#//I like how the sketch turned out want to share before I line it

[lina-linny]

summary: yn is insecured about talking to much but her boyfriend hyunjin is there to comfort her

genre: hurt, comfort, fluff

words: 1k

It was a typical Friday evening. As always, Yn stumbled through the door of the small apartment she shared with her boyfriend Hyunjin just as he sat down in front of his canvas. Loaded down with bags, she tried to get rid of her shoes with moderate success.

"Yn-aaaaah how was work, love?"

"Good," she replied curtly, putting down one of her numerous shopping bags, which were filled to the brim. Hyunjin was taken aback. When yn came home on Fridays, she usually never stopped talking to him about her work. About how much fun she had with her new project at work, what she had for lunch or what her annoying colleague had done again. It wasn't like her to be that curt and dismissive, hyunjin realized with a frown. shrugging his shoulders, he began to draw. maybe she was just tired.

yn was completely caught up in her usual routine. everything was the same as always. But instead of looking forward to the weekend with her boyfriend and finding comfort in her upcoming weekly "painting-tea-talking ritual", she was plagued by countless self-doubts today. Was she not pretty enough? Was she really annoying hyunjin? Was she too loud?

Sighing, she walked through the kitchen and put the freshly bought groceries away in their designated places. When she had put the last can in one of the cupboards, she put on some tea water and opened the shelf with her thousands of cups. without thinking about it, she pulled out her comfort cup and filled it to the brim with hot water. looking at it, the cup wasn't particularly pretty. the design was peeling off nicely because of the frequent washing, and yet it was perfect in yn's eyes. it had been the first gift hyunjin had ever given her. when she met him, she was stuck in one of the darkest periods of her life. plagued by insecurities, stress and unhealthy relationships, hyunjin had smuggled himself into her life as a small glimmer of hope and when he wasn't there or she couldn't express her worries, she clung to the cup.

Ironically, the reason she needed to hold her cup today was her fear of losing hyunjin. Was she too exhausting? lost in thought, she picked out a tea bag and carefully let it disappear into the water in the cup. then, as usual, she sat down next to hyunjin, who by now had a rough sketch on his canvas and greeted her with a beaming smile.

the artist had been looking forward to her usual ritual all day. yn could only muster a half-hearted grin. as she slumped into her usual chair, hyunjin waited patiently to finally hear all about her day. he was dying to find out whether her colleague ayumi had so obviously made a move at her much too old and happily married boss again, or whether linh from the marketing department had spilled her coffee on her colleagues again and had brought these heavenly muffins as an apology for the chaos, which yn would quote "kill for". in both cases, this would be the third time in a month. but instead of the usual gossip, a depressed silence followed. hyunjin tried to ignore the silence by turning his attention back to the painting in front of him.

he began to paint a dark blue. he carefully let the brush glide over the canvas. as he always did. as he had done hundreds of times before and yet it was wrong. the line was wrong. it didn't show what his heart wanted to express. it was too big and too small, too wide and too thin. it lacked any warmth, just like hyunjin. the room was warmed by the rays of the setting sun and his sweater gave his body a pleasant temperature but it didn't reach his heart.

"yn-ah what's wrong? why don't you talk to me? you can't make me beg so brutally. give me all the tea!" hyunjin's mouth twisted into a pout and made yn smile slightly.

"I don't know, Jini... I talk too much anyway... I don't want to distract you from painting." to say hyunjin was confused would be an understatement. he furrowed his brow worriedly.

"jagia where did you get the idea that you talk too much? i love to hear you talk. especially when i'm painting! i want to know how your day was. every day! i want to hear everything you have to tell me my muse. i can't paint without you. the lines don't get right the painting can't really convey what i feel but when you're with me, when i hear your honey sweet voice it just becomes real love. i never want you to shut up understand?" hyunjin curled his shapely lips into a pout as if his girlfriend had personally attacked him with her previous statement.

"okay, okay jini!" yn laughed, but hyunjin didn't want to let the whole thing go so easily.

"jagi, what makes you think you talk too much?" hyunjin shifted so that his full attention was on his beloved. he looked at her anxiously as she nervously kneaded her hands and clutched her cup for support.

"well... i just thought... you know, hana, you know the one who regularly sleeps with the ceo... i was talking about our date where we went to see this beautiful van gogh exhibition and well... she said i always talk way too much and that i never let anyone get a word in edgewise. and... maybe she also said that... she's surprised that someone like you is still with me at all... and i mean she's not entirely wrong, is she? i always talk so much. when you paint i ramble non-stop. you don't get a word in edgewise and i'd understand if you were annoyed with me for that... or something"

"ohh love..." hyunjin sighed and wrapped his girlfriend in a warm hug, pulling her onto his lap, which she only commented on with a sad smile.

"have you forgotten that I always ramble the same way?" He lovingly nudged her nose, which made her giggle.

"i sometimes ramble on for hours about how great our new choreography is or how annoyed i am with one of the boys and as far as i can remember you always love to listen to me. so please don't stop. you shouldn't listen to hana this little..."

yn stopped her boyfriend from uttering a sinful insult to hana by placing her soft and tea-warmed lips on his. hyunjin sighed into the kiss and pulled her closer to him. Their lips moved as if they had never done anything else before. They danced a dance whose choreography only they knew. Hyunjin's hands were soon in her hair as he tried to take away her insecurities with his kiss alone.

panting, they broke away from each other but hyunjin didn't let her escape from his strong arms. slowly, he covered her now laughing face with kisses. smiling, hyunjin buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled her scent. "soo... are you going to tell me how your day was, my muse?" he asked, pressing a tender kiss to her sensitive neck, which made her giggle.

"okay... do you know how annoying hikaru was today? he's been running around all day and..." hyunjin returned to his canvas even though one of his hands was now occupied holding yn's, who by now was sitting in her own chair again, sipping her tea as she talked.

by now, the sun had disappeared and was replaced by the soft shimmer of the moon. the cool evening air wafted through the open windows of their shared apartment and yet hyunjin was much warmer than he had been just a few minutes before. her voice dripped like liquid honey straight to his heart and the soft giggle that had just left her lips made hyunjin beam. he carefully applied the brush and... the line was perfect.

[lelengerine]

pairing. nct dream (ot7) x reader

synopsis. waking up with the dreamies!

genre. established relationship, just a lot of cutesy fluff, mentions of food in jaemin’s, lmk if there's anything i missed <3

wc. around 150-200 words per member

notes. this is my first time writing these shorter drabbles so i hope you like them hehe i’d love to know if you guys wanna see more of this >< likes and feedback are highly appreciated!

m.list

→ mark

mark stirs awake, the morning light creeping through the curtains, casting soft shadows across your sleeping form. he feels a tug on the blanket and realizes you’ve taken most of it, leaving him with just a sliver of the warm fabric. a quiet laugh escapes him, though he quickly stifles it. the room feels too still, too peaceful to disrupt. his fingers move gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. you grumble a little, but don’t wake. “always stealing the blanket,” he whispers, voice amused. you murmur something incoherent, your sleepiness tugging a smile from him. he pulls the blanket back, careful not to disturb you, before pressing his forehead to yours. “i’ll let you get away with it this time,” he softly tuts, a quiet promise in his words. you nuzzle closer in contentment, eyes still closed, and whisper back, “just stay like this.” and so he does, letting the silence fill the space between you, content to lose himself in the warmth of your closeness.

→ renjun

the morning is still, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. renjun opens his eyes, immediately finding you beside him, your breath steady and soft. he’s always admired the way you look when you sleep. there’s a serenity in it, as if the whole world has quieted just for you. without thinking, he reaches for his sketchbook, sitting on the edge of the bed, pencil poised—a habit of his that developed ever since the two of you moved in together. each line he draws is delicate, a reflection of how he sees you: peaceful, beautiful, ethereal. you stir slightly, eyes fluttering open, catching him in the act. “drawing me again?” you ask, voice thick with sleep, a gentle tease in your tone. he flushes after being caught, the pencil in his hand freezing mid-stroke. “i couldn’t help it,” he admits quietly. you smile, shifting closer, peeking over his shoulder. “let me see.” he turns the sketch toward you hesitantly, and when you look up at him, there’s nothing but warmth in your eyes. “i love it.”

→ jeno

the first thing jeno feels is the weight of you against him, your head nestled into his chest, breath steady and slow. he smiles, still half-asleep, as his fingers begin tracing slow, lazy patterns along your back. he’s not sure if he’s drawing hearts or stars, only that he wants to keep you close. you shift slightly, waking up, and your eyes meet his, still hazy with sleep. “morning,” you mumble, voice soft like it belongs to this quiet hour before the world stirs. “morning,” he greets back, words rumbling from his chest. you smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw, the touch light, like a secret shared between you. “you’re always awake before i am,” you note with a playful sigh. he grins, his arms tightening around you. “just can’t help it,” he admits softly. “waking up with you feels too good to miss.”

→ haechan

you’re draped across the bed, limbs everywhere, your hair a wild mess against the pillow. haechan wakes to the sight of you, and a grin immediately spreads across his face. mischief bubbles in his chest, and before you know it, his fingers find your sides, tickling you awake. “why do you always take up the whole bed?” he teases, laughter in his voice. you groan, eyes still closed as you bat at his hands, but a laugh slips out despite it all. “haechan, stop,” you whine, still half-asleep, voice muffled against the pillow. the sound of his laughter follows not long after, pulling you into his arms with ease. “i’m awake now, so you have to be too,” he declares with certainty, wrapping himself around your torso as if daring you to escape. you sigh, melting into him despite the protests leaving your mouth. “you’re impossible,” you mutter, but there’s a smile in your voice, one that he catches immediately. “yeah, but you love it,” he replies smugly, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head. and in that moment, wrapped up in the mess of limbs and laughter, you know he’s right.

→ jaemin

the smell of something sweet pulls you from the comfort of your slumber, and you realize the space beside you is empty, but warm. you blink against the soft morning light, listening to the faint clatter of dishes barely seeping past the door. quietly, you slip out of bed, padding towards the kitchen of your apartment. jaemin stands there, humming softly as he flips pancakes with a focus that makes you smile. “you’re cooking?” you ask in the midst of rubbing your eyes awake, still groggy, but unable to suppress the fondness in your voice. he turns at the sound of you, a smile spreading across his face as he sets the pan down. “surprise!” he says, moving toward you, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. you lean into his embrace, the warmth of him grounding you. “you didn’t have to,” you murmur, though you’re already imagining the taste of the breakfast he’s prepared. he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes. “i wanted to,” he says softly, his fingers brushing your hair back. “i love mornings like this—with you.”

→ chenle

you wake up earlier than usual, passing the time as you scroll through funny videos on your phone, trying not to wake your boyfriend up, but it’s too late—he’s already blinking awake beside you, squinting through the morning light. “what’s so funny this early?” chenle asks, his voice still thick with sleep, but there’s a curious smile playing on his lips. you turn the phone toward him, showing him the random cat video that has you in stitches. he watches, his sleepy expression giving way to a grin, and soon enough, he’s laughing too. “you really start your day with memes?” he teases, shaking his head in disbelief. you nudge his side playfully. “it’s the best way to wake up!” your defence is only met with a sharp laugh from your boyfriend who pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. “you’re ridiculous,” a murmur comes out of him, his voice soft yet a hint of laughter trails behind. “but if it makes you happy, i guess it’s the best way to wake up for me too.”

→ jisung

you wake to the soft sound of steady breathing, and as your eyes flutter open, you realize jisung is already awake, his gaze fixed on you. his arm is loosely draped over your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly. “morning,” you whisper, still half-asleep, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. jisung’s cheeks flush slightly, a shy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “morning,” he replies, his voice quiet, unsure. you briefly stretch and shift around the pillows and comforters, turning to face him fully, and you notice the way his gaze softens as he looks at you. “you could’ve woken me,” you murmur, your hand coming up to trace the curve of his jaw. jisung shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. “i didn’t want to,” he admits. “you looked too peaceful. i… i like waking up like this.” his voice is barely above a whisper now, as if he’s confessing something he’s only just realized. you smile, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “i like it too.”

[rememberwren]

A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 2

A continuation of Skin Deep. Part one of this sequel is here.

About this: previous warnings apply, oral sex (f receiving), alcohol, gross imperfections, not a single nipple unfortunately, an eyebrow though. For @/moody-alcoholic, I hope this manages to quench even the tiniest portion of your thirst. 1 more part left. 7k

-

“Simon?” 

“Hm.” 

“Are you seeing anybody else?” 

Simon looks up at you. His hair is getting long, falling over his forehead and looking nearly brunet in the dim lighting. You don’t think he’s cut it since the two of you have started dating. 

He’s been drawing for half the night, hunched over with the sketchpad in his lap, doing terrible things to his own posture and blocking his own lighting all at once. When he answers you, it’s in that dry tone that lets you know he thinks you’ve said something funny or clever: “No.” 

A knot in your chest loosens. It’s hard to believe you worried over such a question for so long just to receive such a simple, earnest answer. He goes back to sketching. 

You content yourself with this and stretch your legs out until your toes touch his thigh at the other end of the sofa. His mouth twitches, but he keeps working. 

-

Six months pass, and how do you celebrate? You climb topless onto Simon’s lap, eager and anxious in equal measure. Your nipple piercing had stopped hurting months ago (save for the time you had snagged it on a cable knit sweater and nearly seen Jesus), but you had read online that piercings heal from the outside inward, and as such you had made every attempt possible to leave the thing alone even when all you wanted to do was play with it. 

In his own way of celebrating, Simon had bought you your first new barbell: a black one with black gemmed studs at each end. You couldn’t help but notice that it looked similar to his, only with a more delicate, feminine touch.

“Will you change it for me?” you ask him. Your hands are shaking.

“Alright. Let me wash my hands.” He shifts you off of his lap and disappears into the bathroom where you hear the faucet turn on. You cross your arms over your breasts, feeling silly being half naked without Simon in the room. Your foot bounces impatiently, but you know that if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s. 

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines? 

Simon comes back and tugs you onto his lap again. His hands look huge compared to the jewelry through your breast as he dexterously works the ball free from the barbell. He has the hands of a surgeon: steady and calm. You close your eyes in anticipation of pain, but there is none; it just feels alien, sensitive whenever his calloused fingers brush over your pebbled nipple, even as he removes the barbell itself. 

Taking the sanitized jewelry, he carefully puts it in and screws the stud in place. 

“That didn’t hurt at all,” you say, reaching down to tug softly on the barbell. Still, no pain. 

“Great,” he says, eyes on your breasts. He grips your hips. “Up, now. C’mon, up.” 

He tugs you up onto your knees so that you’re the perfect height for him to take your nipple into his burning mouth. You shiver, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other burying itself in his hair, gripping softly to keep his mouth in place. If you had worried that getting the piercing would make you less sensitive, you were wrong. He tugs on the jewelry gently with his fucking teeth and God, holy shit, fucking hell, definitely not less sensitive.

“Been waiting to do this,” he says, nuzzling the skin between your breasts as he gives you a moment to catch your breath. “Six months of hell.” 

“Yeah?” You pant lamely, chest heaving. 

He hums. His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch—as his lips find your nipple again, lashing softly with his tongue. His hands have begun to tremble where they slide down the curves of your sides and to your hips, touch soft and worshipful as he brings you down to rest your weight against the hard line of his cock still confined in his jeans. The shaking says more than a thousand of his words ever could. 

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.” 

“Yes, God, yes.”

Simon guides you off of his lap, kneeling down into the space between the couch and the coffee table. He pushes the table backwards with a little more force than is necessary when there isn’t enough room for his long legs and accidentally sends a cup full of charcoal pencils tipping over onto the carpet. You snort with laughter. He peels your leggings and panties off and drags you to the edge of the couch, pressing your thighs open wide. 

Getting head from partners in the past had been a fraught, mostly unenjoyable experience. Even your first few times with Simon had been tense, with him quickly moving on to something else after noticing your inability to relax. A less eager man might have counted his blessings and moved on, but Simon’s gentle persistence had gone a long way toward reassuring you that he truly wanted to please you this way. It had gone a long way toward reassuring you that you could let him. 

He spreads you apart, thumbs slipping against your slick folds, heated gaze pinpointed on your most intimate parts before he leans in and licks a broad stripe over your entrance and up to your clit. You shut your eyes (and cover your face for good measure). His warm breath fans against your pussy as he laughs. He could be mean and pull your hands away, but he lets you hide this way and you are grateful for it. 

Simon takes his time mapping each part of you with his mouth, nose brushing your clit whenever he doesn’t have his lips sealed over it. Your thighs shake, toes curled, as he pulls whines and choked gasps from your throat. 

You peek through your fingers when you feel him shifting beneath you to find that he’s worked his cock from his jeans and is jerking off, only noticeable by the tell-tale rhythmic motion of his arm against your calf. 

“Jesus, Simon,” you whine. 

He makes a little sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, shifting on his knees to change the angle of his mouth against you. Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too, to let your hands come away from your face and thread them through his hair. 

“Can we fuck?” you breathe, aching inside deep where his tongue can’t reach. 

He nods against you and kneels up to kiss you. You still aren’t used to the taste of yourself in his mouth, but it’s growing less foreign—and nothing could ever make you turn away from one of Simon’s kisses. 

He pulls you off the couch onto your knees, his legs spread to either side of your own. You arch your back, feeling his cock brush against the back of your thighs. Two of his thick fingers slip inside you, testing your give and your wetness. He twists them; turns to hook them against that soft, vulnerable spot inside you that makes your legs shake. Simon works a third finger into you, a stretch that your body struggled to take before but which it accepts eagerly now, the sting welcome and familiar.

“Fuck. I need a condom,” he rasps. 

“Just pull out,” you say. 

You can sense him rolling his eyes. Your fondness for the (dangerous) pull-out method had been formally noted by him and thus far rejected at every turn. 

“Don’t insult me,” he mutters. He grabs your hand and guides it between your own legs. “Be good and keep yourself warm. I’ll be right back.”

He’s barely gone long enough for you to stroke your fingers through your folds, but when he returns (flashing the intact condom package at you like he always does), he watches you for an endless, lingering moment.

“I like that,” he says at last, taking his spot behind you again, condom in place. 

“Like what?”

“Watching you touch yourself.” The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He finds the right angle and slips inside you, stretching your walls to make room for himself. You groan, your fingers digging into the couch cushion. It stings a little, right towards the end, but he just softly saws himself in and out of your pussy, soothing the ache with pleasure. His words go completely over your head. 

He reaches so deep inside you, like with his every thrust his cock bullies the air out of your lungs. The slick sounds are lewd, keeping time with your moans and sighs as his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, manhandling you further onto the couch to the perfect height for him to fuck into you, your knees barely skimming the carpet.  

Your hand ends up crushed between your pelvis and the couch. You let your fingers find your clit and the touch reminds your body of how close it is, that coil deep in your belly stretched tight and ready to release. Your fingers trail down to where his cock pistons in and out of you, and at your touch he groans, slows to a smooth drag, his length slippery with your own arousal. 

“Touch yourself, not me,” he chides, his voice rough. “I’m close enough.” 

“I’m close enough,” you say.

He flops against your back, nearly crushing you with his weight to hook his chin over your shoulder and ask: “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

You can barely draw in the breath to laugh, and it’s only worse when you cum. You bury your face into the couch cushions, giggling, fingers rubbing a gentle, hectic rhythm against your clit as your pussy spasms around him. He snorts at your laughter, a soft quiet exhale against the back of your neck. Then he cums, his thrusts sloppy and hard, turning his head at the last moment to bite your shoulder lazily. 

“Sex makes you so weird,” you pant. Your face hurts from smiling. 

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He ties off the condom and throws it away. The two of you sit naked on the couch together, curled up. It’s a little alien to be this open about your body with someone and to have them be so open about their body in return, but it’s a good strangeness. So much about loving Simon is. 

“I need to get the other one pierced now,” you mention, toying with his unpierced nipple. “Have to complete the set.”

“I never did.”

“You’re incomplete. Don’t you know?” 

He snorts. “I feel quite fulfilled, thanks.” 

“Please Simon?” you ask. “I want to.”

“Don’t ever say please. I’ll text Soap in the morning,” Simon says, trailing his fingers up and down the length of your arm, making goosebumps appear. 

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you’d been thinking about for the last several months? Would it offend him to know that you didn’t want to go to Johnny for any more piercings? 

Whether it offended him or not, your pride couldn’t rest easily going back to the tiny room behind the curtain in Skin Deep. While there had been only a few other tense interactions between you and Johnny since Simon’s birthday (and usually he seemed to favor outright ignoring your existence), the situation had not improved. 

“Simon—I think I’d rather go somewhere else for my other nipple. To someone other than Johnny, I mean.” 

Simon frowns. “What’d Johnny do.” 

He phrases it like that—more of a statement and less of a question, immediately assuming that Johnny is at fault. 

“It’s just—it’s like I said on your birthday. He doesn’t like me much.” 

Simon turns to look you in the eye. When your gaze tries to skirt away, he lets out an irritated breath through his nose—but doesn’t fight you. Simon always lets you run. Maybe because he knows his legs are long enough to catch you. “You really feel like that?” 

“You’ve never noticed?” 

“Thought it was in my head,” he mutters. Then he says the most dreaded words he possibly could: “I’ll talk to him.” 

“No!” you nearly shout. You struggle to lower your voice to something more appropriate for indoors, your heart tap-dancing to an anxious beat inside your chest. Just trying to picture Johnny’s irritated expression at any of Simon’s potential efforts to talk to him made your stomach turn over. “I mean—don’t. Really. It’s fine.” 

“It’s not. I need you two to get along. You and Johnny—you’re the most important people in my life,” he says baldly. His honesty does something to your lungs—empties them, crushes them. You only just realize the position that you’re putting Simon in, and it makes you feel about two inches tall. How could you let your petty problems with Johnny potentially get in the way of their longtime friendship? Their brotherhood?

“I’m begging you, Simon,” you plead. “Promise me you won’t talk to him. Just, give me more time to get to know him or something.” 

“Can't promise that.” He stands up and stretches, joints popping as you stare at him, your stomach tearing itself to pieces at this knowledge. This is not how this conversation was meant to end. But he disappears into the bedroom before you can gather your wits enough to say another word.

-

There is nothing like sleeping beside Simon, his arm beneath your head, your body turned and cradled against his side, a leg thrown over his thighs. His heart is as slow and steady as his breaths, his calloused thumb tracing a line back and forth on your naked side, a line which grows slower and slower as he drifts closer to sleep. 

You ruin it like this: “Simon?” 

“Hm.” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“If you got’a.” 

“On your birthday, you said that women meant for you sometimes ended up being Johnny’s. What did you mean?” 

He’s quiet for so long that you mistake him for falling asleep. You’ve resigned yourself to asking him another night when he speaks, his speech is slow and thoughtful, like it is hard to put it into words. 

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. He’s a fucking human being. Flesh and blood. Alive. People want to talk to him, to know him, to laugh with him, to have a drink with him. I’m not like that. I haven’t ever been like that. More than once Johnny would try to get me together with a woman who would end up falling for him instead. Eventually I convinced him to stop trying.” 

“Were you jealous?” 

He makes an ambiguous sound. “It’s hard to be jealous of Soap.” 

“Not impossible, though.” 

He rolls you over onto your back, coming to rest over you, your legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. The darkness lengthens the shadows of his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, tangible as any touch. He braces himself on his elbows over you and lets his forehead rest against your own. “I just wanted someone who was mine,” he says. 

It’s on the tip of your tongue, those words that are building inside of you and growing harder to withhold by the day. But you say it like this and hope he can translate: “I’m yours.” 

He ducks his head and kisses you. 

-

In the morning, Simon has slipped a piece of paper just beneath the edge of your mug of tea. When you look at it, written in charcoal pencil is DARCELINA: Dream City Tattoos and Piercings XXX-XXXX. 

-

It’s one for the record books: the rain. Thick pregnant clouds carry more than eight inches of rain to your city in the course of a day. The last time it rained so much was apparently during the Civil War era. The city floods, including the basement of your apartment building, which leads to a building-wide power outage. 

Simon has you pack a suitcase, junk the majority of your refrigerator and freezer, and come stay with him. You’re giddy, feeling like it’s a semi-permanent sleepover when he gets the call that Skin Deep has flooded as well. 

Then things take a turn for the worse. Simon is gone for nearly 36 hours straight making endless calls to attempt to clear the water and begin repairs, and sometime in the midst of that, the fight with Johnny happens. 

It’s an ugly one. 

Simon comes home in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen him in. It turns him positively stony as he moves around the apartment making himself a hasty meal, avoiding your eyes every chance he gets. After he eats, he sits heavily on the sofa, pulls out his sketchpad, and trashes no fewer than six entire pages before you get the nerve to ask him what’s wrong. 

“Soap,” he mutters, crumpling a paper in one strong, dextrous hand. He throws it toward the small garbage can beside the telly and misses. “He’s looking for other locations to pierce at.”

“Is the building that bad?” you ask. “You guys will have to find a new place?”

“Soap is looking for a new place. One without me.”

You gape, the shock of this news reaching all the way to the core of your being. 

“You don’t think it’s because of—?” Me. You can’t even finish the sentence, the thought upsets you so much. You tuck your legs beneath you on the couch, curling up, seeking to become small and harmless as grief and horror wash over you in wave after wave. 

“This is my fault. I tried to talk to him but he’s so fucking—he gets under my goddamn skin like he was born to do it.” Simon pauses heavily, before adding: “I need to tell you something about the night Soap pierced me.” 

Story time. Alright. You uncurl your legs, choosing to sit with them criss-crossed, your body turned toward him, giving Simon your entire attention. It’s been months since you found out that Johnny had been the one to pierce Simon, but you had been no closer to getting the story from either of them. Your curiosity was a dangerous, corrosive thing, eating away at your insides. 

“I’m listening,” you say, hoping you don’t look as eager as you feel. 

Simon looks to be at a loss for words, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth. When he speaks, it’s hardly the lengthy story you had been anticipating: “We fucked.”

You blink. “You and—Johnny?”

Simon sighs and shrugs a shoulder. 

“I didn’t know you were…” Simon stares, waiting for you to finish your sentence. “…interested in men.”

“You are. Why can’t I be?”

You feel a chilly pang of horror, like someone has slipped a dagger between your ribs. You rush to assure him: “You can! You—“

Simon’s mouth twitches as he rubs at the crease of one eye, and your panic fades. He mumbles: “I’m just fucking with you.”

“So you’re bisexual.”

“I’m… I don’t fucking know. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. I never named it.”

“Okay,” you say gently. “We don’t have to. But what does that have to do with now?”

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.”

“Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?”

Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.”

And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked. 

-

Simon is uptown at a café holding consultations while Johnny directs cleanup efforts at the shop, and you think that now’s the perfect chance. 

Your hands shake against the steering wheel the whole drive there, nerves less like butterflies and more like great winged moths in your belly. A part of you says that this is a mistake, you should turn back and let Simon and Johnny work it out on their own. But another part of you feels personally responsible—even if Simon says you aren’t. All your life you have taken things too personally, shouldered burdens which were not your own, bent over backwards to solve problems that weren’t yours to solve. If there was any chance that you could resolve this, you would put your pride on the line to do it. 

You park alongside the street and are thrilled to find the front door unlocked. The entire place smells musty, like a basement. The wooden floors have warped a little under your tentative steps, announcing your presence sooner than you’d like. 

Johnny sits in the chair where Simon tattoos clients. Sunlight streams in through the blinds and lights him up like some kind of punk-rock angel, his mohawk freshly clipped, dark finger nail polish chipping. Sometime between now and the last time you’ve seen him, he’s pierced his eyebrow: a black barbell with studs that reminds you a little too much of the one through your nipple (and Simon’s. Was that intentional? Did Johnny pick jewelry to match Simon’s? To match yours? For some reason just the thought makes your nipples tighten). In his hands is one of Simon’s sketchpads, and he’s flipping through it leisurely. 

He glances up toward the sound of your footsteps. 

“If you’re here about the water—“ his words die out on his pierced tongue as he stares at you, gobsmacked by your appearance. 

“Hey,” you say lamely. 

“Where’s Simon?” he asks, eyes flickering toward the protective spot where Simon usually hovers just over your shoulder. “He said he wouldn’t be in today.”  

“He’s not. It’s just me. I thought maybe we could talk.”

Johnny openly grimaces. He shuts Simon’s sketchpad and sets it down (hopefully where he found it). Standing from the chair, he takes a few casual steps away from you, clearly heading towards the curtain that leads to the back of the shop. “Really cannot think of anything we have to talk about.”

You square your shoulders, fighting down that instinctive urge to make yourself smaller, to give in and be manageable. “I think we do.” 

“You should go.” 

“Not until we work this out.” 

“There isn’t any this, alright, just—does Simon even know you’re here?” Something guilty must splash across your face because Johnny gives a mirthless laugh, reaching up to palm at his eyes. “Tha’s great. Just great. Could you be more incriminating?” 

“Incriminating—? Look, Simon told me about the night you pierced him.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Johnny says flippantly. 

“About how you two slept together.” 

Now that stops Johnny in his tracks. It’s clear that he didn’t expect Simon to really tell you about that night all those years ago. He looks at you with a fresh caution, waiting to see how exactly you’ve taken this news—what you plan to do with it. “Aye, then. I guess he did.” 

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.” 

Johnny makes a derisive sound. His words are well-rehearsed, like he has said them to himself a hundred-hundred times: “Cannot take what isn’t mine.” 

“He was your friend first,” you say, aiming for conciliatory and gentle the same way you might approach a feral animal. Johnny stares at you with flat, suspicious eyes. They’re so fucking blue—so different from Simon’s own dark ochre ones. “He told me that you’re one of the most important people in his life.” 

Johnny’s face softens. He says: “You shouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t.” 

“He’s not always good with words. Please don’t leave the shop, Johnny. I think it would break Simon’s heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart to break,” Johnny mutters. He leans against the wall beside the curtain and sighs, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it. Now out. You shouldn’t be breathin’ in this air.” 

Johnny ushers you to the door, hand hovering just above your back, careful not to touch you. Once you’re out on the street, he shuts the door and locks it audibly. Then he leans in and huffs a heated breath beneath the “NO WALK INS” sign. In the fog, he adds: “No GFs!”

You flip him off. 

He flips you off. 

On the way back to your car, you find yourself smiling. You force yourself to scowl. It’s a more appropriate expression. Giving one last glance back toward Skin Deep, you find him still standing there, watching. 

Likely just to make sure you’re really leaving. 

-

Not long after you are moved back into your apartment, you find that Simon stops sleeping. 

You’re ashamed to say that it takes you a while to notice; nothing changes on your end of things. Anytime you are sleeping over, he lays down with you, tugs you up against his chest, and holds you for ages, his body still and breathing even. But one night you wake to a cool, empty bed. And later in the week, it happens again. Until more often than not you realize that any moment when you expect Simon to be sleeping, he isn’t. 

Usually you find him sketching, shadows like charcoal smudged beneath his eyes. He doesn’t meet your gaze and tells you to go back to bed, that he’ll be there soon. Sometimes he even does come to lay back down beside you—but only long enough for you to convince him that you have fallen asleep again. Then he is shifting away from you, disappearing into the other room, shutting the bedroom with the quietest click behind him. 

You know that he’s busy. His schedule has been booked—and with deposits nonrefundable, people more often than not kept their appointments. He’s been working with a client on mock ups for a sleeve, and the various pieces and the way they all come together around the contours of the person’s body are very delicate. Johnny’s threat to find a new job doesn’t help, either. Have they talked and resolved things yet? Simon never says so. 

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him. 

That’s how you end up with drunk Johnny in your car. 

It starts with Simon falling asleep before you—for once. You can tell he is well and truly asleep by the sheer weight of his arm over you, the soft snores that he gives out against the nape of your neck. After so many nights of sleeplessness, his body has finally given in. You’re about to slip off to sleep yourself when the buzzing of a phone startles you back into wakefulness. 

Not your phone—Simon’s phone. And it goes off again. And again. And again. Who the hell could be sending so many messages at midnight?

You know you should leave it alone—if it was urgent, they would likely call—but curiosity gets the better of you. Carefully you slip out from under Simon’s arm. It’s a testament to his sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t wake as you jostle him. In sleep, he looks painfully young and relaxed, and it makes you long to reach out and brush back his hair that has fallen onto his forehead. But not at the risk of waking him. 

Sure that all you are planning to do is shut Simon’s phone off so that he can get some restful sleep, you are surprised to see that Simon has his text notifications visible on the homescreen, so all it takes is a simple tap to open them up. 

Johnny. All Johnny. 

Ghost. 

Ghost

Are you uo? 

Up* fuck my fingers 

I need a ride home

Simon

I’m at that bar on… The text is cut off. To see more, you would have to open his phone. So Johnny is stuck at some bar, drunk more than likely. Well good riddance, you think to yourself, the hurtful way he treated you still very much fresh in your brain. But then you remember your talk at Skin Deep, and your traitorous heart softens. Could you really just put the phone back now and pretend you hadn’t seen the messages?

Simon doesn’t even have a password; that’s how much he trusts you. Would he still trust you after this, if he knew that you had gone through his phone, even if it was for a good cause? 

Making a spur of the moment decision, you could only hope so. Your conscience wouldn’t let you wake Simon, and as much as you disliked him, it couldn’t let you leave Johnny stranded at some bar either. 

You open his phone as quickly as you can, swiping so that it goes straight to Johnny’s texts and nowhere else. The name of the bar is right there, and you scramble for your own phone to type it down in Google Maps. He’s not far. Probably would be within walking distance, if he weren’t drunk. You could be there and back before Simon ever knew you were gone—you hoped. 

As Simon, you send back to Johnny a simple OMW. 

There is no hint of spring in the frigid March air as you slip outside into your car. The parking lot is dim and quiet, and traffic is minimal as you follow the GPS on your phone to Johnny’s location. The pub nightlife spills out onto the pavement and you struggle to find a place to park, grimacing at the knowledge that you will have to get out of the car and go inside to find Johnny, considering you see him nowhere on the street. Leaving the warmth of your car is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially in just a thin tank-top and a pair of leggings. Gathering your coat more tightly around yourself, you rush out of the car and through the people on the sidewalk and into the warmth of the pub. 

You keep your eyes peeled for Johnny, but can’t spot his silly haircut anywhere. What if he’s gotten a ride home from someone else? What if he’s decided to walk, or found someone to go home with? You shift up onto your toes, looking over everyone in the bar when you spot him in the corner at a table with a few other men. 

Johnny doesn’t even recognize you at first—either a testament to how unexpected your sudden appearance is or how drunk he is based on how difficult it is for his eyes to focus on you. When he realizes who you are, his mouth drops. He points. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, accent so thick and slurred that you can barely understand him. 

“Picking you up. You said you needed a ride.”

“Aye but not from—oh, Jesus make me still. Yer not wearing a bra, are you?” 

All the men at the table turn to gape. You snatch the sides of your jacket closed where they had loosely fallen open, your face flushing with warmth. The table roars with laughter, but Johnny in his drunkenness doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment. 

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

“We get it, bruv,” the guy says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s no ten.” 

“What’d you fuckin’ say?”

The table laughs. 

Johnny grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and drags him nearly clean out of his seat. “I said, What’d you fucking say about her?”

The table stops laughing. Johnny cuts an impressive figure even when drunk; he’s easily the largest guy of the group. Your stomach drops and lands somewhere between your shoes. This is not going to plan at all. Reaching out, you try to insert yourself physically between the two of them but can only wrap your fingers around Johnny’s wrist, feeling the strength poised in the tendons. 

“Johnny,” you say, loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub. “Come on. Let’s go, yeah? Simon…Simon’s out in the car.” 

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested. He nudges his way out from behind the table, all politeness. Once free, he stumbles into a woman in a slinky dress who gives him a look that could melt glass. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to her, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist and doing your best to keep him steady. “He’s an idiot, and he’s drunk. You look amazing by the way—“

“Control your boyfriend,” she snaps. 

“I will,” you promise, guiding Johnny away from her and into the crowd. 

His nose brushes the shell of your ear, breath fanning across your neck as he says with a laugh in his voice: “I’m not yer boyfriend.” 

You flush. “Thanks for letting me know, Johnny. I had no clue.” 

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them. 

“English, please,” you mutter. 

“Je-sus,” he groans, dragging the words out into multiple syllables. He takes your chin in his hand and squeezes your cheeks a little. “You’re just like him. ‘English, MacTavish’. Ha!”

You bat his hand away. 

“He’s been rubbing off on you,” Johnny mutters, laughing a little. Beneath his breath (though far more loudly than he likely intends), he adds: “In more ways than one, I imagine.”

Your face goes hot. “Johnny, stop talking.” 

The two of you exit the pub out into the cool night air. It seems to sober Johnny some, as he takes in deep, gulping breaths. He walks a little steadier as the two of you cross the street, and by the time you’ve made it to your car, he has shrugged you off altogether (even if he is still a little unstable on his feet). He stands outside the car for a moment before opening one of the rear doors. 

“What are you doing?”

“Rather sit back here.” 

“I’m not your cabbie.”

“Strange manner of dress if you were,” he says snidely, slipping into the backseat. 

In the driver’s seat, you let yourself have a small breakdown. You grip the wheel tightly, taking a few deep breaths of your own, searching for inner peace. You thought that you and Johnny had a tentative truce after that day at Skin Deep, but clearly he is still holding some grudge. Your search for peace turns up empty. 

“Sorry I lied about Simon being here. I just really needed you to leave the pub,” you explain politely. 

“Knew you were lying,” Johnny says from the darkness of the backseat. He sounds remarkably like Simon: brooding and irritable. “He’s got no idea you’re here, does he? He’d never let you come alone.” 

You frown. “No. He doesn’t. He’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him.” 

“Nightmares?” 

“Huh?” 

Johnny leans forward. You glance at him in the rear view mirror. “I said, Has he been having more nightmares?” 

You didn’t know anything about Simon having nightmares. That sour feeling in your belly was back, the one that made you feel like you would never truly know Simon, not the way his friends did. 

“No,” you say, a little defensive. “He’s been working on this sleeve for a client. Staying up way too late to finish it on time.” 

“Aye. Nightmares. Anything else is just an excuse he’s telling himself—and you.” 

Done with the conversation, you turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the street. “What’s your address?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Left my keys at the bar.” 

“Goddamnit.” 

You turn towards Simon’s apartment. “Then you’re staying with us—with Simon. You can sleep on his couch and get your keys in the morning; I’m sure he won’t care.” 

“Are you staying there?” 

“Yes.” 

Johnny mutters something under his breath. You consider yourself lucky not to have heard it. For a while, the two of you drive in silence. Then Johnny says: 

“You never came for your second nipple.” 

“It’s only just been six months.” 

“So you’re due for an appointment then, aren’t you?” 

You steel yourself, gripping the wheel tightly at ten-and-two. “Actually, I’m going to someone else.”

Johnny’s seatbelt unclicks. He hovers at your shoulder bringing with him burning warmth and the scent of whisky. When he talks, his breath brushes your neck, fury tangible in every syllable. “Who is it? Who the hell is he taking you to? Darcelina? Astrid? Dusty? Whoever it is, consider the appointment canceled. No one is piercing you but me.”

“You don’t get that privilege,” you grit out between your teeth. “Not anymore, not after the way you’ve treated me!”

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?” 

“Fuck you, Soap! I wanted to be friends.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. Suddenly the road goes blurry. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to calm down—you’re driving for fuck’s sake. You swallow past the lump in your throat, the silence interrupted by rustling as Johnny leans forward again in the backseat, trying to get a look at your face in the passing streetlights. 

“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“You are. Fuckin’—pull over, before you get us killed.” 

Keen embarrassment only has your eyes watering more, until you have no choice but to do as he asks, pulling over to hastily parallel park and throw on your hazard lights. You let your elbows rest against the steering wheel, face in your hands. His words echo in your head, said in that stupid Scottish brogue: not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on? Are those really the things he thought you wanted? Is that the sort of impression you gave to Johnny, to Ghost’s other friends? 

The backseat door opens and Johnny climbs out. A small part of you hopes that he will walk himself home—and good riddance. But he horrifies you by walking all the way around to the driver’s side of the car and tugging on the door handle until you begrudgingly unlock the doors. 

“C’mon,” he says, trying to pull you out of the car with your seatbelt still on. 

“What’re you—?”

“Just—wouldya—so stubborn—“ he drunkenly leans over you and mashes his fingers against the button of your seatbelt until it releases. For that brief moment, he is a warm weight across your lap, bringing with him the scent of cologne and whisky. Then he pulls you out of the car—and into his arms. It’s a tight, full hug, chest-to-chest, not bone crushing per se, but all-encompassing. 

You don’t realize how badly you need it from him until you’re getting it. 

“You’re such a dick,” you groan against his shoulder, sniffling.

“Aye,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like the two of you are dancing. “But I’m right. We cannot be friends. So you’ve got to let this go, alright? Just breathe out 'n let it go.”

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.” 

“He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says, one hand rubbing gently at your shoulder blades. “No more crying. It’s out of your hands. Aye?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his shirt. 

But your tears slow and eventually stop. Cars pass occasionally. One of them honks at the sight of you both entwined on the side of the road, rolls down their window to let their passenger yell something suggestive, and it makes your face go hot. Johnny pulls away, nearly stumbling out into the road to give the car both middle fingers as it peels away. He slips on the damp asphalt and goes down hard on his side, taking the skin off his elbow and palm. 

“Fuck, I’m hammered,” he laughs. 

“Clearly,” you say, struggling to help him up and into the backseat. 

Once in the driver’s seat again, you feel exhausted, emptied, like a washcloth wrung out and left to dry. The drive back to the apartment is silent, and when you’re in the parking lot, neither of you make a move to get out of the car. 

You warn Johnny: “Simon’s asleep, so be quiet inside.” 

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

There’s a tap on the glass of your window. It nearly makes you shriek—but it is only Simon, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, bundled up outside the car door. You roll down the window sheepishly. 

“Need a little help?” he asks, taking a drag and turning his head so the smoke doesn’t touch you. His eyes are on Johnny in the backseat. 

You hold up your fingers with just a smidge of space between them. 

[gyuuberryy]

a love affair in colour

pairing: art tutor!jay x princess!reader

synopsis: as a princess exploring her artistic passions, you’re drawn to jay, your mesmerising art teacher whose lessons stir more than just creativity. what begins as a quest to master your craft quickly becomes a whirlwind of tension and forbidden desire. with every brushstroke and shared moment, the line between teacher and lover blurs. but when societal barriers and personal doubts threaten your connection, will you both find a way to embrace a future together, or will your love remain a beautiful but fleeting masterpiece?

genre: strangers to lovers, forbidden relationship, comfort

warnings: kissing, lots of tension, mentions of status difference, angst, a little suggestive

note: i used my experience in art to detail all the content related to it so bear with me if it seems a little modern, i don't know much about how they did art in the olden times. also jay just constantly raises my standards??? i love that man so much he's so husband material it hurts TT enjoy reading!

word count : 11.1k

royally yours masterlist | prev:heeseung | next: jake

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

you’ve always been drawn to art. as a child, while other princesses were learning courtly etiquette or practising diplomacy, you were sneaking into the gardens to sketch the trees or hiding in your chambers, fingers stained with ink as you copied paintings from the castle’s grand halls. but those were mere indulgences, fleeting escapes from the rigid structure of royal life.

when your parents noticed your growing talent, they encouraged it—as a hobby, of course. something to amuse yourself with between diplomatic meetings, public appearances, and the pressures of royal expectations. but for you, art was never just a pastime. it was a passion. an escape. a way to express the parts of you that didn’t fit into the carefully curated image of a princess.

so, when you told your parents you wanted to pursue art seriously, it was met with initial resistance. a princess has duties, obligations, responsibilities. but you persisted, and eventually, they relented. if you were going to study art, they wanted the best for you. that’s how jay came to the palace—an accomplished artist in his own right, though he came from modest beginnings. he was hired to help you master the craft before your trip to paris, where you’d study under the finest artists in the world.

jay’s reputation preceded him. he was known not only for his skill but for his ability to bring out the best in his students. when he arrived at the palace, you were both eager and nervous, unsure of what to expect.

your first meeting was in the grand studio, a room that had once been your sanctuary. now, as you stand by the window, gazing out over the palace grounds, you feel the weight of what’s to come. you’re no longer a novice; this isn’t just a casual hobby. this is the beginning of something serious, something real. and the thought of it is both exhilarating and terrifying.

the door creaks open behind you, and you turn to see him—jay. he’s younger than you expected, though older than you by a few years. his clothes are simple, a stark contrast to the luxury of your surroundings, yet he wears them with a quiet confidence. his dark hair is tousled, as though he’s just come from a long day at work, and there’s a certain intensity in his eyes, a focus that makes your stomach flip.

“your highness,” he greets, bowing low.

“please, just my name,” you say quickly, hoping to dispel some of the formality that hangs between you. “if we’re to work together, there’s no need for titles.”

he straightens, and for a moment, you think you see a flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his expression, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “very well,” he says simply. “shall we begin?”

you nod, feeling a mix of anticipation and nerves as you lead him to the easel set up near the window. it’s been prepared for your first lesson, a blank canvas stretched taut, waiting for the first stroke of charcoal or paint. you’ve done this before, hundreds of times, but never under the watchful eye of a teacher like jay.

“before we begin,” he says, setting his bag down on the table, “tell me why you want to do this. not because you have to—because you want to.”

his question catches you off guard. you’d expected him to dive straight into the technical aspects of drawing or painting, not to ask about your motivations. but there’s a seriousness in his tone that tells you he’s not just asking out of curiosity. he wants to understand. he wants to know you.

“i’ve always loved art,” you admit, folding your hands in front of you, feeling a little exposed. “it’s the one thing that’s mine. in a world where so much is decided for me, art is where i get to choose. it’s... freedom.”

jay nods slowly, as if weighing your words. “art is freedom,” he agrees quietly. “it’s expression. it’s telling the world who you are without saying a word. but it’s also discipline. and commitment. if you’re serious about this, i’ll push you. i’ll make sure you’re challenged. does that sound like something you’re ready for?”

your heart beats faster. his intensity is palpable, and it’s hard not to be swept up in it. “yes,” you say, though the word comes out softer than you intended. “i’m ready.”

he regards you for a moment longer, then reaches into his bag, pulling out a small sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. “we’ll start with something simple,” he says, handing you the charcoal. “i want you to draw me.”

you blink, surprised. “draw you?”

“it’s a good exercise,” he explains, moving to stand a little distance away. “if you can capture the essence of a person, you can draw anything.”

your fingers tighten around the charcoal as you sit at the easel, facing him. it feels strange, having him as the subject. his features are sharp, defined, but there’s something else—an intensity in his gaze that makes it hard to concentrate. you take a deep breath and begin to sketch, the sound of the charcoal scratching against the canvas the only sound in the room.

it’s not easy. his face is a study in contrasts—strong jawline, soft eyes, dark brows furrowed in concentration as he watches you work. you find yourself getting lost in the details, trying to capture the exact curve of his lips, the shadow beneath his cheekbone. but the more you focus, the more elusive it becomes.

“you’re overthinking it,” jay says suddenly, breaking the silence. he moves behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body, though he doesn’t touch you. “you’re focusing on the parts, not the whole. step back. see the bigger picture.”

you try to follow his advice, but his presence behind you is distracting, and the scent of him—earthy, with a hint of something fresh—fills your senses. your heart beats faster, though you try to ignore it.

jay steps closer, his breath warm against your ear. “here,” he says softly, reaching out to guide your hand. his fingers brush yours, sending a jolt through your body, and you almost drop the charcoal. “loosen your grip. let the lines flow.”

you do as he says, though your heart races at his nearness. his hand lingers over yours for a moment too long before he pulls away, but the connection between you doesn’t fade. the air feels charged, as if something unsaid hangs between you.

when you finish the sketch, it’s rough, imperfect, but there’s something there—a spark of life, of emotion. jay leans over your shoulder to examine it, his expression unreadable.

“better,” he says after a moment, his voice low and approving. “you’ve captured something real here.”

you look at the drawing again, trying to see what he sees, but all you can think about is the way his hand felt over yours, the way his voice seemed to wrap around you like a secret.

as he moves to gather his things, you realise that this is just the beginning. the first lesson. but already, something has shifted between you. something neither of you can name yet, but it’s there—in the shared glances, the lingering touches, the unspoken connection.

and as jay turns to leave, promising to return for your next lesson, you can’t help but wonder if this is really just about art—or if something far more dangerous has already begun.

the days following your first lesson with jay felt like a strange new rhythm. art had always been a deeply personal escape for you, something that existed in the quiet moments between royal duties, but now it had become something more. each session with jay stirred something inside you—not just the desire to improve, but a spark of something you couldn't quite name.

jay had been nothing but professional, his focus always on your craft. but beneath his calm demeanour, there was an undercurrent, a kind of intensity in the way he looked at you during your lessons. it was subtle, barely noticeable, but it was there, like the brushstrokes of a painting hidden beneath layers of paint.

today, as you enter the studio, you feel it more than ever. the room is bathed in soft light, the kind of glow that makes everything seem warmer, softer. jay is already there, setting up supplies on the table, his back to you. you watch him for a moment, your eyes tracing the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his hands move with such precision and care.

“good morning,” you say, finally breaking the silence. your voice comes out softer than you intended, the room swallowing the sound.

he turns, a brief smile crossing his face. “good morning.” there’s a hint of warmth in his tone, but as always, it’s controlled, measured. jay has never been one to show too much emotion, though lately, you’ve caught glimpses of something more.

“i thought we’d try something different today,” he says, gesturing to the large canvas in the corner of the room. “i want to work on your observation skills.”

you nod, intrigued. “what do you have in mind?”

instead of answering immediately, jay picks up a chair and places it in the centre of the room, angled toward the sunlight. he then takes his sketchbook and charcoal, positioning himself in front of the chair but far enough away that there’s space between you.

“i want you to sit,” he says simply, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before flickering away. “i’m going to sketch you.”

the request catches you off guard. “me? but... shouldn’t i be the one practising sketching?”

he smiles faintly, shaking his head. “today, i want you to feel what it’s like to be the subject. to understand how the artist sees you.” he glances at the canvas, and then back at you. “it’ll help you observe the world around you with more empathy, more connection.”

the thought of jay watching you, studying you so closely, makes your heart race. you’ve always been behind the canvas, never in front of it. to have his eyes on you, not just in passing but with the intention of capturing every detail—it feels strangely vulnerable.

but you trust him. there’s something about jay that puts you at ease, even when you’re unsure of yourself. so, you sit in the chair, adjusting your posture slightly, your hands resting in your lap.

“relax,” he says softly, his voice gentle. “you don’t have to pose. just be yourself.”

you try to do as he says, leaning back into the chair, though your heart is beating a little faster now. the room is quiet except for the faint scratch of his charcoal on the page, and you’re acutely aware of his gaze as it moves over you—your face, your hands, the way the light falls on your hair.

he works silently, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you find yourself watching him, trying to read the expression on his face. there’s a softness there that you hadn’t noticed before, a kind of careful attention that feels almost… tender.

for a while, neither of you speaks. you’re not sure how long has passed—minutes? hours? time seems to lose its meaning in this space, as if the world outside the studio doesn’t exist.

“so you want to pursue art huh?” jay’s voice breaks the silence, and you blink, surprised by the question.

“yes” you reply, shifting slightly in the chair.

he doesn’t look up from his sketch. “why did you choose art? out of everything you could have pursued?”

the question is one you’ve asked yourself many times. you think back to your childhood, to the afternoons spent sneaking away from your tutors to draw in the gardens, the way art always felt like a safe space in a world full of expectations.

“i think… it’s because art lets me be free,” you say slowly, choosing your words carefully. “in everything else, i’m the princess. i have to be perfect, poised, controlled. but with art, i can be messy. i can make mistakes. it’s mine.”

jay pauses, his hand hovering over the sketchbook for a moment before he continues. “freedom is important,” he says quietly. “especially for someone like you.”

there’s something in his tone, a weight to his words, and you wonder what he means by that. does he understand what it’s like to feel trapped by expectations? to want something more, something beyond the roles you’ve been given?

before you can ask, jay looks up, his eyes meeting yours for the first time since he started sketching. his gaze is intense, but not in a way that makes you uncomfortable. it’s more like he’s seeing you, really seeing you, in a way that no one else ever has.

“you have a natural grace,” he says softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “but it’s more than that. there’s something… untamed about you.”

your breath catches in your throat. no one has ever spoken to you like that before. not with such quiet certainty, as if they’ve seen beyond the surface of who you are.

you don’t know what to say. the air in the room feels heavier now, charged with something you can’t quite name. you shift in your seat, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, but jay’s expression remains calm, thoughtful.

he tilts his head slightly, observing you with the same intensity he’s had since the beginning of the lesson. “there’s more to art than technique,” he says, his voice low. “it’s about connection. about understanding the person you’re drawing, not just how they look, but who they are.”

his words stir something inside you—a sense of being understood in a way you’ve never experienced before. you’re not just a princess in this room, not just another student. you’re you, with all your complexities and contradictions, and somehow, jay has seen that.

it makes you feel exposed in a way you hadn’t anticipated, and yet there’s a comfort in it, too. you’ve spent your whole life hiding parts of yourself, but with jay, it feels like you don’t have to.

finally, he sets the sketchbook aside, standing up and crossing the room to where you’re seated. he doesn’t hand you the sketch immediately, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s unsure about showing it to you.

“you can tell a lot about a person by how they draw,” he says quietly, standing in front of you now, his gaze unwavering. “but you can tell even more by how they let themselves be seen.”

your pulse quickens, the weight of his words settling deep within you. it’s not just about the sketch anymore—it’s about everything. the way you’ve been navigating these lessons, the way you’ve been letting him into your world, piece by piece.

he holds out the sketch to you, and when you take it, your fingers brush against his, a fleeting touch that lingers in your mind longer than it should.

the drawing is beautiful. he’s captured you in a way that feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. there’s a softness to your expression, a quiet strength in the lines of your face, and yet… there’s something else. something deeper.

“it’s beautiful,” you whisper, tracing the lines with your fingertips. “i’ve never seen myself like this before.”

jay watches you carefully, his expression unreadable. “that’s because no one’s ever looked at you like this before.”

the words hit you like a gentle wave, their meaning sinking in slowly. you glance up at him, unsure of how to respond. there’s a new tension between you now, but it’s not the kind that comes from desire or rushed feelings. it’s deeper than that—a connection, a shared understanding that goes beyond mere attraction.

for a moment, you sit in silence, the sketch resting in your lap as the light from the window shifts slightly, casting long shadows across the room. you can feel the change in the air, but neither of you moves to break it.

and as jay steps back, giving you space, you realise that this—whatever it is—will take time to fully unfold. you’re not rushing toward anything, but there’s something between you now, something real and undeniable.

but for now, you’ll let it simmer. there’s no need to rush. not yet.

the days have passed like pages in a book, each art lesson with jay slowly building a tension that you feel in the very air of the studio. his presence is constant but controlled, his touch fleeting yet always careful. you’ve found yourself looking forward to these lessons more than you’d ever anticipated, though not only for the sake of art. something else draws you here each time, something that’s harder to admit even to yourself.

when you arrive at the studio today, the familiar scent of paint and canvas greets you, mingling with the crisp morning air. jay is there, of course, already preparing the materials, his back to you as he arranges brushes and bottles of linseed oil. the sun filters in through the tall windows, casting long beams across the room, turning everything into shades of gold. today feels different, though you can’t quite pinpoint why.

he turns as you approach, offering you a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "good morning," he says, his voice as calm and composed as ever, though you think you detect a slight hesitancy behind his words.

"good morning," you reply, your heart already beating a little faster. the last few lessons have been charged with a new energy, a subtle yet undeniable pull between the two of you. you've tried to keep your thoughts focused on the art, but with each session, it’s become harder.

jay steps over to the large canvas he’s set up for today’s lesson. "we’re going to work on technique," he explains, holding up a palette of mixed colours, the vibrant hues blending like a sunset in his hands. "i want you to feel the texture of the paint, how the brush moves against the canvas. it’s all about control and release."

you nod, though the concept seems easier said than done. painting has always been more of a challenge for you, especially when it comes to finding that balance. jay, however, has a way of guiding you through each step without ever making you feel inadequate.

"let’s start with the basics," he says, handing you a brush. his fingers brush against yours for the briefest moment, and you feel a spark travel up your arm, though you’re sure he doesn’t notice.

you position yourself in front of the canvas, trying to steady your breathing as you dip the brush into the paint. the first few strokes are tentative, careful. you focus on the movement of your hand, but your mind is distracted by the weight of jay’s presence behind you. it’s as if the air in the room has thickened, every sound, every movement, magnified.

jay watches in silence for a few moments, then steps closer, so close that you can feel the warmth of his body behind you. "here," he murmurs softly, his voice right beside your ear. "let me show you."

before you can respond, he places his hands lightly on your waist, adjusting your stance. the touch is firm but gentle, and it sends a shockwave through your body. your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of every point of contact—his hands on your hips, the warmth of his chest just inches from your back.

"relax," he whispers, his voice low and calming, though you can hear a slight strain in it, like he’s carefully keeping something in check. "you’re too tense."

easier said than done. you can barely think straight with him so close, let alone concentrate on the canvas. but you try, forcing yourself to take a breath, to focus on the task at hand. jay doesn’t move away. instead, he steps even closer, his chest nearly brushing your back as he moves his hands from your waist to your arm, guiding your wrist as you hold the brush.

"feel the paint," he says, his breath warm against your ear. "don’t fight it. let it flow."

his hand wraps around yours, firm but careful, and he moves your arm in a slow, fluid motion. the brush glides across the canvas with ease, the paint spreading in smooth, even strokes. his touch is light but deliberate, and you find yourself following his lead, your body responding to the way he directs the movement.

"you’re doing well," he murmurs, and you can feel his breath against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. "just like that."

the room feels smaller, the air thicker, as if the space between you is shrinking with each passing second. you try to focus on the canvas, but it’s impossible with jay so close. his presence is overwhelming, consuming, and you’re acutely aware of every shift, every movement.

"you don’t need to force it," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper now, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "let the brush move with you."

you nod, though your throat is too dry to speak. the closeness between you is intoxicating, and you can feel the tension building with each breath you take. jay’s hand tightens slightly around yours, and for a moment, you wonder if he feels it too—the pull, the unspoken connection that seems to have grown stronger with each lesson.

he guides your hand in another slow stroke across the canvas, but this time, the brush slips slightly, leaving a streak of paint that’s a little too heavy. you let out a soft, frustrated sigh, but jay only chuckles, the sound low and warm.

"don’t worry about perfection," he says, his voice rumbling in your ear. "art isn’t about being perfect. it’s about feeling."

his hand lingers on yours a moment longer before he lets go, stepping back slightly. the sudden absence of his touch leaves you feeling off-balance, as if the ground beneath you has shifted. you exhale a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and lower the brush, your heart still racing.

"good," jay says, his voice a little more distant now as he moves back to the table. "you’re getting better. it’s all about control and release, but it takes time to find that balance."

you nod, though your mind is still reeling from the intensity of the moment. you’ve never felt so aware of your body, of your own reactions, as you do when jay is close like that. it’s as though he knows exactly how to touch you, how to guide you, without ever crossing the line—but just barely.

you place the brush down on the easel, turning to face him. jay is busy cleaning the palette, his face unreadable as he focuses on the task. but there’s something different about the way he holds himself, a tension in his posture that wasn’t there before.

"thank you," you say softly, breaking the silence that has settled between you. your voice sounds a little shaky, but you hope he doesn’t notice.

he glances up at you, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before flickering away. "it’s my job," he replies, but there’s something in his tone—something almost… uncertain.

the silence that follows is heavy, filled with the unspoken tension that has been growing between you for weeks. you can feel it in the way he looks at you, in the way his hands linger just a little too long when he helps you. it’s as though you’re both standing at the edge of something, but neither of you knows how to take the next step.

finally, jay sets the palette down and steps back, putting a little more distance between you. "we’ll keep working on this," he says, his voice returning to its usual composed tone. "you’re improving, but there’s still more to learn."

you nod, feeling a little breathless, though you’re not sure if it’s from the painting or from the closeness you just shared. "i’ll keep practising," you say, though the words feel almost trivial in the weight of the moment.

jay gives you a small smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "good," he says softly, before turning back to his brushes. "we’ll pick up again tomorrow."

you linger for a moment, watching him as he carefully cleans the paint from his hands, his movements precise and controlled. and as you leave the studio, you can’t shake the feeling that something has changed between you, something that neither of you can ignore for much longer.

the pottery studio feels different today. the atmosphere is heavy, thick with anticipation, but you try to ignore it as you sit at the wheel, your hands already messy with clay. the wheel spins slowly beneath your fingers, but no matter how many times you’ve tried, the clay refuses to cooperate, collapsing into a lump before you can give it any real shape. you groan in frustration, watching another failed attempt crumble under your touch.

“take your time. it’s all about feeling the clay, not controlling it,” jay says softly from behind you, his voice calm but carrying that familiar undercurrent of something unspoken. he’s watching closely, his presence as steady as always, but today it feels more intense—like a subtle hum in the air that makes the space between you vibrate with tension.

you sigh, wiping your hands on your apron. "i don’t think i’m getting this at all," you mutter, staring down at the shapeless mound on the wheel. pottery has proven to be a far bigger challenge than painting—there’s something about the unpredictability of the clay that throws you off balance.

jay steps closer, his footsteps almost silent on the studio floor. "you’re too tense," he observes, his voice low and measured. "let me show you."

before you can respond, he’s already moving behind you. the air shifts as his body nears, and suddenly, you can feel the heat of him pressing close. he slides onto the bench behind you, his legs on either side of yours. the intimate position makes your heart race instantly, your pulse quickening in response to his proximity. his chest brushes your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck, and suddenly it’s hard to focus on anything other than how close he is.

he pauses his movements. “is it okay if i sit behind you like this? i may need to touch your hands as well.”

you nod at his soft words, “yes that’s alright.”

the studio feels smaller, the world outside forgotten as you’re enveloped by his presence. you can feel the solid warmth of his chest against your spine, the way his thighs gently cage yours. every point of contact feels electric, the tension simmering between you palpable.

“relax,” he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper, low and soothing. his breath brushes the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “you’re trying too hard to control it. you have to let the clay respond to your touch.”

his hands move to cover yours, his fingers sliding over your clay-streaked knuckles. his touch is firm but gentle, guiding your hands to the wheel as it starts spinning once again. the sensation of his fingers wrapping around yours sends a ripple of awareness through your body, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hands over yours.

"feel the clay," jay instructs, his voice quiet but filled with intent. his breath is warm against your ear, and the proximity, the intimacy of the moment, makes it nearly impossible to concentrate. "it moves with you. let it guide you."

his hands press lightly against yours, directing your fingers as they glide over the surface of the clay. the wheel turns slowly beneath your palms, the soft texture of the clay smoothing out under the pressure. you try to focus on the task at hand, but the sensation of his body against yours—the gentle weight of his chest pressed to your back, his legs framing yours—is overwhelming. the world narrows down to the feel of his touch, the sound of his steady breath so close to your ear.

"you need to feel the shape," jay continues, his voice lower now, more intimate. his hands move with yours, guiding your fingers as they dip into the soft clay. his touch is deliberate, patient, and it feels like he’s not just teaching you pottery, but something deeper, something far more personal.

your hands move together as you both shape the clay, your fingers sliding inside the hollow of the vase. the action is slow, almost sensual, and the suggestiveness of the movement doesn’t escape you. the pressure of his fingers over yours, the way his hands direct yours in shaping the delicate interior, feels too intimate, too deliberate. the tension that has been building for weeks now feels almost unbearable.

your breath quickens, your heart hammering in your chest, and you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks. jay’s chest presses more firmly against your back as his hands guide you deeper into the clay, shaping it from within. his fingers dip, mirroring yours, and the act of molding the vase becomes something far more intimate than you could have ever anticipated.

"just like that," jay whispers, his voice huskier than before, his breath hot against your ear. his hands slow, his fingers lingering on yours as you move together. the wheel spins quietly, the clay yielding to your touch, but it’s hard to focus on the art when the closeness between you feels like it’s about to explode into something more.

you can feel every movement of his chest against your back, the rise and fall of his breath growing uneven. the heat of his body is overwhelming, making it nearly impossible to concentrate on the clay. your pulse is racing, and you’re certain he can feel the way your body trembles slightly under his touch.

suddenly, you realise you can feel his heart. it’s beating erratically against your spine, matching the rapid rhythm of your own. the awareness crashes over you like a wave—he’s feeling it too. the tension, the pull between you, it’s not just in your head. his hands tighten slightly over yours, his chest pressing more firmly against your back, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is tilting.

you bite your lip, trying to keep your breathing steady, but it’s impossible with him so close, with the weight of his body grounding you while simultaneously setting you on fire. your fingers dip into the clay once more, but all you can feel is the warmth of his hands over yours, the way his presence fills every corner of your mind.

jay’s breath hitches, barely audible, but you hear it. you feel it. the tension between you has been simmering for weeks, and now it’s at a boiling point, undeniable and heavy.

after what feels like an eternity, jay finally pulls his hands away, the absence of his touch leaving you cold and disoriented. his chest moves away from your back, and he stands slowly, as if he, too, is struggling to shake off the intensity of the moment.

"good work," he says, his voice quieter than usual, almost strained. he steps away from the wheel, his hands clenching and unclenching as though he’s trying to regain his composure.

you remain seated, your hands still coated in clay, your heart still racing. the silence between you is thick with everything unsaid. you can still feel the echo of his hands on yours, the warmth of his body lingering against your skin.

finally, you glance over your shoulder, your eyes searching his face for some kind of answer, some indication of what he’s thinking. but jay’s expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on the now-complete vase on the wheel.

"you did well," he repeats, though his tone is quieter, almost distant. there’s something unresolved in the air, something that neither of you dares to acknowledge aloud.

as you stand, your legs unsteady, you can’t help but feel that something between you has shifted irreversibly. the line you’ve both been walking for weeks feels dangerously close to being crossed, and the question now is whether either of you is ready to take that step.

the last day of your art lessons starts with a sense of melancholy that you try to push away. you know that this will be your final session with jay, and although you’ve learned more than you could have imagined, the thought of no longer spending time with him feels like a loss. he greets you at the studio with his usual warm smile, but there’s something different about him today—a lightness that wasn’t there before.

“we’re not staying inside today,” jay says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “i figured we’ve done enough of that. you’ve been using my supplies, so i thought it’s time you get your own.”

you blink, surprised by the suggestion. “you mean we’re going shopping?”

he nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “you deserve your own tools. besides, i want to show you my favourite spots.”

the idea excites you more than you’d expected. it feels intimate, personal—like he’s sharing a part of himself with you outside the confines of the studio. and so, you follow him out into the bustling streets, the city alive with activity as you walk side by side, the sky overhead a muted grey that promises rain.

the first shop is a small, unassuming place tucked between two larger storefronts, and you wouldn’t have noticed it if jay hadn’t pointed it out. inside, it’s a treasure trove of art supplies—shelves stacked high with paints, brushes, and sketchpads of every kind. the scent of paper and wood fills the air, and you can’t help but feel a little like a child in a candy store, overwhelmed by the endless possibilities.

jay moves through the aisles with ease, clearly at home here. he picks up brushes, testing their weight in his hand before handing them to you to feel. “this one’s perfect for detail work,” he says, holding up a fine-tipped brush. “and this,” he adds, pulling out a thicker, more rugged one, “is for broader strokes, more expression.”

you watch him as he speaks, his voice low and sure, and you find yourself more captivated by him than the tools he’s showing you. there’s something about the way his hands move with such confidence, the way he seems to understand the soul of each item, that draws you in. it’s a side of him you haven’t seen before, one that’s less restrained, more passionate.

he catches you staring, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “what?”

you quickly look away, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “nothing,” you mumble, pretending to examine the brushes in front of you.

but you can’t hide your growing admiration for him, and you suspect he knows it. he moves closer, his arm brushing lightly against yours as he reaches for a set of soft pastels. “try these,” he says, handing them to you. “i think they’ll suit your style.”

you take the pastels from him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange, and for a moment, the air between you feels charged. you swallow hard, trying to focus on the colours in your hand rather than the way his touch lingers in your mind.

from there, you move to the next shop, a slightly larger one filled with canvases of all sizes and shapes. jay pulls you toward a display of stretched canvas frames, explaining the difference between cotton and linen, the various textures and how they interact with different mediums. he talks with such enthusiasm that you can’t help but smile, his passion contagious.

“pick a few,” he says, gesturing to the rows of canvases. “you’re going to need a variety if you want to keep experimenting.”

you nod, feeling a sense of freedom in the choice. as you select your canvases, jay hovers nearby, occasionally offering suggestions but mostly watching with a quiet intensity that makes your skin prickle. you wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s just as aware of the subtle tension that’s been growing between you over the weeks.

the third shop is more modern, filled with high-end supplies—gorgeous palettes of oil paints in jewel tones, sleek metal easels, and handcrafted wooden boxes for storing brushes. it’s clear jay has saved the best for last, and as you wander the aisles together, he shows you some of his favourites, his voice soft and reverent as he talks about the craftsmanship behind each item.

“i’ve always wanted one of these,” you say, running your fingers over a beautiful wooden palette, its smooth surface gleaming under the soft light. “it’s almost too nice to use.”

jay grins, standing beside you as he watches you admire it. “you should get it,” he says, his voice warm. “every artist needs something that feels special, something that inspires them to create.”

his words send a shiver through you, and you glance at him, the closeness between you suddenly palpable. the quiet intimacy of the moment, standing together in the softly lit store, surrounded by the tools of your shared passion, feels heavy with something unspoken. you nod, slipping the palette into your basket, trying to shake the fluttering in your chest.

as you leave the last shop, your arms full of bags and supplies, the sky opens up, releasing a sudden torrent of rain. the drops fall fast and heavy, soaking you within moments. you yelp in surprise, pulling your hood over your head, but it’s no use—you’re drenched almost immediately.

jay laughs, a rich sound that cuts through the noise of the rain. “looks like we’re in for it!” he shouts over the downpour, his hair already dripping wet as he holds a hand out to catch the rain.

you can’t help but laugh, your spirits lifting despite the sudden storm. the two of you stand in the rain for a moment, looking at each other, before jay suddenly grabs your hand.

“come on!” he says, pulling you into a run.

you follow him, laughing breathlessly as you race through the rain-soaked streets, splashing through puddles and dodging other passersby who huddle under umbrellas and awnings. the bags of art supplies jostle against your sides, but you barely notice, too caught up in the exhilaration of running with him through the storm.

the rain comes down harder, drenching you completely, your clothes clinging to your body and your hair sticking to your face. but none of it matters—you’re both laughing, the world around you a blur as you sprint through the narrow streets, your hand still held tightly in his.

jay pulls you into a narrow alleyway, ducking under a stone archway for shelter. it’s barely enough to shield you from the rain, but you’re both out of breath, giggling uncontrollably as you lean against the cold stone walls.

you’re both soaked, your clothes dripping water onto the ground, but the warmth between you is undeniable. jay’s hair is plastered to his forehead, droplets sliding down his face as he looks at you, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

you can feel the heat radiating from his body, even through the dampness of your clothes. you’re pressed so close to him in the narrow space that you can feel the tension building, the awareness of every inch of space between you—or rather, the lack of it.

jay’s laughter fades as his eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you shifts. his gaze softens, his usual playful demeanour replaced by something more serious, more intense. you’re both still, the rain beating down around you, but inside this tiny archway, it feels like time has slowed.

he reaches up, his fingers brushing a strand of wet hair from your face, and the simple gesture sends a shiver down your spine. his hand lingers by your cheek, and you can feel the warmth of his touch even through the coolness of the rain.

for a moment, neither of you say anything, the space between you heavy with everything that’s gone unsaid. you can feel your heart racing, your breath catching in your throat as his eyes drop to your lips for just a second, but it’s enough to make your pulse quicken.

then, without thinking, without hesitation, he leans in.

the kiss is slow at first—tentative, as though he’s testing the waters. his lips brush against yours softly, almost delicately, and for a moment, it feels like the world stops. the rain, the city, everything fades away, and all that exists is the warmth of his mouth on yours, the softness of his kiss.

your heart stutters, your body frozen for a split second before you kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his chest. the kiss deepens, and the tension that’s been building between you for weeks unravels in a rush of heat and longing. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, pressing into him as though you can’t get close enough.

the rain falls around you, forgotten, as you lose yourself in the kiss. there’s a desperation to it, like neither of you knows when—or if—you’ll ever get this chance again. it’s intoxicating, overwhelming, and everything you’ve been holding back spills out in that single kiss.

when you finally pull away, breathless, jay rests his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you close as though he’s afraid to let go. you’re both panting, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath, but you can’t seem to move, can’t seem to break the connection between you.

the kiss lingers in the air, an invisible thread still tying you to jay even as the rain continues to fall. his forehead rests against yours, his breath shallow and quick, matching the erratic rhythm of your heart. for a moment, everything feels right, the world outside forgotten, the storm cocooning you in your own little universe.

but then something shifts. you feel it in the way his grip on your waist tightens briefly before loosening, in the way his eyes darken, filled with a sorrow that cuts through the joy of the moment.

he pulls back, just a fraction, enough to put space between you but not enough to break the connection entirely. his gaze drops to the ground, as though he can’t bear to meet your eyes.

“we… we can’t,” jay whispers, his voice heavy with regret.

the words hit you like cold water, the warmth of the kiss suddenly feeling distant. “what do you mean?” your voice is soft, confused, almost pleading. you take a step closer, unwilling to let him slip away. “jay, what are you saying?”

he sighs, running a hand through his damp hair, his shoulders tense. “you know what i mean,” he says quietly. “you’re a princess. you belong to a world of crowns and thrones, and i… i’m just your art teacher.”

you shake your head, the rain beginning to soak through your clothes, but you hardly notice. “i don’t care about that! my parents wouldn’t either. jay, this—this connection we have, it’s real. you can’t just pretend it isn’t.”

his eyes finally meet yours, and for a moment, you see the same longing reflected in them. but then he looks away again, his jaw tightening. “maybe your parents wouldn’t care, but i do. i won’t let you throw away your life for me. you have responsibilities, a future. i can’t be the reason you turn your back on all of that.”

your heart aches at his words, at the way he’s trying to protect you even as it tears you both apart. you reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “you’re not asking me to give anything up. i’m telling you what i want. you. you’re what i want, jay.”

he looks at your hand in his, and for a second, he doesn’t move, as though he’s frozen between what he wants and what he believes is right. “you don’t understand,” he says quietly. “you’re used to a life of luxury. i can’t give you that. i won’t let you settle for less.”

the frustration bubbles up inside you, mixing with the hurt. “it’s not about that. it never was. do you really think any of that matters to me if i’m not happy?”

jay’s gaze softens, but the doubt lingers in his eyes, a shadow of the barriers between you. “i need time,” he says, his voice pained. “i need to think about this.”

you bite your lip, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “take all the time you need. just… don’t take too long. please.”

he nods, his face filled with a mix of guilt and sorrow. then, like the gentleman he is, he steps closer, offering you his arm. “let me take you home,” he says softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that only deepens the ache in your chest.

the walk back to the palace is quiet, both of you wrapped in your own thoughts, the sound of the rain the only noise between you. his arm around yours feels protective, grounding, but it’s bittersweet knowing that he’s still holding a part of himself back.

when you finally reach the palace gates, jay pauses, turning to face you. the light from the lanterns casts a soft glow over his features, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still.

“goodnight, princess,” he says, his voice gentle, though there’s an unmistakable distance in his tone now.

you look up at him, wanting to say something—anything—to make him stay, to convince him that this is worth fighting for. but the words stick in your throat. instead, you nod, forcing a small smile despite the heaviness in your heart.

“goodnight, jay.”

he gives you a final, lingering glance before turning and walking away, the rain continuing to fall as his figure disappears into the night. you stand there for a long time, watching him go, your heart aching with every step he takes.

as you finally turn and walk inside, the warmth of the palace feels stifling compared to the cool rain outside. the emptiness left in jay’s wake presses down on you, and the realisation that you might not see him again for a while hits you like a blow.

in the days that follow, the quiet is suffocating. you try to fill your time with painting, with other lessons and royal duties, but nothing seems to lift the weight pressing on your chest. each moment stretches on, and the palace, usually filled with the comfort of familiarity, now feels hollow without him.

your parents notice your change in mood but don’t pry, their knowing glances suggesting they’re aware that something more than art is on your mind. still, you keep jay’s name on the tip of your tongue, unable to speak it without feeling the ache of uncertainty.

and so, you wait. you wait for a letter, for a word from him—anything to tell you that he hasn’t let go, that he’s still thinking about you as much as you are about him. but with each passing day, the silence only grows louder, the doubt harder to ignore.

what if he doesn’t come back? what if he decides you aren’t worth the risk?

the thought makes your heart tighten painfully. you sit in your art studio, staring at an unfinished painting, the brush limp in your hand, as you wonder if jay is fighting the same battle within himself.

it feels like an eternity has passed since that rainy day, since that kiss that felt like the world shifted. and now, all you can do is hope that he finds his way back to you before it’s too late.

the days stretch long and quiet after that night in the rain, and the distance between you and jay feels more unbearable with each passing moment. you keep replaying his words, the look in his eyes, the way he had kissed you—like he wanted to hold on forever but didn’t know if he should.

you throw yourself into your art, hoping the colours and brushstrokes will distract you from the weight of his absence. but the empty space he’s left behind is hard to ignore, especially as you finish the final piece you’d been working on for weeks—a vibrant painting of a parisian street, your future awaiting you there.

paris. the word itself sounds like a dream. the trip is supposed to happen soon—your long-awaited opportunity to study art in the heart of a city known for its creativity and beauty. it’s everything you’ve worked toward, yet now the thought of leaving without jay feels hollow.

what was once the pinnacle of your aspirations now feels incomplete. you had imagined this adventure, this new chapter of your life, and pictured jay being a part of it. but now, with his silence lingering between you, you’re uncertain of whether he’ll still be there when it begins.

sitting at your desk, you stare down at the blank parchment, the quill hovering in your hand. you haven’t spoken to jay since he walked away that night, but you can’t bear to leave for paris without reaching out, without giving him one last chance to understand how much he means to you.

the words come slowly at first, but then they start to pour out, your emotions and thoughts spilling onto the page.

dear jay, it feels strange writing to you after all this time—after all the moments we shared that now seem so far away. i’ve been thinking about what you said that night, about how we come from different worlds, about the future you think i deserve. but you need to know that none of it matters to me if you’re not a part of it. i’ve wanted this trip to paris for as long as i can remember, to learn from the best, to immerse myself in art and culture. it’s something i’ve dreamed about for years. and yet, now, as the day of my departure gets closer, all i can think about is you. i don’t want to go to paris and leave you behind, wondering what could have been. you’re as much a part of my passion for art as any paintbrush or canvas. you’ve shown me new ways to see the world, to express myself, and i’ll always be grateful for that. but more than that, you’ve become someone i can’t imagine my life without. i know you think i’m giving up too much, that i’m risking my future. but my future isn’t just about royal duties or titles. it’s about choosing the life i want—and i choose you, jay. i wish you could see that. paris is calling, but so are you. i can only hope that when you think of me, it’s with the same longing that fills every moment of my days without you. i hope that when you think of our time together, you’ll realise that this isn’t about status or sacrifice—it’s about love. i’ll be leaving soon after my birthday, but before i go, i need to know: will you come with me? or will i have to leave you behind? with love, [your name]

after sealing the letter, your heart is heavy with both hope and fear. you send it to jay, knowing that the next move is his. each day that passes without a response stretches the wait longer, the ache of uncertainty growing.

you try to stay busy with preparations for your trip, packing supplies and finishing your artwork. your parents notice the change in you—the excitement for paris dimmed by something you can’t quite bring yourself to share with them yet. they ask if you’re nervous, if you’re ready for the adventure, and you smile, telling them what they want to hear. but deep down, all you want is to hear from jay.

paris is just around the corner, but so is the decision you’re waiting for—the choice that could change everything.

the ballroom is a swirl of colour and laughter, filled with nobles, artists, and well-wishers all gathered to celebrate your birthday. the chandeliers above glitter like stars, casting a golden glow over the elegant space, and the music weaves through the conversations like a living thing, light and joyous. your parents spared no expense for this occasion, not only to mark your birthday but also to celebrate the upcoming adventure to paris.

it’s your birthday ball, but your mind is elsewhere, your heart tugged toward a memory that refuses to leave. you stand in front of your painting, the centrepiece of the night, hanging proudly on display for all to see. nobles and artists alike gather around it, marvelling at the vivid colours and delicate brushstrokes. you nod and smile politely as they offer praise, but inside, your thoughts are distant, wandering to a day not long ago when everything felt simpler.

the painting is of the marketplace—a bustling, lively scene full of energy and warmth. it’s the day you and jay had gone shopping together for art supplies, the day you let yourselves be ordinary, blending in with the crowds. the colours are bright and rich, capturing the vibrant chaos of the market: vendors calling out, the smell of freshly baked bread, the sound of coins clinking and people bartering for goods. in the corner of the canvas, nestled in the shadows of an alley, is a small, quiet space. it’s where you and jay had shared a moment away from the crowd, a stolen minute of peace amidst the noise, where the world had seemed to slow just for the two of you.

every brushstroke is infused with that memory—the warmth of the sun on your skin, the soft brush of his hand as he reached for yours, the unspoken connection that had blossomed between you in that hidden corner of the market. it was a day that felt like freedom, a glimpse of something more, something forbidden but undeniably real.

“your highness, it’s simply breathtaking,” someone says beside you, pulling you momentarily back to the present. a noblewoman in an exquisite gown stands at your side, her eyes wide with admiration as she gazes at the painting. “the light, the detail… it feels as though i’m standing there in the market myself.”

you nod and smile, offering a polite thank you, but her words barely register. all you can think about is him.

the weight of his absence has been heavy, pulling at your heart with every passing day, each one more difficult than the last. and now, on the night of your birthday, as you prepare to embark on a new chapter, all you can think about is the chapter you left unfinished.

you glance at the painting again, tracing the familiar lines of the marketplace, the hidden alley. that was the moment you knew there was something between you and jay, something more than just student and teacher, more than just friendship. it was the moment you allowed yourself to hope. but now, standing here alone, you wonder if that hope was misplaced.

and then, through the hum of voices and the soft strains of music, you hear it—a voice that sends a jolt through your entire body.

“you captured it perfectly.”

the sound of his voice makes the air around you seem to freeze. your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat. slowly, you turn toward the source, and there he is—jay, standing just a few steps away, his eyes locked on the painting, his expression a mixture of awe and something deeper, something raw.

for a moment, you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. after weeks of waiting, of wondering, here he is, standing before you, his presence filling the space that had felt so empty without him. he looks different tonight—still himself, but dressed in a way that blends with the formality of the event. yet, there’s something in his posture, in the way his dark eyes flicker between you and the painting, that betrays the turmoil he’s been carrying.

“jay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. but he hears you, as he always does.

he takes a step closer, his gaze shifting to meet yours, and for a moment, the world around you disappears. the ballroom, the guests, the music—it all fades into the background, leaving only the two of you in this fragile, suspended moment.

his eyes soften as they take you in, and there’s a vulnerability in his expression that you hadn’t seen before, something that makes your heart ache even more. “you remembered,” he says quietly, gesturing toward the painting. “the marketplace. that day.”

you nod, your throat tightening. “how could i forget? it was…” you pause, searching for the right words, but nothing seems adequate. “it was perfect.”

jay’s gaze lingers on the painting, as though seeing the memory play out all over again. his lips part, but no words come. instead, he takes another step toward you, his presence so close now that you can feel the pull between you—the unspoken tension that had simmered just beneath the surface for so long.

“i’ve been thinking about that day,” he says, his voice low and rough. “about us.”

your heart hammers in your chest. “and?”

his eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—regret, longing, and something you can’t quite place. “i thought i could stay away. that it would be easier, safer, for both of us. but i couldn’t.” his voice wavers, just slightly, and the vulnerability in it makes your pulse race. “not tonight.”

you swallow, your chest tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. the distance between you feels unbearably small, but also impossibly vast. he’s here. after all this time, he’s finally here. but the question still lingers, heavy in the air between you: what happens now?

just as you open your mouth to speak, to ask the questions that have been burning inside you for weeks, jay steps closer, his eyes locked on yours. the noise of the ballroom fades even further into the background, until all that’s left is him. and in that moment, with his gaze so full of emotion, you know that nothing has been forgotten. every stolen glance, every brush of hands, every whispered word—it’s all still there, between you, as real and undeniable as ever.

the night may be full of celebrations, but the only thing that matters is this: jay is here, and nothing will ever be the same again.

the grand ballroom continues to pulse with life around you, but the world feels quiet in the cocoon of jay’s presence. you haven’t even fully processed the fact that he’s here, standing in front of you after weeks of silence. his eyes—deep and full of an emotion you’ve longed to see—are fixed on you, as though he’s drinking in the sight of you, afraid to blink in case you disappear.

the weight of his absence, the unanswered letter, the uncertainty—it all rushes to the surface, but you force yourself to stay grounded in the moment. you open your mouth to speak, to ask the questions burning in your chest, but before you can, jay takes a step closer.

“you never stopped painting,” he says quietly, nodding toward the marketplace painting, his voice filled with a mix of awe and relief. “you’ve grown even more since i left.”

his words are a gentle balm to the ache in your heart, but they only skim the surface of what you truly want to know. you swallow hard, the emotions too thick in your throat to speak.

your breath hitches. “why didn’t you respond to my letter, jay?”

there’s a beat of silence before he looks away, the rawness of his feelings flickering across his face. “because i didn’t know if i was strong enough to walk away again,” he admits. “and i wasn’t sure if i could give you the life you deserve.”

“after everything we’ve been through, you still think i care about that?” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of all the unspoken words. “i just wanted you, jay. that’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

his jaw tightens, and he takes another step forward, closing the distance between you until his presence is overwhelming. “i couldn’t respond, because i knew that if i did, i wouldn’t be able to stop myself from coming back to you. and once i did, i’d never want to leave. but you… you have paris, you have a future.”

“and i want you to be part of that future,” you say, your voice stronger now. “i’ve had weeks to think about this, jay. i’m leaving soon, and i need to know where we stand before i go. please, just tell me how you feel.”

jay’s eyes flash with a storm of emotions—hesitation, fear, and something deeper, something that has been bubbling just beneath the surface. he reaches out slowly, his fingers brushing yours, the touch sending warmth rushing up your arm. “i’m terrified,” he admits in a voice so soft it makes your heart ache. “i’ve never felt like this about anyone before, and i don’t want to ruin it.”

“you won’t,” you say, stepping closer until your hands are fully entwined, your pulse quickening as his warmth floods your senses. “i don’t care about titles, status, or what anyone else thinks. you make me feel alive, jay. that’s all i need.”

his grip tightens on your hand, and for a moment, it seems like he’s grappling with the depth of what you’re offering. his breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts, as though he’s trying to hold himself together.

“i don’t want you to sacrifice everything for me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “you’re a princess, destined for greatness, for a life most people can only dream of. i’m just... a man who paints.”

you step even closer, until there’s barely any space between you. “and that’s enough for me. more than enough.”

for a split second, he looks at you as though he can’t believe you’re real. but then, before you can say anything more, he steps forward, pulling you into his arms in one swift motion. the warmth of his body against yours is overwhelming, but in the best way, and as his arms wrap around you, holding you tightly, you feel the tension that’s been building between you melt away.

“i’m so sorry,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear as he holds you close. “for leaving. for making you wait.”

you close your eyes, leaning into him, your heart swelling with the relief of finally having him here. “you’re here now,” you murmur against his shoulder. “that’s all that matters.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your arms as his dark eyes meet yours. and in them, you see everything—the love he’s been holding back, the fear, the hope. “i love you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i’ve loved you since the first day we met, and i’ve been fighting it ever since. but i don’t want to fight it anymore.”

your heart swells at his words, the weight of them settling deep in your chest. “i love you, too,” you whisper, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you as you say the words out loud for the first time. “i always have.”

the smile that spreads across jay’s face is like sunlight breaking through clouds, and before you know it, he’s lifting you off the ground, spinning you around in a burst of joy and laughter. the world around you spins with him, but you don’t care—because for the first time in what feels like forever, everything is right. everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.

when he finally sets you back down, your feet touching the ground once more, his hands stay on your waist, grounding you in the moment. his eyes, full of love and warmth, search yours, and for a second, neither of you speak. you don’t need to. the silence is filled with everything you’ve both been waiting for.

“i want to be with you,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “but i don’t want you to lose yourself for me.”

you smile, shaking your head. “i’m not losing anything. i’m gaining everything i’ve ever wanted.”

jay’s hand finds yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he looks at you, his gaze full of the future. “paris,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “you’re still going?”

you nod, your heart racing at the thought of what’s to come. “i am. and i want you to come with me.”

he hesitates, just for a moment, as though the reality of what you’re asking is still sinking in. but then, his smile grows, and he nods, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly. “i’ll come with you. we’ll go together.”

your heart leaps at his words, the hope you’d been holding onto finally blossoming into something real. paris—together. it’s everything you’d dreamed of, everything you hadn’t dared to believe could happen. but now, standing here with jay, it’s all within reach.

“we’ll see the world,” he says, his voice soft but filled with excitement. “we’ll paint, we’ll live, we’ll—”

“we’ll be happy,” you finish for him, your smile widening as you lean into his touch.

he nods, his forehead resting gently against yours. “yes. we’ll be happy.”

and in that moment, as the ballroom buzzes with life around you, as the painting of your shared memory hangs on the wall behind you, you know it’s true. you and jay—together, free, and full of love. the world is yours, waiting to be explored. and with him by your side, you know that this is only the beginning.

as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the future stretches out before you like a blank canvas, waiting for you to fill it with all the colours of your love, your passion, and the adventures you’ll share. together, you’ll paint a life full of beauty, one brushstroke at a time.

and as the night fades and the dawn of a new chapter begins, you know—this is your happily ever after.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @punchbug9-blog @firstclassjaylee @capri-cuntz @addictedtohobi @jaysfavoritegirl @yuniesluv @isa942572 @academiq @missychief1404 //the ones in bold could not be tagged for some reason. im so sorry guys tumblr is acting up :(

[ihatedtoadmit]

Art study

pairing: Bang Chan x gn! reader

genre: ...suggestive

warnings: nothing actually happens, so none besides teasing

word count: ~1.3k

summary: You're doing an art study on muscles, and who's a better candidate for reference than your wonderful boyfriend who keeps feeding his delulu fanbase with half-naked pictures?

a/n: Well well well, Nat, you don't have to pay to see me write something like this after all (if you will ever see this, because no chance am I tagging you or anyone, dear). Here, have fun, this is the most spice anyone can get out of my asexual ass.

↳ Main Masterlist

All rights reserved. Please do not steal, repost or feed my work into AI. Thank you!

You were a very reserved person, something your partner knew all too well. Every touch the two of you shared throughout the entirety of your relationship had no heat behind it, each one only fueled by pure adoration and love. Never once did a kiss turn hungry, hell, there had barely been any kisses the two of you had shared due to your lack of need for the action. Chan knew it all too well, and while he craved more, he also respected it. The last thing he wanted to do was to make you uncomfortable, and so he’d never stepped over that line.

That was the exact reason for his current shyness, the confusion that wanted to sit onto his face hard to mask. There he stood in your doorway, the desk before your hunched form cluttered with pencils and little crumbs of dirty erasers. You were entirely too focused on the task at hand to notice your boyfriend's presence, the song that flowed through your headphones much too loud to hear any footsteps or even words. And so you continued drawing, clueless about anything as your lover watched you work, eyes flitting between your sketch and the endless reference pictures on your screen.

Pictures about him, his back fully on display and unclothed.

A touch broke you out of your concentration as you erased a line for the fourth time, scaring you into throwing away the pencil in your clutches just so you could tear the headphones off your head.

“Interesting art you have there, love.” - Chan mused, yet his skin was as flushed as ever.

You joined him as you could feel your own skin heating up, ashamed that you’d been caught like this. Eyes looked at everything besides your boyfriend, yet you found comfort in that warm touch of his.

“I was just… doing a study, on muscles.” - the words were but a mere whisper, hand quickly reaching to minimise your browser and just hide it from a certain pair of prying eyes.

Still, there was a feeling clawing at the cage of your soul, ripping at the flesh to be let out and rampage freely. It was feral and vicious, planting a thought into your head that seemed impossible to get out, no matter how alien it felt. You could feel your breath hitch at the image that popped into your head, memories of the images you had been staring at for a while now overlapping.

The hand on your shoulder gently squeezed, breaking you out of your derailing thoughts.

“I don't mind, baby, it just… caught me off guard? Glad you enjoyed my performances though.” - Chan’s voice was light, mixing well with the shyness he was trying to hide.

It only urged that fierceness inside to break free, granting you a surge of confidence you would have never had otherwise.

Without any words you finally glanced up at the man you loved, finding him utterly handsome; you would hone your artistic skills for the rest of your life just to capture a fragment of that beauty. His skin was dusted with a faint red, ears painted by the deepest of shades. Those eyes you loved to get lost in were alight with an emotion you had seen them only hold whenever he looked at the boys, and it took your breath away within a heartbeat.

Your body moved on its own, towering over him as you now stood. His hair was still slightly wet from the shower he must have just taken, and you just knew he had been originally on his way to his room to swap his bathrobe for those comfy, black clothes he loved to don in his free time.

He searched your gaze, unsure, yet trusting. His hands comfortably placed themselves onto your hips; their touch was warm, the man before you always running hot. It was something you loved as he balanced out your always cold hands wonderfully, reaching the perfect temperature you both enjoyed.

“Hey, love. How was work today?” - you asked, leaning closer than usual as you swiped those dark curls out of Chan’s face. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing for a second as he thought about his answer.

“The usual, although Hyunjin managed to piss off Minho again. It was a shoe this time that was the weapon, by the way.” - there was an airiness of joy to his words, yet no laugh accompanied it.

No, Chan was entirely too enamoured with the look you were giving him, as if you were worshipping him with your eyes alone. And maybe you were. With each look you studied the way your lover's skin moved, the shadows conforming accordingly. It lured you in, as if Chan was the siren and you were his prey, fated to be drowned in the vast oceans and seas.

He didn't move as you took him all in, hands eventually unable to keep themselves away. Your fingers were cold against the warmth of his fair skin, and you could hear his breath hitch, the muscles inside his neck moving beautifully.

There was something different in your touch, that much he knew, yet he wouldn't have it any other way.

As if you had never seen anything like it before, your hands glided over any free expanse of skin you could reach, memorising how the muscles hidden beneath curved and jumped at your touch. Never once did your eyes stray, wanting to remember every little detail. You wanted your art to be perfect, after all, to represent the real thing as closely as possible and that meant every little detail in their complete glory.

Your eyebrows furrowed as the white robe blocked you off, and so you slightly slid it off from one of Chan's shoulders. His hold on you tightened and you glanced at him briefly, seeing an intensity burning in those dark eyes, one you had never seen before.

You were playing with fire, and you could feel the heat of the danger.

Despite the clear wanting signs, you ignored them much like Icarus, hands now gliding down your lover's arm. Each touch held meaning, praising him in silence, singing odes about this man’s beauty. There was something so intriguing about watching the muscles connect to skin and bone, oh so perfectly toned and reacting to every touch of yours.

You stepped even closer, breaths mingling together as you reached into his robe, mapping out the vast skin of your partner's back. Every dip, every rise and imperfection was noted inside your head, the scorching star in Chan's eyes only growing in intensity as time passed. Your eyes flitted between those deadly stars and his neck, seeing it strain, muscles so tight that they jumped out of the skin in that lovely V-shape you could never grow bored of.

Then, as if something snapped, he gripped your waist with incredible force, not giving you a chance to escape. Despite that, no fear took residence inside you, your now warm fingers still laid peacefully on his shoulders.

“And what do I owe this extremely special moment to, baby?” - his words were a deep rumble, eyes begging for an answer with desperation.

“For being the most beautiful human to grace this planet, my wonderful love. Be my muse, please. Let me draw you, let me study you.” - you answered, one hand now cupping Chan's cheek tenderly, despite the uniquely heated situation.

As if that was the magic word to undo his binding, your lover moved, hauling your taller form easily onto the bed with him. There you were now, sat on his lap as he looked up at you expectantly, the intensity and love never diminishing in those bright eyes of his. Your sketchbook was still sitting beside you on the bed where you had originally thrown it at, hands itching to take it and immortalise what you had engraved into your mind in the past few minutes.

“I'll be your muse whenever, baby. All you needed to do was ask.”

[yeopoet]

MEET ME IN THE HALLWAY

`౨ৎ~ pairing: ateez x gn!reader genre: forbidden romance, fluff, kinda suggestive if you read between the lines ౿ ׂ ִ warnings: kissing (?) word count: 2k.

author's note: highly inspired by this post. ps: the divider does not belong to me.

﹒ ◠ ✩ hongjoong ⊹ ﹒

Two powerful families competing fiercely in the construction industry, locked in a never-ending battle over urban development projects: his family prioritizes large, luxurious complexes, while yours is dedicated to eco-friendly, sustainable initiatives. The differences between you go beyond business, turning what should have remained professional into something personal and deeply entrenched. Your parents have made it clear—they never want you anywhere near the Kims, and his parents share the same sentiment. But Hongjoong couldn’t care less about the rules. He sneaks to your bedroom window in the dead of night, not with malice, but driven by an irresistible urge to explore what he’s been told is forbidden. You’ve tried pushing him away, again and again, but nothing works. He’s relentless, and despite all the barriers that should keep you apart, to him, you’re the only thing that matters.

“You can’t just show up here like it’s no big deal,” you whisper-yell as you open your window. “They’ll find out, and that’ll be the end of both of us.”

“I’ve tried to forget about you, but it’s impossible.” Hongjoong exhales deeply, slipping through the window with ease, like sneaking into your room is something he’s mastered. “I missed our midnight talks.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “What? Are you in love with me or something?”

He smiles, stepping closer until he’s near enough that you can feel his warm breath on your face. “And what if I am? Would that be so bad?”

﹒ ◠ ✩ seonghwa ⊹ ﹒

Someone born into a life of luxury, with a future carved out by endless wealth, isn’t supposed to waste his time with people of "lower status." As the heir to a well-established hospital chain, Seonghwa has never had to worry about anything—not even the clothes on his back. His sole purpose in life, as dictated by his family, is to follow the path toward taking his father’s place. But with dreams of his own, he somehow ended up in your studio, signing up for a beginner's sewing class. It wasn’t exactly the best first encounter, especially since your classes weren’t designed for heirs of empires, but over time, Seonghwa managed to capture your attention. He now pays for private lessons, driven by his passion to become a fashion designer. He shares sketches of outfits with you, designs he’s never dared to show anyone else. What was supposed to be a professional relationship between teacher and student gradually became something more. And honestly, how could he not fall for you?

“I know I shouldn’t be here, but I couldn’t stay away.” His words spill out the moment you open the door, sadness pouring at your feet. “Please, just give me a chance to fix all of this.”

“You’ve already caused enough damage.” You take a deep breath, holding back tears. Watching him beg for something you both know he can’t change feels like a knife to the heart, and if you’re not careful, you might cave. He steps closer, and you know this is the moment to slam the door in his face—before his father shows up again, threatening to destroy everything you've built if you don’t leave Seonghwa alone. But your heart wavers, seeing the redness in his eyes. “Don’t make this harder than it already is, Hwa. We can’t be together. If anyone sees us, it’ll be the end for both of-”

“Just one last time.” He’s crying now, his hand gently cradling the back of your neck like he's afraid you’ll disappear. “Let me be with you one last time.”

﹒ ◠ ✩ yunho ⊹ ﹒

It’s not easy having parents who watch your every move as if you’re incapable of taking care of yourself. But if it weren’t for their overbearing protectiveness, you never would’ve met Jeong Yunho, your bodyguard—the one who pulled you out of your monotonous life and gave you a taste of freedom. He sneaks you out for daring, late-night adventures, always careful not to push things too far and jeopardize both your lives. Yunho tried to keep his distance; he was never the kind of employee to cross the line. But avoiding his inevitable downfall with you was impossible.

“They warned me about you,” he says softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand gently cradling one side of your face. “But I didn’t listen.”

“And I’m glad you didn’t.” You smile openly, wrapping your arms around his waist before pressing your lips to his with intensity.

﹒ ◠ ✩ yeosang ⊹ ﹒

When the extravagance of your world becomes overwhelming, you find yourself seeking a place to breathe. Conveniently, that place always ends up being in the arms of Yeosang, the butler of your household. You've known each other since childhood, long before he took over his father’s role and before you were promised to marry someone you don’t love. The quiet meetings behind the tallest hedges in the garden offer you a peace you’ve never experienced around your family. The love that has never faded grows more painful as your wedding day draws near, and no matter how much you both long to escape, you know you've been condemned since the day you were born.

“This is the last time,” you whisper, casting a sorrowful glance at the man lying beside you. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Yeosang doesn’t respond right away but holds your gaze with a quiet tenderness. Then, after a few torturous seconds of silence, he presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “We said the same thing the last time we met,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss you slowly, lingering. “The truth is, I’d have to move to another continent to ever be able to stay away from you.”

﹒ ◠ ✩ san ⊹ ﹒

He fought hard to get where he is. It wasn’t easy landing a job at one of the most prestigious networks in the country, and once inside, he quickly realized why the selection process was so difficult. His bosses are strict; they don’t tolerate irresponsibility and push him to the brink of exhaustion. Still, the salary makes it all worth it. San is building his life, shaping his dream career as a reporter, doing everything he can to avoid trouble. That is, until you, the boss’s daughter, showed up and threw all his plans into chaos. It wasn’t your intention to disrupt anyone. You’ve always kept a distance from the company’s employees, taking your duties as an heiress seriously. But who could have predicted that at a party with over 100 people, you’d end up kissing the newest intern?

“No one can know about this, promise me,” he whispers, gripping your elbow as he keeps the two of you dangerously close. “That was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.”

“As if I wanted it to,” you fire back, your breath mingling with his as your gaze locks onto his—eyes that are saying something completely different. “But if you keep pulling me into closed-off spaces out of nowhere, people are going to get suspicious, and it won’t be my fault.”

“Right, we should keep our distance,” he says, yet doesn’t move an inch. “I just wanted to make things clear.”

“I got the message loud and clear.” With every passing second, your faces inch closer. San tightens his grip on your arm, though not enough to hurt. He tilts his head, muttering a soft “good” against your lips before making the mistake of kissing you again.

﹒ ◠ ✩ mingi ⊹ ﹒

A friendship that has lasted for years could never be shaken by something trivial—or so you thought. But could your feelings for her brother be enough to ruin everything? She’s always made it clear that Mingi is off-limits. He constantly breaks her friends’ hearts, and they always end up drifting away. So, to keep the friendship intact, she put up a wall between the two of you. Too bad it only makes things more exciting from his perspective. You try your best to resist Mingi’s advances, but he makes it nearly impossible when he walks around the house shirtless after training, or when he finds lame excuses to touch you at random moments—like holding your waist to squeeze past you when there’s clearly plenty of space. It’s ridiculous.

“You really need to stop doing that,” you say, crossing your arms like you’re throwing a tantrum. Mingi looks at you, eyebrows raised, with that same clueless expression that drives you insane. “I’m serious, Mingi.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he shrugs, leaning forward to reach something in the back of the fridge.

“There are literally two other ways to get to the fridge, and you chose the tightest spot—right where I’m standing.” You stomp your foot. “And not only that, you—”

Your sentence is cut off by the sound of the fridge door closing. Mingi steps closer, and you hold your breath. “And I what?” he asks, leaning against the counter without breaking eye contact. “Last I checked, this is my house, and I can walk wherever I want.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze and staring at your toes. Mingi gently lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him again.

“I thought you liked it when I touched you.” He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his hand slowly trailing down your shoulder, along your arm, until his fingers entwine with yours.

“We shouldn’t…” your voice falters. “Yena is—”

“I know, but I can’t help it sometimes.”

﹒ ◠ ✩ wooyoung ⊹ ﹒

He’s never been the type of guy to care about his friend’s girlfriend. It’s one of the most disloyal things you could do to a friendship. But when it comes to you, Wooyoung loses every last shred of honesty within himself. Falling for you was never part of his plan, and he tried everything he could to push those feelings away. If he had known that taking care of you when his friend messed up would spark such a dangerous affection, he would have let you handle your problems on your own. You, on the other hand, are deeply grateful for the countless times Wooyoung has saved you, and for showing you that love isn’t what you thought it was. All the lingering hugs, unfinished sentences, and the longing to give in to something forbidden have made you both question how much you're willing to sacrifice for each other.

“Every time I see you, I have to remind myself that you’re not mine,” he says, standing just far enough away to keep himself from giving in to his darker desires. He’s held back all this time, never crossing the line—but here you are, at his doorstep on a Saturday night, minutes after his best friend just left your house.

“So please, don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“And you think it’s easy for me?!” you explode, pushing his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a couple of steps. “You decide one night that you’re going to cut me out of your life, and you expect me not to react?”

Wooyoung grabs your arms, stopping you from hitting him again. “I’m trying to make things easier,” his eyes fill with tears, or maybe it’s yours—both of you just staring at each other, struggling not to sob out loud. You finally weaken, collapsing against his chest, muffling the sound of your pain as Wooyoung holds you tight, the way he always does.

“There’s no easy way out of this. No matter what we decide, someone’s going to end up hurt.”

﹒ ◠ ✩ jongho ⊹ ﹒

The life of a celebrity isn’t always glamorous. The fear of appearing in the tabloids caught in a dating scandal can feel more terrifying than the fear of death itself. After appearing on a variety show with you, Jongho developed a silly crush that, over time—fueled by risky texts during award shows and innocent meetups while everyone else was asleep—grew into something much bigger. To keep things discreet, you both decided to act indifferent toward each other, even though it’s become nearly impossible for him.

“Every moment we spend together is a risk, but I just can’t stay away,” Jongho says as he plants a flurry of kisses across your face. He made sure to clear out everyone from the dressing room just to have a few minutes alone with you before the show.

You laugh, trying to pull away from his eager touch to keep him from messing up your appearance. “Jongho! I have a performance in half an hour. You can’t mess up my makeup!”

He immediately steps back, placing his hands behind his back in an exaggerated effort to keep them off you. “You’re right. Sorry.”

“We’ll see each other later, okay?” You give him a playful, reassuring smile.

“Okay, I’ll try not to die until then.”

© yeopoet.

[rilakeila]

five times when the secret was almost revealed and when it did, where you and mattheo are secretly dating, teaser

word count 1.8k fandom harry potter pairing mattheo riddle x fem!animagus! reader warnings none notes hints at the animagus story, lowkey -3-

request i saw your post about wanting requests so anything mattheo as there’s never another content for him!!! but more specifically him with like an opposite gf!!! like she’s sweet and girly and kind!!! how do you think he’d be around her??? i turned this request into something new !

SECRECY kept your relationship with mattheo hidden from the hogwarts students. there was nothing shameful, just preferred to keep it private. truly, mattheo did not feel comfortable in having to hear comments about how hogwarts’ sweetheart ended up with the delinquent or even, the dark lord’s son (or that he was the most affectionate boyfriend, he would never hear the end of being such a smitten lover). you respected his wishes, continuing to share your secret kisses away from the public. though, it started to be impossible to keep away as time had passed on, you were certain that someone was going to catch you.

slip-up one: the late-night library study session

“it’s so nice having my girlfriend be the head girl of the school, comes with a lot of privileges, like staying out for so long,” mattheo said while procrastinating for the transfiguration test. you rolled your eyes, knowing that he said it quite often. prior to being in a relationship with him, you were a prefect, which allowed you to have a good running for head girl. you, more than likely, save him and the other slytherin boys constantly from trouble than any other task that you have around the school.

“if it means ensuring you out of trouble, i’ll continue to keep my role,” you said, looking up to see that he stopped writing down his notes, “or, you’ll be out of luck if you don’t keep studying, love.”

he pouted before flipping to the next page of his notes, “i don’t think i did this much studying before you.”

“well, if you can be on probation for delinquency, it'll be worse if you have to do it for academics. come on, your quidditch match eligibility relies on this paper otherwise you’re out for a week until the next test,” you said, leaning to peck the pout off, which instantly lifted into a small smile before resuming on your own work.

“yes ma’am,” before continuing, he pulled your chair closer to him, wrapping his arm your waist, hand resting on your hip. there was one way to heat up your face, pressing your lips into a tight line, fighting the smile. he knew that this action, even if it was reoccurring, would always make you feel giddy. the smile that you just wanted push away, he continued to write from the book, “you okay there, love?”

“of course,” you cleared your throat to maintain composure as you written in your notes. 

moments passed, a quarter left done of your notes, but what you did not notice that the boy next to you did not keep up with his work, opting to draw your side profile as well as sketching certain deconstructed parts such as just your eyes in one section, lips, even in different forms such as your smile or when you were talking with how it formed. taking a break, you looked to your side, only to see your boyfriend leaning on his elbow, sketching on the paper with other, a grin on his face. you reached out to pinch his cheek, wiggling it slightly.

he sat up, pushing the notebook closer to you, “you like it? here’s your animagus form, little kitty. and the little crescent on your cheek, and the sparkle near your eye. then, here’s you, right now, i drew big sparkle things in there because your eyes twinkle.”

“this is nice, i love it,” your finger traced around the paper, looking at each doodle. you always loved the details that he puts in every piece he has, loving all of his art, but his quick draws always had a much more special place in your heart. 

“just for you, love,” he gently tilted your chin upwards with his fingertips, his eyes fixed on your face with tenderness, savoring the moment. leaning in, lips almost touching, mattheo pulled apart quickly, which you heard footsteps, now knowing the reason of the suddenness.

you turned around to see who the additional person may have been aside from madam pince, but she was aware of your late night study sessions, despite always trying to shoo you both away. luckily, your continuance of volunteerism in the library since your fourth year, upkeeping her strict standards, gave you some leeway as well as your past prefect and current head girl positions. you were wrong in guessing who it was, seeing the disillusionment charm, you waved your wand, countering the spell, “blaise?”

your head turned, hearing soft but obvious steps, casting the counter spell, “and of course, lorenzo? what are you both doing up past hours in the library?”

“just scouting around, actually trying to get into the restricted section,” blaise nodded towards where they needed to go.

“and what about you, two? even outside of friend group hours, i feel betrayed,” lorenzo slung his arm around your shoulder, walking towards mattheo.

“we’re just studying, enzo, otherwise you’re out one player for quidditch,” you patted the hand that was slung on your shoulder before sitting down back into your seat, organizing all of the papers that were sprawled out onto the table. 

“sure, just the two of you,” blaise sat on top of the corner, looking through the notes, “or, do you have something that you both aren’t telling us, just as you were sitting a tad too close before?”

mattheo snorted before slipping blaise a small note which contained the information that snape required you to assist in helping him study, “snape’s orders.”

“an alibi, i’m next in line for tutoring, ms. head girl,” enzo raised his hand, in which you just laughed and nodded, agreeing, also catching the quick snark on mattheo’s face. 

you eyed the watch on your wrist, seeing it was reaching you and mattheo’s end of tutoring hours, meaning madam pince would be around the corner to tell you both off and for mattheo to ensure that you would reach your dormitory safely. you looked up to the boys once more, “alright, madam pince will be around at this time, as head girl, i do advise you to head out now before we all are in trouble. “

“but,”

“mattheo will get the information from the book you need tomorrow, pince has all of the books there charmed after some incident with some second years, come on,” you said.

“fine,” lorenzo whined before being smacked up his head by blaise. rubbing his hand from the harsh hit, he looked back to still see mattheo who was writing in his notebook, “come on, mattheo.”

“alright, i just need to finish this last set of words. go on without me,” he waved his hand, dismissing lorenzo. you couldn’t help notice when looking at enzo who has an amused expression, probably at how mattheo was never the one to study. sharing a look with your friend who just had a playful smirk before waving at you a goodbye, he casted the disillusionment spell. 

hearing the quiet shut of the doors of the library, you taken your seat next to your boyfriend who was just continuing his drawing of you, “you had me fooled, thinking you were actually doing your notes.”

“just to get rid of them, i always want pince to give me her permission of walking you late at night,” he smiled.

you returned the smile. though, there was a small worry that lorenzo and blaise did indeed just find out that you were dating, knowing that one of them was the gossip hound of the school. surely, he knew to keep secrets but lorenzo’s rumors would always start with a “what if so and so ended up…” and another person would ask another until the rumor ended up as being a fact due to the continuing relay to another, even if it was false news. you were more concerned for mattheo, as he truly wanted to keep the relationship a secret, as he said that he was not ready for the intrusion of others into his life. 

“hey, love.”

“yes, love?”

“do you think lorenzo knows about us? i wouldn’t want a rumor starting up or anything,” you held his free hand in both of yours, fingers massaging the back of his hand, which he truly enjoyed.

“no, we didn’t do anything, plus as long as he has some concrete evidence that rejects his hypothesis, he won’t speculate,” he placed his pen down, retrieving snape’s note that was near your corner of the table.

“okay, just making sure,” you nodded, feeling a mix of relief and nervousness. you searched for any signs of doubt or concern within mattheo’s eyes, but there was a lack of wavering, then again, there was barely anything that trembled him.

“trust me, no on-“

“you two, get to your dorms immediately. if i have to round this corner, i will deduct house points,” madam pince’s sharp voice cut through the air, making you jump even if she routinely said the same thing most nights.

“good night, madam pince,” mattheo waved his wand, cleaning both of your spaces and into each of your book bags. a rushed hum was in response, which he always waited for, as if it was his alarm clock, letting him know that he was able to leave the library. with a silent understanding, you both turned to leave the library, walking side by side towards the exit. as you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, he extended his arm to you with a soft smile, his eyes filled with warmth and affection. no matter how often this happens, your breath always caught in your throat, slipping your hands into his, fingers naturally intertwining through with his. t he electricity that always sparked between you when you touched sent a thrill through your body, and you found yourself leaning into his side as you walked, relishing the closeness.

 the silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions that hung heavy in the air. you couldn't help stealing glances at mattheo as you walked, taking in the way his eyes sparkled in the dim light, the way his smile softened when he looked at you.

"i'll see you tomorrow in class?" mattheo asked, his voice soft and hopeful.

"of course," you replied, your heart skipping a beat at the tenderness in his tone. "good night."

you leaned in, unable to resist the urge to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, feeling a rush of warmth spread through your body at the contact. mattheo returned the gesture, his lips brushing against your forehead in a lingering caress.

"good night, love," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, before reluctantly letting your hand go, knowing that you needed to go to your respective dormitories.

even if with his certainty that there was no knowledge of your relationship and still in secrecy, there was still a bit of worry. though, just to be selfish, even for once, it would be pleasant to show a private, but not a secret of your relationship. it would have been less stress onto yourself, but whatever happened would happen. as long as it was with him.

incomplete, lmk if you

want to get tagged

in the complete fic.

[fookingmuffins]

Strawberry kisses

James Potter x reader

Fluff

Summary: Going camping with your friends and sharing strawberries with James.

Warnings: I'm pretty sure none.

A/n: I thought of this while eating strawberries and someone pls just get me a James potter ASAP 😭

As the sun started getting ready to set, the stuffiness in the tent became unbearable, making you groan and finally open your eyes from your short afternoon nap. Everything was pretty quiet and knowing your friends you knew how suspicious that was so you decided to get up and open the tent. Squinting your eyes as the light hit them.

"Hmmm, has Sleeping Beauty finally awakened?" You groaned at James' remark in return as you crawled out of the tent and felt the cool afternoon breeze hit you. James chuckled at your response and put down the sketchbook he had been using in order to open his arms for you. Which you quickly made your way to in order to nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, content to not have to immediately get rid of your grogginess.

"Where is everybody?" You asked after a while of still being too at peace in James' arms.

"They all went on a hike before it got dark." He said, rubbing your back as he picked up his book and pencil to continue his sketch of the camping site, it was beautiful.

"Why didn't you go?"

"There was no way I was leaving my Sleeping beauty alone." He replied matter-of-factly, making you blush.

After a little bit of watching him trace the lines and slowly bring more life to his sketch you stopped him and unwillingly got up from your spot making him raise an eyebrow, but before he could question you, you rushed to the food you had bought earlier grabbing strawberries and going to your bag to fish your secret Jar of Nutella and a fork.

When you returned, proudly showing James the goods in your hands with a huge grin, he couldn't help but return it. He once again put down his sketchbook and pencil, this time completely closing it, and you sat down in the gap he opened for you between his legs with your back towards his chest. Feeling his arms wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer as you laid your head against his shoulder, opening the jar and stabbing a strawberry and dipping it in the yummy chocolate. You pointed the strawberry towards James, and he immediately opened his mouth, taking the whole strawberry in one bite. You repeated the process and this time ate the strawberry yourself.

After a while, James squeezed your waist a little before groaning, "Hmm this is the life." The two of you were halfway done with the little basket of strawberries and the sun was setting. Everything around the two of you was surrounded by this golden glow that made your surroundings feel magical. A warm feeling settled inside of you, feeling like you and James were the only people in the world. Feeling the slow rise of his chest behind you and the way his hands traced random patterns in your thigh. You wanted to be in this feeling forever.

As you passed him another strawberry you accidentally moved the fork last minute and a little Nutella smudged on his cheek making him groan, and you couldn't help but giggle. Before he could clean it with his hand (he was planning on using you as pay back, but you didn't need to know that) you got up, turned around, and settled in your knees before you kissed his cheek where the chocolate was effectively cleaning it.

James froze, and you pulled away, looking at his eyes, just registering what you had just done. Before you could mumble a million apologies, James pulled you closer, locking your lips with his, still being able to taste the Nutella strawberries of each other.

"I've been trying to grow the balls for months to do that." James whispered against your lips as you two pulled away, trying to catch your breath.

"Trust me, I do." You both smiled looking at each other's eyes, basking in the little bubble the two of you had created. Before he pulled you in again, in his words, it was to make sure it wasn't a dream.

"You two cannot seriously be kissing already, when I spent the last two weeks planning the perfect way to get you two idiots to confess. Especially after I just spent two painstaking hours explaining it to this group of inepts." You pulled away from James to look at Sirius with crossed arms walking to you two, followed by all your friends, who seemed to be celebrating the ending of the painful pining they've had to see every day for the past year.

[tcustodisart]

Your art is really good. Very cute and whimsical. Are you self-taught or did you go to an art school? Do you use references? What is your creative process like? Hope u have a great day.

Thank you! I kinda started as a self-taught, huge kudos to my best friend who I met in middle school who was my drawing partner for many many years. Then before going to uni I took one year of architectural drawing course (I wanted to study architecture, but turns out you need to be smart for it and know how to math). I learned all the basics I was lacking before, like building the perspective, composition even how to draw with colored pencils. Then I went to Technology University of Łódź to study textile design which oh man, that's where I actually learned how to make art and what art really is to me. We're talking oil painting, sculpting classes, drawing classes, photography, linocut, we even had a class where we learned how to make icons (the religious ones) and the best skill I learned from there - how to make patterns. Instead of a doodle I'm going to share some of my favorite things I made for uni (most of them are from my master project, gosh i keep forgetting i have a master degree).

References - yes! I use them a lot. The folder with my refs takes almost 20 gb of space.

As for the creative process - it all depends. For the doodles I just think of the idea, sketch it out, do lineart. I do not remove the layer with the sketch, instead I just erase lines around lineart to make it feel more 'organic', then I do colors, done. With comics I need to write the script first, then figure out thumbnails, and then I search for references and draw the whole thing out. Most of the times it all starts with a sentence, a joke and I build everything around it.

This for example is how my usual sketch for doodles looks like:

Thank you for asking and have a great day too <3

[breadbrioche]

masterpiece

so mun x reader

➳summary: things mun does when he doesn’t want to study

➳warnings: takes place before season 2

➳word count: 1k

➳a/n: shoutout to @slytherinshua for writing something with a similar concept haha we share the same artist so mun brain rot

It’s been hours since the two of you first started this study date but what preoccupies Mun’s mind hardly concerns studying.

The ice in the drinks you bought when you first entered this café are well melted at this point which leave puddles of water around your cup that make you wary of your notes and textbooks surrounding it but Mun couldn’t care less. His notebook hardly has any writing on it, just scrawls and messy strike throughs over incorrect calculations, so it was no real loss to him if it gets ruined.

Initially he wasn’t this out of it; at the beginning he dove head first into his work, eagerly reading each line of his textbook. However, with every answer striked through with red pen, the words in his textbook began to lose meaning and Mun’s attention span dwindled, preferring to doodle in the margins of his pages. Eventually, he focuses his gaze to the opposite side of the table, satisfied with just watching you work on practice questions rather than actually doing them.

Mun finds everything you do incredibly adorable. From the way your lips purse when you’re struggling to understand what you’re reading to how you’d idly spin your pen across your knuckles, the boy wishes he could commit them to memory.

His hands begin moving before Mun realises it - already having drawn the guidelines for where your features should be when he looks down at his page. Diligently, he sketches you out and tries to capture every detail he could see. Mun was so invested in this drawing, eyes flickering occasionally to you then back to his page to ensure everything was correct, that he didn’t even hear you calling out to him.

“-un-ah! So Mun, are you even listening to me?” You call, even gently prodding his shin with your foot underneath the table to get his attention. When Mun finally notices, he looked up to you like a deer in the headlights which makes you sigh.

“C’mon, Mun-ah! Are you even trying?” You complain. You pout slightly which makes Mun smile a bit - even when you’re angry at him, you’re still cute.

“I am, I am!” He responds defensively.

“Then what did you get for question 6?”

“Uhhh-“ Mun dumbly replies looking down at his notes only to come face to face with his sketch of you. His his eyes widen and scrambles to flip over his notebook to the next page, obscuring itfrom your eyesight.

“Ah- I think I got stuck so I skipped it.” He lies with a sheepish grin. “Could you talk me through it?”

You frown but help him nonetheless, leaning over and showing Mun your book and begin to read out the question. He mentally celebrates at managing to avoid an awkward scenario but quickly turns his attention to you and listens to what you’re saying.

☆☆☆

For the most part, he forgets all about the drawing until he’s once again in a similar situation. This time, you’re shoulder to shoulder next to Mun at his desk, talking through a problem on a worksheet.

“You seriously don’t know? But we covered this last time!”

The aforementioned boy winces at your scolding but stays silent, having nothing to say after remembering all the things he did (or more like the things he didn’t do) during your last study date. Pathetically, he gives a shrug that elicits a long sigh from you.

It’s hard for you to not get mad at him since it’s difficult to progress when Mun doesn’t pay attention but regardless, you refrain from any more harsh comments - he was only doing this because you asked (in typical kind So Mun fashion) so you feel it would be unfair if you begin to berate him when he’s already doing you a favour.

“What did you write last time?” You ask while picking up his notebook from the table, flipping through the pages only to find them almost blank. “Mun-ah, these doodles are nice but is this what you were doing when I…”

“W-wait-“ Mun says hurriedly, aware that the notebook had that drawing of you in it. He reaches over to snatch it back but from the way you’d stop turning the pages and trail off, it was already too late.

You quietly gasp before looking at the nervous boy then back to the page, not believing your eyes. Was this from-? When did he-?

“Is this…me?” You wonder out loud. Mun yelps and attempts to take the notebook but you move from his reach, still entranced by the page.

“Ah- I’m really sorry! You must think that it’s creepy or - but-!” He stumbles, tongue tied as his brain malfunctions and ears start to glow red.

Finally putting the book down, you look at Mun and smile endearingly at him. You hardly saw Mun this flustered but that made him even more adorable than he already was.

“It’s okay. I like it. Love it, even.” You assure him. “Though, I think you made me too pretty.”

“There’s no way!” Mun retaliates immediately, like a light switch in him turning on and he suddenly forgets his embarrassment. “Nothing I’ve tried to draw does you justice, I don’t have the skill for it!”

“So that means you’ve drawn me more than just this time?” You laugh out as you notice the way his face flushes when he realises he’d unintentionally exposed himself again. You giggle at his expression, making him pout.

“Are you sure you’re not weirded out by it?” Mun insists, turning to you hesitantly. You nod and take his hand to hold it in your own, giving it a squeeze.

“I’m very happy.” You say to him. “I’m happy that you wanted to draw me in the first place, and even more happy that you drew it so well so there’s nothing to be worried about!”

At this, Mun relaxes slightly and scoots closer to you, his head resting on your shoulder.

“Sorry about not telling you about them. And wasting your time when I didn’t study like I was supposed to.”

“Stop apologising.” You lean your head on top of his, nuzzling his curly hair.

There’s never a dull moment with Mun around. That’s why you invite Mun to these study dates even when you know that he’s hopeless at it.

But right now, exams and grades are hardly the first thing on your mind as you soak up Mun’s presence like plant in sunlight.

bonus: pics I was considering using but they were from season 2 :(

[legendofmorons]

Smudged pages (Wild)

This is the 1st place prize from my 300 follower event. @daeyumi requested this one, and it took longer than I'd like, but I'm pleased with how it's turned out.

Pairing: Wild x reader

Rating: G

Summary: Wild loves when you draw- so he decides to leave you a little gift in your sketch book.

Warnings: None

Other: Wild is so sappy, y'all- if I missed anything, please let me know

-------

You are an artist - you carry a sketchbook around everywhere. It may be in your bag sometimes, but still.

You find it helps to be able to create art while struggling to stay above the water that is this hylia damned quest.

Between creating art and the lover you've found- you're handling things better than you thought you would be.

Wild has seen you draw before - you like to draw by the fire at night. You've even shown him things on occasion. The odd bird sketch or colored plant life. Or even just half finished lines that didn't quite work out.

He likes to sit beside you while you create - it always calms him a little.

The way your hands are often covered in smudged art supplies is more than endearing. He likes that there's proof of a hobby you enjoy so much. Wild likes to take your hands and trace them while he counts the smudges of charcoal or pencil or paint or whatever you've used this time.

If he has a few pictures of you with art supplies smudged on your forehead - well, that's really not really anyone's buissness. (He will, of course, delete them and stop taking pictures if you ask, he dosen’t want to make you uncomfortable.)

He definitely smiles when he sees that sight, though. Wild has always loved when you allow yourself to just exist.

He's continually amazed by your skill. He looks forward to when you share your art with him. It always takes his breath away.

(You take his breath away.)

So far, his favorite piece you've done was of Epona, with flowers in her mane and a water colore-esque background. It's beautiful, and when you'd shown it to him and Twilight, they had both loved it.

Wild has a picture of that one on his slate, saved to a special folder for your creations.

Other works of yours he has saved in that folder include a sketch of him cooking with fireflies around him, a river landscape, and a sketch of all of the boys and you. There are more, of course, but those are the ones he treasures the most.

Tonight finding you is pretty easy. You're all staying at an inn.

The others split into groups. Though they are all settled across the backyard of said inn, chatting happily amongst themselves.

He spots you talking to Time and Legend by the stairs.

Before he can walk over, he hears his name and stops.

"Hey, Wild?" Twilight asks as he walks over.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any more mushroom skewers? A kid was asking about them."

Wild snorts, resigning himself to helping Twilight entertain the kids.

He'll catch up with you later. You have all night.

This gives him more time to figure out what he can give you as a gift. He doesn't have a particular reason, but he wants to anyway.

He can always ask Sky and Time for advice - as long as he doesn't ask Wind.

The sailor is smart and kind - but the last time Wind gave relationship advice, it was clear that he was still a little young. (It wasn't bad advice perse but none of the others thought that 'shmoopie' was what they wanted to call a partner.)

Wild sets himself to the task of finding the mushroom skewers within his slate, careful to pick the ones that won't give a side effect if eaten.

-------

It's not until after the inn has provided dinner that Wild realizes he hasn't seen you in a while.

In fact, Wild hasn't seen you since you arrived at the inn, and neither have Hyrule or Sky when he asks them.

It's not exactly worrying, but he does find himself a little anxious. He knows this isn't your hyrule, and he's always worried you'll get left behind - which he knows is silly.

And he definitely trusts you- but anxiety has never cared about logic.

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that not only are you more than capable of taking care of yourself - this seems to be a fairly peaceful time.

He relaxes a little, the reminder doing him a little good.

After looking around a little more, Wild finds you sitting on your own with your sketch pad.

You look fairly at peace, sitting on a large rock by the inn. The lowering sun shines across you in a flattering way.

Wild smiles softly when he sees you. He's very happy to see that you look so content. He has to resist the urge to snap a picture. (A habit he's picked up after losing his memories. He wants to have pictures of everything he cares about, so if he forgets, he dosen’t lose it all.)

Wild walks over to you and sits down beside you. He's just glad to be around his beloved partner.

"Hey Wild." You greet, looking up from your work with a smile.

"Hey, (Y/n)."

"It's a nice evening. It makes me jealous of your all's times." You say with a wry laugh.

"It's still odd to think you can't see the stars back home."

"Mh- I guess. It's always been that way, though." The shrug you give is nonchalant.

Wild gives you a surprised look, brows raising as he tries to imagine such a thing.

He can't. Your world sounds foreign and impossible to him. And yet- you exist as the pinnacle of your home.

He supposes he's glad that ypur home existed - as odd as ot seems to him because you would've exist without it.

Wild looks back to the sky - back to the stars.

"That sounds absurd." He says with a snort.

"It feels like that these days."

"Huh."

You look back to whatever you were working on and put a few more artistic strokes down.

"Do you think I'll ever learn all the strange constellations you have?"

Wild looks to you after you ask that, something warm swelling in his chest. "I can teach you."

"I'd like that."

The delighted look that crosses his face is definitely something to remember. It's amazing how easily he goes all smitten and fond around you.

-------

It's not until later that evening that Wild sees your unattended sketch book. And he has - an idea. One that he hopes will make you smile.

What if he puts something in your sketch book for you?

A doodle?

A note?

A portrait of how he sees you?

All three?

Maybe just the portrait and the note. Maybe if you see yourself through his eyes, you'll see why he's so fond of you.

Wild knows that you get self-conscious sometimes. He'd like to help.

His decision is made.

He thinks this is exactly the kind of give to leave you. Non pressuring and personal.

Wild picks up your art book and begins his work.

He takes a moment to try to picture what he wants to draw.

What angles? Should he include a background? Should it be flat or shoukd he add depths and shadows?

Once he knows what he wants to draw, he sets to work.

First, he starts with a light pencil sketch of you. First your head, then your neck and shoulders, then your features. He pays special attention to the skine in your eyes.

It takes him a while, but eventually, he finishes his work, erasing the guidelines and putting in shadows and highlights.

He writes his note, and then he closes the sketchbook.

He will wait until you find it.

He silently hopes he can see your face when you do, though. He also hopes that it makes you smile. He does love your smile.

-------

You are taking a break by a creek, a little ways from the others when you find the two pages Wild left something for you.

The first is a picture of you - all done in pencil, and yet there's no lack of detail.

You can tell that every line, smudge, and stray erased part is full of love and until fondness.

You are posed in a three-quarters view, laughing as your eyes look straight to the viewer of the art.

The background is filled with your favorite flowers, all carefully done.

It's like looking at yourself through a softened lense. Your eyes seem brighter, and your laugh is more genuine.

It's unbearably soft.

The shadows are carefully done, and

You know, without asking or even looking at the note that this is Wild's work.

You wish you weren't so touched by how he's chosen to portray you. Not because it dosen’t matter but so you could better find words to express the feeling.

Then you look to the note.

'(Y/n),

I don't think I've told you how much I love your art. Not enough, at least.

I'm not sure that I can ever tell you how much both you and your art mean to me. I don't know how you feel about it, but I've always seen your art as an extension of you.

You made it after all.

Your art is so amazing. I'm always excited when you let me see what you've made.

I hope you can see yourself through my eyes now. And I hope this isn't rude to do- but I wanted to do this.

I wanted you to know how much you matter to me. I'm so thankful to have you in my life.

I wish we could have met a more natural way- but I'd fight the shadow the rest of my life if it meant I get to have you in said life.

I will treasure every single picture of you I have. You're so stunning - it takes my breath away every time I see you smile.

I appreciate that you go out of your way to make things easier for all of us.

I appreciate it when you stay up on watch with me even though you don't have to.

I hope you know how much it means to me that you treat me like a person outside of being a hero. Thank you.

I am going to keep trying every day to make sure you know how wonderful you are.

And I hope you know that I love you for you, not for what you do.

I love your sense of humor, your smile, and the way you interact with others.

You're my safe place - if that makes sense? I hope it does.

Anyway, I know this is probably silly, but I thought it might make you smile.

Love, Wild.'

Oh- that's really sweet! You need to find him and thank him and maybe kiss him just a little. (Maybe more.)

You can't ignore the way your chest warms, and your adoration flutters like a butterfly.

This is truly lovely - you've never had someone do this for you before. But it's super sweet, and you are head over heels all over again.

(Maybe ass over tea kettle is a better descriptor if we're going to be honest. But that's just between you and Hylia.)

You close the sketchbook carefully before moving to find Wild.

Finding the man is easy enough - he's cooking lunch.

You walk over to Wild, and the sketchbook is still in hand.

"Hey, firefly." Wild smiles at you, stirring the stew before him. He seems to be at ease for the most part.

"I saw the note and picture you left me."

You watch his reaction - his ears flush a little, and he looks a little like a deer in headlights.

But he relaxes enough to say, "Oh! I hope you liked it! I hope it wasn't too weird..."

"I loved it - it's one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me!"

You pull him into a hug, beaming at him.

You can't find the words you want, but you really hope Wild can tell just how much you love his little gift.

You'll hold onto it forever - you should get it framed when this is all over. That's a good idea.

"I'm glad you liked it. I'm not that great at art -"

"You're amazing at art. What are you talking about?"

"Purah and Zelda are better than me. I'm not the best. But I get by. I don't think I'm awful." Wild explains with a shrug.

"You're amazing at it."

Wild laughs, shaking his head a little. But he dosen’t defelct, instead he just says, "Thank you, (Y/n). I appreciate that."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Wild, let's the spoot rest on the pot, turning to fully face you. He's so thankful you're in his life. And he's so glad you liked his surprise.

"After dinner, we can work on those constellations." You say as you smile at him.

"That sounds nice." He smiles.

"So... could I ask you to draw me again later? I ... have never seen myself the way you made me look."

Wild softens more, which seems impossible until it happens.

And everything is - well maybe it isn't perfect but it's very nice.

[ranbitteeth]

EMERGENCY COMMS OPEN NOW!

heyyy guys..so, funny story.

Turns out working two jobs isn't enough to pay for school, rent, utilities, and providing for three young siblings. Imagine my shock! Turns out the stars have aligned against my favor, because rent has been upped $300, and in paying for my own college classes and my younger siblings' needs- a good chunk of my earnings have been flushed down the drain. Whattt else is new, huh?

Want to see your faves oiled up and tied spread eagle? Want to read about your faves railing you cross-eyed/vice-versa? Do you want to read a specific dynamic/au with your characters? How about your favorite ships? Hell, even with you and the whole cast of your favorite show!

Character sheets? Fetish art? NSFW? SFW? Profile pics? Chbis? You and your SO? Sonas? Furries? Gifts?

ANYTHING and EVERYTHING drawn/written to your tastes!

(except like...loli/shotacon nsfw. I think thats about it I"m very desperate haha)

FICS:

+1.1k = USD 13

+1.9 = USD 16

+2.4 = USD 21

Prices are subject to change depending on the contents of your desires and the complexity of the actual product subject to my own experiences and previous writing efforts.

*Note: I scored in the 99th percentile in the English SATs in the US as a whole. I passed English 101/102 in HS with high remarks from my professor as well as a mythology course, + completed a poetry/literacy class in my first year of college with a B+. English is my second language.

excerpts from previous commissions:

ART(full body prices):

Detailed Sketches: USD 16

Line Art: USD 23

Full Render: USD 28

Note that my style is pretty versatile depending on the media you want me to emulate in your commission. I can do realism and most cartoon styles, but not all will be perfect replicas. I am vehemently against AI so my process will be guaranteed and documented. I am a perfectionist at heart, so references and detailed explanations of what you want are greatly appreciated.

will NOT draw/write: Loli/Shota con, raceplay, and I honestly think that's it. I will not judge anything, but if I am unfamiliar with a fandom/kink please explain it to me so the product will come out as close to your vision as possible. I am currently at work and will close at one of my jobs tonight, so it may be a second before I respond to any DMs unless you catch me on my break.

will draw and write for any fandom! Literally, any fandom as long as it's not like "my girlfriend was reincarnated as an intelligent infant baby!" or something. You guys know whats up.

likes and shares are appreciated!

Payment Methods: PAYPAL, CASHAPP, VENMO

To the beautiful people in my DMs and Ask Box: Your requests will come once the waters settle! SO So soo srry for leaving everyone hanging :(

[vioartemis]

I'll die with you (part 4)

(Tara Carpenter x fem! reader)

Summary: After Chad's death, you decided you had to do something. With Mindy and your mom's help, you come up with a plan to trapped Ghostface. Little do you know that the price to pay will be high... Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 Warnings: blood, death of character (I swear this time it's for the plot, don't kill me it hurts me too), angst a/n: I drew a little plan so you can see the location (even for I needed it at one point so...) hope you can read my handwriting lol (English isn't my first language, I'm sorry if there are mistakes or if something doesn't make sense TvT)

"We're safe now, right?" Lexi asked, breaking the silence

You didn't know how much you slept that night, but certainly not enough to talk about that right after waking up.

No one answered her question, only sharing a knowing look.

"With him we're never safe. Trust me, I know"

"But Damian's in jail!"

"Chances are there is more than one killer"

"Okay then, we just have to hide until the other one gets caught" Lexi shrugged her shoulders

"It's useless, he always finds us"

"... Maybe we could use it against him" everyone turned to look at you "We lure him, and we lock him up"

"It's risky, very risky" your mom warned

"It is, but it could work. We just need a bait..."

"And how do we decide who will be the bait? I don't want to be the bait" Lexi complained

"If we figure out Ghostface's next victim... we have our bait" Tara intervened

You all stayed silent a moment, trying to think of the next victim.

"... Do you really think he wanted to kill me that night? I mean- okay he stabbed be and everything, but if he really wanted to kill me, he just had to slit my throat, right? So why didn't he did that, to be 100% sure I would die?"

More silence. You took it as a sign to continue.

"What if... what if he had something against me - like Amber and Richie with Sam - and wanted to hurt me before killing me?"

"Why do you make it all about yourself? Chad doesn't have anything to do with you"

"We're friends since forever, he's very dear to me"

"Okay but what if you're wrong and it has nothing to do with you? And you surviving the attack was just pure luck? 'A painful death' isn't a term you usually use when you don't want to kill someone"

"Maybe he wants to make us believe that to muddy the waters. I don't know okay, I'm trying to figure out why this is happening"

"Yeah well, I your theory's wrong we could all die"

"At least I'm trying, me. You're not helpful at all, just being rude like that."

Tara placed a hand on your thigh to calm you down and kissed you.

"It's okay baby, she's not worth it, I know you're doing your best" she whispered against your lips

"To be honest, whatever we do, we have a chance to die" Gale started "I have an idea for the where. The how, however..."

She tried to explain what the inside of the building looked like, but none of you really understood so she drew a quick sketch of it. It was way easier to understand that way.

"Now as I said before, how we can trap him is another story"

"I think I know"

It was the first time Mindy spoke since you woke up. She looked determined to do everything in her power to avenger her brother.

"Give me a paper, I'll show you"

Your mom obeyed and gave the girl paper and a pencil. She started to draw, and a few minutes after, showed you her plan:

"Let me explain in details" she said, seeing your confused faces "So the doted lines are the retractable glass windows / walls. According to Gale we have to buttons here, and one here. Those two activate this wall, and this one activates the two others. Did I lost anyone?"

You all shook your heads. For now, it was pretty clear.

"Okay, good. Now this is the first floor, right? I think you said at the ground floor there was other glass walls? Okay we'll see that later, but that's where Sam, Lexi and I are gonna stay"

"Wait, I want to be with Tara too" Sam protested

"We can't have too many people at the same floor. Don't worry, Y/n will be there to protect her." Mindy turned back to her plan "So, Y/n and Tara are the bait, they're going to try to lure him at the first floor, so Gale will be able to trap him with the glass walls and separate him from the girls. The other wall is the safe escape."

She gave more details after that. It was a good plan, much better than anything you could've think of.

"Any questions? No? Great"

"Anyone wants a coffee before we put our life in danger?" Lexi sighed

You all nodded. A coffee wouldn't hurt after all.

"Okay, I'm gonna get them, I'll be right back"

<><><><> ♡ <><><><>

Now that you were there, you weren't so sure it was a good idea after all. What if it went wrong? What if Tara was hurt? You glanced over to your girlfriend. She seemed as nervous as you were.

"That's a bad idea, maybe we should-"

You were interrupted by your phone ringing in your pocket. You took it, hands shaking.

Probably: Damian Walker.

You looked at Tara and nodded, the signal for her to text the others to get ready. You picked up hesitantly.

"Hello?"

"Y/n, Y/n... It's a shame I didn't get you last time, really. For you I mean. If I had killed you... you wouldn't have had to watch her die before your eyes."

"O-oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

He hung up, leaving you even more nervous. Suddenly, a tall figure appeared. As expected he was here. Watching you from the other end of the corridor.

You back up slightly, taking Tara's hand to tell her it was going to be okay. Ghostface didn't move, he was just watching you, analyzing the building.

"We're here! Come and get us if you can, asshole!" you provoked him to make him follow you

He tilted his head to the side before taking a knife out of a pocket in his costume. And then he threw it in your direction, cutting your arm. You hissed in pain, putting your other hand on the wound.

He took a step forward then another one, faster, and in less than a second he was rushing towards you.

You started running, Tara by your side. She opened the stairwell's door and started climbing up the stairs, making sure Ghostface was still following you.

You kicked opened the door to the second floor and ran to the glass wall behind which your mother was, ready to push the button.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice muffled by the wall

"What?"

Out of breath, you turned around to look behind you. He was not here. When did he stop following you?

"Shit shit shit..." you mumbled, panicked, blood running down your arm

All of a sudden, Tara screamed.

"Gale!"

You turned around at the same time as your mother and felt your heart drop immediately. He was here. On the wrong side of the wall.

Your first reflex was to rush to the button to open the glass window. You pressed it, but nothing happened. You tried again, panic rising. Still nothing.

On the other side, Gale tried to press the button as well. It was not working. Ghostface tilted his head to the side. You knew he was smiling under his mask.

Tara tried to press the button too, but it was useless. You ran to the stairwell's door. Going back down and to the other side of the floor was the only available option now.

You tried to push it, but it didn't move. Not even an inch. Someone blocked it from outside.

"No no no no no... come on please..."

You kicked the door, threw yourself at it, in vain. Tara was fighting with the button desperately as Gale was fighting Ghostface with almost as much despair.

You took your phone and called Sam, covering your screen with blood. You started talking as soon as she picked up, voice shaking.

"Sam he's with my mom! We're stuck on the other side! You have to help her or she's gonna- she's gonna-"

"Fuck." you could hear her run with the others "We're here in a second" loud noises, as if they were hitting something "Y/n t-the door is locked... we can't- we can't-"

"Try to open it!"

You ran back to the glass window and hit the button, but it still wasn't working. You couldn't do anything.

You couldn't do anything while your mom was fighting for her life on the other side of this stupid wall. From where you were, you could see the stairwell's door shaking. The others were trying hard to open it.

You watched in horror as Ghostface stabbed Gale in the leg, in the stomach, in the arm. She was fighting back as strongly as she could, but she was no match.

You were desperately trying to make the button work, even if you knew it wouldn't.

He threw her to the ground, but she kicked him off her and stood up with difficulty, going in your direction. She didn't see him behind her. She couldn't do anything when he grabbed her by the shoulders and sunk his knife in her chest.

She tried to fight his grip, but she weakened with every passing second.

You had abandoned the button and were now hitting the glass window in hope to break it, screaming her name, but only managed to stain it with your blood.

He looked at you in the eye, challenging you, before taking the knife out of your mom's chest and dragging it to her throat.

"No..." you backed away from the window, tears in your eyes "Please don't..."

He nodded slowly. Yes. I'm gonna do it. And you can't save her.

She knew. She knew she was going to die. You could see it in her eyes.

"I love you, I'm sorry" she mouthed to you

You watched, helpless, as he pressed the knife against the flesh of her throat, slicing it opened. Your heart shattered.

The scream that left your throat as you fell on your knees was heart wrenching.

[Previous part] || [Next part]

[that-random-outsider]

first of all, you’re so real, the glassheart brain rot is actually driving me insane. Second, I would absolutely love if you could write something in which Red is falling behind on her classes because she’s not used to the dynamic of it since she was homeschooled all her life and Chloe offering to tutor her and Red reluctantly agrees and they’re just flirty and cute around each other!

Lol real!! The brain rot is immeasurable at this point. Also I know you said fluff but there may or may not be some angst in the middle. I hope I did you idea justice!! I loved the concept and I just wanted to keep writing but I hope this will suffice for now.

We're In This Together

Red was doodling absentmindedly while waiting for the bell to end her suffering. Her worksheet acted as her canvas while the questions stood neglected and ignored. It wasn’t that she was purposely trying to fail but between the classwork, homework, and lectures she found it hard to believe anyone could give their one hundred percent all the time. Well, anyone aside from Chloe that is, because of course she could manage to excel socially, physically, and academically that was just who she was. Princess perfect. It was funny how one thought could veer Red’s thoughts off completely as her mind was suddenly filled with images of the blue-haired girl.

Her pencil gracefully guided across the page, and if anyone asked she had not started outlining a small drawing of the princess in her daze. The bell eventually rang throughout the classroom prompting students to turn in their assignments, or in Red’s case her sketches when the teacher stopped her from exiting with everyone else. “Red. What is this?” Her teacher asked unimpressed as she held up the young girl’s worksheet annoyed. “It’s called creative expression, is art not a thing in Auradon or are you just stupid?” Red replied trying for nonchalance. Bad idea. Red’s teacher glared at her in offense before placing a zero on her paper and Red couldn’t help but wince despite the predictable outcome. Chloe was not going to like this.

***

By the time Red approached her and Chloe’s shared dorm the thought of what happened earlier had all but faded to the back of her mind replaced with the relief of finally being back in their room after a long day. “Hey princess” She greeted not even needing to look up to know that Chloe was there, she always waited for Red to return home, to return to her. “Afternoon” she greeted with a gentle smile as  Red collapsed onto her bed chuckling slightly at her theatrics. “Long day?” The charming questioned as Red just groaned into her pillow in response, she did this every day, and as adorable as a sleepy Red was after school to Chloe, they both had work to do. “Do you have homework?” Chloe questioned spinning around in her chair to face the red-head who just hummed in denial lifting her head to face Chloe as well. “Oh really?” Chloe questioned deciding to play along with her girlfriend “So if I were to check your folder right now…” Chloe started jokingly creeping towards her girlfriend's bag as Red shot up from her resting spot in fear, but she was too late, the princess had already swiped her folder from the bag giggling at Red’s reaction as a packet slipped out.

Red stared horrified at the sheet as Chloe’s smile shifted to worry at the sudden change in atmosphere. “Red? Are you alright?” Chloe questioned as Red’s eyes snapped back to Chloe hoping she hadn’t noticed her line of sight. She couldn’t really grasp why she was so worried, Chloe knew that school wasn’t her strong suit, all the classes, and work, it was infuriating. But even so, the thought of Chloe seeing her struggle, and somehow thinking less of her for it filled her with dread. Unfortunately for her, Chloe was great at telling what her girlfriend was thinking. “I can tell that you’re hiding something love,  your problems are our problems remember?” Chloe asked taking her girlfriend’s hands gently in hers as Red sighed, she knew better than to hide things from Chloe, especially when she looked at her like that. She quickly grabbed the papers from off the ground and hesitantly handed it to her girlfriend not looking her in the eye. Chloes’ eyes widened a bit in surprise before simply sighing in disappointment before tossing the paper to the side. “Red” she stated as the girl in question refused to meet her eyes “It wasn’t my fault” she defended before Chloe could say anything. “It’s not like they covered the science of chopping someone’s head off”

“Red-”

“Or how much force had to be applied” Red continued remembering the way her mom had forced her to watch.

“Red” Chloe called out again realizing she was losing her.

“Or how to calculate how far they’d rolled in inches” She continued her breathing picking up in a way It only did when she was starting to panic.

“Red!” Chloe called raising her voice a bit causing Red to flinch violently as Chloe kept her hands up trying to coax Red back to the present. “That’s it, deep breaths” Chloe stated softly as she demonstrated the act to which Red attempted to mirror. “I’m not mad” Chloe stated after she felt Red was calm enough to continue on her own “You’re not?” Red asked her voice still a little shakey from the panic in a way that made Chloe’s heart break. Did she really believe something so small could destroy her view of her? “Of course not” Chloe replied taking Red’s hand in hers “I’m just worried about you Red, it’s like you never even try and I can tell there’s something more to it than you just not caring.” Red’s brows furrowed as she snatched her hand back crossing her arms “Right, because you know everything” Red replied defensively as Chloes’ frown deepened. “That’s not fair, you know that’s not what I meant” Chloe replied sternly making sure to keep her voice free from any malice, she knew that it wasn’t her that Red was angry at.

“I’m not stupid Chloe, It’s not my fault. All of this is just so much” Red insisted unsure of why she was so angry, it was one mistake she’d had plenty more where that came from but this was different. Suddenly Chloe was holding her tightly her arms wrapping tightly around Red’s shaking figure “Then let me help you. Don’t you get it? We’re in this together whether  you like it or not and that’s never going to change so you can either give up and let me help you or we can sit here and cuddle until you do.” Chloe stated matter-of-factly as Red couldn’t help but smile at her girlfriend leaning into her embrace as she gave her a peck on the cheek. “Both are very tempting offers Princess” Red stated as Chloe struggled to come up with an intelligible response while her head was still reeling from the kiss. “Yeah well… whatever” Chloe responded giving up on coming up with any logical response with Red wrapped around her like this. “I think I know how to help though” Chloe quickly stated before adding “but I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

***

Chloe was right, she didn’t like this at all “No” Red replied simply for the hundredth time. “Come on, at least give it a shot. Tutoring could help, and I don’t mind putting aside the extra time” Chloe insisted also for the hundredth time, but Red didn’t budge, perhaps it was time to switch strategies. Chloe sighed dramatically catching Red’s attention “I know what you’re doing. It’s not going to work” Red stated arms crossed refusing to give in, even though everything inside was telling her to do whatever it took to turn her adorable pout into her gorgeous smile. “What do you mean?” Chloe asked innocently as Red did a complete about-face so as to not look her in the eye much to Chloe’s dissatisfaction. “Please? It would be nice to have someone to study next to during long nights, and barely anyone visits the library so it gets so lonely and boring” Chloe stated as Red struggle not to give in to her words.

“Not to mention with swords and shields practice we see each other less and less, who knows when we’ll get to have more moments where it’s just the two of us” Chloe whined as she watched with a hint of amusement at how Red had started fidgeting to keep herself from giving in. “But I mean I guess I won't force you, I just thought with how busy we’ve been, and how much I’ve missed you, some time for just you and me to spend alone with no distractions for a few hours sounded a bit tempting” Screw it “Fine I’ll do it” Red stated hating that Chloe knew exactly how to make her crack while said girl just squealed in delight pulling her in for a kiss. Fine, maybe this tutoring thing won’t be all bad.

[damallarky]

"Truce" Snippet

This fic is fighting me guys. But here are two snippets so I can share something and get the fic worms out into the ether. Enjoy.

-

"If there was one truth Neria Lavellan knew above all else, it was that she hated Solas with every fiber of her twelve-year-old being. It was her opinion that the man who abandoned her and her family before she was even born did not have any right to any of their time. Yet in the days following his release from the Fade, Neria noticed her family’s carefully constructed unit begin to shift and change to make room for him anyway.

It started fairly innocuously, with Mamae checking in on him when she could. It seemed Solas was apparently left weakened by his stint in the Fade and needed the bedrest. This was fine to Neria; it meant she wouldn’t have to see the man, and it gave Mamae a chance to do what she loved most: fret over people.

Yet, as Solas regained his strength and could leave his bed, he continued to weasel into her family’s lives, starting with Neria’s mother. Unless Solas was needed for Veilguard stuff, he was stuck to Mamae like a tick.

A stupid, bald tick.

Wherever Aisling Lavellan was, Solas was not far behind. If Mamae was cooking, Solas would be there to “help.” If Mamae was holding Neria’s new baby sister, Enasali, and she began to fuss, Solas would sweep in out of nowhere and offer to hold her. If Mamae was doing embroidery work in the library, Solas was close by, reading a book.

What was worse was that Mamae seemed to enjoy having Solas around. It did not escape Neria’s notice how Mamae would leave Veilguard meetings with her hand (always her real hand) entwined with Solas’s own. Nor did Neria miss the look on Mamae’s face whenever she would feed him a bite of whatever it was she was cooking… By hand.

It made Neria want to hurl..." -

"...The leather was old and worn, covered in a thick layer of dust like it had been forgotten for years. Upon opening it, she saw that the writing was tiny, impeccably neat, and seemed to alternate between common and Elven. Along with what looked like regular journal entries, there were also diagrams, formulas, and countless sketches.

Neria had a sneaking suspicion as to who this journal belonged to. So, with a vindictiveness she didn’t even know she possessed, she turned to a random page.

It was a journal entry written in common and, according to the date, was written on what would have been her fourth name day. It read:

‘I have a near mountain of work, yet I have accomplished nothing. Today is Neria’s name day, and is the case every year, I am finding it hard to concentrate.

She is turning four years old this year. Four years old! I am still unused to the flow of time in this new world, and I fear that when I next see her, Neria will be a woman grown…’

The next passage had what looked like water droplets smearing the ink and making the text nearly illegible. Neria thought she saw the word ‘heart’ and perhaps ‘mother,’ but she couldn’t be sure. Frustrated, she skipped to the next few lines.

‘I had one of my agents deliver the gift I had picked out. I found it while I was working with my contact in Kirkwall.

It was a toy stuffed wolf, and it was quite the odd-looking thing with its misshapen body and mismatched buttons for eyes. Yet I found it endearing (and incredibly soft), so I couldn’t help but purchase it.

I can only hope that Neria enjoys it as well...’"

@buttsonthebeach @beardedladyqueen and all the others, thank you for cheering me on. It helps a lot. :D

[universallydestinytaco]

@happylittlefuzzyguy

This will be the perfect opportunity to go into detail of a fanfic I always wanted to share with this fandom overall, I have told some of my friends prior about this is.

I’m just gonna say rn that my absolute least favorite episode of this entire series has to be The Enchanted Forest. Crazy I know one of the most Charpim-coded episodes and it’s my least fave, why? Now before I turn in my “queer Smiling Friends fan” card, lemme explain because I have many reasons: first off, Mip is an ugly little cockroach bitch who I wanna stomp on and grind with the heel of my sandal into a hot concrete parking lot, also I felt like the episode felt lackluster in terms of writing where as hilarious as Charlie becoming a fantasy hero is the song that the little creep sings is a dragged out, repetitive gag that wears out it’s welcome and it would have been way more interesting if Pim wanted to prove how he could be a hero even without a sword like he could be a mage with a wand or a pacifist hero…hell wouldn’t it have been funny if Pim did become the sword-wielding fantasy hero and tried to impress Charlie who is too busy bonding with Mip?? Also why the hell did Charlie get so easily attached to Mip anyway maybe it was the potion messing with his head or maybe if this episode had way more time to cook maybe it could have established Mip as an old friend of Charlie’s so Pim feels extra jealous and insecure. One big gripe I also had was how generic the Princess looked. I was expecting her to resemble Lady Amalthea from The Last Unicorn to correspond to Mip being designed in that Rankin Bass style. Maybe it’s just me being an animation nerd.

That’s why I have been working on my own rewrite of this episode to make more sense and to be less predictable and more in-line the show’s usual spontaneous and subversive writing style alongside amping up the Charpim energy! I call this: “The Enchanted Forest Remix” and boy do I have many drafts of this idea in my head, sometime after my other fanfic wraps up I might write this one, I could sketch out my ideas for the current iteration of it too because I like the idea of Pim wearing a dress and carrying around a sword for some reason haha. Wanna hear more unpopular opinions? Drop a 💛, for another fanfic idea I haven’t shared or talked about as much yet, drop a 💚.

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