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mooishbeam · 1 year

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『♡』 Extra Credit

♡ featuring: gojo & geto x f!reader

♡ summary: class is getting too hard for you, so you seek help. unfortunately, the help you receive is not what you expected. wc: 2.8k+

♡ cw/tw: manipulation, praise, light degradation, throat-fucking, edging, threesome, spit roasting, rough sex, pretty mean gojo, cum play

notes: helloo! a slightly shorter one this time. hope u like :) my first jjk fic!! art by _3aem on twitter <3

You twiddle your sparkly pen with your fingers and eye the blank page. Chemistry-201 started an hour ago, and you’ve got nothing to show for it. Truthfully, you were exhausted thinking about having to attend. College was easy for the most part, even calculus. You couldn’t tell anyone the reality behind your performance block in this specific class. The excuse your friends heard was, “The slides are hard to read.” They were hard to read, but they’d probably be clearer if you actually looked at them. What you did like to look at, were the boys who sat two rows in front of you in lecture hall. The one with frosty hair would whisper through the entirety of class, while the quiet one diligently wrote down organized notes. That’s how you picked up their names:

“Quiet, Gojo.” he snapped, tapping the paper with his pencil as if Gojo would catch the hint. He smiled and poked his temple. “Chill Geto, the best doesn’t need to study.”

Geto sighs and waves his hand. “Not everything is about you.”

“Why not?”

Geto and Gojo you thought. Their names were sweet on your tongue. You squeezed your thighs together, imagining how their names would sound on your lips. On rare occasions, Geto would face your direction. Even though it wasn’t for you, it felt special, like you were the only person in the room. You wanted someone as hardworking and kind as him to notice you. Sometimes you’d catch yourself sketching the back of his head, promptly shredding the page after the bell. What started to unnerve you was Gojo, who was always aware of your shy glances even when his back was turned. His crystalline azure eyes bore into yours and you’d fumble for anything to look at. Even when you daydreamed dirty scenarios, he reads your mind. It made you feel guilty. When your professor dismissed you, you’d scattered up the steps, bag already packed. This strategy was efficient until the day you dropped your book walking out of class. Pale slender hands grabbed it before you could reach it. “Ah! Thank you-” You met eyes with Gojo, smiling above you like reborn divinity. You almost felt the urge to bow. “Gotta be careful, yeah? This shit's expensive.” You nodded another thank you and took the book, hasting away so he couldn’t see your flustered face.

All these minor incidents accumulated into the major issue currently surfacing; you are on the cusp of failing. Your parents readily applauded the other classes, perfect A’s. Just visualizing the scenario where you show them a D sends you into grief. You vow to change this outcome today. Your final exam is in a month and a half, enough space to master important subjects. No distractions, no Geto and Gojo. You meet with student resources after Chemistry to inquire about your study options and settle on weekly tutoring. You’re determined and prepared to give your all for this exam.

Next week arrives and you're full of vigor. You try your best to rationalize each problem, no matter how wrong you are; and you were very wrong, frequently. You’re mentally apologizing in advance to your tutor. You see Geto and Gojo quietly bickering. Gojo has long pretty eyelashes, and you can’t stop glancing at them. They swiftly point to you. Nothing unusual, until—for the first time—Geto turns to you. His eyes are fixated solely on you. You're startled and knock over your water bottle, pouring it all over your notebook. A domino effect ensues. The valuable notes you took smear from the liquid, and it drips from the table onto your mini skirt. You stand to dodge it but your open bag tips over and out the chair, spilling the contents all over the floor. The room is silent, and everyone in your vicinity is staring. Time stops as you gather your stuff and leave the hall to dry yourself. You’re in the bathroom now, dying from embarrassment as your brain recalls the moment repeatedly. The sly smirk on Gojo’s face. I have to get over this you thought. Your session is in an hour, and you don’t want to waste crucial experience. Surely it can’t get worse than this.

You show up five minutes early and patiently wait for their arrival. Fortunately, you’re afforded a closed off workspace with the tutor. You draw dainty flowers in your book until the door creaks open. To your surprise, you see tidy black hair and chiseled features. It’s Geto. Your personal tutor is Geto. The stars must’ve aligned to dispatch one horrific cataclysm. You contemplate what you could’ve done to the gods for them to punish you so harshly. He pretends that he’s never seen you. “(Y/N), right? My name is Geto, I’ll be tutoring you for the rest of the semester.” His professionalism makes you breathe easier, and you’re relieved, content with maintaining this attitude. Together you set up your notes and the first 15 minutes go without a hitch, simply reviewing the topics you grapple with.

“A lot of these are early concepts. They’re used in basically every class. Forgive me if this offends you, but how do you not know these?”

“Ah, I get a bit distracted.”

“By what?”

“Oh… um.” You shift your thighs back and forth, pondering a justifiable answer, oblivious to the way Geto ogles them. "I just have a hard time focusing.”

He scans your tight fitted shirt, then your lips. “I see.” Suddenly, the door swings open. Bright orbs piercing you, capturing you. You drop your head, hoping he won’t recognize you from the scalp.

“Yo Geto, look at this game I- oops.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to barge in while I’m tutoring?”

“Haha, sorry ‘bout that…wait, I know you!” He exclaims. Gojo snatches a chair and sits so you’re sandwiched between them. Intently skimming the textbook as if you didn’t hear him, he grabs your cheeks and twists you to him.

“You’re the girl that wet herself today, right?” He laughs.

“C’mon, she's dealt with enough already.” Your wishful thinking fell on deaf ears; they clearly didn’t forget that easily.

“Heh, it’s too funny though. Geto, I told you about her remember? She’s always looking at us in class.” he teases. You felt a shiver go up your spine and your face get hotter. “That isn’t-”

“Shh” Gojo interrupts you. “Tell me, are we more handsome now that you have a closer look?” Your heart drops to your stomach and you stumble over your words.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to look. If I made you uncomfortable, I’m deeply sorry.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I like the shy type.”

“I think I should go.” You try to rise, but Geto pulls you from your skirt. If they wanted you, they would have you. "I didn’t permit you to leave. Sit. We'll continue.”

“I don’t know if I should-”

“Are you disrespecting the time I’m putting in to ensure you end with a decent grade?” he questioned. You went meek, reconsidering the effort you’d be wasting, and how badly you wanted Geto to acknowledge that effort.

“No. I’ll do it.” His smile is saccharine and alluring, masking the dark intentions pulling at his conscious.

“Great. Next chapter.”

You’re eight paragraphs in, a sheer glistening sweat on your legs. You can barely mouth the words. Gojo’s breath is painfully close to your ear, tickling it as he follows along the page, his thumb running under the hem of your thigh high socks. “You wore these for me, yeah?” he whispers. You clamp your thighs, and a scheming grin creeps up his face. Meanwhile Geto’s fingers are behind your neck, brushing it gently with his other hand steady on top of yours. The bare skin contact is disorienting, so much so that you hadn’t noticed you’ve read the same sentence for the past minutes.

“(Y/N)?” You snap out of an affectionate trance. “Huh?”

“Is something troubling you?” His nose is inches away from yours, taunting you.

“Mm, no.” Your trembling voice exposes the truth. “You seem frustrated. Do you need help alleviating that frustration?” Such a straightforward question is nerve-wracking. You've only imagined this in your dreams, calling out both of their names. The scandal that unfolds if people find out would be reputation-shattering for you. But desire burning in your dampening core blanketed those worries. “I don’t know what to say.”

“(Y/N), when someone offers you something, you should accept it and say thank you” Gojo adds. His hand slides deeper in your socks, groping the plush fat.

“Do you want it, yes or no?” The decision tosses in your mind. Until you finally manage a soft-spoken “yes.” Instantly, the air in the room switches, their gaze encapsulating you like prey. You feel smaller.

“This won’t be easy, though. I’m teaching you concentration. If you get through this quiz with us touching you, I’ll reward you. Understand?” Geto says. You nod at him like a lost puppy, ready to please him.

The quiz starts with ten entry-level questions. You get to work, and they get to devour you. Gojo parts your legs, salivating from the strings of slick sticking to your underwear and inner thighs. He litters kisses and lustful bruises along your neck, his hands trailing to your chest. Geto’s hands hike your skirt up and move to your underwear, circling the erect nub through the fabric. You’re on question three and can hardly achieve a scribble. He pulls your panties to the side and spreads your folds, toying with the mess. You have a loose hold on his shirt that tightens whenever he presses on the bundle of nerves. His fingers are skillful, knowing the right buttons to push to coax whimpers out of you. Meanwhile, Gojo tugs your shirt up, exposing your nipples to the cool air. He flicks one with his tongue, then envelopes your breast in his warm wet mouth. He sucks and bites the bud, tasting it and fondling the other. He moans, light pops as he comes up, gazing into you for approval. The walls are thin, you can’t get caught, but you need them deeper. They make you fall apart just to punish you, a sharp sting from Geto’s palm directly on your clit.

“If you can’t keep your voice down, I’m gonna stop. Are you sure you can handle it?” Geto teases. He definitely isn't stopping, but your panicked, yearning expression made his cock twitch.

“Yes! I’m sorry, I can be quiet.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be struggling. You wanna make me proud, right?” You nodded frantically.

He places a gentle, almost manipulative kiss on your lips. “Good girl. Then you’ll take everything I give you.” His digits glide vertically on your vulva until they slip inside, scissoring and massaging your g-spot. You somehow make it to question 6, but your mushy thoughts aren’t sure if they can recover from the rhythmic pumping and juices running down his knuckles. Gojo releases you for air, bite indentations dotting your mounds. “Geto. Switch?”

“Okay.” He says and begrudgingly drags his fingers out. You whine from the emptiness, but Gojo quickly replaces him. He gets under the table on his knees and forces your legs wider, appreciating the upcoming feast. His pink muscle licks a long harsh strip against you. The new sensation makes your back arch, and your hand cards through his hair.

“Too sensitive? Aww.” He moves roughly, slurping and lapping up everything he can get his mouth on. His grasp is tight, even with all your strength pushing him off is a challenge. Question nine passed, still shaking and stuttering. Geto pinches and twist your nipples but showers the pain with loving kisses. He pecks the back of your neck. You’re so close you start to involuntarily buck your hips. Gojo stops immediately, grinning at your frustrated cries, your essence covering his jaw and chin. “Don’t come yet, wanna feel you.”

“One more question, baby.” Geto says, caressing the swollen marks. You put your heart into finishing the last problem, an unintelligible number for your response. You can’t decipher the words; all you want is Geto’s praise. He takes the pencil out of your hand and counts the correct solutions.

“8 out of 10. I’m so proud of you, angel.” None of your answers were right. But he relished how effortless it was to make you happy, how much you starved for his attention. He searched to lock you away where no one could find you. You’re beaming nevertheless, smothered by his kindness.

“C’mere. Taste yourself.” Gojo husks before French kissing you, tongues intertwined. He moans into your mouth. “Want your reward now?”

“Please” you rasped, and he picks you up, pressing your stomach flat on the desk. Geto wraps around in front of you. He pulls his throbbing cock out and lifts your chin, propping it on your lips. “Open.” he coos. You loll your tongue out, looking up at him expectingly. He smiles and drives his length into you until your nose is flush with his pubes. His cockhead is deep in your throat, it burns, but you’re the center of his world in this moment and it makes it worth the ache. You worship it, savor him. Hollowing out your cheeks, you start bobbing your head. You drool on his balls, gently sucking them and tracing his veins with your tongue. His moans are breathy and deep, hand firm on the back of your head to prevent you from bailing. He denies your pleas for air.

Gojo taps his leaking tip against your clit a few times and slides himself in, whimpering from the soaking grip molding to his shaft. “A-ah, so tight.” he choked. His balls collide with your ass, and your orgasm hits hard. You tremble, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you try to ride it out. But Gojo doesn’t let you and jerks your arms behind you with one hand. He pounds deep and fast, noisy plaps and squelching fervor pushing your limits; at the same time, Geto is face-fucking you. You were sure students heard the commotion by now. The men ravaging you sent a trail of fire crawling up your body. Tears smear on your face, gagging spit drips from your bottom lip, a mixture of fluids soak your socks, but your fuzzy senses can only drown in their pleasure. The spring coiling in your body is quick. Gojo’s tip kisses your g-spot perfectly and you embrace him. “Hey, you on the pill?” he asks. You're about to answer but he shoves your head down to Geto’s hilt. “Never mind, I don’t care.”

Geto’s movements quicken. Your disheveled face sends him over the edge. He blesses you with his creamy hot gift, spurting inside your gullet, accompanied by guttural sighs. “Swallow all of it.” You struggle but slowly get it down. You polish off the rest of his twitching length in revere and open your mouth for proof. “That’s my good girl.” He pats your head, and you lean into the warmth. Waiting for his confirmation.

“You wanna come? I’ll let you come, baby.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, you do it when I tell you to.” Gojo snaps. Tears prickled your lashes from overstimulation. Your whimpers stream out the room and he laughs through breathy whines. “Little pervert. You want people to hear you getting railed?”

“It's t’much! Gojo I can’t-”

Geto cradles your jaw. “(Y/N). Ask him for permission.” He is suddenly stern, and you obey him.

“Please lemme come!” you babble. His concern is clouded with sin.

“Yeah? Beg for it.” An orchestra of please’s sing, and you mean it, but Gojo didn’t care. He’d much rather watch your rippling ass and melting figure. Each thrust has you incoherent, and you plead more, enough to satisfy his smug demeanor.

“That’s better. Now come for me, all over my cock.” His command splinters, and your gushy walls convulse to form a white ring around the base. Gojo’s strokes get desperate as he approaches his release from your slippery heat. He pulls out and holds you in place, a few pumps before he shoots ropes across your ass and paints your vulva. “Yeah- you’re so fucking good.” he moans, mumbling and quivering through his orgasm.

They get dressed while you lie on the desk. You’re breathless and trembling, but they’re focused on cleaning themselves up. Gojo gets eye level with you.

“If you tell anyone, you know I’ll ruin your life, right? Keep it hush.” You can’t speak. He grabs your panties off the floor and pockets them. “These are cute. Imma keep it.” Geto reties his hair and smiles at you. “See you later.”

They abandon you, covered in come and items strewn across the table. You’re left to wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. One thing was undeniable, however; you were really looking forward to next week.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk smut #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto smut #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut

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azure-cherie · 10 months

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Astrology for writers

Placements that indicate potential/ talent / interest in writing + tips

This post is an amalgamation of tropical as well as vedic astrology, you can see for both the placements hope you guys enjoy it <3

Moon - jup conj in the chart will help you derive inspiration from your emotions while writing . You wanna cry write it down you're raged write it downnn you'll be happy later trust me .

Mercury - jup and asteroid Hermes prominence shows that you should just start writing the inspiration will follow , these are the people who realise after writing how good they have done 😭✨

Moon, mercury, jup , Venus in 3rd house is for courage and motivational writing . Venus also indicates the love genre .

Ketu , Jupiter, in 5th , ketu past life talent for writing , Jupiter being naturally talented with creation, is great with all forms of arts .

Mercury in 5 th are the young teen writers who become great eventually, don't tell me you didn't have a Wattpad phase ( that also applies for Mercury in 3rd )

Saraswati yoga ( Venus and Mercury occupy Lagna, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 7th, 9th, 10th and 11th either jointly or independently, Jupiter being in its own, exaltation or friendly sign) gives talent for writing.

Pluto - mercury, Pluto - moon aspects , speaks about writing in dangerous and difficult subjects , activism as well . Thriller , ghost stories , gore etc.

Neptune - mercury aspects , has vivid imagination and writing about fantasy related subjects .

Punarvasu mercury for poetry .

Krittika, hasta , punarvasu, ardra , mrigashira, Swati , shatabhisha, purva phalguni, purva ashadha, Uttara bhadrapada as moon nakshatra or sun nakshatra might give you fame as well in this sector.

Asteroid Kalliope , Erato , Eutrepe prominent in your chart shows that your inspiration in writing is divine and check the asteroid chart mercury to find the source of it .

If you really like a writer and take inspiration from them look if they have an asteroid named after them and look for the prominence in your chart for eg : 3453 dostoevsky . Look for various writer asteroids and the prominence in your chart , that would help you find more inspiration .

Tip : write in the hour of mercury on the day your moon is transiting for divine inspiration. Making a sigil in this hour in your notebook will also do great .

This is quite the short post if you wanna see more on writer observations do let me know , also if you want to have observations in other topics like painter , dancer etc my ask box is open .

If you Wanna book a reading on this topic including your asteroids about writing / nakshatras and yogas my dms are open . More about it in my dms .

Thank you so much for reading have a great day ❤️

#astrology notes #astro notes #astrology #vedic astrology #sidereal astrology #astro community #astro observations #astrology community #asteroids astrology #asteroid astrology #astrology observations #astrology placements

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iluvprettygirls · 1 year

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My Studying Plans; As an Accounting Major!

Before Class

Read the book before lectures: It helps you understand what the teacher is talking about, and how they connect the ideas together.

Look over your homework & notes for references and reminders.

Organize your backpack! Noting better than a clean and organized backpack to set the mood for the day!

Set a Daily Goal! What do you want to achieve today in each class? What concepts do you want to be more knowledgeable about today?

Arrive Early! It gives you extra time to prepare your materials and you’re more likely to stay engaged.

During Class

Always go! You will miss a concept, and getting a classmate's notes isn’t the same.

Stay fully focused! A proper professor wants you to pass, and your time is all that they want.

A tip for focusing is to pretend that you really care about what the professor is talking about! Pretend it's about your favorite subject.

Ask questions during class! No one will judge you too hard, I promise. It will help you close the gap in between ideas and concepts that you are confused about.

Get a notebook for notes! (Funny statement I know!) I mean get you a notebook that you don't mind writing sloppily in, cause you might have to write fast. My old classmate used to sloppily write in her notebook, and then during study hall she would make it more organized and visually appealing (she was later the salutatorian!)

Ask questions right after class! Usually this is the time where you ask the smaller questions that can be answered in a short amount of time, the teacher doesn’t mind answering these I promise.

After Class

Finding a place to study! Notice what stimulates you to study, is it the food court? A study room? Personally I like to study around other people, and being alone makes me go on my phone.

Visit teachers during office hours! Not only will this give you clarifications, but this will also help you in the long run with developing relationships with your teachers! If they know you, they are likely to give you project extensions, bumped grades, etc.

“It’s harder to fail the students I’ve come to know.”

Schedule! All of the subjects that I will study today and the next day, make it a simple little checklist!

Studying Method

30/15 Method! A method where you study for 30 minutes followed by a 15 minute break! Continue the intervals until study time is over.

Drink water or Matcha! This is a rule for myself, matcha boosts my mood and always makes me feel more productive, so I’ll stay engaged!

When playing music- make sure that it isn’t too loud so that you can think! Make a playlist full of calming instrumentals so that you can stay off your device! Get a cheap pair of pretty headphones.

Strict No Procrastination! Ban your phone from the study area, you will get distracted (you can look during the 15 mins)

Study at most 3 objectives in a studying session!

Study from general topics to specific topics!

Use studying sites! Sites that turn topics into a game work best for me (ex. Kahoot, Quizlet)

Use your hands! Write on a whiteboard or a notebook which gives you a better chance of remembering than typing.

After Studying!

Enjoy yourself! Have a light snack, go for a walk, a small 7 minute stretch, and visit the campus gym! Anything to reward your behavior pretty girl!

@iluvprettygirls

#studying tips #girly girl #pink #wonyoungism #it girl #coquette #inspiration #lifestyle #green girl aesthetic #that girl aesthetic #education #studyblr #pink pilates princess #dream girl #girlblog #girlblogger #self love

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hwaightme · 9 months

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Impressionism

(masterlist) (taglist)

🩸 pairing: vampire!gallerist/collector!seonghwa x art historian!gn!reader 🩸 genre: fluff, noir, soulmates, supernatural, strangers(?) to lovers, art nerding 🩸 summary: a post-graduate student specialising in impressionism, you were a regular visitor to the many art galleries in the city. who knew that among the paintings you would encounter your favourite, timeless work of art? 🩸 wordcount: 12.3k 🩸 warnings/tags: questionable editing, mention of blood, fangs, wounds, suggestive, many pet names (love, darling etc), art theory/history ponderings, time skips, mention of rituals, philosophy, hwa is centuries-old, yearning hwa 🩸 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🩸 a/n: happy birthday to @starrysvn!! lheo, ilysm, and i hope you enjoy this little rambling <3 hugs to everyone, all reblogs, notes and comments appreciated! 🩸 playlist: nfwmb - hozier, who is she? - i monster, keep on loving you - cas, la vie en rose - edith piaf, a l'ombre de nous - pierre barouh, les feuilles mortes / sous le ciel de paris - yves montand, moon over bourbon street / until - sting

‘Love and Pain’ - an enigmatic masterpiece that was painted by Edvard Munch, the famous Norwegian artist, in 1895. In vibrant oil paints a dramatic scene interpreted by millions as something more sensual, darker, revealing was immortalised. Perhaps quite literally. You leaned back on one hand, feeling the coolness of the bench located in the middle of the gallery hall, careful to not let the notebook in your hands slip from your lap. ‘Vampire’ - first, it was a label for the woman with the alluring, long red locks that was leaning over her supposed lover, then it turned into a second name for the work. It was comical how Munch himself had initially stated the piece depicted nothing more than a woman kissing the neck of a man, and yet, the tale had told itself. What followed were six versions of this same subject, with a woodcut titled “Vampyr II”, followed by paintings titled ‘Vampire’ and ‘Vampire in the Forest’, and then through common acceptance that this indeed was the ‘submission of a man to the bite of a vampire’, if you were to paraphrase a critic who had been in an astoundingly similar position as you, except without the decades upon decades of other material to refer to. They had been the firstcomers, the initial perceivers to set the tone for society’s consumption of the artwork, the louder of the many voices in the artwork who often had the final say. In some senses, they were your long lost colleagues - they were there to create history, and you were there to study it.

While it was not exactly a part of the movement you had decided to specialise in, you nonetheless would never reject the opportunity to learn more about the stunning world of visual arts, trying to guess how the artist had felt in the moment, what did they see beyond what they presented to the world, how did they translate the heart into brushstrokes. You were taken by all forms of art since you were little - having grown up surrounded by items that were far removed from what you called your air, you were intrigued by anything that was external to your version of ordinary. In your case, it just so happened to be the little private gallery that you had spent almost all of your monthly allowance to visit when you were a school kid - you had been so dedicated, in fact, that the elderly guard who had often also acted as a guide to the visitors had become your first friend in the art world, something of a grandparent figure, and on multiple occasions - when the lack of eyes would allow, simply let you through with a grin and glance out of the entrance doors.

And so here you were, many years later, many hard decisions and conversations behind you, regarding artworks with an unprecedented soulful closeness that you had initially thought was unattainable. Had you believed all those who remained outside of the walls of your personal paradise, you would have been immersed in the same cycle that had been drilled into the majority of your family members, except maybe a handful who you had never met for the exact reason that they had chosen something for themselves. But you regarded your dream as the thorned path - undoubtedly more challenging, not immediately fruitful, but in the long run leading to the heaven of your design. What more could you ask for?

It was enjoyable to be alone with the paintings surrounding you, portals to new realms that any visitor could have the pleasure of exploring. And what was even more inspiring, was that in the eye of every beholder was a different universe, and no matter who one would speak to, their version of the painting would be different, even if just slightly. You huffed, amused. When was the last time you had visited a gallery with anyone else? You could not quite recall - it was likely that you had never seeked company from another because you were more than satisfied with the company of the legendary works that were regarding you from the many walls. It was possible to compose oneself, spend limitless time on every piece, study the details, and drift into one’s own musings when there was no one to ground them. This was when you dared to say you got your best work done. Even though you, of course, conducted research within university and ventured out to galleries, museums, collectors or auctions only within professional bounds, the bulk of the thinking process was carried out in times such as this. When it was just you, your notebook and pen, and a new point of focus. However, this time, you could not say you were fully attentive to the painting that you had decided to focus on, as a certain someone was appearing to share your level of interest in ‘Love and Pain’ too.

A gentleman who could not be much older or younger than you, at most a couple of years, stood off to the right of the bench, unmoving, gaze fixated on the painting. Dressed in a pinstripe navy suit, light blue dress shirt, lacquered dress shoes and a matching navy tie, he was nothing short of being a moving work of art. Hints of a glimmer from his thin framed, elegant silver spectacles gave the man a scholarly aura, while the slicked back dark hair - evidently a lot longer than the styling would suggest, added notes of business, entrepreneurship, perhaps leadership. Nothing was out of place, not a crease, not an exposed thread in sight. Needless to say, your curiosity had been sparked.

Much like you found joy in exploring creations in the realm of the visual arts, you were fond of crafting stories about the people who were strangers in passing. You could not help it; perhaps this affinity for creative internal ramblings had come as a package with studying the degree you had selected, or perhaps this was a naturally occurring guilty pleasure that you simply had not had the chance to entertain before you cut yourself off from expectations and predetermined patterns of thought. But now, you had the full pleasure of wondering, letting your mind travel to lands far away as you took the real life masterpiece in, and pondered why the man could be here, what he could be thinking as he studied Munch’s work, and what resonated with him, and only him.

There was a melancholia with the weight of centuries resting upon his shoulders, that much you could decipher in the stranger’s stance. Even then, there was a gentle burning flame within his heart judging by just how dedicated he was to inspecting the artwork. Like he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years, and was attempting to memorise them anew and recognise each change, bit by bit. You suppressed a chuckle, entertaining the possibility of this man finding a kinship with the painting, but chose to set the idea aside for the time being, instead focusing on sketching his emotional landscape. Was the stranger remorseful? Lonely? Perplexed? You could not quite pinpoint the answer, at least not before you noticed the man’s head starting to turn, and soon enough, his eyes were peering into your own.

They were two pools of deep chocolate, an all-consuming shade that, due to the ever so slightly dimmer lights than in the general halls of the gallery, appeared to be approaching a captivating onyx. The gaze that originated from behind the glasses, and glided across the room that was suddenly too small for two struck you, and you could feel heat starting to rise on your face, blush threatening to reveal the effect of the man’s spontaneous act of confidence. Lowering your head, you gave the stranger a sheepish grin, and pretended to make a random note, pen erratically scribbling over a filled page. He continued to regard you with that same unwavering expression, and only when you looked up again did he seem to catch himself and give you a closed-mouth smile, equally as bashful as yours, and crossed his arms. One step, another, and he was right by the painting, though careful to not obstruct your view - instead, he took his time to read the brief paragraph on the information plaque that had been stuck to the wall off to the side of ‘Love and Pain’. With the same familiarity that is common among those grieving, or in a state of existential sorrow. A bittersweetness prevailed in his aura, one that reminded you of autumn - the falling leaves in red and gold, twirling to join a magnificent carpet, but nonetheless, making a departure, albeit a nearly unnoticeable one. Had he seen many fallen leaves? Was he himself approaching the season? You gasped, but even though the sound was barely audible, you caught the stranger making a minuscule turn in response.

His footsteps were louder than your thoughts, his departure an irrevocably impactful act that left you breathless. You did not know him, and yet you felt as though you had gotten a glimpse at multiple lifetimes, and were part of a moment that was greater than yourself. In the wordless exchange, question after question had found its root, and something told you that you should not dare attempt to craft him a backstory, and choosing to believe in anything but what would be declared by him would be a gross misinterpretation, much like one that was carried out by those who did not wish to reflect on art and look beyond a first impression. For the first time since you had made your initial discovery of the arts, you felt like you were not alone in the gallery, the other visitor’s presence remained so intense that he could be sat right next to you, scrutinising the same painting, entertaining the same thought. Was the woman with the bright tresses indeed what she had been declared to be over the many years she had been introduced to many venues, many variations of public, and finally finding a home on this wall? Did she settle with her lover, or perhaps a carefully selected victim? Would the man have an answer?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ . It was unlike you to retrace your steps a mere few days after a visit and return to the same gallery, amble down the same halls, and seek for a new source of investigative inspiration among the same selection. This obviously did not mean that you would never return, definitely not, that would be almost criminal of you to possess such intentions, but you tended to try to cleanse your palate with alternative movements, contemporary takes and avant garde interpretations between searches which were more directly related to your studies. And yet, for the first time in a while, nothing was stopping you from your return. It felt only natural, and so right. Moreover, you felt no unease when you headed straight towards the section that housed the impressionists. An individual with an unspoken, mysterious mission, you were on the hunt for the creative streak, something that would help you ponder the next section of your hefty dissertation, and you could sense that it had to be somewhere here. And, like always, you were right.

‘Bazille’s Studio’, one of the most famous works painted by the so-called ‘tragic artist’ of the impressionists, Frédéric Bazille in 1870. In fact, it had been a collaboration between him and Édouard Manet, another gifted artist, though more renowned as a figure leading modernism, and depicted a scene of discussion and creative collaboration in the studio that Bazille had shared for a certain period of time with other spectacular figures of the visual arts, Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who could also be found in this painting. On the walls were works rejected by the Salon, which at the time had been the one of the most influential, famous art exhibitions in the Western World, administered by the Académie des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Interestingly, above the piano on the right hung a painting which Bazille had purchased from Monet, potentially hinting at the material ties between them, and the importance the young artist had because of his familial wealth. In a sense, Bazille expressed his support, as well as showed an intimate, platonic scene of the art world where there was a moment of calm, of mutual appreciation, despite the financial troubles and tensions due to character that had been experienced in those walls.

You stepped closer to the painting, trying to detect the transition from Bazille’s to Manet’s hand, the latter of whom painted in the former to take ‘centre stage’, palette in hand. Truly seamless work, though what else could it be? This painting had been a new addition to the permanent collection, and after strenuous, detailed restoration work to give the oil paints their original vibrancy and for impeccable strokes to forget the burden of time, you had the pleasure of seeing it in person. You were an arm’s length away from yet another work essential to history, culture and the arts as a societal colossus.

While it was easy enough to appreciate the technical detail, you found yourself halting to remember the names of all those depicted in the painting, failing to finalise the list in your head. Starting from Bazille, you had determined for yourself the presence of Monet and Manet in his vicinity quickly enough, however where Renoir was, or what were the names of the two other gentlemen in the scene, slipped your mind. You rocked to the side to lean closer to the plaque that was meant to provide you with the information, however you only found the name of the painting, the artist and the medium, much to your misfortune. Clicking your tongue, you returned to studying the faces of each individual, and furrowed your brows in agitated concentration. It was simple to take out your phone and search for the answer, though you knew that just as neutral that action would be, so would be your reaction unless you were to remember, or somebody were to-

A presence to your side caught you off-guard, and you felt a shiver run up your spine. One glance was enough to determine that it was the same man from yesterday, only the outfit revealing a change. Other than that, he had the same impeccable posture and stance, as well as a thoughtful look towards the painting in front of you both. His arms were crossed, though not in a defensive manner; instead they offered an interpretation of philosophy, as though this man was carrying centuries of wisdom with him, history having pummelled down on him and yet needing to support it like Atlas; the titan carrying the world.

Today, he was dressed in a mahogany coloured suit, with a white top underneath and some black boots with thick white rubber soles - quite the transition from last time, when he had been a manifestation of a sleek and pristine office gentleman. Hair, now let down and wavy, neatly framed his face, accentuating the regalness of his features. It was astounding how you were still sure that it would be more likely to find a man of this fashion in a painting, rather than standing beside you. You kept quiet, not wanting to interfere with his musings. Perhaps it was just a silly coincidence that the two of you were at the same place and at the same time again - how else? You did not know him, and you hoped that he did not know you. Though, you truly did not mind his company, and maybe it could serve as your motivation to figure out the rest of the characters in the painting. Once again, your attention returned to the task at hand, but before you could even begin to list off prominent figures of the art world during the era of Impressionism, a deep, honey-like whisper halted you and made you hold your breath.

“Auguste Renoir is the one seated, Emile Zola, the writer, is on the stairs, Monet, Manet and Bazille are, as you likely know in the centre, and that,” he paused to raise his hand, gesturing in the general direction of the far right of the piece, “is Edmond Maitre. Pianist, art collector, and Bazille’s closest friend.”

“I- uh- thank you. How did you know I was trying to recall? Pardon me, I must look so clueless-” you trailed off, eyes finding the floor, an action which seemed to be your automatic response to being under inspection of the man, though this time, he captured your gaze quickly by stepping closer towards you. Looking up, you found concern and apology in his eyes.

“No! Not at all, I… sorry if I misunderstood and I am sorry for forcing you into such erroneous conclusions,” he gave you an ever so slightly crooked smile, charming, very disarming and so suiting this beautiful stranger, that you were instantly prompted by your instincts to return it, dismissing doubt.

“You saved me,” you joked, though the phrase contained within itself an unlikely compassion. Two people, alone in the same gallery, sharing a precious dialogue was something to cherish, and with all your might you wanted to make it last.

“Just as you made me regard the painting in a new light, for which I thank you, greatly,” he bowed his head, the smile not leaving his face for a moment. There was a recognition in his gaze, as well as an inexplicable admiration. What did he discover?

“I guess it might be true that no matter how many times you see a painting, every viewing brings something new,”

“Well said. Are you an artist? A critic, perhaps?” He inquired, moving closer to stand level with you, head turned slightly in your direction to spare the occasional glance. You shook your head slowly, wondering if in a retelling of your destiny you could have pursued either of the careers he had mentioned.

“I am in the arts, though rather than looking at the present I remain in the past. Art historian, well, a postgraduate. Nothing too fancy.”

“Oh? But that is marvellous, and what are you focusing on?”

“I like to call it the painting in plenair during the turn of the century. I focus mainly on impressionism, though do sometimes stray into its interplay with post-impressionism, modernism and expressionism.”

“Ah, no wonder I have been seeing you here often. Enjoying the new collection?” he asked, eager to hear your opinion. There was excitement in his voice as though you were a renowned expert and were about to bestow upon him a priceless evaluation. And this was without considering the technicality of you having only half-met. Just crossing paths twice in one week.

"Yes, of course… The collection is unlike any other I have seen. I keep wanting to return and stay here for ages." You explained, glancing at the stranger while he nodded along.

"Incredibly happy to hear it. I swear I have seen you around quite often during the past month that the exhibition has been open? Am I correct?" evidently, your rapid blinking was interpreted rather quickly as perplexion, for the man gasped ever so lightly, as if to catch his own speeding thoughts.

“I- how do you know? I do believe this is our… second time meeting?” you uttered, one eyebrow raised in suspicion, which, to your disbelief, revealed something akin to fear in the beautiful stranger’s features. Nervously, he adjusted a strand of hair that was threatening to cover his right eye.

“Not quite… you were present at the opening event, right?” he quizzed.

“Indeed, my depar- wait. But how? Respectfully, I am starting to think you know me.” you enunciated with newfound caution, while the man pursed his lips. One second, another passed in near total silence, until a chuckle escaped him and he shook his head. It appeared as though he was mentally scolding himself - his eyes held no malice, instead glinting with hope, that melancholic wisdom, and something unidentifiable, ethereal, supernatural.

“I think it is high time I introduce myself before this gets out of hand. See, in some sense I work here, and most of my days are spent in the gallery or labouring for it-”

“Ah, I see-”

“Park Seonghwa, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” with one arm folded behind his back and the other on his chest, he bowed to you like how you imagined princes in the numerous portraits you had studied would bow. And the most enthralling part was how the gesture flowed, and was so befitting. Quickly, you bowed in return, but while raising your head, you froze. It hit you why he would know. And know a lot. And would remember you, and likely anyone and everyone who visited. In a low whisper, you asked:

“Am I… correct in assuming that you are ‘the’ Park Seonghwa?” quickly enough, you realised that it was a mistake to find his eyes again - clearly, you were not ready for the intensity, nor for the intrigue that was contained within them, nor for the fact that he moved another step closer to you, the rubber of his boots dampening any sound produced.

“I never knew that there was a ‘the’ attached to my name. I simply love art.”

“Well that love translated into the creation of what is possibly the greatest gallery in the nation, if not worldwide,”

“Oh you flatter me too much, ah, your name-”

“L/N Y/N, and I, too, love art.”

“Elated to hear it,” he gleamed, and you swore the room exploded with the illumination of a thousand stars.

Stunning, awe-inspiring, ever so elegant. He was a walking dream. In that smile was concealed a certain something that had been taboo, a well-kept secret until a couple of decades ago, when those like Seonghwa had started to be fully integrated into society, and no longer had to hide, changing identity from one century to another. With that came Seonghwa’s success - you had read in an article that advertised the permanent exhibition a short blurb of his story, and how for many turbulent decades, the man single-handedly collected masterpieces, crafted a meticulous network and introduced genius artists to the world, and the world to the artists. The gallery was a magnum opus for Seonghwa - a presentation of what he had achieved as a collector, as a patron of the arts, and a celebration of his personal culture.

You could not help but hone in on the fangs, and recall the original reason why it was even possible for Seonghwa to obtain such legendary works and have as much influence as he presently did. It was not spontaneous; submerged in turmoil, he had personally approached artists who, previously abandoned by critics and other prospective buyers, had never considered a future beyond a mysterious tomorrow. Hiding his own true nature, he crafted the tale of a ‘Park’ dynasty, and rose again and again to continue his work. Perhaps, now, some might argue that once he had revealed himself as a vampire the velocity of Seonghwa’s developments had fallen, but you would passionately argue the opposite. It was challenging to believe that any move by this stunning artistic mastermind was not strategic - the announcement had given the gallery more partnerships, more donations, and in turn, an even greater prominence in the community both among professionals and enjoyers.

“Thank you,” the phrase spilled from your lips inadvertently. It seemed to be the only thing that was reasonable to say in that given moment. You pondered the pains that must have been suffered to make the world that you were consumed by come together, and the painting in front of you, aside from what was contained within the frame,now shined in a new light externally too, possessing its own story, resembling a search for a kindred spirit, a true home.

Seonghwa remained quiet, the words of gratitude echoing in his heart. It was endearing, encouraging to hear such warmth from you. So, you did know him, at least the parts he had shown to the public - as was expected from someone so deeply ingrained in visual arts and history, but he could not help but identify it as something much greater than mere awareness. The openness with which you had welcomed conversation with him, the kind charm that radiated from you as you engaged in the careful verbal waltz reminded the vampire of times long, long ago when all that existed for him was drive, enamourment and art. Oh, how your eyes glimmered. His heart clenched into near unbearable agony as he read your expressions, and wondered how much you have seen, what have you yet to see, who you were in this temporary life. If only he could ask fate to tell him how much you remembered of who you had been before.

“No, thank you, for giving this,” he gestured to the gallery around him, graceful hand unfurling as though revealing a delicate flower, “meaning, and reason to exist.”

“I highly doubt I am of much significance, Mister Park,” you responded, a soft smile on your face.

“Would anything hold the same meaning if there was no one to behold it?” he responded. You chose not to answer, catching onto the rhetoricism, “and please, call me Seonghwa. I’d like to say we are to be good friends.”

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Sitting across from Seonghwa in the cafe that was located on the top floor, above the main halls of the gallery made you feel strangely serene. Today he had foregone the straighter hair styles that you had begun to get used to, surprising you with a head of tousled, almost curled locks that embodied the world’s softness, though remained to be quite the contrast to the more formal and highly fashionable attire that adorned his stature. A suit, tastefully oversized with a buttoned double breasted jacket that was simultaneously serving as a shirt, the plunging v-shaped neckline revealing perfectly smooth skin, and what you noted to be a solitary freckle right in the centre of his collarbone. The trousers, at least from the glimpse that you had allowed yourself when you had met at the entrance to the cafe were of a loose fit, defining his waist at the top and falling to form an almost skirt-like silhouette should he stand how he usually stood: the echoes of what would be called the ‘third position’ in ballet, more relaxed, but still retaining an elegance that only he could carry. The biggest shock to you, however, was Seonghwa’s choice of shoes - a refreshing point to the visual, he had selected to contrast the formalwear with a pair of limited edition, geometrically intriguing Converses. You could catch a glimpse of one of them from over the edge of the table whenever his slightly shaking leg, positioned over the other, would rock forwards just that tiny bit stronger.

While the setting was meant to be casual, the circumstances in which you found yourself were nothing short of miraculous. Never in a million years would you have imagined for it to be possible to be sat across the table from, quite possibly, one of the most legendary contributors to art restoration, collection and exhibition. On top of that, Seonghwa was a figure who actively bridged the gap between disparate communities, finding a common language, and using the arts as a salvation. You were in awe, and could not hold back on regarding the handsome vampire as he quietly reported your and his orders to the waiter who had floated to your table.

“Are you sure you do not want anything else?”

“Yes, I am sure. I do not wish to exploit your kindness-”

“-Not at all. I hope you do not mind that I… must make a rather unconventional order,” he smiled sheepishly, clearing his throat so as to attempt to hide his doubts, though you were uncertain as to how much of such emotions could possibly be left after what had to have been centuries.

“An unconventional order is pouring a sugary energy drink into a triple shot espresso and calling it dinner,” you answered, eyes travelling from Seonghwa’s face to the mural on the wall a few tables away that wrapped behind him and to your left, disrupted only by the occasional floor length window that provided city vistas - rather gloomy, compared to the optimistic illumination of the restaurant. Perhaps out of pity, or out of genuine entertainment, Seonghwa chuckled.

“That does sound like an acquired taste, indeed. Thank you,”

“No need. Thank you for inviting me,” you turned back, nodding a polite bow as he softly waved your gesture off.

A silence settled across the table as you waited for your respective drinks. Your hand, had you not consciously restrained yourself, would have probably reached for the phone that you stored in your purse, but now was fiddling with the sleeve of your shirt, finding the buttons to stress test the threads that had them sewn tight to the fabric. You were not bored, in fact, far from it. You needed a barrier. The grandeur of this man’s presence was almost overwhelming. He was not a mere individual in a room, he consumed it. Had you just walked in, you were certain that your gaze would still settle on his form. Just like the concrete outside was grey, and the pause retained a divine ambiguity, Seonghwa was unforgettable. In an attempt to calm your clouded thoughts, you studied the mural once more.

“May I inquire into your thoughts on the decor?”

“The choice of ‘A Sunday on La Grande Jatte’ is wise. I am guessing you were the one to make the decision?” you heard an exhale, and once more your attention was captured.

“Alas, I cannot take full accolades for this. This stemmed from a discussion that a good friend of mine and I had one late night. Seurat just so happened to make an appearance amidst the chatter, and so… this was born,” he gestured at the surroundings. Clearly, the interior was picked carefully to fit the theme of the legendary painting.

From the colours to the textures and the greenery that had been intricately set up across the restaurant, every detail had a meaning and a place, and did not take away from the spaciousness of the hall. It was breathable, while still giving the illusion that you were stepping into a whimsical impressionist paradise. Perhaps that was another reason why you could not quite contain your disbelief firstly in your encounter, secondly in its progression, and thirdly in your interlocutor’s warmth.

“Spectacular, truly. I have heard you have an eye for detail, however this surpasses all expectations.”

“Oh? There is more you have heard?” he interjected, leaning closer to you and placing an elbow on the table, simply to rest his head on his hand. While this could potentially be seen as slightly unceremonious, it hinted at well-kept confidence, ownership, control. A healthy undercurrent of motivation that came with indirect praise.

“I-oh y-yeah of course,” you did not mean to stutter, but some part of you was grateful you did, for the smirk that had threatened to burst on Seonghwa’s lips was enough for you to feel ignited to elaborate, “if my memory is not failing me, you were the one to distinguish a reproduction of a piece some time ago, no?”

“Ah- yes. That was a Degas reproduction. I must say, the attempt was sincere, however when I saw the-, hm, you will not be startled, will you?”

“Please,” you urged him to continue, intrigued by the story.

“When I saw the original, as it was being made and when it had been finalised, it would be shameful of me to not spot a fake,” he fell back into his chair, just in time for the drinks to be served.

A coffee for you, and a non-descript beverage concealed by a semi-opaque, tall glass for him. Though, you did not need to be a detective to guess what it was that Seonghwa was bringing to his lips, and what he took a tentative sip of. The only mystery that was remaining for you was what ‘type’ he had picked - was it O+? B-? Whatever else? You joined him in the tasting, lifting the mug and indulging in the wonderful aroma of your americano. It did not strike you as necessary to opt for something fancier and lie to yourself - so you settled for your regular order, much to your joy. Familiar taste and the reliability of the caffeine hitting your system painted the scene in more comforting colours, and gradually, you found yourself easing into the dialogue more and more, until life stories, musings and a surprisingly large common ground came pouring.

You discovered that Seonghwa possessed a unique sensitivity and attunement to those around him. Focused on the emotional experiences, he felt through time and could recount emotions like the memory was from a mere few days, rather than decades ago. He was well-spoken, eloquent, intelligent, polite in every right as he navigated through the linguistic landscape and guided you like a partner in a dance. You were spiralling oh so quickly, intrigue catching up to you and prompting you to sacrifice all of your senses to the man and the pleasantly intoxicating atmosphere he captured you in. He was enchanting, and it was far too easy to give in.

“May I reveal something?” in a hushed tone, he inquired, a finger absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his glass.

“Oh, a little secret?” you raised your eyebrows in jest, lightening the initial seriousness with which Seonghwa uttered the question.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Depends on how you take it. A confession might be more accurate,” he waited for you to take the final sip of your coffee before continuing, unphased by your unwavering focus, “if I were to be honest, I have been meaning to approach you.”

“Pardon?”

“As you know we have a… common awareness of each other thanks to what is housed under this roof, but ever since we first unknowingly crossed paths… I wanted to speak to you.”

Confused, you did not speak, though the words contained an unparalleled affection within them. What could he possibly mean? You chose to refrain from commenting, your hesitation prompting the vampire to continue.

“Do you remember the most recent opening night? Of the exhibition? I believe you were with someone…” he trailed off, hoping you would continue for him.

“Ah, yes, a friend of mine from university. So?”

“This might sound strange but, I distinctly remember you mentioning a name. An artist from the same era, dubbed as L/N Y/N?”

“Goodness, you overheard that? I am so sorry, it is just that said artist has intrigued me for some time, and I was half-hoping to encounter their work. Maybe it is because our names are the same but still….”

“Elusive, aren’t they?”

“To put it softly, yes. I only vaguely recall seeing… maybe one piece in my lifetime, when I was little, and then… nothing. And there is barely any information on the artist online, let alone libraries and archives.”

“Hm, indeed. I guess that makes two of us…”

“Two of us who are searching?”

“That’s right. It brought me happiness to know that I am not alone in this endeavour.”

“Then we can keep searching together.”

While you were positive that you could not conceal your interest, Seonghwa’s did not go unnoticed either. It was of course possible that he was simply well-versed in political correctness, but the burning depth of his pupils told you otherwise. Enthrallment, the discovery of a kindred spirit, recognition, the rekindling of a bond that had existed at some point long ago - all fantasies that played out in your mind as you returned that look with subtle fervour. You wondered how many people he graced with those charms. How many had succumbed to his influence, becoming a marker on his infinite life path, a fleeting second? How many had his lips known, how many had turned into a decadent treat for a genius man with natural peculiarities? While the researcher part of you was perplexed and aching for answers, the you that was caught in the moment simply let it go on, and the feeling of Seonghwa’s leg brushing against yours, and the pride blooming in your chest as he praised the few articles and papers you had published upon having claimed that he ‘knew some things about you too’ preoccupied you in the most magnificent way.

Naturally, you agreed to meet Seonghwa again. On your journey home, in the privacy of the anonymous metro, immersed in the cacophony of deafening rails and the millions travelling to anywhere, you pressed your phone to your racing heart as the vampire, the man, the beguiling Park Seonghwa sent you a message confirming so. Who knew a simple selection of words could be so captivating?

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Under the comforting thrum of raindrops on the large umbrella, you walked down the streets of the grey-coloured city, your hand lightly holding onto Seonghwa’s arm while he ensured that both of you were protected from the elements. Despite the dull light and bitterness of the cooling season, Seonghwa appeared radiant, truly timeless with every gesture and stride. The elegant angles of his face that you could tirelessly study stood out against the monotone buildings and overcast skies. His voice drowned out the sound of droplets racing one another to the ground. A miraculous gentleman who appeared in your life much like a portrait, or a landscape - a masterpiece you wanted to explore in every spare moment, and better yet, this masterpiece was equally as open to you as you were to him.

“...essentially, yes. It is like another nationality. A marker of species isn’t too far isn’t it? Just another line on a stack of documents. Nothing more,” Seonghwa concluded his explanation, pursing his lips for a moment before letting an exhale turned dragon’s breath escape into the afternoon.

“Makes sense. So would that mean there are separate medical papers and treatment too?”

“Well… when regeneration fails us or when a given case is severe enough… yes. Though it is handled by private clinics run by other vampires.”

“There are private clinics?”

“Of course. Often they are connected to donation points too, and that is how we remain on the right side of the law and stay alive,” he nodded to himself, giving you a bittersweet smile when he noticed confusion overtake your gaze. “Blood,” he stated as-a-matter-of-factly, “I mean blood.”

In a nervous stupor, you cleared your throat and focused on a droplet that was hanging onto the edge of the umbrella, right in front of you, all the way until the gentle motion of Seonghwa’s amble provoked its abrupt descent onto the stone under your feet.

“Ah, yes, I see-”

“If you find this disturbing, we can forget the conversation ever-”

“-I want to know you better, Seonghwa, truly-”

“Careful-”

“Sorry wha-”

With an extraordinary swiftness, you were tugged abruptly by the arm. Not registering your surroundings, you merely went with the inertia, caught off-guard by the proximity of your face to the vampire’s as he held you against him with the arm that you had previously been resting your own on. A hand that you raised on instinct went limp and landed on Seonghwa’s chest, feeling the thick felted wool of his coat. The ringing of a bell, going farther away from you by the second, incessant but at least waking you up from the blur, was enough for you to put two and two together - a cyclist who thought they owned every part of the street, like always. You sighed.

“Reckless… my apologies I did not mean to-” Seonghwa tried to detangle himself, refusing to remain in your personal space for longer than necessary no matter how much he did want to, but his efforts were reduced to nothing when your hand moved to a hold on his upper arm - reassuring, comfortable, accepting.

“Thank you,” you interrupted, “that bike would have definitely run into me…”

“It’s nothing,” a low chuckle echoed in your ears as Seonghwa peered into your pupils, confidence that had previously wavered out of habitual caution now restored, growing into a pride as you continued to hold onto him, “the man was slow enough for there to be no risk of harm. I hope you are not too startled though.”

“Oh? You have super powers too? Do elaborate,” you jested, resuming your walk.

“I would call it more like… being a finely tuned machine. Can’t say I have bad reaction speed. Though I must say, it was a little challenging pulling you out of the way,” there was an evident intent behind the words. However, you were too curious to pay it any mind, instead preferring to find out their meaning live.

“How so?”

“I think this,” dropping his arm, Seonghwa’s hand reached for yours, and without a moment of hesitation, his fingers were intertwining with yours, his palm pressed against yours, “would be better. You know, for safety.” As if you could ever reject him. This was a fact you had established for yourself with an unprecedented certainty. His gallant disposition, attentiveness all confirmed a care for you that was impossible to ignore.

There was something picturesque about the present after meeting this wonderful, infinite pool of art and humanity. You found yourself leafing through articles, art books and biographies with a more wistful and sentimental perspective, imagining what it would be like if it were you who was immortalised in the thousands of brushstrokes, or if you were on the other side of the canvas, how would you go about depicting the scenes unfolding before your very eyes. Timelessness - a quality shared between the art you so adored, and the man you had encountered and over the weeks, let your intrigue be transformed into a shy flame of infatuation. Perhaps it was the underlying reason why you did not reject his advances, nor cower in fear of his true nature with which he was upfront. The other, of course, was the search for the mysterious artist, an adventure that fuelled many of your dialogues, and prompted you to spend more time in the library and the archives of your university than you had ever done before - to the point where Seonghwa himself had encouraged you to take a break from your intellectual expeditions and step into the world as a casual observer. So, you let yourself drift; it finally hit you, what scenes your once again tranquil stroll reminded you of, and you smiled to yourself as you recalled the intricacies of the not quite commonly discussed representation of the Impressionist movement.

‘Rue de Paris, temps de pluie’, painted by Gustave Caillebotte; his most famous work. Not quite as widely discussed, despite still technically being created in the Impressionist era, perhaps due to the meandering through form, realism and reliance on stronger lines rather than broad brushstrokes and the study of light. You did find it fascinating how Caillebotte’s passion for photography had seeped into this piece, however. Much like how, in recent days, you could easily find a way to mention Seonghwa in conversation, be it related to the arts or not. From the subjects in the foreground being slightly out of focus while the middle ground was crystal clear, to how the shapes of some passersby were cropped were all characteristic of photos, rather than paintings, making this particular work all the more dear to you. It was a reflection of life, of behaviour and of what had been daily back in the late nineteenth century.

Was it any different from now, aside from those grand, global topics that historians dedicated their lives to studying? If one were to whittle down to the intricacies, the miniatures that ornamented the span of a human existence, was it so terribly far away from what you were born into, and Seonghwa saw develop and had adopted? How people shielded themselves from the rain with umbrellas, and then used them as a tool to isolate themselves from other urbanites who were in a rush to take a day-long route out of their homes… and back again. The latest silhouettes of dress and accessory; the same rush to be with the times as now.

You felt your companion’s arm move, prompting you to let go and leave your hand hovering as though you were awaiting some kind of change. You bit back an unprecedented sliver of disappointment, only to be caught by surprise once again as you felt the hand settle on the small of your back. Cautious, like you were going to melt from any more pressure than the brush of a feather. A quick glance was enough to determine that you were being studied intently for any sign of discomfort - Seonghwa was ready to pull away at any moment, any sigh, and most definitely at any word. A meek smile settled on your lips, and you shyly used an oncoming stranger as an opportunity to affirm the gesture, stepping towards the vampire, and sensing the confidence of his protective measure be solidified. With glee he followed your every tilt and turn, angling away from the passing form that neither of you could focus on. The touch was electric, somehow monumental despite being so common and barely present. Your mind was on fire, pondering what it would be like to put your head on the elegant man’s shoulder, and let yourself be carried away into a terrific fairy tale.

“This really is a rainy day,”

“Seems quite sunny to me,” you respond with sarcasm, realising only after the fact that your phrase still did retain an element of truth within it.

Sunshine did not have to be literal. It was easy to see, you just needed to return Seonghwa’s gaze, and watch as another spring flower blossomed in the soul of one you had initially assumed to be so cold, so distant. In the darkest winter was a safe haven that you could not help but lean into, and regardless of what you had initially thought, with him, you felt more human, more safe and alive than ever. He listened without fail to your ramblings, and could easily pick up the ball and balance it with his own musings that you could listen to for many lifetimes.

Lifetimes; immortality, the one concept you couldn’t quite wrap your head around. Well, the latter was technically not true, as Seonghwa had elaborated some few days ago: vampires did age, albeit at such a slow pace that to the run of the mill human being, it was impossible to notice, and if they did, it would be someone very close, and only over a matter of decades. Maybe it was this exact inability that made you want to stay and learn all there could be about the gallerist - you thought that would make you feel like you have been living forever. His wisdom was beautiful. The kindness with which he treated you, akin to that of how a spouse treats their long-time sweetheart with a mellow and comfortable affection, was not something you asked for nor expected, but something which he introduced himself with through every action, progressively more amiable when you allowed him to advance.

“Mm, no wonder I can’t quite look at you,” he mused out loud, dramatically looking off into the distance. You raised an eyebrow, curious about what was going to come after his theatrical pause, “your brightness is unparalleled,” Seonghwa chuckled, satisfied with your sigh and the way in which you pretended to be annoyed, only to dissolve in a mute giggle. “So, I do suggest we get out of the rain for a moment and stop by that book shop over there, shall we?”

Following his hand, you spotted an antique bookshop a few doors down, marked by an iron sign and ornate shop window decorations that glistened with each hit of the dancing droplets. A warm golden light emanated from the inside, the hue comparable to a summer’s day. An odd feeling of deja vu washed over you, as though you had been in this store before, even though this was quite the distance away from your home, not on any of your usual commutes and in a part of town you barely visited aside from the occasional brisk walk. It had been established over a century ago, sporting a historical plaque and detailing original to the era the date on the sign suggested. Suppressing your internal monologue, you simply nodded, fond of Seonghwa’s excitement as he pushed lightly against your back and walked on ahead. If you were any more of a romantic, you would have assumed that the shop was a representation of his heart, but you couldn’t allow yourself to think that way, at least not when you felt heat rise to your cheeks as he whispered your name, openly planning what you could look for amidst the rare editions together. You and him turned into a ‘we’ so naturally, you barely had time to blink. A new brushstroke on a canvas, brave, bold and bright. Impressionist.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

The hypnotising improvisation on a semi-acoustic guitar, followed by a launch back into the theme of a well-known jazz song had you tapping on the counter, unknowingly following every drum beat. The bar turned cosy music venue that Seonghwa had invited you out to was proving to be every bit a wonder of the world, and paradise inside of the otherwise gloomy city which had been plagued with miserable weather and lack of daylight for atrociously long. The classy establishment was a well known favourite among the vampires residing in the city, especially those aligned with a more bohemian and art-focused lifestyle. Critics, painters, collectors, musicians, poets alike all gathered to share ideas and energy, and reminisce days long gone, while the band - one that had not changed since the bar’s establishment, revived legendary pieces one after another.

With ease, Seonghwa had ordered your favourite drink, having memorised it after your many outings that had smoothly transitioned into dates and shared nights. He remembered every detail about you, holding each one tenderness. Your lover gazed at you as he ended a conversation with a fellow collector who had recently come to town for a few days, stretching out his hand until it just touched yours, guiding it to lie flat on the counter. Seonghwa’s palm, still retaining a pleasant coolness despite him having had a couple of drinks of his own, was another reassurance that in the buzz of the venue, you still had your person by your side. Feeling his digits tap and then proceed to brush the back of your hand, you hummed in contentment, and let your eyes travel over the beautiful vampire, who leaned back, tempting you just for fun, knowing full well that you were wholly his, and even when you turned to look elsewhere, it was his face you saw in the crowd, it was his voice that rang in your ears, it was his touch that ghosted over your skin.

The bustier from Alexander McQueen, the gorgeous flowy shirt with ruffles and cuts so tastefully sewn and executed, the statement necklace that was worthy of being displayed at a gallery and must be the envy of many, the high heeled boots that were concealed by elegant trousers - Seonghwa was your favourite work of art, and you could never deny it. Each one of his gestures was worthy of marvel, and the care with which he approached everything - even the tending to the items which he painstakingly selected and matched for tonight made your heart skip a beat. It was boggling how each garment and accessory was either an original, or a one of a kind piece. But at the same time, you did not expect anything less of Seonghwa.

He must be impossible to depict in paintings, you concluded, shamelessly staring at your lover’s face, from the shape of his nose, to the plushness of his lips, to the waviness of his night-like inky locks. You bet many had tried, but judging by the lacking evidence in the art world, they must have failed, miserably, to create something more immortal and invincible than the model and muse. You understood them, and Seonghwa gave no signs of being perturbed.

“So, was that the intent behind our spontaneous trip to this bar tonight?” you gestured at your surroundings, taking another sip from your ornate glass. A sharp exhale accompanied a contrasting soft answer:

“Not at all,I had the business sorted a couple of days ago, and tonight was a lucky crossing of paths to secure the deal,” cryptic as ever, Seonghwa only alluded to the matter at hand.

The matter, or how he had referred to it as ‘business’ was a particular artwork that he had been hunting, by the elusive artist you had been investigating, first in your lonesome, and then joining forces with Seonghwa. Apparently, one of the pieces, by some stroke of unimaginable luck, had been kept safe in the private collection of a ‘Mister Kim’, at least that was how he had been initially introduced to you. Until you put two and two together, and when the very well dressed and styled character had entered the bar and made a beeline towards your partner in artistic musings and romance, recognised the man as a world-famous designer and fashion icon, Kim Hongjoong. And of course, another vampire and kind soul in one.

Their conversation had happened outside of your earshot; whether it was on purpose or just so happened to unfold that way was for your ruminations to determine, but you did overhear enough to figure out that this was a portrait, a never seen work, and was completed by the artist who as it had turned out had been closer with Seonghwa than you had initially thought.

“Seems to be very important, and not just in a ‘collector’ sense…” you trailed off, watching as the ice in your drink cracked, “is this why you were interested, you know, back then?”

“If I were to be honest, darling, I was, and still am, a lot more interested in you. The artist was something of an excuse to get a conversation going. And I do hope,” Seonghwa turned and sauntered towards you, “this conversation does not end.”

Even though you were sitting on one of the bar stools, the heels and stance still left him some room to look downwards, and his sultry expression, orbs glinting at you through dark lashes left you transfixed. In moments such as this, you hated to be mortal. There were so many things that you could not possibly know, and no matter how hard you would try to comprehend the vastness of the angelic man’s mind, you would always remain theoretical, and accept the grand majority of intricacies as axiom.

“I hope so too,” your voice barely rose above a whisper as his gloved hand landed on your neck, gliding upwards to caress your jawline.

“I’m so glad I found you,” his thoughts were elsewhere, you were sure of it, and yet, his gaze remained unwavering, “my eternal love”. Lips stained with bittersweet worship, the words stumbled from them to strike you repeatedly in the heart, forcing it to lose its rhythm. He was regarding you like he had stumbled upon a priceless treasure, a divinity, a paradise. Something far from you and from this planet, but by Seonghwa’s careful selection, etched in your features.

Were you the embodiment of something greater for him? You would not consider yourself to be a model example of a human being, neither were you a pretty statue to display in an exhibition. You were you, but Seonghwa kept on convincing you that it was exactly this that had captivated him and showed him a new beginning. Did you wish to believe that? Of course. But a vampire who was hundreds of years old could keep a grand variety of secrets beyond your understanding, even if he were to exclaim them right in front of you and sketch them out. His eternal love - your version of eternity, or his? A life the duration of a butterfly’s abstract dance to the heavens.

“Love?” he called out to you, eyebrows knitted in concern due to your prolonged silence. You had set your drink down, and were staring at the shine of the glossy chrome silver and pearl on Seonghwa’s necklace. “Talk to me, say anything.”

“I- hm. I think I am just tired. Yeah, that must be it. Tired so I am overthinking, no worries. I’ll just be right here and-”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you tilted your head, noting how Seonghwa immediately straightened out, and instead of attempting to tower over you stepped over to the side to set a protective hand over yours.

“This is a majority vampire bar, full of unfamiliar individuals, this whole deal with the artwork is up in the air and-”

“First of all, I don’t care. Second, you are here with me. And third, I want to trust in the fact that you would not do anything foolish nor harmful. Am I right in my evaluation?” you uttered, still not quite able to look into Seonghwa’s infinite pools of brilliant sienna and dark brown.

“I- I am honoured, but that still does not detract from the fact that we can go get some air and come back. Shall we?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Hell, need to. Let us have a quick wander?”

“...I’d like that.”

In no time, the winter air hit your cheeks and you were wrapping yourself as tightly as you could in your oversized coat. In your ears the pleasant sound of the vampire’s heels rang out, echoed by the stunning road onto which you were spat out by the heavy black front door of the bar. Warm-toned streetlights liberally decorated the sidewalks and painted the night in honey, gold and copper accents. Reflections of an artificial summer in the puddles and winter chill. Downright magical. Seonghwa seeked out your hand, holding it tight and guiding it into the pocket of his own coat, smirking when you raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Nothing at all.”

You were certain that you were walking through a landscape painting, every element captured by your vision falling into its rightful place, harmonising with the rest. The mumbling and music was long gone, only to be replaced by conversation of other late city explorers and the occasional rumbling of a car lazily rolling past.

“Pissarro.”

“Hm?” Seonghwa kept looking ahead, but squeezed your hand to ask for you to continue.

“Boulevard Montmartre at Night. Painted in 1897, no?” you pointed at the surroundings with a tilt of the chin.

“Ah, indeed! Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me.”

“Well, thanks to you I got to see the original, so how could I not make the visual analogy?” you nudged his shoulder, earning a chuckle.

The painting was the only example of a landscape at night from the artist Camille Pissarro, making it all the more special despite it being part of a series of 14 views of the same location. Snow, rain, fog, morning, varying seasons, but only one glimmering night. It was one of the works that Seonghwa had managed to provide for your studies, resulting in a more than impressive academic outcome. Like Pissarro kept on painting the vista, your lover kept on giving, never asking for anything more than for you to share your hours with him, something you did not need to be prompted to do anyways.

“...I’m sorry I cannot reveal more than I do, at least not just yet,” he apologised, as though what he was committing was the greatest crime known to humanity and the supernatural.

As you looked up at the starry night sky, you swore you had heard these words before, uttered by the same voice, the same fingers interlocked with yours. A stabbing sensation in your cranium made you gasp, but you regained your composure quickly enough to not make it a priority for either of you. At the same time, Seonghwa’s expression altered to a semblance of… hope? Longing? You could not pinpoint it, but one of the many glowing dots above you clearly landed in his shining orbs, and he eagerly waited.

Waited for longer than you could realise in your present state.

On their own accord, your lips moved, forcing out a subconscious acknowledgement, previously suppressed. You swore the phrase belonged to another being, but it was as refreshing as the breeze tousling Seonghwa’s locks.

“I know. I can wait too.”

“Soon, my love.”

“I-I know.”

“I miss you.”

“I-” vision growing hazy, you reached to the vampire for support, which he readily provided, “I- too.”

One blink - oil paints decorated your hands, and those alluring eyes were staring back at you from a canvas. Another blink - Seonghwa was repeating your name, pressing his cheek against yours as he shielded you from falling into darkness with his strong arms.

______ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐ ⋆ .

Your office was inviting and offered a secure haven: a collection of neutral and wooden tones, with dashes of greenery to relax the eyes. From a potted ivy plant settled on the top of a large wall-length shelving unit to an indoor palm tree enjoying the rays in its designated corner, the room was a miniature paradise. You ran your hands over the thick birch desk, cautiously avoiding the stack of documents you had arranged for yourself to go through this day. Artwork restoration reports, contracts, exhibition plans for years to come… everything you thought you would never see, and yet it was right here in your palms.

Time moved slower, or at least that was how you began to perceive it now that it was in abundance. A fountain that did not cease to bestow gifts upon you - again, something you would have never imagined prior to the curious series of events that were your previous life unfolding the way they did. One fateful meeting, and you were a changed person, staring into the horizon and labelling it as a continuation rather than as a termination of all you could achieve. The world was your oyster, and loving dedication was the price. But when the price was so sweet, and so easy, who were you to say no? If you had to pick a concern, it would be the bandages and binding on your right arm; friction from the sleeve of the turtleneck and blazer you had worn today applying uncomfortable pressure to the delicate wound concealed within.

You stood up from the leatherbound office chair, adjusting your clothes and stepping to the window behind you to look out at the garden belonging to the gallery - a recent expansion. Grand, regal, and as the papers had emphasised, now returned to its rightful owner. You wondered just how much of the city had belonged to vampires at least for a portion of time, and you had no doubt that you would be making more discoveries soon, but for the time being, you were happy with the re-acquisition, or as Seonghwa had called it: your ‘turning’ gift. A particularly strong shift of the arm made you wince, and your other hand shot to nurse your sore arm.

“I’m so sorry darling, does it still hurt?” Unbeknownst to you, Seonghwa had slipped into the office, and immediately rushed towards you, concern painting his beautiful face through furrowed brows and a tiny scowl.

“N-no, barely. The sweater is silly-”

“Let’s not disregard ailments, shall we?” your partner gingerly lifted your arm, and after gaining permission through a few lethargic nods, pushed the sleeve upwards to reveal the bandages, “I- really, we need to apply the ointment again, that must be it-”

“Seonghwa-”

“Work can wait, I just need to-”

“My love-” Seonghwa paused his ramblings to stare back at you, puzzled, “it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Literally just a bite, isn’t it?” you smiled, the action instantly being mirrored, albeit with a tinge of remaining worry.

“Mm, perhaps I am overreacting, I can’t help it,” your thoughts were numbed by the silken touch of his lips on the back of your hand, wool against cotton as he pulled you into an embrace, “it should heal well once you get used to your new form, I am sure of it,” his tresses tickled your nose, but you ignored it, instead letting your head fall against him.

You stood almost completely still aside from the rocking side to side that was habitual for you both. A lulling motion, one that either of you revealed only to each other. A secret reserved for intimate, loving moments such as this. You shook your head in amusement and buried your nose in Seonghwa’s sweater, inhaling the aroma of his sweet perfume, recalling ‘Love and Pain’ - the painting that had marked the tightening of the invisible string tying you together. Or was it? Coincidentally, on the wall behind your lover was the real inception of your union, one that you had forgotten from one lifetime to the next. A portrait. The one that Seonghwa had been chasing, and what had been his decades-long mission came to an end.

Signed with your own hand, were initials of your name and the year of completion of the painting. None other than the beloved collector and muse, Park Seonghwa, who had posed for you, or rather a version of you, and ever since then, you were the only one on his mind. You had been the master both of the arts and of his fate.

“Please, I am embarrassed…” your partner mumbled, settling for futile attempts to position you in such a way that you would be looking out at the garden, but to no avail. Poking him playfully at the side, you induce a halt, and question him:

“What is there to be embarrassed about? That’s you. Painted by me.”

“Exactly. And you have it in your office, of all places.”

“Well I can’t exactly have you, in the flesh, on display all the time and I would like a work of art around here-”

“Shh-”

“Don’t shush me, Park. Be grateful I don’t keep the sketches out too.”

In all honesty, He would not mind if you did. You could do anything, and the vampire would adore and honour it. Whether it was in your blood or in his nature, he had never regretted almost losing himself in your favour. In your last life, he had gone against all rules set up by vampires, playing against what he swore was the devil in order to have the sliver of a chance to start again and, this time not lose you. Had his plan not succeeded, it was highly probable that he would have been erased from this planet too. But he would rather call himself a masochist than be law-abiding when it came to you.

“Next, you’ll be threatening me with a showcase of just my face-”

“What if I do?” you quipped, pulling back to boop his nose with yours, “I think it would look very pretty. Besides, now that I remember my apparent mastery of the visual arts, can’t I be a tiny bit proud, hm?”

“I would be terribly disappointed if you weren’t. Now, may I put that ointment on you?”

As if you could refuse those sparkling eyes. Promptly following him to the loveseat, which unfortunately for Seonghwa was situated right under the portrait, you sat down and waited. Your partner rushed to the medical cupboard - another new addition installed exclusively to support you as you were getting used to the vampiric nuances in your day to day. With well-practised motions, the required kit was in his hands, and in a blink, set down on the plush cushioning of the miniature sofa. You held back a chuckle as you saw the pout you so loved appear as he focused on unwinding the bandage with utmost care. Before you could feel any hurt, Seonghwa would already let go, or alter the angle at which he was tugging on the material. As soon as the plaster was peeled, you were met with the reason for your eternity and reawakening.

Two deep punctures, still a little irritated, not quite healed, but nevertheless a marking of your future and something you regarded with fondness. Wounds did not hurt when they were merely physical, especially not when you had someone who had bound their immortality to yours to tend to them. Seonghwa bit his lower lip, discontented with the ache as though he could feel it too, and took numerous pauses while cleaning up the wound to glance at you.

“I’ll be applying the ointment now, tell me if it stings, okay?”

“Okay,” you knew it wouldn’t. You had never heard a man be so adamant on checking ingredients at an apothecary before following Seonghwa after your first appointment as a vampire. But just to appease him, you followed this small spoken routine.

“You know… I was scared,” his voice was barely audible, and he could not look at you.

“What were you scared of?”

“Losing you again.”

“Well, I am here, aren’t I?”

Even before you were aware of Seonghwa, let alone the truth behind the portrait, all the roads still led to the same resolution. The arts, art history. Virtually synonymous, for without creation, there would not be the past, and without the study of the past, there would not be the celebration and respect of creation. Finally, you understood the beauty of evolution that Seonghwa had undergone all while remaining the same vulnerable yet legendary figure, dedicated to his vision of the arts, having recollected your own.

“So many things could have gone wrong,” Seonghwa’s mind was reeling from the sheer terror of possibility. He had taken advantage of his high social standing as an aristocrat and pulled rank to avoid waiting for any ritual guides to step in - it was not the first time, but still only the second. And both cases were related to you.

The first time might have been a foolish decision in retrospect, but considering the dire circumstances the extreme solution was the only one. With one foot crossing to the afterlife he was combatting the reapers, and was not going to let go of you even if it meant being pulled in. This time, when you had approached him a number of nights ago with your final agreement to his tentative proposal and kissed his ruminations away, he was ready. Years of study were not going to waste, after all. And yet when he studied the same irises as those from a time long gone, when he held the same hands, his blood ran even colder. What a gambling man he had been back then. The procedure to regift life to you had been risky, and Seonghwa, having never practised those elements of the dark arts bestowed upon his kind, had been taking shot after shot in the dark. How dare he play with your being like that? How dare he hold your existence on a sinful scale?

“But they didn’t.”

No they did not. Your confidence in him had aided considerably, he had to admit. The positioning of his fangs was perfect, and he had memorised all incantations down to the inflections. Second time a charm, but much more anxiety-inducing. Turning was not the same as revival, either. He could not stop himself from imagining the many scenarios of where he would have gone wrong, and cemented your identity only as a name on manuscripts, dissertation, paintings and reports.

“Even the ritual, what if you did not remember-”

“I would love you just the same. Whether I had all my memories or not. That much I can assure you of. That is why I trusted you in the first place, Seonghwa.”

You did not need to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. All you could do was suggest a brighter palette, and be by his side no matter what colour scheme he were to decide on. It was an artist’s duty to know when to set the tools aside and consider a painting finished. The luxury of a collector was to live through many paintings, unify the souls contained in each and sustain a chronology of expression. The keepers, the scholars, made to observe change rather than induce it directly. This was why you were all the more grateful for Seonghwa daring to change your mortal fate not once but twice, risking himself and his image in your favour.

When your partner was satisfied with his medical care, he hummed to notify you and began to clear up, at least until you placed a weak hand on his leather-clad thigh to gain his full attention. He searched for a hint in your features, eyes darting across your face at lightning speed. Relief came when you grinned brightly, whispering sincere gratitude.

Impressionism - the movement and path made by legends. A rejection of traditional practice, a new vision and interpretation of the outside world in the hues of the soul. Light, reality, immediate action. A breath that reset the arts, magnificent and radical for the time, and now, much adored. From its conception to its establishment, you were there to witness and fall in love, and now could look back at the beauty that had bloomed. His irises, your favourite colour. The speckles of various shades, your favourite details. You stared into Seonghwa’s eyes and did not dare blink. Your favourite impression.

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kiss-me-cill-me · 9 months

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hello! 🤍 i love your writing, you’re very talented <3 if you are up to the idea, i’d like to request a professor!jonathan crane x student!reader fic 🫶🏻 maybe fluff that leads to smut? thank u ily

Hello, anon! You're my very first request ever; this is so exciting! First of all, thank you for being so nice ❤️ And second, I will certainly give it my best shot! I will say that I struggle to write a fluffy Crane, so this might not be exactly what you pictured but I did try to make him a little less... diabolical than I usually would haha. But either way, I hope you enjoy!

Stimulus Response Theory

Pairing: Professor!Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: Your professor's lesson on classical conditioning leaves you feeling flustered and frustrated, and Crane knows there's only one way to relieve the tension.

Warnings: Smut, slight exhibitionism, power play dynamics, teasing, tickling, manipulation, semi-public sex, established student/teacher relationship

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

“Stimulus. Response. Theory.”

Dr. Crane’s words echoed through the lecture hall, and dozens of students bent to scribble in their notebooks or tap at their keyboards. You, on the other hand, sat in a chair at the front of the room, harsh light blaring into your eyes from the projector as you faced the rows of crowded seats. Crane stood beside you, and brandished something from his breast pocket.

“A very basic concept,” your professor continued. “Wherein there is a stimulus-”

He held up his hand, and you took note of the fluffy, red feather that was firmly pinched between his fingers.

“That, when presented to the subject-”

Crane brought his hand and the feather close to your face, tickling you just at the tip of your nose. You jumped and pulled away, letting out a small, strangled noise. Dr. Crane smiled, but made sure his expression was neutral before turning back to the rest of the class.

“Results in a response,” Crane finished.

He stepped behind you, and you felt your stomach drop, just a fraction of an inch. Not being able to see him made you nervous, but in a pleasant way that had you crossing your legs more than anything else. You shifted a little in the hard plastic seat.

“Stimulus response can explain many basic behaviors,” Crane lectured. “But it is also the basis for what Ivan Pavlov termed ‘classical conditioning’ - through which, a subject can be trained to elicit a response that is normally associated with one stimulus, in response to a second, unrelated trigger.”

A few of the students in the front rows nodded their heads. Everyone had heard of Pavlov, of course; he and his dogs were covered in every Intro to Psych class at every college everywhere. Gotham University was no different, and so most people in Dr. Crane’s class were familiar with the concept. Still, it never hurt to go over the fundamentals before diving into the deeper lesson. At least, that was the excuse Crane had used when he called you up to the front of the room, asking you to help demonstrate something to the class.

Crane stepped back into your field of view, and you looked obediently up at him. Just the sight of him was enough to make your heart pump a little bit faster. Unbeknownst to the rest of the students in the lecture, you had been sleeping with your professor since almost the beginning of the semester. Things had started out innocently enough; you had visited his office hours a few times, asking for help with a lesson at first. Then, quickly, you fell into the habit of stopping by even if you didn’t have a question. And finally, of course, you’d ended up with your lips pressed desperately against his and your shirt thrown carelessly into the corner of the room. Things had only continued from there.

“Classical conditioning is most effective when the response being elicited is one of natural reflex,” Crane explained to the class. “For Pavlov, this was dogs salivating at the sight and smell of their food. For our subject here-” he motioned to you, “brushing this feather against her skin causes her to reflexively flinch.”

He demonstrated again by trailing the red feather along your wrist, which did indeed cause you to jerk back your arm. A few snickers leaked out of the faceless crowd of students.

“Now, when the naturally evocative stimulus is repeatedly paired with a second stimulus, such as the sound of a bell, Pavlov discovered that the response could be ‘transferred’ to that secondary stimulus. So that, eventually, the sound of the bell alone will elicit the same response - even in the absence of the original stimulus. For example…”

Crane tapped the small metal desk bell sitting on the table beside you. The bell rang, and Crane swiftly raked the feather over your arm, making you jump again.

“Now we’ve paired our two stimuli, and as we continue to solidify the link between them in the mind of the subject-”

He rang the bell and tickled you again, this time brushing the feather over your bare leg. You deeply regretted wearing cut-offs. The touch of the feather made you flinch, but, at the same time, you also started to feel a sharp jolt coursing through your core.

“Eventually, the sound of the bell alone will make her react.”

Crane continued lecturing, telling the class about Pavlov’s dogs and other famous examples of conditioning. At somewhat random intervals, he would stop whatever he was doing to ring the bell and brush the feather over various parts of your body. It seemed like he drifted over every inch of your exposed skin; anywhere he could reach. When he dragged it across your jaw, you nearly had to bite your tongue to stop from letting out a gasp. You were starting to enjoy this a bit too much, and realized to your shock that you were getting wet. You shifted in your seat again, hoping that no one else noticed what was happening to you.

“Using these concepts,” Crane said. “Virtually any stimulus can be paired with any other to create a learned response.”

The little bell rang again, and your whole body tensed, jerking in anticipation of the feather even as arousal pooled between your legs. Your face turned hot as the class laughed. Crane hadn’t even touched you.

“As you can see, if the initial relationship between stimulus and reaction is ingrained deeply enough, it doesn’t take very long at all to transfer to the second stimulus.” Crane smiled.

He was looking down at you, his expression mild. The red feather was tucked away, safely, in his pocket.

“Thank you,” Dr. Crane said, nodding. “You can go back to your seat.”

You got up, feeling a bit shaky on your legs, and made your way back to your desk in the front row. Almost as soon as you’d taken your seat, Crane rang the bell again, making you flinch even though you were now halfway across the room. Even worse, you felt yourself clench desperately at the sound. A few snickers came from the students around you, who sat close enough to see you jump. You watched as Crane’s eyes flicked briefly to your knees, which you were pressing together in a feeble attempt to try and control your reaction. He quickly composed himself, straightening up a little as he changed slides on the projector.

“Now,” he said, returning to his usual place behind the podium that stood next to the table. “Let’s talk about John Watson and his contributions to the theory.”

You tried to focus on taking notes, but couldn’t help the way your eyes drifted again and again to the silver bell, still perched just on the edge of Crane’s reach.

After class, as the other students went about packing up and heading to their next lecture, you shoved your books in your bag and hurried to catch Dr. Crane before he left the room.

“Professor?” you said, timidly. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Crane glanced briefly at his watch, then looked up at you with a smile. He stood just in front of the table, the torturous silver bell to his left.

“Of course,” he answered. “What’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, waiting for the last few people in the room to hurry on their way. There was a lump in your throat, and you swallowed against it, trying to press it down. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous. Crane had seen you in much more intimate positions than this. But, something about him taunting you in front of a lecture hall full of other people had you feeling bothered, and in more ways than one. He had probably meant it to be harmless. Of course he liked you; it only made sense for him to pick you as his “volunteer” for a simple demonstration like this. He couldn’t have known the effect it would have on you, surely.

“I… um,” you tried to start.

The two of you were alone now, and you should have been able to spit it out. Still, for some reason your tongue was like dry cotton in your mouth. Your eyes drifted again to the bell, sitting within arm’s reach.

“I’m sorry, but… could you not ask me to volunteer for any more… things like that?” you muttered.

Crane seemed to consider your body language. He noticed the way you refused to look him in the eye, instead focusing on the shiny desk bell. You wrung your hands together, and shifted your weight from hip to hip.

“Is something the matter?” Dr. Crane asked.

“It’s just… it makes me a little uncomfortable,” you explained.

Crane stood close beside you, and reached out to touch the side of your wrist. His fingers were gentle; feather-light. But that only served to make things worse, and you felt yourself start to come dangerously close to unraveling again. If Crane noticed the way you subtly clenched your legs together, he didn’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he told you instead. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay!” you blurted out. Suddenly, you were worried you had offended him. “It’s my fault, really. I just…”

His fingers took hold of your wrist a bit more tightly, and he brought your hand up to circle his waist. You leaned into the hug, feeling at once both secure and yet unrestrained with desire as his arms wrapped around your shoulders. You caught a whiff of his cologne, slightly spicy with a hint of smoke. The smell only pulled you that much deeper into your internal battle.

“Just what?” Crane prompted.

“I just… don’t want to get turned on like that in class,” you whispered, embarrassment flooding your cheeks. “It’s bad enough having to listen to you; trying to pay attention when all I can think about is-”

Crane hooked a finger under your chin, pulling back from the hug a bit to make you look up at him. There was a sheen in his eyes that made you nervous, but also caused the heat in your stomach to grow.

“Turned on?” Crane echoed. “Why would you be turned on by what I did?”

The smile at the corners of his mouth told you that Crane knew the answer to his own question. Maybe he wasn’t as innocent in this as you had wanted to think.

“I think it’s just, um… you touching me like that…”

“Oh. Like this?”

Crane pulled the devious red feather back out of his breast pocket. Holding it up to the column of your neck, he dragged it slowly down toward your collarbone.

“Ah!” This time, you couldn’t stifle your gasp. Even though the lecture hall was empty, you still felt a rush of shame and embarrassment. You and Crane had had sex a few times in his office, but always with the door safely locked. Here, everything felt too public. Too exposed. Crane let the feather fall, red plume drifting to the floor.

“Professor…”

“Hm. I wonder…” Crane mused.

He reached behind himself to press down on the little bell, still sitting innocently on his desk. At the sound of the ring, you faltered and sank a little closer to him. The mumbled cry that fell from your lips was very unconvincingly muffled.

“Mm.” Crane smiled down at you. “You know, that’s the problem with classical conditioning. It’s just so hard to control all the variables. Sometimes the response is transferred to a secondary stimulus that was never intended, like the sight of the lab assistant who brings the dog’s food instead of the sound of the bell. And sometimes…” He rang the bell again, and you clenched, walls fluttering pathetically around nothing.

“Additional implicit reactions are accidentally transferred,” he finished.

You were feeling dizzy. Barely paying any attention to Crane’s impromptu lesson, all you could focus on was the buzzing heat between your legs.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Crane smirked. He brought his face close to yours, nose trailing over the curve of your jaw as he whispered to you. “I didn’t know a little teasing would turn you into such a mess.”

His voice was sweet, even as his words dug into you. He kissed along your jaw, and you felt yourself slump against him. Crane supported your weight effortlessly, shifting his body to lean back against the table so that he could feel you press into him fully. You let out a whimper as he kissed you again, this time pressing his lips to the very corner of your mouth.

“Poor thing,” Crane mused. “Here - let me help you.”

His hands moved down to the backs of your thighs, and before you could say a word he had spun you around and lifted you up on top of the desk. He kissed you, fully on the lips this time, and started to trail his soft fingers up and down your legs. His faint touch against your bare skin was driving you crazy. Usually, he was much more direct - taking what he wanted and not wasting time on too much foreplay. This was different, and all of it was making your head spin. When one of his hands reached the hem at the leg of your shorts, you took in a sharp breath of air.

“W-what are you-?”

“What do you think I'm doing?” he teased. “You said you were turned on, darling. I'm just taking care of that little problem for you.”

His fingers pushed under the hem of your shorts, resting on the top of your thigh. The tight fabric forced him to press into your flesh; pads of his fingers making you squirm under the more intense pressure. You hummed, clenching the edge of the desk.

“Look at you - falling apart when I've barely even touched you,” rasped Crane. “At least, not anywhere that usually makes you this desperate.”

His other hand snaked up to roam under your shirt, drifting over the side of your waist. Your breath hitched.

“I do seem to remember you liked it one time when I touched you here,” he laughed, dark voice sinking into your skin.

His mouth was at your neck, and the hum of his words felt like butterflies. Your whole body shivered, and Crane pressed a burning kiss to your collarbone.

“Mmm, I know you asked me not to volunteer you for any more demonstrations,” Crane said. “But I think if doing it makes you this needy, I might not be able to resist.”

He kissed your neck again, this time biting down softly. You let out a moan as you felt his teeth press into your skin.

“Besides, you wouldn't say no to your professor, right? If he asked you to do something?”

“O-of course not,” you replied. Dr. Crane liked when you were obedient.

“Good. Then I need you to do something for me right now.”

Crane pulled back to look into your eyes. His soft smile made your heart flip in your chest. His lips were red from kissing you, and as he opened them to speak, his deep voice sounded like honey.

“Take off your shorts, and bend over.”

The lump that had been in your throat earlier sank down into your stomach, and then even lower. Crane was still looking back at you, teasing eyes clear and bright behind his glasses.

“I don't know…” you hesitated. “Here?”

Crane reached over to tap the little silver bell, and the ring sent a pulse straight into your core. It was humiliating how fast he had wrapped you around his finger, without even trying to.

“Don't worry; it'll wear off eventually,” Crane said. “Probably. Permanent conditioning takes much more reinforcement. But for now…”

He rang the bell again, and you jumped. The ache was becoming unbearable, and you knew you couldn't hold out for much longer.

“For now, I'm going to have some fun,” Crane taunted. “Now take off your shorts, darling.”

This time, you hurried to do as he said. You shuffled out of the denim shorts, standing up to let them fall to the floor. As he had ordered earlier, you turned away from him, and bent over the table.

Crane's hands drifted over your hips, coming down to grab at your panties.

“I'm sorry; I should have been more clear.”

Suddenly, he yanked them down, quickly exposing you to the chill of the air.

“I wanted these off, too,” he clarified.

Naked from the waist down, you had a brief moment to consider the situation you now found yourself in. You were facing away from the door, fully on display for him and anyone else who might happen to walk into the classroom. Your professor didn't seem to be too bothered by the idea, as his hand grabbed your ass and pushed your legs open just a bit wider, getting a better view. But then again, maybe he wasn't thinking too clearly right now either. He pushed up your shirt, bunching the fabric so that your back was exposed. You considered asking him to stop so that you could move things to his office, where at least you could lock the door for a little privacy. But any objections you had were forgotten at the rough sound of Crane’s pants zipper.

You felt him press up against your entrance, gently parting your folds as he dragged the head of his hard cock up and down.

“You really are turned on,” Crane marveled. “And all over a little feather…”

As he spoke, you felt the soft plumes of the feather moving gently over your spine. You tensed again. Crane must have picked it back up when your back was turned, and now he was teasing you, slowly, swirling the feather over the swell of your ass.

“S-stop!” you begged, jerking away from the sensation.

“Do you really want me to?” Crane whispered. “Or are you just embarrassed at how wet I'm making you?”

He lazily trailed the feather over your leg, teasing you with the very tip of the soft red bristles. His cock was still on the verge of penetrating you, and you felt him twitch as your body reacted, bucking against the touch of the feather.

“N-no,” you stammered. “Don't stop.”

“That's what I thought,” Crane smirked.

He started pressing into you, and the feeling was exactly what you needed. All of his teasing had driven you almost to the edge, and as soon as he was inside of you, you felt yourself inching dangerously closer.

“I should tease you like this more often.” Crane was pulling out of you again, only to slam his hips back into you, making your whole body bounce on the table. “If I'd known I could make you this wet, and this desperate, I would have moved the conditioning lesson up a few weeks.”

He laughed, and you felt yourself melting around him. The drag of his cock was so good as he pulled out, and the snap of his hips made you see stars as he pushed in. When Crane brought the puff of the feather up to trail over the back of your arm, you clenched violently, and he moaned.

The sound seemed to echo in the huge, empty room. Crane stayed still for a moment, buried so deep inside of you that it hurt. Then, he started moving again, this time at a faster pace.

“S-slow down,” you begged.

“Why? So you can beg me to stop teasing you again?” Crane taunted. “You can't have it both ways, sweetheart - try to make up your mind.”

You couldn't, of course. With the way he was pounding into you, the only available space in your brain was completely devoted to him - his perfect, veiny cock, and how it was stretching you out, mercilessly. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the desk, clawing at the smooth faux-wood finish.

“Ah!”

You yelped as Crane rang the bell again, not taking even a small break from thrusting, and for what must have been the dozenth time, you clenched around him.

Between the bell and the feather, your head was spinning. Dimly, you felt certain that Crane had abandoned all actual application of Stimulus Response Theory long ago. He was recklessly using whatever tools there were at his disposal; working you up and making sure that all the wires in your brain were thoroughly and completely crossed. You didn't care though. Whatever made you fall apart for him was fine with you.

“M’so close,” you slurred, fingers curling into the desk.

Crane brought the feather down to the curve of your waist, tracing over the spot that drove you crazy. Just like he had recalled earlier, it made you go nearly feral with lust. That was all you needed to tip over the edge that had been taunting you for so long. As you fluttered all around him, Crane followed right after you.

“Oh my god!” you cried, not caring anymore that you were still in the classroom.

Crane's shallow moans and grunts behind you were enough to make you squeeze him again, milking his cock as it emptied into you.

“Oh my god,” you repeated, a little quieter now as the reality of what you had just done sank in.

“I’ll say. That was… intense,” Crane laughed.

He pulled out of you, and you felt his seed drip down the inside of your thigh. You saw him scrambling for something to help you clean up with as you turned around, still needing to lean against the table for support.

“Here.”

He offered you a clump of napkins, scavenged from somewhere deep inside the speaker’s podium. You stuffed them quickly between your legs, trying to wipe up the sticky trails of cum that had already started to snake down. After you'd cleaned up a bit, Dr. Crane leaned forward to kiss you.

His lips still had a hint of the hunger that had passed between you. The feel of them pressed against yours, faint trace of saliva reminding you of the barely-faded passion, made you woozy all over again. He had to hold you to stop you from sinking down onto the table.

“I'd say that was rather stimulating, wouldn't you?” Crane joked.

You felt your face heat up, and he brought his thumb softly to trail across the edge of your jaw. Inside, you could still feel the proof of his lust leaking slowly out of you, and the tickling sensation made you flinch.

“I think… I liked that a little too much,” you admitted.

Your professor smiled down at you, taking in your shy face before bringing his lips close to yours for another, sinful kiss. You felt him smile against you as he whispered.

“I think you did, too.”

Deviously, Crane reached behind you to ring the little silver bell.

This fic now has a Part 2 HERE!

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #jonathan crane #LemmyFics

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