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gourmetofglut · 4 months ago

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On Emilia, Fandom Double Standards, and Summary Culture: A Thread

*Some Unmarked Arc 7 and 8 Spoilers ahead.

To preface this, my rambling will be a lot less structured with fewer screenshots of supporting evidence than I usually provide. This is more just my stream of consciousness edited down into something readable. When it comes to Emilia, I also fully admit to having a bias.

Her character struck a chord with me when I read Re: Zero for the first time, and I don’t hesitate to admit that. Alongside Otto and Subaru, I felt many of her issues reflected some things from my own life as an autistic person, even if it was perhaps unintentional.

The struggle with social interaction, the difficulty with maintaining friendships, the inability to stand up for oneself in fear of burdening others, etc. Even how she was treated by society kind of matched up with that, even if the discrimination was more analogous to racism.

Now I’m just me. My interpretations are just extensions of my experience. My self-indulgent rant here is me merely commenting on my perspective of quite a bit of ongoing community discourse I just find tiring, often feeling misguided at best and actively bad faith at worst.

My general frustration with Emilia's discourse is that I feel a lot of it blows the worst aspects of her writing out of proportion, actively ignores her best writing, and/or makes statements about the content the person fully admits to not having read.

The latter in particular irks me, as it seems to be representative of a bigger issue in this community, that I will cover in more detail later.

In a lot of ways, Emilia’s treatment kind of reminds me a lot about how female characters are treated in Shonen's discourse.

Sure, the narrative doesn’t always treat them the best, but anything positive is buried under a hyper-focus on negatives even if they take up a fraction of screen time. People judge them based on out-of-context panels or summaries without ever touching the scenes themselves.

If they are too competent, they’re a boring “Mary Sue” or whatever buzzword people are using that day, while if they don’t solve everything instantly they’re a useless burden on the plot who are carried by “plot armor,” or once again whatever buzzwords people are using that day. Often, many female characters have been ascribed both labels, without people stopping to consider how contradictory these elements.

And this kind of discourse, this contradictory mess based on hearsay and summaries, is the kind of thing that frustrates me.

I think the best example of this in regard to Emilia is how people discuss her flaws. All too often, people act like her flaws don’t exist or are “stupid,” something that comes off frustratingly ignorant for someone who's been in many of the same places she’s been.

I knew what it was like to realize you needed to cut friends out of your life who treated you as less of a person. I knew what it was like to have to be forced into growing to stand up for yourself, moving away from a parent who infantilized you just because of who you were.

I knew what it was like to have to fully address things about myself I wanted to bury and act like didn’t exist. To act like these experiences weren’t real like they were things no one ever went through, is such a strange thing. Perhaps they aren’t handled the best in places, something I feel is fair to discuss, but of course, nuance can’t exist in these discussions. Or how about the way people talk about Emilia in other arcs?

While I don’t like how Emilia is handled in WN Arc 5, I think the LN highlights how she’s developed in a similar way to how the same arc is used to highlight how Subaru has developed. She stands up to Regulus, beats his ass for the women unable to stand up for themselves like she had once been able to, and resolves to save them despite the impossible circumstances just like how Subaru often does. She refuses to give into despair and wait to be rescued as she once did, being core to Regulus' defense. Yet, of course, none of that is focused on.

Instead, we have to deal with inane discussions about a few sentences in the totality of her arc, throwing out hyperbolic statements about how a random shitty joke “ruins” her character or something. Her role as a narrative foil to Regulus?

How her focus on names in the arc tie into themes of identity? Her breaking of fate by freeing the wives? Nah, she's little more than a "Mary Sue" because she achieves something against Regulus/she doesn’t do anything despite literally being one of the main reasons they won.

Similar things apply to Arc 6. It’s an arc not focusing on her, but it does go out of its way to showcase her development. Her relationship with Ram? Her perseverance in the face of an enemy she can’t do anything against in Volcanica? Her helping Subaru in the same way he helped her, fully swapping roles with him? None of that matters in the face of a 10-sentence scene where Reid pokes her tits.

Arcs 7 and 8 are perhaps the most egregious showcase of these issues. In general, the Vollachia saga does not focus much on the Emilia Camp. Hell, some of them contribute nothing. Yet still, Emilia gets a fair bit to do. She’s able to read people like Vincent, within seconds of discussion and connects down to the root of who people are quickly.

She cuts through the bullshit of people like Priscilla and Vincent quickly, forcing them to meet her on her level rather than act all high and mighty. She forces her way into the hearts of those who refuse to see reason like Madelyn.

More than ever, she showcases her true merits as a member of the Emilia Camp during high-stress situations like Vollachia. She’s a lot like Subaru in that way… Which brings me to my next point: Fuck, do people understate how similar her and Subaru are.

In a community that will analyze every little detail to find even a hint of parallels between Subaru and other characters, to the point of sometimes actively ignoring existing characterization, Emilia seldom gets highlighted. She goes through a similar arc of regaining self-worth, a similar of grappling with heroism, a similar arc of really figuring out who exactly she wants to be to others. She does the whole “wanting to believe she’s giving her full effort so someone else will tell her it’s alright that she failed and then gave up” thing in Arc 4 that matches what Subaru himself did in Arc 3. Hell, even her parental figures in Fortuna and Guese are written to be close parallels to Subaru’s parents (though with Fortuna being akin to Kenichi and Guese being akin to Naoko), something I’ve seen highlighted maybe once ever by someone other than me despite her backstory with them being in the SAME ARC.

It’s just a weird double standard, with people displaying an unwillingness to give her the same level of engagement they give other characters.

On the other hand, she also suffers from the same thing as many other Re: Zero characters where she gets reduced to ONLY her dynamic with Subaru. She has a lot of relationships with other characters around her like Puck, Ram, Otto, Priscilla, etc. that rarely receive attention. This is not unique to her of course (don’t get me STARTED on Julius, Reinhard, and Otto’s treatment by the community) but it is notable with her when the story itself goes after Subaru for ignoring her own autonomy separate from him. This is something people love to point out in regards to how it helps Subaru as a character, but when it comes to Emilia, many engage with her through the exact same kind of thought.

Because Subaru is the only character who matters.

Because anything beyond Subaru only exists for him. Even if an arc has nothing to do with him, even if a character is actively used as more of a foil for someone else, it all has to tie back to him. The world revolves around Subaru.

And it’s not like I don’t get it. Subaru is fascinating. He’s literally my 2nd favorite character in fiction. I’ve gone at length talking about all the little things I love about him so, so, so many times because doing so just fills me with joy.

I just want characters to be able to exist, interact, and do stuff outside of him without everything having to immediately loop back to him.

Going back to Emilia though, I do want to make it clear at this point that I don’t think Emilia is perfect or anything. I guarantee you that many of the things that frustrate you frustrate me a HELL of a lot more. I do think she should have a bit more page time in certain arcs, I do think Tappei has the narrative treat her weirdly sometimes, and I do think she is infantilized often. I will be the first to point out scenes I think undercut her development or treat her like a child. I could ramble all day about a few scenes I dislike throughout Re: Zero and I have gone at length about my issues with how Tappei fetishizes her.

I just think it’s kind of disingenuous to have this be the only discourse around her. To many in this community, a character must be perfect with no flaws or trash that ruins the narrative. Nuanced discussion, analyzing a character for their negatives and positives, can’t exist. Instead, we’ve got to mention the stupid Divine General joke even in the in-universe narrative that seems to disregard it for the 10th time. We have to talk about the snarky one-liner from Otto that is so strangely mean and condescending it feels out of character for him.

I’m not saying that we shouldn’t discuss it, but the overwhelming amount of focus on these singular moments as compared to other characters who get the same treatment narratively can be frustrating. We loop back to these singular sentences repeatedly that people saw in a summary or screenshot rather than reading the arc because that’s the only way half this fandom engages with anything anymore.

And once again, I think that’s really what irks me. I think I would be a lot more fair towards the general discourse if I felt like it was coming from a place of good faith; from people who were reading the thing they were talking about. But that’s not exactly what’s happening, is it? Instead, you see people quoting AI translations about as good as a 5-year-old’s book report, you see the same screenshot shared by those who “haven’t read the arc yet, but,” and you see the same wrong information someone said in a summary months ago pop up repeatedly.

It’s such a gross way to engage with media to me. Reducing it from art—something to experience—to slop to shovel down one’s throat. It’s the kind of lazy, unengaged behavior that has led to series being entirely engaged with through Wikipedia summaries and YouTube video essays. Why let yourself get invested when you can just learn everything there is about the basic plot in 10 minutes? Why let yourself be surprised by the twists and turns of a tale when you can just look up the secret beforehand? Why view something as a work of art instead of simple content to be discarded as soon as you know everything there is to know? And if you know all about it, why bother listening to the analysis of anyone who actually engages with the source material, providing quotes, when it’s all just coping and reading into things too much?

There’s an arrogance that comes from that specific kind of media ignorance, and it applies most to female characters. Subaru’s a victim of that slop content approach to media too of course, but it seems to be most prominent with the female characters who surround him. All too often in the anime community, people overcorrect in response to any issues in a female character’s writing. They see a flaw and go “Guess this character is awful,” before proceeding to ignore every previous and future aspect of that character, good or bad.

And the failure to apply a holistic analysis of the merits of Tappei’s character writing is not limited to the shitty gags he writes for Emilia. Pretty much every character in this series has one, and often way more, scenes where something similarly shitty is done.

Priscilla has a gag about being creepy to children. Al makes weird comments about women, some of them being minors. Rem’s love for Subaru is played up to rapey extents in certain side stories. Otto’s struggles with someone who tried to have him killed are reduced to a gag. And who can forget the holy grail of infantilization, Beatrice? The character the story itself calls Subaru’s mother figure, whose entire character arc is predicated on exercising her autonomy, is constantly treated like a child for the sake of comedy. Arguably, she’s subjected to infantilization far more than Emilia ever has been.

Yet, these gags are often ignored, written off as the shitty attempts at humor they are. They still exist and are frustrating, but they aren’t the only pieces of discussion about a character. After all, many people have had to realize at this point that Re: Zero isn’t immune to the same shitty tropes as the rest of the genre. It is subversive of many of its tropes, but it utilizes those same tropes as it pleases, picking and choosing what it wants to deconstruct. As someone who adores this series, I feel like it would be disingenuous of me to claim otherwise.

Yet even acknowledging that, I think Re: Zero and its characters are some of my favorites in any fictional work I've read. When it comes to characters like Al, Priscilla, Rem, Otto, and Beatrice there’s just so much to analyze and admire about them. They tie into the story, the themes, and the characters around them in such fascinating ways that people have written literal essays about them.

Some of it may not be intentional. Some of it may just be my own experiences being projected. Some of it may just be connections that exist only in my mind...but that’s how art works. You are supposed to look at it with bias, whether it be yours, the author’s, or someone else’s.

These are interpretations I can make about these characters, regardless of what anyone else thinks. The author’s intentions, by virtue of not being directly stated to the audience, aren't the only way to read a story. It’s my prerogative as a reader to look at a story through a lens that works best for me.

Ultimately, much of this fandom’s disingenuous treatment of Emilia’s depth as a character is the result of people refusing to have their own opinions and takes on Re: Zero. Rather than reading the story, engaging with it, and interpreting it through their preferred lens, they borrow the rhetoric spouted by others without any critical thinking involved. That’s not to say this applies to everyone who dislikes the character.

You can dislike a character for many reasons, after all. You don’t have to justify it. If they just don't interest you, fuck them. Think whatever you wish and be whoever you want.

But if your reason is that you saw an out-of-context screenshot or summary from someone —if your reason is that you hold them to a standard that does not apply to other characters—that feels rather weak, doesn’t it?

In the end, all commentary on art is subjective. There’s no right way to read a story or watch a show. But there are definitely lazy ways. The only way to counteract this kind of thought is to read, to watch, and to think about the things put in front of you. Truly look at a story for what it is, good and bad.

When I did that, I found a character that I was able to connect with. Maybe you won’t, but that’s just how I feel about Emilia.

#re zero #re zero kara hajimeru isekai seikatsu #emilia re:zero #rezero

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frickinsleepdeprived · 11 months ago

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Ride or Die Part 1

Sanemi x Fem! Reader - Motorcycle Club AU

Word Count: 9.4K

TW: DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT - READ THE DAMN WARNINGS BEFORE READING P L E A S E: Mentions of violence ● school fights ● blood ● so much fucking blood ● mentions of domestic violence ● hospitals ● alcohol ● marijuana ● vaping/smoking ● reader being a stubborn bitch ● Sanemi being even more of a stubborn bitch ● so much fucking angst ● Sanemi has unpleasant memories of a lost loved one ● readers going through some shit-

CW: MINORS DNI - Reader has a wet dream and gets herself off in her sleep in Sanemi’s room (and Sanemi hopelessly watches, therefore by extension, voyeurism.)

A/N: HOLY FUCKING SHIT ITS ABOUT DAMN TIME- After promising this *checks calendar and cringes* New Years of this year and April of this year, I’m finally done with the first part of this multipart fic! No explicit smut in this part unfortunately, this is mostly about the opening dynamics between Sanemi and Reader. Smut, however, will definitely come in the next part hehehe- enjoy! I hope I didn’t disappoint with this lol

...

The moment she opened her eyes, she couldn't register anything. It was dark, darker than the abyss of her mind as her mind slowly manifested into consciousness.

Though (Y/N)’s head was still foggy, she was able to figure out where she was. She was in a car, an SUV at that. Two women hunched over here trying to keep her bleeding at bay and her mind focused on something else. Her immediate thoughts were simple.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Hey, can you hear me? Are you awake?” One female voice called out, it sounds like she's crying, more than likely she was worried. Another female voice scolded the other.

“Are you blind?! Of course she's awake! She's just not able to comprehend anything right now, Suma. And if she is, it's a damn miracle.” The voice, deadpan and flat, was from another woman. “Besides, it's not like she's in any position to answer questions anyway.”

“No no, ask all the questions you can. Get as much information as possible, Makio. The more the better.” Another female voice called out from the front passenger seat. Her voice soothing and calm, one could only assume she had the patience of a saint. “Tengen, love, can you make this go any faster?”

“There's a problem with that, Hinatsuru. Last time I was speeding with Kyojuro in the back after he got in a fight with Seis Lunas, I got pulled over for doing forty over the speed limit. Like, yeah, the cop was cool and all, let me off with a warning. But still, not risking it.”

That name…

That fucking name.

“Wh-what?! What the hell?! Where am I?!” (Y/N) sat up immediately. That name, Seis Lunas, wasn't something to be taken lightly. That name was the very foundation of her pain. The catalyst for her suffering and the only reason why she's in the situation she's in now. “WHERE IS HE?! WHERE'S THAT FUCKING BASTARD?!” her mind turned to one thing; fight or flight. And it looks like she chose to fight. The two women in the backseat holding her down to the seat and trying to calm her down as best as they can.

“Makio do something!” Suma cried out, struggling to keep (Y/N) from not only injuring herself more, but from trying to keep herself and her sister-wife from getting punched in the face

“HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO ANYTHING SUMA SHES FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!” Makio screamed, restraining both of the injured girl’s wrists and holding them down. (Y/N)’s tears making her feel a hint of remorse.

“Well try something!” Suma retorted, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt as she pressed hard on (Y/N)’s thigh, causing the poor woman to yelp in pain. “Aaaaaahhhh I’m sorry-!”

Their bickering and arguing only caused (Y/N)’s state of mind to worsen. The tears streaming out of her eyes proved that she was not only trying to keep her screams of pain at bay, but she was also terrified- no, she was mortified.

“EVERYONE SHUT THE HELL UP!” The male shouted, both of the women quieting at a moment's notice. “Alright, here's what the fuck we're doing. Makio, Suma, keep the lady's bleeding stable. Hina, start asking questions, and you,” He pointed to (Y/N) in the backseat, his voice turning calm, yet still stern as ever. “Don't worry, everything is gonna be fine. We're taking you to a hospital.” (Y/N)’s eyes widened at that. The last place she needed to be, of all places, was a damn hospital. “No, you don't get a say. No, you don't get to just fight us on this. This is happening, because it'll be hell or high water if we don't get you some help.” His tone was final, as if no one could argue with him.

Going to a hospital meant many things; healthcare, security, stability, and of course, a chance to get better in peace. But this?

This would be anything but peaceful.

“No… no no no please-” (Y/N) protested softly. Sweat began to collect on her brow and her hands started to shake. Makio kept a hand on her forehead while Suma suppressed the bleeding.

“Whoa whoa, hey. It's okay, you're going to be fine. The doctors and nurses at Saint Tamayo are amazing, Hina would know, she works there. You've got nothing to worry about.” Makio tried to soothe her.

“No! You don't understand, if I go, he'll find me. He's got eyes everywhere, there's no way I can stay under the radar.” (Y/N) started to panic. She never went to hospitals for that reason. She was used to treating her wounds on her own, let alone fighting for her life.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Tengen commented.

“Sure?” Her head tilted to the side as (Y/N) gave him an unsure confirmation.

“Does this have anything to do with Seis Lunas?” The albino man asked, his maroon eyes flashing in the rear view mirror at her. The mere name alone sent her into a state of panic, but it was a silent panic. The kind where one would freeze, then look away. The one where it would make someone unsure of what to say, but their body language and expressions said it all. “Hinatsuru-”

“I'm calling Windbreaker and Ouroboros right now.” Windbreaker? Ouroboros? If these people are who (Y/N) thinks it is, then she's in for a lot more than she bargained for. “Hey, we're stepping on the gas. Seems like this girl is involved with some sort of domestic situation with the Kizuki, and it doesn't look good either… yeah,” she looked to Tengen “Step on the fucking gas, we have to get there before the Kizuki do.”

“Where to?” Tengen replied, his voice unsure and worried. (Y/N) speaking up before Hinatsuru could.

“I told you guys once, and I'll say it again, if I go to a hospital, he will find me and I will be dead!” Her voice was hoarse, the pain becoming too much to bear. One more moment in this car and she'll more than likely die from stress alone than the actual blood loss. Hinatsuru gave her a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror. “I… I get you guys are trying to help and I get that it's important I get the proper medical care but I'm fine-”

“You are anything but fine! You’re going to a goddamn hospital and that is final!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, picking up speed and rushing towards Saint Tamayo hospital. “Do you know what kind of condition we found you in? You were covered in sweat and vomit, you went into shock. You're not fine and you're going to the hospital. And I swear to God if you try and back out of this again, I'll personally see to it that you're restrained to the fucking gurney once we get there. Got it?”

“That's unsettling!” (Y/N) shrieked, her voice strained with tears and horror. Makio sighed and held her close, pressing a reassuring kiss to her temple, all platonic.

And that's when everything got faster, and everything turned dark.

…

A young albino man sped on his motorcycle on the highway. A determined, seemingly menacing look on his face as he rode alongside a fellow biker- a group of them, actually.

It was times like this when he was more focused than he was with his own day job. Going ninety on the highway when he knew the speed limit was sixty-five. He could easily get pulled over by one of those state troopers if he and his fellow riders aren’t careful. Yet, that doesn’t stop him, because this is personal for him.

Needless to say, he doesn’t like to hear about domestic violence. Not that he doesn’t care, because he does, deeply. But the thought of a woman being beaten by a man. He was raised better than that.

And by God if he doesn’t do something about it now, it’ll be the end of his pride.

Skidding and drifting on the asphalt of the highway, he took an exit and slowed to a halt at the light. Finding the time to open his helmet shield and take a hit off of his vape. The strong, raspberry and pineapple scented smoke wafting in the chill of the fall night, causing him to sigh as he quickly put the cancerous device back into his pocket and closed his shield. Revving his engine, he sped off as the light turned green, making his way to Saint Tamayo with the rest of the group riding with him.

Maybe this time, he’d be able to save someone. Albeit it’s someone he doesn’t know, but at least it's a life saved… hopefully.

…

Her kicks and screams resounded at the entrance of the emergency room. Her fighting was rough, and unfair.

(Y/N) was a scrapper, a dirty one at that. Even through the blood loss and the injuries she had, she could still put up one hell of a fight despite seeing black. Not red, black.

“Dammit! You’re going to injure yourself more if you keep fighting!” Makio struggled to get her out of the SUV. Holding onto (Y/N)’s underarms as Hinatsuru and Suma took hold of her legs. Tengen’s hands gently restraining the injured woman’s wrists as they loaded her into a wheelchair.

Though, (Y/N)’s efforts proved to be vain and futile; becoming far too stressed. Nurses and doctors rushed out to see what was wrong, and upon seeing the state of her injuries, they had no choice but to take the poor soul in. (Y/N) kicked, punched, writhed and squirmed the entire time the hospital staff took her to the back. A group of motorcycles pulled up in the parking lot and walked briskly to the quartet waiting at the entrance of the emergency room.

“About damn time you showed up Windbreaker. Where the hell were you?” Tengen sighed deeply, running a hand through his silken white hair. Windbreaker took off his helmet, exposing his scarred face to the bitter chill of the night. His leather jacket is not doing much to shield him from the cold either. The rest of the riders took off their helmets as well, most of them male, but two of them female.

“Well, trafficks fucking horrendous. Not to mention, state troopers are everywhere tonight. I’m surprised that me and the rest of us didn’t get pulled over. But that's neither here nor there.” Windbreaker spoke casually, watching the taller albino and three ladies in front of him light a cigarette. “And you get onto me for vaping, hypocrite.”

“Hey, this is stressful, cut me and the ladies some damn slack.” Tengen sighed, taking a heavy drag and exhaling deeply. “How’d you even come across her anyways? Were you and Ouroboros just out riding around or something?”

“Man, we watched the poor girl crash.” A ravenette cut in, his short hair tied into a small ponytail at the dead middle of the back of his head and a mask concealing his nose and mouth. A pink haired cutie in a pair of denim short-shorts, a white crop top, a pair of riding boots, and a leather vest attached to his hip. “We don’t know where the black eye, bruised knuckles, and the cut on her thigh came from though. However, we’re thinking it’s some sort of domestic from what we all heard over the phone.” He spoke grimly, a cold and distant look in his eyes as he spoke of (Y/N), gripping his female companion tighter by the hip as he sighed.

“Well, the way she spoke of Seis Lunas earlier makes it seem like it is domestic. She was practically hollering and begging us to not take her here. Like, yeah, she acknowledged she needs the attention for her wounds, but she did mention something about how Sies will come around at some point, he’ll find her and kill her is what she said.” Makio chimed in, throwing her cigarette butt on the pavement and stomping it out. “Woman’s so stubborn that she started fighting us in the backseat, but she was too weak to get any real licks in.”

“Well, that comes as part of being involved with the Kizuki, I guess.” Windbreaker spoke with a snort, taking another drag from his vape as a few of the other riders went into the waiting room of the ER. “But regardless, the priority here is this chick and what the hell happened to her. I’m betting she has a concussion too, she wasn’t really smart with the way she was riding earlier. No helmet, no protective gear.”

“Maybe she was in a rush?” The pink haired girl spoke up, “I mean, if it's a domestic like we’re suspecting, then chances are she was just trying to get away from her aggressor quickly regardless of any implicated consequences.” The men nodded in agreement, they had to admit, despite her being a bit of a bubbly, happy-go-lucky girl, she’s got her wits about her. “Not to mention, no one would ride like that if it wasn’t serious.”

“That much is true… anyways, we should probably head in with the rest. I’m sure they’re getting the rundown on her injuries right now.” Windbreaker spoke up, watching the others put out their cigarettes and hide away their vapes. Some of them had flasks, making him shake his head in disapproval.

Maybe this time he can save the poor soul he found on the side of the road. But from the looks of it right now, (Y/N) won’t be recovering anytime soon.

After all, extensive injuries like that don’t just heal overnight.

…

About a week had passed and (Y/N) was, arguably, in worse shape than she was before. Eye still blue and black- slowly turning yellow, her scars stitched up and wrapped heavily. A few broken ribs and a concussion, but expected to make a full recovery. Still and unconscious in an ICU room, Windbreaker stood by her bedside, and not once did he want to leave. Doctor or nurse came in to check on (Y/N)? He was right in the corner watching silently. Anytime anyone else was in the room, he made sure he was there so that way nothing would go south- and god forbid anything happen, lest someone wanted to face the lilac eyed man’s wrath.

(Y/N), on the other hand, was oblivious to the man’s presence. When she came to, she gave him a look of confusion. “Wh- who?-” she was cut short by his quick interjection.

“Eh, just the guy that saved your life. You’re lucky I caught you in time, well, me and the others did.” The albino spoke softly, yet something in his voice sounded stern. “You’re also lucky you didn’t die.”

“Well excuse me macho, but I didn’t need saving.” (Y/N)’s curt response stirred a slight annoyance in him, though, he couldn’t help but be strangely amused at her sharp tongue and cold words. “If anything, he’s-” once again, (Y/N) was cut off.

“He’s gonna find you and he’s gonna kill you? Yeah, I heard that whole rant on the phone sweetcheeks.”

“...Sweetcheeks?” The disdain in her voice was palpable, dripping with scorn and offense, yet she couldn’t help but blush at the thought of being called such an endearing name. Yet she knew such sweet words could be laced with the most bitter of intentions. “I- I’m not sweet, dammit!”

“Well, maybe not sweet, but definitely helpless, at least for the moment.” He spoke candidly, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair by the woman’s bedside. “Your bikes totaled too, I’m not sure if it can be salvaged either.”

“Goddammit- okay, who are you? Name, please, I can’t be talking to strangers right now, my psyche can’t handle it.” (Y/N)’s voice sounded hoarse, likely from the screaming she was doing last night. The man sighed, running his hand through the mess of silver locks on his head, he was losing himself in his mind. Plagued with thoughts the last time something like this happened… the last time he couldn’t save someone like her.

“Name’s Windbreaker.” he spoke with finality, “I ride with the Hashira, as if the patches on my vest weren’t a dead give away already. You crashed last night, like I said, your bikes totaled and more than likely scrap at this point. You’re extremely lucky to be alive, but you’re also kinda dumb for driving the way you were.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes at his comments, scoffing slightly as she rubbed her sore eyes, wincing slightly when she touched them.

“Well, Windbreaker, when you’re trying to get away from an abusive ex like Seis Lunas, you don’t have a choice but to ride fast. Whether I ended up dead or alive is a different story.” The last of her strength was used to hoist herself up, but only to fail when she tried with all her might to use her upper body strength. Flopping back onto the mattress, her head hitting the pillow, letting out a defeated sigh as she looked over at him. She drank in the sight of him, her eyes narrowing in recognition, but she wouldn’t dare say anything about it, at least not yet. The real question is why the hell he looked so familiar. “Anyways, why did you decide to “save” my sorry ass?”

“Because I was raised better than the scum of the earth that decided to do this to you. Besides, why the hell would I just let you die anyways? That’s blatant negligence on my end.” He crossed his arms, sighing in exasperation. Did she really think she wasn’t worth saving, that she wasn’t worth anyone’s time? It only made him wonder how much Seis Lunas had broken her down and rebuilt her in his image. “Did I mention that you’re also quite the fighter?”

“Yeah, you kinda have to be in this cruel world.” (Y/N) sighed as she spoke, looking at the IV that’s lodged into her hand. “As soon as I get out of here, it's back into hiding.”

“Hiding? Where?” His eyebrows raised in intrigue, but his concern outweighed his curiosity, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “This town isn’t exactly big, you know.” He sighed softly, tilting his head.

“Wherever the hell is farthest from town. Might go two counties over if I’m honest.” She spoke with yet another resigned sigh. It was as if she was giving into whatever her circumstances threw at her. Which honestly, was quite sad in his eyes.

“Well, yeah, but… don’t you have a place to go? Family? Friends?” His voice grew solemn.

“Family lives out of state, as far as friends go, I have none of them. Seis asserted his “dominance” and drove all of them away. Now I’m just out of touch with all of them.” This… this hurt Windbreaker, hard. It was like someone put him in her place. At this rate, he hurt for her.

He might just bleed for her.

…

Weeks followed, then about a month and a half. After (Y/N) had been discharged from the hospital and started physical therapy, he hadn’t heard anything from her since. With every passing night, the bitter chill seemed to get even colder as Windbreaker thought about her. He would stay up at night, haunted by the things she told him about Seis Lunas.

“Anyways, why did you decide to “save” my sorry ass?”

That one stung the most, if anything, it tore his heart in two. And though he probably shouldn’t be thinking about her, because she was only saved out of what he felt was obligation, he couldn’t help it. After all, a woman’s safety, to him, was probably the most precious thing he keeps close to himself. But a snap of someone’s fingers alerted his senses elsewhere. A certain masked ravenette staring down at him with cold eyes.

“You’re thinking about her again.” He spoke, his eyebrow raised as he stood in the doorway of the silverette’s room within the confines of the Hashira clubhouse. With a heavy sigh, Ouroboros leaned on the doorframe of Windbreaker's room. “Let her go, man, she likely doesn't want to see any of us again. I mean, unless you want to be a creep and go find her.”

“It's not being a creep if it's a welfare check. I know you'd do the same for L'Amour if she was in that girl's position.” Windbreaker sighed, sitting up shirtless from where he was laying on his bed. Picking up a black muscle shirt and slipping it on. “Where are we meeting for church?”

“Dive bar downtown, it's usually pretty empty on Sundays so everything we're gonna talk about should be safe and sound.” The ravenette took his hair down to re-tie it. “And after all is said and done, I'm getting L'Amour to cut my hair.” Ouroboros sighed and crossed his arms, one gold eye and the other blue looking at Windbreakers lilac ones. “If you happen to come across that girl, though, offer the clubhouse to her or something. I'm sure Mariposa wouldn't mind feeding her or anything.”

“She likely needs it, god knows where she is now.” The silverette rubbed the sleep from his eyes, putting on a pair of riding pants. “Matter of fact, I think I might go out now. Do a scan throughout town and see if I can find her.”

“You're really hellbent over this, aren't you? Isn't this what happened with-” Ouroboros was cut off by Windbreakers cold stare. “Nevermind… anyways, church is at seven at the dive bar downtown, don't be late.'' With that, Ouroboros walked out. Not a care in the ravenettes eyes as his footsteps thundered on the carpeted floor of the clubhouse. Windbreaker sighed deeply, setting out to ride around town for the girl he saved a few weeks back.

But he came up empty.

…

Stepping into the establishment, clad in a pair of dark jeans and an equally dark shirt with a pair of sunglasses, (Y/N) hoped no one would recognize her.

Many clubs, including the Kizuki and the Hashira, come to this particular bar for church. (Y/N) has always been to these meetings, but never allowed a chance to voice anything thanks to the Kizuki being a one-percenter club. Always left in the background, or attached to Seis Lunas’ hip with a drink in hand. (Y/N)’s car keys attached to one of her belt loops as she sat on a stool at the bar counter. The doctor told her not to drink, but it was her only hope at forgetting that horrible and damn near fatal night.

Part of her, however, winced as the bartender poured the amber brown, poisonous liquid into a glass with whiskey stones. Yet the other part was screaming “DRINK DRINK DRINK DRINK DRINK-” As the young woman brought the glass to her lips, a bitter euphoria overwhelmed her senses. The grainy, caramel scent comforted her mind as she downed the whole glass in one singular swig, not a damn given about the consequences. Over in the left of her peripheral vision stood the Hashira motorcycle club. Perhaps they were having church, or maybe they all decided to get out of the clubhouse for an evening. Either way, (Y/N) kept her head low, making sure it wasn’t obvious that she may or may not be eavesdropping, even if it were a breach of privacy.

“Come on man, get over her. She’s likely out of the hospital and doing better. Besides, she’s probably far out of town anyways.” Tengen patted Windbreaker on the back, passing him a pint of whatever draft beer was in the glass. The silverette shook his head and pushed the glass away. “Still don’t drink? Man, you’re twenty-one goddamn years old! Live a little!”

“You know me, I don’t drink, and I won’t drink until Genya’s out of high school.” Windbreaker sighed, his silver hair unruly and a mess from the ride around town. Though, Tengen did have a point; he’s a grown man, what’s stopping him from drinking? Besides, his younger brother is old enough to take care of himself. But then he remembered what his brother had been through, and that was enough to make the lilac eyed man turn down alcohol, regardless of the occasion.

It was like that for three hours; three hours of Windbreaker turning down drinks and of (Y/N) actively avoiding the temptation to turn her gaze to the group of bikers. Of course, she couldn’t ignore the fact that she had been sipping on her third drink for a while now, lost deep in thought of where to go from here, until she got a call. “Hello? Yes, this is her… I’m sorry? Ah, I see, I’m on my way.” Stepping down from the barstool, (Y/N) quickly makes her way out of the bar, her movements quick and fluid- amid the pain of her injuries. It seems like someone was following her out, yet she paid no mind. Slipping into her car, she speeds off towards Kimetsu High, where she’s supposed to pick up two troublemakers that got into a fight. Of course she had to be the one the school called, Jim Jones was too neglectful to even do anything. Reyes was too busy- as was Seis Lunas. Spinjutsu, well, Spinjutsu just doesn’t want anything to do with that. So it’s up to (Y/N) to make sure the bullshit gets settled.

Only God knows what kind of trouble they’ve caused this time.

…

“I’m sorry you did what?!” The two kids in front of her; a girl with long platinum, green tipped hair and caked makeup and a boy with a scrawny, lean build, rolled their eyes and sighed deeply. “How many damn times do I have to tell you guys?! Stop. Getting. Into. Fights! You will be suspended or expelled, or at worst, arrested!” (Y/N) groaned at the thought, rubbing her sore eyes and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Where are the kids you beat up? And don’t tell me they’re in the nurse's office.” The girl had a guilty look on her face. “Isis, what the fuck did you guys do?”

“Well, we had to teach them a lesson somehow.” The boy spoke up, crossing his arms and leaning back on the chair, as if all of this was just normal. “And hell yeah, they’re in the nurse's office, and I bet that those hashira bastards are on their way to come pick them up now.” He had an almost proud look on his face, as did his female companion. The two siblings had always found a way to get themselves into trouble, whether it be minor or major things. They’ve always been troublemakers, even before (Y/N) came around.

A distinct voice came in through the door of the front office; male, gruff, and definitely pissed off. (Y/N) looked up from the two to face who it was, lo and behold it was Windbreaker. “Yes, I’m Genya Shinazugawa’s older brother. Now where is he?” He was practically interrogating the front desk clerk, who basically had no answers to his questions, and that only pissed him off more.

“The nurses office. I’m talking with the assailants right now, actually. Also, nice to see you again, I guess.” (Y/N) spoke up, her voice tired and frustrated, just like his. Windbreaker looked up at her, making a beeline in her direction. The look of rage in his eyes was palpable, but she knew it wasn’t for her. “Look, I know that this is unexpected, but I’ve got this.”

“Oh no, no no no. Your siblings or whatever the hell those two are, they’re gonna pay. They’re gonna pay double. Because no one, and I mean no one lays a damn finger on my brother.” He spoke sternly. “And by God if I have anything to say about it, I’d say lock those two the hell up if they’re not going to alternative school.” (Y/N) sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose. This situation, on top of her injuries and meeting Windbreaker in unforeseen circumstances, was too much.

“I… I understand that. Believe me, if they were my blood siblings, I’d definitely make a decision on their behalf. But unfortunately, I’m not, so there’s very little that I could do legally. Rest assured though, I have all of this under control.” She winced at the pain in her black eye, a headache looming in her skull. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the principal and see what the hell those two will be going through as far as a punishment goes.” (Y/N) stepped into the principal’s office, shutting the door behind her and leaving the silverette out in the lobby.

The conversation didn’t last long, it was only a matter of time before (Y/N) learned that the two siblings wouldn’t be receiving a punishment at all, considering this was the first incident of the year. With a frustrated sigh, she snapped her fingers at the two siblings and motioned for them to follow her. But before she left, she passed Windbreaker a piece of paper. “If these two assholes cause you any other issues, call me.”

Windbreaker stared at the piece of paper and sighed deeply, nodding solemnly. “Will do, thanks.” He looked down at the contact information. “(Y/N) (L/N): (***) ***-****”

He would make sure to remember this.

…

It had been a while since that encounter, (Y/N) would receive calls here and there from Windbreaker, who’s contact name came up as “Sanemi”. She had assumed that was his real name, as if the name “Windbreaker” wasn’t enough evidence to it being an alias. “Look, all I’m saying is that Isis and Osiris are just… troubled. But that’s still no excuse for what they’ve done. And what's more, I’m not even their legal guardian, Jim Jones is.” Sanemi, on the other end, let out a scoff.

“Well, that explains a lot. He just lets those kids just run around and do whatever?” he asked, scrunching his face up in confusion. “Moreover, why the hell does Jim Jones of all people have custody of two teens anyways? That guy’s an internet cult leader and everyone knows it.”

“Alleged cult leader, but I have my suspicions also. No one really knows how he got custody of those two in the first place, but that’s neither here nor there right now. Where are you anyways? I hear something in the background.” (Y/N) spoke up, which caught Sanemi off guard, why is she so interested in him all of a sudden?

“Oh, uh, I’m at the Hashira clubhouse. One of the members wanted me to offer it to you at the hospital once you got out. But you kinda went off the grid for a while afterwards, so I never got the chance. Where are you though? You sound like you’re outside or something.” He asked softly, concern lacing his voice despite not knowing her well enough to truly have the right to be truly worried.

“... weeeeellllllllll-” her voice trailed off, awkward and nervous before she was cut off by the silverette.

“Location, now.” He demanded, his voice stern and cold.

“And if I don’t?” (Y/N) scoffed, not taking him seriously.

“I’ll scour this entire town looking for you.” Sanemi concluded.

“I’d love to see you try.” She spoke confidently, as if challenging him to even try to get near her. She hung up, and just to humor him, gave him her location. There's no way he’d actually show up, right? But he only called her back, just to spite her in turn. With a scoff, (Y/N) picked up, continuing her commentary. “Not to mention, that's an awfully mighty claim for someone that barely knows me. What makes you think I’d go to someone else’s house when I barely know them?” Sanemi scoffed on the other end of the phone.

“Well, for one, rude. Two, I don’t have a house, at least not yet, working on that.” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now, will you please drop your damn location so I don’t have a heart attack?” (Y/N) groaned softly at that… something about that noise roused something within Sanemi. It was wrong, so devastatingly wrong, he barely knows her. Why is he feeling so warm inside at the prospect of bringing her back with him?

“What has you so concerned, Sanemi? You only brought me to the hospital once, besides, it’s not like we’re dating. Unless I need to clarify that for you?” The woman’s tone was annoyed, and definitely not the warmest. “Look, I appreciate your concern and interest in me, that is if there’s any sort of interest or concern in the first place, but I’m okay-”

“You’re not fine, you hear me?! You’re still injured, you’re still being hunted by the Kizuki!” Sanemi snapped, sighing deeply as he threw on some sweatpants and a shirt. “Look, I’m not gonna let you be out there alone. So do me a favor, drop me your location so I can at least get you somewhere safer. You don’t have to come anywhere with me if you don’t want to. I get that I don’t know you very well and that's fine, but at least let me make sure you’re okay. Please?” There was something about his voice… it was desperate, that much (Y/N) could tell. But there was a hint of something else.

Was… was that longing she heard?

“I- you know what, fine. But don’t expect anything to come of this, because that’d be entirely by coincidence.” She sent him her precise location this time, which was a park on the other side of town.

“Are… are you fucking kidding me- That's it. Stay put, stay on the phone, I’m on my way. If one of those Kizuki fucks comes around then start running towards downtown, got it?” His voice was stern, a little too stern. It made (Y/N) roll her eyes again, but hearing him so riled up opened up her mind to other things also. She knew they were wrong, but dammit if it wasn't enticing.

“Sanemi I-” Her protests were in vain as Sanemi’s voice cut through.

“Got it?” The sound of a door slamming and a car starting made (Y/N)’s heart drop. His voice was demanding- almost too demanding as she heard his car speeding out of a parking lot. Of course there was no convincing this man otherwise, he’s far too stubborn, far too set in his ways to listen to anyone else’s opinion.

“... Alright, just uh, get here quick, I guess.” Her voice was unsure, but her mind was already seemingly made up, not by her own choice of course. With the way Sanemi spoke to her, it’s almost as if he cares. It’s eerily similar to the way Seis Lunas would talk to her, but this is different somehow. It has no malicious intention, at least she hopes it wouldn’t. He’s definitely hard to read, well, that's a lie. His intentions are obvious- painfully obvious. But (Y/N) just can’t shake the feeling of an ulterior motive, especially after everything Seis Lunas put her through; the rat bastard broke her, that much was evident. With a heavy sigh, she sits on a curb and sparks a blunt, inhaling on the Lord’s lettuce and exhaling in the same manner it went in- deep, sharp, and heavenly. The sangria flavored cigarillo wrap made it a little easier to smoke, though she had it in the back of her mind that she probably should’ve gotten a real tobacco leaf to smoke out of; but that's neither here nor there right now.

As she awaited the hot tempered silverette’s arrival, she contemplated her next move. Would she stay in town? Would she leave and never come back? Where would she go, knowing that her family is far away and friends were out of touch because of her association with the Kizuki, even if it is now former? (Y/N)’s mind raced, her heart heavy as the stress became too much to bear. The heartstrings were pulling, the tears pooled in her eyes- which she quickly wiped away. Reminding herself that she's a grown woman and capable of handling herself. She didn’t need a man, despite how she had to accustom herself to the lifestyle synonymous to that of a housewife. A degrading thought, really, because she never figured she’d find herself at the mercy of someone who is pretty much a stranger, and a member of a rival motorcycle club to boot. “How could I have let myself fall so hard from where I was?” was her immediate thought. Though even her thoughts didn’t quench the sweltering fire that were the burning questions of her uncertain future.

Sanemi, on the other hand, was occupied with other thoughts. Why was (Y/N) out in a park on the other side of town at one o’clock in the morning? What happened to the beat up pontiac grand prix she owned; the one that had a missing front bumper and chipped dark blue paint? Whatever happened the night she was taken to the hospital by Tengen and his wives? He remembered her mentioning something about Seis Lunas being her ex, but that was the extent of it. But the mention of Seis Lunas raised even more questions in his mind. Why was (Y/N) even affiliated with the brutal one-percenter club in the first place? How did she come to meet Seis Lunas? Why was she Osiris and Isis’ emergency contact at the very same school that Genya, along with other Hashira prospects, go to?

As both of their minds were caught up in a slew of questions and thoughts, Sanemi had reached her location faster than he had anticipated. He hung up the call and got out of the black sedan he drives, looking around and spotting (Y/N) almost immediately. Her condition seemingly improved; the black eye was nearly gone and she didn’t look as lethargic as before. Though, there was no mistaking the fatigue in her body language as he stepped closer and closer to her. His movements slow, cautious, and weary as if he were moving towards an injured dog. “Hey…” those were his immediate words. She looked up at him, an involuntary breath of relief escaping her lungs as she took another hit off of the blunt. He sat beside her on the curb, lighting his own cigarette and taking a drag. “You alright?” She looked over at him, trying her hardest to keep her tears at bay, but to no avail, seeing as how they just couldn’t stop falling.

“Depends on what your definition of “okay” is.” (Y/N) spoke softly, her sigh heavy and tired as she took another hit from the blunt. “Car broke down, and I've been walking ever since. Just kinda left it there, it was a piece of shit anyways. Payments were overdue, tags were no good and it had no insurance. If anything if I was caught riding around in it I’d get arrested, maybe it’s a blessing in disguise or something.” Was she ranting now? She’s never done that before, especially not in front of Sanemi. Like, yeah, they’ve had their fair share of long talks over the phone, but never about personal struggles. She was far too prideful to want to admit she needed help, so why do so now? Sanemi sighed and nodded in acknowledgement, taking another drag off of his cigarette and running a hand through his hair.

“I getcha, it's hard to figure out your priorities, especially in a situation like yours. Hell, maybe it really was a blessing in disguise, considering the Kizuki would know what your car looks like. I’d have definitely ditched the car if it meant your safety.” He took another drag from his cigarette and looked at her. “But I guess you’re not really one to worry about things like that huh?” (Y/N) looked his way with a sneer.

“Really? You’re seriously asking me that? My bike is totaled, my car is gone, all of my shit is at the Kizuki hideout. I doubt Seis Lunas would give it back to me anyways, hell, he probably already burned most of my clothes and broke a lot of my valuables.” She shook her head and took another heavy drag from the blunt. “I don’t even think he wants to see me anyways.” Tears filled her eyes, but she was quick to blink them away. Though this didn’t escape Sanemi, seeing the tears in her eyes broke his own heart. He knew it was wrong, he shouldn’t feel something for her, but he couldn’t help it.

What’s more, (Y/N) feels something for him also, and it’s definitely not what she’s supposed to be feeling. It’s not contempt she feels, but pure and utter infatuation for someone who’s basically a stranger. They barely know each other, hell, they don’t even know the most basic information about one another. They don’t know each other's hopes, dreams, aspirations- not even what the other person’s favorite food is. Why the hell are they so hellbent on feeling this way? This isn’t supposed to be happening, this shouldn’t be happening. But (Y/N) knew that maybe it was just the overwhelming wave of emotions clouding her judgment; that it was simply the blunt she was smoking that was altering her state of mind. But weed doesn’t affect her like that, at least not when it comes to her self control; she's been smoking it for so long that she knows its just all in her head- at least it should all be in her head. Sanemi could smell the whiskey on her breath, the weed in her blunt, the pure and utter despair she was experiencing.

He had enough of this, enough of watching her suffer. Without even thinking, he put out his cigarette and took her hand, gently guiding her up into a standing position and to his car. What the hell was he doing, taking a stranger into his car and offering help when he knew she’d probably deny it in the first place? What about (Y/N) was so enticing to him that he just had to do this? “Your hands are freezing, what the hell are you doing out here without the proper clothes? This thin hoodie of yours isn’t going to keep you warm.” He spoke sternly as he took off his jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders, damning the consequences of his own actions in his mind. “At this rate, you’ll catch pneumonia if you’re not careful.”

“Then let me get sick.” (Y/N) spat, a defiant huff escaping her lungs as she sniffled from the bitter chill of the otherwise clear night. Her breath came out in the form of white mist, visible in the blue-violet glow of the street lamps. “Why do you care so much about me? You’re a stranger! Why do you want to help me when you know I’m bound to suffer anyway?” Once again, Sanemi’s heart shattered, feeling his heartstrings pull as he wrapped her up in his arms, trying his hardest to keep her warm. “S-stop, just… don’t, please.” Her pleas fell on deaf ears; gone were the worries of her refusing his help. Sanemi would make sure she was safe, no matter what it took. If the other Hashiras didn’t agree, or even if the Kizuki went after him, he didn’t care. “Sanemi enough!-”

“Stop. Stop talking, just shut up.” He looked her in the eyes, nothing but care and tenderness within his lilac gaze. “Do you not realize how fucked up your situation is, (Y/N)?” Sanemi spoke softly, wiping errant tears from her cold cheeks. Her skin felt like ice under his calloused, warm hands. “I met someone like you before, she… she meant the world to me, but…" He took a moment to himself, steeling his voice to not falter but ultimately deciding against telling (Y/N) what he had to say. "That's a story for another time. For now, let's just get your shit from the Kizuki. You’re not staying outside tonight, or any other night for that matter. Alright?” Her eyes narrowed, what the hell was he talking about?

“Who is this we? If you step foot near the Kizuki they’re going to kill you. I’ve seen it happen before, they don’t care who comes around, friend or not. If they don’t want you there, they’re going to hurt you.” Why was she even giving him this warning in the first place? It’s not like she cared about what happened to him or anything, he's a Hashira. She’s supposed to hate him, to want nothing to do with him, to loathe him with her entire being because she was supposed to want nothing to do with him. But his touch felt warm, so comforting and so warm that she couldn’t help but lean into his scarred hands that rested on the skin of her face. His gaze was kind and caring, making a foreign feeling swell in her heart and bubble in her gut.

It was never supposed to be this way.

Sanemi shook his head slowly, a soft sigh escaping him as he thought about the girl in front of him now, how she’s so eerily similar to the one he knew as Flora, at least, that's what her road name was. “Sanemi answer me!” (Y/N)’s voice brought him back to reality, his eyes narrowing as he regarded her. She’s stubborn, but so was he, and he was determined to help her regardless of whatever protest he gave.

“The “we” is us, (Y/N). I’m not letting you face your ex alone. Not after what he did to you.” Sanemi’s hands ran through her hair, his touch gentle, a far cry from his usually harsh demeanor. “You were put into the ICU for weeks, doll. Who’s to say Seis wouldn’t do it again? If anything, the backup from me should be enough, and if it’s not, you’ve got a whole slew of people ready to back you up at a moment's notice.” Doll… (Y/N)’s never been called that before. “I’ll be goddamned if something like that happens to you again. I… I can’t stand to see you like that again, or like the mess you are right now. So for the love of Christ, stop being so fucking stubborn and just let me help you.” He’s conflicted now, he’s not supposed to be pining over her like this, yet, here he is. Fawning over a woman he barely knows and she’s obviously not having it- or so he thinks.

“Sanemi, be honest with me, are you just looking for a fuck?” (Y/N) spoke softly, her gaze meeting his in an almost intimidating manner. Her vulnerability causes her to feel weak, and that's the last thing she wants right now. After all, being weak is what almost got her killed in the first place.

“You honestly think I’m that shallow?” Sanemi scoffed, sounding almost offended as he opened his passenger side door for her as it started to snow. Getting in on the driver's side, he slipped the key into the ignition and started the car. “But if you really need to know, no, I’m not looking for a fuck. That's the last thing I’d look for, especially in someone who’s in a situation like yours. You’re still recovering from your injuries, don’t act like I didn’t see you limping.” He put the car in drive and headed further into town, towards the area of the Kizuki hideout. (Y/N) felt her heart drop at the thought of it, knowing that she’d have to go in there and get her stuff, even if it was just the bare minimum of her clothes. She quickly hopped on the phone and made a call.

“Do you honestly think it’s a good idea to make a call?” Sanemi questioned, raising a curious eyebrow, but his eyes gave away concern. (Y/N) looked at him with a deadpan expression, a deep sigh escaping her as she rolled her eyes.

“Would you rather die? Because that’s what's gonna happen to the both of us if I don’t call ahead of time. It’s for both of our sakes.” She redirected her attention to the conversation on the phone. “Hey, you burn my shit or is it still in your room?.. Excuse me? Donated? I mean, did you at least keep my underwear and stuff?.. You’re fucking kidding me- alright, fine… yeah, yeah, whatever… don’t get smart with me, dipshit… hey, last time I checked, I wasn’t the one that swung first, and I certainly wasn’t the one that left a gash in my leg- shut your goddamn trap, Seis- you know what, fuck you.” Sanemi’s eyes widened at her harsh language, watching her not only hang up, but completely turn off her phone also startled him as well. He let out a low whistle, cringing at the mere thought of what was said on the other line, that is, until (Y/N) spoke up again. “Just take me to the next town over, I’ll manage.”

“No.” It was an immediate response from him, as if it were easy for him to say such a thing. As if (Y/N) meant something to him, and deep down, he knew it was just utterly and horribly wrong. “I can't let you go off the grid, not after what you said to the vice president of the Kizuki. If you're with the Hashira, it'll be like having bodyguards-” He was cut off yet again by her protests.

“I don't need bodyguards, Sanemi! I just need time! Time away from this godforsaken, dusty old town where there is nothing for me here!” Sanemi slammed his hand on the steering wheel, a frustrated groan ripping from his throat, pulling over on a deserted road and putting the car in park.

“Goddammit (Y/N) what the hell do you not get?! Going off the grid isn't doing you any favors! It's just a show of cowardice! That you're letting Seis, your fucking ex boyfriend win! If you go, he wins, you understand me?!” His voice raised, but never harsh, Sanemi tried his hardest to make his point known. There was a beat of silence as Sanemi collected himself. Clearing his throat with a sigh, he spoke up again. “I will not sit here and watch you destroy yourself. You know I had to pose as your boyfriend for the hospital to give me visitation rights? You know that I made sure you were getting the proper medicine in that hospital? You may not think I care but the reality is that I do! I won't just fucking stand by and watch you suffer alone!-” He was cut off yet again by one of (Y/N)’s frustrated groans.

“Just take me to wherever we're going then, since you won't give me a choice!” (Y/N) snapped, her arms crossed as defiant, solemn tears ran down her face. Her shivering form igniting a fire within Sanemi, making him swear a silent vow to himself.

He would keep her safe, no matter what.

Without another word, he started the car once more, and sped off to the hashira clubhouse. Blasting the speakers with rock and rap. Not a word exchanged as they drove fast and dangerous.

…

As she sleeps in Sanemi’s room, his eyes lock with Ouroboros’. “You… you actually brought her back?” The shorter man spoke incredulously, hitting his vape like it was the one thing keeping him grounded to reality. Sanemi sighed, his clothes snow-soaked and eyes tired. “Man, you're either insane, or you just lucked out.”

Sanemi scoffed, addressing his jet black haired companion by his government name. “She fell asleep in the car, Obanai. She was exhausted, god knows the last time she even slept properly.” A sigh escaped the silverette, tired and anxious, he took a hit from his own vape. “I don't even know when the last time she ate was. I mean, look at her, she's practically skin and bones.”

“Skin and bones is an exaggeration, Sanemi. She's not emaciated, she's just underweight. I'll see if we have anything, but try to fill her up with fluids for now.” Obanai deadpanned, earning himself a glare from his lilac eyed friend.

“Fluids? Really? You say that like it'll do anything beneficial for her." Sanemi deadpanned, crossing his arms as he looked at (Y/N)'s sleeping face, which was partially covered by the sheets. "We'll start her off small, see where it goes. If anything we can always have Mariposa or Hinasturu make sure she's okay.” Sanemi suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose while Obanai snorted with contempt.

“Does she even have the basics? Clothes? A place of her own? Hell, does she even have a job?” The ravenette looked at (Y/N) with a scrutinizing, appraising stare, hitting his vape once more as Sanemi shot him another cold glare.

“She's working on it, dude, don't push it so hard. The more you do the more pissed off she's gonna get.” The silverette whispered to his companion. Of course she was working on it, or at least, he hoped she was working on it.

“And how do you know that? She could've lied straight to your face. Also, she's asleep, she's not going to hear us-” Obanai was cut off by a female voice, one that resounded from behind them, not from the bed where (Y/N) laid asleep.

“Can a girl get any sleep around here without having to listen to yalls bitching and arguing?” They looked behind them, finding a pink and green haired, pale skinned, green eyed girl. She looked like she had just woken up- and was clearly irritated. “It's two in the morning, get some goddamn sleep. And you,” she pointed to Obanai, “why are you still awake? I thought you said you'd come to bed an hour ago?” Her voice turned soft, and so did Obanai's gaze. The ravenette wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I'll be in bed soon, love, just go back to sleep. I'll be there in a moment, okay?” His whispers soothed the pinkette, who nodded softly and went back to her own room with tentative, quiet steps. Sanemi scoffed with a smirk, taking another hit from his vape.

“You might wanna do that now before your wife gets pissed again.” Obanai casted him a sharp look, heterochromic eyes meeting Sanemi’s lilac ones.

“Mitsuri is not my wife.” Obanai spat.

“Well, you guys certainly act like a married couple, just saying.” Sanemi snickered, earning a groan from the jet black haired man. “But anyways, go sleep with Mitsuri. I got this from here.” With that, Obanai simply nodded and walked back to his own room to be with his lover. Sanemi looked at (Y/N), who was still sleeping, walking over to her and laying next to her. “I… I hope you're okay.” He whispered softly, memories of the former flower Hashira enraptured his mind, flooding his heart with waves of melancholy and bitterness.

But this time it would be different, this time it would be-

“H-hah…” the soft gasp cuts through the air like a cleaver. Sanemi hoped it came from the other room where Obanai and Mitsuri resided. Or maybe that insufferable long haired ravenette's room- Giyuu's room, where he stayed with Shinobu- road name being Mariposa. “Ah…!” Yeah, nope, that's coming from his room. Right where the wounded woman laid in his bed asleep, the slight shuffling of her body under the covers indicated some sort of dream. Whether it was a nightmare or otherwise, Sanemi couldn't tell. However, (Y/N)’s blissed out expression gave evidence to all signs pointing to anything but a nightmare.

He knew better than to disturb her, taking the cold, carpeted floor where concrete resided underneath. Using a bunched up hoodie as a pillow, he knew he had to get some sleep. Yet all he heard was the sounds of her voice; breathless and wanton as she gave into the bidding of her dreams. Her gasps and moans, hitched and hushed, as she gave into the pleasure of her subconscious mind. He knew it was dirty, he knew it was wrong to just sit there and watch her please herself; yet despite himself, his reservations, he couldn't help but to sit and listen.

Soon enough, the cold hard floor of the room proved to be useless in aiding Sanemi's battle against insomnia. Although it was against his better judgment, he gently scooped (Y/N)’s body up, and laid beside her in bed. Gently pulling the sheets over the both of them, he allows the siren call of sleep to consume him.

...

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Tag list: @giyuuzas @peachdues @bnuuybee-writes @mitsuristoleme

#demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x y/n #demon slayer x you #sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #sanemi x you #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #kny #kny sanemi #kny x reader #sanemi shinaguzawa #demon slayer sanemi #sanemi x y/n #abbys Ride or Die

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luckyroll3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blank Canvas

My Masterlist

Summary: When Hyunjin returns late from a business trip, he finds you painting alone in the backyard cottage-turned-art studio. Drawn back to his long-neglected passion, he asks to paint you. In the quiet of the studio, under his careful touch, you become his masterpiece.

Artist Hyunjin x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 10,436

A/N: First of my two Hyunjin birthday fics. This is the cute one. (The dirty one can be found here. 😉 ) Enjoy!

Hyunjin stood motionless in the darkness, his breath forming delicate clouds in the cool night air. The backyard cottage was a beacon in the gloom, its windows spilling warm light onto the dewy grass. He hadn't expected to find you awake at this hour, nearly 2:30 am, least of all in the small cottage. But there you were—hunched over a canvas, paintbrush in hand, completely unaware of his return or his eyes now fixed on your silhouette through the foggy glass.

He hadn't planned to come out here. The flight had been brutal—six hours of recycled air and a screaming child two rows behind. His suit, once crisp this morning, now clung to him like a second skin he desperately wanted to shed. But after setting his luggage in the entryway, thirst drove him to the kitchen. The refrigerator hummed, a comforting constant in the quiet house. Hyunjin opened the cabinet, selecting a glass with careful consideration—not the delicate wine glasses you preferred, nor the sturdy mugs reserved for morning coffee, but the tall, plain tumblers that served no purpose but utility. He filled it with tap water, the stream hitting glass with percussive clarity.

As he drank, his eyes drifted to the window above the sink—a dark rectangle framing the backyard. He nearly missed it at first: a faint golden glow emanating from the small cottage at the property's edge. The studio. The water caught in his throat, and he set the glass down with a sharp clink against the counter.

You were awake. Not waiting for him, perhaps, but awake nonetheless.

Hyunjin moved closer to the window, pulse quickening despite his exhaustion. The cottage sat twenty yards from the main house, a converted garden shed that they'd transformed into an artist's haven three summers ago. It had been his idea originally. Back then, they had painted side by side, his bold, architectural strokes complementing your more intuitive approach. The memory of those early days stung, a paper cut across his consciousness.

The cottage’s wooden siding had weathered to a soft gray, and climbing ivy traced patterns across the western wall. Tonight, with midnight pressing down and stars scattered above, it looked almost magical—a secret world apart from the corporate presentations and balance sheets that had consumed his last two weeks.

When had he last set foot in that space? Eight months ago? Longer? His finance job had started as temporary, a practical measure while his art found its footing. Then came the promotion, the raise, the title that impressed his parents back in Korea. With each step up the corporate ladder, the trips to the studio had become less frequent—first weekly, then monthly, then rare enough to feel like special occasions. Now, he couldn't remember the last time he'd held a brush.

But you kept going. The light in the studio window confirmed it. While his creativity had been channeled into Excel spreadsheets, data visualizations, and PowerPoint presentations, yours had continued flowing onto canvas. He felt a twinge of something complicated—pride tangled with envy, admiration braided with regret.

What were you painting at this hour? Something new or a work in progress? Hyunjin leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his water and considering. You'd mentioned a gallery submission deadline during your last video call, a rushed conversation caught between his meetings and your errands. Was that what kept you working past midnight? Or was it simply that creativity respected no clock, arriving unbidden and demanding attention regardless of the hour?

Hyunjin longed for bed. His body screamed for horizontal surfaces, for darkness, for the oblivion of sleep. The presentation had gone well, the clients impressed, but the victory had cost him. The six hour flight had hallowed him out, leaving nothing but a shell of professionalism and practiced charm. Tomorrow would bring emails to answer, follow-ups to send, the machinery of corporate life grinding back into motion.

Yet the light pulled at him, a magnetic force stronger than exhaustion.

Hyunjin set his glass in the sink. His reflection caught in the window—tie askew, hair ruffled from running frustrated hands through it during the flight delay, dark circles shadowing his eyes. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who'd spent too long away from home, chasing something that kept moving just beyond reach.

The decision formed without conscious thought. He would go to the studio. See you. Remember whatever it was he'd been seeking in those endless meetings and flights.

But first, he needed to shed the trappings of Hyunjin Hwang, Finance Manager. The tie came off completely, stuffed unceremoniously into his pocket. He unbuttoned his collar, rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. His fingers worked mechanically, muscle memory from years of transforming from office-appropriate to something approximating his true self.

His hands—once calloused from charcoal and wooden brush handles—were smooth now, manicured by the company's recommended grooming service. They seemed foreign to him suddenly, as if they belonged to someone else. He flexed them, watching tendons shift beneath the skin, wondering if they still remembered how to create rather than merely approve and authorize.

The mirror in the hallway caught him as he passed—this half-transformed version of himself, not quite the suited professional nor the artist he'd once been. The in-between state felt strangely honest. Wasn't that precisely where he existed these days? Between worlds, between identities, between what he did and what he loved?

Hyunjin paused at the back door, hand resting on the knob. What exactly did he hope to find by interrupting your late night session? Connection? Inspiration? The version of himself he'd carefully packed away with his art supplies? Or simply you—the person who, despite his frequent absences, still made this house feel like a place worth returning to?

The knob turned under his palm, cool metal warming to his touch. The night air rushed to meet him, carrying the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine from the garden beds. Above, stars punctured the darkness, distant and cold. The path to the studio lay before him—twelve stepping stones set into the lawn, winding between garden beds you'd planted and nurtured even as he'd been drawn away.

As Hyunjin approached, he slowed his steps, not wanting to announce his presence just yet. Hyunjin paused on the wooden porch of the studio, his breath visible in the cool night air. Through the fogged glass, your silhouette moved with the fluid grace of someone lost in creation—each gesture deliberate, each pause weighted with consideration.

Your back was to him, spine curved in that familiar way it always did when you were lost in creation. A single lamp cast your shadow long against the far wall, stretching and distorting it until it seemed to dance with each movement of your arm. Your hair was piled haphazardly atop your head, secured with what appeared to be a paintbrush jabbed through the knot, loose strands escaping to frame your face in a way that made Hyunjin's fingers itch to tuck them behind your ear.

He recognized the robe you wore—a simple silk black robe with pink cherry blossoms, now splattered with evidence of late night inspiration. It hung off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your neck, the spot where he'd pressed his lips countless times before. The sight sent a pulse of longing through him, sharp and unexpected after the days apart.

On the easel before you stood a half-finished canvas. From his angle, Hyunjin could make out bold strokes of crimson and indigo, swirling together in a pattern he couldn't quite decipher from outside. Whatever you were creating, it had consumed you entirely. Your hand moved with a surety that captivated him, each stroke adding to a whole he couldn't yet decipher but could feel resonating even through glass and distance. Several other canvases leaned against the walls—some blank, some bearing the skeletal beginnings of works in progress. The floor around you was a controlled chaos: tubes of paint squeezed to submission, jars of murky water, rags stained with every color imaginable.

Every surface held evidence of creative process: brushes soaking in murky jars, rags stiffened with dried paint, tubes squeezed from the middle (a habit that once drove him to distraction), reference photos pinned to a corkboard, sketchbooks open to various studies of the same subject. A half-empty wine glass balanced precariously on a stack of art books. A small speaker played something low and rhythmic—jazz, he thought, though he couldn't place the artist.

This was what a working studio should look like. Not the sterile corner desk where his sketchbook now collected dust, but a living, breathing space where mistakes were welcomed as part of the process. The realization tightened something in his chest, an ache both sweet and sharp.

It had been nearly a year since he'd stepped foot in this space. A year since he'd smelled the particular cocktail of linseed oil, turpentine, and possibility that now wafted through the cracked window. The scent hit him with the force of memory—of his own hands covered in paint, of creation without deadlines, of art made purely for the sake of expression.

Hyunjin's hands twitched at his sides. They were clean now, nails trimmed and cuticles pushed back—hands made presentable for shaking across boardroom tables. But they remembered. They remembered the texture of canvas, the weight of a brush, the satisfaction of color bleeding exactly where it was directed. His career had taken him away from all this, and though he never spoke of it, there were moments—like now—when the absence ached inside him like a phantom limb.

He watched as you leaned back, tilting your head to assess your work. There was something so intimate about witnessing this moment, this private communion between artist and creation. Hyunjin felt both voyeur and privileged observer. You brought the brush to your lips, teeth grazing the wooden handle in thought—an unconscious habit he'd always found inexplicably erotic.

The night was still except for the occasional rustle of leaves. Through the single-pane glass, he could hear the soft scratch of bristles against canvas, the gentle tap when you'd dip your brush into water, the barely audible hum that escaped your throat when you were pleased with a particular stroke. These small sounds wound around him, drawing him closer until his forehead nearly touched the cool glass.

How long had it been since he'd really looked at you? Not the quick glances between morning coffee and briefcase-gathering, not the sleepy half-light observations before dreams claimed you both. Really looked, with the attention an artist gives a subject, noting the subtle shifts, the evolution of form and expression. You'd changed in ways he couldn't quite name—there was a confidence in the set of your shoulders that seemed new, a decisiveness in each brushstroke that spoke of practice in his absence.

Guilt pressed against his ribcage. While he'd been climbing corporate ladders, you'd been building worlds on canvas. He'd told himself the distance was temporary, that the long hours and frequent travel would eventually taper. Yet watching you now, absorbed in creation, Hyunjin wondered what else he'd missed in the margins of your shared life.

His body responded to the sight of you before his mind could catch up—pulse quickening, breath deepening. It wasn't just physical desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was something more complex: admiration tangled with longing tangled with a hunger to be part of this moment, to bridge the space that had grown between you, measured not just in miles but in unshared experiences.

You stretched, arching your back, and the short robe rode higher on your thighs. Hyunjin swallowed hard. From this angle, he could see the curve of your ass peeking from beneath the fabric, the long line of your legs ending in bare feet stained with flecks of paint. The casual intimacy of your unguarded moments had always undone him, and tonight was no exception. Heat pooled low in his belly, and he shifted his weight, suddenly aware of how tight his slacks had become.

Inside, you dipped your brush into a puddle of cerulean blue, adding it to the canvas with careful precision. Whatever you were creating, it held you completely—your focus absolute, your movements measured. Hyunjin remembered that feeling, the outside world falling away until nothing existed but color and texture and the translation of emotion into visible form.

He'd been good once. Before finance consumed his days, before spreadsheets replaced sketchbooks. His professors had spoken of potential, of vision. He'd believed them, right until the moment reality—with its bills and expectations—had intervened. The practical path had seemed sensible then. Standing here now, watching you immersed in the very passion he'd set aside, he wondered if sensible had been the right choice after all.

A car passed on the distant street, its headlights briefly illuminating Hyunjin's face against the window. He stepped back, suddenly conscious of his positioning—the weary traveler, the absent lover, lurking in shadows rather than announcing his return. He could walk away, slip back to the house, pretend he'd never seen this midnight session. You'd find him in bed in the morning, and he'd act surprised to hear you'd been up painting.

But the thought of returning to the empty house, to the cold sheets and silence, held no appeal. And there was something compelling about this moment, something that felt like an opportunity. To reconnect, yes, but also perhaps to reclaim a part of himself he'd neatly boxed away.

The night air cut through his thin shirt, and the weight of two weeks' absence pressed against him. He needed more than to observe you through glass—needed warmth and touch and the sound of your voice saying his name.

He made his decision, moving away from the window toward the cottage door. Each step felt weighted with intention, with the anticipation of crossing more than just the physical distance between you.

He tipped the door handle downward silently. Years ago, he'd oiled the hinges himself, wanting to preserve the possibility of slipping in to work without waking you on early mornings. That thoughtfulness served him now as the door opened without betraying his presence. The studio's atmosphere enveloped him immediately—warmer air heavy with the astringent bite of turpentine, the earthy scent of oil paints, the underlying sweetness of linseed oil. He inhaled deeply, the familiar cocktail hitting him like memory made physical.

One step inside, then another. The wooden floor creaked beneath his weight despite his care—these old boards had always been loyal to the cottage's history, refusing to surrender their voice even after renovation. Your shoulders tensed slightly at the sound, but you didn't turn, perhaps assuming it was merely the building settling in the night's cooling air.

Hyunjin closed the door behind him, sealing them both within this cocoon of creativity and lamplight. The music—definitely jazz now that he could hear it clearly, saxophone winding through piano notes—filled the small space, creating an intimacy that wrapped around you both. He stood still, watching the slight movements of your body as you worked, the twist of your wrist as you added another stroke of cobalt to the canvas.

"Your technique's improved," he said finally, his voice lower than intended, roughened by travel and emotion.

You froze, brush suspended mid-stroke. For three heartbeats, neither of you moved—a perfect tableau of interruption, of worlds colliding after separation. Then you turned, eyes widening as they found him standing just inside the door, hands in his pockets, exhaustion and desire warring across his features.

"Jinnie," you breathed, his nickname in your mouth sounding like salvation. "You're early. I thought tomorrow—"

"Caught an earlier flight." Hyunjin shrugged, a gesture that deliberately understated the four thousand miles and the corporate favor he'd called in to make it happen. "Didn't want to text in case you were asleep."

Your smile bloomed slowly, starting in your eyes before reaching your lips—the genuine article, not the polite version he sometimes received on video calls when he announced another delayed return. The brush remained forgotten in your hand, dripping blue onto the drop cloth below.

"You look..." Your eyes traced his disheveled appearance, the loosened collar, the rumpled pants.

"Like shit?" he offered with a half-smile.

"Like someone I've missed," you corrected, setting the brush down at last.

Three steps brought him to you—close enough to see the flecks of paint speckling your cheeks like wayward freckles, to catch the mingled scents of your shampoo and sweat beneath the stronger studio smells. His hands hovered for a moment, suddenly uncertain despite the thousands of times they'd touched you before. Two weeks shouldn't create such hesitation, yet here it was—the momentary awkwardness of bodies relearning proximity.

You solved it by stepping into him, arms sliding around his waist, face pressing into his chest. Hyunjin's body responded before his mind could process, arms enfolding you, nose burying itself in your hair. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing as the scent of you—the real you, not the memory he conjured on lonely hotel nights with his hands down his pants—filled his senses.

"Welcome home," you murmured against his shirt, the vibration of your voice traveling through cotton to skin to something deeper.

His hands moved up your back, one continuing to cradle your head while the other traced the knobs of your spine through the thin fabric of the robe. The contact grounded him, hauling him firmly back from the corporate world into this reality—one where he existed as more than revenue projections and market analyses.

"I should have called," he said against your hair. "But I wanted—" To surprise you. To see you unguarded. To remember who we are when no one's watching. He settled for: "—to come straight here."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his face as if reacquainting yourself with its geography. Hyunjin recognized the artist's gaze—the same careful observation he once gave subjects before committing them to paper. He wondered what changes you noted, what new lines time and distance had carved into him.

His hands found your face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones, fingers threading into the hair at your temples. You remained still under his touch, allowing this reintroduction of skin to skin. When he leaned down to press his lips against your forehead, he felt something inside him unclench—a tightness he hadn't recognized until it released.

The kiss lingered, his lips absorbing the warmth of your skin, tasting the salt of concentration. This close, the scents intensified—linseed oil and turpentine from your work, but beneath that, the familiar notes that had become synonymous with home in his mind. He pulled back reluctantly, hands still framing your face.

"I'm interrupting," he said, glancing toward the canvas.

You shook your head, leaning into his palm like a cat seeking pressure. "Nothing that can't wait."

"Show me?" Hyunjin nodded toward the painting, genuine curiosity mingling with the desire to reconnect through the medium that had first drawn them together.

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining with practiced ease as you pulled him toward the easel. The gesture, so simple, nearly undid him—the casual certainty of your touch, the assumption of connection despite absence. His throat tightened unexpectedly.

"It's still rough," you warned, the artist's perpetual caveat. "The gallery submission isn't for another three weeks, so I've been experimenting with—"

"Is that—" he began, not quite able to finish the question. Hyunjin's words died as he took in the canvas properly. The swirls of color he'd glimpsed through the window resolved into something more defined—a figure emerging from chaotic elements, body half-formed but unmistakably human. The face remained indistinct, yet something in the set of the shoulders, the angle of the jaw, struck him with recognition.

Your fingers tightened around his. "You. Or how I remember you, anyway. It's been a while since I had you in front of me to reference."

The admission hung between them, simple words carrying complex weight. He'd been physically absent, yes, but the fact that you'd continued to create him—to remember him—in paint struck deeper than he expected. While he'd been subsuming himself in spreadsheets, you'd been preserving him in pigment and oil.

"I've been working from old sketches," you continued, gesturing toward the open notebooks scattered nearby. "And memory, obviously. But memory's tricky. I keep second-guessing details."

Hyunjin studied the painting more carefully now. The figure—himself—emerged from darkness into light, body seemingly in the process of either materializing or dissolving. The boundaries between form and background blurred deliberately, creating tension between presence and absence. Looking at it felt like watching himself disappear in slow motion.

"It's beautiful," he said, meaning it. "And terrifying."

Your laugh was soft, without judgment. "That's the point, I think. I've been calling it ‘Intermittent Presence’."

The title hit with surgical precision, lancing something tender he'd carefully avoided examining. How often had he become exactly that—intermittently present, cycling between immersion and absence, both in his relationship with you and with his own creativity?

"I've been gone too much," he said, the admission feeling inadequate even as it left his lips.

Your hand squeezed his. "You're here now."

The studio seemed suddenly too small to contain the implications of that exchange—too warm, too intimate. The painting watched them with its half-formed eyes, a visual representation of all they weren't saying. Hyunjin turned away from it to face you directly, needing flesh and blood rather than oil and canvas.

"I am," he agreed, hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. "And jet-lagged as hell, but still wanting to make up for lost time."

Your smile turned knowing, the slightest quirk of lips that had always signaled the shift from conversation to something more primal. "How much time are we talking about making up for, exactly?"

Hyunjin's thumb traced your lower lip, feeling it give slightly beneath the pressure. "Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours, give or take."

"Ambitious," you murmured, lips moving against his thumb.

"I've always risen to challenges," he replied, voice dropping to match yours.

The lamplight caught in your eyes as you looked up at him, turning them to liquid amber. Hyunjin felt the last threads of his corporate self fall away, replaced by something more honest—the man who had once painted beside you until dawn, who knew the exact pressure needed to leave marks on your skin that would last until morning, who had promised presence and delivered absence for too long.

"I've missed you," he said simply, the words inadequate containers for all they needed to hold.

Your response was to rise on tiptoes, bringing your face level with his. Hyunjin felt your breath first, then the warm press of lips against his own—a wordless answer that spoke volumes about forgiveness and desire and the thin space between longing and having.

“I missed you too,” you said as you pulled away, your eyes remaining locked on his until you sat back down and turned to the canvas. Hyunjin wrapped an arm around your chest as you both silently assessed the incomplete painting.

Hyunjin's fingers hovered near the canvas, not quite touching the still-wet surface but close enough to feel the texture of the brushstrokes disturbing the air between skin and paint. His hand trembled slightly—not from the six-hour flight or the accumulated fatigue, but from something deeper, a hunger he'd suppressed for too long. The scent of linseed oil filled his lungs, familiar yet foreign, like returning to a childhood home to find the furniture rearranged.

"I miss painting," he murmured, the confession emerging unprompted, startling in its rawness.

You stepped back slightly, giving him space with the canvas, watching his face with careful attention. The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but weighted, as if his words had materialized in the air, tangible objects requiring navigation.

"How long has it been?" you asked finally, voice gentle.

Hyunjin's laugh lacked humor. "Too long." His hand dropped away from the canvas, falling to his side like something defeated. "Ten months, maybe? Eleven? The Tokyo project took over everything, and then Singapore, and then—" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the endless chain of priorities that had consumed his days.

"You still have supplies here," you offered. "Nothing's been moved."

The statement held no accusation, yet Hyunjin felt its weight nonetheless. His corner of the studio remained intact—easel dust-covered but standing, palette dried with the last colors he'd mixed, brushes cleaned and waiting in their jar. A shrine to creative abandonment.

"Sometimes I come in and look at your last piece," you continued. You stood and moved toward the far wall where a half-finished canvas leaned, covered with a cloth. "To remember what it felt like, working beside you."

Hyunjin followed, something tight lodging in his throat as you pulled the cloth away. The painting underneath emerged—a study of light through trees, dappled shadows across a path. He remembered the day clearly: early spring, the park near their house, you sprawled on a blanket reading while he attempted to capture the interplay of sunlight and new leaves. He'd never finished it, called away by an "urgent" client request that now, months later, seemed trivial in comparison to the abandoned work.

"It's not very good," he said automatically, the corporate habit of self-deprecation slipping out before he could catch it.

Your eyes found his, sharp with sudden challenge. "Bullshit. It's beautiful, even unfinished."

The directness caught him off-guard—you, who usually navigated his moods with careful diplomacy. The surprise must have shown on his face because your expression softened, hand reaching for his.

"You were good, Jin. Really good. Not just technically, but because you saw things—really saw them—and then made others see them too. What happened?"

He looked away, uncomfortable with the praise yet starving for it. The corporate world ran on different validation—quarterly results, client satisfaction metrics, promotion cycles. No one there cared if he could capture the exact quality of morning light through maple leaves, or the particular vulnerability of a lover's face in sleep.

"The job happened," he said finally. "Practical concerns. Bills. Your student loans. My parents' expectations." Each reason sounded hollower than the last, excuses rather than explanations.

"I understand why," you said, squeezing his hand. "I've never blamed you for choosing stability. But that doesn't mean you can't have both."

Hyunjin looked around the studio—at your works in progress, at the evidence of consistent creative practice, at the space you'd maintained for both of you despite his absence from it. While he'd been climbing corporate ladders, you'd been building a body of work, making time for creation despite the same practical concerns that had derailed him.

Something ignited in Hyunjin then—a spark of inspiration so sudden and intense it felt like electricity coursing through his veins. He turned to face you fully, his dark eyes widening as if seeing you for the first time. In the dim light of the studio, with paint-splattered floorboards beneath their feet and the weight of absence between them, he recognized what had been missing from his life.

"I want to paint," he said, the words tumbling out like a confession.

Hyunjin took three deliberate steps forward, closing the gap between the two of you. He towered slightly over you, his lean frame, graceful even after months of corporate posturing and airport lounges.

"Will you be my muse?" he asked in a low, resonant voice that seemed to vibrate in the stillness of the studio. His words hung in the air like mist, charged with unspoken intention.

He watched the minute shifts in your expression—surprise, curiosity, and something deeper that made his pulse quicken. Your hesitation was brief but palpable, a moment suspended between you like a held breath.

Then, a nod. Tentative but unmistakable.

"Yes," you whispered, the single syllable barely audible yet somehow filling the entire room.

Hyunjin's hands, those elegant instruments that had once created worlds on canvas, reached for the sash of the silk robe. His movements were unhurried, deliberate—the actions of a man who understood the value of anticipation. The knot came undone with surprising ease, the ends of the sash slipping through his fingers like water.

He watched your chest rise and fall with quickened breath as he parted the robe with exquisite slowness. The silk slid over your shoulders with a soft sound that reminded him of rainfall on window panes. He didn't rush, allowing the fabric to reveal your body inch by inch, savoring each new expanse of skin like a connoisseur presented with a rare vintage.

The robe pooled around your feet, a puddle of shiny black against the dark wooden floor. Hyunjin's gaze traveled over your nakedness with the practiced eye of an artist—noting the play of shadow and light across collarbones, the gentle curve of hips, the vulnerability of exposed skin in the cool studio air.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and meant it in a way that transcended the physical. He saw beneath the surface to the essence that had haunted his dreams in sterile hotel rooms across three continents.

Taking your hand in his, he guided you toward the aged leather couch in the corner. Years of use had softened the leather to a buttery texture, the surface marred with tiny specks of paint and the occasional joint burn from late-night sessions of creation and conversation.

A rumpled throw blanket lay bunched at one end—evidence of afternoon naps or moments of inspiration that couldn't wait for proper preparations. Hyunjin smoothed it out with one hand, his other still maintaining contact with you, unwilling to break the connection now that it had been reestablished.

"Here," he said, gesturing to the couch. "Lie down."

You complied, easing onto the leather with a grace that made Hyunjin's throat constrict. He adjusted your position with careful hands, arranging limbs and angles like a sculptor working with living clay. His fingertips trailed along the soft skin of your arm, down the curve of your back, each touch lingering just long enough to suggest intentions beyond the artistic.

"Like this," he murmured, tilting your chin slightly to catch the light from the old floor lamp he'd flicked on. Your eyes met his, and in them he saw questions he wasn't ready to answer—not with words, at least.

Hyunjin stepped back to assess the composition, his head tilted slightly as he committed the image to memory. You were perfectly framed against the dark leather, vulnerability and strength coexisting in the lines of your body. His fingers itched for his brushes, for the chance to translate what he saw into something permanent.

He moved to a side cabinet, collecting a small wooden box containing his finest brushes—sable-hair with polished handles worn smooth from years of use. Next came tubes of oil paint, their labels faded but still legible: Prussian Blue, Burnt Sienna, Cadmium Red.

He set the supplies down on the tray next to his easel, then turned back to you.

Hyunjin's eyes narrowed as he studied the human landscape before him—valleys and plains of skin waiting to be transformed. The conventional canvas suddenly seemed too removed, too impersonal for what he needed to express. Three months of corporate sterility had left him hungry for connection, for the visceral immediacy of creation without barriers. His gaze lingered on the gentle rise and fall of your chest, and he made his decision.

The easel stood in the corner, patient and expectant, but Hyunjin deliberately turned away from it. He'd spent too many years with that mediator between himself and his art. Tonight demanded something different—something that couldn't be framed or hung on a gallery wall.

"What are you thinking?" you asked, shifting slightly on the leather couch. Your voice carried a note of vulnerability that made Hyunjin's throat tighten.

"I'm thinking," he replied, moving toward the storage cabinet where he kept his most precious materials, "that some things are too important for representation." His long fingers danced across the cabinet shelves, selecting items with the precision of a surgeon prepping for a delicate procedure.

He retrieved a set of small brushes—smaller than the ones he'd initially brought out. These were his detail brushes, with tips fine enough to render eyelashes on a portrait or the veins on an autumn leaf. Next came a wooden palette, worn smooth in the center from years of mixing colors. Finally, he selected several tubes of oil paint, examining each label with careful consideration.

He moved back to the couch with deliberate slowness, bypassing the easel entirely. He set the supplies on a small, trusted table that had accompanied him through three studios and countless creative breakthroughs. The surface was a testament to his artistic journey—stained with concentric rings of dried paint, each layer a memory of past work.

He walked back to the tray to retrieve his initial supplies, then kneeled beside the small table. Hyunjin arranged everything within easy reach. Each item had its precise place in his creative ritual—brushes aligned by size, paint tubes ordered by color family, palette positioned at the exact angle that felt right to his hand.

You watched him from the couch, curiosity evident in the slight furrow between your brows. Hyunjin could read the questions forming there—you knew his process, knew that something had deviated from the expected path.

"You've set up differently," you observed, eyes tracking his movements with increasing interest. "No canvas?"

Hyunjin lifted his gaze to meet theirs. The distance that had grown between them over months of separation seemed to crystallize in that moment—a tangible thing that could be mapped and measured like the space between stars. He needed to collapse that distance, to restore what had been lost in the vacuum of his absence.

"Tonight," he said, his voice dropping to a timbre that resonated in the quiet studio, "you are my canvas."

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Hyunjin watched as understanding bloomed across your features—surprise followed swiftly by intrigue, then a spark of something more primal that made heat pool in his abdomen.

"You want to paint... on me?" You shifted slightly, the leather creaking beneath you. Your pupils dilated visibly, even in the studio's gentle lighting.

"Yes," Hyunjin confirmed, reaching out to trace a finger along the curve of your collarbone. "Here. And here." His touch trailed down your sternum, across the plane of your stomach. "And here." Each point of contact left goosebumps in its wake, a physical manifestation of the charge building between them.

Your breath caught audibly. "You've never done that before."

"I've never needed to before." The admission cost him something—an acknowledgment of the distance that had grown like a silent, insidious weed between the two of you. "Canvas can't hold what I need to express tonight."

Your laugh was soft but genuine, a sound he'd missed more than he'd allowed himself to acknowledge during long nights in foreign hotel rooms. "That's either incredibly romantic or a very elaborate line, Jin."

The nickname—intimate, familiar—struck him like a physical touch. Hyunjin's lips curved upward. "Maybe both." He unscrewed the cap from a tube of paint, squeezing a small amount onto his palette. The deep blue was almost black in the studio's subdued lighting. "Trust me?"

Their eyes met his, steady and unwavering. "Always."

The word carried weight, an implicit forgiveness for his absence that Hyunjin wasn't certain he deserved. He focused on mixing the paint rather than examining that feeling too closely, adding a drop of linseed oil to achieve the perfect consistency. The familiar scent rose in the air, earthy and distinctive.

"The paint will be cool," he warned as he continued to mix slowly. "And it might tickle."

"I think I can handle it." There was a teasing quality to your tone that sparked something in Hyunjin's chest—a reminder of the easy banter that had been part of your foundation.

"Comfortable?" he asked, arranging his brushes with meticulous precision.

You nodded, skin goosefleshing slightly in the cool air of the studio. Hyunjin noticed and walked to the thermostat, adjusting it upward without comment. These were the small considerations that had once been second nature to him, before conference calls and deadlines had dulled his awareness of others' needs.

As he returned to his supplies, Hyunjin felt something shift within him—a realignment, as if pieces that had been jarred loose by months of separation were finally settling back into place. The fluorescent lights of corporate boardrooms faded from memory, replaced by the warm glow of his studio lamps and the sight of you waiting for him, bare and trusting.

Hyunjin pulled a stool close to the couch, positioning himself within arm's reach of his subject. His eyes locked with yours as he settled onto the worn wooden seat. No words were necessary now—you had moved beyond language to something more primal, a communication of intent through gesture and gaze.

His hand hovered over his collection of brushes, selecting one with particular care, a fine sable with bristles tapering to a precise point. The brush was an extension of himself, a bridge between vision and reality. Tonight, it would connect him to the person who had remained constant in his thoughts, even when time zones and obligations had conspired to separate you.

He dipped the brush into the mixed paint, watching as the bristles soaked up the color. Blue had always been his starting point—the color of depth and distance, of oceans and night skies. It seemed appropriate for this beginning, this attempt to bridge the chasm that had formed between you.

The outside world—with its deadlines and expectations—receded further with each passing moment. Here, in this sanctuary of creation, there was only Hyunjin, you — his muse — and the promise of reconnection through art. His shoulders relaxed as he leaned forward, brush in hand, ready to begin the intimate dance of artist and subject.

As he poised the brush above your skin, Hyunjin found himself hesitating. The moment felt weighted with significance beyond the act itself. This wasn't merely art; it was communion.

"What's wrong?" you asked, picking up on his hesitation with the intuition that had always unsettled and delighted him in equal measure.

"Nothing," he replied, shaking his head slightly. "Just... taking it in." His free hand came up to stroke your cheek, a brief touch that communicated more than words could manage. "You're beautiful."

You smiled, a crooked little thing that hit him like a physical pain. "You're stalling, bro."

Hyunjin chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet studio. "Maybe I'm savoring the blank canvas." His eyes traveled over your body with renewed purpose. "Where to begin—that's always the question, isn't it?"

He settled on the right collarbone, where the bone created a natural line to follow. The brush hovered for a moment above the skin, then descended. The first touch of bristles to flesh was electric—a connection completed. Your sharp intake of breath mirrored his own sensation of falling into something vast and significant.

"Cold?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"No," you replied. "It just feels... more intimate than I expected."

Hyunjin nodded, understanding perfectly. There was an intimacy to this that transcended even their most private moments together. He was marking you, transforming you—creating something ephemeral yet profound on the most personal canvas imaginable.

He worked in silence for several minutes, applying delicate strokes of blue along the ridge of bone. Each movement of the brush was deliberate, measured, an extension of his intent. The paint glistened wetly on your skin, catching the light like dewdrops on morning petals.

From his position, Hyunjin could see the pulse jumping in your throat, the subtle shifts in your breathing as the brush moved across sensitive areas. your responses fed into his own growing arousal—a feedback loop of creation and desire.

"What are you painting?" you asked, voice slightly breathless.

Hyunjin considered the question. He had no planned image, no sketch to follow. This was intuitive, responsive—a conversation between artist and medium.

"A journey," he finally answered, rinsing his brush before selecting a crimson red. "Our journey."

He added red to his palette, mixing it with a touch of white to create a deep rose. Then he applied it in flowing lines that intersected with the blue, creating paths that met and diverged like rivers on a map.

"These are the times we've come together," he explained, drawing a line that crossed over a streak of blue. "And these—" he added parallel lines that never quite touched the blue "—are the times we've existed separately. Even when apart, we're still part of the same composition."

Your eyes glistened slightly at that, though they blinked rapidly to dispel the emotion. "That's a pretty way of saying you've been absent for months."

The statement wasn't accusatory, merely factual, but Hyunjin felt its truth like a blade between his ribs. His hand stilled momentarily.

"Yes," he acknowledged, refusing to hide behind excuses. "I have been." He resumed painting, adding white to create highlight and depth. "This is my apology. And my promise."

"Painted in a temporary medium," you observed, but there was a softness to the words that suggested understanding rather than resentment.

Hyunjin's lips curved slightly. "The impermanence is part of the point. This moment, this connection—it exists now, between us. It can't be preserved or sold or displayed. It's just... ours."

He continued adding color, building a complex interplay of hues across your chest and shoulders. The paint warmed quickly on your skin, no longer causing you to flinch at its application. Instead, you seemed to lean into each stroke, body responding to the brush's touch as it might to his fingertips.

As Hyunjin worked, he found himself leaning closer, breath mingling with yours in the diminishing space between you. The act of painting became increasingly sensual—each stroke a caress, each pause a moment of anticipation. He could feel the heat radiating from their skin, see the subtle dilation of their pupils as he moved into their personal space.

The studio lights caught the wet paint, making it shimmer like molten metal on their skin. Hyunjin sat back slightly, admiring the developing work with an artist's critical eye and a lover's appreciation. The colors flowed across your body like a visual symphony—blues deepening into purples where they mixed with red, highlights of white creating dimension and movement.

"How does it feel?" he asked, voice rougher than he'd intended.

Your eyes met his, heavy-lidded and intense. "Like being transformed. Like becoming art."

Hyunjin nodded, understanding completely. That transformation was exactly what he sought—not just of your body into his canvas, but of your relationship into something new after the fallow period of his absence. He was painting your reconnection, your rediscovery of each other.

"We're just getting started," he promised, selecting a fresh brush from his collection. His vision for the night expanded with each stroke, with each shared breath in the intimate space of their studio. What had begun as artistic expression was evolving into something far more primal, more essential—a reclaiming of what threatened to slip away during his absence.

"You are my art," he said as he applied the next stroke, a deliberate line that curved from the collarbone down toward the center of your chest. His words weren't practiced or performative; they emerged from somewhere deep and authentic within him, surprising even himself with their rawness.

Your eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating in the subdued light of the studio. Hyunjin saw something flicker across your expression—vulnerability, perhaps, or recognition of the truth he'd spoken. The silent exchange lasted only seconds but communicated volumes.

The brush continued its journey, leaving a trail of color that seemed to pulse with life against your skin. Hyunjin worked with methodical precision, each stroke building upon the last to create a pattern that was emerging organically rather than from preconception. Blues deepened into purples where he applied pressure, lightened to ethereal aquamarine where he barely skimmed the surface.

He moved from the gentle slope of your chest, then along the sensitive underside of your arm where skin was thin and paler, revealing the blue tracery of veins beneath. The paint mimicked and enhanced these natural patterns, creating a tableau that spoke of rivers and tributaries, of connections and partings.

"How long have we been together, Jinnie?" you asked suddenly, your voice breaking the concentrated silence that had enveloped the room.

The question pulled him from his artistic focus. Hyunjin paused, brush hovering above skin as he calculated. "Four years, seven months, and—" he tilted his head slightly, "—twelve days."

A small smile curved your lips. "You've been keeping count."

"Some things are worth counting," he replied, resuming his work with a switch to a thinner brush that allowed for more delicate detail. The new brush traced along your ribs, following the subtle architecture beneath the skin.

"And in those four years, seven months, and twelve days," you continued, "have you ever felt as distant from me as you have these past few months?"

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of discomfort through Hyunjin's carefully maintained composure. His hand stilled again, paint-laden brush suspended above the curve of their waist.

"No," he admitted after a long moment. "I haven't."

Honesty was the only viable currency between you now; you both recognized this. Hyunjin resumed painting, but his strokes had taken on a different quality—more deliberate, almost as if he were working through his thoughts with each application of color.

"The irony," you said, watching him work, "is that I've never felt more like a possession than when you were gone."

Hyunjin's eyes snapped up to meet theirs, brow furrowing. "A possession?"

"Something owned but not used. Displayed but not enjoyed. Valued but not... necessary." The words emerged with clinical precision, as if they'd been formulated during long nights alone in the house you supposedly shared.

The assessment struck Hyunjin like a physical blow. He set down his brush carefully, unwilling to risk a trembling hand marring the work he'd begun. "That was never my intention."

"Intentions and impact rarely align perfectly," you replied, eyes following his movements as he selected a different color—a deep crimson that brought to mind arterial blood and sunset. "You chose a path that took you away from this." Your hand gestured to encompass the studio, the house beyond, yourselves. "Away from us."

Hyunjin mixed the new color with careful concentration, using the familiar ritual to gather his thoughts. "I took the finance job because it offered security," he finally said. "The kind of security my art never could."

"I never asked for security." Your voice was soft but unyielding. "I asked for presence."

The paint on your skin was beginning to dry in places, creating a curious sensation as Hyunjin applied fresh color that intersected with the existing design. Wet and dry, new and established—the physical parallel to the conversation wasn't lost on him.

"I know," he acknowledged, tracing a line of crimson that curved around your navel and swept toward your hip. "I convinced myself I was doing it for us, but that was..." He searched for the right word.

"Bullshit?" you supplied, with a hint of the playful directness that had first drawn him to you years ago.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Incomplete reasoning," he amended, though the essence of your assessment wasn't wrong. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

The question hung between them as Hyunjin continued painting, adding touches of gold now to the design that sprawled across your torso and began to extend down your thigh. The metallic paint caught the light, creating points of brilliance against the deeper colors.

"Of failing," he finally admitted. "Of watching you realize that loving an artist meant instability and struggle." His hand moved steadily despite the emotional weight of his words. "Of becoming a cautionary tale rather than a success story."

Your hand came up, hovering just above his wrist without making contact that might smudge his work. The gesture was protective, supportive—a physical manifestation of what you'd always offered him.

"Jin," you said quietly, "I chose you knowing exactly who you were. The artist and the man. They're inseparable."

Hyunjin nodded, absorbing the truth of this. The brush in his hand traced a graceful spiral that originated at your hip and expanded outward, encompassing the soft plane of your stomach. "I'm beginning to understand that now."

"Beginning?" A hint of challenge colored your tone.

"Understanding takes time," he replied, eyes focused on his work but awareness entirely centered on the conversation. "Like art. Like love."

You fell silent, allowing him to continue painting. The design had evolved from abstract patterns into something more intentional—a visual representation of your journey together. Blues and reds intersected and diverged, creating patterns that spoke of connection, separation, and reunion.

"I missed this studio," Hyunjin confessed as he worked his way down to your thigh with swirling patterns of indigo and gold. "In hotel rooms across three countries, I would close my eyes and imagine the smell of it. The feel of it."

"And me?" The question was vulnerable, stripped of pretense. "Did you miss me too, or just the space we shared?"

Hyunjin set down his brush and met your gaze directly. "I missed you with an intensity that made it difficult to breathe sometimes," he said, voice low and rough with emotion. "In meetings with men in expensive suits who couldn't understand why I seemed distracted, in empty restaurants where the chair across from me remained vacant, in beds that felt too large and too cold no matter how many blankets I piled on." He swallowed hard. "I missed you in ways I couldn't articulate because doing so would have broken something in me."

Your eyes glistened in the studio's soft lighting. "Then why stay away so long? Why the missed calls, the abbreviated conversations, the distance that grew with each passing week?"

Hyunjin picked up his brush again, using the familiar action to center himself. "Because admitting how much I missed you meant confronting the choice I'd made—the corporate path versus the artistic one." He added a delicate highlight to the pattern on your inner thigh, the brush barely touching skin. "It was easier to numb myself than face that reckoning."

"And now?" You shifted slightly, adjusting your position to give him better access to continue his work. "What's changed?"

"Coming home," he said simply. "Seeing you seated at your easel. Realizing that no amount of financial security compensates for the loss of what matters most." The brush traveled back up your body, adding connecting lines between elements of the design that had previously seemed separate. "Recognizing that I've been painting without color while pursuing what others told me was success."

Your hand reached out, fingertips lightly touching his forearm. The contact sent electricity through him—simple human connection that had been absent for too long.

"I want both," you said quietly. "Your success and your presence. Your dreams and your reality."

Hyunjin nodded, understanding what you weren't explicitly stating—that forcing a choice between professional fulfillment and personal happiness was a false dichotomy he'd constructed to justify his absence.

"I handed in my resignation yesterday," he said, the words emerging with surprising ease given how difficult the decision had been to make. "Before boarding the flight home."

Your eyes widened. "Jin—"

"It was suffocating me," he continued, adding more gold to his palette and applying it to create subtle illumination across his design. "Killing whatever spark made my art worth creating in the first place. And worse—" he met their gaze directly "—it was killing us."

A single tear escaped, tracking down your cheek. Hyunjin caught it with his thumb, careful not to smudge the intricate patterns he'd created on your skin.

"I don't need you to be rich," you whispered. "I just need you to be here."

"I know that now," he replied, resuming his painting with renewed purpose. The design had taken on a cohesive quality, no longer separate elements but a unified whole that flowed across your body like a visual symphony. "I'm not walking away from financial stability entirely. I've saved enough to give us breathing room while I find balance—consulting work that uses my finance background but leaves time for this." His gesture encompassed the studio, the art, the intimacy the two of you were reclaiming.

You watched him work for several minutes in comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft brush of bristles against skin and your synchronized breathing. The paint had dried in a tight mask across your chest and torso, creating a curious sensation of constriction followed by release where unpainted skin remained.

"Tell me what you've added," you finally said. "I can feel it, but I can't see the whole design."

Hyunjin sat back slightly, examining his work with an artist's critical eye. The blues and reds had merged in places to create deep purples that spoke of passion and loyalty. Gold highlights caught the light, creating a dimensional quality that made the design seem alive on their skin.

"This is where we began," he explained, gesturing to a complex pattern that originated at your heart and expanded outward. "These lines that radiate outward are the paths we've taken together and apart." His finger hovered above the design without touching it. "The places where colors merge are our moments of deepest connection. The gold—" he indicated the metallic highlights that unified the design "—represents what remains constant despite distance or time."

Your eyes followed his explanation, seeing yourself transformed into living art. "It's beautiful, Jin."

"You're beautiful," he corrected. "The paint only enhances what's already there."

Hyunjin added a few final touches—delicate white highlights that created depth and dimension, subtle green accents that brought life and growth to the composition. When he finally set down his brush, he felt the peculiar mixture of satisfaction and loss that always accompanied the completion of something meaningful.

"It's almost finished," he said softly, eyes traveling over your painted form with appreciation both artistic and deeply personal.

You shifted slightly, testing how the dried paint moved with your body. "How does it look?"

Hyunjin's throat tightened with unexpected emotion. "Like everything I've been trying to say since I walked back through that door tonight."

"And what is that, exactly?" Your eyes held his, unwilling to accept anything less than complete honesty.

He set aside his palette and brushes, moving to kneel beside the couch where you lay transformed by his art. His hand hovered above your painted skin, not quite touching, respecting the boundary between creator and creation.

"That you are my art," he said, echoing his earlier declaration but investing it with deeper meaning. "Not just tonight, not just in this moment, but always. That everything I create flows from the same source that makes me love you. That separating those parts of myself was what led me astray." His voice roughened with emotion. "That I'm coming home in every sense of the word, if you'll still have me."

Your hand reached up to cradle his face, paint-smeared fingers leaving faint traces of color on his cheek—marking him as he had marked you. The gesture was answer enough, but you spoke anyway.

"I've been keeping your place," you said, eyes never leaving his. "In this studio. In our home. In my heart."

Hyunjin turned his face into your touch, lips brushing against your palm in silent gratitude. The paint on your skin would eventually wash away, but what it represented—this reconnection, this recommitment—would remain, permanently etched into the canvas of your shared life.

"This needs something more," Hyunjin said suddenly, his eyes alight with renewed inspiration.

Before you could respond, he dipped his fingers into the paint, vibrant colors pooling along his skin. "A true work of art needs layers," he continued, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "And I have too many brushes anyway."

You laughed, a sound like music in the air, as he set to work on your body once more. His fingers left wide, expressive streaks of color—carefree and passionate in ways that the brushwork hadn't been. The paint felt cool and thick as he spread it across your skin, blurring the lines of his earlier design but adding new vibrancy.

Hyunjin's touch grew bolder, more intimate. He massaged paint into your shoulders, your breasts, your stomach. Each motion was deliberate and sensual, less about the art itself and more about experiencing you beneath him.

"You feel amazing," he murmured, leaning closer until you could feel his breath on your skin.

Your own hands found their way to his shirt, smearing paint across the fabric as you tugged him toward you. "You're overdressed for this kind of work," you whispered, voice filled with playful heat.

Hyunjin laughed low in his throat—a sound that sent a rumble into your frame. You ripped his shirt open, the buttons popping as you exposed his lean, muscular chest. Hyunjin wiggled out of the shirt and tossed it behind him, before he leaned down to kiss you passionately.

The kiss was fervent, urgent, and full of the passion that had been building between you for so long, each press and pull of his lips echoing everything he had poured into his earlier confessions.

You broke the kiss just enough to breathe, your voice filled with playful challenge and heated anticipation. “You gonna take those off?” you ask in between kisses, referencing his pants.

Hyunjin answered with a wicked smile, already unbuttoning his pants. His gaze never left yours while he slid the fabric slowly, teasingly down his hips. "What do you think?" he asked, voice a sexy rasp.

You swallowed hard, your hands impatiently pulling him back toward you before he could remove them completely. The pants tangled around his ankles, and you laughed together as he kicked them off in a rush of impatience and eager laughter. Everything else fell away—the studio, the art, even time itself—leaving only the two of you and the tangle of forgotten passion.

He captured your mouth again, heat radiating between you. His hands roamed with abandon, sliding over the contours of your body, eager to feel every part of you that he'd missed. You arched into him as one leg wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

He lowered himself onto you, skin meeting skin in a slick union that sent shockwaves through both your bodies. The paint created an exquisite slip and slide between you, the sensation heightened by Hyunjin's deliberate movements as he nestled into place against your warmth.

"This… this is what I've been missing," he breathed into your ear. A low groan escaped Hyunjin's lips as he entered you, the movement steady and deep.

The world dissolved around you; there was nothing but the intensity of his eyes and the raw connection that pulsed between you. He set an unhurried rhythm, each thrust deliberate and powerful, every motion sending shockwaves through your painted skin.

Your bodies moved together in a sensual dance, paint smearing with every shift—a riot of color marking each passionate release. Hyunjin's grip on your hips tightened as he quickened the pace, pent-up desire spilling over in waves of pleasure that blurred the line between where he ended and you began. Your nails dug into his back, leaving trails of color as you pulled him deeper.

"Fuck," he breathed against your neck, his voice rough with raw emotion. "I've missed you."

You answered with a moan, your body writhing beneath him in syncopated rhythm. The world fell away as you became one, colors blending and bleeding into each other until there was nothing but sensation.

Hyunjin sat up, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead in the dim light. As he continued to thrust into you, his movements rhythmic and deliberate, he looked down at you. Muscle and sinew flexed with every motion, and he watched you with an intensity that bordered on devouring. His gaze swept over your skin, lingering on the smudged brilliance of his art, seeing the way passion had transformed his masterpiece into something raw and elemental.

His hand reached out, cradling your face with a tender touch, and his thumb traced a slow path across your cheek, spreading the vibrant colors smeared there.

As he lowered himself back down again, the warmth of his breath tickled your ear. His lips brushed against your earlobe. With a soft, teasing graze of his teeth, he murmured, "I'm home," his voice low and intimate, his lips brushing against your earlobe before teasing it with a soft, playful graze of his teeth.

Hyunjin wasn't content to let the words linger; he punctuated them with a thrust that sent you both spiraling. Your bodies were slick against each other, each movement creating friction that set your nerve endings on fire. The distance and time was forgotten. All that remained was sensation—the slide of your skin, the heat building between you, the overwhelming rightness of his body moving in sync with yours.

"I love you," he gasped, the words rough and sincere, hanging in the air like an unspoken promise that he would never leave again. You arched into him, your hands roaming over his back and shoulders, and it pushed him deeper, driving you both toward a fevered pitch that had only one possible ending.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, before your hands slid up to his neck, pulling his head down to press your lips together.

His breath came faster, mixing with yours as you panted in unison. He shifted slightly, angling his hips to hit you in that perfect spot, and the pleasure was so intense you could hardly stand it.

The two of you moved together until you crashed over a shared precipice, your skin glistening with sweat, paint, and desire as you reached your peak. Hyunjin collapsed onto you, heartbeat pounding against your chest in time with yours. Panting in the aftermath of release, you stayed entangled for what could have been seconds or minutes or hours, exchanging soft kisses that spoke of comfort and contentment.

Eventually, Hyunjin pulled away to look down at you both, his expression a mix of pride and wonder. The design on your skin was unlike anything he'd ever created before—an intricate tapestry of emotion and connection that spoke to everything they'd been through. Although it was now all smudged, he was still proud. "This," he said softly, gesturing between the two of you, "is why I paint."

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galactic-magick · 4 months ago

Text

Flirting Failures PART 2: Mr. Milchick x Reader

Link to Part 1

Words: 1.1k

(Thank you so much for all the love on Part 1! Still gender-neutral reader, use of Y/N, and no S2 spoilers)

You feel something on your face as you go up the elevator, bringing your fingers to your cheek at the familiar ding. It’s wet, and your eyes feel watery. Was your innie just crying?

You switch your things from your locker, head up the stairs, and run to your car as quickly as you can, pulling out your phone as soon as you shut the door.

You click on Seth Milchick’s contact, something you do probably way more often than you’re supposed to. But you don’t care much for those particular rules, especially because he’ll tell you things that you can’t find answers for anywhere else.

“Y/N! What can I help you with so soon after your workday?” he asks.

“Why was my innie crying? I came up the elevator with tears actively streaming down my face. Did something happen to them?”

You’re very protective over your innie, a feat you’ve found is actually pretty rare in the severed community. Other people you’ve talked to don’t even see their innies as an extension of themselves, just a different consciousness to experience everything they don’t want to, something they don’t even see as a person. But you genuinely care about this other version of you, and you’d hate to find out they’re getting hurt in any way.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make them cry.” Seth responds. “You see, your innie tried to...flirt with me today.”

You can’t help but chuckle a bit at that.

“Well, it’s good to know my innie also has good taste, at least. What did I do?”

“You…” there’s a beat of silence, as if deciding whether to respond to your comment, “I can’t really say specifics, but I let them down gently, since there’s rules against co-worker relationships. But maybe they took it harder than I thought.”

Now it’s your turn to be silent.

You try to get the situation straight in your head, setting aside the initial humor of it all. Your innie made a move before you did, got rejected, and was so distraught they were brought to tears? And now every time you go back in that elevator, you’re sending your innie back to face the man who broke their heart?

Of course your innie would have the confidence you never could. You’ve been crushing on Milchick since you met him, but you never pursued anything beyond talking to him on the phone every so often. And now that you know your innie has feelings for him too, wouldn’t it be unfair for you to have something with him that they can’t? You’d be, what, stealing him from yourself?

Your thoughts are tied in impossible tangles, so much that you nearly forget he’s still on the line. What are you supposed to say?

“Y/N?” his voice cuts through.”

“Sorry, I just…” you exhale. “I feel bad for them.”

“I know. And for the record, I didn’t want to let them down.”

“You didn’t?”

“No, I—“ you hear muffled voices. “I have to go. Important meeting with Ms. Co-”

He hangs up.

You’re almost done with you file now, and honestly you couldn’t care less.

You should be excited to win your first prize, but none of them appeal to you anymore. What is a perk worth when you can never experience the depth of human connection? What do you care about some stupid material object or party when there’s no escape when it’s done?

You’re not quite sure why it all hit you so hard yesterday. Something about pretending to fancy Mr. Milchick made you realize you actually do, and how much you’ve actually wanted to experience love in this life. All of your friends in MDR do too, really. Irvings excessive visitations with O&D lately haven’t gone unnoticed, nor Mark’s longing glances at Helly. Heck, even Dylan talks about his fantasies of how many women his outie must be pulling. You all crave love and escape to some degree, and none of you can have either of them.

Is this to be the rest of your existence? Just sorting numbers? Never experiencing sleep or the outdoors? Waiting for the next round of 8 hours?

“Y/N? May I have a word?”

You look up, entirely not thrilled to see Mr. Milchick in the doorway. Still, you do as he says, following him into the hallway.

“I wanted to tell you that I got a call from your outie yesterday. They said you were crying on your way up the elevator. I thought we resolved the issue, there was no need to cry.”

“Really?” you raise your brows. “You called me out here just to tell me when I should and shouldn’t cry?”

“No, I—“

“Right, because we can’t leave, can’t have more than two vending machine snacks, can’t ask what we’re doing, can’t explore the floor…Oh! And we can’t cry whenever the fuck we want! Is there anything else you want to tell me we can’t do?”

He takes a deep breath.

“I meant I was confused. I assure you, I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.”

“Look, I’ll keep my promise of backing off so you don’t get in trouble. But I never promised to not have feelings. You told me you care about me, and that made me a little emotional, okay? Are you going to send me to the Break Room again for that?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then how about you leave me alone for a little while.”

You walk past him back into the office, and he doesn’t follow.

“What’s he going on about now?” Dylan asks.

“Just checking to make sure I’m behaving, I guess.” you shrug, getting back into your seat.

“Why wouldn’t you? You don’t actually like him, do you?”

“None of your business, Dylan.”

“Fuck, are you serious?”

You ignore him, binning a few more sets of numbers.

“Y/N! Tell me you’re not fucking serious!”

You aggressively push down the divider between your desks, giving him the middle finger before pulling it back up.

Seth never called you back after that day, and you’ve chosen not to bother him for answers again just yet. He’ll tell you when he’s ready, right? Won’t he?

You find yourself thinking about your innie again. What are they really like? Do they act the same way you do? Talk the same way you do? Seth tells you bits and pieces, but you don’t really know this other version of you. And will you ever?

What if your innie is your better half? What if a life in a controlled environment makes you a better person?

What if he likes you better in there than out here? Or the other way around?

You didn’t consider this specific consequence of the procedure when you agreed to it, that’s for sure.

(Let me know what you guys think of the switching innie and outie POVs! And let me know if you're interested in more parts!)+

#severance x reader #mr milchick x reader #severance #mr milchick

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kylecrusoe-captions · 3 months ago

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How about a story where someone finds a genie and wishes to be closeand personnal to his celebrity crush only to be trapped as the celebrity penis, or armpits, or pubes, withotu the star knowing at all. And the fan is still sentient and begs fro this to stop because this wasn't what he asked for at all. Bonus points if it's Charlie Puth or Gavin leatherwood :D

Evan was obsessed with Gavin Leatherwood—those dark curls, that brooding stare, the way his voice purred in every interview. At 25, Evan had spent years fantasizing, his apartment plastered with posters, his phone loaded with fan edits. So when he stumbled across a dusty brass lamp at a flea market, its vendor whispering it held a genie, Evan didn’t hesitate. He bought it for ten bucks, raced home, and rubbed it hard, half-expecting nothing.

Smoke billowed, and a genie emerged—tall, shimmering, with a smirk that promised trouble. “One wish,” it said, voice like silk. Evan’s heart raced. “I want to be close and personal with Gavin Leatherwood,” he blurted, imagining late-night talks, brushing shoulders, maybe more. The genie’s eyes glinted. “Granted.” A snap of its fingers, and Evan’s world dissolved.

He came to in darkness, warm and confined, a strange weight pressing around him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see—only feel. Panic surged as he realized he wasn’t with Gavin—he was something else. Flesh pulsed around him, alive, and a faint heartbeat thrummed nearby. Then it hit: he was Gavin’s cock, nestled snug in tight briefs, sentient and trapped. “No—no, this isn’t what I meant!” Evan screamed, but his voice was silent, a desperate echo in his own mind. He could feel everything—the fabric hugging him, the heat of Gavin’s body—but he had no control, no way out.

Across the country, Gavin woke up in his LA apartment, oblivious. Sunlight streamed through the blinds as he stretched, groaning softly. Evan felt it—the shift of muscle, the flex of thighs—as Gavin rolled out of bed, scratching his chest. Then Gavin’s hand dipped lower, brushing over his briefs, and Evan jolted, a rush of sensation flooding him. “Fuck, stop—please!” Evan begged, unheard, as Gavin yawned and shuffled to the bathroom, morning wood stirring.

Gavin peeled off his briefs, and Evan got his first “view”—or rather, felt the cool air hit as he dangled free, thick and heavy between Gavin’s legs. The mirror reflected Gavin’s sleepy smirk, but Evan was stuck staring up from below, a helpless extension of the man he’d idolized. Then Gavin’s hand wrapped around him, casual and firm, and Evan’s pleas turned to static. “Not this—genie, undo it!” he wailed, but the genie was long gone, wish fulfilled in its twisted way.

Gavin leaned against the sink, eyes half-closed, and started stroking. Slow at first, a lazy rhythm—his grip tightened, thumb swiping over the tip, and Evan felt every nerve ignite, pleasure crashing through him against his will. “No, no, I don’t want this!” he screamed, but his protests drowned in the heat building inside. Gavin’s breath hitched, pace quickening, and Evan couldn’t escape the flood—every tug, every pulse, forcing him deeper into the role. Gavin groaned, low and rough, as he came, spurts landing in the sink, and Evan shattered with it, a forced orgasm ripping through his trapped consciousness.

Gavin cleaned up, oblivious, tucking Evan back into fresh boxers like nothing happened. “Genie, you bastard—fix this!” Evan raged, but silence answered. He was stuck, sentient and suffering, feeling every shift as Gavin went about his day—walking, sitting, the occasional adjustment driving Evan mad. The genie had abandoned him, wish warped beyond repair, leaving him as Gavin’s cock with no hope of escape.

#body part transformation #cock tf #celebrity #story requests

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sporesgalaxy · 1 year ago

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Pacific Rim isn't anti-nuclear in the same way Kaiju movies usually are. The resolution is facilitated by the detonation of a nuclear warhead and a nuclear reactor power core. So........what's up with that?

I mean, it's deeply American, obviously, but what else? Why does it not feel particularly pro-war in the same way, say, a typical MCU does? What does it mean that the Kaiju are prompted by human activity (carbon pollution "practically terraformed" Earth for the invading aliens), but are ultimately not a true manifestation of Nature's Wrath (not even from Earth)?

What arguments is Pacific Rim making in the place of the typical kaiju movie anti-nuclear-pollution, wrath-of-nature fare?

I stream-of-consciousness rambled about this for multiple paragraphs and don't feel like cleaning it up much. Basically: I think Pacific Rim is a commentary on the myriad problems with political responses to climate change over the years.

•••

So, in the Great American Kaiju Movie, two nuclear blasts save the day rather than creating all the problems. Despite the fact that at least one of those nuclear blasts still probably did a lot of collateral.... I do wish Pacific Rim had focused a bit more on collateral, and the environmental damage caused by both the Kaiju and, inevitably, the Jaeger project AND Wall of Peace. Food rations are mentioned once-- but surely metal and construction equiptment rationing must also be in place to allow for wall construction! I want my environmental messages shoved violently down the audience's throat, damnit! But I digress

I think an important detail to consider in the Kaiju/Nuclear discussion is how Mako and Raleigh's Jaeger's nuclear power generator is what really allowed them to save the world, multiple times.

The history of politics around nuclear power plants vs nuclear warhead production is interesting, especially in the typical kaiju movie thematic context of man carelessly abusing nature. The argument in defense of nuclear power plants is that, despite the need for extremely rigerous and long-term nuclear waste disposal considerations, there is a lower volume of waste created by nuclear power plants in relation to the energy provided by them, when compared to other modern methods of energy generation like coal power. So, in theory, nuclear energy could be a beneficial power source for minimizing environmental impact.

In the Kaiju movies I've seen, nuclear power is only ever addressed as an extension of the inherently unnatural and harmful abomination of the invention of.the nuclear warhead. It's understandable, the environmental devastation caused by radioactive pollution is massive, and its something a nuclear power plant is very capable of doing if enough goes wrong.

So, what do the Jaegers represent within this conversation? what does the Wall of Peace represent? Here's my thought: they represent (more) active versus passive solutions to the growing threat of climate change. Jaegers represent the way that active work against climate change is only funded as far as it is beneficial to the image of the government.

Yes, the Rift was found to be impossible to blow up with nukes, but it's pretty clear that the world governmemts were putting more money into the publically popular and flashy Jaeger program than they were putting into researching the increase in Kaiju frequency and a permanent solution to the issue. Because of the complicity the world fell into once Kaiju and Jaegers were Rock Stars, the root of the issue with Kaiju goes unadressed for an entire generation, in favor of defeating each Kaiju in impressive and propogand-izable ways.

Only once the problem becomes too big for the propoganda-friendly Jaegers to manage do the world governments start looking for alternate solutions, and the Wall is immediately shown to be too little too late. As soon as it stops being useful for propoganda, the government loses interest in truly solving the problem, and begins investing in moving itself inland and leaving poor coastal populations to die.

The kaiju are only able to be defeated in Pacific Rim because a group of people separate from the government comes together and searches for a solution to the root of the issue-- the Rift being open in the Pacific at all.

Nuclear power is therefore not posed as a solution to war against fellow humans, but is used as a solution to a collective human effort to fight the exponentially speeding destruction of the Earth. The Jaeger pilots and everyone else working in the resistance HAVE to be willing to do anything, willing to take drastic active measures, in order to stop the destruction of the Earth's climate. Yay :)

#syd writes an essay #adddna

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sketches4mysw33theart · 1 year ago

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Dead Poets Society: Some Thoughts and Analysis

Essentially a stream of consciousness I had while rewatching the movie today. In chronological order as I was making notes!

✒️ Charlie talks so much with his eyebrows

✒️ Todd is tasked with taking minutes of the meetings, but I don't believe we ever see him actually do so (although it would have been nice if he did)

✒️ Cameron looks so much like a fisherman when he's smoking his pipe

✒️ Cameron's distaste for Charlie (and often for the rest of the boys) is evident super early on (e.g. when they walk out of Mr Keating's first class and Cameron says "do you think he'll test us on that stuff?" And, when he gets shut down, he throws a very angry look at Charlie and the poets. This happens several times, but as far as I remember we never see Cameron retaliate.) From this, while I don't like it, I understand why Cameron did what he did at the end of the movie because I think he felt undermined by the others and he was considered 'useful' and 'smart' for the school

✒️ Also, I do not accept that Cameron's name is Richard Cameron, he's pulling a Zendaya and goes by one name only

✒️ Mr Keating looks so disappointed in Charlie when saying "Thank you, Mr Dalton, you just illustrated the point"

✒️ I think Knox kissing Chris at the party, while somewhat gross, is necessary to show that Carpe Diem isn't always the right thing to do, as is Charlie putting the article in the paper - i think maybe Chris not ending up with Knox would have hammered this home, especially because she seems perfectly happy with Chet. Of course, Chet's response to what happened at the party isn't fair, but it is definitely what I can see a teenage boy on the high school football team in the 50's doing. Don't choke on the bone, Knoxious!

✒️ Is Charlie trying to get thrown out of school? With the article in the paper stunt, he must have known how serious the repercussions would be, so maybe already he was considering getting out of school because he felt it wasn't the right path for him

✒️ "You made a liar out of me, Neil" - Mr Perry, I hate you

✒️ Did all of the poets, minus Neil and Knox, really squeeze into Keating's car?!

✒️ Neils little face when he comes out of the curtain, and how quick it falls when he sees his father - he's like a little kid showing a finger painting to a parent who insults it, he just wants his Dad to be proud of him

✒️ Mr Keating's face when Neil drives away after the play - I think he had an idea what was coming

✒️ That zoom in on Neil's face when his father's saying "more of this acting business, you can forget that"- he knew, then, that his dad would never change and what he was going to do

✒️ I want the doorknobs in the Perry house, specifically Neil's

✒️ The first time I watched this movie, I was so on edge when Neil was standing in front of the open window, thinking he was going to jump, and when he didn't I was like 'phew', and then the thing happened and my blood sugar spiked way up

✒️ Mr Perry saying 'my poor son' - i don't know, it rubs me up the wrong way, he has a name, he is not simply an extension of you

✒️ Cameron isn't there when the poets tell Todd what happened to Neil

✒️ The lingering image of Charlie with a tear down his face is so beautiful

✒️ Knox just clinging to Todd in the snow

✒️ The comparison between the deleted scene of Neil and Todd running lines by the lake when it's sunny and Todd running towards the lake screaming Neil's name 💔

✒️ Similarly, the comparison between Todd not wanting to speak at all in the meetings, and then the deleted scene where he reads a poem after Mr Perry takes Neil away

✒️ Charlie not singing during Neil's assembly

✒️ Ave means farewell in literature, and Charlie closing his eyes when it's sang is beautiful

✒️ Charlie carries on smoking when Cameron's coming into the attic meeting - he either knows it's Cameron or doesn't care who tf catches him doing anything bad anymore

✒️ I don't think Cameron ever actually 'believed' in Mr Keating, definitely not to the extent the others did - he never called him captain, for example, except when he realised everyone else in the common room was, and air quotes the word 'captain' in the attic. So, it raises the question why he went along with everyone even so?

✒️ While I do somewhat sympathise with Cameron, that is one of the most satisfying punches in movie history

✒️ I think Todd's parents weren't that different from Neil's, Todd's dad is clearly very authoritarian from the minute or so he's on screen (and the fact that Todd signs the paper) and his Mom says nothing in his defense, but the way Todd mouths 'Mom' breaks my heart

✒️ In what universe does acting = what Neil did? All those theatre kids and their evil, satanic rituals, forcing our kids away from school 🙄 I hate you, Mr Perry and Mr Nolan

✒️ Todd's the last one to stand up when Nolan walks into Keating's classroom

✒️ Mr Nolan complimenting Mr Pritchard's introduction is so ridiculously funny to me considering what Keating made them do to it

✒️ Mr Keating's smile to Todd through the door in the classroom has the same energy as "All my love to you poppet. You're going to be alright."

In conclusion, I adore this film.

Robin Williams, O Captain, My Captain 🫡❤️

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cherry-muses · 2 months ago

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obi-wan kenobi x gn! reader: 1/2

<a/n: one-shot after the image! this is for the obi wan girlies hehe. also yes i am still alive, i sort of moved to a new country and joined college and stuff-

you will find- banter! flirty friendships, sparring, lightsaber combat and probably some nerdy infodump about lightsaber combat forms.

A sigh escaped your lips as you pulled yourself up to stand up on the white mat. You let yourself observe the quiet, calming hum of the Force flowing through you. Ever present. Ever peaceful.

You make a few short strides to the centre of the Temple’s sparring arena. Coruscant’s sun gently illuminated the room, bringing to your notice the tiny dust particles floating about in the air.

You pulled out the metal hilt of your lightsaber from its belt loop. It hummed to life. As you heard it’s whoosh, you also heard Master Windu’s words in your mind’s voice: “Discipline. And patience. They are incredibly important, and yet incredibly rare marks of a skilled Jedi.”

You allowed your body to re-familiarize itself with the weapon, just as you had done countless times before. It was an extension of yourself. And you were an extension of the Force.

Somehow, Master Windu had agreed to teach you the Seventh Form. “This form is as much a very specific state of mind, as it is a form of combat.”, he had explained as he guided you through the first kata a few days ago.

You took the opening stance: the hilt of your lightsaber held close to your body with both hands, the tip pointing straight ahead. “Slow, controlled passion,” Master Windu had said. “Disciplined anger.”

You allowed your worst emotions to build up within you. Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. Cautiously letting them come to a crescendo. And then as you let the emotion flow, you precisely directed the stream of thoughts to aid your movements.

And, finally, you stabbed,slicing the air before you faster than you could consciously process as you stepped forward. Each movement was fierce in it’s raw emotion, yet controlled enough not to lose your balance.

You spun around, as if to avoid grazing against an opponents saber, then jumping forward and pushing yourself further with the Force, as you swung downwards with all your strength as you landed, beige and brown robes flowing behind you.

Another stab. Another spin. The Force around you was thrumming with energy, almost electric. You continued, losing yourself in your exercise for… you weren’t entirely sure how long. Until you had to inevitably pause to catch your breath, and release your overpowering emotions into the Force.

That is when you looked up. Leaning against the door, was none another than one of your closest friends, the person you had known ever since you were both initiates in the creche: Obi-Wan Kenobi. Wearing the same Jedi robes as you, sporting an identical padawan braid to yours across his right shoulder.

He seemed to have been quietly observing you for a while, a quiet look of awe on his face. You met his striking blue eyes, still a little breathless from the recent exertion.

“Hello there.”, he greeted as he stepped into the area, a playful lilt to his tone.

“Obi-Wan.”, you smirked back, trying to catch your breath, hands on your knees. “What brings you here?”

“About the same thing as you. I wanted to train.”, he replied, smiling. “But someone distracted me”

“I see Master Windu has taught you well.”

“I hardly know what I’m doing, honestly.”, you respond with a dismissive wave of your hand as you sit down cross legged on one of the mats. He followed suit, and sat next to you.

He raises an eyebrow at your dismissal. “Really? Are you purposefully trying to make me underestimate you?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head simultaneously. “I know you are far too intelligent to make that mistake, Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan chuckles softly. The both of you sit there silently in the arena until you slowly catch your breath, and take a swig of water.

“Say, are you too tired for a spar?”, he quips up.

“I could beat you half asleep, Kenobi.”, you tease.

“"That so?" He’s already on his feet, lightsaber hilt in hand. "Then let’s find out."

#obi wan kenobi #star wars #sw prequels #prequel trilogy #star wars fanfiction #obi wan x reader #obi wan x oc #star wars oc #anakin #darth vader #jedi #jedi oc #jedi culture #pro jedi #fluff #friends to lovers #x reader #star wars x reader #star wars x y/n

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brucebocchi · 6 months ago

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Ranking 2024 anime, Pt. 1: Movies, specials, and #43-41

hey, this post is also available on my ko-fi, so please check it out and consider tipping/donating as i do this for free and am currently between jobs. thanks!

Hey, y'all. Starting a little later than usual this year but I've been busy this time of year, not the least of which with The People's The Game Awards, which will be streaming here on Dec. 31!

But now it's time to promote the output that's entirely mine. I watched even more anime in 2024 than the prior year, somehow, and it's time to rank it. Because I was reviewing these series at the end of their respective seasons, I won't be going quite as in depth on the shows I'd already covered from January through September. There will be full reviews for the stuff I just watched in the Fall season, as well as this first section here, as part of the rankings.

As always, this is entirely a labor of love, so subscriptions and donations would be hugely appreciated, and I could really use them right now.

So first, let's start with:

Movies and Specials

Look Back

There weren’t many things I was looking forward to this year quite as much as this movie’s western release. Based on one of a trio of one-shots Tatsuki Fujimoto published during Chainsaw Man’s hiatus, Look Back is a short but potent story about art and manga, the highs and lows of the creative process, and the connection between two young artists putting their heads and hearts together.

The story follows Ayumu Fujino (definitely not an author self-insert), a fourth-grader who draws short comics for her school’s newspaper. She’s mortified when she’s asked to make space for another strip by an absentee student who turns out to be a much better artist than herself (again, definitely not a self-insert for a mangaka who has publicly described his self-consciousness about his artistic talents), and even after years of further studying and practicing, Fujino feels so completely outpaced by the other, Kyomoto (also not a self-insert), that she quits. At the end of the school year, though, Fujino is talked into dropping something off at Kyomoto’s house, where she learns that the latter was a huge fan of her work and was disappointed to learn that she’d quit, and they decide to team up and make manga together. The successful one-shots they publish throughout middle and high school eventually prompt a Shueisha editor to approach them for serialization, but a rift starts to form.

Look Back and by extension plenty of Fujimoto’s works can be hard to talk about because they say so much for themselves with only so many words. The manga is a brief but potent masterpiece, and the film adaptation by Kiyotaka Oshiyama (director of Flip Flappers and key animator with credits in Devilman Crybaby, Mob Psycho 100, and recent Miyazaki films) is very much the same in its own right. This adaptation retains much of the feel of Fujimoto’s art and perfectly delivers the emotional beats of the story, while adding some flair of its own. The amateurish 4-koma that define our young artists’ early careers are given a low-fidelity animatic treatment to match, while the real-life action is animated fluidly and realistically. Haruka Nakamura’s gorgeous score punctuates and elevates Look Back’s emotional highs and lows with delicate piano and lush strings that only draw you deeper into this beautiful story. There are even references to the mangaka’s other works peppered throughout the film.

The most distinctive trait of Tatsuki Fujimoto’s manga is his expressive and creative use of paneling, often used to wordlessly display changes in expression or the passage of time in the same way a storyboarder would. Conceptually, this would translate well to film, and although Look Back is a phenomenal film in its own right and captures much of the feel of its source material, it’s not exactly the same. And honestly, that’s a good thing. If it’s worth recommending both works in equal measure, then both were successful, and that’s the case here.

In a featurette that was shown after theatrical screenings, Oshiyama was very outspoken about infusing realism into the production, despite the story’s climax veering into magical realism. What he wanted wasn’t a realistic look or feel to the film itself, but in the production thereof: The leads are voiced in Japanese by complete newcomers (who do an incredible job) and plenty of the film’s line art, especially in its tearjerking denouement, can look intentionally unrefined. Oshiyama has made it clear that he wanted Look Back to come across as much like a handmade product as possible, specifically because it released into an age where the existence of generative AI is posed to threaten the livelihoods of entire creative industries.

Even if I hadn’t seen the film, I’d have known just from his comments that Oshiyama understood the assignment. Look Back is a story about creativity and creation, warts and all, and what is so innately human about it: The parts of ourselves we put on the page or screen, which of our shortcomings we can improve on our own and which ones we overcome with the contributions of others, and the connections we make throughout. Tatsuki Fujimoto is a master mangaka, and this film is a perfect companion piece to a true work of art.

Watch this movie.

Neon Genesis Evangelion: The End of Evangelion

I’m not usually the type who includes older media in “best of the year” discussions, and certainly not media that’s nearly 30 years old, but The End of Evangelion is one of my favorite movies ever. Full stop. Regardless of how many times I’ve watched and rewatched it in my adult life, I leapt instantly at the opportunity to see it in its first American theatrical run so many years after its release.

Decades’ worth of ink has been spilled over this film and its meaning, themes and intentions. It is a prism through which no two people may see the same thing: Many have interpreted The End of Evangelion as an angry, hateful work by a creator who wanted nothing more than to spite his fans, and others have venerated it as a message of hope, that a better world is possible as long as you put the work in. I have too many other things to write about to do a proper dive into what this movie means, or more specifically what it means to me. I’ve put it here because the experience of seeing it in a packed theater was immensely satisfying.

To be surrounded by so many people while taking in something so important to me was exhilarating. The increasing laughter as more and more production tags flew across the screen in the first minute and a half felt like a community being established. Fortunately, that was most of the noise I’d heard. Not that I was expecting a “Komm, süsser Tod” singalong or anything, but I’m thankful that the audience was mostly quiet otherwise, because the change of venue from my usual viewing environs of a desk or couch was transformative and I would not have been happy if anything had distracted from that.

There are too many iconic moments in The End of Evangelion to name, several of which you’ve probably seen even if you don’t know Evangelion that well, and they looked absurdly good on the big screen. Asuka’s fight against the Eva series remains some of the best action animation I’ve ever seen in my life, and it held up. The inception of Third Impact and all of the iconic images that came from that sequence were visually arresting, and I don’t say so lightly: I legitimately felt overwhelmed at several of these moments. Someone a seat or two over from me was stifling tears towards the end, and I don’t blame them one bit, crybaby that I am. But by the final scene on the beach, a scene whose coda in 3.0+1.0 never failed to reduce me to a blubbering mess, I couldn’t even process emotion anymore. Seeing something this familiar, this meaningful to me, in such an all-encompassing environment, shorted my brain for a second. I was stunned, eyes bugged and mouth agape, like something had touched my soul directly. And just like my first viewing of this film, part of me was forever changed.

The first time I’d seen The End of Evangelion did not come at a great time in my life, and if I’m being honest, I wasn’t doing too hot when I saw it in the theater this year either. But, in ways I’m not sure I can elaborate, I think they came at times when I needed them. Evangelion remains a major marketing machine some three decades after its debut, but sometimes it’s still just something you need to take in when you’re going through it. I’m glad I did. If you have a favorite anime film that manages to make its way back into theaters, I cannot emphasize enough how wonderful it feels to actually go and see it. I wish I’d done the same with the Gurren Lagann films when they came back.

I just wish Gkids hadn’t used the Netflix subtitles. The first scene just doesn’t hit the same without “I’m so fucked up.”

One Piece Fan Letter

For all of the anime I’m covering at year’s end, I think the most important thing about my 2024 in anime and manga, after hemming and hawing about it for so long, is that this is the year I finally got into One Piece (the manga, not the anime). And just as I’d expected, it required a massive investment of my time, but it paid dividends and continues to do so as the story creeps ever closer to its eventual conclusion.

The manga is phenomenal, but the anime would’ve been a much larger time sink, so I haven’t really bothered (the live action series is great though). I’ve watched a small handful of episodes and clips of the more important moments, and took in a bit of the anime’s current arc before it went on hiatus. It’s come a long way from how it looked 25 years ago and I’m genuinely impressed that a weekly anime can exhibit such a high budget and wealth of animation talent, but I don’t really have it in me to trudge my way back to the start of the Wano arc and watch nearly 200 episodes of just that.

What I did have time for, and only 24 minutes of it at that, was One Piece Fan Letter, an episode-length special loosely based on the Straw Hat Stories novel. Fan Letter takes place around the end of the timeskip as the Straw Hat crew make their reunion in Sabaody, but it doesn’t focus on the crew themselves; we instead spend our time with a handful of regular people living their lives on the archipelago. In a way, they’re a lot like us: they’re all fans of the Straw Hats, and each one has a favorite. A Marine goes against code and secretly looks up to Luffy for giving him the courage to save his brother’s life. A shopkeeper bemoans missing Brook’s last show as Soul King. Some rowdy Marines have a drunken powerscaling argument not unlike one you’d see on Twitter any given day.

Front and center, though, is a young girl who looks up to Nami. She dresses like East Blue-era Nami, avoids wearing glasses in order to look like her, and even has the red hair to match. She’s managed to decode Luffy’s reunion message (in a comically roundabout way) and sets out to hand-deliver her message to Nami before the Thousand Sunny sets sail again, but she finds herself hampered by several distractions and obstacles, largely thanks to the Straw Hats and those in their orbit.

Fan Letter is a short but sweet story that mirrors our own fandom of the series and its characters in the lives of everyday people along the Grand Line. A huge part of what makes One Piece work as an ongoing saga is seeing how Luffy and the Straw Hats’ escapades and freedom fights materially benefit the people of each island they visit and, if necessary, liberate. And not that the series isn’t long enough, but something we often miss is how the crew’s efforts affect the people they don’t interact with on some level (Usopp does briefly help direct our protagonist here, but she never finds out it’s him). Fan Letter focuses more on the emotional impact the Straw Hats’ heroism leaves on the regular folk and even the Marines that are meant to oppose them.

Though creator Eiichiro Oda had no hand in Fan Letter, I think it focuses on one of his major aims in writing One Piece: For all its silliness, spectacle, and hype, it’s ultimately a story of people helping and improving one another’s lives en route to attaining their dreams, and it’s meant to inspire us to want to do the same. Fan Letter puts these intentions in stark relief by showing us not only how the Straw Hats have inspired people on and around Sabaody, but also those same people trying to return the favor in whatever small way they can. Those in lesser positions might write a letter or turn out for their favorite artist, while those in positions of power can literally save lives. If someone has made your life better in any meaningful way, you are always in a position to thank them or pay it forward.

As with just about everything attached to One Piece nowadays, Fan Letter looks phenomenal. Everything has a loose, kinetic quality befitting Luffy’s rubbery nature, and the breakneck composition and sequencing of shots makes every second of the short runtime count. If you’ve been on the fence about One Piece, it’s at least a quick curiosity that might pique your interest. To longtime fans, though, Fan Letter is an essential piece of the puzzle.

Spy x Family Code: White

After a certain point, I’m having trouble writing about any new Spy x Family entries because, like, it’s more Spy x Family. If you’re already here, you know what you’re going to get. There’s gonna be silly misunderstandings, Anya’s gonna be cute, Yor’s gonna do some sick action moves, and you’re gonna have a great time.

Code: White is a self-contained film with an original story by creator Tatsuya Endo, so continuity isn’t a factor here if you’re worried about canon. The Forgers take a vacation to the alps to help Anya with a school project, Yor misinterprets Loid’s secretive nature as a sign that he’s cheating on her, and Anya unknowingly eats a bonbon containing a microfilm that would help turn the cold war hot. We get our cozy moments, our silly moments, and our fun action setpieces towards the end. Again, it’s more Spy x Family and that’s what you’re here for.

I know this sounds dismissive, but you already know what you’re getting into here. And I want to be clear that it’s still really good! It’s cute, it’s funny, it’s exciting, and everything and everyone looks and sounds great. There’s a sequence where Anya has to poop so badly she starts hallucinating. It’s great stuff. Essential viewing if you’re a fan.

And now, let's get on with:

Ranking Every New Anime I Watched in 2024

43. The Unwanted Undead Adventurer

I didn’t want to talk about this show when I reluctantly finished it nine months ago and I don’t want to talk about it now. Maybe not the worst anime I watched this year but certainly the dullest. Ugly, slow, and boring is no way to entice me into watching a second season. Pass.

42. Tales of Wedding Rings

This somehow ended up being the only show that I picked back up this year, including the ones I initially liked. I was pretty blunt about what I didn’t like about Tales of Wedding Rings back in March, from its waifu-of-the-week format to its formulaic wheel-spinning on the main romantic pairing to its hideous aesthetic and poor animation. It had already been confirmed for a second season and I’d had no interest in finishing the first.

But against my better judgment, I decided to take some time reading the manga around the time it came to an end later on in the year and ended up liking it a decent amount. The manga looks way better, for one thing, and all of the more interesting plot elements manage to intensify and coalesce. Between the standard isekai slay-the-demon-king plot, the “will they/won’t they” tension between the romantic leads, and yes, the overt horniness of everything else, the first season really was just table setting for a story that does in fact get more interesting and worth spending time with. So, armed with knowledge of the next story beats and a more open mind, I went back and dusted off the three episodes I’d dropped back in March.

And I still can’t stand this show.

Tales of Wedding Rings is still one of the ugliest anime I’ve ever seen in my life. The color palette is weirdly muted and everything is overlit and gauzy. Line art looks brittle and cheap. You could try to make the excuse that a show with so much nudity wasn’t going to earn a high production value, but that excuse falls flat when you remember that it aired alongside well-produced (if maybe questionable) uncensored series like Chained Soldier and Gushing Over Magical Girls. Like I said earlier this year, if you present me with full-on elf tits and still can’t make me care, you’ve failed. I didn’t watch Plus-Sized Elf for the exact same reason. I learned my lesson.

I really try not to judge the entirety of a show by how it looks, but my eyes can only take so much. I can only hope the second season looks better, lest I have to Ludovico myself into continuing with the series.

41. The Witch and the Beast

I was really looking forward to this one. The quasi-gothic/steampunk aesthetic is absolutely not my shit on paper but it looked awesome in execution… at first. After just two episodes, though, The Witch and the Beast looked like too ambitious and detailed a project for its animators to handle and it started looking cheap in record time. Character models were inconsistent to the point of being unrecognizable, animation was often stilted, and lighting and color palettes were dull. Didn’t help that the action died down for a good chunk of the season as well, leaving us with a show that was both ugly AND boring.

Nine months later and there’s still no word on a second season, and I can’t say I’m surprised. It didn’t seem to accrue much popularity, and I struggle to think what would’ve helped aside from the issues I just bitched about. There was a tease of more to come at the end, right on the heels of a massive lore dump that seemed to open up the world to a much larger scale. That could be interesting, but I don’t think I’d want to watch any more of The Witch and the Beast. Maybe I’ll bite the bullet and finally read the manga.

#anime reviews #look back #evangelion #the end of evangelion #one piece #spy x family

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