donation!

[PS: Clarifying that I will not be taking ko-fi for the fic itself - only for the original content that I provide here, on this blog, which can be used for fanfiction or original world-building.]

#writing #world-building #Taegi #bts fanfiction #bangtan fic #bts fic #.research #.writing

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peeterparkr · 6 years ago

Text

Clear|3|t.h.

Chapter 3: Play Pretend

pairing: surfer!tom x reader

word count: 6k (whoop)

warnings: swearing, mentions of cheating, ryan gosling

summary: Sunsets and Ferris Wheels, conversations and made-up deals.

series masterlist

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special thanks to @whatmakesmehappyy for being amazing editor, love you girl

So, we’re getting to the good part, I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Please tell me what you think!

Grandpa never really talked about grandma anymore. Y/n knew he blamed himself; he was still mourning. Y/n wondered if he’d ever feel better.

Y/n was walking in front of the house complaining to herself about the fact she didn’t have her stuff, she’d probably have to face Tom again. She was just about to yell when she saw her grandpa cleaning up the other car he had. It was an old turquoise Aston Martin that he cleaned out delicately every single day. He was always outside polishing and washing it. He was passing the cloth over the windows as he stared sadly at it.

“Hey pops,” y/n greeted him as she was about to walk into the house.

“Y/n, don’t go in there, there’s a storm approaching, your sister and mother have been arguing,” he warned her and she nodded. She walked over to him and picked up a remaining cloth to help him clean.

“Does this thing even work?” Y/n asked as he shook his head at her.

He grimaced and waved his hand dismissively. “But it’s my treasure,” he chuckled watching her. “Saw you leave with Tom, he’s helped me getting it back up and running.”

“Don’t even mention him, he’s a jerk.”

He frowned as he stopped cleaning, “He isn’t.”

“In my young world he is, pops,” she assured him. “I don’t know.”

“You’ll end up friends.” He had a smirk on his face. “I know you both.”

“Then you’d know him and I can’t be any type of friends,” y/n shrugged.

“Give it time,” He confided. “He’s a nice guy, he’s helped me a lot and he’s got good intentions.”

“He’s got intentions, I wouldn’t say good, but he’s got some,” Y/n sassed andher grandpa laughed.

“I know you, Doodles,” He chuckled. “I’ll give you time. Actually! Let’s make a bet , by the end of the summer you’ll like him, you’ll be friends.”

“Fine then, pops, whatcha wanna bet? Five pounds?” She smirked as he nodded. She stared at the car and looked inside where there were some pictures on the seat and some cd’s on the floor. “This was grandma’s wasn’t it?”

“This was her first car,” He grinned. “And I’ll keep looking after it.”

She smiled at him. “Do you miss her?”

He stopped to just take a deep breath, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “With every bit of myself.”

Her grandma was a painter herself and on the inside of the car there were a few paintings. Y/n guessed grandpa hadn’t touched the car since the incident, just to clean it up. But he liked to keep her stuff around, even when everyone else insisted that it would only make it harder. He said it was good to remember her. He was convinced that having her stuff around kept her essence and her happiness all around his house. It kept her alive to him.

“Hey, pops,” y/n gulped. “Is the basement’s wall still white?”

“Has always been,” he assured her. “Why?”

“How would a little decoration help?”

He smiled at her as a response. “There’s some paint in there, too.”

She walked over and kissed his cheek before running into the house, unfortunately, her sister was already waiting for her.

“Where have you been?” Joanne asked as soon as y/n stepped into the place.

“Out.”

“Mum has been bothering me all day, and you say out?” Joanne snapped. “Where were you?”

“Why do you need to know?” Y/n frowned as she was walking down to the basement.

Her sister followed right after her,“Because, it’s not fair, here mum is scolding me about how I need to help you and you keep doing this stuff,” Joanne complained as y/n was looking through the place for paint, ignoring her as she spoke.

“Bummer.” Y/n stepped in to take a look at the big white wall that was waiting for her to paint on.

“Are you even listening to me? Y/n I’m tired of all of this, of having to perfectly take care of my words, of not having any type of conversation with real people because I always have to look after you, of not being able to date a guy because I need to stay home with you and make sure you’re doing fine!” Joanne had exploded. Y/n just stared at her, with no response.

She knew it. She knew Joanne was already tired of her.

“I’m doing fine.”

“But you aren’t. You aren’t, y/n, and that’s the problem because you keep shielding, and escaping, and evading conversations, I’m tired of having to deal with your pain, it’s your grief, not mine.”

“And I’m tired of you guys thinking I don’t know it,” y/n stomped. “I’m tired of you thinking I can’t look up for myself, I’m tired of you thinking I haven’t healed.”

“You haven’t, y/n.”

“And how do you know?” Y/n frowned as she opened up the paint. “You only care for yourself and your dates.”

“I’m not the selfish one here, y/n,” Joanne scolded. Y/n rolled her eyes as she took out a brush and then looked down at the open paint. Joanne raised an eyebrow, expectantly. Eventually, y/n dropped the brush. “See? You haven’t healed.”

Y/n sat down on the floor and rested her head on her hand, now watching her sister with boredom. Y/n was defeated now, so there was only one thing to say. “What do you want, Jo?”

“I want to go out with Harrison.”

“Then go out with him, idiot.”

“Mum won’t let me go if you don’t go out too, assface,” Joanne explained.

“I already went out today.” Y/n flipped her pinky off to her sister. It had been their clever way to insult each other without her mother realizing.

“She wants you to go to the carnival, too,” Joanne pushed. “I talked to Haz and he gave me this idea; you could go out with Tom.”

“I’m not going out with him,” y/n argued her as she picked up the brush again, now fidgeting with it.

“Give him a chance.”

“I already did, in fact, I had lunch with him,” Y/n grimaced as she stood up and went back upstairs.

“What?” Joanne chirped as she quickly ran after her, “You did what?”

“I went out with him.”

“So you’ve been having a date this whole time while mum has been yelling at me?” Joanne was enraged.

“It wasn’t a date.” Y/n frowned as she went to her room in search for a book.

“Tell mum about it so she sets me free.”

“Tell her I went out for lunch with a guy so she gets her hopes up? And then expect me to fall in love again and marry and all that kind of bullshit? No thanks.”

“Y/n I wanna go out.”

“You’re old, you can go out, you don’t need mum’s permission.”

“I don’t, but I don’t want her to be mad at me,” Joanne insisted.

“Well, I’ll tell her I went out with him,” y/n shrugged. “Then I’ll say it didn’t work out.”

“You see, you can’t do that,” Joanne coughed as she looked around. “I already told her you’ll go out with him tonight.”

“Joanne!” Y/n yelled at her sister as she turned around. “Why?”

“Because I freaked out.” Joanne shrugged but then smirked.

“You see, when people freak out they don’t screw up their sister’s lives!” Y/n hissed.

“You’re not marrying him, y/n, piss off,” Joanne rolled her eyes. “You don’t even have to go out with him, you can just pretend we all went together, you’ll just have to go out for the evening and come back after a while, you don’t need to be there with him.”

“So just go out alone?”

“You do that already,” Joanne snapped. “And think about it if she thinks you are indeed dating him, she’ll leave us both alone.”

“So just fool mum,” Y/n took a deep breath and then pulled her hair. “No, Joanne.”

“Look, you could even ask him to help,” Joanne suggested.

“No, I don’t want to be around him, he’s so… pushy,” Y/n said.

“It’s just pretending, y/n.”

Y/n rolled her eyes as she finally found the book, it had been on her nightstand all along, she closed her eyes and shook her head. Y/n really gave it a thought, she taught about the whole possibilities. She’d be free, her mum would think she already healed. It could work, it could actually work. If her mother believed she was dating someone for the rest of the summer, it meant she could be alone for the rest of the summer. She could escape, she could be herself, she would have to give no explanations for her smile. Saying she was dating Tom, but not actually have to date him. It could work. There were still some details to work out, but she didn’t actually need to go out with him. Just say she’d meet him at some place, and then just… not meet him there. Perfect set up.

It would give her a free ticket to freedom.

Y/n pursed her lips as she couldn’t believe what she was going to do. “Fine.”

Joanne couldn’t believe it, but she just jumped over to her sister. “Thank you, thank you!”

“Now, let me be.”

“First tell mum,” Joanne insisted. So y/n did, she just casually mentioned it to her mother, who just stayed in shock, in a good shock, as if they had given her the best news. Her grandpa gave her a side eye and y/n just winked at him.

She didn’t know why or how she was doing it. A few hours passed by and y/n used them to start her book. Pride and Prejudice. It was a classic, and she probably knew it by heart but it didn’t matter, she’d read it every summer. It had started with her grandmother, she would read it with y/n every summer, it was her favourite book, it was a nice way to remember her. Besides, she knew that Mr Darcy was probably the love of her life, in a way.

Y/n was outside in the porch with the book on her lap, as the sea was serenading her, just giving her the perfect background music to her reading.

Joanne walked out. “At least go get ready so mum buys it, please, you need to give this some dedication.”

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” Y/n asked without lifting up her head, chuckling slightly at her shorts and flip flops.

“It’s fine, your personality is what sucks,” Joanne nudged her. “C’mon, commit to it.”

Y/n rolled her eyes but followed after Joanne inside. Joanne was wearing a nice dress, a little too y/n’s for y/n’s taste, it was hers. Y/n had clearly, obviously never been to war, but the moment they had walked into their shared room, she guessed that’s what war looked like. The clothes were all over the room, underwear hanging from the bed, shoes on top of their drawers, a bra even hanging from the mirror.

“Look, I chose your outfit so you don’t have to,” Joanne pointed to y/n’s bed where a pretty blue dress was shining to her.

“You chose my outfit or threw a grenade to the closet?” Y/n asked, earning a glare from her sister. “You know, giving me one of your dresses doesn’t mean you can wear my clothes.”

Joanne picked it up and threw it at her. “I’m wearing yours so it’s a deal.”

Y/n changed into the clothes and then tried to leave the room, only to be stopped by her sister. “You know, I know you usually try to scare off guys with that witch like hair, but mum won’t buy it if you’re not wearing any makeup.”

“Joanne, I don’t want to.”

Joanne had already pushed her into the bed and pulled out her make up bag. Y/n tried resisting but she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. So she sat and let her sister do her makeup. It was weird how the tables had turned, she remembered she was the one to do Joanne’s makeup when they were younger. Now there was her sister complaining about y/n’s lack of care.

When Joanne was finished, y/n decided she liked it. She looked pretty, even. When they were ready to leave Joanne and y/n went over the plans for the night. Y/n would go with Joanne to the carnival where y/n would split from her sister and find a bench. She’d stay there until Joanne’s date was over or if it was late enough, she’d go back home. She brought her book to stay occupied for the time being.

Before y/n could go out back to the porch, however, her mother called her over. Y/n frowned as she made her way to the front door where her mother was waiting for her with a huge grin on her face.

“What?” Y/n gave her a confused look, she seemed so happy.

“Someone’s waiting for you,” Her mum grinned as y/n opened the door, seeing the one and only Tom leaning against a car.

Y/n was about to roll her eyes, but Joanne was staring at her with wide eyes. Y/n flipped her pinky at her, before turning to her mum with a huge smile. “Right.”

Y/n, book in her hand, walked out to see Tom. He stood up and pushed his hands into his pockets. Y/n then realized the car wasn’t empty; a boy was on the front seat.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Y/n whispered angrily as Tom looked up.

“You left me out of the blue,” Tom complained and then frowned at the other members of the family who were popping their heads through the door trying to catch a glimpse of their conversation. He shook his head and turned back to y/n. “Look I-wow, you look pretty.”

“I don’t. I don’t… Thanks,” Y/n gulped down blushing and then shook her head to get her thoughts back on track. “Of course I left, you were having your scene there with Brunette Barbie, didn’t want to ruin your quality time with your girlfriend.” Her voice was still low.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tom clenched his jaw.

“Oh, sorry, side-chick, or whatever she is, good for you,” Y/n was nervous.

“She’s my ex, and she is…” Tom ran a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“Whatever she is, I don’t care, it’s your life, not mine, but look… it’s not a good time,” y/n was fidgeting with the book. Her mother was expecting her to leave already.

“Seems like it.” Tom chuckled as he motioned to the door, where the other two women were still spying on them. Y/n squeezed her eyes and chuckled. “So, seems like you’ve got something important to do.” He glanced down at her.

“Or maybe I like to dress up just to read a book.”

“What a lucky book,” Tom smirked, y/n rolled her eyes chuckling.

Y/n looked at the boy who rolled down the window. “Can we go, please? My friends are there already.”

“Sorry, sorry, ah, this is Paddy by the way,” Tom said. “Paddy this is y/n.”

“Hi,” Paddy said.

“Hey,” Y/n greeted him. They both turned to Tom.

“Right, sorry, uh, look, I just.” Tom opened the back door and picked out two bags, he handed the one which belonged to y/n. “It’s your stuff.”

“Oh, right, thanks,” Y/n hugged the bag and then he handed her the other one. “What’s this?”

“I told you I’d give you the seashells I had, hope they can help to get back your inspiration so you can paint.”

Y/n felt her whole body warm up and cold down at the same time, she even felt kind of dizzy. Her heart started to rush, her hands started to sweat, and suddenly, when she looked up at him, she felt the cheesiest of feelings. She saw how the light hit Tom’s face. She felt so stupid but she swore that suddenly all of the negatives she had seen in him were gone.

“What the hell?” She mumbled to herself, but it was audible enough for him.

“Oh, unless you don’t-” Tom turned red. Paddy repeated the curse word, causing Tom to chuckle.

“No, no, wow, uh, thanks, and sorry for the... uh” Y/n gulped. “That was uh, really nice of you.”

He just shrugged. Her eyes widened as she looked down at the seashells, it couldn’t be. Tom gave her a polite smile.

“I’m sorry, I won’t bother you anymore,” He bowed his head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking my little brother to the carnival.” He quickly glanced at the book in her hands. “Oh, Pride and Prejudice? I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. Great book, enjoy it, bye.”

Y/n was left there, dry and shaking, as if she had just been hit by a volleyball straight into her face, or as if a wave had just dragged her to the beach and she was just trying to breathe out again. “Wait, Tom?”

For a moment, she was conflicted. She couldn’t let him leave, because her mother was watching her so it would blow up her cover. But for a moment, y/n realized that her conflict was far from being anything rational. Her conflict relied on the fact that she didn’t want him to leave. The conflict was that suddenly, she wanted to go with him.

He stopped before getting to the car, lifting his eyebrows coldly. “Yep?”

“You’ve read this one?” Y/n asked lifting up the book, not understanding why she had asked him that.

“Yeah, I do know how to read,” Tom laughed. Paddy wrinkled his nose. “Well… uh, bye.” He opened the door.

“Wait, Tom?” She repeated her question, he chuckled looking up at her.

“Yup?” This time it was warmer.

“Is the invitation to the carnival still open?”

Tom beamed as he chuckled. “Oh, are you giving in?”

Y/n chuckled. “Don’t get your hopes up, it’s not a date.”

“I’m taking my little brother, of course, it isn’t,” Tom assured her. Y/n looked down at the bags. “Go on and leave them, unless you want another excuse for me to come see you tomorrow,” He winked at her.

She walked back to the house, and her mother and sister pretended to be deep into conversation. “You both are awful,” she said walking past them, leaving her stuff on the front table. “Now, I’ll see you later, mum, and you, I’ll see you there, I guess.”

Joanne opened her mouth to complain but y/n just winked at her before running back to the car, Tom had made his little brother go to the back seat and he was now complaining about him never being in the front seat.

Paddy eventually stopped complaining and asked y/n about her life, about her favourite colour or her favourite video game. Then he started telling jokes.

The carnival was definitely not far from there, it probably was only 5 minutes away, but while Paddy was speaking and while guilt was drowning y/n, she felt it like an eternity.

Paddy ran out of the car and rushed into the carnival.

“So he is the youngest one out of the five?” Y/n asked as they followed after him, Tom was looking down at the car keys.

“The five?” Asked Tom frowning. “Wait, did I say I have four brothers? I meant three, we are four… sorry, surfer doesn’t know how to count,” Tom laughed.

Y/n grinned.

“So what really got you all dressed up?” Asked Tom, glancing over at her. “I seriously meant it, you look beautiful.”

“Ugly duckling turned into a swan?” Y/n laughed.

“Ah, you’re not there yet, I can still see your face,” Tom teased, y/n flicked him. He snickered and they continued walking as Paddy was meeting with his friends. They both watched him from afar.

“You’re a jerk.”

“I know,” Tom agreed. “No, but really what got you all… well?”

“I’m out on a date.” Y/n smirked, Tom was taken aback.

“I thought-“

“For my mum, I’m out on a date,” she continued to explain. “Had to go out with you so my sister could go out with your friend.”

“Ah, so this is merely business,” Tom pouted. “And here I thought we were going to bond.”

“I think that couldn’t happen.”

“I believe you secretly wanted to come,” Tom grinned poking her cheeks. “I knew the seashells would work on you, got you all nervous.”

“They...did not.”

“I saw you, cheeks red and everything, took you by surprise didn’t I?” Tom nudged her.

“I didn’t know you could be nice,” y/n defended herself.

Tom chuckled. “I think you secretly like me.”

“You’re so pushy, I don’t like you,” y/n declared as they were making their way through the carnival, somehow they had ended up on the Ferris wheel queue.

“Yet, you’re still here when you could be out there.” Tom pointed out raising his hands. “I know my ways, darling.”

“Bet you do, with the tons of women you’ve dated,” y/n said. He made a point, she knew she wasn’t planning on leaving him.

“Haven’t been that many, but, somehow I think I’ll get my way around you,” Tom said. “I mean for starters, you already got jealous. That means you care.”

“And when did I get jealous, exactly?”

“When you saw Lex you were furious,” Tom reminded her.

“I wasn’t,” y/n laughed. “I just don’t like PDA, it’s disgusting,” y/n wrinkled her nose. “‘specially because I saw she didn’t want me there, so I don’t want any trouble with brunette Regina George, thanks.”

“Regina George, that suits her more than Barbie,” Tom snapped his fingers.

Y/n rolled her eyes and watched around at the people, it wasn’t as crowded as the day before, it was nice and steady somehow. There were a bunch of kids, she even saw Paddy running around with his friends trying to get into the bumpers car line.

“Why are we here?” Y/n asked, referring to the queue.

“I was following you,” Tom frowned.

“No, I was following you.”

Both of them burst into laughter.

“Well,” Tom said. “It’s nice, the sun is almost setting so we might have a nice view.”

“So romantic,” Y/n commented with sarcasm.

“Oh, you know that movie? With Ryan Gosling climbing one of these?”

“The Notebook?” Y/n grinned. “Yeah, I’ve read the book.”

“Maybe I should do something like that with you,” Tom suggested chuckling.

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Please don’t,” she begged.

“I wouldn’t, don’t worry,” Tom assured her.

“Although I love that scene.” Y/n was, secretly, a hopeless romantic. It wasn’t really a secret, though, she didn’t hide the fact that she was all about romance.

“It’s not real, though, their relationship,” Tom reminded her. “I mean, I...Don’t get me wrong, it’s just too… Too good to be true.”

“Well, in all the movies, I mean, but love is such a complex thing, you can’t really explain it,” Y/n argued. “Oh, wait, don’t tell me you don’t believe in love.”

“No, I do, I just don’t like the way they show it,” Tom insisted. “I mean, I’ve never done something out of the ordinary for anyone, it’s just… I mean, I do the usual, you know? And not even, I’ve never understood the whole meaning of roses.”

“Right.” Y/n shrugged.

“I am not romantic, honestly” Tom added. “I mean I don’t… I’m not cheesy, I do nice stuff, but, I mean I would never do something like that, I wouldn’t climb a Ferris wheel.”

“Neither would I,” y/n confirmed. “It’s just, romance these days involves a simple text, and just buying a lot of balloons, or roses, which truly...Kind misses the point.”

“But you are a romantic,” Tom pushed. “I know it.” She didn’t answer and turned around. “Ah, please, you can’t, you can’t judge romance, you were reading Pride and Prejudice, you’re probably so invested on romance,” Tom said as they were about to get into their seats.

“It’s different, I like it in stories,” Y/n defended herself, sitting down.

“You’ve been in love?”

Y/n didn’t answer. Because, honestly, she didn’t know. Matt. She had been, but there was a lot to explain there. Had Matt been the love of her life? Probably not. She had rushed things, probably to escape something. Matt hadn’t been the answer to her own problems, but he had answered the problems that had come along the way. It was stupid, she knew, her high school sweetheart had been her fiancé. She knew it. She knew she was going to break up with him before they could even begin to plan their marriage. It had been such a stupid thing to do, she guessed she had done it as a way to rebel. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t loved him. She had, and it had hurt.

“I haven’t.” It was a simpler answer. No explanations.

Tom frowned and then laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

Y/n rolled her eyes. “Why?”

“You’re a tough one, I like that, though I know you’re hiding something underneath that cold persona, guess someone will break you.”

“You haven’t been in love either, have you?”

“I…” Tom ran a hand through his hair. “Unlike you, not that I don’t like being a cold-hearted bitch too,” y/n elbowed him slightly. “uh, well, love is such a strong word…”

“You haven’t!” Y/n laughed, as she nudged him.

“Let’s enjoy the sunset, instead,” Tom suggested.

Y/n was about to speak, but he had turned serious just watching the sunset. She giggled and he did too, but they both committed to it. So they stayed quiet, just enjoying the view. And each other’s company, even if y/n didn’t like to admit it, she was enjoying it. But they stayed quiet for too long that it was awkward so eventually, they were laughing.

“Man, I wish I could have more time to surf, imagine surfing with that view,” Tom commented, and there wasn’t much of a response y/n could have.

Not long after the Ferris Wheel, they were playing with each other, laughing, getting to other rides, the bumper cars were the most fun, and they’d be giggling and smiling, singing and joking, enjoying and gliding. Bothering each other, mostly, and coming up with clever ways to insult each other.

After having a drink, Tom let out a not so elegant burp which made y/n cackle up. “That was gross!

“Oh gosh, sorry,” Tom apologized with red cheeks. “Sorry I never do that-woah.”

“No worries, it’s not a date we can be as awful as we want to be,” Y/n reminded him.

And to that point, they hadn’t truly realized that. They had been oh so invested in trying to make each other laugh that they had completely forgotten the fact that they weren’t dating. Y/n had, at least. It wasn’t a date, but they were acting as if they were. Even with all the teasing, it was in most forms, a date.

“So let's have an anti-date,” Tom declared.

And so they did, they did the worst things, from pushing each other, trying to flirt with other people and just basically continue to mock their way through. It was fun. They didn’t fight. Or at least, not a real fight. Their sarcastic banter continued. Avoiding deep subjects, they continued to mess around, to even a point where y/n didn’t know if it was flirting, and she didn’t mind. They were strolling through the carnival, getting on each other’s nerves. They both realized how they weren’t that different, they’d laugh at the same jokes, and they were both competitive in all the games, or they’d like the same music.

Y/n saw Lex in the distance and Tom tensed up. “Please god, don’t let her see me.”

“What’s the deal between you both?”

“We dated, it was cool while it lasted, we broke up a while ago but she won’t let me be, I mean, I know I’ve played my own role in it, but she still wants me to be attached to her.”

“She’s not over you, huh,” Y/n chortled.

“No one can, darling,” Tom winked at her. “Soon you’ll be drooling over me, too.”

“You must be doing something right because she’s so into you,” y/n commented with a laugh.

“Not good enough,” Tom shrugged. “She didn’t have any trouble sleeping with Jared, and this other guy, Marcus.”

Y/n’s smirk faded away. “Suddenly I’m not that big of a bitch.”

“Nah, you’re really cool, she’s the worst.”

“She kind of controls you, doesn’t she?” Y/n asked.

“I mean, I’m an idiot, clearly, but I can’t… I can’t seem to get rid of her,” Tom sighed running a hand through his hair.

“Sounds tough,” y/n turned to watch the brunette who was glaring at them. “And now she seems to be mad at me,” y/n added with a laugh. “Great.”

Tom didn’t want to look over, but peaked an eye and confirmed it. Lexa was clearly pissed off.

“I’ll help you out,” y/n offered as she took his hand in hers, entwining their fingers. “Trust me, she won’t come over, and she’ll leave you alone with this.” Just in cue, Lexa saw and turned into a different direction far away from them.

Tom was left in surprise and he grinned. “How did you know?”

Y/n winked at him as she let his hand go. They continued their night.

After buying some popcorn, some of which Tom had deliberately thrown to y/n’s hair, they saw Harrison and Joanne who seemed to be having a great time, however, y/n knew that her sister was probably not having as much fun like her because she knew how first dates went. Just playing the good side, being perfect, showing a flirty and delicate giggle. Y/n saw how her sister’s moves were barely even there, Joanne was beaming with light and her makeup hadn’t even stained a bit, she had kept her composure. Harrison seemed sweet, and they had a slow pace, with their cheeks red and their talking probably too elegant for the place.

Whilst y/n and Tom were barely even breathing when laughing and didn’t care at all what was happening, all the pose had disappeared, trying to show the worst; her sister and her date were just living a completely magical moment. For y/n, her anti-date was way better, because, she didn’t have to worry if he saw her a certain way, or if he thought of her in another one. It didn’t matter, at all.

She pitied her sister had to continue with the first date act, but y/n also saw something, the look in Joanne’s eyes. She genuinely liked the blond boy, the way they were shy and slow, made it clear, there was going to be a second date. Y/n wanted her younger sister to be happy, so with pain in her heart, she turned to Tom.

“Okay, there’s Joanne and your friend, the blond one,” y/n motioned discreetly to the lovebirds who were smiling at each other as Haz had won a teddy bear for Joanne.

“They look adorable,” Tom acknowledged. “Gross.”

“Okay, does he like her? Do you think they’re going anywhere?” Y/n asked.

“Uh, well, I guess, probably for a few weeks at least,” Tom shrugged.

“Shit.”

Y/n pursed her lips as she dragged him to a table, Tom frowned but sat across her. “What?”

Y/n pointed to the couple. “I need her to be happy.”

Tom laughed. “I didn’t know the wicked witch of the west cared about her sister.”

“In fact she does,” Y/n rolled her eyes as she nudged him. “I’m serious.”

“Well, what do I have to do with that?” Tom said throwing some popcorn into his mouth.”I don’t control Haz.”

“It’s not that,” y/n cleared. “She can’t go out unless I go out.”

“Like in that movie? 10 things… I don’t know the name, the one with the Joker,” Tom watched Harrison and Joanne.

“Not exactly, look, there is…” Y/n didn’t know how to even begin to explain. “Look, my mum wanted her to spend the summer with me, because she thinks we need some sister time, and well, basically my mum’s worried I won’t be able to… you know, socialize without her, so she makes her drag me anywhere.”

“You? Not able to socialize? How come? You’re delightful!”

“Hard to believe, huh?” Y/n shook her head. “Whatever, look, I know that look, so she’s doomed,” y/n explained, pointing at them. “She will probably go out more with him.”

“Oh, I think I’m following.”

“Now, you want to get rid of Lex, don’t ya?” Y/n leaned over.

Tom bit his inner cheeks and rubbed his face. “Are you actually going to suggest-?” Asked Tom, she wanted her to finish his sentence, staring he expected her to elaborate.

“Let’s pretend we are dating.” Y/n pronounced the sentence perfectly, even though she was dying with fear on the inside. Tom blinked in response. Y/n stiffened as she fiddled with her own hand.

“Oh wow, you did.”

“We don’t even have to date, let’s just say we are dating,” y/n explained. “That way I can escape, my sister can date, and if Lex finds out you’re taken, I’m sure she will leave you alone.”

Tom assimilated it. He turned around to give it a thought. “It could work.”

“It could,” y/n stated. “But we have to make things clear.”

Tom stood up and walked all over the way around to her. “Or we could date for real.”

“I’ll pass,” y/n said, scooting over so Tom could sit.

Tom laughed. “You’ll regret declining my offer.”

“Tom.”

“Fine, y/n, don’t admit you actually wanna be seen with me,” Tom wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “But okay, how would this work?”

“I don’t know, I’d need to think about the rules but, I know for sure, nobody can know this,” Y/n started.

“Of course.”

“No kissing,” Y/n said firmly.

“What a pathetic relationship,” Tom snickered.

“Look, if anything, let’s try to make it as real as possible without falling to clichés, we can say we’re just private,” y/n continued.

“Woah,” Tom stopped her, chuckling. “So, we’re going to make them believe that out of the blue, we passed from you hating me to dating, darling, we need an alibi.”

“Fine then, let’s just say I realized you weren’t that bad, and let’s just go on slow, make it believable.”

“Then you’ll have to actually be there, I’m not saying let’s date, but you’ll have to go to parties, and we’d have to be seen once in a while, okay?” Tom countered. “And I’m sorry, but, Lex will know, I’m clingy, so at least kisses on cheeks must be allowed.”

Y/n rolled her eyes as she shook her head. “Sounds more complicated than I thought.”

“No, no, we can make it work, we just have to think about everything,” Tom assured her, she nodded.

“Details.”

“You know, I can do it, I’ve dated before, I know how to act in a relationship, but can you?” Tom pulled her closer, she tried to shift away.

“We’re starting now?” Y/n frowned. “Yes I’ve dated, I know how it goes.”

“Of course we will start now,” Tom chuckled placing a kiss on her cheek. “Haz is watching us.” He whispered as she noticed her sister and her date had their eyes laid on them.

“Bring it on, then.”

“Alright, then, but don’t fall in love with me, y/n, clear?” He offered his hand to shake.

“Clear.” She shook his hand.

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