#silver showed up to change the past but he showed up outside so he can only figure out what's going on once it's over

[bigkickguy]

they didn't have to references to the 06 ost and slap on some lyrics for me to overanalyze!!! but they did!!! thanks frontiers hahaaaa Ephemeral - 4-2 song: Here Once it's gone, it's never Here Only the heart remains Here Time goes on

[moonjxsung]

Visions of You in Solitude

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner. Doing so will result in a legal takedown per the Digital Millennium Copyright Act and is subject to legal action.

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

Warnings: erotic painting, mentions of masturbation, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), breast/nipple play, dry humping, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), cum eating, use of pet names, drinking

Synopsis: You were hired to paint him- not fall for him. But intentions quickly shift when Hyunjin finds himself infatuated with you and learns the secrets you harbor.

18+. Mdni!

•

There’s something to be said about the loneliness that comes with being an artist. The repetitive cycle of translating tangibility to canvas or paper in whichever chosen medium. Fleeting muses you draw inspiration from, which quickly become burdensome as you’re faced with them every waking second of your day. Obsession with perfecting your craft, the anxieties that come with criticism of your life’s work and sometimes even succumbing to changing it entirely at the hands of someone else’s advice.

It’s very seldom even your craft at a certain point, only existing to satisfy the visual demands of others and turn a profit when displayed at a show. And it’s certainly not for everyone, not when it’s this lonely and rooted in the discomfort of personal solitude.

*

From this proximity, the blinding white walls that span the perimeter of the waiting room feel like that of a prison’s- coupled with the glossy laminate flooring and glaring white lights, you feel completely entrapped.

“They’re almost ready for you,” your boss says abruptly as he enters the room and occupies the gray folding chair next to you. “You have everything you need?”

Headcount- your black leather briefcase of oil paints, brushes, charcoal, pencils, paint thinner, old rags and your painting palette.

“The canvas is already set up,” your boss chimes in as if he can read your mind. “And there’s a seat for you. Just relax, and don’t push yourself.”

You take a deep breath, doing your best to follow his advice- but a part of you wants to get up and leave, to run away from all of this. Painting is your passion, it’s your forte and it’s been your life’s work for as long as you can remember. But being commissioned like this, for men much richer than money you’ll ever see, it feels suffocating.

They don’t tell you their names these days, nor the name of whatever organization they’re from. Last month it was an elite group of stock investors, the month before, it was a famous violinist from Japan. And today, it’s a male group, eight members with net worths that look like telephone numbers, or so you’ve been told. And it’s not that you’re intimidated, but you do get self-conscious at the prospect of people watching you while you paint. At some point, it’s like you become the model, their eyes boring into your flesh as you paint long strokes across the canvas and order them to hold still.

“Five minutes,” your boss now says, checking the time on his silver watch and adjusting it so that it sits a little higher up on his wrist.

You wish he wouldn’t count the minutes. You wish he’d stay quiet, allow you to sit with your thoughts and ruminate the day ahead of you. And yet he taps his heel in syncopation with the second hand on the clock above you, the echoing click of both driving you up the wall.

“I need a breather,” you state suddenly, sitting up from your chair and smoothing down your smock. “I need to go outside.”

“Three minutes,” he responds sterly, tapping at the glass lens of his watch and motioning to the door.

You shove your way past the double doors, past the white tiled hallway and just in front of the double doors that lead to freedom again. Two minutes.

It’s like your body is giving out on you involuntarily, your knees buckling as you grip the stair railing and steady your breathing. A quick glance around to ensure no one’s caught you heaving so nervously- and you’re too late. A man saunters down the hallway past you, his hands shoved casually in his pockets as he cocks his head to stare at you, his long black hair falling loosely around his shoulders as he does. He’s tall, and slim, with an elongated torso hugged by an expensive denim coat, his slender legs on display in black slacks and complemented by a sharp pair of boots. You don’t catch a very good look at his face, his figure blurring by as you check your watch, to the second now- you’re supposed to be inside.

You waste no more time jogging down the hallway past the figure and back into the waiting room, where your boss is angrily tapping his heel and scanning the room for you.

“There you are,” he says frustratedly. “No more breaks if you can’t manage your time. They’re waiting for us.”

And with a deep breath, he helps you gather your art supplies, motioning in front of you to the brightly lit room. You take one breath, and then two, as you finally begin into the painting room, eight men already seated and ready for you.

*

The crowd is nothing like the stock investors, or the violinists you’re used to. They’re rowdy, and loud. They very seldom sit still, cracking jokes amongst themselves and shoving each other off the wooden stools every other minute. You do your best to keep your gaze away from them when you don’t need to look at them, trying to memorize their features in intervals so you can focus on just the canvas in front of you as you paint. But it’s nearly impossible, their melodic voices pressing you for answers and insights into your artist career.

“What’s the hardest painting you’ve ever done?” One asks, his baritone voice sounding almost startling in contrast to his bright appearance.

“There’s lots,” you reply quietly. “I’m not sure I can pick one.”

You give him a small smile, trying to memorize the freckles on his face before turning back to the canvas, hoping you won’t have to glance back over at him for the next minute or so.

“Let’s take five,” your boss says as he enters the room again, two iced coffees balanced in his hands. “Thanks, guys.”

And the men scatter to their break room, where neat trays of food are already set out for them to choose from. As the doors swing closed behind them, you watch them select from a variety of pre-cooked noodles, assorted fruits and vegetables, packs of chips and trays upon trays of desserts. They’re fed as though they’re the ones doing all the painting.

“Coffee,” Q says, setting down a plastic cup in front of you, the straw already conveniently placed for you.

“Thanks, Quinton.”

Your boss, Quinton, or Q, is a brutally honest man when he wants to be, quick to comment on your work and keep you in your place. He runs your calendar like the military, never missing an important appointment and opting you in for every profitable painting session possible. He’s another thing you find suffocating at the worst of times, always somewhere breathing commands down your neck and dragging you to every private event under the sun.

“Let me see,” Q states plainly, gesturing to the canvas with his cup of coffee. You shyly angle the canvas toward him, hoping he won’t scrutinize anything about your pacing- you’re trying to get out of here as quickly as possible, and you silently pray the art doesn’t reflect that sentiment.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t, swiping a few stray eraser shavings off the canvas and giving you a nod.

“Looks good. Remember, we just need the skin tones and facial features. The clothes and all that can be filled in later with our reference pictures.”

You nod in response, taking a generous sip of your coffee, realizing this is probably the worst beverage you could’ve picked to calm your nerves. The caffeine pulsates through you, making your heart flutter even more than it already is, and the bitter taste leaves little to salivate over.

“How much longer, do you think?” You inquire, chewing on the tip of your straw nervously.

“No more than an hour, if you keep up this pace,” Q responds. “I’m going to the bathroom real quick, have everything ready again for when I get back. Don’t make me wait.”

You watch as he gets up from his own wooden stool, placing his cup of coffee where he sits, and exits the room to the corridor once again.

You’re alone in the painting room, the white sheets that line the floors staring back at you with little eyes in the form of paint splotches. From behind the door, you can still hear the eight men shuffling about, laughing loudly and downing their snacks. And you want to leave again, the feeling instilling another sense of foreignness inside of you. Like you don’t belong here, even though you’re the painter. You feel small, cramped, even useless, as you stare down the painted flesh outlines across from you.

A click of the door closing beside you garners your attention, and you look up expecting Q to return and resume the session. But it’s not Q- it’s the same figure from earlier in the hallway, slowly making his way inside and hoisting himself back up on the wooden stool. He keeps his head down as he gets comfortable again, two hands running through his black hair and slicking it back out of his forehead.

And then he looks at you- or stares, rather, two hands resting on the exposed wood in front of him as his legs balance on the wooden beams below. You can feel his eyes burning into your figure, and you do everything in your power to avert his gaze and keep your eyes locked on the canvas in front of you. But he remains like that, staring, for several minutes, until you nervously tilt your head to catch his gaze.

You feel your heart race as you do, catching a glimpse of his flawless features as he furrows his brows in concentration. His silky black hair isn’t the only striking thing about him- he has piercing brown eyes, which narrow with such intensity as he remains seated there, unmoving and confident in his stance. His plump lips contrast beautifully against his chiseled jawline, and his lanky figure makes him look like the contemporary art statues you’re so acquainted with, like he’s formed from wire and positioned to slouch so artistically in his spot.

You say nothing to the man, opting to give him a little nod, before focusing back on the beverage in your hands. And despite his clear fascination with you, he doesn’t reciprocate, instead pulling a cell phone out of his back pocket and preoccupying himself again.

You can’t quite tell if he’s rude, or strange, or even just unaware that his presence is so uncomfortable when he’s choosing to speak through cold stares instead of words. As you watch him through your peripheral vision, you hear the familiar sound of Q’s boots click through the doorway, gesturing rapidly at you and at the canvas.

“Let’s continue,” he orders, clasping his hands together with such purpose. “Where are they?” Q then questions, his eyes darting over the quiet man’s indifferent posture. And the strange man finally gets up from his stool, making his way through the break room door to usher the others inside once again.

They follow like a row of ducks, back to their respective seats, some of them with drinks in hand as they share whispered laughter amongst themselves and make little effort to sit still. You have no trouble picking up right where you left off, the innate talent to mirror figures in front of you coming in handy as you race the clock to complete their flesh-colored outlines.

Most of them converse lightly amongst each other, holding your gaze with a more serious expression when they catch you looking over at them.

Except for the strange man.

He’s relentless in his ways, continuing to stare so impolitely at you, his eyes piercing daggers right through your soul as he cocks his head to the left, and then the right, studying your face as you study all eight of theirs. What his intentions are exactly, you have no clue, simply opting to avert his gaze when you can and keep busy with your painting.

One hour later, the canvas illustrates all eight outlines of flesh and distinctive features, highlighting the beige freckles on one man’s, the toned biceps of another, and all other features that set them apart from each other. True to Q’s reminder, their clothes are traced in outlines, but color is void of their stencils, as you still have to bring the canvas home to complete the finishing touches. When they’re dismissed for the day, the gentlemen are all led by a sculpted man with a big smile who introduces himself as the leader, orchestrating the bows and applause that are held for you.

And as he ushers them out one by one, the strange man who’s been watching you all day is the last to leave, lingering a little bit too long with his hands shoved in his pockets like he wants to say something. He loiters by the canvas for several minutes, but you make no move to angle the painting at him, usually maintaining a certain extent of confidentiality in your work to keep the surprise.

He seems to take the hint, almost nodding indirectly at you and more toward the wall, as he finally saunters out of the room with his hands still in his pockets, his strides painfully slow as he disappears from your sight.

And when you look back to the painting, you cock your head at his outline, trying to gauge whether your art properly captures the sheer sense of unnerve he instills in you with his features alone.

*

Painting sessions are burdensome. They require a lot of planning ahead of time, stocking up on supplies, scheduling around the hours-long timeframe and of course, the mental preparation of having to be stared at by rich men for several hours.

But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.

Your paintings are typically set in stone after the initial outlines, considering there are usually a few important figures who review your work and give you the go ahead to take it home and finish it.

Yet sometimes, you still have people complaining, pointing out unimportant features like the color of their sneakers which aren’t to their liking. It’s normally Q who fights these battles for you, refusing to allow you to make any changes since the payments are made upfront, too. But sometimes, even he caves, ordering you to pull out your briefcase and mix a darker shade of green or add more volume to the subject’s hair.

It’s the worst with investors, who put their audacity at the same level as their incomes. But with boy groups like this, you’re unsure, having never done a painting for a band prior to this one.

The finished canvas is transported in a nylon zip-up bag, held by yourself and Q as you fit it inside the truck and secure it with metal prongs. While the drive there is just an hour long, it feels much longer than the last time you traveled there, perhaps because you’re much more nervous.

And perhaps also, it’s because of the same strange man as last time, who you already know is going to have a mouthful to say. The way he lingered by your work station a little too long, wouldn’t stop staring and even excused himself from his own break early to resume his insufferable task of making you uncomfortable. You reckon it’ll be a comment about his hair, asking for a longer length or more volume. Maybe something about the stage outfit you were presented with and how it doesn’t make his legs look long enough. Or knowing his douchebag tendencies, maybe he won’t hesitate to ask for a fucking bulge in his pants at this point.

When you arrive, Q calls over the building staff to help transport the collosal work of art, while you wait awkwardly on the side with your hands shoved in your pockets. You take a moment to crane your neck and look up at the building, a tall glass monument with blue-tinted windows and cobalt text that displays the company name. It’s just as intimidating as you remembered it, instilling the same unnerving feeling that a hospital might.

When the building staff are finally making their way inside, you follow reluctantly, making yourself as small as possible behind them while they navigate the long blinding corridors. It’s an unusual feeling to be at the top floor of the building that you were just looking up at from the street below, and as you pass the windows that line the hallways, you can make out the rows of cars and people that now resemble ants from this high up. It’s as though you were never down there to begin with, like the world is different from up here, much more secluded and shut-in.

And seeing the pin boards that line the walls, with photos of successful artists and flyers for company events, it very well might be, this haunting building where dreams either go to flourish or decay.

Into the last door on the right, eight chairs lined up for eight artists who definitely seem to have flourished. The building staff set up the canvas at the front of the room, securing it into its wooden easel, and Q occupies himself setting up a recording camera which points directly at the painting and captures all eight chairs in the frame. It’s common protocol for events like these to be filmed, not always for public consumption, but for the staff to archive important commemorative moments in the artist’s name. Once the camera is rolling, Q gives you a thumbs up, gesturing to the staff to permit their exit as you make your way to the front with him.

“Ready?” He asks, clasping his hands together as he eyes the camera nervously. You say nothing in response, giving him a small nod, before taking your spot on the other side of the canvas and folding your hands behind your back.

For a few moments of complete silence, the two of you keep your gazes fixed on the clock that lives on the wall across you, the hands ticking with the passing seconds as you await the arrival of the band. Q turns to say something, seemingly disregarding it as he turns back to the wall and shifts his eyes to the door every few moments.

You wish he wouldn’t be so… anticipatory. You wish he’d just stand there, like a rock, indicating nothing of importance, so that you could put less weight into this and unveil the painting to them without any reservations.

Here’s the painting, you want to say. It took me forever, so don’t criticize it. You guys are shorter than my usual subjects. Except for the weirdo- and he stares too much.

You smile to yourself at the thought of being so candid with them, before an abrupt push of the door startles you, and you instantly straighten your posture at the sounds of boots clicking along the floor, leading the eight men who live on the canvas behind you.

One by one they take their seats, dressed to the nines this time in black slacks and collared button ups. They even flaunt ties, mirroring the businessmen you’re used to painting, and the fancy attire quickly makes you nervous as they fold their hands in their laps and fail to joke around like they did the last time.

“Welcome,” a booming voice says, as other important looking figures stand around the room and eye the covered canvas. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, and we’re eager to see what you’ve come up with.”

Applause fills the room, inclusive of the members of the band, which you finally allow yourself to look at. They sit properly, hands folded in their laps and serious expressions painted on their chiseled faces.

Except for the strange one, again, whose gaze is locked on yours. He cocks an eyebrow curiously, as though you’re the one doing the staring. And you quickly turn your attention back to Q, hoping that disregarding the men will calm your nerves a little.

“… she’s paid particular attention to detail,” Q continues, and you realize you’ve missed half his speech already.

“And we are so excited to hang her work in this renowned building as a commemorative piece for the members. Without further ado, please let’s unveil the artwork.”

As he finishes, two members of the staff tug on the beige cloth, letting it fall to the tiled floor beneath it and expose the giant portrait.

Their faces light up instantly, little “woah’s” filling the room as they rise from their seats to take a better look. They laugh at their own figures, they point out each other's and most of them even pull out their cellphones to snap photos of your art. It’s always a gratifying feeling, having a crowd admire the fruits of your labor this way, especially when you aren’t immediately met with verbal protest against your creative choices.

You take a few steps back to give some room to them, the staff talking amongst themselves and gesturing to the building where you presume they speak about where the painting will live.

“It’s a hit,” Q says, coming around to tap you lightly on the arm. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Thanks, Quinton,” you respond. “I’m glad everyone enjoys it.”

And the staff applaud you once more, bowing to you and lining up to shake your hand as they begin to file out of the room again.

The members stick around for a good while, unable to take their eyes off the painting as they point out each other's features and admire their own. And as they begin to leave, several of them thank you personally on the way out, giving you a bow and shaking your hand.

“Thank you, really,” the man you remember being the group leader says to you. “We are so honored to have worked on this with you.”

Another clasps your hand in his, bowing several times before speaking. “Seungmin,” he states his name politely. “Thank you, I think you really did our old group leader justice.”

“Hey!” The leader calls, and you can’t help but laugh a little in response.

The others share similar sentiments, bowing and shaking your hand as they exit, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they make their way down the hall for their next schedule.

And when you turn to face Q, you’re met with the last member, who folds his arms in front of him coldly and eyes the painting with raised eyebrows.

Like clockwork. He doesn’t like it, he’s going to request a change be made to it and he’s going to berate you in front of your own boss.

“It’s nice,” he chimes in casually from where he’s standing.

“Thanks,” you reply, Q gathering the cover from the floor and zipping it up again.

“Just one thing,” he says now, turning to face you.

“Oh, we normally don’t make changes after-”

“I have a freckle under my eye,” he finishes. “The left eye. You didn’t catch it.”

Your eyes scan the painting, where his chiseled face and long hair stare back at you, a serious expression in his eyes like he wears in person. And then you glance at him standing in front of you again, a small brown mole under his left eye, just like he speaks of.

“Go ahead and add it,” Q says, as he zips up the cover. “That should be on there already.”

And you nod your head at both of them, unzipping your briefcase again to retrieve your paints. He’s watching you like a hawk again, towering over your bent figure as you pull out a thin tube of brown paint and squeeze just a miniscule dollop onto the back of your hand. You retrieve your thinnest paint brush, dipping it into the paint and swiping it across your skin to rid the excess from the fine hairs.

It feels as though you have to paint it with his permission, as you bring the brush to his face and glance over at him for instruction. He gestures to his eye, motioning for you to start, as you bring the brush to his canvas flesh and tap on a tiny, single dot.

He stares at it for a moment, cocking his head as though a brown dot somehow won’t be to his liking. And even Q holds his breath while he waits for a comment from the man. You begin to say something, your lips parting silently, stuck on what to remark as you await his feedback. And then with bated breath, he finally speaks, giving a small nod as he does.

“Good,” he says simply. “It’s me now.”

Q nods at him, nods at you, and then gathers your belongings as you cap the loose tube of paint.

“Do you have a card?” The man asks suddenly, and Q pauses his shuffling about to retrieve one from his coat pocket.

“Here’s her card,” he says, against your silent protests. “She’s available for commission any time. Payments are up front and scheduling is through me only.”

The man nods, thumbing the gold foil cardstock in his slender fingers, and then shoves it into the pocket of his slacks.

“Hyunjin,” he says curtly, reaching his hand out to yours. “I’m the main dancer.”

And you just nod, placing your hand in his reluctantly as you shake once.

“Y/n.”

His hands are cold to the touch, the metal of his rings feeling like blocks of ice in your grasp. He holds it there for a moment, his narrowed eyes shooting daggers into yours, before he finally pulls away and pivots to leave with the rest of the band.

And you can only catch a glimpse of the back of his head when he’s halfway out, before Q turns to speak to you.

“Looks like we may be back very soon,” he remarks, latching your briefcase once more. “I’d hold on to that brown paint if I were you.”

*

Exactly four days pass before you hear from Hyunjin again. In fact, you’ve all but forgotten about the little run-in, until Q barges into your studio while you add the finishing touches to another client’s piece.

“I have a proposal for you,” Q voices, setting an iced coffee on the table beside you while you dip your paintbrush in a muddy cup of water.

“What is it?”

“Well financially, a massive opportunity. Career-wise, much of the same thing you’re already doing.”

“Businessmen?” You question, working your paintbrush in thin strokes to add hair to the figure on the canvas.

“Band,” he replies simply. “The same band you did last week. Just one member, though.”

And you know instantly who he speaks of, your face contorting into an expression of disgust as you wash your paint in the cup of water once more.

“Hyunjin?” You query.

“That’s him,” he says, snapping his fingers as the name comes back to him. “He’s offering double what we paid last, and just for an individual piece. That’s a massive markup from what we usually charge.”

“I don’t know,” you reply hesitantly. “I’m pretty busy with this, and we-”

“I already said yes,” he states simply.

“You did? What- I thought this was a proposal.”

“Yeah,” he says with a scoff. “A proposal to get your stuff ready. We start tomorrow. And he wants you to bring every color you’ve got.”

“Tomorrow? Don’t we already have a prior commitment?”

“Already moved them out,” Q says, sitting on the chair across from you.

“Look,” he begins, sighing deeply. “I know you’re hesitant about these things. But this is the best move you can do, career-wise. Painting these famous figures is a gold mine for us. One day you could be commissioned to paint royalty, and then we’ll be reaping three times our salary.”

And you sigh, too, knowing very well that he’s right. Being a painter who gets commissioned to commemorate important characters, you know the best thing you can do for yourself is say yes to every opportunity. You’re very seldom able to, which is why you have Q in the first place. But the prospect of spending another day with Hyunjin scares you, and you’re not sure Q would consider it a legitimate concern if you brought it up to him.

“I’ll be there, too,” Q interrupts, almost as though he can read your mind. “It’s just him. One day, max, and then you can pick up your other projects.”

It doesn’t seem like there will be a way out of this one, no matter how much you pray that things will fall through eventually.

“One day,” you echo. “And then I’m tunnel vision on the rest of my projects.”

*

You can tell Hyunjin’s thought about this very carefully, judging by the way he saunters into the room with purposeful strides and slings a bag off his shoulder.

He’s dressed a little more casually today in a denim jacket and jeans, with layered silver jewelry that contrasts nicely against his jet black hair.

“Like a model headshot, but painted,” he describes his vision to you, gesturing with his hands as he speaks.

“I want it to look really serious. And maybe a cool-toned color palette.”

He’s meticulous with his requests, and you wonder briefly if he dabbles in art, himself.

“Sure, we can do that,” Q responds, jotting down a few points in a small notepad.

You say nothing, letting Q do all the talking, but Hyunjin’s eyes glance over at you briefly like he wants you to acknowledge the request. So you just nod graciously, giving him a thin-lipped smile, and begin to undo your briefcase.

Hyunjin assumes his same spot on one of the wooden stools, dragging it closer to you by its leg and propping it within eye-view of your big canvas. And then he sits on it, or rather slouches, adjusting his gaze to look straight at you and maintain a cold, serious expression.

It’s just as unnerving as you’d remembered it, having this model-looking figure pierce daggers through your soul while you mix your paints- cool-toned ones, at his request, and prepare for the hour-long trek of capturing his essence.

At least you won’t have to talk to him- or so you’d assumed from the last session you completed with him.

“What’s your process like?” He asks, his sultry voice perfectly matching his features.

“Oh,” you remark, mixing a set of paints to mirror his even skin tone. “I don’t know, I just paint what I see.”

He nods, satisfied with your less-than-wordy answer, and then he begins to prod you with more questions.

“What are your favorite art supplies?”

You cock an eyebrow at this, well aware that you have a long list you can indulge him in, but not wanting to share your secrets with this complete stranger.

“I dunno,” you reply softly. “Oil paints, and graphite pencils really.”

Hyunjin nods again, and then he glances at Q, who gives him a thin-lipped smile much like yours, trying his hardest to remain polite with Hyunjin. You know Q is likely frustrated with you for not entertaining this conversation in a more lively manner, especially considering what he paid for this session, but you’re not going to indulge him in anything except painting him- and only for this one session, like you promised Q.

And the rest of the session is uneventful, Hyunjin poking you with questions about your personal favorite paintings or inquiring about a time you messed up on an important piece. All questions which are answered with brief “I don’t know’s” or “there are so many, I can’t choose.”

And although you are trying hard to keep Hyunjin at a distance, nothing seems to faze him, his head nods and little hums serving as indicators of his satisfaction with all of your answers. He doesn’t get pushy, like your other clients often do, and he even presses Q for a few answers as he makes sense of your work.

At just past 5, the session draws to a close, as Hyunjin rises from his stool and announces he has to tend to his evening dance practice.

“It’s nice seeing you again,” Hyunjin says as he approaches you, giving a small bow as Q waits off to the side.

“Thank you,” you voice back, glancing at Q for a push to leave.

And Hyunjin extends a single hand, gesturing for you to place yours in his, as he towers over you with a curious expression.

You reluctantly place your palm in his, letting the cool metal of his rings graze your skin as he clasps his thumbs over your fingers and rubs them in gentle back and forth motions. He doesn’t bring it up for a cordial peck, he doesn’t shake it- he simply caresses your artist hands tenderly, before letting go again and turning to give Q a small bow as well.

“Take care,” Hyunjin says, pivoting to exit the room into the corridor.

And as Q pesters you with orders to clean up your workstation, you examine your own hands, rotating your own fingers around, like they might somehow be changed by his touch.

*

ON HOLD- The notes under your projects on the big calendar in Q’s office read, written in dark red pen and underlined twice across the pages.

You furrow your brows in confusion, setting your bag down as you enter for the day and ready your art supplies.

“What’s going on?” You ask Q, who’s busy sorting through a stack of invoices.

“Have a seat,” he replies plainly, gesturing to one of the leather chairs that accompany his grand wooden desk. And you do, sitting on the very edge of the chair as you await further instruction from him.

“A gift came for you,” Q says, slinging a large box on the desk in front of you.

You stand up once again, peering inside at the myriad of oil paints, sharpened charcoal pencils, new smocks, palettes and even books about artists and their works. You dig through the supplies, heart racing at the expensive choices, feeling undeserving of all the presents the box contains.

“This is all for me?” You question, baffled at the prospect that anybody could care enough about your career to indulge you in such a fine assortment of goods.

“Read the card,” Q then says, his arms folded in front of him as he nods toward the top of the cardboard box, where a simple yellow envelope is taped to the cover, cursive text scribbled on the front. Hyunjin, it reads.

You undo the seal, pulling out the small card inside, which only contains a short, cold sentence, in contrast to the warm gift.

“For the next few”, it says, not so much as a sign off or even a simple “thanks”.

“Next few?” You repeat, meeting Q’s gaze with a confused expression.

Q sighs, sitting across from you, folding his hands out on the wooden surface where you can see them.

“His manager called this morning,” he begins. “And commissioned us for another one. Except this one has a long set of rules. He wants you to use these supplies, he wants to visit your studio instead of occupy the company building. And he specifically asked me not to accompany you.”

“What?” You exclaim, angered at the sheer audacity he has, and knowing very well that you only agreed to one painting.

“That’s completely against our rules,” you continue. “Did you tell him no?”

And Q gives you a sheepish grin, gesturing to the stack of papers he flipped through earlier. “They’re offering quadruple the pay,” he says sternly. “He’s obsessed with your work.”

“So what?” You argue. “I have a ton of other projects to finish. And I’m not throwing all of that away because some guy wants time alone with the artist.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting alone time with an artist,” Q emphasizes.

“This is a huge sacrifice, Quinton. I wish you would’ve run this by me earlier.”

Your eyes meet the calendar above his desk again, counting the number of projects with a big ON HOLD scribbled below them. Q sighs, evidently feeling a little guilty for his own actions, and then pinches his wireframe glasses between his fingers, pulling them off his face and tucking them into the pocket of his blazer.

“I’m willing to give you 10% more than what you already make from these.”

Your gaze snaps to his, a bewildered expression on your face as you process his words.

“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”

“His company’s loaded” he says with a shrug. “The guy is so much bigger than I thought he was. People love him.”

And your gaze flickers between the calendar and the big red text, Quinton’s hopeful stare and at the box of new art supplies you’ll be required to work with.

Q doesn’t need to press you for verbal confirmation, knowing that the caress of your fingers over Hyunjin’s name on the envelope serves as answer enough.

*

Your studio is particularly messy on Wednesdays, housing all of the project paraphernalia from the days prior. Today is no exception, canvases that sit on easels lining the walls and cans of paint thinner spread out on the tarps. You make your best attempt at shoving everything against the wall, creating a clear pathway for Hyunjin to stride into the way he always does. And you set up your canvas prior to his arrival, getting all of your necessary supplies in place to avoid the awkward few moments of setting up while he watches you so intently.

He’s a punctual idol if you’ve ever met one, arriving at 5pm on the dot, expensive-looking sunglasses shielding his eyes from the barely visible sunlight outside, and a black beanie pulled over his head. He looks like he could be a security guard of his own, the all-black attire even more unsettling as he makes his way inside.

There’s a reason you never house clients in your own studio- the reason being it’s small. It’s office-sized, large glass windows on one side of the wall that overlook a sea of greenery that’s now overgrown with all the recent rains. The floor is gray concrete, stained just about everywhere with swatches of paint and charcoal pieces. And the two tabled surfaces that are available are covered in art supplies, the color of the furniture now indistinguishable as they house tubes of paint, brushes and cans of thinner.

“You can put your bag on the chair there,” you say as he walks in, his hands still shoved in his pockets.

He does as told, setting a designer crossbody on the folding chair by one of the tables, and then he stands confidently, observing the room as he awaits further instruction.

He takes long strides around the perimeter of the room, leaning closely into the existing canvases to study your techniques. But he says nothing, remaining much quieter than last time, the only sound coming from his heeled boots as he moves elegantly around the studio.

“I’m ready,” you say, and Hyunjin turns around to face you. He cocks his head slightly, and then he brings one hand up to pull the beanie off his head, letting his brown tresses fall loosely around his handsome face, not requiring much adjustment as they seem to fall in disarray so perfectly. He pulls his sunglasses off as well, folding them between his plump lips before tucking them into the pocket of his jeans as he finally stops to look at you.

He looks as handsome as he always does, his unreal features looking as though he was modeled by a painting and not the other way around. You feel small in front of him, and unimportant, as he approaches you and stops just in front of your much smaller figure.

“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks, cuffing up the sleeves of his black knit sweater.

“It’s up to you,” you reply to him, giving a small shrug as you speak.

“This one’s your call,” Hyunjin retorts. “I want it from the artist’s vision.”

And you can’t help the blush that creeps up on your cheeks, feeling embarrassingly flustered at the idea of someone caring even slightly about your vision. Everything’s from your client’s vision- the outfits, the poses, even the adjustments they request following the painting’s unveiling. It’s very seldom that you’re able to provide any directions to the standard of your vision, and though it’s unexpected, it’s a little endearing.

“My vision?” You echo, tapping your fingers on your chin.

You glance around the room at the supplies you have on hand, nothing special, but definitely materials you can work with.

Without replying to him, you pull forward one of the folding chairs, setting it down in front of your easel and gesturing to it.

“Could you sit on the top part? Like, on the back of the chair?”

Hyunjin nods, climbing up onto the chair and balancing as he takes a seat on the back part. It’s a little unstable looking, but Hyunjin seems to manage just fine, spreading his legs casually and running his hands through his hair.

“Your hands,” you chime in, taking note of the silver watch he flaunts on his left wrist. “Could you rest them on your knees?”

“Like this?” Hyunjin questions, sprawling his palms out over his kneecaps.

“Not quite,” you reply. “A little more like…”

And then without warning, you take both his hands in yours, positioning his elbows to rest atop his kneecaps so that his hands hang loosely in front of him. He cocks his face up to meet your gaze, the same intense expression he always houses, and you take a step back to admire the position.

“Exactly like that,” you say to him. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable and we’ll take a break.”

Hyunjin shoots a small smile, perhaps more of a smirk at you, as he sits still and watches you begin to paint in long strokes along the canvas. Your movements are fluid and impetuous, but every stroke proves itself more robust than the last, painting a clear outline of Hyunjin’s seated figure as he keeps his eyes on you. And maybe it’s because you’ve chosen his pose this time, or because it’s your third time doing this with Hyunjin, but you don’t feel nearly as uncomfortable anymore, keeping your attention on the painting and disregarding any implications that might derive from his cold stare.

“I wasn’t sure which brand of oil paints you preferred,” Hyunjin says suddenly. “So I bought you three kinds.”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply softly. “Thank you for the gifts. You really didn’t have to.”

“You have a talent,” Hyunjin voices. “I hung the last one up in my own studio.”

“You have a studio?” You question, remembering Q had previously mentioned something about him being an artist.

“I do,” Hyunjin answers. “It’s nothing like this one, just some canvases in the shared dorm we have. But I paint in all my free time. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be painting.”

“That’s interesting,” you reply. “I’d love to see your work someday.

And Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate to pull his phone out, navigating to his camera roll to show you some of his pieces. He flashes you a painting of a bouquet of roses, placed in a glass case atop a table. Another showcases a city street, scribbled cars and people that line the pavement. And a whole gallery of them depict people- couples, in particular, in all sorts of romantic poses. Kissing, hugging, embracing with such passion and force, almost consuming each other with their visible desperation for one another.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, in awe at the technique of his art. You weren’t expecting him to be so good, for someone who doesn’t paint as a full-time career.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin replies, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve learned so much from you.”

“Me?” You retort with a small chuckle. “I highly doubt that, your stuff is very unique. But I’m flattered that you’d say that. Thank you.”

Hyunjin keeps his gaze on yours for a moment, cocking his head to the side as though he’s observing your features. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes narrowing and widening again as he takes in the sight of you dabbing a little more olive paint into his complexion. And then he straightens his back, steadying himself on the chair with two hands gripping the sides.

“When was the last time you left this studio?” He inquires with a smug expression. He sounds a little more serious now, and his tone of voice makes your heartbeat race.

“I don’t live here,” you reply plainly. “I leave every day.”

“When was the last time you escaped?” He then clarifies. “When was the last time you weren’t confined here for the purposes of work?”

You furrow your brows, trying your best to keep busy with your task and avert his gaze.

“This is my job,” you say sternly. “I don’t want to escape.”

“I’m a dancer,” Hyunjin states matter-of-factly. “I don’t live in the studio at the building. Sure, the bright lights and the walls of mirrors help with the choreography. But sometimes I dance in my dorm. And sometimes I dance in a big grass field when nobody’s watching.”

You pause your brushstrokes for a moment, finally meeting his gaze as he stares down at you. He raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer, which you fail to provide him with as he leans forward once again and clasps his hands together.

“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”

And suddenly his words infuriate you, the sheer audacity of him to walk into your studio demanding all these rules from you, like your boundaries can be overlooked if they’re bought. And who is he to pry into your life like this, knowing next to nothing about you except that you’re a painter? It’s blasphemous- offensive, even.

“I’m not trapped,” you say, standing from your stool and backing away from him a little. “I love my job. I can quit whenever I want to, and this is my passion.”

“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?” Hyunjin inquires, and your eyebrows contort into a much angrier frown.

“Who are you to imply any of this, anyway? You’re an idol. You’re the one who’s trapped in the confines of a million rules- are you even allowed to be here right now? Who are you when you’re not putting on the mask of a completely different persona?”

You exhale frustratedly as you finish, taking a moment to catch your breath, and trying your best to avoid his gaze. But when you meet his piercing eyes again, he’s smiling, a wicked expression on his face like he’s amused at your lashing.

“I’m glad you asked ,” he says simply.

“What?”

“I’d assumed it was part of your vision, to maybe scratch below the surface of the flesh outlines you paint. I know there’s more than meets the eye to your work. You have this passion about you.”

“Passion?” You reply nervously, now fiddling with the brush still in your grasp.

“Mhm,” Hyunjin responds casually. “Like you want to lash out. Go on, get it off your chest. I won’t mind.”

And you say nothing again, shrinking back into the confines of your wooden stool as you swirl the brush around in the same mug of water and dip it back into a dollop of paint.

“I’m sorry,” you voice to him. “I don’t treat my clients like this. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders sag a little, as though he was waiting for you to keep the chaos alive in this little studio. He just nods, and then he assumes the same position as earlier, his knees spread in front of him and his hands resting comfortably on his knee caps as he slouches forward.

You resume the task of shading in his skin tone, adding highlights to the elevated portions of his face and glancing over at him in intervals to confirm where the light hits him.

“I’ve learned so much from you,” Hyunjin says for the second time tonight, and you’re still unsure what he means by it. “I think we could learn a lot about each other.”

And the studio falls silent for the remainder of the session, as he allows his eyes to bore into your soul while you translate his being onto the canvas in front of you. Or at least the parts that are able to be translated.

*

Your calendar is blocked off for the remainder of the week for other clients, Hyunjin rescheduling his sessions as he prepares for a performance overseas.

Your heart sinks a little when Q announces the schedule change to you, secretly praying you haven’t completely ruined your artist/client relationship with Hyunjin. He’s definitely a little odd, and he can be pushy when he wants to be. But he’s undeniably more intriguing than the investors you’re used to housing at the studio, telling you stories of his dancing and inquiring about all your favorite techniques every chance he gets.

He’s the first client who’s ever uttered the word “vision” when it came to yours, and not his, and you can’t let go of the value it added to your last session with him. You had yelled at him, ordered him to stop projecting his thoughts onto yours and asking personal questions. But it was the first time you felt alive, somewhat visible to a client as you painted them. His eyes pierce through your soul, every tangible inch of it, and not just the empty shell of who you are when you’re not existing so loudly. And Hyunjin seems like the only catalyst that allows you to exist loudly these days, even Q walking all over you like you’re an extension of his tedious ways.

Although your last conversation didn’t go quite as smoothly as you’d hoped it would, Hyunjin’s words continue to circle your mind relentlessly, your heart trying to make sense of them no matter how hard you try.

“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?”

It’s a fair question, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be a discourteous one, either. Maybe he’s genuinely curious about the woman you are when you’re not following Q’s orders. But where has Hyunjin pulled the implication from that you’re anyone except for the person assigned to produce these portraits? You’ve given him no reason to think anything of you besides the well-mannered, focused painter you are. And to imply anything else would also, by extension, imply he knows something about you.

“I’ve learned so much about you,” he had also said to you, twice in the same session. And can one really learn from two, three sessions of watching an artist paint? Sure, if he was more focused on your technique and your mannerisms rather than staring at you so intensely. But he hadn’t seemed to be interested in much else, simply keeping his gaze on yours and asking base-level questions about your artist career.

If anything, you could learn a lot about Hyunjin, who has the whole world at his disposal and walks around this place like he owns it. He speaks of you like he’s trying to study you. He wants to learn from you, despite being the one wielding much more knowledge and wisdom than you could even begin to fathom. True, you don’t escape this studio- and you don’t utilize it without the intention to work. In fact, your work consumes you most days, your personal life just a microscopic dot in the grand scheme of this arrangement.

But Hyunjin seems to think otherwise, his generous gifts and his fascination with returning seeming to imply something else. Like he wants to learn from you, or like he’s convinced he already has.

In apprehension, like he knows you.

*

“Where are we going?” You query when Hyunjin arrives next, quickly ordering you to gather your supplies and ushering you to the door.

“We’re not painting here today,” he says plainly.

“What? No, Hyunjin I don’t paint anywhere except for-”

“The studio or a company,” he finishes. “That’s the issue. I want to take you somewhere more lively.”

“I can’t be around people,” you respond. “I don’t… it’ll just mess up the whole process.”

“Do you trust me?” Hyunjin asks suddenly, his hand extending out to yours for the briefcase you grasp.

What a simplified question- absolutely not. You don’t trust him, that’s the issue with leaving the studio. You’re still not sure of his career as a whole, you’re not sure why he’s so adamant about breaking all sorts of rules and you don’t know anything beyond his name.

“No,” you reply. “I don’t think I trust you at all, actually.”

And Hyunjin just smiles, stepping forward to take the briefcase from you.

“Good,” he replies, the same amused smile plastered on his face. “That means there’s still a lot I can teach you.”

He watches you slip on your coat, undeniably confused, but in a trance-like state obeying his commands, like your heart won’t let you hear your brain’s protests.

Hyunjin doesn’t drive. He doesn’t need to, having his own personal chauffeur at his beck and call, able to go just about anywhere in the evening during his allotted hours of free time. Ones he normally spends in the studio, watching you paint.

You sit quietly on one side of the fancy black car, your hands folded neatly in your lap and staring at the passing blur of city lights out the window. Hyunjin occupies the other, one of his slender hands resting atop the briefcase in an attempt to steady it whilst the driver makes sharp turns and brakes a little too harshly.

You watch as the city roads turn to one long paved road, surrounded by tall grass and trees. And this path goes on for a while, maybe 20 or 30 minutes, as you remain in comfortable silence. The driver seems to be acquainted with the road, turning every way he needs to, no form of navigation telling where to go, simply having memorized the route. And Hyunjin doesn’t seem tense in the slightest, humming softly to himself as he taps his fingers along the leather surface of the briefcase.

The fork at the end of the road signals the stopping point for the driver, who hits the brakes, but doesn’t turn the car off. The keys remain in the ignition as he comes around to open your door, guiding you out with one hand and bowing graciously to the both of you.

“One hour,” Hyunjin says to him, sliding him a generously folded bill.

The driver nods, occupying his spot in the driver’s seat, and you watch him make a U-turn before driving off down the path again.

The environment is quiet, much quieter than any spot back in the city. It’s nothing except for trees and tall grass that sway with the gentle evening breeze, the sky swallowing up a now orange sun as nighttime begins to over both of you. If you squint, you can even see the mountains from here, some of them lined with little yellow lights, probably vacant buildings or farm workers. And the birds sing their last songs of the day, mellow tunes that harmonize with the growing chirps of crickets.

“It’s pretty here,” you remark to Hyunjin, who stands looking out at the view with his hands tucked in his coat pockets.

He doesn’t reply for a moment, his long hair swaying with the breeze. And then he tilts his head in the direction of the briefcase, nodding once.

“Paint what you see,” he orders.

You nod reluctantly, scrambling to open the briefcase and set up your supplies.

“Do you want to stand there? Or… do you prefer something else?”

He smiles, a little amused at your rushed state, and then he shakes his head.

“Not me,” he clarifies. “The view. Paint what you see.”

You swallow a lump in your throat, stopping your movements and pondering the words for a moment. You haven’t painted a view in god knows how long. Your skills are rusty, your techniques are skewed and the whole concept of it makes you shudder.

“The view?” You question back. You take a moment to look at the view again- there are possibilities everywhere. Green grasses that resemble paint strokes themselves, a deepening blue sky with strokes of blues and blacks, stars like paint splatters and trees with sponge-painted bushels. The art is everywhere, the possibilities are vast and endless with a view like this one.

“The view,” Hyunjin echoes. “Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t some company's order to paint me. I just want to see the world through your eyes.”

And you nod, once, Hyunjin helping you latch your sketch pad to the easel as you mix a myriad of blues and greens together on your wooden palette.

He flips through your sketch pad for a little while before stepping away, nodding at the pages upon pages of art unlike any of your portraits. When you think he’s going to move, he doesn’t, remaining in the same spot and nodding his head at the works. And you feel a little shy, a little confused at why he’s taken so much interest in the work you complete on the side, work completely unrelated to any of your portraits. When he reaches a blank page, he meets your gaze with a small smile, nodding his head once at you as he finally moves out of the way.

And then you finally begin, hesitantly, as Hyunjin finds a spot in an undisturbed part of the grass, sprawling his long legs out in front of him and pulling out a sketch pad from his own bag. He angles it away from you, beginning to make long, generous lines with his charcoal pencil, peering over at the trees every now and then to gauge their shape. And you remain there, a comfortable silence among both of you, as you both capture the view in your respective visions.

The technique comes back to you instantly, like motion memory, quickly sponging leaves into the trees and pulling the dark sky from its draped position over you to plaster it onto the canvas you work on. Blues, greens, glittering whites for the night stars and fantastic shades of chartreuse and viridian find their homes on the canvas, so carefully placed and mirroring the view you overlook. You emulate the shadows, the waning glints of light, even the sounds seem to live on the picturesque view where time stands still in the confines of four walls.

Hyunjin doesn’t disturb your work flow- in fact, for most of the time you remain there, you cease to remember he’s even working on a sketch of his own, his delicate figure disappearing among the trees as your peripherals shut him out and bring nature to the forefront.

It’s only an hour you’re there, like Hyunjin had promised, before he’s returning to your spot and standing behind you to look over your shoulder.

“Beautiful,” Hyunjin states dramatically. “Beautiful, and spectacular, and shining.”

You chuckle lightly, wiping the brush on your smock and tucking it away in one of the front pockets.

“Will you sign it?” Hyunjin asks, cocking his head a little to try to find where your signature currently sits, but finding nothing.

“Oh, yeah,” you respond, bringing a charcoal pencil to the bottom right and scribbling a quick signature.

He scans the painting once more, tracing a finger over the corner where you’ve added your signature, and then he gives a small nod before meeting your gaze.

“This one’s my favorite,” Hyunjin tells you. “Because it’s entirely your vision.”

“The ones I make of you are my vision, too,” you explain, and Hyunjin shakes his head with a small smile.

“I like how you see the world. Not how you see me. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

And you find yourself blushing again, unsure if his intention is to fluster you with his poetic words, but well aware that he’s having the effect on you regardless.

“Thank you,” you echo politely. “I like this one, too.”

Your gazes remain fixed on each other for a brief moment, the grass now standing still as the night falls over you, stars glittering in the black sky and the crickets singing their nocturnal songs.

For the first time since meeting him, Hyunjin looks less cold at this proximity to you, his entire demeanor exuding softness and comfort as he smiles at you. Maybe it’s the black puffer coat he wears, the collar pulled up to his chin to keep warm from the frigid winter night around you. He wears his glasses, too, these ones a thicker black frame, pushed high up on his face and a little dorky, admittedly. But it’s also because he seems kinder, more warm and welcoming. There’s no existing rush to capture him any which way- in fact, there’s no pressure to capture him at all. And maybe when you’re not translating his model-like appearance onto canvas, you’re able to step back and admire that he’s soft under his hard exterior, he’s so gentle and human.

At first, you debate telling him, a sudden urge inside of you to apologize for your presumptions of him and admit that he’s slowly become your favorite client to be around. Maybe he’s right- maybe you do have a lot you can teach each other. He lives a life of lavishness, entertaining varying aspects of his idol career and serving a role of great importance to those who know him. And he is certainly of importance to your career, being your highest-paying customer and the one you’ve painted the most now. But he plays a role in other parts of your life too, allowing you to try new techniques, entertain your vision, circling your mind with his poetic words and his strategic motions. All lessons which allow you to grow outside the confines of your studio, too.

But you settle on silence, not wanting Hyunjin to think too boldly of you. Maybe he’s like this with everybody he crosses paths with. Choreographers, vocal coaches and painters alike. Maybe he’s simply as fascinating as he looks.

As you study him again, the sound of a car engine interrupts you, and you turn around to find Hyunjin’s driver has returned as promised. You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the bright headlights that illuminate the whole field, as Hyunjin helps you gather your supplies again, securing the canvas in its case and transporting it into the backseat of the car with the driver’s help.

Hyunjin holds the door for you this time, ushering you inside, and then he comes around to slide into the backseat next to you.

“I think it’s going to rain,” the driver says as he puts the car in reverse.

You crane your neck to look at the sky through the tinted windows, dark blue clouds that loom overhead and seem to make the night even colder.

“I have one more place we need to stop at,” Hyunjin says suddenly, sitting forward to make eye contact with the driver through the mirror.

The driver nods in response, as if the last location is a secret kept between them, as he begins down the dirt path again in silence.

*

“Ever been here?” Hyunjin questions, as he holds out a hand to guide you up the stairs. The steep concrete stairs lead to a grand crested marble doorway, a bronze statue out in front and dimly lit lamp posts that illuminate the sign overhead.

Museum of Modern Art.

“Once, a long, long time ago,” you respond. “I think I usually steer clear from galleries since I don’t show my work at them.”

Hyunjin chuckles softly, stopping at the front door and meeting the gaze of a security guard, who promptly strides over and opens the door just an inch.

Hyunjin pulls out an ID, and a folded paper of some sort, and you watch as the security examines it briefly before nodding. It’s only then that you realize the museum is closed for the evening, the only person around behind the night security, but of course that rule doesn’t apply to Hyunjin, who can get in just about anywhere with the flash of a smile.

“It’s the only way to visit with no one else around,” Hyunjin says, confirming your theory. “They let me stay as long as I want. Sometimes I draw here.”

You nod at his words, giving a small smile as the security eyes you intensely, and then he opens the door to guide both of you inside. Hyunjin removes his coat, slinging it over a nearby coat hanger, and he flaunts a white knit sweater with his dark jeans, looking cozy in contrast to the dark winter night outside. He holds your sketch pad tucked under one arm, and then he skips excitedly to a room behind a curtain.

“This one’s my favorite!” He exclaims, giggling softly like a child might. “Do you know they’re all made out of recycled materials?”

And you brush the curtain aside, being met with the sculptures he speaks of, neutral-toned figurines that appear to be made of paper mache, all resembling people. Their forms hold each other, mimic ballroom dancing, and even embrace each other in a tender kiss as they stand tall in the center of the room.

You watch as Hyunjin snaps a few photos with his cellphone, craning his neck to view them at a better angle, and then he turns to face you.

“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply. “They kind of remind me of your drawings.”

He shoots you a flustered smile in response, touched that you’ve even remembered what his drawings look like. And then he graciously bows as he ushers to another room.

“I think you’ll like the next one.”

The next room behind another dark curtain is a gallery of paintings, all of them abstract forms of art that experiment with different colors and mediums. You take a while in this room, sauntering down the row of canvases and observing how each one captures something completely different from the others. Some include only cool-toned shades, their strokes much smaller and overall more somber. Some play with warm tones, long generous strokes that capture passion and heat. And some mix both, two stories dancing in harmony on one canvas, contrasting light with shadow and love with regret.

As you cock your head slightly, observing the way the colors are so evocative from this proximity, Hyunjin comes to stand next to you, cocking his head in a similar fashion and taking in the same details that you do. And if someone were to stand behind you, maybe both of you would mirror the painting, too, two hues of life and recluse working in perfect harmony alongside each other.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Hyunjin asks, and you hum in response.

“Yeah. I love these colors.”

Hyunjin nods, giving the painting a last once-over before nodding in the direction of another curtain.

“Come on, I want to show you this last one.”

The last room houses a little bench, where Hyunjin occupies the left side and pats the spot next to him. You take a seat, your hands folded neatly in your lap, as you observe the colossal painting in front of you.

It’s a watercolor painting, one amorphous shape at a far distance, yet at this proximity, the tangible outline of a figure, sat with legs pulled to the chest and crouched in a position evoking such sadness.

The cold blue hues highlight the shadows which define body parts among the pile of limbs, the curve of a breast, the almost indistinguishable outline of a leg, aspects you have to really squint hard to make out. But the colors complement each other so artistically, and the figure in the painting looks so melancholy, so longing for something more than the confines of the canvas she lives on.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hyunjin voices, and you nod, swallowing as you remain quiet.

He pauses for a moment, his voice hitching in the back of his throat, before speaking again.

“The artist was a child prodigy,” he begins. “Apparently they painted all their life and then became a sort of recluse into adulthood. No one’s seen a painting from them since. This was their last big project.”

“Interesting,” you remark quietly.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin replies. “And their art is always titled around themes of loneliness and solitude. Every painting kind of feels like a puzzle piece leading up to their disappearance from the art world.”

Hyunjin says nothing as your eyes dart around the room, swallowing nervously as you ponder what to say. And nothing comes to mind, nothing that won’t make you seem crazy, or irate.

And then before you can protest his actions, he flips open your sketch pad he’s kept tucked under his arm all this time, flipping through a few pages until he’s nearly at the end. He stops at one of your paintings, cool aqua hues filling the paper in the same manner as the one hung on the wall.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Hyunjin finally says, and you realize he’s turned to face you now.

You stand up at this point, smoothing down your blouse and turning away from his gaze.

“Sorry, I have to go-”

You search for an exit, unable to locate one amidst the dark curtains and the dimly lit room. And the only thing you can think to do is walk back the way you entered, beginning back through the abstract painting gallery as Hyunjin follows behind you.

“They’re amazing,” Hyunjin says. “You have a talent. Your paintings were always my favorite-”

“Please, stop,” you interrupt, your heart beating erratically as you make your way past the paper mache sculptures.

“Why did you stop making them?” He asks, now standing still in the entrance, the security guard on high alert as he watches Hyunjin’s stressed demeanor.

“Sorry,” you voice to the security guard, bowing to him. “I have to go, thank you so much.”

And without turning to look at Hyunjin, you push the doors open, making your way out of the museum and onto the concrete steps. It’s raining now, hard, like the driver had predicted, and you march right past his parked car to one of the taxis parked by the curb.

The cab driver takes an address from you, punching it into his navigation system as he begins to drive down the street, and you pray he can’t hear the quiet sniffles coming from you in the backseat.

As he pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window at the museum, where Hyunjin’s now shoving past the door and standing still, his hands dropped at his sides and a hurt expression on his face.

His hair falls damp around his face as he lets the sheets of rain wash over him, his driver exiting the vehicle in a rush to get Hyunjin back into the safety of the car.

But he remains there, unmoving, his hurt gaze fixed on yours, as you turn a corner and fall out of his sight.

*

And just like the sessions were uneventful before Hyunjin, they’re much more uneventful after him, too.

Putting the sessions on hold for Hyunjin is nothing, his life full of vibrancy and color when he’s not spending an hour or two with you in the evening posing for a painting. It’s time he fills with extra dance practice, vocal training, spending time with his members and even doing art of his own.

But for you, it means returning to a life of mediocrity, requesting stock brokers to angle their big heads in a more appealing manner so you can capture every one of their unsightly features. You’re ogled at by salesmen, disrespected by accountants and not a single one of them could give a shit about your vision.

A part of you wants to call Hyunjin and apologize, to explain that he was out of line in his approach to identify you and catch you so off-guard. But you’re mostly angry at him, for having ruined something so beautiful you took pride in every week. Now he’s gone, the sessions put on pause until further notice and your life forever changed by Hyunjin, though he’ll keep living his life of lavishness despite being the source of all your pain.

“Now that we don’t have Hyunjin on the books after this week, I need you to resume the work on Mr. Lee’s painting. Let’s not lose sight of the ones we started prior to his pieces,” Q says, as he flips through a clipboard of printed schedules.

“This week?” You echo in question. “I thought sessions with Hyunjin were put on hold until further notice.”

“They were,” he responds. “After your last session this week. He’ll be here tomorrow evening. He’s your last client of the day.”

“Tomorrow?” You repeat, pausing your brush strokes as you turn to look at him. “He requested to come in tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Q replies with furrowed brows. “Why, is there a problem? I already told him yes.”

“No, that’s fine,” you reply, rotating the brush around in your fingers as you think over his words. “Tomorrow works fine.”

Despite the sessions being put on hold, you’ll still have a moment to explain yourself to Hyunjin and make amends. It might not get you exactly where you were before all of this, but the thought of letting Hyunjin part ways thinking you despise him makes your stomach turn. You’ll still get a moment alone with him to rekindle the state of your friendship.

… Or so you thought. When you arrive at the studio the next day for your last session, Q is still there, organizing papers at one of the tables and still dressed in a fancy blazer and tie like he never left from this morning’s session.

“Quinton?” You call, setting your purse down and toying with the hem of your shirt.

“Yes?” He responds, not looking up at you.

“Are you… don’t you normally sit these sessions out?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says casually. “I’ll be sitting in on this last one. I know they were put on hold pretty abruptly, and I wanted to be around for your last one.”

You give him a small nod, protesting his actions mentally. You won’t get a minute alone with Hyunjin after all- not with Q watching you like a hawk. You want to scream at him, to tell him he has to leave and that he’ll be permanently disrupting the client-artist relationship you’ve developed with your highest-paying customer if he stays and taints the room with his overwhelming presence. But he largely determines the success of your career, whether you like it or not. And requesting Q’s absence will most certainly point to something more going on between you and Hyunjin.

“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”

You wish Quinton wouldn’t be so… mechanical. You wish he could trust that you’ll get the job done, despite any existing tensions between you and Hyunjin. You wish he wouldn’t pretend to care about being present, when in reality you know he just wants to make sure it wasn’t you who screwed something up. And you wish he would leave you alone with Hyunjin to make amends the way you know you need to before you part ways with him.

When the door opens once again, you both turn your heads to look at Hyunjin, who strolls in with casual strides, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze falls on Q, and he furrows his brows together, finally looking at you, with a confused expression on his face.

“Welcome!” Q says obnoxiously. “I’ll be sitting in for this session, I hope you don’t mind.”

Hyunjin shoots him a thin-lipped smile, giving a subtle nod as he slings his bag off.

“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”

He assumes his spot on the same wooden stool, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, and then he turns to meet your gaze.

“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks. He sounds more somber than the other times he’d asked the same question, his voice trailing off a little as he waits for a reply.

“This is good,” you say, taking your own seat and beginning to work light strokes across the canvas. You start with his jawline, the same chiseled jawline you’ve gotten so used to painting, working a robust angle where the crook of his neck meets his cheeks. Then his eyes, the piercing intensity of them, narrowing involuntarily as he poses with such skill, the same eyes which have graced the covers of magazines and album covers. His lips, plump and rosy, forming a small pout as he remains silent. And the outline of his luscious brown tresses, which fall beautifully around his face and soften the rest of his features.

He looks so enchanting this evening, like he’s straight out of one of the paintings at the museum. And your anger feels almost completely dissipated once he’s in front of you like this, just a pressing urge to be alone with him so you can communicate properly.

“Looking good,” Q says as he comes up behind you, his hands folded behind his back.

Hyunjin’s eyes dart over at Q’s standing figure, glancing over at you again while you paint. You attempt to shoot him an apologetic expression, wanting to tell him it wasn’t your idea to have Q here watching your every move. But you can’t properly convey your emotions to him with Q practically breathing down your neck.

“Beautiful work”, Q chimes in, nodding as you add the color to Hyunjin’s hair.

You can feel yourself getting frustrated with him, wishing so badly you could at least ask him to wait on the other side of the room like he normally does. But he remains there, crowding around you as you work and filling the room with his awkward presence.

“I’ll drag up a chair,” Q says with a small chuckle. “So I don’t have to stand.”

And both you and Hyunjin watch as he pulls up a folding chair, dragging it along the floor in one painfully slow motion, the sound of the legs screeching against the concrete floor as he places it next to you and takes a seat.

Hyunjin’s eyes meet yours again, cocking his head slightly as though he’s asking why you’ve allowed Q to be so overbearing today. But none of this is according to your plans, either.

“Go on,” Q urges. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

You hadn’t even realized you’ve stopped painting, grasping your brush between your fingers as you watch Q adjust in his seat and gesture to the painting.

“I think we should take a break,” Hyunjin says finally. “My leg is cramping a little.”

“Of course,” Q echoes back. “We can take five. There’s a vending machine out by the front door. And the bathrooms are on the right, by the-”

Q can’t even finish his sentence before Hyunjin’s shoving his way past the door, taking long strides away from the studio and waiting outside. He pinches the bridge of his nose in deep annoyance, letting out a deep sigh as he ponders the evening’s events so far.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” you tell Q, setting your brush down and following Hyunjin. “I’ll be right back.”

And you follow his footsteps, pushing on the door to meet him outside, where he stands with one hand on his hip, the other massaging his temples frustratedly.

He looks angry, as you predict he would be, but you approach him anyway, fiddling with your thumbs as he stays quiet for a moment.

“I organized this last session to speak with you,” Hyunjin says in an annoyed tone. “I should’ve known you’d invite him.”

“I didn’t invite him,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know he’d be here, I swear. He just stayed, and he was insistent on sitting in.”

Hyunjin finally drops his hand at his side, meeting your gaze, a softening expression on his face.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he finally says. “I overstepped my boundaries. I’m just here to pay you for art. Not prod into your personal life.”

“I know,” you say back. “I wanted to explain to you, but…” your voice trails off, remembering this is technically your last session with him. And judging by the way everyone speaks of him, it’ll be near impossible to contact him again after this.

“It seems like I missed my chance,” you finish, referencing Q’s persistence.

Hyunjin glances around for a moment at the overgrown plants that line the studio windows, still damp from the evening rain. It looks like a jungle out here, the plants providing no clear view through the windows and instilling such a peaceful sense of privacy.

“Could you stay a little longer?” Hyunjin questions. “After he leaves. I just want to talk to you before I go.”

You think over his proposal for a moment- Quinton is punctual at leaving right past the hour mark. He never stays longer for hours than he needs to, but he’s no stranger to you utilizing the studio to finish up some of your work after hours.

“Sure,” you say finally. “Just pretend you’ve left after the session and I’ll tell him I need to stay longer. Don’t wait near the parking lot or he’ll see you.”

A somber smile grows on Hyunjin’s face as he nods in response.

“I’m going to call my driver and tell him I’ll be longer than the original session. Meet you back inside.”

And you make your way back into the studio, where Q is busy shuffling through papers at the table.

“Ready?” He asks, already taking strides back to his stool, positioned far too close to your canvas and Hyunjin’s seat.

“Yeah,” you reply, sighing a little as he occupies the seat next to you and glances around the room for Hyunjin.

“He’s taking a phone call,” you explain to Q. “Just give him a minute.”

And Q pushes his glasses further up his nose, humming in response as he observes your painting again.

“You’ve really mastered his features,” he comments, scanning over Hyunjin’s painted outline. “Even his eye mole is already there.”

And you scan the painting too, at the little mole painted just below Hyunjin’s left eye as he requested.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”

You wouldn’t forget it, because everything about him occupies your mind, much like his figure lives on your canvases.

*

It’s just half an hour more before you’re finished with Hyunjin’s painting. It’s still lacking some detail, like the contours along his face and the buttons of his cardigan. But they’re all details you give yourself time to finish later, before you wrap up your final piece and gift it to Hyunjin.

Q is relentless in his micromanaging for the remainder of the session, making useless comments about your techniques and asking Hyunjin about his own work. Hyunjin’s answers are all short and echo his clear annoyance, desperate to finish the session in order to speak with you privately. But you both remain collected in your manners, graciously conversing with Q and reaching the end of the session.

Q reviews his invoice documents as Hyunjin slings his bag on once more, standing by the door as though he’s ready to leave.

“Payment was finalized today, and your sessions are on hold until your tour is completed.”

“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, bowing graciously. “It was a pleasure to work with both of you. I’ll be back when we’re done overseas.”

“Don’t hesitate to reach out!” Q calls, as Hyunjin makes his way past the door. He waves Q off with a small smile and then turns the corner until he’s out of sight.

“Well, there goes your best-paying client,” Q remarks with a deep sigh. “We have a lot more to pick back up on. I know Mr. Lee’s paintings are still in progress-”

“Thank you, Quinton,” you voice to him. “We’ll talk scheduling tomorrow. Please just get home safely.”

“You’re not leaving yet?” He queries, already pulling on his canvas bag and hanging his clipboard from a thumbtack on the wall.

“I’m going to finish the details while I still remember them. I’ll only be an hour longer.”

Q shrugs, making his way pivoting on his white canvas sneakers and giving you a small wave.

“Call if you need anything,” he says plainly. “Make sure to lock up.”

“I will,” you echo, craning your neck as you watch him finally exit past the door and jog down the stairs. You can’t see Hyunjin anywhere, but Q doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s still around, starting his car and speeding out of the parking lot.

And not even a full minute passes before Hyunjin makes his way back inside, shaking water off his hands.

“I stood under one of the gutters,” he says in a disgusted tone. His hair is stringy wet with rain water, and he chuckles when you meet his gaze with an amused smile.

“You’ll have to let me paint it like that, someday,” you respond, and he laughs lightly.

You take a seat on the folding chair previously occupied by Q, and Hyunjin assumes his same spot on the wooden stool. For a moment he says nothing, observing your face as you tap your fingers along the metal of the chair below you. There’s not a sound in the room between the two of you, with the exception of a small creak coming from the wooden stool as Hyunjin adjusts his long legs. He runs his hands through his hair nervously, and then he licks his dry lips with his tongue before speaking.

“I have something for you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, his voice echoing around the empty room.

He stands up to pull his bag off the floor, and then he digs around in it for a moment before pulling out his sketchbook. You watch as his slender fingers open the spiral-bound cover, flipping past pages upon pages of sketches and paintings. He flips close to the end, and then he stops, bookmarking the page with his index finger before turning the book to face you.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” he says, keeping the book shut in anticipation. “It’s just something I drew.”

And then with bated breath, he opens the book out to you, adjusting the page in your view to give you a clear sight of its contents. It’s a carefully drawn sketch, of you, standing in front of an easel with a brush in your hand. Painting, like you always do. You recognize the scenery around you as the spot he took you to the other day, the long charcoal streaks perfectly capturing the grass that surrounded you and the tall trees that overlooked the hills. Although it’s a sight familiar to you, it also feels so foreign, seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. It feels peculiar to remember people also perceive you while you paint. It makes you feel less unimportant, a little more visible.

“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”

“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.

“It’s so lovely. Really. I feel like I don’t deserve this.”

“You do,” he’s quick to respond. “You’ve drawn countless ones of me. And of so many other people. I wanted to gift you one of your own.”

You run your fingers along the thick paper, watching as Hyunjin tears it along its perforation and hands it to you.

“Please, keep it,” he urges.

And you bow once in response, turning to set the drawing along with your bag so you won’t forget it.

“Thank you,” you finally say. “I love it. I’m going to hang it with all my favorite art.”

Hyunjin smiles in response, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets again, leaning against the wooden stool as a silence falls over you both.

For a moment, you ponder what to say to him, wanting to explain the events from the other evening, but unable to verbalize anything amidst your nervousness. Any way you think about it, you fear Hyunjin is going to get mad, especially considering you’d just walked away from him in the face of confrontation. But you also couldn’t help it, his accusation coming so suddenly and so boldly, regardless of it being based on any sliver of truth.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin breaks the silence. “I don’t know if I was right or not. But it wasn’t my place to ask you.”

You nod at him, initially planning to divert the topic. But you can’t any further, a growing urge inside of your chest to unveil the truth to him, knowing he’s already pieced this much of it together.

“It is my painting,” you say finally, your voice shaking a little. “I specialized in those ones before portraits. They kind of gained traction when they were first unveiled, and a lot of galleries picked them up. But they drew a lot of criticism, and it became so draining to be the topic of people’s judgment. I think being perceived so heavily just kind of… scared me off. So I shifted to portraits instead, and I no longer do public showings or galleries.”

Hyunjin doesn’t react in a shocked manner, nor does he press you for questions immediately. He just nods, taking in your words, and then he meets your gaze with a concerned expression.

“I learned so much from you,” he explains. “When your paintings were unveiled at the annual art show across the city, I was so mesmerized. They’re why I started painting, too.”

You chuckle lightly, shrugging at him as you slouch back in your seat.

“Yeah, well, I don’t do them anymore.”

You think over your response for a moment, and then you stand up from your seat, too, furrowing your brows together.

“How did you… know it was me?” You question, cocking your head slightly.

“I had a hunch when I first saw your painting techniques. But I also knew it the moment I saw your other paintings in your sketchbook,” he explains. “My favorite painting of the series is printed out and taped to my locker in our dance studio. It just felt like you. I paid attention to your art for years. I was bound to know it when I saw it.”

You nod for the umpteeth time tonight, making sense of his words as you think back to the signature you drew in front of him back in the field.

“I’m sorry I figured it out,” Hyunjin says finally. “I know this was an elaborate plan to remain anonymous and shift your focus to a new form of your work. And your portraits are amazing. But you have a real talent for those older ones. And the whole series just… it changed me.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you tell Hyunjin, looking up to meet his gaze at last. “If anyone was going to find out, I’m glad it was you.”

“You are?” Hyunjin questions, and you hum in response.

“As a client, you have this really interesting way of making me feel seen. When I’m around you, It feels a lot more comfortable from the businessmen I’m used to. It’s like…” your voice trails off as you struggle to finish your sentence. “I feel like I did when I was painting my old stuff. I can see the world beyond just portraits for a little bit.”

Hyunjin says nothing, his eyes flickering down to your lips and back at your eyes once more, which are wide with curiosity and passion as you speak. It’s such a sight to see you talk about your art with this level of devotion again, color in your face once more as you attest to your life’s work.

“Tell me,” Hyunjin begins. “Why are all your paintings so lonely?”

You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.

“I am lonely,” you say simply.

“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.

And your expression turns serious again, your eyes not leaving his intense gaze as he flickers over your parted lips and takes one step closer to you. He’s towering over you at this point, a strand of hair falling into his face as he lets himself lean into you a little more, just barely grazing his lips over yours.

“Can I please kiss you?” Hyunjin asks so politely, his voice coming out in a whisper as he stops himself from pressing his lips to yours while he waits for an answer.

“Yeah” you finally reply in a whisper of your own, almost on your tippy toes to match his towering height.

And then without another second to waste, Hyunjin closes the gap between both of you, leaning down to press his plump lips to yours and embrace you in a tender, desperate kiss.

He tastes like mint, his lips working against yours with no particular rush, yet his mind still running rampant with thoughts of having you as close as possible. It feels so wrong kissing him here, in the studio you strictly use for the purposes of completing your work-related tasks and nothing more. But with Hyunjin’s lips on yours and his slender hands snaking around the small of your back to pull you closer, it also feels so thrilling, instilling a sense of desire deep within you that can only be fulfilled through acting upon the emotions rooted in your innate fascination with Hyunjin’s entire being.

And you feel visible right now, so tangible when Hyunjin’s nimble hands are running down the sides of your waist and sprawling his delicate fingers along your flesh. It’s you kissing him here, not some shell of who you are when you’re capturing the essences of millionaires on canvas. You’re not the scribbled outlines in Hyunjin’s sketches of couples consuming each other with such passion, though you mirror them. It’s you, child prodigy artist turned portrait specialist, and Hyunjin, in all his fame and splendor, who chooses to spend his free time with you in this studio teaching you about yourself the way you learn from him, too.

Hyunjin’s hands move to tug off the fabric of your cardigan, slouching it off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, where it piles in disarray among the white tarp that houses loose paints. You’re pretty sure there may still be wet paint on its surface, but you don’t care, your body desperately arching into Hyunjin’s tall frame as his hands cup your cheeks to kiss you even deeper.

You can barely reach him while his frame looms over you, only able to reciprocate his kisses on the tips of your toes as he takes full control of you with his mouth. And Hyunjin seems to take notice of this, intertwining his hands in yours and pulling you down with him as he sits among the tarp and sprawls his legs out in front of him. You bestride his lean figure, balancing yourself on his lap as he adjusts himself on the concrete floor, and you both laugh when you take note of the admittedly uncomfortable positioning. It’s not meant for lovers, this dinky studio and its cold, concrete flooring. But it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked when his lips are back on yours, kissing you breathlessly and tucking strands of hair behind your ears. You can feel him smiling into the kiss, an indication by Hyunjin’s definition that he’s wanted this so badly. And he knew it from the moment you walked into the company building the first time, nervously preparing yourself out in the hallway like you weren’t going to be an absolute pro at your craft the way he now knows you are. He also knew it every time he observed your paintings, both your old ones and the newer ones that capture Hyunjin with such ease, every minute detail that builds up his intense stare only to break him down and soften him, translating this multifaceted version of him only you seem to visualize. And he gains confirmation of it when he’s finally acting upon his urges, your hands snaking around the back of his neck and moving in tandem with his hungry kisses against yours, grasping at his flesh like you’re trying to prove to yourself he’s real, too.

His sweater is the second article of clothing to go, your bodies only separating from one another briefly as you guide the knit fabric off over him and discard it beside you in the tarp. Your hands find his torso reluctantly, running your fingers along his flesh as though asking for his permission. And Hyunjin smiles when you do, placing his hands over yours and pressing down a little firmer for you, so that you can feel every inch of his toned body. He wields the body of a dancer, delicate curves that run along his sculpted obliques and highlight the years of intense training he’s done. His body feels strong underneath you, but he still feels soft, his touches exuding the gentle fondness he possesses for you.

And you’re kissing him again, all while his hands find your tank top and he separates to undress you, pulling it off over your head and tossing it aside. His hands are quick to find your breasts, splaying them over the mounds of your chest and massaging gently as his kisses turn hungrier. You can feel him getting hard underneath you, and you can hear his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he struggles to contain his growing bulge while you straddle him. But you indulge him even further, undoing the clasp of your bra with your own hand as you continue kissing him. Hyunjin doesn’t notice until your hand reaches out to toss your bra aside, a gentle rustle emitting from beside you as it joins the pile of discarded articles of clothing. And he separates to take in the sight of you, raised goosebumps along your bare skin and your nipples aroused for him, the cold air grazing over your chest as you wait for him to resume his touches. Hyunjin gasps a little, leaning forward to take one in his mouth, and then he begins to suck harshly as his tongue swirls around your bud generously and trails saliva along your skin. You moan at the sensation, Hyunjin digging his fingernails into the small of your back and leaving little crescent marks as his sucking resumes harshly, soft moans bubbling from the back of his throat, too, as he stays latched to you. And then he pulls away to give attention to the other one, his teeth grazing the tip of your nipple before sucking again, his eyes shutting as he relishes in the taste of your skin in his mouth. Hyunjin’s hips rock gently against you as he does, chasing the friction of your legs around his crotch as he grows even harder beneath you, desperate for some release. And then he pulls away finally, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with lust and a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You bring a thumb to his forehead, swiping the bead off his blushed skin, before cupping your hands around his cheeks and bringing him in for a kiss.

“Please let me fuck you,” Hyunjin says sheepishly against your lips, groaning lightly when he feels you squeeze your thighs once against his crotch.

“You want to?” You ask teasingly, massaging your hands up and down the sides of his neck as he nods eagerly.

“I really, really want to,” Hyunjin responds, shutting his eyes as you squeeze your legs again and pepper his face in kisses, trailing from his forehead, to his cheeks and down his neck. Hyunjin leans back on the palms of his hands in a state of pure bliss, taking in the sensation he’s only dreamt of until now. And when you nibble down on his neck, beginning to suck a small bruise into his skin, he sits up suddenly, his hands finding yours and pushing you away gently.

“Wait,” Hyunjin says. “I can’t… do hickeys. Company’s orders,” he admits, a little defeated, and you nod your head quickly.

“I’m sorry,” you remark. “I totally forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin almost cuts you off with a kiss, leaning forward and sitting up on his knees. He guides you down onto the tarp, hoisting himself up over you so that his figure is now hovering over yours, and then his hands find your pants.

“You can do hickeys though,” Hyunjin says in an amused tone, trailing kisses down your neck the same way you did him, and latching his teeth onto your flesh to suck a line of purple bruises. You chuckle underneath him, the sensation tickling a little, but still adding to the generous pool already formed between your legs. And as Hyunjin presses into you with his kisses, you can feel his erection graze your upper thigh, once more seeking the friction of your body for some sense of relief as he longs to feel you around his hardened cock.

“Hyunjin,” you voice as he kisses you, and he hums quietly in response.

“You’re hard,” you remark, your eyes flickering to the tent pitched underneath his jeans.

“Sorry,” he replies, pulling away with a worried expression in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure. “I just want to take care of it for you.”

And your hands find your own jeans, pulling them off your legs and tossing them aside. Hyunjin’s eyes skim over your lace panties, the trim almost see through with delicate feminine patterns, and he begins to undo the button of his jeans, too.

He kisses you as he snakes off his own pants, not wanting to separate from you any more as his eagerness grows to be as close to you as possible. And when he’s finally letting his hard cock rub against the fabric of your panties, moaning softly at the sensation, he knows he won’t be able to take it much longer if he doesn’t make love to you right here in the studio.

So his hands work to pull off his boxers, finally freeing his erection against his abdomen and gasping with the cool air grazes the tip of his cock. You slide off your own panties as well, tossing them aside and letting his cock rest against your bare flesh now, his precum painting your clit with his preemptive arousal as he ruts against you. Your flesh is slick with his arousal and yours, the existing lube between both of you allowing your skin to glide upon one another so effortlessly, the same way your lips work against each other. And he continues to push his hardened length against you until he’s halfway inside of you, your cunt taking him with no struggle as he thrusts inside of you now. You adjust to his thick girth easily, his length seemingly never ending as he pushes deeper and deeper into you. And then he gives one particularly hard thrust, bottoming out inside of you and coaxing a fervent moan out of you.

“Is it okay?” Hyunjin asks, wincing at the sensation of your walls hugging his erection.

“So good,” you whine, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Feels so good.”

And he begins to move in and out of you at a slow pace, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s already close to reaching as he fucks you, filling your cunt entirely with his long cock and bottoming out every time he thrusts himself back in.

And he tries to kiss you, but he can’t, his mouth simply looming over yours in its parted position as he echoes his moans into you and lets his saliva-coated lips graze over you. He looks like the subject of an erotic painting himself, eyebrows arched up so artistically with every thrust, melting into your touch as you run your hands through his hair. His initial dominance over you is quickly shifted to that of submission to your mind and your body, little whines leaving his lips as he lets you consume him whole and mold him between in your touch, like he’s made of clay and you’re the sculptor. His lanky body seems to extend as he sways his hips into yours, little dips from the pads of your fingers embedding into his pale skin. He folds effortlessly above you, the points of his elbows jutting out as he steadies his body over you, like he’s made of wire and positioned to balance over you so perfectly, not very sturdy, and yet bent and snapped just right so that he can remain glued to you. And if you were to climb out of your body and paint this exact moment, all you would see are an indistinguishable, amorphous set of limbs that seem to dissolve into each other like hues of paint on a palette. Two colors swirling around to make one, the two of you like primary colors that create endless possibilities when mixed together like this, offspring of a hundred different shades, painting the darkened studio around you with your yearning for one another.

And as Hyunjin brings a hand to stroke your cheek gently, a smile grows on his breathless lips as he realizes he’s brushed a thick stroke of wet paint along your skin. The indigo stripe contrasts coldly against your flesh, still glistening in its freshness like he’s just begun on a blank canvas.

“It’s paint,” Hyunjin says as you gasp at the cold sensation, smiling too, when he swipes it again with his thumb and flashes it down at you.

And you chuckle lightly below him, taking note of the bright orange streak that lines his neck, just below his adam’s apple. You’re not sure when it got there, or whether it was from you or him, but you run a finger through it too, bringing it to his cheek to rub your thumb lovingly across his face and paint it there, too. And in one swift motion, Hyunjin swipes the palm of his hand along the tarp, coating it in hues of indigo and deep violet and gray, cupping a hand around your breast to coat it in the same wet substance. And you do the same, your hand dipping generously into the myriad of reds and fuchsia paints that live below you, running a hand down his chest and painting a long stripe along his toned torso.

You both laugh, as he picks up his pace again, pushing himself to the hilt inside of you, the paints melting together with your sweat as he fucks you rhythmically again. And like two blank canvases finally being put to use, new colors blossom between the two of your longing bodies, shades of magenta and blue-gray making themselves known across your breasts and his torso. The colors are vibrant and robust, transferring life from the dull tarp of the studio floor onto blank slates of skin. You wish you could step out of your body and capture the colors forever, mix paints together into little jars and name every shade after every feeling Hyunjin’s ever given you. Longing, lust, fear, fascination, infatuation, obsession.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” Hyunjin breathes into your mouth so desperately. “It’s indescribable, the things you do to me.”

He lets his hands intertwine with yours again, giving them a small squeeze as he fucks you a little faster now and lets his groans shift into small whimpers that escape his lips.

“Please let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin begs, his cock slipping against your cervix with ease as wettened noises of his arousal pooling against yours fill the room. “Please, please, I promise to take care of you, baby. I feel like I belong here.”

He’s a whimpering mess for you now, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he fucks you and lets his hands explore every inch of your body. You want to cry, too, at the realization again that this all feels so tangible, that he makes you feel so seen when he’s hovering over you, placing open-mouthed kisses onto yours and letting his melodic moans fill your ears. The paint between you serving as proof that he’s touched you so desperately and wholly, creating art together in the confined space of your otherwise dull studio. And you want to feel him cum inside you, too, as a final reminder that you’re visible to him, that you’re no longer a fleeting, anonymous artist when you’re with Hyunjin. That he sees you for exactly you are, he knows your deepest secrets, and yet still he holds you, whispering words of permanence in your ear and letting you mold him like art. He’s an artist on his own, and he’s art at the hands of you, both of which draw you to him in ways you can’t begin to fathom, unlike anything you’ve felt before. And he teaches you that you’re an artist on your own, and art at the hands of a lover, both of which you hadn’t considered before Hyunjin, deeming yourself invisible in your comfortable solitude to the vast world around you. But the two coincide to echo the same sentiment that he teaches you exactly the way he also learns from you.

“Cum inside me,” you breathe desperately, grasping his hands a little tighter as he fucks you at a faster pace now.

“Yeah?” Hyunjin confirms, still staving off his orgasm until your verbal consent is heard.

“Yes,” you respond, wrapping your legs around his waist and making your best attempt to kiss him through his release. And you do, your lips moving against his in labored breaths, as he finally twitches inside of you and paints the inside of your listless body, hues of glazed white arousal filling your aching cunt as he whimpers through his orgasm.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin, breathes, giving a few more thrusts as he slows, his arousal dripping onto the tarp below you as he pulls out. And he rolls over to lie beside you, a mess of paint streaks sprawled out along his skin as his chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. The two of you say nothing for a moment, your eyes glued to a blank canvas housed on an easel in front of you.

It’s an almost blinding shade of white, begging for an ounce of color like the shades that now live on your skin. And through your heavy breaths, you picture the endless possibilities that can fill in the empty spaces above you. Grasslands, trees, oceans, clear waters and a vast, endless blue sky…

*

There is no overseas schedule Hyunjin has to tend to. You’re already aware of this, Hyunjin explaining to you that he made it up to put the sessions on hold and to keep Q from pressing him with questions.

But he resumes the sessions after a few weeks of putting them on pause, because he can’t seem to stay away from you any longer.

Hyunjin reckons he has a couple dozen of your paintings in his room now, all similar portraits of his face, portraits you capture in your signature formal essence, his face staring straight ahead or off in the distance, complete with the fine details of his long dark hair and the mole under his eye.

Only now that Hyunjin is back, Q is present at nearly every appointment. You’re not sure why things changed, and Q maintains a new stance to Hyunjin that the guidelines are based on adjusted company policies. But Hyunjin will do just about anything to be close to you- even if it means putting up with your obnoxious boss breathing down your neck every minute while you paint him.

The sessions are somehow even more unnerving than they used to be, Hyunjin still making every valiant effort to convey his obsession with you through intense stares and little gestures only the two of you can read. Q is obstinate in his ways, his gaze constantly flickering between you and your paintings to ensure everything is going swimmingly. But Hyunjin wishes so badly he could spend the entirety of these sessions alone with you, getting to break down your walls and see you for the person he knows you are when you’re not doing portraits under Q’s all-seeing eye.

With every passing day, and every passing session, Hyunjin grows a deep hatred for Q, despising the way he watches you work and chimes in to converse with the two of you. And he knows he shouldn’t, aware that Q is just your boss and nothing more. Something you’ve reiterated to him time and time again, but he can’t help it, desperate to have you all to himself every second of the day, a deep-seated longing to protect you from the hurt you’ve been dealt and wanting so badly for you to break free from the monotonous cycle you’ve confined yourself to of painting for anyone except yourself.

You can tell Hyunjin hates Q, judging by the way he doesn’t so much look in his direction when he arrives for his sessions. But you can’t convey the slightest bit of reaction in front of either of them, too scared of the prospect of what would happen to your career if anyone were to find out you’re fucking a client.

You maintain a professional composure around Hyunjin, despite the knowing stares he gives you and the sketches you catch him slipping into your purse when Q isn’t looking. At times he’s not around, you complete your daily tasks, well-mannered and organized to the clients who hire you, shooting them kind smiles and complimenting their black business attire when they show up for the evening. When the days draw to a close, Q is punctual as always, leaving just minutes past your last appointment and taking his work home with him.

And when his sleek black car turns out of the corner of the parking lot, Hyunjin slips inside like a mere shadow on the wall, quick to seduce you all over again and gift you with all of his recent sketches. Some of them are portraits of you, smiling or focused on your work. Some of them are erotic nude shots of you, lying on the tarp of the studio or touching yourself the way he pictures you do when you’re all alone. And some of them include both of you, your bodies tangled desperately into each other and drowning in your yearning and love. Sometimes nude, his hands on yours and fucking you mercilessly. Sometimes fully clothed, his lips on yours and bundled up in winter clothes. But always together, always desperate in your touches and always so tangible. You reckon he’s persuaded you into being fucked you on every surface of the dingy studio by now- against the canvases, on the tarp- several times, on the table Q typically occupies and just about every stool available to the two of you. And while Q is oblivious about why you stay a little longer every night, Hyunjin is both calculated and persuasive in returning so you two can get some time alone, time that always ends with his seed dripping out of your still-aching cunt, bodies entangled somewhere within the studio and covered in fresh swatches of paint.

He may have somewhat of an obsession with you, but life is teeming around the studio when Hyunjin is near, the colors and shapes of your work much more robust and vibrant when he’s striding around the space commenting on all his favorite pieces of yours. And you relish in stories of his days, typically spent at fan events or at dance practices. Having him return feels like having your physical figure return home to you, the world in complete equilibrium when he’s near, much less lonely than the one you’re used to.

“I could watch you do this forever,” Hyunjin remarks, watching you glide a brush along your canvas, filling in the shadows of a figure on the canvas in front of you.

And this one’s not a portrait- it’s a watercolor figure, much like the ones you used to paint back then, the technique coming back to you with ease as you highlight the convexes of a body mirroring yours and add varying hues as highlights.

Per Hyunjin’s request, you paint the figures occasionally, only because he’s repeatedly expressed his fascination at watching you complete the process in a live session. The paintings reminiscent of your old work aren’t for sale, nor are they critiqued by anyone except for yourself. And they’re certainly not done with the knowledge of Q, who would turn irate at you utilizing the studio’s supplies for anything but portraits.

They’re just for his viewing pleasure, a little exchange you indulge him in as he continues to gift you with sketches of his own.

Hyunjin’s arms snake around your waist as you paint, his head resting on your shoulder as he watches you dip your brush into a mug of water and dilute the caramel shade that taints the bristles.

“Will you add a second one?” Hyunjin asks in a curious whisper, his lips grazing your ear as you paint.

“A second one?” You echo.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, working a trail of kisses down the shell of your ear. “This one’s you. Will you add me?”

You chuckle lightly, dipping your brush into a warmer shade of brown and swirling it around to gather the color on the fine hairs.

“So they can resemble us,” Hyunjin says, his kisses traveling even lower. “Paint me fucking you the way you like it.”

You chuckle softly again, not missing the way Hyunjin’s hands travel to your skirt, flipping it up to graze his hands along the mound of your upper thigh.

“Hyunjin, I-” you begin to say. But you can’t answer him, shutting your eyes in pleasure as you hear him unzip his jeans behind you and position himself.

“Keep painting,” he says in a sultry whisper, pumping himself lightly behind you as he pulls your panties down.

And you try, bringing your brush to the canvas to add a second figure like he’s requested. But you can hardly make it past the first few strokes before Hyunjin’s sliding into your dripping cunt, letting his hands grip your waist to steady himself as he begins to move.

“Go on,” Hyunjin encourages, as his hips thrust in and away from your trembling figure, your hands trying their very best to keep hold of the little wooden paint brush and fill in his form.

You manage to add a subtle few streaks, beginning the amorphous outline of Hyunjin’s hair, his tall lanky figure towering over yours and taking you with such desperation.

But you don’t get very far before Hyunjin is angling your face to kiss your drooly lips, his hands now finding purchase on your breasts as he continues to fuck you. And all of this is wrong, you know very well. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with a client like this, much less one this powerful, this rich and who wields so much he can hold against you. One slip up and Hyunjin can go tell the world about how you’re the artist who disappeared to sell yourself out to rich men for all their selfish needs. And any option you have to defend yourself would never hold up against his wealthy corporation and all its investors.

But you also can’t help but give into his urges when he’s around, his lips so tantalizing on yours and his cock filling you so fully and completely when he has his way with you.

Maybe it’s not even just about the sex for you- maybe it also has something to do with his stories you live through vicariously, listening to tales of the outside world while you’re trapped in this studio or at the businesses of wealthy men. It’s also the drawings he makes for you, ones you find yourself staring at for hours after he leaves, like proof that he was here and he touched you. The drawings are you in your most tangible form, his hands on yours and his lips on the curves of your neck. It’s like a glimpse into a version of yourself that ceases to exist when he’s absent. And it’s the late hours of the night he spends asking so politely to watch you paint your older work, always so fascinated with the way your mind conjures up varying lonely figures crafted from watercolors and a nylon bristle brush. Older work you hadn’t realized you missed so dearly until you began producing it for Hyunjin again.

But you know that to Hyunjin this is just a exhilarating idea for him, to view your art the same way he carves out a couple hours each week for a museum tour or to sketch in one of his books. He probably finds it more convenient to fuck you here where nobody’s around than to stroke himself in a dorm he shares with three other men. And you can feel it in the way he so desperately pleads you to paint for him or cum for him- that his obsession with you is less about you, and more about the thought of you.

Maybe this is just the result of Hyunjin uncovering a secret nobody else paid close enough attention to connect you to. Or the thrill of you being his favorite artist for years, and realizing you’re finally tangible in front of him, real, and not disappeared like he previously took you for. You reckon it must be the same phenomenon other girls feel toward him, getting intimate with somebody they idolize, desperately cupping his face like it might dissipate if they don’t grasp hard enough. But just the thought of somebody doesn’t imply love. It doesn’t imply a mutual understanding, and it certainly doesn’t imply permanence for either party involved. When he’s gone again, you’ll cease to be real like you already are when he’s not around. And then every vision you have will be rooted in unfaltering solitude once more, your anonymous life resuming again.

“Will you cum for me?” Hyunjin asks, and you snap back to the feeling of his cock twitching in your dripping cunt as he grips your waist. “God, you don’t understand what you do to me.”

You can’t give him an answer before you feel him reaching his release inside of you, shooting thick white ropes of his cum into you and slowing his pace again as he moves your hair away from your face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Hyunjin says sheepishly as he pulls out. “Sit down for me,” he orders between kisses to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, grazing his hands along your waist and groaning against you.

And he’s already guiding you back to one of the stools, kneeling between your legs and spreading you for him, your glistening cunt on full display for him to taste.

“Want you to cum for me,” Hyunjin whispers, before positioning one of your legs on the wooden dowels of the stool. You can’t verbalize anything to him before his tongue is darting into your entrance, lapping his own release out of you and trailing up to give attention to your swollen clit. He works you in such desperate motions, tongue working your core like a starved animal and eagerly trying to coax an orgasm out of your trembling body. When his arousal is effectively brought out of your tight cunt and painting the tip of his tongue white, he coats your clit in it, giving kitten licks to your bundle of nerves as he hums against your flesh and whispers little pleas for you to let go.

And between your pussy still clenching down around the sheer memory of his cock inside of you mere minutes ago, and his plump lips kissing all over your wettened core, you do let go for him, dribbling cum down the edge of the wooden stool and threading your fingers through his hair as he trails kisses down to your thighs in encouragement.

“So good,” Hyunjin murmurs as he comes up for air, intertwining his fingers in yours as you get cleaned up. You shoot him a little “thank you”, and Hyunjin presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand as he nods, getting dressed once more and tucking his softened cock back into his boxers.

“Come here,” he states. “I want to ask you something.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.

He guides you to his same wooden stool, where he climbs upon the seat and then takes your hands in his again as you stand in front of him, pressing a small kiss to your palm before speaking.

“You know I care about you, right?” He begins, his eyebrows raised curiously.

“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.

“And you know I love your art.”

“So you’ve told me,” you say, and Hyunjin brings your hand up to press another kiss to your palm.

“I have a proposal for you,” he then says. “And I just want you to hear me out.”

Your heart sinks at his words, already fearing the worst as you wait for him to elaborate. You pray he hasn’t done anything to reveal your identity, or to make these secret erotic sessions public, knowing you’d both never live a normal life again at either of the instances occurring.

“What is it?” You ask Hyunjin, heart racing in your chest.

He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand soothingly, trying to calm you down before he speaks.

“I privately sponsor the art gallery every year,” he begins. “I put some funding toward a painting of my choice and it allows those artists to have their pieces displayed for the winter show and make connections,” he continues.

“Okay…”

“And I want to sponsor you this year,” Hyunjin finishes, giving your hands a little squeeze.

“Hyunjin, there can't be an installment of your face at the art museum. People will get suspicious.”

“Not my face,” he says reassuringly. “Your art. Like the ones you used to do.”

And you feel your throat dry up at his words, the exact thing you’d feared coming to fruition.

“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t do those paintings anymore. I can paint you, or another person or whoever. But I can’t do one of my old ones.”

“But your old ones are beautiful,” Hyunjin says. “It doesn’t have to be your old series. You can start a new one. Do something entirely different.”

“I don’t want to do something entirely different, Hyunjin. It’s a chapter of my life that’s been closed already. You know I don’t do those anymore.”

Hyunjin maintains his collected composure, his eyes softening as he speaks to you.

“You’re not happy doing portraits. I know you. You have a spark in you when you’re painting for yourself, and people love them. You deserve to be doing what you love.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, letting go of Hyunjin’s grasp and shaking your head. “I’m so grateful for the offer, but I can’t put myself back out there again.”

“You can still be anonymous,” Hyunjin offers. “Some artists I’ve sponsored choose to remain anonymous and only reveal to serious patrons of their art. I can make sure they don’t find out who you are.”

“It’s me and my art I don’t want to be seen,” you emphasize.

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything now, rising from the wooden stool and reaching for the iced coffee he’s placed on the table beside you.

“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”

He swirls the cup of ice around in his hand, and then he hangs his head in defeat.

“Hyunjin, seriously. Thank you for the offer. It’s sweet of you to consider it. But I’m not ready yet.”

He shoves a hand in his pocket and cocks his head slightly.

“Is this because of Quinton?”

“What? Hyunjin, I already told you our relationship is strictly professional-”

“Not romantically,” Hyunjin continues. “You’re like a slave to him. You do everything he tells you to do. He probably doesn’t let you leave this studio.

You’re quiet again, not answering him immediately. No, you don’t stay here at Q’s behest. But it just feels safer to follow his advice. He was just a client when you met him, but he took you under his wing to get you where you are now. He runs all your schedules, he books your appointments for you, he even gives his say on most of your work. He’s the only part of your old life that’s remained the same, despite your transition to portraits, and cutting him off would be stepping into a world completely unbeknownst to you.

“No,” you say finally, but you don’t expand further upon your stance.

“You’re so lonely here,” Hyunjin responds frustratedly. “And yet you follow orders from the same person whose job it is to keep you invisible.”

“Why should I follow your orders?” You retort.

“Because I love you.”

“You don’t love me, Hyunjin,” you reply frustratedly, finally feeling the anger overtake you as you continue your angered speech. “You love the idea of me. You love the idea of escaping your crazy rich life to try and resolve the tortured artist you’re so infatuated with. You love the idea of fulfilling somebody’s life with your presence because it’s all you do for a career. I’m not the person I was when I was doing those paintings- I do portraits now, and I work under somebody who knows what’s best for me. And you’re just a client I’m sleeping with.”

Hyunjin purses his lips, amused you would stoop that low for the purposes of declining his offer. And then he shakes his head as he speaks again.

“You’re right,” he finally says. “I’m just some client you’re sleeping with. I never tried to push you out of this line of work you hate so much, or drew you on every page of my sketch book or made love to you in every square inch of this goddamn studio. I’m not proposing this because I care about you and I want you to do what you love, it’s because I’m just a client you’re sleeping with.”

And he pivots on his heel to exit the studio, taking rushed steps toward the door as tears brim the corners of your eyes.

“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.

“I see you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, turning around to face you. “I see all of you. Your work didn’t just materialize by some anonymous form. You’re a painter, a really talented one, and I don’t want you to feel this all-consuming solitude anymore. I say that because I love you, not just because I’m sleeping with you. If you want to remain invisible to everybody except Quinton, then be my guest. Just know that I tried.”

And without another word, the studio is empty again, the tip of your brush still dripping with the remnants of the warm brown color and every intention to add a second figure to your painting.

*

You don’t speak with Hyunjin any more that evening. Or the next day. Or perhaps for a whole week following the conversation, for that matter. The reality is that you want to partake in his offer, the thought of it candidly piquing your interest to paint something other than another rich man. And it would be nice to watch your art be displayed for people to see just once, rather than to live on the walls of a company where only people within a certain tax bracket will ever grace your work. But what you reiterated to Hyunjin still stands- you’re scared to venture out into the competitive world of art galleries again. Your old series was a hit, sure, but it was also torn down relentlessly by those who didn’t understand it and those who simplified it down to its medium. And it was a much harder endeavor to make people understand your watercolor forms, unlike the portraits Q advises you continue producing.

But you can’t seem to stop thinking of Hyunjin’s proposal as a whole, understanding very well that his offer is one of the kindest things he could propose to you at this place in your life. He sees you- all of you, and subsequently he knows that you’re unhappy in this monotonous abyss of adding new features to the same faces every day. The way a change for you is determined only by a shift in a client’s pose or even just an addition of their pet- it’s all so repetitive, exactly what art isn’t supposed to be.

Maybe you’re just scared of getting rejected again, or perhaps it’s that you’re scared of finally being seen again, anonymous or not, putting yourself on the map again and being perceived.

*

“I want a painting,” Hyunjin says as he saunters into the studio one evening, throwing off his bag and dragging a stool to the middle of the room.

“Oh- Hyunjin, pleased to see you again,” Q remarks, bowing and giving you a nervous look.

Hyunjin doesn’t even acknowledge him, keeping a stern gaze locked on yours as if he’s challenging you.

“We have the evening booked today,” Q begins. “But I’m sure we can accommodate something for next week-”

“I need it now,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m willing to pay five times your asking price.”

And you narrow your eyes at Hyunjin, knowing he’s making his best attempt to provoke you and disrupt the work you’re completing per Q’s orders.

“How do you want it?” Q then asks, not hesitating to put aside your entire evening for Hyunjin’s offer.

“I want to be in a suit. And I want to be holding a wad of cash. I want to look like an investor.”

“Interesting,” Q says, his gaze flickering to yours. “She can do it though.”

Q turns to face you, giving you a knowing look as he raises his eyebrows. “I’ll clear your calendar for today and we can stay and work on this piece.”

And Hyunjin looks to you, too, waiting for you to protest, to say something along the lines of a refusal to partake in the outlandish task. But you avert both of their gazes, readying your paint palette and gesturing to one of the stools in front of you.

“Have a seat,” you say plainly, void of any emotion or desire to fulfill the task. And by the way Q hovers over you, void of autonomy, too, Hyunjin concludes.

“How are things at the company?” Q asks Hyunjin, leaning in a little too close to you as you begin painting long strokes on the canvas.

“Fine,” Hyunjin says, not taking his gaze off yours. His eyes are narrowed like he’s challenging you, yet you don’t give him the reaction he searches for.

“You must be busy,” Q remarks, his hands folded behind his back. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you here.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re running her schedule like the fucking military,” Hyunjin retorts, cocking an eyebrow at him. Q takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t argue, doing his best to keep in line at your highest-paying client.

“She’s pretty busy,” Q replies reluctantly. “But it’s nothing she can’t handle.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, again waiting for you to chime in, but you still don’t, working on adding details to Hyunjin’s tresses on the canvas.

“This will be my final session,” Hyunjin then says, and your head snaps to meet his gaze.

“Is that so?” Q questions. “Going overseas again?”

“Indefinitely,” Hyunjin replies. “Not overseas, I’ve just no need for the paintings anymore.”

Your lips part as though to ask if he’s serious, but you can’t, not with Q here alongside you.

“I have so many of them now,” Hyunjin remarks, not taking his eyes off you. “It’s been a lovely time with the two of you, but I won’t be returning after this evening. I hope you understand.”

“Please don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything we can provide you with,” Q voices. “I hope we’ll remain connected with the peers at your company.”

“Oh, you will,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m sure the investors and the senior managers will love portraits of their own. She’ll have a lifetime of portraits to complete when I’m gone.”

You can feel a pit forming in your stomach, queasy at the thought of carrying on this task of capturing rich businessmen and ceasing your sessions with Hyunjin. He’s unmoving in his attempts to make you revisit your old art. But his begging has also been eye-opening, making you realize just how much you hate this line of work and having Q breathe down your neck.

Hyunjin has a point, you’re unhappy doing portraits. You love the watercolor figures you paint, you love your time with Hyunjin and the feeling of unending curiosity he instills in you. There’s no solitude when he’s around, filling every aspect of your life with such color and vibrancy like the figures you paint. And you learn from him just as much as he learns from you.

But the fear remains, the feeling of hopelessness remains, the perception that Hyunjin is only obsessed with an idea of you and that your career is far gone from the watercolor figures you painted so long ago.

And of course, that you require Q’s uncompromising presence in your life to be even close to successful. He’s the one who transitioned you to a successful career of portraits after your previous line of work fell through. And you’re not sure you can shift to a new focus without him to guide you.

“Hyunjin,” you say suddenly, garnering the attention of both he and Q.

“What is it?” Q replies, as though you’re referring to him. And you wish he wouldn’t be so… disruptive, making you lose your train of thought as Hyunjin waits for your words with bated breath.

“I’ve completed the initial outline,” you settle on saying. “It should be sent over to you in a couple days.”

And he nods, a somber, thin-lipped expression on his face as he understands you’re never going to divert from this path of fear you walk, one you’re forcing yourself to stick to.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, getting up to leave again. “I’ll see you around.”

*

Private events are seldom actually private for Hyunjin. The interior of the gallery is organized accordingly so that patrons can mingle with their respective artists and all of the prestigious guests invited.

But the exterior is only private up the crowd control stanchions, where beyond it live hordes of people wielding all sorts of fancy cameras and cell phones, snapping photo after photo and analyzing every one of Hyunjin’s movements.

Hyunjin’s attending an art gallery today, the crowds murmur amongst each other, the message echoing all over the city and overshadowing the art itself, which hasn’t even been unveiled yet.

His departure from the black limousine he arrives in is met instantly with deafening screams, the repetitive click of camera shutters and commands for him to angle his face every which way. The people stop to stare at his fitted black suit, the long black hair he sports styled slick out of his face and expensive jewelry he flaunts as a clear indicator that he’s a sponsor of the evening’s show, alongside a long list of other wealthy individuals.

His hands remain tucked in the pockets of his black slacks, giving a gracious bow to the fans before making his way inside to the main event.

And the gallery is significantly more packed than he’s used to, people crowding every square inch of the marbled floors and admiring the intricate pieces of art. The curtains are pulled back neatly so that guests can roam freely among the halls, easels set up in neat rows and canvases mounted on walls to display all the sponsored works of art.

Hyunjin is quick to gravitate to the long white table pushed against the wall by the entrance, set up with generous servings of hors d’oeuvres. And in a bout of nervousness, he’s sampling the cheese platters and the varying flavors of wine, sighing as he swirls a glass of cherry merlot between his slender fingers.

He was supposed to be here sponsoring you tonight, unveiling your paintings for the world to appreciate once again, and so that he’d finally put forth the notion that you’re more than the halls of law offices your portraits exist in.

But that was three weeks ago now- three weeks in which Hyunjin failed to visit you like he’d warned he would. And three weeks in which neither of you reconnected, letting the temporary affair between you dissipate like the sketches he stopped producing of you, like the portraits he finished collecting from you. And like the hope he held onto that maybe you’d come around and entertain a life in which you aren’t so comfortable being invisible and inhibited at the hands of your Q. But that never came around, and although Hyunjin is frustrated with you, he misses you just as much, knowing very well he could spend a lifetime learning from you if only you let him. Now in the gallery he once dragged you to, where he admitted to having learned the secret you hid, he can only pray you know that he sees you for who you are, and not some invisible producer of your static portraits. That a life lived in complete solitude doesn’t have to be the answer to succumbing to your fears, even if it feels more comfortable than the perception and the critiques of others. And that although the idea of you was a lovely one indeed, he loves every part of you, not just the concept of you- and pushing you to grow was his way of making it known.

The gallery hosts are quick to introduce the paintings and their respective sponsors, a variety of them being under anonymous titles and names as they choose to remain hidden, too. But Hyunjin doesn’t wait around to listen to much of it, examining the paintings on his own in between nervous trips to the snack table, where he gets tipsy off a little too much cherry wine. It’s his first time not being a sponsor to a specific painting, instead having opted to donate a large sum to the gallery in his company’s name. But after you declined his invitation to be sponsored, Hyunjin didn’t see it fit to highlight the work of any other painting. It’s you he wants to see up there, proudly showing off your work and making a name for yourself in the industry again the way he knows you secretly want to. And he so badly wishes he could stop by your studio one last time to tell you that he’s not sure he can ever sponsor another painting again if it’s not one of yours. Your art circles his mind relentlessly, as do your words, your heart, your body and your real, tangible presence.

“Nice, isn’t it?” A voice says from beside Hyunjin. He almost jumps, the wine making him a little tired at this point in the evening, not having socialized with many people while he stands in the corner of the room and takes in the sight.

“Quinton?” Hyunjin voices plainly, scowling at his uptight demeanor as he leans against the table beside Hyunjin and crosses his legs.

“So nice to see our former highest-painting client,” Q responds. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve never seen you at one of these,” Hyunjin chimes in. He then looks around the room frantically, thinking maybe you’d accompanied him to the event tonight.

“Don’t bother,” Q says, as he takes a sip of wine. “I’m alone. Just scoping out the competition.”

He’s quiet for a moment, swirling his glass of wine around in his hand before speaking again.

“She never had a portrait at one of these gallery shows. Said they felt too commercial. Of course her old stuff was shown just about everywhere. I think she was just scared.”

“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.

“Of course I knew. I led her career’s entire rebranding. Of course she didn’t love the portraits, but the money came to us like you wouldn’t believe. And coupled with her fear of these gallery walks and important figures, we had no choice but to compromise. I got her the opportunity to paint people like you. And she did all the work.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply shaking his head and crossing his legs, too.

“She had a lot of people who believed in her art.”

Q shrugs. “She was free to walk whenever she wanted. Her fear kept her controlled, not me. I’m just another businessman for all she cares.”

And Hyunjin gives a small nod, finishing the last of his wine.

“Look, I can’t help but feel like I owe you an apology,” Hyunjin says finally. “I was just a little jealous whenever you were around. Not that there was anything going on, I just mean-”

“You think you’re the first client to have taken a liking to her?” Q interrupts. “I’ve seen it a million times. People want to take advantage and they get obsessed, and they start pulling crazy shit like offering five times the pay for a simple portrait.”

Q looks down to examine his leather shoes, adjusting the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose. And then he sighs frustratedly before speaking again.

“I would know,” Q then says, doing his best to avert Hyunjin’s gaze. “She’s a tough one to crack. She loves her paintings, and being alone and I don’t think she’d ever give the time of day to a good man. Not even if he followed her to her next endeavor.”

Hyunjin nods at the marbled floor, and then his head snaps in the direction of Q’s somber gaze.

The way he speaks of you, the way he gets a little too close to you for Hyunjin’s liking- Hyunjin finally thinks he understands. It’s not just the fear of being perceived that keeps you from picking up your old life again. It’s the fear of abandoning Q, who so arrogantly feels like he’s owed something for helping get you back on your feet after you shifted your work’s focus.

He’s the only other person who knows your secret, and he holds it over you like it makes him more important than anyone else in your life. He reduces you to a lifetime of following his orders, likely because he’s bitter that he was never the solution to your loneliness. A wealthy businessman himself, it was Q who kept returning for paintings once not long ago, accumulating piles of your work and making every last effort to pursue you. But when he wasn’t successful, he convinced you that you were right about your fears, that it was your best move to take his advice and he’d keep you turning a generous profit as long as you stuck by him. Q was so hopelessly devoted to an idea of you, and when he couldn’t help you overcome your fears, he became the catalyst for your fears, instead.

“You and I are a lot of the same,” Q voices. “Two rich men with dreams just out of our reach. It seems money can’t buy you everything, after all.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, swallowing nervously and looking at Q. And then Q shakes his head as he sets his glass of wine down on the table.

“Only I’ve never seen her willingly paint the same client so many times the way she does with you,” he finishes. “I guess she really liked being seen, after all.”

Q adjusts his glasses once more, and Hyunjin feels his heart sink at Q’s words, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly guilty for not having contacted you again.

“Could you tell her I stopped by?” Hyunjin inquires.

“Me? Oh no,” Q begins. “I can’t get in contact with her. No one can.”

“You- what? What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” Q responds. “She told me she was done, and she walked out on me with a single watercolor palette and a notepad. She didn’t say anything else.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Hyunjin interrupts to ask, and Q shakes his head.

“She just left, and it’s been almost a month and she’s still MIA. Maybe she’ll come crawling back when she needs another rebranding.”

Hyunjin can feel his heart sinking deeper and deeper with every passing word that leaves Q’s lips.

He’s tried your cell phone- twice since leaving, and you never answered. But he assumed it to be a fleeting argument that would eventually make amends in due time when he could stomach visiting the studio again- not you running away from all of this for good.

“I have to go,” Hyunjin says frantically, chugging the rest of his wine and slamming his glass on the table.

“It was me who found her the first time,” Q says, not taking his eyes off the art across the room.

“What?”

“It was me who chased after her. After she disappeared. Don’t be surprised if she shuts you out when you finally do find her- I think I’ve already scarred her enough with my relentless attempts at persuasion.”

Hyunjin nods nervously, watching as Q cocks his head at the art, still averting Hyunjin’s gaze. And when he finally does turn to look at him, his eyes are glossy with tears, guilt painting every feature on his face.

“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”

Hyunjin nods, though he makes no verbal promise to relay the message to you.

“Don’t do what I did,” Q emphasizes. “I think you’re the one person who makes her feel like art, herself. Don’t ruin this.”

*

“I forgot my ID today,” Hyunjin remarks to the security guard in the late hours of the evening. He’s met with a gracious bow, the same security guard opening the door and ushering him inside anyway.

“Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need.”

The security guards all know Hyunjin very well now, taking note of the way his visits increased tenfold following your departure from the city.

At first he felt as though maybe he was searching for you when he’d come out here, any ounce of proof that you had indeed existed the way he remembered, and hopeful for the confirmation that you moved on to something new.

But as paintings cycled through their respective artists, and exhibits cycled through varying themes, it was a confirmation he never received, never finding a hint of you among the gallery. Thus, Hyunjin drew the hopeful conclusion that you’d escaped to a nicer city, worked on your old paintings again and made a new life for yourself, independently instead of under the overbearing presence of any other man. It’s what he wishes, at least, feeling disheartened every time he remembers you’ve very seldom lived any part of your professional career for yourself only.

The gallery is quiet at this hour, akin to the silent gray evening beyond its walls, and Hyunjin’s shoes squeak along the floors as he makes his way over to the curtains that veil the artwork.

New sculptures, by the same artist who had formed the paper mache ones. These ones are formed from wire and clay, the figures once again embracing each other in tender touches and dances. Hyunjin studies every careful bend and arch, making a mental note to sketch some of them when he gets a chance.

Another room houses a similar spread of modern art from before, these ones all coinciding with the warm lighting that hangs overhead, strokes along the canvases all housing similar warm-toned hues. He knows you’d love this installment and its careful attention to making use of color.

And the last room, the same little room behind a curtain, a small bench in front of a colossal canvas and just barely lit for his eyes to make out the scene.

Hyunjin’s seated before he can even examine the artwork, squinting carefully at the painting to get a better look. He even makes a conscious decision to put on his black frame glasses, making every attempt to get a proper look at the artwork in front of him.

Diluted hues of paint and water dance along the canvas, figured outlines he’s very familiar with, and the essence of solitude radiating from every brush stroke. Only this one isn’t one figure- it’s two, a warm-toned figure and a cool-toned outline holding each other in a tender embrace, their faces indistinguishable, true to the mystery of your work.

And between them, bright hues of paint, yellows, blues, magentas, fantastic mixtures of chartreuse and vermillion, all painted like brush strokes along their yearning bodies and illustrating a profound sense of togetherness, much more robust than the ever-present solitude.

“Visions of you in solitude,” reads the small bronze beneath the canvas.

As he cocks his head to make sense of the painting, he feels the leather of the bench dip beside him, indicating the presence of another patron. And at this hour, he doesn’t need to turn his head to understand who it is.

“There’s two,” Hyunjin says with a small smile, not averting his gaze from the painting.

“It felt incomplete without one.”

“Is that…”

“You?” You question quietly.

He nods in response, eyes scanning the swatches of paint between their bodies. It has to be me, he thinks. It has to be us.

“Maybe it is,” you reply. “I don’t disclose my processes to just about anyone. But you’re welcome to make your assumptions how you see fit.”

Hyunjin gives a breathy chuckle, finally turning to meet your gaze.

You look lighter- happier, as though you have the weight of your fears and reservations off your shoulders for once. Hyunjin can’t help but lean a little closer into you before stopping himself, knowing he can’t come in here to mirror the same thing Q once did long ago.

“You’re doing galleries,” he settles on saying.

“And they scare the hell out of me,” you respond, huffing a little at the end of your sentence. “But, it is nice to be seen again.”

He gives a little nod, and then his mind goes back to Q, who had asked to relay his version of an apology to you. But Hyunjin hesitates to speak of him, not wanting to taint your new art with the mentions of the old businessmen who took advantage of you.

“I’d have kept my distance if I knew how this went down the first time,” Hyunjin explains, hoping you’ll get what he implies. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to shift your focus. I just wanted you to be happy.”

You sigh for a moment, scanning the painting across from you, too, before turning to speak to him once more.

“Of all the clients I’ve painted, you were the first to ask about my vision. I think you do see me. And I think it was easier to say you loved an idea of me, because I couldn’t understand why you’d love any other part.”

Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.

“I learn from you the same way you learned from me,” you continue. “And you make me feel so seen. But I’m learning how to do that without needing you, too. Getting comfortable with my loneliness, I don’t think it’s something I was able to practice very much. At least not with…”

Hyunjin nods, not needing to hear Q’s name to know who you speak of.

“I understand,” Hyunjin voices. “And I want you to take all the time that you need. What matters is that you feel fulfilled, and that you’re not being pushed at the hands of somebody else. That’s more than enough for me to love you at a distance.”

And you nod at him, your heart swelling at his words as he turns to look back at the painting once more. The two of you stay there like that for several minutes, observing the way you’ve so carefully captured the togetherness you feel when you’re beside him. Swatches of paints that echo the color he brings into your life, and yet rooted in the solitude you’re still learning to be comfortable with. Visions of him in your own solitude, also creating a version of yourself that will continue to learn from him as much as he learns from you. And still art at the hands of him, both when you’re loving him wholly, and at this comfortable distance from each other.

And by the summer months, he’ll love you at a close proximity when you’re ready again, exchanging passionate embraces behind the curtains at galleries and making love to you in your shared apartment. He’ll continue to draw for you, and remain the biggest fan of the two-piece figures you illustrate with watercolors, capturing the same sense of togetherness and yet unwavering solitude that comes with breaking yourself down to the world around you. And the love will be reciprocated unconditionally by you, who finally feels seen at the hands of somebody who perceives you beyond just a concept.

But for now, he’ll remain right here, at this comfortable distance, allowing himself to learn from you as much as you learn from him. And the love will be undemanding, but it will be real, tangible.

[ ᴛᴀɢs: @drhsthl , @straykeedz-recs , @caitlyn98s , @moonlinos , @cottonsthings , @jaykyo , @write143 , @pinkcinnamon444 , @maximumkillshot , @auraleeknow , @skzms @coastalmaine , @venomracha , @lmhcats , @felinows , @maexc , @kang-min-joo , @liinoracha , @sealovesbts , @hanniessleepyeyes , @hyunjinsamdl , @chans1aptop , @yomomma104 , @sheraall , @kbbok , @silentreadersthings , @beomkgyu , @diorrxluvskz , @dancerachaslut , @jeannie-beannie , @heeseungshim , @weareapackofstrays , @bethanysnow , @inlovewithmusician , @kite-lee , @heartheartisa , @katsukis1wife , @minhosbitterriver , @y-ur--i , @seung-mine , @sskzlover , @bomi-ja , @crisle19 , @binniesbang , @leritzreyw , @lixiesundrop , @chopchopslide-juggalo , @vsereniasstuff , @morethancupcake , @fun-fanfics , @awillowbent , @unstiqn , @lixiesfairygf ]

add yourself to the tag list here.

[amxrany]

!! CHAPTER 7 / DIASOMNIA ARC SPOILERS !!

Heyyyy I'm still alive and kicking, been doing a lot during the summer and I got some vacant time now so let's go (Kalim's Dream):

We're getting right into the action ya'll we are currently transmigrating into Kalim's dream and Vil is not having a good time (he's screaming his ass off). We land in front of a school and Vil is just distraught about dream hopping that Yuu, Grim and Idia are making fun of him for it 😭; but Vil wasn't letting it slide with Idia (he threatened to smash his screen/LCD).

Ok yeah going back we see a fountain with the sultan's (the sultan from Aladdin) statue in the middle. Then Grim get curious of said statue that he jumps??? into the fountain??? Then we get the KALIM APPEARANCE RAHHHH

He explains to the group that the sultan serves as the main figure of the school they're in: Qasr Sultanate Academy. Kalim also doesn't recognize any of them because he's a second year of the school, he also doesn't recognize NRC but once he heard that they were from Sage's Island; he assumes they're having a tour.

He also notices that the group is dying from the heat due to their uniforms, so he uses Oasis Maker to hydrate them. We learn that in this dream, Kalim manifested his magic at the age of 14 and created the academy to train his magic (OKAY DAMNNNN THAT'S JUST A WHOLE NEW LEVEL OF RICH). That's when Kalim summons his servants to give the guys a feast because apparently you can bring servants to the school even if then if they won't be considered as "students" and Sebek's like "NRC doesn't even permit outsiders" (talk about culture shock)

That's when they start talking about stories from their homeland, Kalim brings up the story of Aladdin and the Sultan; while Silver and Sebek bring up the story of Sleeping Beauty. Grim notices that while Kalim isn't that much different, it's strange that he isn't at NRC knowing how much he loves the school. That's when Ortho makes the connection between Kalim and Vil, what could be the possible tragedy that happened for Kalim not to be at NRC in his dream (well they're about to find out) then we get a JAMIL JUMPSCARE

(why is he smiling, it kinda scares me)

So what Kalim really wanted was to be friends with Jamil despite their differing statuses (aw :( ) and thus the group plays along by introducing themselves to this Fake!Jamil. Vil's impressed with Silver and Sebek's acting skills, I mean if you have encountered a war general, a buff twink and a Savanaclaw fanboy; you'd at least pick up on some acting along the way.

But of course, Silver and Sebek do know that there is something off about the Fake Jamil because he asked Kalim to get something for him and they're just calling the Fake out 💀. That's when Fake!Jamil reveals itself as the darkness and tries to drag Kalim down with him, but Kalim is starting to remember everything.

KALIM SMACKS US WITH THE QUESTION FROM BOOK 4 IMA JUMP OFF GOODBYE

That's when Fake!Jamil uses Snake Whisper on Kalim but Kalim wasn't buying it then the Fake!Jamil starts saying stuff along the lines of how they grew up as brothers and have never been shy with each other despite their positions. That's when Vil snaps Kalim out of the dream about how he still kept trying to befriend Jamil despite having him betrayed by him in the past. That eventually wakes Kalim up

That's when the scene changes to Book 4's overblot battle, when Fake! Jamil tries to help Kalim stand; he swats the fake's hand away. That's when Kalim replies to Vil that it's because he's Jamil's master, not his best friend. But Kalim tells the Fake that he wants to befirend the real Jamil, not him.

Thus the fight begins and once it's done, Kalim cries now let me show you his groovy

(if he's sad, we are all sad too)

The whole plan is then revealed to Kalim, who is now fully awake. Kalim is now added to the party because he's the only one who can awaken Jamil because they know each other. He also mentions that it's usually done the opposite way (Jamil doing the waking up), so it's nice to see the roles swapped.

I don't think my summaries captures the full essence of Kalim's dream so I really recommend that you watch english translations if they're out. But yeah will be translating Jamil's dream in a bit, took me awhile cuz I had a lot of things to do but yeah see ya'll soon~

Next: Jamil's Dream

[veronicaphoenix]

the last song | n.s.

With the new album finally completed and a new song dropping in a couple of days, Noah takes his girl to the studio, hoping to show her around without the chaos of past recording days, and maybe, he can get that last song he's been dreaming of.

one shot ✨ | noah sebastian x fem.reader word count: 2.3k tags: established relationship, fluff, fluffy sexual content (it's not too explicit), reader has a slight kink for noah's silver chain (who doesn't, let's be honest), no trigger warnings, just noah being in love and being loved back.

The studio is finally empty. 

After weeks of relentless work and dedication, days blurring into nights, headaches, frustration, last-minute changes, and ups and downs not only in the sounddeck, but also in the mood of the whole team, the album was finally ready, and in a matter of days, new music would fill spaces beyond the studio’s confines.  

         Noah steps aside to let her in. She is enveloped in the grandeur of the space. Never before had she been in a recording studio, and its magnitude overwhelms her. The expanse stretches out before her, a labyrinth of hallways leading into rooms of creativity. There are framed records adorning the walls, a testament to the artistry that thrives within these walls. This feels like the type of place Noah would call home. Too bad she hasn’t fully realized yet that his home is her,no matter how many hours he’s spent away from her locked in this very right place. 

         While she is fascinated by the array of instruments, cables, and other things she doesn’t know the name of, it’s Noah himself who captivates her the most. His joy is palpable as he gives gently explanations about the use of each room, each instrument. His enthusiasm is infectious. He’s so eager to share his world with her. 

         This is one of the reasons why she’s so in love with him. 

         His passion. 

         And she is lucky enough that he’s equally passionate about music as he is about her. 

         Taking her hand, he leads her from one room to another, continuing his explanations and sharing curiosities about this and that, mentioning the guys, the places where each one usually sits while they review the recordings, the Starbucks cups that pile up in the corner of a table when they’ve been locked in there for twelve hours and start to suffer the effects of not seeing the sunlight or hearing the sounds of the outside world, anecdotes that ignite her laughter, a sound that makes Noah’s heart flutter. 

         She asks him about the new music, she pleads to hear at least one song, a piece, ten seconds. Nearly begs him. She knows she just has to utter the word “please” and Noah will give her anything she wants. This evening, she wants to hear the melodic cascade of his voice, get lost in the way Noah turns words into dreamy melodies. It’s not enough to hear him speak; she wants to hear him weave words into a song; she wants to drown in the melodies he has put into lyrics that speak of her, of the moments when they are stripped of all mundanity, of clothes and fear, when they are alone, skin to skin, and when all that can be heard is only the rhythm of their beating hearts and the symphony of their shared passion. 

         He insists he can’t. He wants it to be a surprise. He has hopes that when she listens to the album, one or two songs will get her on her knees, while others will lead her to beg him to fuck her to the cadence of those. 

         Embedded within the lyrics of the new songs are a few confessions, but there’s a time for those to reach her ears, and it’s not tonight. 

         He silences his phone and sets it aside while she occupies herself by tinkering with the buttons on the soundboard. A few minutes later, Noah sneaks up behind her, enveloping her in his warm and slipping his hands beneath the fabric of her white t-shirt.  

         “There’s actually... one last song missing,” he murmurs against the fragrant scent of her hair.  

         “One last song?” She asks, her curiosity piqued. She begins to turn round, but Noah holds her in place. He rests his head on her shoulder, and with a trail of his fingers along the curve of her stomach, he elicits a subtle shiver that she tries to ignore. “I thought you said the album was complete, that you had finished...”

“Not quite yet,” he replies, planting a ghostly kiss on her earlobe. 

         She can sense the cool, minty breath against her neck, and it sends a shiver down her spine. He has been indulging in a mint candy, and her mind wanders to the tantalizing thought of having his mouth between her legs at this moment. The idea of that refreshing sensation sends a rush of desire coursing through her veins, and she can’t help but wonder if it would be enough to push her over the edge. 

         She smells of jasmine and the promise of spring. He wants to inhale her, breathe her in.  

         Concerned, she wriggles in his embrace until she can face him, stepping back a few paces as she speaks. She wants him to take her seriously.

         “I didn’t know, Noah. I wouldn’t have asked you to bring me here if you were still in the middle of—”

         With a single step, he reaches her again, his smile widening at her endearing bewilderment. He captures her lips in a kiss, stealing her breath away. The taste of the candy is still on his lips, and his fresh breath enters her mouth as their lips part.

         It’s in the way their mouths fit together that she finds reassurance that they’re perfect for each other. She knows she’s found the boy of her dreams, and the mere thought of being apart from him feels unbearable. She doesn’t know how she will survive next time he goes away on tour. For now, she will live in the way his tender kisses have a way of evolving into passionate bites that ignite a delightful flutter in her stomach. 

         “You’re adorable,” he says over her lips. 

         For a moment, she feels dizzy. Then, with a determined frown, she grabs a handful of Noah’s black hoodie, attempting to appear assertive, though to Noah, she resembles nothing more than an adorable kitten.  

         “You told me the album was complete, that you would only bring me here once the work was done and this was empty so that you could let me explore and touch things and…”

         “And record the last song,” Noah interjects calmly, looking into her eyes, smile tugging at his lips.

         Her brow furrows even deeper, her head tilting slightly to the side as Noah’s gaze traces the contours of her face, his eyes filled with admiration for every freckle, that little ever so tiny scar earned in a childhood adventure, the faint blush spreading through her cheeks.  

         “Noah, I don’t understand.”

         “Let me show you…”

         With her skin already responding to the anticipation, Noah’s hands find their way under her t-shirt, caressing the skin of her sides. It’s always just one touch and she’s already putty in his hands. She can’t help it; the man has that effect on her, that power over her. She would give him the world if she could because no one ever makes her feel as cherished as he does.  

         So, when he gently lifts her t-shirt, after worshipping her with light, seductive kisses along her neck and jawline, she allows him to undress her. His lips touch her shoulder, his tongue tracing a slow path until it finds the pulsing vein of her neck. A sharp intake of breath escapes her lips as he tenderly sucks at her skin, his fingers expertly finding their way beneath her skirt and underwear, eliciting a low, sweet moan from deep within her.  

         It’s the first of many moans to come.  

         Noah smiles against her flushed skin. His cock twitches. His heartbeat races.  

         The music is playing now. 

         He showers her with kisses, his hand cradling the side of her face as he traces a line with his finger from between her legs, through the valley of her breasts, up to her clavicle. 

         Growing impatient, she tugs at his hoodie, and sensing her urgency, he assists her in removing it. Underneath, Noah wears a black tank top, and her eyes immediately gravitate to the silver chain adorning his neck, previously hidden by the hoodie. With a heated spark in her eyes, she hesitates for a moment before seizing the chain and pulling Noah down to her awaiting mouth. 

         With one hand clutching his chain and the other sliding to the back of his head, she revels in the sensation of his soft hair sliding between her fingers. He emanates the intoxicating scent of masculine perfume and tastes like pure adrenaline—a potent combination that renders him utterly irresistible. He’s as addictive as a man can get. He’s tall, muscular, handsome, and fucking sweet. 

         And best of all, he is hers.  

         Noah scoops her up, intending to place her atop the sound deck. It would be a great place to fuck her on, but he quickly realizes it wouldn’t be comfortable at all, and he doesn’t want her to get hurt. 

         He pivots towards the couch—a place where he had envisioned her countless times before… Sitting there with pen and paper, crafting songs about her, he had often pictured her naked form, her eyes shimmering with anticipation, beckoning him to find his place between her legs, to envelop her with his body, to fill her up with every inch of him.

          With care, he lays her down on the couch, positioning one knee on the cushions to remain close to her, determined to prolong their kiss for as long as possible. He doesn’t think he can breathe without her nearby. 

         She is never shy when it comes to showing how much she wants him, how much she needs him. She’s unapologetically about her desperate desire, and that’s something that drives him to the brink of madness. Her eagerness only serves to make her so fucking attractive that he thinks he could eat her up. He’s consumed by that need, to bite and taste her in a surge of primal instinct, yet he manages to maintain a sweet and seductive demeanor. She brings out both the beast and the tender lover in him, and somehow, it’s a harmonious blend that feels inexplicably beautiful. 

         With each touch, nibble, and kiss, her passionate responses start escaping from her lips, wet with lust for him. Their clothes disappear in a matter of minutes, and as Noah finds himself —and his skilled tongue— nestled between her legs, savoring her essence, and impregnating her with his fresh minty breath, the symphony of his name being carried through long feminine moans fill the studio walls in ways he could never have imagined. 

         But it’s when he’s buried deep inside her that the music truly comes alive. 

         Together, they create a melody of ecstasy, Noah playing her body like a virtuoso, eliciting the perfect notes and sounds with each touch, kiss, thrust. She’s a tangled delicious mess beneath him, but every whimper and sigh and plea for more is a testament to her trust and love for him, a hymn sung in the throes of passion. 

         Occasionally, a primal growl escapes him, the beast within yearning to be unleashed, but she, the angel, the muse,keeps him grounded, wrapped in her wings, guiding him along the lines of their shared musical score. 

         As their bodies glisten with sweat, the tempo of their lovemaking begins to slow, descending from its crescendo, their ragged breaths filling the remaining spaces of their song. She smiles against his cheek, nuzzling her nose against his skin. She holds him close, unwilling to let go just yet. Unwilling to ever let go. 

         “So?” She murmurs, teasingly playing with her teeth on Noah’s earlobe.

          He squirms in an attempt to escape her, but her teeth follow him, leaving him with no choice but to retaliate by biting her shoulder and descending to capture on of her nipples in his mouth, coaxing one new sound from her lips. 

         “So?” he repeats, mumbling between clenched teeth, his tongue teasing her hardened nipple. 

         “Did you record the song?” she asks playfully, gesturing with her eyes towards the sound deck. 

         “No. No, I didn’t,” he admits with a laugh, feeling himself softening inside of her. 

         “Oh, well…” she licks her lips, pretending to think of what to do now. The weight of Noah feels so nice on top of her that it would be enough to just keep on holding him. “What are we going to do about it?” she continues. “Any idea?”

         She does have an idea. 

         Her cheeky tone catches him off guard, and this time, it’s him who frowns as he gazes up at her. His chest and stomach press against hers, and with each laborious breath she takes, he feels the rhythmic rise and fall of her body beneath him. He considers moving, but before he can act, she wraps her leg around his, anchoring him in place.

         She bites her lip, tempting him to do the same; to lower his head and kiss her and bite her and leave her breathless. 

         A second later, she reaches down towards her bag on the carpeted floor beside the couch and retrieves her phone, unlocks it, and opens the voice recording app. 

         “Maybe we should try again, don’t you think? And perhaps we should try to be… a bit louder?”

         His eyes darken. 

         “Think you can do that?” she asks him, a devilish smile painted on her face. 

         “I can definitely make you sing louder,” he growls, feeling himself hardening once more while still inside of her. His home. 

         She has a way of provoking him that never fails to get him hard anywhere, anytime, in no time. 

         “Do I… press play now?” Her fingertip hovers over the screen. 

         Noah responds by pulling a few inches out and thrusting hard into her, their bodies moving in perfect synchronization against the worn fabric of the sofa they are laid on. She lets out a scream as her fingertip presses the play button. The phone falls with a thud on the floor. 

         And with that, they’re making music once again. 

         One last song. 

         One more time. 

         Louder. 

[glassrowboat]

Cinderella. Pantalone.

Summary: You didn't mean to be stranded out on the steps to the palace with a broken shoe, but some things are more like a fairy tale than one would think. It's only a shame your prince charming is a fucking dick.

Warnings: an exuberant amount of cussing, mentions of death, and the upperclass

Word count: 2500+

The sound of shoes clacking on the pavement was the first sign you were no longer as alone as once thought. A solid click, the pristine shine of black leather, and a silver buckle that somehow shined even in the cold night air when the brightest light near you was a streetlamp at most ten feet away. The fact there wasn't a very particular someone's insignia ingrained in that black already felt like a miracle given the man's pride. He did so love to adorn himself in finery.

“Regrator.”

“Miss (y/n), a pleasure as always.” He didn't even pretend to not notice your current state, his eyes might as well be full of mirth as he gazed down at you sitting on the steps leading up to a cursed banquet you had to attend. The event was already in full swing yet here you sat outside as if the clamor of voices and music playing couldn't be heard. “I hope you have not gotten yourself into another problem.”

Teasing now, of all times, really?

It was already fully evident he knew what was going on, how could he not? A shoe in your hand a broken off heel in the other made it clear there was in fact a problem. The contraption had wronged her. “I think it's rather obvious, is it not? Or do you need a new prescription for those glasses of yours?”

He didn't even bother to give an interesting reply back as he simply laughed off the jab like it was water on a ducks back. Something that wasn't event relevant enough to be addressed. “I see now, that does appear to be a problem.”

Wow. I had no fucking clue.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you?” His voice was musing as ever, too gentle to be real. Just the same way he acts in the middle of a business deal.

“Oh?” You looked up at him, eyes tearing off those shiny shoes you were admittedly jealous of in this moment. Any other day you might just consider spitting on them but circumstances have changed. “Tell me trousers, for amusements sake only, what could you possibly do to help me in this hour of need? Maybe you'd do the same thing Scaramouche did as he passed me by only minutes prior, telling me to walk barefoot in the snow.”

“Oh my, it would be a mad man who would dare try.” At least he understood that compared to the puppe- “Back to calling me trousers now, miss? I thought we grew past that.”

“Maybe you did.” If only the poison on your tongue was enough to sway him enough to slip off a step and fall past the railing with a nice, satisfying kurplunk. “Well seeing as my night is perfectly ruined, how has yours been going?”

"Oh, not too bad myself I must say." Pantalone's voice was calm and smooth as usual, as if nothing really affected him much. "I've been attending to a few important matters as part of my responsibilities, but now I have some free time to spend. I suppose I may have found something to do with it now."

How annoyingly easy it was for him to lie, to show no tell at all. No pinch in the eyebrow, no change in tone, not even looking else where to avoid eye contact. Truly a professional. If it weren't for the fact you had personally seen Pantalone repeatedly having to brush off the same man with a rather boring sounding business proposal you would have truly believed him. His irritation had been clear then even as that smile remained. What a talent to have, to lie easier than he breathed.

Slowly, steadily Pantalone made his was down the stairs you sat upon until he was stood before you. A kind face to be shown as he looked down at the object of your plight. “It's a rather pretty pair of shoes. A pity one of them has been torn apart. Do you think we can find you another pair in a store nearby?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I'll pass.”

It would be a fool who agrees to be in debt to the regrator, a favor or otherwise.

One of his perfectly manicured eyebrows rose as he looked down at you, almost like he was shocked at the rejection to his offer. The amusement however was clear in his face. "Is something the matter? It would be unfortunate to stay here barefoot in the cold. Though I can't say I didn't expect that answer. You are quite the character.”

“Says you. How great a character you are that your very own name is ripped from a play.”

You weren't even honored with a reply. You never are. 

“Do you live nearby, miss?”

“Yeah. Maybe like ten minutes down that street,” you pointed to the left, finger blocking one of the many piles of snow on the street. “Then you- Close. I'm close by.”

Why the fuck was I telling him this?

“I see.” 

With the wave of a hand covered in what had to be the finest of fabrics for gloves (probably something that's been hand spun by poor widows for years as they labor over raw cotton) and glittering silver Pantalone called over an attendant. Her short frame quickly moving over like she felt the need to be as efficient as possible. As to why? Well, the answer is obvious. You don't defy a harbinger. You don't deny them. You can only hope to please the over hyped power houses of Snezhaya, especially if one of them is your boss. 

“You are far too easy to easy to read, miss (y/n).” Without so much as a glance towards this woman's way he takes something from her hand. A little bottle of sorts you can't read the label of with a red cap. That is until he moves his bejeweled fingers away to give you a chance to peek at the words printed out. “One day your pride will be the end of you.”

And I hope your end will be just as pathetic as you.

Huffing you try and ignore the savior that he's holding in his hand. Shoe glue, just what you need. “Why do you even have that?”

Not even bothering to address you Pantalone tells the attendant she's excused. The same rush as when she ran over showing as she bowed to you both. “Lord harbinger. Miss (y/n).” 

And there she goes.

“Cmon slacks, gimme something I can reply to that isn't your typical droning. Otherwise I might just start mistaking your voice for those inside.” The same chatter that might as well be ringing on your ear as it grows louder and louder throughout the night. Alcohol may loosen lips, but it also apparently makes everyone too deaf to hear properly. If either of you were to go back inside surely you'd be cringing everytime someone walks by as they think it's a great idea to address someone all the way across the great hall.

“I bore you as much as ever then.” With a chuckle Pantalone holds the bottle out before you, dangling it like bait on a string, and you were the fish he was waiting for to take a bite. Warning label flashing your vision. “I could tell you how La Signora once broke her heel and simply combusted with fury. Though that wouldn't be true, she wouldn't be caught dead wearing something cheap enough to break just like that.”

Always has to have a smart reply, doesn't he? All the while you're running low on quips as this guy proves his default setting is exhausting everyone around him. The charming man one might mistake him as with a simple glance was truly such a farce. “Thanks, but I'd rather rip the boots off of some poor, unsuspecting sod then let you do something for me.”

With a click of his tongue Pantalone pulls the bottle back away from you, the shining light of hope that it was being stolen like the donations from an alms box under the nose of a priest. “Ahh yes, the fear of owing the ninth harbinger. It is a daunting cloud to loom so heavily.”

Of course it was. He may sound and look as pretty as a picture but under those silver spectacles were eyes that could only be satisfied with the sight of mora in his palm. Those that denied him such a sight had a habit of going home to a few broken objects, being randomly beaten down out of the blue on their merry way back home, and lastly disappearing in the same way your clouds of breath blown out into the cold air of the blizzard covered nation did. There was no god to pray to that could help escape him, no matter which archons name uttered.

“How about I offer you a deal,” Pantalone asked, the corner of his mouth turning up into a smirk. It was as if the very mention of any sort of ‘business’ had him rearing to go. Cocky bastard.

It's just a shame you had nothing to say. Another comment would have this back and forth going until either a: you get interrupted by one of the guests, b: he decides toying with you has lost its charm (an unlikely event but still one can dream), and lastly c: you bite the bullet and make a ten minute walk home in a broken shoe through snowy and icy streets you'd surely be slipping and sliding over. A face plant or two might just be worth it though.

“No objections then. As for our deal, I shall assist this damsel in distress with fixing her shoe and in turn you tell no one of this.” As if he was already certain you'd agree in a heartbeat, probably in his minds even with stars glittering around you like a scene from a shojo manga panel, Pantalone plucked the broken shoe and heel from your hands. “I'd say you would be getting the better end of the deal here tonight. You do need to get home, don't you?”

I do, and he knows that. Prick.

 “Fine. Deal or whatever.”

The fact he didn't immediately pull out a five page contract on the spot was disappointing. Unlikely, but the thought alone would be enough to cause you to laugh if it was anyone else's presence you were in. Instead you sat back on those concrete stairs, watching as the regrator of all people slipped off his rings and placed them to the side. Doesn't want his precious getting dirty then, huh?

“So what's the real reason you have that stuff on you?”

“You truly do believe every word that slips past my lips is a lie,” He stated. Stated, not questioned. “I have found myself working in collaboration with a cobbler recently and I was given this as a free sample of sorts. You were simply lucky with the timing is all.”

Your eyes narrowed as you looked down at him, his gloved hand holding that stupid little bottle in hand as he seems to run over the nails that were supposed to keep the outsole together with ease. He seemed so calm doing this but it could all just be another facade, another act. Only he, himself, and Pantalone knew what was truly going on in that pretty head of his. “I wouldn't call breaking my shoe luck.”

“Perhaps not.” 

“I never asked, just how did that attendant magically have that on hand with a wave of your- well hand.” That could of been worded a bit better. Cmon self, you're slacking here.

“Oh that? I heard of your little plight when I was inside. A noble lady with a mole over her lip, the left side, mentioned a poor miss (y/n) having tripped over her own two feet like a buffoon who then,” without missing a beat as he spoke Pantalone kneeled before you, “ran off as if a headless chicken.” 

“Lovely imagery, slacks. Thank you for that.”

“I am merely repeating what I have heard for you. I wouldn't want you to go unaware of what your fellow ladies have been gossiping about this night.”

And in doing so you purposefully worded it in a way that had the intent to embarrass me. I'm not blind nor deaf but somehow he surely thinks I am both.

“Now then.” Easily he pulled you from your thoughts. Daydreaming cast aside and asunder as his hand wrapped around your ankle. The instant jolt from the movement you were spurred into meaning little as his grip tightened, not even allowing an inch of freedom. “Give the heel some time before you start walking on it, we don't need to disturb the banquet with your dramatics again.”

A part of you wanted to believe Pantalone's hand didn't feel warm because they're just as cold and dead as his heart, but the gloves he dawned and the thermal stockings you used religiously in this winter inferno were enough to say you were just being hopeful. It was better to focus on that little fact than how he was sliding that stiletto on for you. The fact he wasn't looking at your eyes could either be a blessing or make this all worse. In the very least it gave you a chance to figure out that blaming the color burning your cheeks a rosy hue on the low temperatures could be a solid enough lie he wouldn't openly question your bull. 

“Now if you'll excuse me,” Pantalone said, calling your attention back up to his face and not the hand that had just let go of you. “It's about time I head back inside.”

Somehow there wasn't even a speck of dust on his knees as Pantalone stands back up, his perfect little demeanor the same as always without even a wrinkle to be had. Untouchable. Far off from everyone else around him. “I'm sure the Tsarita's little socialite has been missed.”

With a small laugh and a “precisely,” Pantalone steps around you, those same perfect condition having shoes of his hitting the steps with a satisfying click as he walked away. At least this time you weren't gazing upon them with envy. “Remember now miss, no going around gossiping about this.”

As if I'd ever.

“The less your name falls from my lips the better. You do so tend to leave a narly aftertaste. Plus, I have no intention of owing you anything.”

With one last flick of his gaze, one last shine of those spectacles under the streetlamp he looks at you. How unreadable that mask could be when he truly wished it. Maybe it's true what they say, once you wear a mask too long it becomes your face. 

“Have a good night then.”

And with that, he left. The night air your only company.

Good riddance.

—-------

Except now your looking down at a pink box that had been delivered to your house this morning, only a day having gone by since that unlucky encounter with the regrator yet he chose to rub this all in your face. A stink bug of a man, truly. Only there to be a pest that's always somehow present yet you shouldn't bother to do away with. After all, there would be consequences. 

So like any bug he crawled through the cracks of what is supposed to be your home. All with the ease of one delivery man and a letter with the most beautiful handwriting you had ever seen (and annoyingly written in what had to be scented ink). “I believe this means you now owe me a favor.” Signed Pantalone.

How you wanted to spit on the brand new pair of heels before you.

What a dick.

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 25

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

Sirius shows no response – no reaction. None at all.

“A werewolf,” Remus clarifies, hating how the word feels in his mouth and pushing it out by force.

Sirius pulls the remaining clothes out of the suitcase. picks it up, slides it underneath the bed again.

It’s… senseless. He shouldn’t be standing there, like nothing has changed. Remus knows how this conversation goes because he’s had it – not many times but he’s had it and there’s always something.

He waits for the something. Sirius meets his eye. It’s as clear an eye contact as he always gives.

“You already knew.”

“I did.”

“How?”

Sirius sits down on the bed and with silver-free hands grabs onto Remus, pulls him down too.

“I had my suspicions,” he’s slow to speak, like Remus is a trapped animal, “not straight away, I’m ashamed to say.  But you went away and came back almost in pieces, and really, I should have known it then.”

(Hands on Remus’ hands, fingers between fingers, skin warm, touch soothing.)

“When, then?”

Sirius laughs, and it’s not what it usually is. A bit quiet, a bit subdued. No less honest. “James told me.”

“Potter?”

“They’ve looked you up. I’m sorry, Remus,” he says like he knows how much of a violation it is, “when I wrote him about you he wanted to make sure I was safe. In good hands.”

When Remus laughs it’s mirthless. “And he found you with a monster instead.”

Sirius let’s go of his hand, runs careful, soft fingers up the length of his arm. Brings up the sleeve of his shirt (always long. Always hidden.), pushes it up past the elbow.

AOF2CXI60K

Traces it like it’s a wound not a brand. Remus hasn’t been touched softly since his mother died. Even then, nobody ever touched that. It’s too much in the sweetest way, like a new brand building over the old one, like Sirius could erase the ink below his skin.

“You’re not a monster, Remus. You’ve never hurt anyone.”

“How could you know?”

“Because I know you. You wouldn’t,” he grimaces, puts a thumb across the A and presses there like searching for a pulse point. “And we both know what they do to werewolves who do. You wouldn’t be here.”

It’s difficult to acknowledge. Remus waits for the other side of the conversation. For the rejection and the hate and the fear. He sits, and waits, and it doesn’t come.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Remus’ voice is so weak he’s not sure he really asks.

“Wanted you to come to me yourself,” a swipe of a thumb over the letters, “give you time to trust me with it. Didn’t expect to have my hand forced like this,” he gestures at the suitcase under the bed and at the way Remus still sits tight, hunched in on himself.

He makes a conscious effort to relax. Into the bed and into the touch. Sirius must notice because he smiles and it’s so beautiful all Remus can think is I almost lost this. I don’t even have it, and I could have lost it.

NEXT PART

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

@digital-kam

@remoonysiriusly

@sweetstarryskies

@a-sunset-outside-my-window

@procrastinatingstuff

@annaliza999

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[ateliersss]

Journey into The Past Ch.1

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem!Reader Summary: They say every human has their person, even some as cold, heartless and cruel as the Dark Lord. Would you try and tell that to Harry Potter, of all people, he would not hesitate to deny even the slightest hint of someone having feelings more than blazing hate for that man, this monster. A journey into the past shows him a different part of the former life of the murderer of his parents. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 1,869 Masterlist

⇨ Want to join the tag list?

“Chocolate Frogs.” Harry murmured to the eagle statue, which jumped to the side a second later.

He was tired — Snape looked everywhere for an opportunity to give him detention, Ron and Hermione still avoided each other like the plague, and he still had no idea how to get this memory from Slughorn.

As he dragged himself up the staircase, he thought of an excuse why he still didn’t have it. Harry knocked on the office door and was soon called in by the Headmaster’s familiar, calm voice.

“Good evening, Harry.” Dumbledore greeted him from his chair, “Please sit down.” He added and pointed to the chair standing in front of his desk.

Harry closed the door and made his way through the office when he noticed something on the desk — alongside the usual silver instruments, the bowl of Dumbledore’s favourite sweets, some books and parchments, vials containing a silvery shimmering liquid stood on top of the dark wooden surface. Sitting down, they were on the same eye level as him and stared at him judgingly, as if they wanted to remind him of his failure.

“Professor, I–“

“–haven’t found a way to get the memory from Professor Slughorn.”

Harry shamefully looked down at his feet.

“If you did, you would have come to me the second you got your hands on it.”

“I’m sorry, Professor.”

“I have faith in you, Harry. You will find a way. Nevertheless, we will have to continue with our journey through Voldemort’s past.” Dumbledore said, eyes shifting to the gleaming vials. “These memories belonged to an incredibly smart and determined girl, always respectful and friendly to others.”

Dumbledore got up, walked around his desk and took the vial from the far left. The Pensieve was already floating next to them. Harry got up as well and watched Dumbledore pour the memory into it. The memory turned into an ink-like substance and slowly took on a hazy image. Harry dipped his head into the Pensieve and soon felt the familiar tug, lifting him out of reality and into the memory.

Harry was standing in a library, the library of Hogwarts. It had barely changed and was completely empty. Nothing surprising, it was already dark outside.

Just as he was about to turn to Dumbledore and ask him if they were in the right place, he heard a giggle, undoubtedly coming from a girl. Dumbledore headed in the direction of the giggles. Harry quickly caught up with him.

They passed the many bookshelves until they reached the barred doors of the Restricted Section. Following Dumbledore who apparently knew where to go, Harry soon saw the source of the voice.

“I mean it, Tom, stop bothering me. I still have to finish this.” You scolded, trying to suppress your laughter to sound serious.

To say that Harry was shocked by what he saw would be an understatement.

None other than Voldemort — or rather, Tom Riddle — was standing right behind you. He was bent forward so that your heads were on the same level. He brushed your hair aside, slowly revealing the eagle of Ravenclaw on your robes, and slowly kissed your neck up and down.

“You can do it later.” He groaned, his voice muffled against your skin.

“You know I can’t. I put it off until now and it’s due tomorrow.”

“You can copy mine.”

“No, I can’t. Slughorn will notice it.”

“He will ignore it. He loves you.”

“No, Tommy, he loves you. I’m just his second favourite.”

Tom let out a frustrated groan and buried his face into the crook of your neck. “I told you how much I hate it when someone talks back to me.”

You laughed at his antics. “And I told you, you would get bored. You didn’t have to come.”

“You’ll need me when someone catches you outside of curfew.” He countered half-heartedly, nuzzling his face deep into the crook of your neck.

With an eye roll, you tapped the badge on your chest. “Did you already forget I’m a prefect too?”

Tom ignored you and lifted his head slightly to watch your feather scurry across the parchment.

“Why don’t you take a look around? Maybe you will find an interesting book.” You suggested after a while.

When you got no answer, you sighed and wriggled out of his grasp, got up and disappeared between the gloomy bookshelves. You came back five minutes later and handed him a book.

“You told me you were fascinated by such things. I stumbled upon it a week ago.” You looked up at him and smiled.

Tom’s lips curled slightly upwards. Anyone else would have missed it, but not you. Your smile grew even brighter.

You pulled him down to meet his lips for a quick peck before sitting back down on your chair.

“Thank you, darling.”

He sat down casually on the chair next to yours, flipped through the book and flew over most of the pages. After a while, he stopped and began to read with an intrigued expression on his face. He suddenly seemed interested and he immersed himself in the written words. Then he looked up and at you, an expression on his face that Harry didn't like at all.

That must have been the end of the memory, because Harry was back in Dumbledore’s office again. His brain tried to comprehend what just happened.

Voldemort had someone, a person who looked at him as if he put the sun, the moon and the stars onto the sky. And in return, he had kissed this person, had clung to them as if they would disappear if he let them go even for a second.

Harry just met a completely new side of Voldemort, one he never expected to exist, one that was impossible to exist.

Voldemort had been soft. Or at least softer than one might imagine a cold-hearted, loveless and ruthless mass murderer to be. It didn't make any sense.

Dumbledore watched the conflicted expression on his face intently as the wheels kept turning in his head. “I believe you have some questions.”

Harry startled out of his thoughts. “I… Voldemort…” He stumbled over his words, not knowing to which question he wanted to have an answer first. “She was his girlfriend?”

“Yes. (Y/N) (L/N) was, as I already told you, an astounding student. Not only had her fellow Ravenclaws admired her, but almost the entire school. Very honest and responsible. Ideal for the role as a prefect, as you've seen, and later even as Head Girl. It was impossible for Voldemort not to notice her. There had been a rivalry between the two of them from the beginning, as they were fighting for the title best student. As you know, Tom Riddle was a great student with remarkable grades and loved by his teachers and classmates. So was (Y/N), indeed a very gifted and talented witch. However, when he saw there was no possibility for a breakthrough, he charmed his way into her life, but not with a little resistance from her side. She was probably one of the fewer people who were suspicious of him.”

“But she was still with him?”

“She was a 16-year-old girl who fell for the handsome and strange boy who was fascinated by her. A girl like her had many admirers, but he was the only one who could challenge her and was intellectually on par with her. In a way, she was also fascinated by him. Both were an interesting mystery to the other and they were eager to solve it.”

“So he was playing with her?”

“To be honest with you, Harry, I don’t think so.”

“Then what is it?”

“Love.”

Harry looked at Dumbledore as if he had just expelled him from Hogwarts and sent him back to the Dursleys. “But I thought…”

“It wasn’t typical love, the type of love we both know. It was more of a mix of mutual understanding, admiration, trust and something deeper. Just because Voldemort is incapable of loving someone, it doesn’t mean he was emotionless.”

“It’s hard to believe that Voldemort cares for someone else.”

“For someone who didn’t experience him in his school days, it’s easy to say. She had a not insignificant influence on him.” Dumbledore said with a smile before sitting back in his chair.

Harry did the same and asked, “What happened to her? I mean, if she and Voldemort were a couple, she could help us find the Horcruxes! After all, she let you have her memories. Do you know where she is?”

“Unfortunately, Harry, she died a few years ago. The reason for that were, in fact, these memories.” Dumbledore pointed to the remaining vials. “She came to me one year after your parents died.”

Confused, Harry leaned forward in his chair. “Why?”

The older man looked at him over his glasses, his eyes glittering, before looking back at the memory containing vials like it was the most obvious answer.

Harry bit his lower lip, nodding. “Right.”

“However, if you were actually asking about the specific time, then the answer is just as simple. Like some of Voldemort's other followers, she was cautious. Death Eaters were hunted and imprisoned, after all. They also didn’t know if he might come back to reclaim his power. So, she waited a year before she came to me.”

“And she gave you the memories just like that?”

Dumbledore shook his head before he hoisted himself up from his chair, his blackened hand shaking like a leaf in the wind being under so much pressure.

“Not back then, no. At first, she was suspicious of me, considering I could call the authorities the second she stepped on school grounds. Understandable, since she was just as much hunted by the Aurors as the rest of Voldemort’s followers, but I promised her no harm will come to her as long as I live.”

Harry shifted in his seat, a frown on his face. “Why would you do that, Professor? Why would you offer that to someone who was as close to Voldemort as she was? Why would you put someone under your protection who murdered and tortured innocents?”

“And how do you know she did all that, Harry?” Dumbledore asked and his eyes gleamed as he looked sharply at the boy.

Harry, feeling scolded, averted his eyes and merely shrugged his shoulders, not knowing what else to do.

So what if this girl wasn’t like the man who murdered his parents? How should he know? People who were involved with Voldemort were neither good nor innocent. You could have been very well a second Bellatrix.

Dumbledore, who had already taken the second vial and poured the memory into the Pensieve, nodded at his silence and smiled knowingly.

“Don’t view her as any enemy, but as an ally instead.” He said and Harry had to suppress a scoff. “Without her, we would know much less about Voldemort and how to go against him.”

Harry nodded reluctantly and got up from his chair to join Dumbledore again. He looked down at the swirling inky substance that slowly started to take shape and he could already recognize silhouettes of a fire-lit room.

[starfall-spirit]

Read on Ao3 // Chapter II

Summary: After one last screaming match and a good cry, Feyre is finally ready to move on from her lousy ex and rebuild the life he took her away from. She didn't imagine she'd be right back in the thick of it, reviving buried feelings for her best friend's cousin.

OR;

Feyre dumps Tamlin, moves back to big city life, and gets herself an alpha who will treat her right.

AN: Omegaverse!Feysand, as promised. A gift for @whatishowedyouinthedark. If you hadn't posted Too Sweet, I don't know that this would have left the drafts. This ended up being 4.3k, but there will be a morning after chapter as well.

CW: NSFW, mildly dubious consent/coercion

Chapter I

“You sure you’re alright, Feyre?” Another ounce of weight seemed to lift from her shoulders at the soft worry in Mor’s voice. “I know you don’t really want to talk about this yet, but I’m always here for you.”

“I know. And I’m okay, Mor. I’ll be even better in, oh—” She lifted her wrist enough to glance at the time. “—six hours when you meet me outside SFO.” Her friend stayed quiet a moment longer. “I’ve wasted so much time and energy on that guy. He doesn’t deserve my tears too.”

“Damn right. I can’t wait to see you. It’s been so long, Feyre.”

“I know.”

That’s what it had really come to. The lost time. The isolation. A year ago, Feyre had been at the center of it all, her art sales lucrative enough to keep her head above water, her friend circle close but full of life. When Tamlin’s work had taken him out of the big city and to someplace more remote, Feyre had imagined it would be temporary. Her “nest egg” from her art sales would only need to hold her for a few months before she could dive right back into dealing with her clientele face-to-face.

But whatever silver lining her situation came with was in short supply. Hopeful as she had been once upon a time, nothing could change the fact that this move halfway across the country was made with only the purpose of separating her from the life and people she knew. Feyre was just ashamed it had taken her so long to see it herself. She’d confronted him last night and the truth had all come to light. “So what if your account is running low? Do I not take care of you regardless? I thought this was what you wanted, Feyre. Isn’t this what all omegas want? Someone to depend on?”

It turned out Feyre and Tamlin’s views on designations were worlds apart.

After a devastating break up fight and a good long cry, Feyre had locked herself in the guest room and called Mor with the promise that she was scraping together what she had left and coming home the next afternoon. “Say no more, Feyre. I’ll get Rhysie to make that ticket first class for you.”

“Don’t you dare, Mor.” But for the first time in months there had been laughter beneath her words. For once she didn’t find herself rolling her eyes when Mor reminded her that her older cousin was rich and single, last she heard of it. Not that Feyre’s memory needed jogging on that point. Ever since Rhys had stepped into her first art showing, oozing raw confidence and control, she’d been no better than a school girl doodling hearts and initials in her journal margins. But he’d then flown out to manage his father’s New York business, his return to California only in the past few months, when Feyre was long gone herself.

She shook off the flush running through her body, trying to focus on Mor jabbering in her ear about events around the city. Served her right, lusting after an alpha so far out of her league. Rhys might be nice enough to buy her paintings or bump her flight ticket to first class, but she certainly had no illusions that he would be the male helping her through her next heat. Hell, by now he likely had an omega of his own, hand-selected by his prick of a father. 

Not exactly fond of the flare of… something… that thought sent through her, Feyre stood, pacing the few feet she dared from her carry-on in the crowded terminal. “Hey, girl. We’ll be boarding any minute. Can I let you go for now?”

“Absolutely. Love you lots. I’ll see you tonight. Don’t eat anything huge. We’ve got dinner plans.”

~~~~~

Dinner plans amounted to a delivery of Feyre’s favorite chinese food not even five minutes after she was settled in from the car ride home. “You spoil me, Mor,” she said, setting down her chopsticks long enough to shrug into the oversized hoodie behind her that smelled absolutely delightful for some reason and debate the nearly identical bottles of red nail polish in front of her. Her friend certainly had a signature color.

“Someone has to,” Mor groused, starting an episode of a cop show they’d seen one too many times. “If you won’t spoil yourself, your bestie’s gonna do it for you.” She eyed Feyre’s newly acquired hoodie with a slight smirk. “Among a few others.”

“What? I was cold. And what do you mean, others?”

Mor just waved a hand in dismissal. “Rhys, Cass, and Az are around here all the time. Rhys lives a floor above me, for that matter. You know they’re all thrilled you’re back in town. Emerie is excited to meet you too. I think you guys will really hit it off.” Mor sighed, a wistful look in her eyes.

“You really like this one, don’t you?”

“She’s amazing. And she’s been so patient with me. You know how my family can be about my preferences. She hasn’t said much, but I think her family gives her a lot of the same shit about it. She gets it. Gets me.” Feyre’s heart just about melted at that and she reached across the couch to squeeze Mor’s hand. “I even asked—”

The front door opened then, to both their surprise, Cassian falling through the frame with a shit-eating grin on his face. “She’s back! Feyre Archeron, where have you been?! C’mere.” She squealed as he lifted her by the hips to spin her around

Mor shook her head, mumbling about how this was supposed to be girls’ night before everyone saw her at Rita’s the next evening. “Sorry, Mor,” another voice said from the door, warm, rich, and amused. “We saw you ladies pull in earlier from the window. I kept him there as long as I could. It’s good to see you, Feyre.” 

Grinning ear to ear, Feyre braced a hand on Cassian’s chest until the vertigo faded. “Yeah, good to see you guys. I—What?” she asked, finally looking at Rhys. 

He was just as she remembered. It had been fice years since he’d flown out to manage that east coast business after earning his business degree and he hadn’t changed one bit—still the most beautiful man she’d ever met. The only thing that truly caught her off guard was the odd glint in his eyes, focusing on the hoodie she was wearing—almost pleased, if she was reading him right. Another step into the room and his scent hit her, citrus and the sea, the same soothing fragrance that clung to the sweatshirt she’d thoughtlessly pulled on with the assumption it was one of Mor’s baggier favorites.

Fuck.

Rhys smirked then, every bit the smug alpha she knew he was. She wasn’t ready to analyze the response that inspired in her. The fluttering in her stomach that quickened as he approached, the heat that flushed her check when he stepped into her space, fingering the ratty sleeve that fell well past her fingertips. “I was wondering where that had wandered off to.”

“I—”

“Keep it, darling. It looks better on you anyway.”

She shuffled back a step, uncharacteristically flustered by his proximity. Omega or not, the flirtation of men didn’t usually affect her this way. Even in the early days between her and Tamlin she—She would not be comparing her ex to anyone. She came back to San Francisco to wash her hands of him, after all. 

“I—” She sighed. “Thanks.”

Mor cleared her throat, though her shameless grin was a near mirror to her cousin’s. “If that’s all, boys.” She batted her eyes, looping her arm back through Feyre’s. “This was girls’ night, remember?”

Cassian chuckled, ignoring the dismissal and slumping into the couch. “So, how goes the move in?”

Feyre scoffed. “My plane touched down only an hour ago. Can I finish my dinner and wine before tackling my bags?” The other three exchanged a look, Mor seeming suddenly guilty. “What?”

“With how quickly this all came together, I suppose I never got around to mentioning I… I asked Emerie to move in. It doesn’t change the fact the extra room is yours,” she hurried to say. “You have a place here of course.”

“Or you could have one upstairs,” Rhys mumbled.

Feyre blinked. “Excuse me?”

“They get their privacy, you get a good night's sleep every night.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s just a room, Feyre. You know I’m a gentleman.”

“I wouldn’t suggest otherwise.” Eyeing his reaction, she sipped from her wine glass. “Out loud.” 

Cassian cackled. “God, I’ve missed you. About time you traded the hills for skyscrapers again, little sister.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

~~~~~

“I told you,” Rhys sang as Feyre stepped out of the elevator and into his apartment. It had only taken two nights to change her mind about his proposal. She adored Mor and Emerie was a delight—a perfect match for her oldest friend. But that didn’t change the fact the walls were paper thin.

“Hush. Emerie is a wonderful woman. I could never begrudge them their happiness, even if it costs me my sleep.”

“Of course not. Anyways, welcome to my humble abode. The first door on the left down the hall is your room for as long as you want it. Just across from mine, if you need anything. I’ll let you get unpacked.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, heading down the short hall and into the room he directed her to, only to stop short in the doorway. “Rhys.”

“Yes?” he called back, presumably from the living space. 

“What is all of this?” 

He approached slowly, looking almost sheepish. “Too much?” She gaped. “I can return it if you don’t like it. I just happened to overhear you tell Mor you had left behind some of your favorite nesting things and… Here, I’ll just pack it up and—”

“No.” His brows rose as she shifted to block the doorway. “I—” She cleared her throat softly. “It was sweet of you to consider it. I’m not far from my next heat, actually. I really appreciate you letting me crash here and letting me nest.” 

He scoffed. “Nesting is natural. It isn’t something I’d try to stop any omega from doing.”

“If only my ex had seen it that way.” She flinched. “I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.”

He growled softly, eyes dark as he dropped his head to hold her gaze, one hand braced against the doorjamb she already leaned against. His scent washed over her once again and Feyre hoped her full body shutter wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Your ex was an alpha?” She nodded. “Not one with any honor, it seems. You are what you are, Feyre. If that bastard ever made you take shame in it, I hope you’ll soon change your way of thinking.”

“I’m not ashamed of anything,” she murmured. 

The knuckles of his free hand brushed along her cheekbone. “Good. I’ll let you finish up here. As I said, if you need anything for the nest or otherwise, I’m here to help.”

“I’m not a charity case, Rhysand. I always manage to get back on my feet quickly enough.”

“I know that, darling. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy spoiling sweet little things like you rotten.”

A quiet, shocked sound escaped her, but her usually sharp wit had been neutralized, it seemed. And all by a few charming words. Sweet little things like you.

“No,” she muttered to herself, refusing to watch him walk away. Approaching heat or not, she was not getting tangled up with an entitled alpha ever again. And that vow would not be changing

~~~~~

The next few weeks were normal, all things considered. Rhys went to work in the morning and Feyre either arranged calls or set out to reopen contact with previous buyers interested in her art. In the evenings they alternated cooking meals and washing dishes, occasionally enjoying a movie or game together before returning to their separate rooms for the night.

Everything was perfectly platonic if you excused a few mildly flirtatious remarks. The only thing that left her unsteady was the surprise treats and little actions to take care of her, each one either frivolous or thoughtful. It was as frustrating as it was pleasing and she hoped Rhys couldn’t see how she truly felt about each little favor. She didn’t know what she’d do if he came to learn about the pure satisfaction she felt each time she saw that he had snuck into her room to switch out the sweatshirt she’d so carefully placed among the pillows and blankets in her nest the moment his scent faded from the fabric.

She had dared to ask him after the third time he’d replaced the garment why he was so attentive to that specific want.

“You may not be my chosen mate, but you are an omega under my care. Just as you follow your instincts to keep something with an alpha’s scent, I will follow my instinct to provide for you as long as you live with me. A missing sweatshirt is hardly a great sacrifice, Feyre.”

He’d stood from the dinner table with a smile, mumbling something along the lines of, “Such a pretty little blush you have, darling,” before loading his plate in the dishwasher and heading for his room. Any other remarks had been few and far between, but each one stuck with her for days afterwards.

She gave a sharp huff as she stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea, prepared to do nothing more than hole up in her room with a good book and a hot drink as the Saturday storm bathed the city. “Read my book and not think about this a second longer.” 

If only she’d realized what a hopeless endeavor that would turn out to be.

She was only two chapters into her newest read when the first hot flash came. Her heat. And damn if she couldn’t already feel this was going to be a rough one without a partner. Jumping from her chair, she started to head for the bathroom, reaching for the tub’s faucet. Then, a cool bath wouldn’t do her any favors. As quickly as she felt her skin burn, she knew she’d be shivering in a matter of minutes, that first cycle of hot and cold lasting for a few hours before the endless heat became constant, especially without an alpha to soften the effects of her episode.

“Fuck.” She needed to get off the floor and back to her room. To her nest, whatever small comfort it could offer her. “Fuck,” she repeated.

“Eloquently put,” a too-familiar voice said. She didn’t bother peeling her eyes open, letting Rhys drop to a knee and slip his arms beneath her knees and behind her back. “Come on. To bed with you.”

“Put me down. I’m fine.” Never mind that her teeth were already chattering and a cramping had started low in her gut.

“I’m sure you are, darling.” Shifting his arm so her back remained supported, he pressed his palm to the back of her head, pressing lightly until she caved, letting him guide her nose to that special spot on his neck where his scent was strongest. The tension that had claimed her body vanished in an instant. “There, little one. Better, hm?”

She mumbled something equally proud and bitter that she could really only half understand herself with this fog stealing over her mind so quickly, then, “Hurts,” she whimpered.

He hummed, laying her down in the very center of the nest of bedding and clothes she’d so meticulously arranged and rearranged over the past few weeks. She should have realized she was days from her next cycle when the impulse to perfect the space became so prominent. Now she would be glued to it for days on end. The problem? “Why are you so far away?”

Rhys chuckled. “You said you wanted to work through your heat alone, little one. That you don’t need an alpha. Have you changed your mind?” Feyre bit her lip, contemplating her options. Endure this alone and maintain her pride, or welcome his help and pray she was only opening a physical connection, rather than an emotional one. “Feyre.” She blinked up at him. “Temper your pride. Invite me into your nest, little one. This doesn’t have to be so painful.” It only took a moment for her to grip his hand, tugging softly. “Such a good girl,” he murmured, settling in carefully, so as to not disturb her arrangement.

“Don’t need a knot,” Feyre told him petulantly. “Just…” Nose buried in his neck, hand tucked under his shirt, Feyre stopped protesting for the moment, the only sound leaving her a soft whimpering.  

That’s when he began to purr, summoning a gush of slick, to her humiliation. “Rhys—”

“Hush, sweet girl. Let’s see what we can do about your little problem here.” She couldn’t help but squirm a bit as he peeled her leggings away inch by inch, face flushing hot when her slick clung to the fabric of her panties on their way down. “Settle now, pet. You just lay back and let your alpha take care of you.”

“You’re not my—I didn’t ask you to—” Feyre hadn’t realized her pants had been completely cast aside until his tongue was stroking up her slit. “Oh, god.” Another drag of it and her fingers were threaded in his hair, tugging sharply. He hummed. “Rhys.” She tried to lift her hips, only for Rhys to reach up and lay his arm over her waist, keeping her mostly still. She let out a groan of frustration.

“All in good time, little one. All in good time.” He looked all too pleased by the frustrated growl that passed her lips, her protest cut off the moment two thick fingers pushed inside of her, curling in a way that had her hurtling to the edge of her release. “That’s it, darling, he encouraged her, repeating the motion while twisting his hand enough that he could rub her clit with his thumb. “Come for me.” Considering the state she was already in and how it only seemed to worsen with time, it took nothing more than those few words for her to shatter, clenching around his fingers so tight he cursed—even as he stroked her through it. “Good girl.” 

Feyre shuttered beneath him, She didn’t need to peel her heavy eyes open to know she would find him smirking down at her. There wasn’t a chance in hell a man as observant as Rhys would misread what his praise did to her. She felt the tip of his nose skate across her cheek before his soft mouth was pressed to the flesh of her throat, his fingers already beginning to curl inside of her once again. “Rhys, wait.”

“Darling, do you really think that little knotting toy you bought the other day is going to be enough to satisfy you in this? You know what you need and you know who can give it to you.”

That unbearable cramping began anew, and Feyre knew she had no hope of resisting.

~~~~~

Most days, Rhys would consider himself an honorable man. He was capable of detaching emotions from matters of business and handling what needed to be handled without causing a fuss. Taking losses he earned himself with grace. Regarding his personal life, he never stooped to pursue someone who’s capability of consent was so precarious. He’d certainly never attempted to coerce a hesitant partner. 

But he’d walked into the house and her heat scent had hit him in full force. Finding her slumped on the bathroom floor and burning up had his protective instincts rearing their head. Now he was in her nest, had his fingers buried inside of her, the taste of her lingering on his tongue, addling his own mind.

He could reconsider the standing of his honor tomorrow. 

He’d get rid of that last edge of nerves his little omega was facing, then he’d show her where she belonged. Right here in this apartment, in this nest, for him to come home every day and spoil senseless. He had already come to enjoy their evening bonding immensely, and could only imagine he’d be even more delighted to share those talks when Feyre had her studio up and running, resuming the work she cherished so dearly. And whatever her reservations about alphas may be at the moment, she’d come around to the thought as well, he was certain. Every omega needs an alpha to lean on. 

“God,” she hissed, palm pressing low on her stomach. Eyes shut tight once again, Feyre let her nails bite into his wrist, spurring him into action. He stripped the shirt she wore, baring her entirely before bringing that hand back to her center, this time with the intention of preparing her to take his knot. At the rate her heat was progressing, her pride would fall away momentarily and she’d be begging for the relief she knew it would provide her, he was certain. 

Her next groan morphed to something softer, her head falling back to the pillows when his mouth closed over her nipple. Once again, her fingers found a home in his hair, tugging just harshly enough he felt justified in nipping her breast. “Be nice, darling.” 

Scowling, Feyre surged upwards, gripping his shirt front as her lips finally found his. “You know it’s really, really unfair that I’m the only one undressed here.” She didn’t give him the courtesy of unbuttoning the garment himself, yanking hard enough to send the buttons flying, lost to the fabrics of the nest. Her teeth sank into his bottom lip hard enough he groaned, his free hand sliding up around her throat. “Rhys.” 

He couldn’t help but smile as her eyes fluttered shut, her body relaxed enough for him to manipulate, guiding her back down into the pillow and removing his hand from its home between her thighs. “Sweet thing,” he cooed when a little pout began to form. “So needy for your alpha.” Moving his hand from her throat to her waist, he pushed those two slick fingers past her swollen lips, swallowing the growl building in his throat at the stroke of her tongue, letting himself watch as she fell deeper into that haze of lust and need.

“Well done, sweet girl,” he praised, withdrawing his fingers. 

“Alpha,” she whispered, one hand sliding down until it rested over the hard line showing through his jeans.

“You need your alpha’s cock, pet?” He began working his thumb over her clit, just letting his fingers graze the rest of her. “You think you’re ready for that? Think you can take my knot, Feyre?”

“Please.” The next down stroke was rougher and he knew she was close to coming again when her body bowed towards him. “Please give it to me. Need your knot.”

There it was. And how sweet it sounded.

Kissing her neck, he let himself enjoy that lilac and pear scent for a moment before peeling out of the last of his clothes. Feyre had a hand around him before he could reach down to stroke himself, painfully hard beneath her touch. The moment she grazed his knot he jolted, one hand closing over hers while the other fisted one of the pillows beneath them. “Fuck, Feyre.”

“I want to taste you.” He clenched his jaw tight. This woman would be the death of him. 

“Soon, darling. But first I need to be inside of you.” She lifted her hips, bending them at the knees in invitation. “Soaked for me,” he purred, lining up to claim her. “You’re going to take me so well, Feyre. Every inch.”

She swallowed, but nodded. Pinning her hips to keep her from rushing to take him, he pushed the tip in, grunting softly as she clenched around him. At this rate he wasn’t going to last long. “More,” Feyre begged, heels digging into his back. “Need more.”

“Patience is a virtue, pet.” Still, he fed her another inch, rocking in and out, working into her until only his knot remained. Smirking at the blissed out look covering her face, Rhys leaned down to whisper in her ear. “So fucking beautiful, filled up like this. Open those eyes for me, Feyre.” She trembled, eyes remaining closed. A sharp flick to her clit and she cried out, eyes flying open and snapping to his. “Watch, Feyre. Watch me give you my knot.” Her eyes darted down. Her nails bit into his back the moment he bottomed out. “Hot little cunt, taking me so well.” 

Rhys didn’t let her catch her breath before he started rolling his hips again, dragging in and out of her, animalistic pride beginning to build when he felt her thighs trembling around him and the hot little puffs of air against the shell of his ear, when each thrust was made easier by another gush of slick soaking his length. “So close,” she whined, writhing beneath him, his name falling from her lips in a constant chant. 

His rhythm faltered, feeling his release within reach as well. “Come for me, Feyre.” She keened, needing that push over the edge. Flicking her clit, he slammed home, spilling into her the moment her teeth latched down on his shoulder, nails cutting into his back. A moment later she shuttered beneath him, her grip going lax. He couldn’t help but push her damp hair back from her sweaty face, kissing her brow. Not wanting to crush her, he turned on his back, repositioning her legs on either side of him.

“That was…” She sighed, eyes drooping. “Thank you.”

“Rest, Feyre. Before the next wave hits. I’ve got you."

~~~~~

Taglist: @lulling-night-sky // @edgyellie // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @darling-archeron // @goddess-aelin // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @elentiya-whitethorn // @acotar-fanns // @jealousveronya // @acourtofwips // @reverie-tales // @gwynkyrie // @corcracrow // @thelovelymadone // @rosanna-writer

[storm-driver]

hi, i have feelings about cartoon nostalgia and the audience perception of them 20 years on

this is gonna read hyper-specific, but bear with me

i refuse to credit butch hartman for the way danny phantom came out during it's first two seasons, at least outside of the initial pitch and the idea of the protagonist having white hair. i know the majority of enthusiasts for this show are more than aware of hartman's antics at this point. these anctics, i won't get into. other people are far more suited to explain that stuff vs me, a random guy on the internet. but there's very specific topics that i don't often see get brought up in detail, like the production and staff behind this show.

i'll get into it below the cut so as not to clutter your dashboard. but if you're not familiar with the actual production history of danny phantom, this might be interesting to read.

it's common knowledge these days that stephen silver is the one who developed the design for danny based on hartman's original rough sketches. the similarity between each drawing is apparent, but you can see clear as day which design was gonna be more apt for animation and overall audience allure back in 2003.

he also did character designs for hartman's other poster child, Fairly Oddparents. the trend is similar, though far from a huge concern. character design overhauls happen all the time in media production. designs might be too complicated for animation, so they get stripped down. or maybe things aren't complex enough and more nuance needs to be added. that's normal stuff, and i am not dunking on hartman for not nailing danny's design right out the gate. i'm pointing this out in case you've ever looked at butch hartman's recent work and wondered "how are these done by the same artist?"

the answer is they weren't. hartman had to adapt to stephen silver's conceptual designs in order to work on the storyboards. take from that what you will.

onto the actual writing.

butch barely wrote a single episode for this show's first two seasons.

steve marmel helped write at least 28 episodes of the original two seasons, with writers like sib ventress and marty isenberg bringing a good amount of episodes to the table, as well.

butch hartman is credited primarily for directing and storyboarding this show. the episode pitch and writing was by other people almost entirely. the ONLY episodes in the first two seasons that hartman is credited with having written are mystery meat, one of a kind and splitting images. and he's credited with co-writing these episodes alongside steve marmel and mark banker. ie, he did not write these episodes on his own. and allegedly, butch hartman had a tendency to be credited as a writer for an episode, even if he only wrote a few lines of dialogue. again, take from that what you will.

past that in season 3, he wrote infinite realms, torrent of terror, forever phantom, urban jungle, and ofc, phantom planet. which a lot of people know, these episodes in particular weren't the most enjoyable, nor was the overall direction of them very good.

a director's job is to make sure that the overall tone, feel, and message of the show is being kept consistent with intent. that means meeting with producers, who are the ones managing the, y'know, producing part of the whole project. it may sound like the director is the one heading the project if it's their job to keep things in check. which, i will not deny, hartman must've put in a good deal of work to make the show come out as well as it did.

but pile that with some of the off things per episode. the mean-spirited way that characters tend to be taught lessons, the voice direction getting a drastic change in season 3 (you can hear it explicitly with david kaufman suddenly going for higher pitches instead of the usual one he's done so far). there's really only one consistent motif in the entire show's OST. which isn't a bash against the music producer. it's a concern that the director of the show never asked him to change things up, and ONLY stuck to this one motif.

to briefly touch on the mean-spirited thing. there's multiple instances in the show where danny or someone else is seen fighting back against whatever has given them trouble, or they're taking matters into their own hands to ensure they won't be hurt ahead of time. and repeatedly, the show likes to kick these characters back down for trying to stand up. it's a trend in all of butch hartman's shows, and it's treated more like comedy than anything else. it's up to audience perception on how to view it. but for me personally, it starts to feel like an overused gag and turns into something more malevolent after seeing it overused almost every single episode.

okay besides that, i actually wanna look at specific examples of episodes that steve marmel wrote for. again, this is the guy who's more or less responsible for the show's serialization.

the complete list of episodes is as follows:

Mystery Meat, Parental Bonding, One of a Kind, Attack of the Killer Garage Sale, Splitting Images, What You Want, Bitter Reunions, Prisoners of Love, My Brother's Keeper, Shades of Gray, Fanning the Flames, Teacher of the Year, Fright Night, 13(Thirteen), Public Enemies, Memory Blank, Reign Storm, The Ultimate Enemy, The Fright Before Christmas, Secret Weapons, Flirting with Disaster, Micro Management , Kindred Spirits, and Reality Trip.

multiple episodes listed here are from the first season, which a lot of people consider the show's best. and of the handful listed for season 2, he wrote all of the hour-long specials.

i would be here for hours talking about how steve marmel tackles all of these characters and concepts significantly better than hartman does in season 3. but that's a topic best praised elsewhere. point is, if you watched any of these episodes and thought to yourself "wow, that was actually kinda clever," steve marmel is more or less the guy responsible.

butch hartman was in charge of direction, but that does not give him exclusive credit for every single line of dialogue or plot beat. there could be a LOT we just don't know because people on production staff don't want to comment. but the writing consistency taking a dive off the board by season 3, which is the same season that steve marmel departed from the project due to conflicting direction in the story? you might deduce that butch hartman was not the prized writer and artist behind this otherwise beloved cartoon.

to dredge up an easier-to-tackle target, season 3.

my criticisms are 18-year old echoes at this point, you've heard them all. from otherwise pointless episodes that don't develop the characters or world, to completely out-of-touch writing (looking at you, phantom planet) that juxtaposes the characters with everything we've been told about them so far. it became a slog of a season that didn't have any build-up to it's finale. the occasional gem of an episode like frightmare helped in some aspects. or the promise for something later with d-stabilized. but it all gets swept under the rug thanks to a rushed finale with poor build-up, bad writing direction for the characters, and most importantly, an unlasting effect on the viewer. (or a negative lasting effect, which is arguably worse)

for a season that knew it was on its last leg before inevitably needing to give up, there's seldom few episodes dedicated to advancing an overall narrative, and thus give a slimmer of hope for a satisfying conclusion. instead, the show goes all in with villain-of-the-week stories, and even the returning villains are hardly taken seriously or given more to do besides just being there.

of course, we know the reason steve marmel had left the project was because hartman wanted the show not to taken a more story-focused drive. it almost starts to feel like spite that kept the show so horribly grounded, letting it become stagnant before eventually being forgettable.

all this is in service of letting people know, it really wasn't butch hartman that made the show, not alone. death of the author and all that nonsense aside, he pitched the concept. and it takes a lot of love and dedication to make a concept something you can physically see and adore. don't let him swath in all the credit. recognize the others who made the work you can still enjoy.

[marauderverse]

With Love// F.W x Reader (1)

Summary: Y/n Dursley of number 4 Privet Drive hates her life. That was, of course, until the summer before grade 9, after an oddly charming redhead and his brothers helped her cousin escape. it was probably a good thing he forgot to return that key.

word count: 1.3k

Y/n Dursley of number 4 Privet Drive hates her life. 

The first born daughter of Vernon and Petunia, who were more than disappointed to find their first child was a girl, overshadowed by her joke of a younger brother, and ignored by her parents. 

Well ignored was not quite the right word. 

They often pretended she didn’t exist, except when it benefited them to have an older daughter. 

Though she knows she shouldn’t be ungrateful for her situation, her cousin Harry had it much worse. 

She was only three when he had showed up on their doorstep, she doesn't remember much but she does remember her mother palming off a lot of her responsibilities onto her. 

At the time she had thought it was great fun, feeding him his milk and nursing him to sleep. It was like she had her own living doll. 

As she grew older, though, the responsibilities grew greater. 

By the time she was seven she was making sure Harry was up and ready for school, lunch packed and everything.

By the time she was ten she was signing his school forms, she had always been rather handy with pens. 

She remembers the summer that her cousin Harry turned 11, she had saved up what little money she had managed to scrounge together from the paper route she had started two months earlier and gone out and gotten him his very own watch. 

It wasn’t a lot, nothing fancy like the watch Dudley had gotten. But it was nice enough, with a simple leather band and silver accents on the face.

She remembers how he had received that letter only a week before and how her mother and father had done their best to keep Harry from reading those letters. How she had tried her hardest to get him those letters. 

They were carted across England (just about) and forced to sleep on the floor. She had given Harry the less lumpy space on the floor and had resigned herself to a sleepless night.

That had obviously been before Hagrid had kicked down that door and completely changed the whole course of their lives. 

Before she knew it Harry was being whisked away to some school to learn how to be a wizard and she was stuck at home with her parents who would have rather she didn’t exist and a brother she didn’t care for. 

She was more than ecstatic when Harry had arrived home for the summer. 

The very first-time y/n had ever formally met Fred Weasley was the summer before year 9. 

She had woken up to an odd rumbling sound coming from the room across from hers. She had been worried about Harry above all. She had watched as her father fastened bars on his window and a cat flapped on his door after that horrendous disaster of a dinner party. 

She had been staring at the heavy lock on his door, silently debating whether now was a good time to try her hand at lock picking when the door swung open. 

She stood there, like a deer in headlights, staring at the boy in front of her. Evidently, he was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. 

“If you say anything, I’ll curse you,” He said suddenly, pulling what she assumed was his want out of his pocket and waving it in front of her face. 

She knew exactly what he was doing or, more, what he was attempting to do. 

She lifted her hand to swat the stick out of her face, and an unamused glare crossed her features. 

“First of all, I'm more frightened by the fact that there are strangers in my house than your little magic stick, and secondly, I know you’re not allowed to do magic outside of school, so you can drop the act,” she looked past the boy in front of her and over to Harry, who was talking with another boy who looked exactly like the one in front of her. 

The room was silent for a moment; Harry was the first to break the silence. 

“Y/n, these are my friends; they’ve come to take me to their place,” He explained.  

“Yeah, and if you try to stop us, we will curse you, even if we aren't allowed to do magic outside of school,” said the boy before her. 

She trained her focus back to him, eyes narrowed and annoyance evident on her face. 

“Do you think that if I wanted to stop you from taking Harry, I would still be standing here?” she asked. 

The boy thought for a moment. 

“I suppose not,” he said, finally putting his wand back into his pocket. 

“Fred and George were going to get my broom and stuff from the cupboard,” He explained. 

“Do they need the key?” She asked. 

“Key?” The one in front of her asked. 

“A small, shaped piece of metal with cuts that fit into a lock and, when rotated can open or close it,” she explained, speaking slowly as if explaining the concept to a young child (or her brother). 

It was the boy before her turn to glare. 

“I know what a key is,” He said. 

“Then do you need one?” she asked. 

“I suppose a key would be helpful,” He said quietly. 

“Great, follow me. And be quiet,” She said, beckoning him to follow her. 

She leads him down the hall, down the steps and into the kitchen. 

She quietly picked up a chair and placed it in front of the stove before carefully climbing atop it to retrieve the small key from on top of the cabinet above the vent. 

“Here,” She whispered, handing the boy the key. “It’s just the cupboard under the steps we just came down,” She explained. 

He nodded, disappearing back the way they came. She stepped off the chair and put it back before making her way to the cupboard.

“Do you need help?” She asked, watching as he grabbed what was left of Harry’s school supplies. 

“No, I thought there would be more,” He explained, holding the loose parchment, quills and ink in one hand and balancing the broom over his other shoulder. 

“Well, the rest of it’s already in his room,” She shrugged. 

“I thought Harry said you guys looked all of his school stuff away,” 

y/n bristled at the insinuation that she, too, had been a part of this. 

“That’s just my parents; I’ve been intermittently giving him his stuff back,” She explained. 

“Really?” He asked, “why?” 

“What do you mean why?” She snapped.

“I mean, harry always talks about how horrible you muggles are to him,”

“Correction,” She said, “He talks about how horrible mum, dad and Dudley are,” said. 

Then she paused. 

“Do you even know my name?” She asked. 

“No, but do you know my name?” He shot back. 

“Well, I know your name is either Fred or George, and I also know your last name is Weasley,” She said. 

“Well, I know your last name is Dursley,” he replied, “And I’m Fred, by the way,”

“Well, Fred, my name is Y/n,” She said. 

She followed Fred into Harry's room.

“Okay,” She said, stopping to stand before her cousin, “Be safe, have fun and don’t forget to write to me. It’s like the only thing that keeps me sane in this fucking house.” She said, 

“I promise,” He said, smiling widely at her. 

She pulled him in for a tight hug before letting him step into the flying ford Anglia (which she had decided to think about later).

“Don’t kill my cousin, or I’ll kill you,” She said to the boy behind the wheel. 

She waved goodbye as they flew off. 

Her parents didn’t seem to notice the absence of Harry, and if they did, they were actively ignoring it. 

She received her first letter a day and a half later. 

Dear Y/n,

Hey there! So, I've got to confess... I kind of forgot to give you back your key after rescuing Harry from your place. I know, I know, not my finest moment. Anyway, sorry about that! Hope you're not too mad.

Cheers,

Fred

P.s we didn’t kill your cousin. He’s fine.

enclosed the key she had given to him.

[number1mingyustan]

The Storm☾ ✹

exbf!taehyun x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, cursing, marking, explicit smut, fingering (f.), squirting, scratching, unprotected sex (missionary), multiple orgasms, infidelity, toxic relationships

Summary: Surely there's a rainbow after every storm, right?

Word Count: 2.5k

_______________________________________________

Taehyun leans against the door frame with a frown. His arms are crossed and you can see the tired in his eyes. He's only wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a black wifebeater, making his muscles more prominent due to the lack of fabric covering him. "I really don't understand why you came here," he sighs.

The rain taps against the window heavily. It's dark outside the heavy rain is resounding through his apartment. The air in the room is thick and drawing breath out of you each passing moment.

"I had nowhere else to go," You say.

That's a bullshit lie and he can see right through it. He knows you all too well.

There's a moment of silence before he sighs again. "Whatever you say Y/n." He turns around to fully walk out the door. "I'm sleeping on the couch."

"You're not gonna sleep in here?" You ask.

He turns back around and runs a hand through his silver hair. "No, I'm not. You're sleeping in here and I'm gonna take the couch."

"But this is your bed."

"I know that Y/n."

"So why are you choosing to sleep in the couch when your bed is right here?" You question.

"You know it's a bad idea, the two of us in the same bed. Let's just spare ourselves from making things messy, okay?"

It was a bad idea just for you to come here. You knew that, but of course it didn't stop you.

The past six months haven't been easy for you. He knows this, considering this is far from your first visit back to his place since you two finally called it quits all those months ago.

It took you two and a half weeks to end up back here after you broke up. You were gone before the sun came up because the guilt started eating away at you, but still found yourself coming back every few weeks.

He's like a drug.

Something you need to feel better, even if the high only lasts for a little while. Something that you get addicted to easily, you crave it more and more the longer you don't have it and require higher doses to retrieve the same feeling it once gave you.

Something that slowly eats away at your body and kills you the more you go back to it.

But like any other addict, you couldn't stop yourself from coming back.

It's been about two months since you last showed up at his door. This time you took an uber here in the middle of the night while it was pouring outside. Told him they were fuming the entire apartment for bugs and you had nowhere to go. It was mostly true... aside from the having nowhere to go part.

However this time, he wasn't as inviting toward you. Circumstances have changed.

Your ex boyfriend has a new girlfriend.

She's nice and she's pretty and she loves baking treats for him. She works at a bakery and that's how they met a short time ago. She's cute and pure hearted, but she's boring. All in all, she's better for him than you are by a mile.

As much as Taehyun knows you, you know him too.

They won't last, you're sure of it. She's a nice girl yeah, but she's not you. You always put up a fight and never back down. You don't make things easy for him and while it may piss him off, he craves it.

It's part of what made your relationship so toxic, but it's also a large part of what created the spark between you.

No matter how much he liked her, she would never fully satisfy him the way he craved. She was too nice, she just agreed with and giggled at everything he said. There was no resistance and push back from her. Things were easy with her, too easy.

It was something he may have needed to fill the time, but Kang Taehyun has never been a simple person. They've only been going out for 2 months but you know he's already bored of her.

"Baby..."

"Don't call me that. You and I aren't together anymore," he snaps.

"You didn't mind it last time I came over."

"Last time you came over I didn't have a girlfriend."

"Now that's a bullshit reason if I ever heard one. You won't sleep with me because you don't trust yourself enough, not because you actually give a shit about that whore."

He darts over to where you're sitting on his bed and grabs your chin firmly, forcing you to look him in the eyes. You hold your breath and tense up. "Don't talk about her like that. You don't know her or my relationship."

"I know you though." You grit.

He releases your chin with a scoff. "Let's not forget where you are. You're in my apartment wearing my clothes, I could make you put your wet clothes back on and kick you out right now if I wanted to. Stop playing with fire."

"You and I both know that won't happen," You challenge.

He doesn't bother entertaining you anymore and he shuts the bedroom door and leaves. It pisses him off that you're right. He knows he can't kick you out and that he doesn't trust himself enough to be alone with you because he's still in love with you.

Sort of.

It's complicated.

Everything with you is complicated. The 3 years you spent with each other reflects nothing but bad habits and bad decisions. He's hurt you and you’ve hurt him back too many times. Things were never easy with you the way they are with her.

You sigh and tuck yourself under the covers of his bed.

It’s easy to reminisce on the good times and forget about the bad ones. You can’t help yourself, romanticizing what once was and never will be again. It’s easier to think about the good things and not how he cheated on you multiple times.

It’s easier to not think about the time that you gave him the silent treatment for two weeks straight after you found him texting other girls yet you still let him fuck you.

You still romanticize the happy days and God forbid you think about all the time you spent crying and apologizing to him when he was the one in the wrong.

Its pathetic really, that you still find yourself running back to him after all the shit he did to you and has moved on. You can't help yourself, you're an addict. It's partially his fault that you're like this, he made you this way.

___________

It’s 4:28 am when Taehyun finds himself standing outside the door of his own bedroom. He knows he shouldn’t be standing here right now, but he’s like a moth drawn to a flame.

There are a million thoughts racing through his mind right now, most of them about how he shouldn't be doing this right now. You're part of his past, a bad part of it. He's got a good future, a promising one with a sweet girl that he actually likes. She's so good to him and she's not you. But that's the problem, she's not you. He's spent so much time hurting you and hurting himself that he can't pull himself out of his old habits.

He's got something good going for him right now, but you just keep popping up. Once you get in his head, you never leave and he can never just let go. That's not how things are with you.

He turns the doorknob slowly and steps inside. He closes the door behind him and walks over to your sleeping frame. His knee dips into the bed and he pushes your hair out of your face to get a good look at you.

You scrunch your nose when he does so and he finds himself smiling at your antics. "Wake up," he says.

You groan, stirring in your sleep a bit. He shakes you lightly and repeats himself. "Y/n wake up."

He pushes the covers down off your body. You whine and open your eyes slowly. You're still processing your surroundings as you start coming into your senses. "W-What?"

"C'mere," He sits down on the bed and pulls you onto his lap you're straddling him.

Your thighs are parted on either side of his and you wipe your eyes. "Tae?"

"Shhh," He hushes you and presses his lips to yours.

It's raining harder now outside. Loud crashes of thunder echo through the air and flashes of lighting illuminate the room through the curtains.

Like second nature, you find yourself kissing him back without hesitation. His hands grips your waist softly, holding you steadily in his lap as he kisses you.

You melt like butter under his touch, moving against him with ease. You're so used to him, you really don't know if you'll ever be able to stop yourself from coming back.

It's bad, it's so bad. But everything about him is so familiar that you can't accept any change that cuts him out. He'll always have your heart, no matter what.

His fingers trail along the dress shirt you're borrowing from him. He undoes the buttons slowly before sliding the fabric off your shoulders and onto the floor.

He lifts you up off his lap without breaking the kiss and lays you down on the bed. His lips trail from your down to your neck where he begins sucking on your skin. He mumbles, "Mine... always mine" as he leaves dark hickies along your skin.

You let out a soft moan when his fingers dip into your panties. His finger circles your clit and he smirks against your skin as he feels his fingers start to grow damp.

Your eyes fall shut and you let out small gasps as he toys with your clit. "Tae... need more" you plead.

You didn't have to tell him, he was well aware. He lifts his head so he can get a better look at you before he pulls your panties off and pushes a finger into your soaked cunt.

"Shit..." You gasp.

He licks his lips as he watches you. He draws his finger in and out of you before adding another. He watches as your face contorts in pleasure as you soak his digits.

He curls his fingers inside of you, causing you to let out a loud moan. It only encourages him to continue his ministrations faster. He'll never get tired of this. Watching you is always a beautiful sight to see.

"C'mon pretty girl... you know what I want from you," he breathes out.

You squeeze your eyes tighter and not in agreement. You're a moaning mess beneath him, falling apart with just his fingers. His fingers thrust into you faster, drawing you closer and closer to the high you're chasing.

He curls his fingers again, making you curse out and arch your back up off the bed. His fingers press against the one spot that does it for you every time.

The loud thunder crashes again outside and the rain seems to be hitting against the window even harder.

You finally reach your high, crying out his name and pushing your hips into his fingers. Your whole body shudders and he pulls his fingers out swiftly and watches as the rush of fluid soaks his bed.

He looks down at you, a smirk plastered on his face so wide that you can see even in the dark. "That's my girl.." he compliments.

You're panting beneath him, hardly able to open your eyes fully. The lightning flashes again, illuminating his entire frame above you. There's a weary look of lust in his eyes.

He rids himself of his clothes and hovers above you. His breath fans against your lips and you feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance. He's extremely hard and throbbing against you.

Desire.

It's a concept that makes you sick when you lack self control. People desire what they can't have and it's often that they would be better off without it. Knowing this of course only makes the desire grown, feeling more like a need than a want.

That's where irreversible damage is done.

He pushes the tip of he length into you, filling you up slowly. He watches your face as it contorts, accommodating to his length. It's been so long since you found yourself under him, but he fits you like a mold.

You're wet enough that he has no trouble filling you up. He's fully inside of you, cock nuzzled between your walls like a home. You always take him so well, like you were truly made for each other.

You both moan out when he draws his hips back and pushes back into you with more force. It's so intimate, having him those close to you after this long.

"Fuck-mmph" you curse out.

His holds himself up on his arms, defined biceps bulging from his skin as he fucks you full force. You always liked it rough. He didn't even have to ask, he knows you so well.

He places your legs on his shoulders, shifting the angle he's fucking you at to drill into you harder and deeper. It's an inexplicable pleasure that has your toes curling and your nails digging into his back.

The wind picks up pace, escalating the storm taking place outside. The loud thunder continues to crash and the hard raindrops pour down against the windows.

Neither of you are going to last much longer, it feels too good. His cock brushes against your sweet spot with precision, leaving you moaning pornographically beneath him. Your cunt tightens around him as he drills you into another mind-blowing orgasm.

It draws his orgasm out of him. He fucks you through it sloppily, hips moving erratically without any sense of rhythm as both your highs course through your bodies.

He fills you up like always, pumping his cum inside of you as your body spasms and twitches. He breathes heavily and pulls out slowly. The two of your cringe at the loss of warmth and he falls onto the bed next to you. The two of you are tucked under the covers once again.

The room falls silent for what feels like a lifetime. The post-sex clarity has started to hit and you both realize how much to just fucked up. The rain isn't as heavy anymore and the thunder is no longer resounding and filling the space. It's dark again with no lightning glowing through the windows.

The storm outside settles down as the guilt starts to settle in. It's still raining out, but your heart tightens with regret almost immediately. It's like the feeling of a relapse from being clean. You know he feels it too, the guilt.

The two of you lay there in complete silence, facing away from each other in the bed. There's no way you can look at him, not after it's all settled in.

There's nothing left to do but lay there with the gut-wrenching feeling churning in both your insides and hope a rainbow appears after the storm.

_______________________________________________

© number1mingyustan - Do not repost without permission.

[bobfloydssunnies]

there's a hole where something was...

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Reader (its not a main focus really)

Rating: PG they make some jokes but nothing crazy

Summary: The daggers find out about a couple little secrets Bob has been keeping

Word Count: 2k

Note: This was born from me talking about fall out boy songs I think Bob would listen to and then turned into this wonderful idea after talking about it with @bobgasm and @pinkdaisies9285

I am also posting this before I can talk myself out of it because I've reread it so many times in the last few days I'm starting to hate it just a little

(I may have hidden a couple fall out boy reference into this as well)

Since the mission months ago and the daggers getting stationed closer together more often than not this meant they would meet up and get drinks together. Every night out usually ended up with tipsy games of pool or just talking about life outside work and learning things about new friends. 

Somehow on this particular night out at the hard deck the topic of what everyone looked like when we were younger before their navy days had come up. Which is how we all ended up seated at the tables not far from the pool tables swapping phones around with everyone  showing off pictures of them at various stages of childhood and adolescence and everyone laughing at the questionable outfit choices or bad haircuts. Slowly everyone else had their turn and had left Bob to be the last one in the usual fashion because he had hoped staying quiet would save him from having to show off his own photos. “Alright Bob you are the only one left who hasn’t shared pictures so are we gonna see you in those dorky glasses as a kid of what” Jake threw out across the tables that had been grouped together for us. “No one wants to see them, trust me they are pretty boring compared to everyone else” Bob stuttered out avoiding looking at anyone at the table. Slowly everyone started begging to see pictures and poke fun at him for now wanting to show pictures of himself saying they couldn’t be as bad as some of the others we had seen from the others tonight. Eventually, Bob decided he had enough of the teasing and pulled his phone out, unlocked it, and started scrolling. After a bit of time he seemed to pause and look up at the table and he seemed nervous like whatever he was about to show us would change something. Jake caught on that he was hesitating to show the group his phone and snatched it out of his hand, “No way this is you” he exclaimed looking at the photo causing everyone to flock around him and the phone in his hand. Suddenly everyone was freaking out and throwing questions about his hair and the piercings on his face. “Is that really an eyebrow piercing?” Phoenix asked looking at her wso, Bob shrugged not knowing how to handle everyone asking things at the same time. 

The picture in question showed a younger bob with a lip ring on the left side of his mouth, a silver barbell eyebrow piercing on the right, and his hair outside his normal look with it the top being longer and dyed dark with the ends of his hair being dyed red while the sides were cut shorter. “Who knew the little wallflower had an emo phase”, Bob laughed at that knowing there were other things about him that would surprise them more like the tattoos he has hiding on his ribs and upper thigh or the 3rd piercing he’s still got but managed to keep hidden all these years. I smirked after seeing Bob’s reaction knowing exactly what he was thinking.  “What else are you hiding from us?” Bradley asked, noticing both our reactions. Bob gave me a look and I just shrugged back as if to say the ‘choice is yours’. “Let’s just say those are the only piercings I got done” he replied with a smirk, Bob was just messing with them now. Natasha watched you both like she was waiting for one of you to spill exactly what it was or where it was. 

The others seemed to have calmed down from the news that their quiet wso had a secret past and were now making a list of different piercings that they thought he could have. You both knew they wouldn’t guess correctly because honestly, they wouldn’t expect Bob to have his nipples pierced. Bob looked good with the lip ring and eyebrow piercing, but him shirtless covered with a little sweat showing off the little collection of tattoos on his ribs and the nipple piercings was a whole other vision to behold. The list of piercings and where they had been/are included his ears (varying types for this one), his tongue,his nose, someone suggested a belly button piercing and they didn’t seem serious about it but someone joked about having a dick piercing.

As the others broke off into little side groups dropping the discussion of what other secret their friend has, Bob took it as a chance to go get drink refills up at the bar and leave me to my own thoughts. It would be easy to show off the piercing Bob has hidden away just not in the current setting we were all in because there is no way to really do it without Bob taking his shirt off in the middle of the bar and Penny probably wouldn’t appreciate that. But since hearing the list of piercings and the theories that up from the discovery about their teammate I could stop looking the general direction of Bob’s chest and how someone hadn’t caught on to the not so subtle staring was amazing because Bob was dressed in a loose button up outside his usual casual t-shirt and some nice jeans. And since talking about him I couldn’t stop thinking about what he has hidden under his civvies and uniforms. Near me someone cleared their throat breaking me from my thoughts and making me look away from Bob while he leaned up against the bar waiting for our drinks , I looked over to see Fanboy who seemed glad to have caught me looking at Bob “any thoughts to share with the group” he asked with a grin “ these aren’t ones y’all need to know about Bob” I reply feeling a heat creep onto my face “oh having some fantasies about baby on board” Jake jokes “at least someone thinks about me like that” Bob shot back as he returned from the bar.

After that it went back to being a normal night out just having drinks and catching up and playing darts, singing at the piano with Bradley and of course taking over the pool tables. When they eventually started up the games of pool it let you pick the best spot to watch Bob as he leaned over the table to take shots. He seemed to have caught up to why you had exactly picked the spot you had or had caught you staring earlier before rejoining the group because he seemed to have no shame in trying to find way that made sure his shirt moved just enough to show more of his chest of than necessary or he’d move just right to have the shirt rise up a bit had show off just a sliver of his stomach. 

The current game was maybe half way through when a gasp fell from someone's lips you were unsure who’s but it seemed to silence the group and got Bob to look up from the shot he was about to take. A confused “what” came from the group but wasn’t answered instead I noticed Natasha staring at Bob from her place opposite him as the pool table “So nipples piercings is the other one you got'', Bob grinned “surprised Tash” he asked while pulling himself away from the table. “Gonna be honest, had you pegged more as a guy to go for a nose ring or maybe your ears” she replied smiling “I gotta keep y’all guessing I wouldn’t want to come off too boring” he joked. The others joined in joking about his choice of piercing and started asking a bunch of other questions about them. “Are you even allowed to have them like does it go against regs at all” Bradley asked “ I mean maybe but I’ve had them for awhile now and no one has said anything it's not like I can hide them really during physicals and med evaluations” Bob replied before standing next to you. “Why didn’t you get rid of them when you stopped wearing the other two?” Fanboy asked “Oh I got them after I joined and was done with basic and most of the training like I had a decent amount of leave saved up and just decided to do it one day” Bob explained like it was obvious. “Why are we just now finding out about them though like it’s not like its something easy to hide I mean I’m pretty sure we’ve all seen you change at some point at time in locker room or ready room at work” Payback asked from his spot beside Fanboy “I cover them up usually when I’m on base just to avoid people seeing them or any other problems like them getting caught or me forgetting to put in the right jewelry I’ve learned its better to prepare for a possible problem than to be unprepared and hope one doesn’t happen plus it make it easier for myself that’s some of why I wore my shirt that day during dogfight football before the mission” everyone was silent like they were trying to picture it or just come up with something else to say “you know I don’t think we’ve ever actually seen you shirtless” Jake said “thinking about Bob shirtless now Bagman” I joke “no, pretty sure that your job” he shot back “hey I don’t blame you I mean between the piercings and the tattoos it’s a nice view” I say looking at Bob, who had a flush to his skin after my comment. “Tattoos too!” “Oops” I said sheepishly. “It’s just like 8-10 small ones that are random little things on my ribs, and some on one of my thighs. It's not like some big piece," Bob said, shrugging it off. I felt a little bad letting it slip, he had tattoos but Bob didn’t seem to be upset with me and was just more uncomfortable to still be the center of attention.  

The pool game was long forgotten at this point and the conversation had moved to everyone talking about their own tattoos and what they were getting next or already had ( everyone learned Bradley has a little goose on his ribs for his dad). I pulled Bob a bit aways from everyone to let us both have a moment together away from your friends “I’m sorry for telling them about the tattoos babe” I say holding his hand. “It’s alright darlin they would have found out eventually plus all this coming out makes it easier to add the new stuff we’ve been talking about” he smirked. You and Bob had been talking about him getting new tattoos and maybe looking into some other piercings (once you find the time to look through the navy regs to make sure it wouldn’t cause any problems for him at work) and the more time you had spent talking about it the more excited you both got it was probably for different reasons but you both wanted to see the art on Bob’s body grow. After a bit of time alone Bob takes us back over to our friends who are still stuck on talking about tattoos and what they can and can’t get done because of the navy rules. Natasha notices us both and pulls me to the empty chair next to her making me drag Bob along with me “Hey Tash” I say sitting down, “I can’t believe you never told me about all this that’s what our hang out are for we talk about our partners” she said pouting, okay so she’s a little tipsy “Trust me Tash I wanted to but I know Bob hasn’t told you and I didn’t want to share incase he didn’t want you knowing for some reason” I tell her honestly. Bob it seemed like had been roped into answering Payback and Fanboy’s questions about how much piercings hurt to get done when I heard Javy ask the question of night I’m sure “So you gonna try and get any more things done or is this are far are you’re going with the look”. Bob looked over at me and winked before responding “Who knows maybe inspiration will strike soon and I’ll show up with something new”. 

[sebastianswallows]

A new family — Chapter 2

— PAIRING: dark!Ominis Gaunt x F!MC

— SYNOPSIS: Ominis gets tired of his family and how miserable life is with them after he graduates. So he follows Sebastian's example for once, and kills them in cold blood. Now that he has the mansion to himself, he discovers he would still like to have a family, but one of his own making.

— WARNINGS: none, just Omi being sneaky

— WORDCOUNT: 2k

— TAGLIST: @littletealight @skarathewitch

“This is a pretty impressive place…”

“Is it? I never noticed.”

“You’re just being facetious now.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

When she arrived at the mansion via floo, Ominis was there to greet her. The fireplace in the living room was large enough for her to stand in. The elves carried her suitcase upstairs while Ominis served her mint lemonade to clear her throat after the powdery journey. Then, he led her on a tour of the place.

He could tell from her tone of voice that she liked it. This was probably on the grander side of things compared to what she was used to. It was curious, walking ahead of her and hearing the subtle ways her voice changed when she looked up or behind her as he described each room, gawking, he imagined, in a bit of wonder.

Gaunt manor was not the greatest wizarding residence by far, ranking far below what the Blacks and Malfoys owned. The family was past its golden years and in this generation had fallen, befittingly, to silver, thanks to his father’s unwise spending and his mother’s rash investment choices. Marvolo, the celebrated son, was even worse at managing expenses than their parents were.

Ominis didn’t use to care. It could all turn to dust as far as he was concerned. But now that he was on course to being the sole inheritor (once he resolved the Marvolo issue), he found himself being a bit more interested.

So it soothed him somewhat to hear his friend so impressed with the estate.

“You can stay however long you wish, you know,” he smiled, turning his head toward her as he led her up the stairs.

“What about your parents?” she asked.

“Oh, they’ve been gone for over a week already. If they were going to return, I’m sure they would have by now.”

“Don’t you think you should go looking for them?”

“No,” he said coolly. “Why?”

“Right… I forgot how you felt about them.”

“It’s not about how I felt about them,” he pressed, stopping at the top of the stairs. “It’s how they were.”

“Or how they are?”

He paused, privately embarrased by how he almost gave himself away. Did Sebastian ever slip up like this?

“Well, right now they are not here, so it’s irrelevant.” Before she could read too much into his words, he changed his tone and smiled. “Come, I’ll show you to your bedroom.”

There were many rooms to choose from, but he gave her a suite right next to his, on the eastern side of the house. It caught the first light in the morning and was quite dark at night, perfect for a restful stay. What he didn’t mention was that there was a little door blended into the wallpaper that connected her room to his.

“The elves must’ve brought your luggage here by now.”

“They have,” she said with a bright smile as she walked around the room. “But, Ominis, you know I could make do with a little cupboard to live in…”

“Nonsense,” he grinned. “You’re my guest, and I want you to feel welcome. Now, make yourself comfortable and afterwards I’ll show you the grounds outside. We can have lunch there too.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll be in the living room.”

The ticking of the grandfather clock mounted above the fireplace filled the silence while he waited for her. He’d already told the elves to prepare a lunch for two at the large table on the veranda near the rose garden, and had given them a plan for the whole next week filled with the dishes he knew she liked. Every meal, every sweet, even the drinks, all were chosen from her favourites. The bookshelves in the reading room as well were stocked with her favourite books, and as he picked them, he’d taken the liberty to bring out some of his father’s hidden studies on dark magic.

It was a subject he had long avoided, although over the years it became impossible to escape the teachings of his parents, especially those that were enforced on him. He’d tried to forget all the curses, the jinxes and hexes they’d taught him, and now he strove to remember them.

Something had always felt wasted about his childhood, and he used to think that was because of how unhappy he was around his family — and what a tragedy that was all on its own, to not feel safe at home, among his only flesh and blood — but now Ominis began to think it was because of his repressions. He’d rejected dark magic because they liked it, he willed himself to be the opposite of his tormentors, and fashioned himself into someone who was a stranger to them… but also to himself.

How many opportunities had he missed out on by forcing himself into a wilful mental construction, a fake persona, an act of escapism? How many adventures, how much fun, how much exploration of the magic and the literature that existed, even in the small world of his childhood, had he kicked away from himself out of fear? He had been — and still felt himself as being — so concerned with the notion of regret, of mistakes, of needless trouble, that he had forgotten to live. Now, he found himself with no life at all.

“That’s about to change,” he said to himself as he waited quietly in the armchair for his friend to come down the stairs. “It might feel like it’s too late, but it isn’t. It’s never too late.”

“What isn’t too late?” she asked breathlessly as she stepped into the living room.

“Lunch,” he smiled, getting up from the armchair with a spring in his step. “With me, outside.”

“The room is lovely, by the way. Thank you,” she said as she came closer. “I’m ready now”

Ominis closed the distance and took her hand, hearing a little gasp escape her. “This way.”

He led her out through another door, opposite to the main entrance, into a hallway that opened to a pair of glass doors. Ominis could feel the sunlight streaming on his face as they approached and passed through it out onto the grounds. This was the back of the house, with a little maze of hedges and a fountain with a statue of a serpent in the middle.

“That over there is supposed to be a basilisk,” he said. “By the sound of it, it’s turned on.”

“Turned on?”

“It’s streaming water from its mouth, is it not?”

“Oh,” she giggled. “Yes, it is.”

A smile curved Ominis’ lips, and he held her hand tighter.

He didn’t even need the wand to show him the way, he knew it by heart. Going around, he walked with her to the front, where the gravel turned to a neat cobblestone path.

“You can see the forest far to the right,” he said without turning. “Where my parents disappeared.”

“What is in those woods?” she asked quietly.

“Old oaks and beech trees. And a few wild animals too. Foxes, deer, wolves, and boars mostly…”

“Do you think that’s what happened to them?”

“Possibly. They’re just as likely to have tripped on an overgrown tree root as to have been mauled by a boar,” he shrugged.

She knew how he felt about his parents, and most importantly knew why. Every summer was a reminder, when her letters never reached him and she spent the months wondering how he was. She had come to fear his parents almost as much as he did.

It gave some comfort now to Ominis that he didn’t have to hide his indifference toward their deaths, even if it was for a reason she did not yet suspect. So he walked forward with her hand in his and showed her around the other side of the mansion.

“This is where the greenhouse is,” he said, pointing vaguely ahead. “It is connected to the house.”

“It looks lovely!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he chuckled. “We grow some poisonous plants there, so be wary. But it is otherwise a comfortable spot, especially in winter. Makes for good reading.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grinned. “Although I’m not sure I will still be here come winter.”

“We’ll see about that,” he smirked, his face turning toward her slightly. “Now, we come to the best part.”

A bit toward the right from where they started, behind a certain angle of the house, was a little flower garden enclosed by stout green shrubs. A few fruit trees grew there too, apples and cherries heavy with fruit. Songbirds rested in their branches. But what dominated the field were waves and waves of white roses.

“Oh, Ominis,” she said with wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”

They slowed their pacing as they approached, and he took the time to feel her hand in his. It was warm, and soft, and his began to sweat, but he could not let go.

The rose garden was not as well tended as it should have been. His parents didn’t think it a priority. It was a wild and thorny growth, coiled and dangerous, but Ominis was still fond of it. It was mostly tended to by the elves, and primarily at his instruction.

“Careful you don’t get pricked,” he said, squeezing her hand as they got closer.

“Don’t worry,” he heard her grin. “I’ve been through worse than a flower garden.”

“Not a Gaunt one, I’m sure,” he smirked.

“You’re not that scary, Omi,” she said fondly, turning toward him. The scent of roses surrounded them now.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm…”

“How long do you plan to stay?” he suddenly asked.

They stopped in front of a large rose bush and she let go of his hand so that she could touch them, smell them, feel their velvety petals.

“Not very long,” she said. “I wouldn’t like to impose.”

“It’s no imposition,” said Ominis, stepping closer. “On the contrary… I want you here.”

“Really?” she asked innocently, turning toward him. “What for?”

“For company?” he offered. “For companionship? For…”

“You miss Hogwarts, don’t you?” she grinned.

“I miss you.”

She said nothing, and for a moment the breath froze in his lungs. He had said too much… But then, her fingers curled around his own again and she held his cold hand in hers.

“I’ve missed you too,” she said closely. The intimacy of it made him flush.

“I… I’m glad to hear that,” he grinned.

“Are you?”

Holding her hand, he stepped closer. “Stay longer,” said Ominis. He could feel her breath fan on his neck. “Stay the whole summer, and even longer than that.”

“Why?” she asked quietly.

“I never want to miss you again.”

“Ominis…”

“I know it’s a bit unexpected coming from me. I was always a bit of a cold fish, wasn’t I?”

“No…”

“Not hot-blooded like Sebastian, right?”

“No, that’s not —”

“I’m all alone in this house,” he said. “But I don’t regret that my family disappeared. I don’t expect they’ll appear again, and if they do you won’t have to worry about a thing.”

“I know,” she said. “I trust you.”

“But I don’t want to live here alone. If I want to spend my days with anyone, it’s with you.”

“I… I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to say anything now. I just told you so that you know where I stand.”

She said nothing. Although he couldn’t see her face, he could feel her hand getting damp in his grasp, could feel the hints of nervous trembling and excitement. It said more than her face or her words ever could.

“And if you change your mind at any point… If Sebastian ever writes back,” he said with a light smirk, “then you are free to leave. And, of course, to return.”

He knew what she was thinking. Sebastian would only get in touch with her when he wanted something — that’s what he always did. And by leaving the door open for her to return, Ominis already placed into her mind the inevitability that, should Sebastian show interest in her again, it would not be long-lived…

His fingers squeezed her hand.

“Let’s go have lunch,” he smiled, pulling her with him toward the veranda.

She followed with a light step and a tight, warm grip.

[althea-and-alcestris]

Origins

Imagine an AU where Althea is reborn as Silver's twin sister (biologically) after Alcestris dies as a nearly sick twist of fate (being reborn as the child of your enemy). She too put under the sleeping spell by the fairies, slumbering away along with her brother for 200 years and waiting for someone to love them until the retired General comes by the thorn infested and abandoned castle. Lilia's presence immediately awakens the twin babies from their 'blessing' because there is finally someone who can love them unconditionally after their parents perished in war. He gives his blessing to them, naming them Silver and Althea. Silver's blond hair changes to silver but Thea's hair remains the same ashy blonde..instead it's her right eye that changes. From the soft hazel brown that her left eye is like it becomes a fiery crimson red which hits Lilia too close to home. She looks just like the young half-fae that was so brutally murdered by the humans..but this child is not to blame and neither is Silver.

He raises them in the little cottage near the Zigvolt residence and often visited by Malleus, the twins both wanting to be knights along with little Sebek and so Lilia trains all three of them. Even though the little girl wants to wield a sword as well, she's always playing the role of the princess that the two boys need to save. Silver has the ability to attract small woodland creatures or even one as big as a bear, Althea on the other hand was gifted with a voice so heavenly some might even say it can do wonders.

The envelope of invitation from Night Raven arrives to Silver, meaning he can enroll into the college but Thea is upset about her brother leaving, refusing to accept being left alone in the cottage or in the care of the Zigvolt family so Lilia somehow manages to convince Crowley to let her enroll as well (because he is so kind as we know). Sorted into Diasomnia just like her father, twin brother, older brother figure and later her childhood friend (and crush(?)) .

Despite Silver having a sleeping curse that makes him doze off randomly throughout the day, Thea has the opposite. She's very much an insomniac, having trouble falling asleep even at night. Lilia also couldn't find a cure to this just he couldn't to Silver's condition.

Ashe (Yuu) shows up in the Opening Ceremony of their second year in NRC as the magicless human from another world. Thea quickly befriends the little outsider, making them best friends and her also helping them battle the Overblot incidents. But as time passes she begins to dream about a strange girl in green armor that looks very similar to herself and a man with long blond hair and silver armor. She can't put her finger on who either of them are but she feels that she's supposed to know.

Then inevitably come the time when Lilia announces he will be dropping out of college and move to a far away country because he's losing his magic, ultimately leaving his kids behind which leaves both Silver and Thea upset. This leads to Malleus's Overblot and the nightmare begins (get it?), him putting everyone on the island to sleep. Silver uses his Signature Spell to travel into Lilia's dream along with Sebek, Ashe, Grim and Thea. There they will unravel all the secrets and truth that has been kept hidden from them by the elders.

Silver and Thea discover their true origins, finding out their real parents being the enemy of the faes and thus General Lilia and Thea recognizes Knight of Dawn as the man who always showed up in her dreams. Thea however is hit with a bonus set of bricks. Discovering that she had a past life..as the half-fae girl that she also used to dream about. She finds out what happened to her and the truth is as painful as it gets. Alcestris was murdered by the Men of Steel, more specifically King Hendrick who is non-other than her and Silver's uncle. And she right now is the reincarnation of that unfortunate half-fae soldier, reborn as the child of the enemy who are the reason of her death in the first place. She's just as distraught as Silver is about their origins but Sebek and Ashe are there to pull both of them out of the darkest pit of their life. Life moves on and they're not to blame for the actions of their ancestors, they're still worthy of love..

[serenescribe]

Hmmmm... obviously, discard if you don't want to write this BUT—

Lilia has a surprise for Silver. Usually, he goes on travels ALONE, right? Well, not this time!

Beach time? Snow mountains? Whichever, or you can choose your travel location. Silver will enjoy spending time with his father no matter where they go.

Initially, when Silver heard Lilia was leaving, he was like sad, but determined to wish Lilia safe travels. He goes about his day, although pouting and being much more downtrodden than usual, so much so that Lilia notices. He finds out why, and laughs, saying that Silver was invited to join him this time if he wanted.

Idk if writing some snippets from the actual trip would be too long, so just do you on that part. But, it'd be cute to see Silver's reaction to hearing about where they're going!

💙

[✐] ficlet frenzy

The rumbling of the train tracks lulls into a lullaby, a distant melody that sways his son to sleep.

Lilia cannot help but smile as he feels a head press against his shoulder, a pressure that dips against his limb. To his side, Silver slumbers, eyes pressed close, mouth parting the slightest bit. Today, he is dressed for comfort, clothed in a thick, fluffy sweater and simple slacks, soft clothes that are perfect for a long journey. Lilia, too, is dressed similarly; he dons a matching sweater, except Silver’s is blue where his is pink.

Beyond Silver are glass panes that reveal an ever-changing landscape outside, swathed with hilly uplands, flower-filled meadows, and thick pine forests that cluster together. The Queendom of Roses, with a geography so different from that of Briar Valley. While there are certain overlapping similarities, such as the abundance of woodland rooted across the land, there are enough differences that every day is enough of an adventure for the two of them to explore.

And what an adventure it has been! Everytime Lilia reminisces over their travels thus far, he silently admonishes his past self for being so foolish as to never bring Silver on a trip with him. Oh, how much more lively those days would have been, if he had simply been travelling with his son! There has been no greater joy thus far than to see the blatant delight plastered so openly on Silver’s face whenever they arrive at yet another city or town, head twisting left and right as he takes in all the stunning architecture.

Lilia isn’t ashamed to admit that a good chunk of his luggage is filled with gifts for Silver, cheerfully buying whatever catches his son’s fancy. What else is he to do, when Silver continuously handicaps himself from things he so clearly wants to purchase?

Even now, he still remembers the surprise that struck Silver’s face when Lilia had sprung the trip on him. Lilia had been planning it for a good while: he’d made a show out of preparing to go on yet another lengthy travel in-between his third and fourth year at Night Raven College, excitedly chattering to Silver about all the sights he was looking forward to seeing. Lilia smirks at the remembrance; it had been so amusing to observe how dejected Silver had been, knowing what was in store for him.

And when the day of the trip arrived, and Lilia sprung another ticket and an already-packed suitcase onto Silver?

“I was thinking… It would be awfully lonely to go on such a long trip by myself, hm? So what do you say to joining me, dear? …Khee hee hee, surprise! …Oh, you look as though you’re about to faint!”

Bit by bit, the train begins to slow down until at last, it slides to a stop. There’s the distant whistling of the train accompanying it, and as the doors slide open, footsteps echo through the cabin, of passengers embarking and departing, gathering up their bags and luggages as they come and go.

Next to him, Silver begins to stir. He blinks open his eyes, lifting his head to stare at Lilia blearily before he mumbles, “Wha…?”

“It’s not our stop yet,” Lilia assures him with a smile. He shuffles a little closer, wraps his arm around Silver to pull him into a half-embrace. “Rest for a little while longer, dear. Do not fear, I shall wake you before we arrive!”

There’s still plenty left on their itinerary before their flight back to the harbour, and their subsequent boat trip back to the valley. Silver still wants to show him Deuce Spade’s hometown — Clock Town, if Lilia recalls the name correctly — and there’s still a couple of other places they have yet to visit. But for once, they have plenty of time.

As the train whistle blares again, and the rattling of the wheels against the tracks engulfs the air once more, Lilia leans back into the plush cushion of the booth seat, and smiles.

[seneitut]

“Love”

PT (1) PT (2) 

[Yoru/Reader] [Omen/Reader]

Words: 2.5K

Warnings: Mentions of murder, obsession of sorts, suggestive sexual encounters, yandere-ish(?)

How do they show their love? [Is it the epitome of extreme, or just dumb fools?]

Yoru: Act. 

For him, words mean nothing if the actions don't back them up immediately; whether be in friendships or his intimate life—to which he shouldn't worry at all since he has none—, he won't heed to promises nor apologies if those are not fulfilled accordingly.

This fact never changed, strengthening with time and polishing it through everything surrounding him despite clashing wildly with the rest. Deaf to complaints and blind to dirty stares, he continues to strive forward in life ignoring them; because if not even the first light made him change his mind, neither will the people who came after the disaster.

Even when he found himself falling in love, Yoru's morals and beliefs never warped nor misguided. 

Odd, in everyone's eyes. Meant to be yours, in his.

The loner wolf got someone to like him and tame his wild heart by simple actions, little by little, until Yoru stopped being the radiant with powerful abilities, to introduce himself to you as Ryo; a normal japanese man who enjoys the smells of coffee and reminisce the old times with a heavy heart.

You were completely fooled by his web of lies to keep you away from the mess his life is, to keep you on your toes whenever he desired to share bits of his past and made you feel like the only person special in his world; which is true, despite the many wrongs he's done, you are truly what he could consider his special someone and his treasure.

As the ways you managed to have him wrapped around your finger, Yoru didn't even know he was capable of trusting something so important and delicate as his heart to a stranger of sorts, blinding following what his emotions dictate and what your sweet words enchant him to do.

He was in love, completely and utterly head over heels for you it was almost ridiculous. Yoru would eat every word you’d have to say, watch your fingers work around your station, making his favorite beverage for the day while glancing his way every now and then. He would stay some days, where work was not important and you seemed thrilled to have him around, lounging in the coffee shop and watching you work with a gentle smile gracing his features.

For when the night falls, he would kiss every inch of your body that you allow him to reach and worship you as if you were a god, his god; preaching, marking and claiming you as his.

Every touch, every bite mark, everytime you gasp for air when he drowns himself into your body, taking and taking in tandem what you offer in a silver plate; he cannot get enough, going for it one at a time until he has you shattering with pleasure and he chases after you to join you, that’s how ridiculous this whole thing is.

Phoenix and Jett are the few who were witness to his affections towards another and made it out alive after being found out spying on the japanese man.

To say you saved them from the wrath of Yoru's anger despite the other having all the reasons to explode on them would be an understatement; they are more than thankful, if not curious about your history with the riftwalker and what it meant to have a partner outside his profession.

It was dangerous, in truth, to have his personal life disclosed this easily to everyone who was his comrade in battle; nothing good would come out of it and his lies would be found out if you were to interact further with them.

But at the end, he realized it could favor him immensely if the others knew, except for you.

Yoru is not someone who can trust others easily, as previously stated. Quite the opposite, through his tough persona, he evades people all the time to avoid being seen or cornered to socialize; insulting and pushing away whoever wants to approach him even from a friendly stance.

But when you entered his life, he knew he wouldn't be able to protect you alone, hence the lies, so he decided the best course of action would be roping up a few other members to ensure your safety, as dangerous as it might sound.

Cypher would be sure to erase every trace of your existence or interactions with the riftwalker after every meeting, all at the high cost of a price he won't disclose by contract with the Moroccan man. He is not proud of what he owes Cypher now, but to know you're well secured and protected, he would do it again and again.

He contacted Killjoy to hack into the system to find any correlation of your social circle to whoever worked or is currently working for Kingdom. Once the list was delivered into his hands, Yoru would make sure everyone on the list would be erased from existence, not a single soul would be able to escape him.

By what methods? That's for him to take to the grave, no witnesses.

You are his world, you are his everything, and he will make sure you are safe and sound or else hell will rise. 

Omen: Words.

The concentration poured into keeping himself together could be arguably the best quality he could offer. 

Not everyone can pride themselves about the determination of keeping oneself alive for longer than nature intended; since his due time was past the date and he’s now going against every little law of the universe, he wonders if this was some sort of punishment. 

He’s never asked to be revived into…a monster, despite having many people arguing that whatever he is now, is better than being dead.

A foolish thought.

Omen can definitely be naming the many reasons as to why it is not a miracle, but a penitence for his past mistakes when he was alive. Atoning for his sins in the form of smokes and dirty armor, from broken flesh and ignited bones, it pains him deeply being alive and despises whoever treats his hurt as if it were nothing.

Being reborn as a new being shifts something on his brain, unintentionally, whereas anyone who looks his way will treat him the way he looks: like a monster.

Is inevitable, really, a course of action not even he has the power to stop nor change. He goes along with whatever happens in his surroundings now, letting the flow of energies guide him to where he currently is at and accustomed to his comrades attitudes.

He is more than aware of their dirty looks and general avoidance whenever he is in the vicinity, oblivious of his capability of sensing emotions through wavelengths or the fact that he is witness to their change in demeanour— they know how to keep it professional enough so disturbances don't take place.

That is how his days go by, used to it, used to being an unsightly view and detriment to the morale of his comrades with his unsettling voice and mannerism. His turmoil means nothing if the rest is content with not having him around; so he absconds, hides himself most of the time and pretends he isn't alive for their sake.

There is nothing new in his everyday life.

Or so he thinks, before his curse tides the wave in his favor.

Imagine his surprise the first time someone didn't react negatively with his presence. 

It threw him off, confusion overtaking him and assuming he just read the cues wrong. It surprised him  more when you didn't react at all until he spoke out loud, scaring the living shit out of you.

When you looked at him, or more specifically, where you thought he was, Omen supposed this would go different.

Not being a sociable person, Omen finds it odd on him to have been convinced to come to Harajuku for materials he needed. Some of his knitting kits have gone missing, and trying to go by undetected and to not bother his comrades, he never spoke about the issue.

Yoru made some reassurance, in his own way, that no one would mind the way he looks since everyone there was already a freak. Omen didn't refute his saying, since his words had truth in there, despite feeling offended. 

“They won't even notice you at night,” he commented.

No fear, no screams, not even a glance nor terrified expression painting your features besides being startled; that's how your first meeting went: only a smile and the pleasure to assist him.

Kind and lovely, adjectives Omen would never think of being used in his vocabulary, but for this occasion, it was necessary, a must to describe you. Amusing, too, whenever he would ask you questions about certain things, voice deep and reverberating it sent shivers down your spine, it made you nervous.

One more worker, just like him, but missing a certain ability most had.

You were blind.

For better or worse, it doesn't change your way of treating him like a human being; despite him losing his humanity over and over again on the battlefield, taking life after another, you treat him with a kindness and warmness that he has forgotten long ago. 

You are quick to erase the awful thoughts running through his brain with little chats and adorable clumsiness, chasing after him at the shop to keep talking. It was flattering that someone was taking an interest in him this deeply, and inevitably, he finds himself chasing after you too.

Omen believes this is how liking someone feels, contrary to his initial thoughts on socializing, he finds it fulfilling and easy to navigate on with you with this newfound feeling.

His one time visit becomes a recurrent, always looking for you and ignoring everyone else in your surroundings to goad you into full attention and pretty smiles. Even when people visit the shop, even when people comment on his overall look with disgusted faces, one word from you eases his tension and doubts.

You are a sweetheart to a fault, letting everyone walk on you because of your calm demeanor and shy complex under stressful situations. He would watch people talk behind your back within your presence, ignoring completely the crestfallen expression on your face or the gathering tears in your eyes when you think he’s not there or no one notices.

They belittle you, doubt your work and decision making because of your lack of vision.

They doubt him too, for his appearance, he doesn’t know for sure. But their words begin to target him as well, stronger than before, with the full intention of seeing him fall and break under the pressure of the masses and therefore, you would fall too.

Omen decides he wants them gone.

Aim is another quality of his, you know?

A little secret whispered in your ear one night. With a promise to return and barrel of the gun cold, he goes off into the dark and blends in within the shadows surrounding the city to fulfill his wishes.

Whatever he does outside the sliding doors of the little shop should be none of your concern, but his alone. If you hear crying, muffled sounds at the end of the street, or just the minimum rustle at the entrance, he’s warned you to not chase after it.

Being covered in dry blood is not a pretty sight, and he wonders then, watching the life fading from another monster who dared disrespect you, if you would accept it for who he really is.

So when he reaches the threshold in the shop, startling you and freezing on the spot, he asks you if you would ever consider loving someone who doesn't belong in this world anymore.

When you kiss for the first time, Omen doesn't think, he can't, too overwhelmed to process what's going on.

Is odd, but somehow, warming. Your face is warm with how embarrassed and nervous you feel, lips reaching into thin air, but at the same time, colliding against a surface you believe could be his mouth.

Your hands hold his head in place through the fabric of his hood, and he can feel your thumbs rubbing softly against what could be considered his cheeks in a soothing motion when you press further and then back away, smiling softly at him.

There are no words to say, it's unnecessary at this moment when the question has been answered.

Omen caresses your face with his claws, and he feels you shiver and sigh, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. 

Leaning in, he decides to take what he wants from you, and you gladly let him have his way with you, whispering his name the moment his hands disappear under your clothes and air embraces your whole body.

Inside the closed shop, no one is witness of the way Omen loves you that night, with his whole being and emotions only he dreamed of being real and is now a reality.