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ameenvie · 6 months ago

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Treacherous, Pt. 2 - Jim Halpert x fem!reader

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“Out of focus, eye to eye, ‘Til the gravity’s too much”

Part 1 Word count: 6.1k Warnings: NSFW, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex, brief oral (m!receiving) Tags: idiots in love, pining, I'm a sucker for confessions during sex, consent is sexy, responsible Jim ❤ beta reading? I don't know 'er! Prompt/Summary: You started working at Dunder Mifflin around 6 months ago, and since then you developed a massive crush on one of your colleagues - Jim Halpert. Things happen. A/N: Here it iiis, the NSFW Second part of this fic! I hope you'll like it ❤

The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his hair was a bit messier than usual as he was leaning on his elbow, his hand in his hair. He was looking at a piece of paper on his desk, not realizing you entered the room. You slowly made your way towards the printer next to him, and he finally looked up at you.

“Hey, I didn’t realize you were still here.” He leaned back in his chair and put one of his hands on the table. You tried not to stare at his every move, but it was hard to resist, you were drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

“Oh yeah, I’m still working on the report due by tomorrow morning. Having a hard time focusing today” you replied and pressed the print button on the machine. It started buzzing and the smell of ink and warm paper filled the air. A moment of silence wrapped around the two of you before he spoke again.

“Look, I wanted to apologize about earlier, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” you said with a fake chuckle. “It wasn’t too bad.”

“I’m still sorry. It was a douchey move” he smiled and pointed at the papers now in your hand. “Can I make it up to you? Do you need help with your report?”

You contemplated his offer for a second, but you weren’t sure what to say. You didn’t want to seem like someone who couldn’t handle things on their own, but you really could’ve used the help to get out of there as soon as possible.

“If it’s not a problem to you, that would be great, yeah.”

“If it was, I wouldn’t have offered. Now tell me what to do!” He said with a grin spreading on his face and you caught your gaze lingering at his lips longer than it should've. You hoped he didn’t notice. You quickly averted your gaze before you grabbed the rest of the sheets from the printer and settled at his desk together with him.

You explained to him how you planned your spreadsheet and what data he’d need to input, and where to find them, and you agreed on a method of how to split the task. He was very attentive the whole time, and sometimes you thought you saw his gaze linger on you but chased that thought away.

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. I’ll be in the back if you need anything.”

“Sure thing, I’ll come by,” he answered and smiled at you. His damn smile made your heart melt every time. He made you feel such a teenager, and you were kind of mad at him because of that.

You sat down at your desk and continued your work. Another hour passed before you heard the door open, and you turned towards him. He held a few papers in his hand, waving them with pride.

“I’m done with these; I thought I’d bring them here and we could run through them if you’d like.” He stepped next to you and pulled a chair closer for himself. The same chair that Kelly sat on this morning, when she said Jim liked you. The memory made you flustered as you looked up at him.

“You sure? I don’t want to keep you longer than I need, I already feel bad because you stayed overtime for me.”

“Shhh,” he shushed you. “You’re not keeping me from anything. I like your company.” He laughed then put the papers on the desk. You both leaned over them and started to look through the rows one by one.

You were leaning on your elbow with your body turned towards him as he talked, and you listened. You watched as he moved his hand on the paper, explaining things why he did what and asking you questions. You imagined his hands roaming on your body instead of the numbers on the paper. His lips singing you praises between ragged breaths instead of explaining sales metrics. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander, up his arms, to where his neck peeked out from under his shirt, his lips. You scolded yourself every time you caught yourself.

“Are you all right?” His voice brought you back to reality. His gaze on you only fanned the flames inside, which already felt like wildfire. You felt your insides twist with need.

“Yes, I’m just a bit tired. That’s all,” you replied and straightened your back. Now you were sitting so close that your shoulders were touching — bad idea.

“I think we can wrap this up, finish the rest in the morning. I hope this won’t scare you away from this job.” He shuffled around on his chair, so his shoulder didn’t touch yours anymore as he leaned on one of his elbows, turning his body towards you. You were both grateful and sad for the absence of the warmth of his touch.

“No, of course not. I kind of like it here. Some people are nice.”

“Yes,” he smiled, “some people are really nice.” He started to fiddle with a pen on your desk.

There was a moment of heavy silence between the two of you, which was enough for you to get overwhelmed with how close he was. His touch and sweet scent made you drunk. You never wanted this moment to end but at the same time, you couldn’t wait to get out of there. You heard him call your name which snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze was darting between your eyes and lips, and you could swear he was a little flustered.

You felt like your brain was malfunctioning, a short circuit in your nerves. Was this really happening? You felt your heart drop into your stomach, and all you could muster up as an answer was a shaky nod as you reached for him.

He didn’t hesitate, he put his hands on both sides of your face as he pulled you closer into a kiss. You felt your heart explode into thousands of little butterflies that stole your breath away. His lips were soft against your own as he took his time exploring you, kissing the corner of your mouth before nibbling on your lower lip. You whimpered and opened your mouth, which gave him the perfect opportunity to press his tongue against yours, starting to dance in perfect harmony.

He filled all your senses – the taste of his favourite tea on your tongue, the scent of his aftershave, the feeling of his touches on your skin. You felt lightheaded, like you were not on this planet anymore as he moved one of his hands from your cheek to the small of your back and pulled you into his lap. His other hand has moved from your cheek to your neck and into your hair as he pulled you closer into the kiss.

You straddled him in the wobbly office chair and ran your hand through his hair which made him smile into the kiss. The little gesture made your heart swell, and you bit his lower lip playfully.

His touches moved slowly towards your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His long fingers pushed under the hem of your shirt and started to draw hot circles against your skin. You wanted him so much that you absent-mindedly moaned into the kiss, which caused him to stop for a second. Your eyes shot open. Shit, was that too much?

“Is this okay?” he whispered against your lips, leaning his forehead against yours. His breathing was heavy as he scanned your face for answers with such a loving look in his eyes, it turned your insides into Jello. You nodded as you moved your hand to rest against his neck and drew circles on his skin with your thumb. He let out a breathy chuckle before he spoke again. “I need you to say it.”

Your mind raced a mile a second. Should you really do this? You wanted to - more than anything, but shouldn’t you at least try to keep your dignity? Try to act like you didn’t dream about him for months? That he didn’t make your heart race every time he looked at you?

And then you decided not to care.

“Yes, it’s okay, I-,“ you started, trying to form the words. “I want this.” He pulled you closer by your waist before you continued with newfound confidence. “I want you, Jim” you whispered into his ear.

“Fuck-“ he breathed, and pulled you into another kiss. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You nodded in response, but he shook his head lightly and smiled. “I need you to say it.”

“I’ll tell you if I want you to stop. I promise,” you breathed on his lips.

“Good girl.” You moaned into his mouth, and you felt his bulge grow against you. You tried to rock your hips against him for the slightest of friction. He dropped his head back from the sensation, giving you the perfect opportunity to place a wet kiss on his throat, licking against his hammering pulse and slightly biting him.

He dug his fingers into your ass as he kissed you once again. Your skirt was ridden up all the way to your thighs, and he made sure to lift them even higher until your underwear was revealed, together with a very prominent wet patch on it. You started to unbutton his shirt with quivering fingers while he drew lazy patterns into your thighs, only inches away from your aching core.

You leaned down to kiss the crook of his neck as you pushed his shirt down from his shoulders, the fabric slipping from his back and getting caught on the chair before falling to the ground. Your insides twisted with anticipation as you looked at his body, trying to commit every inch into your memory. He sat up straighter and wrapped his arms around you, tangling one hand into your hair as he used the other to push your blouse above your head and toss it to the floor, leaving you in your bra.

The sudden cold air sent shivers down your spine and your hardened nipples pushed against the thin fabric of your underwear. He bit his lip as he looked down on you, his gaze dark with lust. Suddenly you felt flustered but had no time to overthink before he spoke.

“You are so beautiful” he whispered as he leaned down to press a kiss on your breast, just above the hemline of the bra before he unclasped it and guided it down your arms. He brushed his thumb over your nipple while he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asked and enveloped your breast in his hand.

“Never” you whimpered which earned you a crooked grin and another kiss. He removed his hand from your chest and replaced it with his lips, kissing and sucking on your sensitive skin.

With every passing second the outside world shrank around you, your senses all focused on his touch - or the lack of - more like. The feeling of emptiness, of wanting to be whole started to eat away at you as the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Jim, please…” you squeezed your eyes shut and slightly tugged on his hair, releasing a shaky breath. He moved his free hand from your hair to your chin, making you look into his eyes. His pupils were blown wide and stray strands of hair stuck to his forehead.

“You want this?” he teased, hovering his finger above your throbbing core, barely not touching. You nodded lightly with his hand still holding your chin in place before the words started pouring out of you.

“Yes, Jim – you breathed - I want you. Please, touch me. Fuck me,” you begged, and you saw a glint of amusement in his eyes before he pulled you into a kiss and pressed his thumb against your clothed clit before he pulled your panties aside with his other fingers. Your hips began to move on their own, grinding against his finger, craving more and more.

He brought a finger to your entrance and slowly slid it inside without any resistance. He bit his lip as he examined the spot where his finger disappeared in you.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered and bit the soft skin under your clavicle. He dictated a steady rhythm with his long fingers, and you were more than happy to follow. You gripped his shoulder for deal life as he slid another finger in you, curling them slightly so he reached your sweet spot. You cried out and looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

He was beautiful. His hair was damp from sweat and messy from your hand running through it, his lean muscles were showing as he held you in place and fucked you with his fingers, and the increasingly hardening bulge in his pants told you that you were in for an even better treat if you were lucky enough. You rolled your hips harder against his fingers as you felt your insides tighten with every movement of his. He was so beautiful. So hot. And he was yours.

“Jim,” you moaned his name and that seemed to ignite something in him because he pressed his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you into a passionate kiss, tongue and teeth clashing while he moved his thumb back to your clit, drawing tight circles on it.

Pleasure took over your body as you felt your muscles tighten, the world around you completely gone and in the center of your universe was him and his fingers in you. You rolled your hips as he slid in and out of you, never letting go of you.

You were a moaning mess and felt your stomach tighten, nerves lighting up in your body one by one and pleasure trickling down your spine.

“I’m here, love. Let me take care of you, come for me,” he whispered in your ear, his lips grazing your earlobe and with one, two roll of your hips you were crying out, your walls tightening around his fingers as your vision turned white.

He held you against him as his fingers slowed inside you, guiding you through your orgasm before stopping completely. He prepped your forehead with soft kisses before he removed his fingers from you. In your post-orgasm haze, you barely caught how he raised his fingers to his mouth and licked them clean with a moan.

The motion caught you off guard and you felt yourself tighten around nothing – a painful reminder. You slowly sat up and started to unbutton his pants, impatient to feel him in you. He silently watched as you pulled his pants and underwear down just enough so his hard member could spring free. You bit your lips as you took in the view.

You slowly slid your hand down on it, testing the feeling of its weight in your hand. It was already leaking with precum, and you were sure you were so wet you could easily just sink down onto him without any resistance. Nevertheless, you moved and slid down to your knees in front of him. For a split second he wanted to resist but you were already kneeling in front of him just in your skirt as you kissed the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth as far as you could, which still left plenty for your hands to take care of. The rough office carpet was harsh against your bare knees, but you didn’t care. You slid your tongue against him and bobbed your head. He threw his head back with a moan, his hand finding its way to your hair.

He didn’t let you enjoy yourself too much, because he gently pulled you away and up to your feet as he also stood up, guiding you towards your desk. You made space for yourself as you sat down on it, spreading your legs so he could stand between them. You reached for him again and started to slowly stroke him while he was digging through his back pocket, pulling out his wallet, then a condom. You couldn't help but chuckle, although you were grateful for such turn of events.

“Didn’t think you were such a player.” He scoffed and grinned at you.

“I knew you couldn't keep your hands off me for too long,” he said with a cocky smile which made you laugh and kissed you while he put the condom on. He lined himself up against your entrance and slowly pushed in.

The stretch was out of this world, and you savoured every inch as he pressed into you deeper and deeper until he bottomed out. He stilled for a few seconds, his forehead against yours.

“Don’t forget your promise,” he said, and you nodded. He slowly pulled out of you before bottoming out again, causing the office desk to shake lightly, the pens rattling against each other in the Dunder Mifflin mug.

“I’ll never be able to focus at work anymore. I hope you’re happy,” you said jokingly, his thrusts stealing the air from your lungs between every word. He chuckled before he kissed you.

His hands held your thighs firmly so he could pull you against him with every move, as he pulled out and slammed back in with a steady rhythm. You held onto him, one hand on his biceps and one tangled in his hair. His pace increased as filthy sounds filled the room mixed with your joint panting and moaning, his name on your lips like a sacred prayer, like a promise to something larger than life.

His moves became a bit less calculated, a bit sloppy, when he moved his thumb against your clit once more. You knew he was getting closer, and you also felt the familiar tension build in you, but you never wanted it to end. You didn’t want to think about what came after. The awkwardness. The guilt.

You pressed your lips against him, tongues clashing in a sloppy, messy dance as his dick pressed against your sweet spot with every thrust, his thumb caressing your clit with perfect pressure. He grabbed your hair and tilted your head back as he rutted into you, kissing your neck and mumbling sweet nothings against your skin.

“You’re so fucking good,” he said, panting. The curse felt alien on his tongue which boiled your blood even more. “I love you so much, my good girl,” he whispered against your skin, and you weren’t even sure you heard that right, but your heart skipped a beat, your brain numb as flames washed over your body, sparks lighting up your nerves as you came, all thoughts leaving your mind and being replaced with bliss. He came not long after you and wrapped you against his chest while you both caught your breath. He caressed your hair and planted soft kisses on the top of your head before pulling out.

“I’ll be back in a second,” he said, giving a squeeze to your hand as he disappeared. You didn’t really comprehend what was happening, where he went, or how long he was away, but when he came back, he brought a damp paper towel and helped to clean you up.

“That’s better.” He pressed a kiss on your lips and his eyes searched your face. “Are you okay?” When you didn’t reply, his expression turned worried, and he swiped his hand across his face.

“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. You think you made a mistake, right?” He ran his hand through his hair as he looked at you. You snapped out of your thoughts.

“What? No!” You objected. “No, Jim. It was amazing, hell… Even more than that. I’m sorry, it’s just,” you hesitated and looked him in the eye. “You said you loved me.” The realization settled on his face as he looked at you.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, and you scoffed, raising your eyebrow at him.

“I love you too,” you said, and a shy smile spread across your face as you reached for his hand. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs as he enveloped you in his arms, kissing you once again.

Maybe overtime wasn’t that bad, after all.

#jim halpert x reader #jim halpert smut #jim halpert imagine #jim halpert ff #jim halpert fanfic

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sheets-of-your-own · 10 months ago

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If you put a tilde (~) in the summary portion of the data page, that fic will be saved in a separate list, featuring it's wordcount, title, link, and fandom. I use this to save uncompleted fics that are still updating, but you can use it for whatever reason you want to save some fics for later.

Mine as example, data redacted

#fanfiction analysis #archive of our own #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction #data #data analysis #fic-data spreadsheet

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zoloteh-volossya · 10 months ago

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BG3 Fanfiction Statistics, Part 2

Welcome to part 2 of my BG3 AO3 fanfic statistical analysis! In part 1, which can be found here, I discussed general fanfic data for the fandom and took a look at pairing trends for the player character, Shadowheart, Karlach, Lae’zel, and Minthara. In this section, I will discuss pairing trends on AO3 for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Halsin, then compare all 8 main characters and talk about pairings more broadly.

Please note that the data for this analysis was gathered between July 21, 2024 and July 24, 2024. I gathered data for the top 300 ship tags in the BG3 fandom, and due to time constraints did not look at pairings with fewer than 5 fics.

I will try and be as transparent as possible when discussing how I obtained and processed this data. A copy of my spreadsheet can be found here and contains all of the tables I will be discussing for anyone who wishes to take a closer look at the data. If you don’t care about the numbers and/or my thoughts about them, feel free to skim through this post and just look at the charts!

I will be referencing the “PC” a lot in this section. See part 1 for an explanation of my methodology, but basically I combined Tav, Dark Urge, Original Character, Reader, and You into one Player Character (PC) supercategory while filtering to prevent double counting. This makes it clearer who each character is typically paired with. It also drops the number of ships from 300 to 162. Throughout this essay, I will use “ship tags” to refer to the original 300 ships that I gathered the data for and “pairings” to refer to the 162 ships that remain when I condense the player character down.

CHARACTER PAIRING STATISTICS, CONT.

In part 1, I went through Tav, the Dark Urge, Shadowheart, Karlach, Lae’zel, and Minthara and took a look at who they are shipped with and their fic category (F/M, M/M, F/F, Other, Multi) breakdown. In this continuation, I will look at Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Halsin.

ASTARION

Astarion was included in 50.2% of all fic pairings (the number of fics tagged Astarion/PC + the number of fics tagged Astarion/Gale + the number of fics tagged Astarion/Halsin and so on, divided by the total sum of all fic pairings). This percentage increased to 53.9% when otp:true was applied. This means that over half of all shipping content for BG3 on AO3 involves Astarion!

Astarion is in 7 of the top 10 ship tags and 64 of the top 300 ship tags. When I condense the pairings with the PC down, he is in 7 of the top 30 ships and 40 of the 162 total pairings. The loss of 24 ship tags comes from me having to condense down not only all his ship tags with the PC but also all his threesomes and foursomes and moresomes with the PC.

Notably, Astarion was the only BG3 character to have race specific ship tags – Astarion/Tiefling!OC (68 fics), Astarion/Half-Elf!OC (27 fics), and Astarion/Drow!OC (9 fics). These all got condensed down into the Astarion/PC supercategory as well.

Astarion/Gale is #4 and his next pairings with a non-player character are #8 Halsin and #9 Wyll. Pairings #1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 10, and 16 are all just him with different tags for the player character. Condensing down all the player character tags yields us his top 20 pairings.

As expected, the player character dominates his pairings with 11,756 fics. His biggest non-PC ships are with Gale with 2,431 fics (of which an unusually high proportion are otp:true – 1,752 – almost three quarters of all his fics with Gale), Halsin with 848 fics, and Wyll with 582 fics. Ignoring the PC, he mostly seems to be shipped with men – the first canon woman to show up is Karlach at #8 with 157 fics (an order of magnitude less than Gale). He has four threesomes (Halsin/PC/Astarion, Gale/PC/Astarion, Karlach/Wyll/Astarion, Wyll/PC/Astarion) in his top 20 ships. I was surprised at how high Cazador (#6, 387 fics) was at first, but a lot of that is likely from Astarion’s backstory.

#20 was Astarion/Astarion with 15 fics, which means that Astarion is following in the proud tradition of tumblr sexymen like the Onceler before him.

As expected from looking at Astarion’s pairings in general, he has slightly more M/M (8,923 fics) shipping than M/F (7,996 fics) shipping. M/M pairings have an unusually high rate of otp:true fics – that’s mostly from Astarion/Gale. Oddly, there’s a small number (51) of F/F otp:true fics – these are either genderbends or mistags.

Looking at the pattern of pairings with the PC only, a different pattern emerges.

This time, there’s significantly more M/F fics (6,910, 58.8% of Astarion’s fics with the PC) than M/M fics (4,182, 35.6%), though the numbers are closer when you look at otp:true (46.7% M/F vs 37.6% M/M). We can infer then that it is more common to ship female player characters with Astarion than men. The Other category is significant (1,601 fics, 13.6%) and likely was used for a tag for nonbinary player characters. There’s still a bizarre 38 otp:true F/F fics.

GALE

Gale is in 19.7% of all pairings and 26.5% of otp:true pairings. He has 33 ship tags in the top 300, which drops to 23 when I condense all the player characters into “PC.”

Unlike Astarion, whose chart was completely dominated by his pairing with the PC, Gale has almost as many fics with Astarion as he does with Tav. The top pairings for Gale are primarily with the player character – #1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8 are all just different tags for the player character (Gale/You and Gale/Reader are synonymous and so have pretty much the same number of fics). Condensing all that down yields the following chart.

There’s a stark drop off after the player character and Astarion – an order of magnitude decrease in fics (#4 Shadowheart/Gale has 111 fics, a massive drop off from 2,431 Astarion/Gale fics). And #3 is just a threesome with both the PC and Astarion. I’ve commented on it before, but Gale/Astarion has a truly unusual proportion of otp:true fics – something that indicates that there are no background pairings in most of that ship’s activity. I would not be surprised if many of those fics are modern AUs or post game fics that don’t feature the other BG3 characters much if at all.

The quartet of Astarion-Gale-Halsin-PC is prominent in Gale’s top 20 ships. All permutations of that multiship are present: #1 Gale/PC, #2 Astarion/Gale, #5 Halsin/Gale, #3 Astarion/PC/Gale, #6 Astarion/Halsin/Gale, #11 Gale/Halsin/PC, and #15 Astarion/Gale/Halsin/PC. Towards the bottom of his top 20 we start getting into his multiships with most or all of the main protagonists. This’ll be more common with the other companions – there are only 11 Astarion / Gale / Wyll / Shadowheart / Lae’zel / Karlach fics, so when these show up the list is descending into very low fic count pairings.

Looking at Gale’s fic category breakdown, M/M predominates with 3,859 fics to M/F’s 2,938 fics. Given the very high proportion of otp:true fics, we can assume that most of that is Astarion/Gale. Indeed, when we look at Gale’s ship with the player character (his only other substantial ship), we see a very different picture.

Gale’s ship with the player character has much more M/F content than his general ship content and also than Astarion. M/M content drops from 57.1% of all his fics to 30.5% of his ships with the player character, while M/F content rises from 43.5% of all his fic content to 68.1% of his fic content with the player character. ‘Other’ shipping is about 9.6% of ship content with the player character. Looking at otp:true content, a little more than half as many male player characters are shipped with Gale as female player characters.

There are, for some reason, 16 F/F otp:true fics for all of Gale’s ships and 7 otp:true F/F fics for his ship with the player character.

WYLL

Wyll is featured in 5.2% of all pairings and 5.7% of otp:true pairings, a truly stunning drop from the ~50% of Astarion and 20-26% of Gale. He is in 24 of the top 300 BG3 ships, a number that drops to 18 when I condense all the player characters into one category.

Interestingly, Astarion/Wyll outpaces Wyll/Tav as Wyll’s most popular ship. Like with Gale/Astarion, the proportion of otp:true fics for that pairing is unusually high.

When we condense all of Wyll’s player character pairings into one category, it (barely) edges out Astarion/Wyll, with 588 and 582 fics respectively (also note that no Wyll pairing has thousands of fics, unlike Gale and Astarion before him). What also happens when we condense the player characters is that Wyll does not reach a full 20 ships – he drops to 18 pairings. He has more than this, of course, but my methodology ignores all pairings with fewer than 5 fics. Therefore, Wyll’s 19th and 20th most popular pairings have 4 fics or fewer. I have represented these missing pairings with little :( emojis, because this is a sad state of affairs.

Karlach is by far Wyll’s most popular ship after Astarion and the PC, with 327 fics. The otp:true proportion is low, so it is likely often a background ship or has background ships. The next highest pairing is #4, Gale, with 54 fics. The numbers rapidly drop from there – by #6 Wyll/Lae’zel we are at 26 fics and by #14 Wyll/Karlach/Shadowheart we are down to only 10 fics.

Wyll’s pairings, like all of the male characters, tend towards M/M, with 1,010 total fics. F/M follows up with 794 and Other with 162. Much of his M/M fics come from Astarion/Wyll, as we can see when we look at Wyll’s ships with the PC.

Like Astarion and Gale before him, the proportion of M/F rises when we look at Wyll’s pairings with the player character specifically. Unlike Astarion and Gale, though, no category even comes close to breaking 1,000 fics. M/F has 357 fics (or about 60.7% of his fics total) and M/M has 224 (38.1%). With otp:true applied, M/F is 56.3%, M/M is 40.7%, and Other has 13.3%. These numbers add to more than 100%, so even on otp:true fics people are evidently tagging multiple categories. This is likely due to “Reader” fics with a generic reader.

HALSIN

Halsin is featured in 9.7% of all pairings, almost twice Wyll’s proportion. This drops to 7.9% though when you apply otp:true – a much larger drop than pretty much anyone else other than the PC. It’s likely because Halsin has a disproportionately high number of fics with threesomes, which eliminate a fic from otp:true if the threesome subrelationships are also tagged.

He is in 31 of the top 300 ship tags and 21 of the top 162 pairings.

Like every other man in this essay, Halsin’s ship with Astarion is very prominent. The first canon woman to show up is Shadowheart at #15.

As expected, Halsin/PC is easily his most popular pairing, with 1,637 fics. Astarion and a threesome with Astarion and the PC follow with quite decent fic counts of 848 and 456 respectively. The otp:true proportion for Halsin/Astarion is abnormally high. Gale and Shadowheart seem to be his other major ships. Gale/Halsin is #4 with 106 fics and Gale/PC/Halsin is #8 with 19. Shadowheart/Halsin is #6 with 36 fics and Shadowheart/Halsin/PC is #10 with 17.

The Astarion-Halsin-Gale-PC quartet shows up prominently in Halsin’s top pairings. In addition to the ships previously mentioned, Halsin/Astarion/Gale is #5 with 92 fics.

What’s notable about Halsin’s fic categories is the abnormally large number of fics tagged Multi – 1,257 fics, or 37.4% of the total. Given that he’s the poly companion, this makes sense.

Looking at Halsin with the PC specifically, the typical pattern appears. The percentage of M/M drops and M/F rises. Unlike the other characters and like his general shipping situation, the percentage of Multi fic is quite high – 32.7%.

CHARACTER COMPARISON

Now that I’ve looked at all the main characters individually, let’s take a look at how they compare to each other across a variety of metrics.

FIC RATINGS

In my individual character discussions, I didn’t talk about their relative rating proportions much, even though I was carefully tracking it. This is because all rating plots look just about the same until you compare people against each other directly.

Taking a look at all fics, I noticed a couple of things. First of all, Wyll is the companion with the least amount of horny fic written about him, with 33.4% of fics that include him in a pairing being rated Explicit. Halsin is the horniest, no surprise, with 52.8% of fics that include him in a pairing being rated Explicit – over half! Astarion has 41.2% Explicit fics while Gale has 43.6%. Amongst the women, Minthara has the highest percentage of Explicit fics (47.8%) while all three other women are within 38% – 40%.

Interestingly, the percentage of fics rated Mature remains within 22% – 26% for all companions except Minthara, who has 27.8%. The proportion of General fic is between 9% and 11% for Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, and Karlach. Wyll has more than that, with 11.4%, while Lae’zel and Minthara have less than that with 8.4% and 5.6% respectively.

The situation does not change appreciably when I only look at fics with the otp:true condition.

FIC CATEGORIES

I have been talking about the percentage of M/F, M/M, F/F, Other, and Multi fics for each of the main characters. It’s interesting to compare them with each other. Please note, though, that in the individual character sections the percentages given were the percent of all fics for that character, and so the percentages added up to more than 100% because many fics tag several categories. In this section, the percentages given are a percent of all pairings. They therefore all add up to 100%, but it also means that fics that tag multiple categories are counted multiple times in that 100%.

The men all have more M/F than the women do (Astarion and Gale have the most while Lae’zel and Minthara have the least). Halsin, unsurprisingly, has the most Multi fic while Minthara has the least. Karlach has a surprisingly low proportion of F/F fic.

An interesting note is that the men all have less F/F fic than the women do M/M fic. This means that women are in background pairings to M/M ships or have background M/M ships in their focus fics proportionally more often than the men have background F/F ships or are in the background of F/F fics. The exception is Wyll, who has a F/F percentage close to the percentage of M/M fics in the womens’ fics.

Looking at ships with the PC specifically, some interesting patterns emerge.

Astarion, Gale, Wyll and Halsin have significantly (by more than 10%) more M/F content and less M/M content in their ships with the PC than their ships in general. Lae’zel and Minthara see a slight (less than 5%) increases in M/F and decreases in F/F as well. Shadowheart mostly stays the same. Karlach, on the other hand, sees a moderate (between 5% and 10%) decrease in M/F and increase in F/F in her ship with the PC specifically.

But remember, all these values include background pairings, and we have no way of knowing what proportion of each category actually contains the character we are interested in. So, what happens when we strip background pairings out of the equation by applying otp:true?

Wow! What a difference! Now, these values aren’t necessarily representative of all their pairings – just the ones that authors like to focus on without any background ships. Recall from the individual character analyses that often the second most popular ship after the pairing with the PC had an unusually high otp:true ratio. So we can assume, for example, that a large proportion of the M/M fics for Astarion and for Gale are from Gale/Astarion.

Every woman except Karlach is gayer than all of the men. Surprisingly, Karlach is the straightest companion by this particular metric.

Applying otp:true to ships with the PC specifically yields very different results.

Like what we saw with all ships, ships between the PC and men have significantly more M/F content than the mens’ ships generally. In this case, every man except Astarion jumps to around 50% M/F, and Astarion still jumps from 24.3% to 42.9%. The consistent pattern is that when looking at otp:true fics, M/M is preferred unless the pairing is with the player character, in which case M/F is more popular.

The conclusions for the women are not as clear cut. Karlach has more F/F and less M/F when looking specifically at ships with the PC, while Lae’zel has almost twice as much M/F when you look at her ship with the PC than her general otp:true fics – almost certainly due to the loss of Shadowheart/Lae’zel. Shadowheart experiences a significant (>10%) decline in the proportion of F/F fics, while Minthara sees a smaller one (~5%). What remains true, though, is that the majority of the player character shipping for the women is F/F.

The green bars in the chart are for the Other category, an expansive category that includes a lot of nonbinary PC shipping. You can therefore estimate how popular it is to ship each main character with a nonbinary Tav. Karlach has the most (18.6%) while Lae’zel has the least (5.2%). Everyone else is between 10% (well, 9.8% for Gale) and 12% except for Astarion who has 13.6%.

PAIRINGS

Most of both parts of this essay has been spent looking at each main character in relative isolation. But if you plot all pairings next to each other it paints a very interesting picture about each character’s relative popularity.

Astarion shows up 7 times in the top 10 ship tags and 12 times in the top 30 ship tags. The first non-Astarion ship is #4, Tav/Gale. There are no canon women in the top 10 ship tags – the first to show up is Shadowheart, at #14. Wyll does not appear until #18, in a pairing with Astarion. His pairing with Tav is #25. Lae’zel’s ship with Tav does not even make it onto this plot, at #38. Minthara is in an even worse situation – she first shows up at #60.

The results when I condense all the player character tags into “PC” are... stark.

Astarion dominates the BG3 fanfiction sphere in a way that is very surprising for a piece of media with six strong main characters. In fact, in order to actually be able to see the teeny tiny bars representing everybody else, here's a second graph with Astarion/PC excluded.

Astarion/PC is far and away the most popular ship, with 11,756 fics. Gale/PC is the second, with 3,500 – less than a third as many. Next is Astarion/Gale (2,431 fics) with an unusually high “otp:true” ratio, which indicates that it is frequently being written without any background ships. Surprisingly, Gortash/PC is fourth with 1,891 fics, followed by Halsin/PC with 1,637. Shadowheart/PC is the first woman to show up, at #6 with 980 fics. This is still 657 fics less than Halsin/PC and 911 fics less than Gortash/PC, which means that Gortash/PC is almost twice as popular as Shadowheart/PC. Astarion/PC has 12 times as many fics as Shadowheart/PC.

Karlach follows Shadowheart at #7 with 890 fics. Of the main cast, Lae’zel is next at #10 with 694 fics, and unlike every other Origin character her most popular ship is not with the PC but with Shadowheart. Wyll/PC does not make it into the top 10 ships, coming in at #11 with 588 ships. Notably, Raphael has more fics with the PC than either Lae’zel or Wyll, coming in at #9 with 745. Astarion/PC has a whopping 20 times as many fics as Wyll does and Gortash has over three times as many fics with the PC as Wyll does.

Lae’zel/PC finally shows up at #16 with 348 fics. Rolan/PC has more fics (#13, 477), and Astarion/PC has 33 times as many fics. Minthara/PC, meanwhile, is all the way down at #23 with 234 fics. Raphael, Rolan, Zevlor, the Emperor, and Haarlep all have more fics with the PC than she does. Halsin/PC has 7 times as many fics as Minthara/PC.

If you add up all the pairings each main character is tagged in, you get the following chart.

Astarion is far and away the most written about character in the BG3 fandom, followed by Gale and Halsin. If you divide these numbers by the total number of pairings, Astarion is in 50% of pairings, Gale is in 20%, and Halsin is in 10%. No other character breaks 10% - Shadowheart is in 7% of pairings, Karlach in 6%, Wyll in 5%, Lae’zel in 4%, and Minthara is in 1%.

Out of curiosity, I tallied up the numbers for Gortash as well. He appears in 6% of all pairings and 7% of otp:true pairings. This means that Gortash breaks even with Karlach and appears in more pairings than Wyll, Lae’zel, or Minthara, and if you look at otp:true he beats all the women and Wyll. This is despite Gortash having very few ships with characters outside of the PC, unlike most of the main cast who have notable secondary ships like Shadowheart/Lae’zel.

PAIRING ANALYSIS

Why am I focusing so much on pairings? Mostly because BG3 is an ensemble game – many fics will tag characters who show up for any significant length of time, even if just in the background. Therefore, if a character is tagged that is indicative that they are being included but not necessarily a sign that they are being focused on.

AO3 is a largely romance focused site (only 12% of all BG fics are categorized as General) and so characters in a pairing are more likely to be a focus of a fic. Of course this is not a hard rule, as in-depth character studies may have no pairings tagged at all or may tag a pairing that shows up in the background – but I have no way to distinguish these fics from a fic that tags a character because they show up for one paragraph. There is also the problem that many pairings are background pairings that are tagged but show up only briefly. To try and avoid that, in the following conversation, I will often be focusing on ships with the PC specifically. Fics pairing a character with the PC are especially likely to be focusing on that character and their romance and are much less likely to be a background ship than other pairings.

Looking at the data, the four most popular characters to ship with the PC – Astarion, Gale, Halsin, and Gortash – constitute the majority of fan works. Astarion, Gale, and Halsin in particular are shipped in all the possible configurations and these pairings are comparatively popular. Astarion/Gale is #3, Astarion/Halsin is #8 (above any Wyll or Lae’zel ships), Astarion/Halsin/PC is #14 (above Lae’zel/PC and all Minthara ships), Astarion/Gale/PC is #26, Gale/Halsin is #33, and Astarion/Gale/Halsin is #34.

So I did a little experiment. I went through my data and counted all the pairings that contained ONLY Astarion, Gale, Halsin, Gortash, and/or the PC. Then, I went through and counted all the pairings that weren’t in that group but did contain at least one of Astarion, Gale, Halsin, or Gortash.

Pairings containing ONLY a combination of the PC, Astarion, Gale, Halsin, or Gortash constituted 66.9% of all fic pairings in the BG3 fandom and (in a neat coincidence) also 66.9% of otp:true fic pairings. Adding in fics that involve at least one of these men with someone else ups the numbers to 73.3% of all fics and 75.0% of otp:true fics. Which means that only about a quarter of pairings do NOT include one of these four white men.

Now, it isn’t unusual for a couple of people to dominate a fandom like this. Many fandoms’ creative output primarily consist of only a couple of popular characters and their associated pairings. What is notable, though, is that BG3 is an ensemble game with 6 strong and nuanced main characters, three of whom are women, and two additional strong side characters, one of whom is a woman. But the four primary objects of fandom’s focus are 2 of the main characters, one of the side characters, and a villain.

This discrepancy is especially notable for Shadowheart and Lae’zel. For ages, when I’ve seen people bring up the relative scarcity of women in fanfic, the rejoinder is that the true culprit is the source media. Stories just don’t feature complex, interesting women with fully realized arcs, people say. There’s no narrative meat to for fandom to sink their teeth into.

This is not the case in BG3.

Both Shadowheart and Lae’zel have excellent narrative arcs that are well embedded into the game – Lae’zel has two game areas dedicated to her plotline (the creche and the astral plane) and you literally cannot progress the game past act 2 without interacting with Shadowheart’s dedicated area. The characters grapple with crisises of faith, culture clashes, and important decisions throughout the game – and who they end up becoming changes depending on the player character’s actions. This is great stuff! But it does not translate into fanfic popularity.

Lae’zel in particular is underrepresented. It’s notable that she is main character who is integrally tied into the plot and yet she is only tagged in 16% of fics – even including all the fics that merely tag her as a background character. She only appears in 4% of pairings. Her pairing with the PC comes in at #16, with 355 fics. But hey, her largest ship is with Shadowheart, so let’s look at the total number of pairings she shows up in – 1,319. Gortash/Dark Urge has 1,594 fics – that single pairing has 275 more fics than all of Lae’zel’s pairings added together. Gortash’s total pairing count is 2,052 and exceeds Lae’zel’s by almost 700 fics. Halsin’s total pairing count is over 2.5 times as large as Lae’zel’s at 3,346 fics total. Gale’s total pairing count is over five times as large, at 6,760 fics total. Oof.

Shadowheart is a bit better off – her pairing with the PC is the most popular woman at #6 with 980 fics. But this is still 657 fics less than Halsin/PC and 911 fics less than Gortash/PC, which means that Gortash/PC is almost twice as popular as Shadowheart/PC. When you take Shadowheart’s other pairings into consideration, things improve a little bit. She has 2,418 pairings total, which is about 400 more than Gortash’s total, though still over 900 fics less than Halsin’s total. But any Shadowheart/Lae’zel fan can tell you about sifting through their fics and finding that many only feature them as a background pairing for Astarion/Tav or some other more popular pairing. So let’s take a look at the otp:true numbers. Looking at otp:true fics only, Shadowheart has 765 fics and Lae’zel has 495 fics. Meanwhile, Halsin has 858 and Gortash has 800 – more than Shadowheart and much more than Lae’zel.

Neither Gortash nor Halsin really have arcs in game, though both of them do have implied arcs that happened before it. They’re interesting characters, sure, but undoubtedly Shadowheart and Lae’zel have more going on, more narrative meat to chew on. And yet, they’re completely overshadowed in fandom.

Speaking of being overshadowed, let’s talk about Wyll. Wyll is the only man in the main cast who is not particularly popular. He does not even make it into the top 10 pairings! He has fewer fics than Shadowheart or Karlach. Notably he has far far fewer fics with the PC than any other major male character and even several male villains. Gortash/PC has over three times as many fics as he does, Halsin/PC has 2.78 times as many fics as he does, and Astarion/PC has a whopping 20 times as many fics as he does. Even Raphael/PC has more fanfic! Even taking total pairings into account, Gortash still has more pairings than Wyll’s 1,770 total, while Halsin has almost twice as many.

A counterpoint that is commonly raised in this fandom is that Wyll is a boring character with less content than other Origin companions. Now, I disagree with this assessment of Wyll’s comparative boringness (I find him more interesting than Gale and much more interesting than Halsin, personally) but for the sake of this argument let’s not dispute this. The fact of the matter is that even if Wyll’s arc is half baked, Halsin has no arc at all and much less content in game. Gortash has even less content, with any potential past entanglement with Dark Urge being merely implied. Raphael doesn’t even have the implications of a past relationship with the PC, is never in a position to be in a relationship with the PC, and is canonically bad in bed to boot. And yet these men have far more fanfic with the PC than Wyll does.

I cannot help but notice that Astarion, Gale, Halsin, and Gortash are white men and Raphael presents himself as a white man.

What’s also notable is who doesn’t show up. Many minor non-player characters have quite sizable followings with a significant number of ships. Rolan, for instance, has 586 fics across 9 pairings. Zevlor has 393 ships, Dammon has 257, Kar’niss has 131, and Abdirak has 112. Other male characters that showed up on my list include Ansur (110, all with Balduran/the Emperor), Blurg (69, all with Omeluum), Vellioth (55, all with Cazador), Rugan (54), Kith’rak Voss (49), Sebastian (47, all with Astarion), Orpheus (40), Geraldus (29), Nere (22), He Who Was (21), Yurgir (18), Loroakkan (15, all with Rolan), Aradin (12), Danis (11 with Bex), Barcus (9 with the PC, not Wulbren), Petras (8 with Astarion), Guex and Ikaron (8 with each other), Franc Peartree (7 with Gortash), Lump the Enlightened (6), and Cal (6).

Meanwhile, if I eliminate Aylin and Isobel (not really “minor” NPCs), the first female minor NPC to show up in my list is Alfira with 58 fics. Nocturne follows with 57, Lakrissa with 34, Bex with 11 (all with Danis), Councillor Florrick with 8 (all with Minthara), Duke Stelmane with 8 (all with the Emperor), Kagha with 6, and Cerys with 6 (all with Rolan).

Councillor Florrick is notable because she has as much of a role in acts 1, 2, and 3 as Rolan, Zevlor, and Dammon yet she has no fics with the PC that showed up in my dataset; her only appearance is as part of a ship with Minthara. Ulder Ravenguard – a notable NPC from act 3 – never shows up at all, while Geraldus – a very minor NPC from act 3 – does. Rugan shows up but his boss Zarys never does. Neither does Roah Moonglow, who has a role in acts 1, 2, and 3 while Rugan only shows up in act 1. Araj Oblodra does not show up, but Sebastian does. Cal and Rolan show up in my dataset, but their sister Lia does not. Petras is the only vampire spawn to have over 5 of a pairing – Dalyria, who is present in all scenes where he is, does not. Alfira has the same presence in the story as Rolan (if anything, she has more), yet she shows up in less than a tenth as many fics. Vellioth, who never shows up at all, has 5 times as many fics as Viconia, who does.

The fandom has a definite trend for who gets written about, and it’s not women or Black people.

I’m not writing this to try and shame or guilt anyone. I have a dear friend who absolutely adores Astarion, and fandom acquaintances who I respect that are deeply invested in Gale, Halsin, and Gortash. And I don’t blame anyone for seeing a minor character and being intrigued enough by him to write fic. It makes sense that people are drawn to these characters – they’re really well written characters with engaging storylines. But all of the main characters in BG3 are well written, and who fandom chooses to focus on and prioritize says things about whose stories, whose lives, we pay attention to and care about.

I don’t expect this essay to change anything. Honestly, it’s mostly a primal scream of annoyance, broadcast to tumblr in hopes that other people who are annoyed by this phenomenon can find it. But it’s also a cold hard repudiation of any claim that the reason that women or Black people are underrepresented in fandom is solely due to the source material being lacking. BG3 proves that false.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic #fandom #shipping #ao3 #statistics #data visualization #astarion #gale #wyll #halsin #lae'zel #shadowheart #mine

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luciana-fanfics · 28 days ago

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~"Sick Day, Sweet Day"~ || Love & Deepspace Version

pairings: xavier x fem reader, zayne x fem reader, rafayel x fem reader, sylus x fem reader, caleb x fem reader

tags: fluff, mlw relationship

note: this is kinda genderfluid fic, so, enjoy i guess?

Xavier – The Protective Boyfriend Who Acts Tough but Melts Inside

You wake up to the sound of your front door opening—Xavier used the spare key you gave him. He walks in, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a mission.

“You’re sick. You didn’t even call me,” he mutters, eyes scanning you from head to toe. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to worry you…”

“Well, I am worried. So what now?” He marches into your kitchen and starts heating up soup like it’s a tactical operation. When he returns, he sets it down beside you with surprising gentleness. “Eat. Slowly.”

You expect him to sit on a chair—but he sits on the floor, by your bed, hand loosely holding yours.

“If you start feeling worse,” he says quietly, “you will call me. Or I’m staying.”

You squeeze his hand. “So you’re staying?”

He pauses. “...Yeah.”

Zayne – The Scientific Sweetheart Who Takes Your Illness Way Too Seriously

Zayne shows up with a digital thermometer, three kinds of vitamins, and a printout of your symptoms.

“Statistically, this could last 3–5 days,” he informs you, adjusting his glasses. “But with proper hydration and vitamin C intake, we might reduce that time by 18%.”

You smile weakly. “You came to treat me or run an experiment?”

“Both. But mostly to take care of you.”

He keeps a spreadsheet of your temperature, brings you orange slices shaped like hearts, and hand-feeds you soup with clinical precision—until you burst out laughing.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re so serious. It’s adorable.”

He blushes furiously, tries to hide it with data.

Later, as he carefully tucks you in and gently strokes your hair, he whispers, “You mean more to me than any experiment.”

Rafayel – The Over-the-Top Romantic (But It’s Actually Really Sweet)

You wake up with a fever... to rose petals scattered across your nightstand.

“…Rafayel?”

“I heard you were feeling under the weather,” he says, entering with a tray and wearing an apron. “So I made you tea, ran a warm bath, and lit lavender candles. It’s practically a spa.”

You blink. “You’re supposed to help me rest, not spoil me like a movie heroine!”

“Rest is luxury. Let me pamper my favorite person.”

He fluffs your pillows, brushes your hair back from your forehead, and places a gentle kiss on your temple.

“I’ve cancelled my day,” he says softly. “Taking care of you is more important than any appointment.”

Later, as you doze off in his arms, you hear him whisper, “Even when you’re sick and sniffling, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sylus – The Quiet, Gentle Presence You Didn’t Know You Needed

You’re in the middle of a coughing fit when a soft knock sounds at the door. Moments later, Sylus steps in, silent but warm-eyed.

“I brought soup,” he says simply.

He doesn’t ask permission—just helps you sit up, lays a towel over your lap, and feeds you small spoonfuls. His touch is cool, precise, but there’s something affectionate in every movement.

“I like when you take care of me,” you mumble, woozy from your fever.

He gives a rare, soft smile. “Then I’ll keep doing it.”

He doesn’t say much, but when you nap, he quietly tidies your room, replaces your water, and places a small plush wolf by your side.

“Rest,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your hair before sitting silently beside you, keeping watch.

Caleb – The Grumpy Softie Who Denies He’s Soft

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Caleb demands as soon as he barges in.

You sniffle, voice hoarse. “Didn’t want to be a burden.”

He glares. “You’re never a burden.”

Despite his sharp tone, he’s already tucking the blankets around you with surprising care. He sets down a care package: water, medicine, snacks, and… your favorite plushie?

“You remembered I like this one.”

He looks away. “It was just sitting there. Don’t make it weird.”

He sits awkwardly at your bedside, then slowly reaches out and rubs your back in small circles. His expression softens when you lean into the touch.

“…You better get better soon,” he grumbles, “or I’ll catch this and then we’ll both be miserable.”

You smile sleepily. “Then we’ll be miserable together.”

He groans. “Why do I like you so much?”

If u wanna read more, pls consider supporting me and find more of my writings here! [Masterlist]

#love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace sylus #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads caleb #sylus x reader #lads sylus #zayne x reader #lads zayne #rafayel x reader #lads rafayel #xavier x reader #lads xavier

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thisapplepielife · 10 months ago

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Monthly Word Count Wrap-Up

August 2024

This was a rough month. It's been straight out of the AO3 author's note curse handbook over here. It was just an in the snow, uphill both ways, trek, lol.

I think I might need to just take a step back from participating in so many events, although I love them, and just focus on editing up the final part of All Across the Universe, and then go from there.

That's the one obligation I need to fulfill. I'm so sorry it's later than expected. I didn't want to work on it when my head wasn't in it.

This month, I wrote the least of any month this year so far:

But I still somehow worked on 13 different projects this month, for a total of 22,500 words. My 500 words a day streak is still alive. Barely. You can see on a lot of days, that I just pushed through writing until I hit my 500 words. Often, late at night, and on a new document that if it was nothing, it was nothing. I'll be interested to go back later and see if anything was worth expanding.

The last few days were finally better. I edited some on AATU. I wrote some on a couple different WIPs because I wanted to, not because I had a word count to hit. So, maybe this was just a fluke of a month and I'll be totally fine and back to normal moving forward. Or I'll need to just cut back. Time will tell, I suppose.

Either way, in August I averaged 725.81 words a day.

And the yearly average, sits at 1070.35 words per day.

What I Posted This Month:

Never Not Mine (For Steddie Angsty August, E, 3240 Words)

Just the Facts (For A Stranger Summer Week #14, T, 813 Words)

Different Lessons (For Steddie Angsty August, T, 3300 Words)

Tip Your Driver (For A Stranger Summer Week #15, T, 4115 Words)

I'm An Island, But You're An Ocean (For Steddie Angsty August, T, 2191 Words)

Firing on All Cylinders (For A Stranger Summer Week #16, T, 3000 Words)

Clean Sheets Night (For Steddie Angsty August, T, 1374 Words)

Of All the Gin Joints (For A Stranger Summer Week #17, T, 1938 Words)

Heat Waves (For Steddie Song Fics, T, 1500 Words)

Embarrassing For You (Late Entry For Steddie Micro, T, 437 Words)

She Still Wants More (For A Stranger Summer Week #18, T, 448 Words)

#monthly wrap up #monthly word count #fic writing #I love data #august 2024 #spreadsheets #data #my writing #writer stuff #thisapplepielife: monthly word count wrap-up #masterlist

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rythyme · 1 year ago

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Introducing the Thai Drama AO3 Trends Dashboard! (Beta) 🇹🇭

Over the last several weeks or so I've been building an auto-scraping setup to get AO3 stats on Thai Drama fandoms. Now I finally have it ready to share out!

Take a look if you're interested and let me know what you think :)

(More details and process info under the cut.)

Main Features

This dashboard pulls in data about the quantity of Thai Drama fics over time.

Using filters, it allows you to break that data down by drama, fandom size, air date, and a select number of MyDramaList tags.

You can also see which fandoms have had the most new fics added on a weekly basis, plus the growth as a percentage of the total.

My hope is that this will make it easier to compare Thai Drama fandoms as a collective and pick out trends that otherwise might be difficult to see in an all-AO3 dataset.

Process

Okay -- now for the crunchy stuff...

Scraping 🔎

Welcome to the most over-complicated Google Sheets spreadsheet ever made.

I used Google Sheets formulas to scrape certain info from each Thai Drama tag, and then I wrote some app scripts to refresh the data once a day. There are 5 second breaks between the refreshes for each fandom to avoid overwhelming AO3's servers.

Archiving 📁

Once all the data is scraped, it gets transferred to a different Archive spreadsheet that feeds directly into the data dashboard. The dashboard will update automatically when new data is added to the spreadsheet, so I don't have to do anything manually.

Show Metadata 📊

I decided to be extra and use a (currently unofficial) MyDramaList API to pull in data about each show, such as the year it came out and the MDL tags associated with it. Fun! I might pull in even more info in the future if the mood strikes me.

Bonus - Pan-Fandom AO3 Search

Do you ever find it a bit tedious to have like, 15 different tabs open for the shows you're currently reading fic for?

While making this dash, I also put together this insane URL that basically serves as a "feed" for any and all new Thai drama fics. You can check it out here! It could be useful if you like checking for new fics in multiple fandoms at once. :)

Other Notes

Consider this dashboard the "beta" version -- please let me know if you notice anything that looks off. Also let me know if there are any fandoms missing! Thanks for checking it out!

The inspiration for this dashboard came from @ao3-anonymous 's AO3 Fandom Trend Analysis Dashboard, which I used as a jumping off point for my own data dash. Please give them some love <3

#in which i am the biggest nerd ever #thai bl #thai drama #lgbt drama #ql drama #data science #acafan #fandom data visualization #fanfiction data

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luckyroll3 · 3 months ago

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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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