#though it kind of is because it does have art in it

[room-surprise]

Are we 100% certain this was a typo (mistake) and not a retcon/change/improvement/whatever you want to call it?

The only reason I ask is that we know Kui sometimes makes art changes after the initial publication, so there's no reason to assume she'd never make a writing change, unless the publisher or Kui specifically said this was 100% an error. Is it a matter of the Japanese text missing a single stroke that turns rancher into ranch cow, and the wrong character getting printed? Or was it a change of wording to improve the joke?

(And if it was definitely 100% a printing error, feel free to ignore my speculation below lmao.) Laios wanting to be a cow seems to be the thing Chilchuck is THINKING he'll say, since this is in the context of Laios dressing up as a calf so he can milk a minotaur by tricking it into thinking he's a suckling calf.

There are two different punchlines here, and both make logical sense and are funny, but maybe Kui thought the second one was funnier and wanted to change it? Or maybe Kui felt the original punchline gave away too much about Laios' deep desire to not be human? (Dissecting the different punchlines after the cut)

First punchline: Laios says he wanted to be a ranch cow, which is the kind of thing Chilchuck thought he'd say, and is explicitly a weird and creepy thing for Laios to want, since the actual life of a cow or bull on a ranch is full of things that most humans would consider violating, dehumanizing and traumatic if they had to constantly endure them.

But considering other things we know about Laios' character, though this is strange, it's not necessarily out of character. He very well could have had a fantasy about being an animal he admires, being treated like an animal instead of a person, and being desired, used, and ultimately eaten by others. Second punchline: Chilchuck THINKS Laios is going to say he wanted to be a cow, but then Laios says something surprisingly normal... But then there's an additional level of humor, because what part of "dressing up as a cow and pretending to suckle" reminded Laios of "being a rancher"? Kui makes it clear that the part of the experience Laios likes is being cradled to the minotaur's chest like a baby. Does Laios think normal ranchers do that? And obviously that is inherently funny.

it IS possible that his dream was to be a *minotaur* rancher specifically because of the cow costume/suckling thing... But that would require him to have already known about how minotaurs are milked in the past, which I don't think he did.

Of course, ultimately none of this matters, but it's fun to think about 😊

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [epilogue]

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader. 4.9k words cw: none.

you try to move on.

Eight months later

Time is a river. 

That’s what your sponsor Brian had told you, when you went up to receive your six-month chip. A navy plastic coin, unremarkable, special in its own way.

Y’just gotta let the current take you. 

Poetic old Irishman that he is. Seen worse things than you. You’re not sure why you always find it helpful, grounding, to hear him talk about his experiences during the Gulf War. Plane shot out of the sky. Parachuted directly into enemy-controlled territory. A prisoner of war for three weeks, only liberated once the war had already been won. Wears the scars of it; a missing eye, doughy skin graft on his cheek, a pillowy stub where his hand should be. 

Told you he got into heroin pretty quickly after coming back home. Said he couldn’t look at anyone the same. Couldn’t stay in touch with his brothers-in-arms. Couldn’t stand the dark. Didn’t take him long to replace food, water, air, with a needle in his arm. Felt a lot better back then, he said. 

But using is like holding stones underwater, he told you. Keeps you stuck to the riverbed till y’drown. 

He’s been sober for twenty years. Almost twenty-one. Said he offered to sponsor you because he said he saw himself in you. 

You couldn’t tell him anything about your own experiences when you spoke to him at your Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Tongue legally tied by what was essentially an NDA and persistent government surveillance. Forbidden to utter a word of what had been a special operations mission of the utmost confidentiality. A failed mission, at that. 

He saw it in you, though. That blackness in the back of your eyes. Understood without you needing to share it. 

You wouldn’t have wanted to share it, anyway. 

That was Mia’s life. 

Now, you’re Amelia. 

Amelia Frances Day. Printed on your new birth certificate, on your driver’s license, on your shiny new passport. A photo of you with your new haircut in the corner. Born in Leeds, it says, only child to Harry and Phillipa Day. Both tragically dead, of course, according to your manufactured origin story. Died in a car accident when you were a teenager, so you’re spared putting on the show of mourning imaginary people. 

Captain Jonathan had decided your vaguely northern accent was weak enough to say you had been raised in Newcastle. Told you that London got hit the worst, and half the city is cordoned off by plastic tents and caution tape. Better to plant you somewhere reasonably intact. 

He had asked you what you wanted your degree to be, when he had you in a boxy little office with him at Brize Norton, a week after you stepped off the helicopter. 

It was surreal, you remember, sitting in that room with him. The Captain. In a cushioned chair, across the table from him; unrestrained by zip cuffs, with the door unlocked, and a window cracked open to let in the cold air of late winter. He was stiff as a board, then, only spoke with a bone-straight back and through gritting teeth. Nothing like the unctuous suave he put on when you first met him, or when he held that revolver to your head. He sat upright in his chair, laptop and a notepad open on the table, manila folders and documents scattered across it. 

Psychology, you had suggested. Bachelor of Arts. The kind of unremarkable graduate degree that can slot in anywhere. That people don’t ask about. Helped that you sat through two years of lectures before you had dropped out — lends a bit of believability to your story. 

“Does Amelia have any hobbies?” He had asked you, impassively, but you could hear the solemnity in his throat. 

You had to think about it for a while before you could answer him. There was something forlorn in his expression that gave you the impression he was self-flagellating by asking it. Wanted to know how human you were as punishment for how he had treated you as less than. 

“She likes to draw,” you had told him, mumbled it, staring vacantly at the six-day-old bruises on your legs. “She likes to read, too. Um… I can’t remember what else she likes.” 

So he got you a library card. New health records. Clean criminal record, of course. Amelia hasn’t committed any crimes. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket. 

You remember how his face dropped when you told him your real name. You weren’t sure what compelled you to share it, that Mia Zakhaev was as manufactured and artificial as Amelia Day. Perhaps you wanted him to shoulder the guilt that came with being forced to acknowledge that you were never the enemy. Some part of you found it satisfying, watching him fidget in your company, avoiding eye contact or speaking more than three words at a time — evidence, you thought, that he understood how he had wronged you. 

He had wrapped up the meeting, then. Scooped up all his papers and folders, shut his laptop with a thunk. 

You asked about Simon before he left the room. 

He only let out a terse breath and looked at his boots, before telling you that you’d get all your documents when you were cleared to leave the airbase. Left the subject at that, before he slipped out of the door and left it ajar behind him. 

Simon died that day, you’re certain. 

You haven’t heard anything otherwise in the eight months since. Not even from Kyle, your assigned custodian, despite how frequently you asked him in your first few months of confidential protection. 

Let’s talk about you, he’d say, to change the subject. Or he’d robotically tell you, I’m really sorry, you know I can’t talk about that. 

He’d come over every fortnight or so, at first, when you had been holed up in your safehouse in the city centre, a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Your new ‘apartment’, so they called it, repurposed to look like a young woman had been living there. He always told you he was visiting just to check on you, make sure you were settling in okay. You believed it for a while, when he’d come over for some takeaways, or to watch a movie, just to keep you company. 

He was surveilling you, though. You could read it in the glimmer of shame in his doe-like eyes. Forced to ensure you continued to act in the Nation’s best interest. 

You aren’t allowed to leave the country, of course. Aren’t allowed to travel too far without informing them. Aren’t allowed to disappear or to talk to anybody untoward. 

Standard practice, they had informed you, to keep an eye on foreign informants. That’s what they had designated you as — an informant. Explained that it was for your safety and theirs; you might retain your foreign connections, after all. Might share secrets with the Russians you had been unwillingly allied with. 

They gave you a compensatory pension, at least. Hearty payments of a few thousand a month, and a decent one-off payout as ‘reimbursement’ for the damage they had done. For the scars they left. Hush money, obviously, but you took it willingly. 

You sold your wedding ring, too. The one Mia’s husband had proposed with. A pillow-cut pink diamond, four carats, encircled by twelve Burmese pigeon-blood rubies. Prong-set, white gold band. You traded it with a jewellery dealer for two-hundred grand. The only good thing Victor ever did for you, even if it was pocket change compared to the size of his wallet. 

There’s not much you can do with that money, though. Not yet. They gave you an amorphous timeline, all but telling you that someday you’ll be allowed totally free movement, if and when they deem you trustworthy enough. There’s no spending it on travelling, on a house, on an apartment in the meantime.  

The one benefit, though, is that it means you are spared the need to find a job. One day you’ll need one, you’re sure, but you’re not ready yet. Not ready for interviews, for background checks, for probing questions about the gap in your employment history.

You’ve picked up volunteering, instead. 

Took you a while to gather the strength to leave the house, of course. A month or two before your agoraphobia abated and you were able to venture out onto the street. Even longer before you could go anywhere crawling with people — not to say anywhere was busy anymore. People kept indoors even still, just in case. 

But after a couple of months of NA meetings and military-funded counselling, you were handed a UNICEF pamphlet. Information about volunteering at make-shift ‘childcare centres’. A gentler word for the last-minute orphanages set up to house swathes of children left parentless after the attacks on Eleven-One. 

Black Thursday, they call it. 

Makes your teeth saw together every time you hear it. And it’s everywhere. 

It’s on the news, on the radio, on your phone. Plastered on street posters. Billboards. Trauma support services advertised on the sides of the arsenal of buses they eventually sent out to replace the underground Metro, now that the entire subway system is a red zone, still contaminated by the sticky nerve agent that had coated every surface and still lingers in the air down there. 

Two bombs went off in Newcastle. Twenty-one in London. Three-hundred odd had been triggered all over Europe. Casualties in the tens of thousands, and counting. Never a specific number, always, tens of thousands. 

Kyle had told you, against instruction, that there had been thousands of bombs, planted even further afield than Europe. Waiting for the ping that would set them off at the right time of day to maximise the number of casualties. 

Simon had prevented that. He inputted the code that terminated the sequence, while knowing that doing so would kill him.

There was no heroic send-off for him. His name wasn’t in the press, wasn’t even whispered at the military bases you were tossed between for two weeks after you were sent home. No medals or commendation or praise for an act that prevented the deaths of hundreds of thousands of others. 

At first the guilt was blinding. 

All-consuming. Pumped like lead through your blood, gritty and black, leaving little sores in the ventricles of your heart. For a while you thought you mightn’t be able to live with it — bearing the knowledge that every casualty whose name was carved into the public memorial had died because of a button that you pressed.

Seemed that part wasn’t common knowledge, though. Somebody had kept that secret for you. As far as the world was aware, some Soviet extremist was the one to have set off the sequence of explosives. The simple explanation. A terrorist enacting terrorism.  

Your counsellor believed your guilt to rest on the fact that you had married the man to orchestrate it. That you played a part in some non-literal, ignorant-but-obliging way. It made it even harder to overcome, because her method of comforting you was to tell you ad nauseum that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. 

Her advice was still beneficial, at least. Could be extended to your less forgivable circumstances. 

She told you to help people. To make a tangible difference. That doing so would alleviate even a portion of the guilt that weighed on you. 

You’re approaching your fifth month of volunteering at CRSC Newcastle. Children’s Refuge and Support Centres, they call them — a whole network of them, fifteen-odd foster centres across the UK, all set up in under-used community centres or schools. Your fake bachelor’s degree certainly aided in getting you a role there, but it helped that they were and continue to be desperate for any support they can get. 

You work the later shifts. Wednesday through Sunday, one p.m. to nine p.m. Mainly with the younger kids, too. Three to five. A relief, because any older and they’d have questions. They’d have the vocabulary to ask why their parents are dead. To talk about how sad they are, how much they miss them, how much they hate the people responsible for killing them. 

You’re not a licensed educator or a counsellor, nor do you get paid, so they call you a supporter. You’ve got a name badge for it, too.

Amelia. CRSC Supporter.

You clip it to your cerulean UNICEF t-shirt as the last step of getting ready for your shift. 

Hair in a claw clip, no earrings, nails unpainted. Legs unshaven. Jeans. Adidas sneakers. A spritz of perfume you bought on special at TK Maxx. 

You felt stupid for missing it while you were stuck in your mansions, but you did. Normalcy. No need to perform, to consistently be stripped and scrubbed and ready for eyes and hands at any given moment. No need to cover yourself in ostentatious displays of wealth just to avoid ire from the moguls around you. 

Amelia has the same sense of style as Bridget Jones. She doesn’t need to try too hard, because she’s not a billionaire’s tormented wife, she’s just Amelia. Amelia from Leeds. 

Seems the weather is finally turning after a week straight of sunshine, as fat raindrops begin to patter on the window to your bedroom. For the best, you have a crisping-up sunburn on your nose and cheeks from when you took the kids to Ouseburn Farm on Wednesday. Still warm, though, a little under twenty celsius, so you only pull on your burgundy Primark rainjacket, and you bring your brolly with you as you head out the door. 

The refuge is a fifteen minute walk from your military-issued apartment, and it’s a pleasant one, for the most part. Once you get off the busiest roads, anyway, and the streets go from being littered with shops to being lined with suburban terraces and big old trees. Leaves all on the cusp of yellow as autumn looms in the coming few weeks. 

Saoirse, one of the licensed counsellors, is out the front of the old brick community centre when you arrive. Arm around one of the older kids as they sit on the steps together. She gives you a quick smile as you walk past with a little wave, occupied, but you can catch up with her after bedtime. 

It’s Friday, so the kids are still in preschool by the time you arrive, and there’s nobody at reception. You pour yourself a tea in the break room behind the front desk in the meantime. 

Even after eight months, you still think of him at the first sip. 

I drink tea. You remember how his grumbly old voice sounded when he said it. Mourn that you never got to know what kind of tea he preferred. Whether he took it with sugar. He seemed like an Earl Grey type, you thought. 

Stupid to reminisce on such a thing, and you shake off the thought like a wet dog when you do. It’s a vice, you’ve found, reflecting on your brief and harrowing time with him through such rosy lenses. 

“Oh — Meals,” comes a woman’s voice, and you turn to spot Josie, one of the early childhood teachers who tends to stick around long after her classes. Gave you that nickname within a week, because apparently she has a cousin called Amelia who goes by Meals. “Quick warning — Daniel’s got an upset tummy. So… might be some clean up later.” 

“Lovely,” you reply through a smirk. “What’d they have for lunch?” 

“Ham sandwiches,” Josie says. 

“He probably ate some dirt again, then,” you remark, and she giggles. 

“Wouldn’t put it past him. Filthy little animals, the lot of them,” she snorts. “It was all maths and spelling today — you should let them have a play around in the art room for a while.” 

“Good idea,” you nod. 

Art time is your favourite after-school activity to monitor. Something soul-healing, you think, watching children express themselves creatively, unbounded by instruction or time limits. There’s so much stuff in there, too — acrylic paints, crayons, coloured pencils, glitter glue. Big sheets of brightly coloured paper and a bucket of toddler-safe scissors. Stickers, pipe cleaners, googly-eyes. All of the supplies funded by community donations, a fact heartwarming in itself.  

So once the preschool kids finish their classes and eat their cheese and crackers, you turn them loose like piglets in a pen. 

Your only job is to keep them company. Guide them when they ask for help, praise them for their drawings, take them to the toilet when they need it. 

It was extremely distressing, at first, when the kids would show you crayon drawings of their late parents, or when they smeared red and orange paint on a piece of paper and told you it was a painting of the Metro bomb. You’d have to leave the room quite often, then, and Saoirse was a huge help to you. 

She doesn’t know anything, of course, she only thought your grief stemmed from overwhelming sympathy. Still, she was a shoulder. Told you that it would only take time, and soon the children would return to their happiest little selves, and you’d get to hold their hands through it. 

She was right. Now you most often get drawings of rainbows with a blue stripe as the sky above and a green stripe as the ground below. You get given little creatures made of pompoms and glue and googly eyes and are told you have to feed them glitter or they’ll get hungry. You get to tell Lila she looks beautiful when she asks you if you like her makeup and shows you all the stickers she put on her face. 

They get about two hours of free time before you get their attention with the five-clap call and tell them it’s time for dinner. A few whinges later and they file into the cafeteria, where the donation-funded catering company feeds them roast chicken with peas and mashed potatoes. 

Your shift aligns with Kate’s around dinnertime, because she looks after the kids older than nine — your favourite person to talk to, because she talks so much that you don’t have to think. 

“Yeah, and you won’t believe the kind of shit he said,” she prattles on, under breath, so the kids don’t hear the content of her conversation. “He was all like — wow, babe, you’ve got such a cute arsehole. Like, what does that even mean? Cute arsehole? I mean I’ll take the compliment, but then I was thinking — how many arseholes must he be looking at to be able to distinguish a cute one?” 

You can’t help but snort loudly at that, quickly covering your mouth when one of the children turns over his shoulder to squint at you. Taxes, Kate tells him, when he asks what’s so funny. 

After all the kids have their pudding and their bathtime, they get to pick their Friday night movie. Cars 2 is the most popular choice, because they watched the first one last week. You sit with Kate at the very back of the telly room, behind where the pack of children sit cross-legged on the carpet. She continues to whisper details about her dating life in your ear, and you are spared from thinking about yourself or your situation or your failings for even a second. 

Until she says; “What about you? Surely you’re seeing someone.” 

Your chest tightens up when she asks it, and you suddenly get stage fright as you scramble for what to tell her. Amelia doesn’t have baggage, after all — not the kind of baggage Mia did, anyway. 

“No, I’m — I’m taking a break from men for a while,” you settle for, vague enough to avoid probing but close enough to the truth that she won’t offer to take you on a double date or something equally as horrific. 

“Ah,” she hums, with a nod. “Understandable. Getting over someone?” 

You inadvertently let out a sigh. “Guess so.” 

She raises her eyebrows. “Who—”

Miraculously interrupted by a four-year-old who waddles over to where you sit. “Miss Goodwin, um, I need to use the toilet.” 

Kate all but groans at that. “You just went, Charlie!” She chides in a whisper, before immediately relenting and holding the wee girl’s hand. “Alright, c’mon.” 

They slip out of the room and you’re spared the rest of the conversation. 

Seven o’clock is bed time, but most of them wind up actually in bed closer to half past, after all their fussing and requests for more pudding and but I’m not tired-ing. There’s no falling asleep until eight, because what was once a temporary shelter has now become permanent, yet still only has the capacity for ten-bed bunking rooms. You shush some giggling and tuck in some blankets, and finally, by ten-past-eight, the kids are down for the night. 

There’s a window of time before the end of every shift where you can chat with the other staff all at once, settled down in the break room for some post-sunset tea once the night-time custodians take over the childcare. 

You tune in and out of the conversation like you’re fiddling with the dial of a radio, either staring vacantly into the table as you sip your tea or making eye-contact and nodding attentively. 

“Wait, you’re still going on that date?” Josie asks Kate incredulously, head cocked back in shock. “I thought you said he was a freak?” 

Kate gives her an impish smile. “I did.” 

“You’re foul,” Saoirse snickers. “Far less salaciously, I’ve got my sister’s baby shower tomorrow.” 

“Oh my god!” Josie gawks. “That’s so sweet — I forgot. She must be well along now, does she know if it’s a boy or a girl?” 

“No,” Saoirse murmurs with an eye-roll. “They want it to be a surprise. I keep telling her, I’m the aunt, at least I should get to know!” 

Kate tuts. “That’s gonna be a big argument when it pops,” she says. “Who wants to be fighting about a name when you’re bleeding everywhere and pissing yourself? Not me.” 

“Good thing you aren’t having babies any time soon then, Kate,” Josie teases, chuckling. 

“Ever,” Kate adds facetiously, signing a cross over her chest. “These ones are plenty.”

“Ugh, you guys have interesting things going on. I’m so boring,” Josie moans, taking a sip of her tea. “You doing anything tonight, Meals?” 

Your eyes flick up from where you fiddled with the label of your teabag. “Oh, um,” you think aloud, because you hadn’t even considered it yet. “Nah. I’m boring too. Might stick around and tidy up the art room, though, it’s a sty in there.” 

“Gonna have to start hiding the paint,” Saoirse comments amusedly, “It’s all down the hallway. I even found some on a toilet seat. How do they even spread the mess that far?” 

You giggle. “I had to stop Will from drinking it today. He got as far as taking the pump out. Got bright pink all over his shirt.” 

“That solves it,” Saoirse laughs. “The paint in the toilet was pink.” 

“Such goblins,” Kate smiles. 

Kate leaves the moment she finishes her tea, hurrying off to get ready for her date, so she calls it — which gives you an excuse to slip out of the break room. Allow your social battery a chance to recharge before you implode. 

Your prescribed counsellor reminds you frequently of the need for socialising. Tells you that solitude is the recipe for spiraling. That a return to regularity is a cure-all. She hasn’t yet been proven completely wrong, but your ability to feign contentment isn’t as honed as it used to be. 

Strange, you’re aware, perhaps unjustified, given the starkly different circumstances you now find yourself in. But a mask is hard to hold up, regardless of who you are showing it to. 

You just hold onto the hope that someday, years, decades from now, expressing joy won’t feel like a performance. Such a dream was lost to Mia, but maybe Amelia will be the one to find it. 

It’s not uncommon for you to stick around at the refuge for much longer than your shift requires. Maybe out of some degree of obligation, indebtedness, making up for your wrongs. Maybe to avoid going home alone to your safehouse. 

In truth, though, you enjoy being alone. 

No mask needed, then. No performance. No need to worry about who might be watching. In solitude you can unfurl, because there’s nobody else alive you can be yourself around. Nobody whose company doesn’t feel like a collar. 

You spend the next quarter hour alone in the art room, tacking new drawings to the pinboard. You can never bring yourself to take the old ones down, so you just find spaces in between them, or layer the new ones carefully so that the old ones still peek through. Flowers and sunshine atop missing parents and rain. No good pretending the old ones don’t exist, you think to yourself. 

You hear some fuzzy conversation down the hallway as you’re washing paint off the palettes in the sink, getting a decent smearing of myriad colours on your skin and clothes in so doing. Perhaps one of the kids snuck out of bed.

You shut off the running water to listen, though, and you stand in the silence, broken up by water dripping from the faucet. 

“Sorry, who?” You recognise that voice as Saoirse, that twinge of grouch she puts on when displeased. 

“She’s a volunteer.”

A man’s voice. 

Deep. Rumbles through the walls like an idle engine. 

“Oh — you mean Amelia?” Saoirse asks, knife-sharp edge in her voice. “She’s, she’s in the art room, but she’s busy. I’ll let her know you came by?” 

“Where’s the art room.” 

There’s no give in his tone. No room for debate, no tempered frustration. It’s raw and bare in every word he utters. 

“I’m sorry, you can’t just — excuse me,” she belts, edge escalating to a point. 

You shuffle uneasily away from the sink, closer to the door, but you get caught in the centre of the room when you hear heavy but inconsistent footsteps landing on the hardwood. 

“Hey!” Saoirse snaps, closer, angrier. “You can’t just barge in here, this is a childcare centre.”

No response from the man she must be pursuing, in your direction, as the footsteps grow nearer. 

“Mia?” 

A hoarse call through the walls. 

Your eyes glass over. Ears fill with radio static. Feet glued to the floor as a figure suddenly fills the doorframe; towering, imperious, hidden by the shadow. Eyes catch a glint of the light within. 

He lumbers slowly into the room. A noticeable limp. Umber bomber jacket, worn leather, black hoodie beneath it. Loose jeans. Black boots. 

Wheaten blond in disordered spikes, unkempt. Stubble grown-out except where the side of his jaw is shiny and knurled with scars left by fire. Eyes that glow like amber. 

Time stops flowing. 

Your jaw is wired shut. Throat full of talc. Tongue palsied. 

���Y-you… you’re—” 

You choke on your words like they’re made of cotton, and you cannot muster a full sentence; you stumble hastily in his direction and land in his chest like falling a distance into water. Release a breath you had kept pent for the eight months since you last saw him breathing. 

His arms constrict around you, warm and heavy; wide hand settles at the back of your neck, fingers weave into your hair at the nape, and soon your feet feel light on the floor. 

You distantly hear Saoirse stumble into the room, likely armed with a taser and ready to call the police, but she falls quiet. Empathetic woman that she is. She must slither away quickly, because you don’t hear her leave. 

Sobs shatter you despite a feeble effort to contain them. Earnest cries that catch in the fibers of his sweatshirt and the skin of his neck. Tears that you can taste in your mouth. 

“I thought—” you falter, tongue weak, teeth soft. “I t-thought you were dead.” 

“Not yet,” he murmurs. 

His voice quakes through you from where he speaks it into your shoulder, fluttering along your nerves like a hot shiver. Clutches you tightly as if you’re dripping wet and liable to slip through his fingers all over again. 

You breathe him in like oxygen. He smells the same, like skin and leather and gunpowder. Feels the same, warm and rough, soft in the middle. Familiar as you could have become with his touch and taste in your extremely transient crossing of paths. 

“They d-didn’t tell me,” you sob. “They didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t know what h-happened to you.” 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, bites out the words like it’s hard to let them loose. Firm hand smoothes down the back of your hair, the other coiled around you tightly enough to keep you off the floor, and you feel his heart beating against your sternum. 

Your hands form claws that lodge in the folds of his jacket as though digging for flesh you can hook into — not yet convinced he’s real, let alone that he won’t disappear the moment you can’t feel him there. So you cleave to him, soaking in him, and you unfurl completely. 

“God, I — I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you lament, in a whimper. “I c-can’t believe you came back.” 

He presses his lips into your temple, soft and yet cracked, as if he might speak directly to the worried subconscious hiding in the cavern of your skull.

“I promised.”

[0viraptoraskblog]

How would you imagine the btd characters as teachers? Like with the subject they teach or with the students, with grades and in general... 3 AM toughs 🤯

Strade- I think the only thing Strade would be fit to teach is woodshop. He’d prefer to work with older students anyway, as kids tend to bore him. He likes being able to have real conversations with his students. I think he’d definitely be one of the favorite teachers just because he can be so friendly, as weird as that is to think about.

Ren- I feel like he’d either be an art or English teacher. English because it’s easy enough (compared to like.. physics and calculus) but also allows him to personalize with the students a bit and do his own thing in the curriculum. Art because I think in another universe he can follow his passion for creativity and do good things with it. Generally very good with the students. He’s one of the teachers that has a crowd eating lunch in his room, and sometimes he gets a little too into the drama and talks with them like a friend instead of an authority figure.

Lawrence- biology. He’s typically soft spoken, but he knows a lot on the subject. He tends to post lectures and notes online to avoid the students asking him unnecessary questions. He has a lot of plants in his classroom; sometimes students will bring him a new one to try and get on his good side (they never really know which side they’re on. Better safe than sorry, right?)

Sano- He teaches medical terminology to high schoolers (an elective 11-12th grade class). He couldn’t stand working with younger kids, and he has to do something in his wheelhouse. I could see him teaching chemistry or biology too, though.

Akira- Music! Did you guys know Akira plays the violin? Maybe not what you expected as a music instructor, but he’s actually a really fun teacher. He's good with the students too, and is probably the favorite of some kids.

Vincent- gym. I can just picture him as a gym teacher. He’s the kind of guy who’s supportive and helpful when trying to teach you something, but will also make you do push ups as punishment for something simple. He’s kind of a fun teacher though. If one of the kids challenged him to something he’d definitely do it.

Cain- Art or music. I feel like he’d be good at teaching music because he has enough patience for it, when he actually wants to teach someone something. He cares about his student’s success, both because he genuinely does and because it reflects on him as a teacher.

Rire- English or history. He strikes me as kind of a philosophical teacher. Probably high school aged students. Or, in another universe, he might be the headmaster ;)

Derek- he doesn’t like kids, and if he did, he’s a bad influence. Not a great teacher. I also think he’s the type to be unnecessarily rude to teachers? I really can’t see him ever in that position.

Celia- Something money related. Personal finance, or accounting? Definitely an elective class, because she will not be stuck with the students who don’t want to be there and mess around because of that. She refuses. (It happens anyway. She definitely has moments where she raises her voice and makes the whole room go silent in an instant). Generally she’s an alright teacher, just don’t make her upset.

Mason- in a universe where Mason could actually be a teacher, I think he’d actually do good with biology. He has a lot of knowledge of animals and ecosystems, as well as plants, the water cycle, the weather and how it affects things— basically anything nature, he can do. Most students are intimidated by him when the first get his class, but they eventually learn what he’s like and warm up to him. He’s actually pretty decent at teaching.

[defaist]

Iris

warnings - obsession, obsessive behavior, overboard jealousy, smoking ..

pairings - loser!art donaldson x popular!reader

summary - just like in his favorite song, you were his Iris. He had a small obsession with you but it was like you never saw him. He was invisible to you until you were put together for a project. He wasn’t invisible, not anymore.

just like in his favorite song, you were his Iris and he’d give up forever just to touch you. The way you sauntered down the hallway always attracted his attention though he knew his attention isn’t the one you were trying to attract.

but fuck, you were so hot but you were way too out of his league.

everyday was the same thing, he watched you walk the hallways in the morning. His head following you, unashamed. Next was that class you both had together.

he sat right behind you, staring at your hair with his head resting on his hand. His free hand sketching a drawing out of you in his notebook.

he stayed back during cheer practice to watch you, yes— he kind of was a creep but was he ashamed? kind of?..

he was just like..a ghost in your world. You never even gave him a proper glance when he wished you would.

if he was staring at you and you waved in his direction, he always knew to turn around because it possibly wasn’t him you were waving at.

when in class, your teacher had assigned you partners. You didn’t speak to art much so you were a bit disappointed to be partnered with him. You sighed as you sat next to him, he awkwardly smiled at you.

“Hi.” He mumbled.

“Hi..” you mumbled back, he awkwardly scratched his neck and properly turned to you. “So..the project, who’s house are we doing it at?”

you sat for a bit before answering, “uh..we can go to yours. Totally.” he nodded.

it was a tuesday. You walked with him to his house, he opened the door and let you in. The house was empty and a bit gloomy, a big contrast to yours. “You always home alone?” You asked,

“most of the time.” he answered with a shrug, entering his room. It was pretty clean and organized, he only cleaned it because he knew you were coming over. You stared at all the posters on his wall, you gasped when you saw his Led Zeppelin poster.

“Wow! Led Zeppelin?” You smiled and he nodded, “yeah, you listen?” He asked.

“I literally love them!” You giggled. That just made him fall Inlove with you more, you enjoyed one of his favorite bands! you both sat and tried to start the project but you both kept getting distracted.

laughing at each others awkward jokes, you weren’t bad. You were surprisingly sweet and hilarious, each time you giggled..he wanted to kiss you and shove his tongue down your throat. that’s weird, isn’t it?

when you finally started, it was pretty late. You checked your phone and groaned. “it’s late, I probably should go.”

he nodded, “yeah totally but..uh— you’ll come tomorrow right? cause we barley did anything.” A small forming at his words, you responded. “Definitely, it was fun. You’re pretty cool.”

and after that, he couldn’t even sleep. He was going crazy, crazy at the fact that he was once invisible but now you were calling him cool and being with him was fun.

when you came over the next day, he smiled at you as you both sat on his bed. The bed creaking under your weight, he reached under his pillow and took out something.

“you smoke?” he asked you suddenly and you nodded, he let out a soft chuckle. “Really? I guess— I kinda didn’t expect you too.”

“No one does.” You giggled. now there you both were, smoking with his window open and you were high out of your fucking minds.

both of you traveling downstairs just to get snacks, occasionally. Laughing at the littlest things was something you both did all night until, he just blurted..

“I’m— you know, I have the fattest crush on you.” He laughed, “I just— is it weird to say that I’m thankful for our teacher?” His words earning a laugh out of you,

“I guess..I like you too.” you giggled, and his silly smile grew before he grabbed your face. Kissing you deeply, both of you deep into this kiss. He took this chance and his tongue asked for entrance into your mouth, you agreed. Both your tongues swirling together.

as you both pulled away, his pale face was flushed. He awkwardly laughed and so did you. His pale skin enhanced his very red eyes which made you laugh, “what?— what’s so funny?” He chuckled.

and after that, he wasn’t invisible to you anymore. When you waved in his direction, you were now waving at him. And the best part? you weren’t afraid to be seen with him despite your reputation as a popular girl.

and well— you weren’t dating. It was just a small kiss but it was almost like you were dropping hints that you only wanted to be friends. when you spoke about him or to him, the word friend was always mentioned and it pissed him off.

and at one point, you didn’t wanna be his friend anymore. You had seen his true colors when you had asked for his notebook. He didn’t hesitate to give it to you, not focusing on the fact that there was a billion drawings of you and things written about you in the exact notebook you were holding.

you stared down at the different drawings of you, some of you smiling, others of his point of view from being behind you. Many others and writings right near them and well— as flattering it was, it made you uncomfortable.

you passed him his notebook with hesitation, a look of uncertainty on your face. He raised an eyebrow at you and you just turned away.

after that, everytime he attempted to approach you. You immediately headed another way or into the girls bathroom, knowing he couldn’t enter.

Frustration built within art as he saw you with someone new, one of those basketball players. He wasn’t kidding when he thought about beating his ass, showing him that he wasn’t worth your time or even a glance.

and that’s how the huge fight broke out, a circle surrounding him and your boyfriend. He wasn’t even thinking as he punched and punched back, and now he was in the nurses off.

you walked in and shook your head, staring at him holding an ice pack to his head. His lip bleeding along with other injuries. You scoffed, “art, what the hell were you thinking fighting my boyfriend?”

he shrugged and stayed silent before you scoffed and walked out. He frowned as he watched you walk away through the door.

“highschool fucking sucks.” He grumbled. “Thankfully I’m graduating this year.”

well— he lost two things this year. This fight and a change to go out with you, great.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

hi!! sorry to bother but i just had to ask, do you by any chance have any headcanons for pre-portal fiddleford? 👀 like… what kind of kinks you think he’d be into?? i totally understand if you’re not into him like that or don’t feel like answering, no pressure at all!! i just got curious and thought you might have Thoughts™️

okay anon sooo i think we’ve got some real Fiddleford lovers in the house! and while yeah, i’m usually more into Stan & Ford, i’m always down to write for Fidds, especially after i stumble across some of that really good art of him... you know the kind... yeah. he’s honestly super cute in canon too, let’s be real.

answering ur question, i’ve been carrying around some thoughts about Fidds in my brain for a while now. they’re probably not the most original takes out there but.. ehhh, i’m gonna post them anyway because why not?? he deserves the love!

nsfw

toy-building.

this is the obvious one i think. nah, Fiddleford doesn’t just buy a toy, he’s in his little lab, sleeves rolled up, grease on his fingers, building some remote-controlled vibrator specially for his darling. he’ll build you some wearable stim device. and he’s not even that smug about it, he’s just earnest. he will gently ask you to test prototypes while he takes notes. and yes, he blushes when you cum too fast. and yes, he tries not to jerk off about it but absolutely fails

oral fixation / praise kink

there’s no question in my mind, he’s an oral fixation boy, through and through. not just about getting you off (though that’s obviously a huge part of it), but about the sensory act of it. the taste, the smell, the way you grab at his hair or thighs when you can’t take it anymore, he’d be studying you with the same reverent focus he gives his machines. and i think it makes him shy afterward, almost embarrassed by his own neediness. he’ll say things like “hope i didn’t get too carried away down there” even while your legs are still shaking. he’ll never quite admit how feral he gets for it

this man is obsessed with putting his mouth on the person he loves. “i don’t know what i’m doing with my hands so i’m just gonna use my mouth” energy. he really needs the other person’s reactions to feel reassured he’s doing okay. lots of tongue, lots of sucking bruises into skin absentmindedly while taking a break from studying, tons of focus on inner thighs, fingers, lips, ears even. he’s so weird with it. like “i was thinkin’ ’bout you all day and now i just wanna taste every inch of you, if that ain’t too much” with this pathetic look in his eyes, he’s just starving.

PRAISE. being praised and giving praise. he's tender, still someone who overthinks everything, and having a partner go “you’re so good at that,” “you’re making me feel so good,” “you’re such a sweet boy” just makes him melt and pant and probably bust way too early. and if you beg, if you look down at him and say “Fidds please don’t stop,” that’s it. he’s finished. “yes ma’am/sir/baby” is all he can manage. and if you call him “baby”? oh lord. bring a defibrillator.

he’d absolutely be the type to ask “didja like that? did i do okay?” after giving head/eating you out, blushing. hopeful and looking for reassurance, which makes it all the more intense because he’ll want to go again until he knows without a doubt that he did it right. multiple orgasms for you is the goal.

he’s def a “consent king but also gets off on being used” kind of boy. he would ask to be used, softly, scared to say it out loud. “i mean, if ya ever wanted to just. . . y’know, sit on my face ‘n let me help ya relax, i wouldn’t mind none. promise.” and then he’d get off on being treated like a toy, a tool, a good little thing who exists to make you cum. and the praise just loops right back around, “that’s my good boy” does smth to him

light powerplay?

but here's the twist. he’s a giver, yeah, but he also wants to have you too, to own just a little. he’ll be under you one night and the next he’s got you bent over a cluttered blueprint table, one hand on your spine, telling you “i’ve letcha play enough, sugar. now hush and lemme show you who runs this lab.”

semi-public play

he doesn’t realize it at first, it just sort of happens. you kiss his neck too hard while he’s calibrating something and he forgets he has lab assistants three rooms over. but when Fiddleford realizes you’re a little breathless and shameless about where his fingers are inside you, it does something to him. it’s probably the adrenaline thing. or it’s just how damn proud he is that the person writhing in his lap is the one he gets to take care of. and that someone else might hear, might know what he’s capable of?? yeah, he holds onto that idea. might even whisper in your ear about it, “s’not my fault yer so sweet i can’t keep my hands off ya. now stay quiet for me, hon.”

overstimulation!!

this man has never once wanted a normal orgasm. he wants to see you lose your mind. wants this kind of sex where you're curled into his lap afterwards trembling and murmuring his name over and over again, dumbfounded, whispering you can't do it anymore. he doesn’t mean to overwhelm you, it’s just that when he starts, he can’t stop. he’ll say “one more” twelve times. he’ll gently scold your whines like “now now, sugarplum, don’t start gettin’ dramatic on me, yer almost there.” + he’ll absolutely use his toys on you for this, might even build one with a timer so he can watch your face when the pulse changes mid-orgasm. will whimper with you when you beg for a break. and then still keep going. for science!

so, i think he's not into degradation (would cry)

he's very responsive to gentle domming

definitely would be the type to cry during sex if he was emotionally overwhelmed by the love part

i think Fiddleford’s whole sexual philosophy is built on three things. curiosity, reverence, and utility

[ghostgirl-22]

Patrick beating Art to tennis practice and preparing for how much he's going to brag about it. Until Art shows up, in a tennis skirt. Patrick didn't even know he had one, since when did he have one? But Patrick does know he's seconds away from bending him over the net. But Patrick isn't the only one who wants to fuck Art like this. Which is quite rude because Patrick's always wanted him and these pisses only want him now he's in a skirt. Art is just feeling pretty and doesn't realise everyone is lusting over him

Yeah okay… yep… mmhm… sure… <3

CW: NSFW, MDNI, feminization, not proofed at all

—-

It all started because of a bet. A simple bet. A bet Patrick wins, of course. He’s up really early already thinking about the consequences. Pondering the little tennis skirt he’ll make Art wear— wondering where he’ll get it from. Thinking about how Art’s skin tends to flush when he’s embarrassed. Imagines teasing Art�� threatening to make him wear it to practice. He’s so giddy about it… he rubs one out in the shower before dressing and hurrying to practice. Leaving Art who’s still passed out in bed.

Art doesn’t even make it on time. They’re in the middle of side to side shuffle drills when Paxton Lee, who’s on the end, stops abruptly causing most of the boys in his line to end up bumping into each other.

“Dude Pax, what the fuck?” Someone snaps. What the fuck becomes apparent quite quickly though when they see Art approach from the locker rooms, tennis bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing a fitted navy blue tennis dress that’s too short and swishes as he walks revealing that he’s got matching thigh hugging short shorts on underneath.

He waves his apologies for being late to coach who’s got his eyebrows raised up before he decides not to ask. He just shakes his head in a defeated sort of manner that says “who the fuck knows what’s going on with the youth these days” and gestures for Art to join his teammates.

Art drops his bag and bends over to pull out a racket, Patrick thinks he’ll probably need to be resuscitated very shortly. Art jogs over to Patrick a little smile playing on his lips. “What?” He asks innocently.

It’s only when he’s trying to speak that Patrick realizes his mouth has been hanging open for five minutes. There’s a million things Patrick wants to say. Art lost the bet last night… where the fuck did he get a tennis dress between now and then… and how is he so comfortable just wearing it to practice… and why is Jensen Price adjusting himself in his fucking shorts. All that comes out is… “what the fuck?” Because his brain still isn’t functioning all the blood there has been diverted to another more insistent and vital organ.

Art laughs. “I hope you like it.” Then he leans in close to Patrick’s ear. “Because it’s all for you.” He says softly and then pulls back grinning before falling into step for drills. Yeah Patrick needs a cigarette, a drink, a fucking sedative.

Practice feels like a special kind of torture with Art dressed up all day. Their teammates teasing him, flipping up his skirt, wolf whistling, smacking his bottom. He takes it all in stride… wait no he doesn’t. Little brat.

He fucking loves it.

Eyes all over him and he loves being on display. Getting all of the attention. Bending over when he doesn’t even have to. Getting on his hands and knees to do push ups like he’s a girl, Patrick swears he sees one of their teammates quickly slip a hand in for one or two brief strokes as he’s staring.

And Art knows they’re staring. Even though he acts like he doesn’t. He lets them touch, all they want to do is touch. Hands in his hair, on his waist, up skirt on his thighs. Art’s giggling, yes giggling, when stupid Jensen grabs him by the waist and simulates anal sex to fits of laughter from their teammates.

”I get dibs next.” someone says.

“Me next but in the room.” Another person snorts.

That’s when coach blows the whistle and makes them all run laps “I’m all for equality or the sexual revolution or whatever… but you’re tennis players. Be fucking serious on my court.”

It’s not fair actually. Patrick won the bet. He shouldn’t be the one suffering. It’s too hard to focus, his dick that is, but also generally. He’s missing easy shots all through a practice match because Art’s bent over in front of him and the skirt is riding up showing off more creamy pale skin which makes him just that much more distracting. Plus he’s got to watch all his teammates lust over Art when he was here first.

“God damn it,” Patrick whines when Art bends over the net reaching for the ball with his racket. If Art keeps this up Patrick’s gonna end up doing much more than just simulating sex with Art up against that net.

When he can’t take anymore Patrick feigns a pain in his knee and gets Art to help him inside to the medic. Much to the disappointment of their teammates who are sad to see Art go but very happy to watch him leave. Patrick rests his weight on Art’s shoulder hopping until they get inside. Then he pushes him up against the wall and kisses him. Art begins smiling mid kiss and he’s still smiling as Patrick walks him backwards into the locker room, pushing the skirt up and grabbing at the little shorts.

“For me right? You’re my girl aren’t you?” Patrick grunts, he can’t stop touching now that he’s started.

“Is that what you want? You won didn’t you? So I’ll be what you want.” Art says.

”Jesus christ, Art. Yes… I want that. I wanna fuck you like a girl. Feel your pussy on my dick.” He’s got his hands everywhere. Art is so ridiculously soft… soft skin over deceptively solid lean corded muscle. “You don’t know how fucking pretty you are.”

“Sure I do.” Art sighs between kisses.

Patrick’s gonna eat him. It’s an absurd thought but it’s how he feels. He’s so hungry he just wants to devour him. Makes him leave the skirt on as he fucks him in one of the shower stalls, gripping his waist one hand slipping into his top, whispering, “You’ve got great tits. You’re my favorite, pretty girl.”

Nothing but shampoo as lubricant. Just a desperate, greedy, out of control thing that ends with Patrick dizzy and Art all sticky… watching it all leak out on the floor. They try to clean up before practice lets out and they end up getting caught. It hits Patrick as Art is stepping out of the short shorts which are now stained with come.

“Wait,” Patrick breathes. “Where did you get the dress?”

Art shrugs, “I just had it.”

“You just had it?”

“Yeah… I mean I was gonna wear it out eventually but you know… your bet just gave me the perfect opportunity.”

Patrick frowns remembering the hazy events of the night before. Realizing now that it was Art who suggested the loser try on a tennis skirt not him. “Did you lose on purpose?”

Art smirks. “I’m gonna take a shower. A real shower.” He walks away to grab a towel and Patrick follows him.

“Art,” Patrick says. “Art come on man… that’s not fair it’s not a punishment if you want to do it… we gotta have a do over. new bet.”

“Sure, okay…” Art ponders. “This time… I think the loser has to try on a pair of girls panties.”

Patrick having learned nothing except for how badly he now wants to see Art in girls panties doesn’t even hesitate before shaking Art’s hand in agreement. “Okay Deal, what’s the bet?”

Honestly this was an adventure to write. Had no idea where we were going there but we made it lol here’s the dress 👗

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

COLOR ME STUPID

In Focus: Art Major Renjun × Fashion major Reader

Genre: College AU · Slow Burn · Strangers to Lovers · Fluff · Humor ·

Warnings: mentions of toxic parenting, self-worth issues, mild emotional vulnerability, light angst, artistic frustration

Synopsis: Renjun sees beauty in everything—sunsets, spilled coffee, even a crumpled pizza box. The art room is his sanctuary until you accidentally turn his masterpiece into a modern art tragedy. Guilt pushes you to help fix the chaos, and between color debates and midnight ramen runs, you discover that maybe you’re not just each other’s mess... but each other’s muse.

Author's note:

This is the second footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US — because nothing says emotional stability like falling for the boy whose painting you accidentally destroyed with iced coffee and rhinestones.

This is Part 1 of Color Me Stupid — and Part 2 will be up soon.

Her POV:

There’s a kind of magic in walking into a room and knowing everyone notices.

Not just the outfit — though today’s fit is a vintage corset top I nearly sold my soul for — but the effect. Like glitter in motion. Like caffeine come to life.

Some people live quietly. I prefer entrance music.

“Y/N, the show doesn’t start till Friday!” someone calls.

I throw a wink over my shoulder. “And yet I’m already stealing it. Love your shirt, by the way.”

I don’t wait for the reaction. Compliments are currency, and I spend generously — especially when I’m on a mission.

The sewing room’s down the hall, and I’m already striding there like my entire grade depends on it — which, honestly, it does.

My next project’s deadline is just days away, and the seam on the dress lining is off — a crooked line that’ll ruin the whole silhouette if I don’t fix it.

There’s no time for second guesses.

I have to get this right.

Fix the seam, press the fabric, double-check the fit — and hope the sewing machines aren’t already booked.

Okay. Of course it’s fully booked. My luck is so loud it should come with its own laugh track.

Fine. Breathe.

I can’t sew, but I can at least do something — maybe paint the back panel like I planned. Hand-painted detail. Statement moment. Something dramatic enough to distract from the crooked seam if I don’t fix it in time.

It’ll still count, right?

My fingers twitch around the folded fabric. I just need a flat surface. Quiet. Light. Paint.

And maybe a minor miracle.

“Hey babe.”

I spin on my heel — fabric in one hand, iced coffee in the other — as Karina walks up, paint smudged on her cheek like it’s blush. She’s my best friend, my roommate, and the reason I know what gesso even is.

“I’m spiraling,” I declare, dramatically waving the slightly-wrinkled dress piece like it's a white flag. “Like. Full-on creative breakdown. The sewing lab is a warzone. Machines booked. People breathing down necks. One girl was crying over thread tension.”

Karina snorts. “What about the design studio?”

“Also booked. And someone stole my pin cushion. I don’t even care about the cushion, it’s the principle."

She hums, thoughtful. “Okay. Go to Art Room 3. I just came from there — it’s empty, dusty, barely haunted. Perfect for your chaos.”

My eyes light up. “You’re an angel. No — a sexy, paint-smeared angel sent to save my grade.”

Karina grins. “I know. Go. Wreak beautiful havoc.”

“I’ll make you proud.” I blow her a kiss and take off, my coffee sloshing and fabric flapping behind me like I’m some kind of caffeinated, corset-wearing superhero on a mission.

Art Room 3 smells like turpentine and old stress. Perfect. Empty, echo-y — the kind of place that doesn’t care if you blast music or cry into your fabric. I could kiss Karina for this.

I clutch the back panel of my half-finished dress like it’s a wounded child.

“Okay, fine. Fine. We paint. We hand-paint. We survive. We slay.”

Karina’s voice echoes in my head: "Go to Art Room 3, it’s empty."

I push open the door with my hip, juggling fabric, coffee, my glitter-gel sketchbook, a paint tray, and, for reasons I’ll regret in 0.2 seconds, a bag of open rhinestones.

I step in.

I slip on literally nothing — air, maybe — and chaos begins.

Coffee goes flying.

The paint tray flips mid-air like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

The back panel of my dress sails like a deflated parachute.

And my elbow?

My elbow slams into something tall, large, and definitely not mine.

The canvas.

A massive one. Propped up so gracefully. It wobbles.

“NO NO NO—”

I lunge. Miss. Watch it fall in slow motion.

BOOM.

Flat on the floor. Right into the artageddon.

My iced coffee is now a latte-wash across a once-beautiful sunset. Paint is smeared everywhere — the canvas, the floor, my arms, my precious corset. One of the rhinestones sticks perfectly on what looks like a person’s eye in the painting.

The silence after is so violent, I almost think the room’s empty.

Until I hear a breath.

Sharp. Controlled. Like someone just got stabbed in the soul.

I look up.

And he’s there. He’s standing just a few feet away. Silent. Still. Covered in paint in a way that looks intentional — like the universe decided to make an artwork out of him too.

Tall. Sleeves rolled. Expression: pure murder.

His jaw tightens. “Did you just… destroy my painting in under five seconds?”

“Okay, so. Define ‘destroy’—”

His eyes widen. “Do not play dictionary right now.”

“I’m just saying,” I gesture vaguely to the mess, “maybe it’s better now. Like, avant-garde. Postmodern disaster.”

“Postmodern—you splashed caramel frappé all over a war scene.”

“I thought it was a sunrise.”

“It was a burning city!”

We both stare at the ruined masterpiece.

“You know,” I say, dusting rhinestones off my corset, “we could call this ‘The Fall of Rome: With Oat Milk.’”

He blinks slowly. “You’re not real. You’re a fever dream that broke into the one place I find peace.”

I try to smile. “Hi. Fashion major. Expressive. Slightly cursed.”

“Clearly.”

He walks past me, squats next to the canvas, touches the edge of the now-soggy paper, and lets out a laugh — but not the fun kind. The I’m about to implode kind.

Then he stands. Looks me dead in the eyes.

“You’re lucky I’m too shocked to yell,” he says. “But I will remember this.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll let you forget it.”

He points to the door. “Go. Before you hand-paint on my soul too."

“Is it due tomorrow?”

“Obviously,” he snaps, eyes cold as ice. “Now please, walk off, human disaster, before I start digging a grave for you right here.”

He stand there, the ruined canvas, holding it like it weighs a ton.

I bite my lip. “I was thinking… maybe, just maybe, I could help you fix it.”

He looks me up and down — paint on my hands, the ruined corset — then smirks dryly.

“How? By sewing and stitching rhinestones to it?”

His POV:

It took me three weeks to paint this.

Three weeks of standing, hunched over, back aching, fingertips permanently stained.

Three weeks of skipping parties, dodging texts, pretending “I’m busy” meant something noble.

Three weeks of silence because music felt like too much stimulation — and now, it’s all over.

All because of one dramatic, overly perfumed hurricane in a corset.

The canvas lies in front of me like a corpse. Paint smudged beyond repair, warped from the frappuccino that had no right being in a damn studio. The colors are bleeding, lines melting into chaos.

I breathe in through my nose.

Be civil. Be calm. Don’t murder anyone in a university building.

She’s still standing there. Hands stained, corset splattered. Looking like a fashion editorial that tripped and fell into a Jackson Pollock. And yet—somehow—she’s not even running.

She’s biting her lip, hesitating, then says—

"I was thinking… maybe, just maybe, I could help you fix it.”

I stare.

Actually, stare. From her smeared eyeliner to her wrecked sketchbook hanging out of her tote bag like a forgotten thought.

“…How?” I deadpan. “You planning to stitch rhinestones over the chaos or just hope it becomes abstract enough to pass?”

Her lips twitch, like she almost wants to laugh.

“No,” she says. “I mean—unless glitter helps? No, sorry. I know this is bad. Worse than bad. Biblical.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re describing my academic funeral. Not comforting.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t leave. Just watches me cradle the painting like it’s a crime scene victim.

“You should go,” I mutter, teeth clenched. “Before I add accidental murder to your crimes.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way she says it — loud, sure, like she owns the room she just ruined — makes me blink.

Who is this girl?

“I messed up,” she continues, eyes locked on the ruined canvas. “Like, colossally. I’m the villain in your tragic little artist arc. I get it. But I can’t just walk out.”

“You don’t even know me.” I’m not shouting. Yet. But it’s close.

“Exactly!” she says. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. That means you don’t know I’m not usually a walking disaster—okay maybe I am—but I’m not heartless. I’ve had work ruined. And it eats you alive, especially when it’s something you need to get right. So, yeah, I want to help.”

I blink.

There’s real guilt in her voice now, underneath all that glitter and flair and bold energy.

And also determination. Like she’s decided I am today’s mission.

“So you feel bad and now you’re… what? On a redemption quest?” I ask flatly.

“Exactly.” She nods. “Let me be the redemption arc.”

“God, no. You’re more like the inciting incident in a Greek tragedy.”

“You’re welcome.”

And the worst part?

I almost laugh.

Just a little.

God help me.

She crosses her arms, which makes her corset creak a little — the thing’s probably stitched tighter than my sanity right now.

“I can’t bring the painting back,” she says, softer now. “But I can help with whatever comes next. Cleanup. Repainting. Emotional support in the form of sarcasm and snacks. Whatever.”

I eye her, skeptical. “You think snacks are going to make up for this?”

“That depends,” she smirks. “How do you feel about sour gummy worms and a 24-pack of apology Red Bulls?”

I exhale sharply. Not a laugh — I’m not giving her the satisfaction. But the edge in my shoulders loosens by half an inch. Maybe a quarter.

“Do you even paint?” I ask.

“No. I design clothes. But I do understand color theory, I have steady hands, and I once cried over a misaligned hem. We’re not so different.”

“We’re extremely different,” I mutter, glancing down at the ruined canvas. The damage is… bad. But not unrecoverable. Maybe. With time.

Which I don’t have.

I sigh again. “You do realize I hate this.”

“You’re allowed.”

“I’m not promising I won’t regret this.”

“Also allowed.”

“And I still think you’re a menace.”

She grins. “I accept that with pride.”

God. She’s like a tornado with a good eye for aesthetics. And for some reason, despite every logical bone in my body telling me to kick her out, I find myself shifting the canvas to the side and jerking my head toward the spare stool.

“Sit. Don’t talk too much.”

She squeals — actually squeals — and plops down like she owns the place after placing her things on the table. Paint-stained fingers poised, eyes sharp with new focus.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” she says, grabbing a nearby rag and dabbing carefully at the wettest parts of the canvas.

“I didn’t ask.”

“Still. Kind of nice to know the name of the person whose life you’re going to be tolerating for the next few hours."

I mutter under my breath and grab a fresh palette.

God help me — I might actually be letting her help.

And worse?

A very, very small part of me doesn’t hate the idea.

I should’ve kicked her out.

That’s the only logical thing. But logic left the room the second she waltzed in like she owned the damn floor and turned my painting into an abstract crime scene.

Now she’s sitting next to me, sleeves rolled, paint-streaked hands moving like she’s done this before — not painting, but something. Precise, controlled, weirdly elegant in the way she handles the rag and dabs color like she’s tailoring a canvas instead of a dress.

“You know,” she says, breaking the silence I was starting to enjoy, “I may not be an art major, but I did take an elective in studio fundamentals.”

“Oh wow,” I deadpan. “You mean you took ‘Color Wheel for Beginners’ and now you’re Picasso.”

She shoots me a look, then smirks. “You wound me. But hey, I know burnt sienna from raw umber, and that’s already more than 80% of people walking into that art supply store.”

“That’s a lie. You picked up that brush backward five minutes ago.”

“I was testing your patience. For fun. You're failing, by the way.”

She grins, totally unbothered, like the chaos she caused is just part of her brand. And somehow, her being annoyingly confident makes her even more focused. She leans over the canvas — careful not to touch the worst parts — and starts blending the outer edge of the smudge with calculated, almost surprising precision.

I watch her for a beat too long.

“Why are you so invested in fixing this?” I ask, finally.

She doesn’t look up. “Because I ruined it. And because I know what it’s like to lose something you put your soul into. Once, I cried for two hours because someone accidentally threw my sketchbook into the laundry bin. It had a month of dress drafts.”

“…That’s tragic.”

“Exactly. So now I’m paying forward the universe’s debt to me. Plus, I told you, I’m great at damage control.”

“You’re the damage,” I mutter.

She beams. “And the control. A rare combo.”

I try not to smile. I fail. Slightly.

We settle into a rhythm — she fixes edges, I rework the details. We argue over tones, over brush size, over whether the new shadows match the original. She talks a mile a minute, about her design project, her professor who hates her, a guy who keeps stealing her bobbin thread. I grunt in response, maybe throw in a sarcastic quip here and there.

But what surprises me the most?

She listens. Not just talks — listens. Like she’s actually trying to match her pace to mine, even if she’s got caffeine and chaos pumping through her veins.

And for a moment, in the silence between our insults and corrections, we’re just two strangers trying to un-ruin a disaster together.

We work in a kind of messy silence.

Not quiet, exactly — she hums under her breath when she concentrates. Off-key. Some indie-pop thing that doesn’t match the disaster we’re fixing. But it’s... tolerable.

She shifts next to me, her shoulder accidentally brushing mine, and immediately apologizes with a whisper of a laugh, like even her sorrys come caffeinated.

“This section’s salvageable,” she murmurs, dabbing at a coffee stain like it’s enemy number one. “Or we just turn it into dramatic smoke.”

I glance at her brushstrokes. Light. Careful. She’s not guessing — she’s trying. For someone who’s all glitter and chaos, her hands are oddly gentle.

“You missed a spot,” I mutter.

“I missed a lot of spots. I spilled a Starbucks on your apocalypse.”

“Burning city,” I correct, and she grins.

“Right. Post-apocalyptic frappuccino. Got it.”

She pauses and looks over at me — really looks. Like she’s trying to read something written on my face in invisible ink.

“Do you always paint stuff like this?” she asks.

“Stuff like what?”

“Cities falling. War. Shadows. Trauma in brushstrokes.”

I shrug. “It’s a class series. Theme: ‘what keeps you up at night.’”

She blinks. “Damn. I just drew a bunch of dresses that looked like nightmares. You went full Doomsday Diaries.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like I’m kind of impressed.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because I don’t know how.

___

An hour passes. Maybe more.

She talks a little less now. Her focus narrows. Occasionally she’ll ask for a color, hold up her palette, or argue about how “the blue is too moody.” (It’s supposed to be moody.) She catches herself touching her hair and mutters, “crap, paint fingers,” before swiping a streak of red across her already stained tote bag.

“It was ugly anyway,” she sighs, like that solves everything.

I watch her for a second too long.

“Stop staring,” she says without looking up.

“I’m making sure you don’t ruin the rest.”

“Liar. You’re wondering how I made a corset work at 9 a.m.”

I roll my eyes. “I was wondering if you ever stop talking.”

She smirks. “Only when I’m kissed.”

The brush slips in my hand.

She doesn’t notice. Or maybe she does and lets me believe otherwise.

___

Later, when the studio is soaked in gold evening light and our hands are stiff with drying paint, she leans back with a groan.

“We need food. Or at least something with sugar.”

“I told you not to talk too much.”

“And I told you I’m great at snacks.” She digs into her oversized bag, pulls out a crushed pack of gummy worms, and tosses it toward me.

I catch it.

“Emergency stash,” she says, like it’s sacred.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here.”

I chew the candy slowly, eyes still on the painting. The damage is still visible — faint coffee tint, uneven blending, brushstrokes that don’t match the original style. But there’s something else now.

Something... new.

“Looks different,” she murmurs. “But not ruined.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No. But it’s not worse.”

I glance at her. She’s watching the painting, elbows on knees, smudges of color across her cheekbones like warpaint.

“You know,” she says softly, “sometimes the mess makes it better.”

I stare.

And for once, I don’t argue.

___

The gummy worms disappear somewhere between retouching the skyline and her conspiracy theory about bobbin thread theft. She’s quieter now, but not silent — just... dimmed. Like someone turned the chaos down to a simmer.

I glance at her.

She’s hunched forward, elbow streaked with charcoal, red paint swiped across her wrist like a war wound. Lips slightly parted, eyes sharp. Focused.

“It’s weird,” she says, half to herself, “how something can look totally fine from far away. But the second you’re up close, all you see is the mess.”

I pause. The brush stalls in my hand.

“You talking about the canvas or yourself?”

She snorts — but softly this time. “Both. Maybe.”

We don’t say anything after that. Not for a while.

And then, just when the silence starts to settle:

“Why were you even in the art studio?” I ask. “Seriously. You don’t belong here."

She raises a brow. “Rude."

“True.”

She sighs, dabs at a smudge with her pinky, and mutters, “I was trying to find a quiet place. Somewhere I could paint the back panel of my dress. Sewing lab was full. Design studio was chaos. I needed space. Light. A table. I wasn’t planning to crash into someone’s emotional apocalypse, thank you very much.”

“It’s not an apocalypse.”

“You painted literal flames.”

“It’s called symbolism.”

She grins. “So was my corset.”

"So when are you gonna complete your project since you are stuck helping me?"

"Probably soon."

___

We go back to painting.

She hums under her breath. Something slow and indie and off-key. Somehow, I don’t hate it.

“You don’t stop, do you?” I mutter.

“Stop what?”

“Trying. Fixing things.”

She tilts her head. “Maybe if I stop, the mess wins.”

I don’t answer.

Because I get it.

And I hate that I get it.

___

When the last layer dries enough to breathe, she leans back on her stool, stretching until her corset creaks.

“You know,” she says, “I didn’t think I’d end today elbow-deep in someone else’s ruined art.”

“I didn’t think I’d let someone fix it.”

We both go still.

The kind of still that has weight.

And then she shifts again — less dramatic this time — wiping her paint-streaked fingers on a napkin that says CAMPUS CAFÉ IS WATCHING YOU. The last drops of her iced coffee are basically cold caramel soup. She drinks it anyway.

“You should go,” I say finally.

“Should I?”

“Yeah. Before I decide you’re bearable.”

She grins. Stands. Swipes hair out of her face with the back of her hand, leaving a red streak across her cheekbone like unintentional warpaint.

Then she hesitates.

“I hated ruining it,” she says.

I glance up.

“I hated it because it made you look at me like I was just the mess I caused.”

I stare at her.

She stares at the canvas.

Then she grabs her bag, hoists it onto her shoulder, and says, “It’s okay. You don’t owe me anything.”

She turns.

And for a second, I let her leave.

Then—

“You want to see what it looked like before?”

She stops in the doorway.

Turns slowly.

“Yeah,” she says. “I’d like that.”

I dig into my folder, pull out the original sketch. Graphite lines. Smoky edges. The first version — raw and angry and still intact.

I hand it to her.

She takes it gently. Like she knows it matters.

“This was really good,” she murmurs.

“It still is. Just... different.”

She folds the paper carefully, like it might bruise.

Hands it back.

“Thanks for letting me help,” she says.

“You didn’t give me much choice.”

She smiles. Small. Real.

Then she walks out.

Paint-streaked. Corset-wearing. A glitter-coated hurricane who somehow made the wreckage matter again.

___

Her POV:

There’s something borderline pathetic about standing in front of a building you don’t belong to, holding two latte and hoping the caffeine gods reward your effort with answers.

But here I am.

Loitering like a lost freshman. Outside the Art Department. With a vanilla oat latte in each hand and a nervous twitch in my left eye.

The thing is — I’m not even in this department. I’m fashion. Thread and textiles, baby. My classes are two buildings over, next to the room where someone once set a serger on fire and blamed it on “creative vision.”

But this isn’t about that. This is about yesterday.

About the painting. About the ruined war scene, the shared brushstrokes, the sour gummy worms, and the fact that I spent five hours sitting next to a boy whose name I still don’t know.

Did I mention that part?

Because yeah. I don’t know his name.

Not even a clue. I know his face — sharp jaw, murder eyes, sleeves rolled like he’s auditioning for an indie art student magazine — but I never got his actual name.

Iconic behavior, really. Save someone’s project. Touch elbows. Emotionally bond over trauma and paint smudges. Don’t ask for a name. Peak socializing.

Karina told me their studio class was submitting this morning. Which means, by now, the verdict is in.

Was the painting salvageable?

Did it get accepted?

Is he still plotting my death via blunt object and an overturned easel?

Unclear.

I sip from one of the latte. The other’s for him — if I see him. Which, statistically speaking, I might not.

I mean, what are the chances?

___

And there he is.

Of course.

Like the universe said: “Here. Suffer.”

He walks out the double doors, looking somehow even more unfairly aesthetic than he did yesterday. White shirt. White jacket. Light blue pants like he’s starring in a minimalist fashion spread. His bag slung casually over one shoulder, and his expression says “don’t talk to me unless you have a death wish.”

Naturally, I wave at him like we’re besties.

“Hi!!”

His eyes narrow a little. Not in a mean way. More like he's bracing for impact. Probably smart of him.

Before he can speak — not that I think he was going to — I launch.

“How did it go?” I ask, stepping up to him, practically buzzing. “Was it okay? Did they like it? I’ve been thinking about it all morning — which is stupid, I know, it’s your project, not mine — but still! I was so anxious I almost skipped class, and I—”

“It went fine.”

Oh.

Blunt. As always. Like his words were cut with a scalpel.

“Seriously?” I blink. “Fine like… passing fine? Or fine like you’re emotionally repressing a meltdown and hiding it behind cool indifference?”

He stares at me. I stare back. He blinks.

“Fine.”

I nod like that settles it, even though I have no idea what that actually means.

“I brought you latte,” I say, thrusting the second cup at him.

He looks at it like I’m offering him a small animal.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know. It’s still for you.”

He hesitates. Then — sighs. The deepest, most exhausted sigh I’ve ever heard, like this conversation is draining his life force one syllable at a time. He takes the latte anyway.

Victory.

He starts walking. I fall into step beside him like a shadow with better fashion sense.

“So,” I chirp, “now that your art apocalypse has been submitted and we’ve survived the emotional rollercoaster of shared trauma, I feel like I can finally ask you something.”

He sips his latte. Doesn’t look at me. Probably regrets all his life choices.

“It’s kind of funny,” I continue, “how we went from strangers to co-painting a visual metaphor for societal collapse, but I still don’t know your name.”

He glances at me then. Just briefly. Just enough.

“…When did we become friends?”

“Ouch,” I say, dramatically clutching my latte. “I acrificed my soul colored "Red bull" for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. I raise both of mine.

“You’re not denying it,” I add.

He exhales again. Resigned. Doomed. Beautifully grumpy.

“Huang Renjun.”

Pause.

I stop walking.

“Wait. What?”

He turns back, mildly confused. “What.”

“Huang Renjun?” I repeat, scandalized. “As in — the Huang Renjun? From the Golden Group of the university?”

Now he stops walking. His jaw tightens slightly.

“God,” I mutter, stunned. “No wonder you act like that. You’re him.”

He sips his coffee like this is a conversation he’s had a hundred times and never enjoyed once.

“Okay, but seriously,” I go on, because of course I do. “You’re that guy. The art prodigy. The one with the painting that got featured in the alumni show last year. The same guy who rejected like… six people in one semester? One of them wrote poetry about the rejection. Spoken word.”

He glares at me, quietly horrified.

“She said you told her, and I quote, ‘I don’t date people who can’t hold a paintbrush properly.’”

“I never said that.”

“Well, someone said it as you. Probably for the clout. You have clout. You’re the chill, mysterious, terrifying genius. I mean—” I gesture at him. “You’re dressed like an emotional ghost who gets straight A’s.”

He groans softly, head tilted back to the sky like he’s praying for divine intervention.

I beam.

“This is hilarious,” I say. “I hung out with Huang Renjun for five hours, argued about moody blues, and fed him gummy worms — and didn’t even know it.”

He glares at me again, but it’s softer this time. Maybe 10% less murdery.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

“And yet you didn’t leave me behind.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Because I’m right.

____

His POV:

This is a mistake.

Letting her follow me. Letting her talk. Letting her exist within a five-foot radius of my sanity.

Mistake.

I should’ve walked away the second she waved. Pretended I didn’t see her. Claimed caffeine-induced blindness. Anything.

But no. I took the latte.

Now I’m stuck listening to her spiral through an entire personality quiz out loud while I try not to scream into my latte.

She’s still talking.

“You’re the chill, mysterious, terrifying genius,” she’s saying, eyes wide like she just discovered I’m a celebrity. “Like — you’re the guy. The guy people make Pinterest boards about.”

"What does that even mean?”

“It means you have a vibe. A haunted vibe. Like you wake up with artistic purpose and emotional damage.”

I groan.

Loudly.

She grins like she’s won a prize.

“I don’t have a vibe,” I mutter.

“You do. The rolled sleeves, the emotionally distant stare, the ‘I only speak in sarcasm and trauma’ energy. It’s textbook. Like if ‘tragic art boy’ was a minor.”

I take a long sip of my latte and consider walking into traffic.

“I hate that you know my name now,” I say.

“You’re just mad it took me this long.”

“Most people know it before I walk in the room.”

“Exactly. I’m not most people.”

Unfortunately.

I glance over at her. She’s walking beside me like she’s always been there — bag bouncing, no corset today, sewing thread all over her body like she bathed in it. Like yesterday never ended. Like she belongs here.

She doesn’t.

Not really.

She’s chaos. Unplanned. Loud. The kind of person who spills into your life and rearranges your furniture and emotions before you realize what’s happening. And definitely not the type of person you can befriend.

And the worst part?

I don’t hate it.

I should.

But I don’t.

Not when she looks at me like she’s not afraid of whatever storm lives behind my silence. Not when she listens. Not when she shows up the next day, holding latte like it’s a peace treaty.

“I can’t believe I helped you fix a painting without knowing who you were,” she says, mostly to herself.

I shrug. “You didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“Because I didn’t think you’d stick around long enough to matter.”

She doesn’t flinch.

She just hums, thoughtful. “But I did.”

Yeah.

She did.

I stop walking.

She does too, one step later. Turns to me, confused.

“What?”

I look at her. Really look.

The faint crease between her brows when she’s trying to read me. The way she holds her latte like she’s ready to use it as both fuel and weapon.

“You know they accepted the painting,” I say.

Her eyes light up.

I hate that I notice.

“They said it had… rawness,” I add. “That it felt more human than my usual work.”

She gasps — actually gasps — like I just announced her admission into art major royalty.

“See? What did I tell you? The mess made it better!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

“I meant human, not better.”

“Same thing.”

God.

She’s impossible.

And — worse — she might be right.

I turn back to the sidewalk. Keep walking. I hear her fall back into step beside me.

“You’re thinking really loud,” she says, peering up at me.

“I don’t think loud.”

“You do. You’ve got that ‘artist contemplating the meaning of life’ look going on. It’s your brand.”

“Stop giving me a brand.”

“You already had one,” she says. “I just named it.”

I sigh. Again. For the third time in five minutes.

But this time, maybe it’s a little less annoyed.

Because when I glance at her again, she’s humming under her breath, sipping latte, and still somehow managing to look like she belongs next to me — even though nothing about us matches.

And i promise nothing matches.

____

She’s still here.

Ten minutes later. Two blocks later. A cup of latte and a string of unsolicited commentary later.

Still here.

Walking beside me like it’s scheduled. Like I invited her. Like we’re not fundamentally different species trying to pretend we share a timezone.

And now I’m heading toward the cafe near campus — the one with decent sandwiches and terrible lo-fi — and she’s just… coming with me.

Like this is a thing.

“Why are you following me?” I ask, finally.

She doesn’t even blink.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she says, then sips her latte like she’s thinking about it. “Weird.”

I stare.

She grins.

“I guess I’m just committing to the bit,” she says. “We shared paint and trauma yesterday. That’s practically marriage in art school terms.”

“Tragedy bonding isn’t friendship.”

She gasps — actually gasps, hand over chest.

“Was that a joke, Renjun?”

“It was a boundary.”

She snorts. “Cute. Still walking with you, though.”

God. She’s exhausting.

And — worse — not boring.

“Don’t you have a project to finish?” I ask, because surely she has somewhere else to be. Anywhere else.

She shrugs, balancing her latte in one hand and spinning her keychain in the other like she’s got all the time in the world. “Sewing part’s done. My stitches are crisp. My professor might cry from joy. But I still need to hand-paint the back panel. Statement piece. Drama. Fire. You know the vibe.”

“Then go paint.”

“I would,” she says, “except the workroom’s fully booked. Again. Someone literally taped a sign to the door that says ‘abandon hope all you who enter.’ So unless I start painting in the hallway — which, to be honest, sounds iconic — I’m out of options.”

We reach the cafe. I push the door open, the little bell above jingling.

She follows me in like a curse.

I order my usual. She doesn’t. Just leans against the counter like she owns it and hums along to the off-key music.

It’s only once we sit — me with a sandwich and her still sipping her latte.

Quietly. Like the words are forcing their way out against better judgment.

“…You can work in Art Room 3.”

She stops mid-sip. Looks up at me like I’ve just offered her backstage passes to heaven.

“I’m going there tomorrow,” I add, eyes on my food. “You can join me. If you want.”

Pause.

Then: “So I don’t ruin anyone else’s project?”

I glance up. She’s smirking.

"You said it, not me.”

She beams like I just gave her a trophy.

“I accept this invitation with great honor,” she says, placing her cup down like it’s a ceremonial chalice. “I promise to only cause mild chaos and minimal property damage.”

“Can you be quiet for at least fifteen minutes while I eat?”

“No promises.”

Of course not.

His POV:

Chenle’s house isn’t just big — it’s obscene. Like “why does your garage have mood lighting” big. The back court is glowing under the evening sun, half-lit by gold and half-shadowed by Jaemin's tragic attempt to play DJ.

Basketball bounces on the concrete. Someone’s blasting music from a speaker shaped like a pineapple. There’s a grill smoking somewhere near the edge of the patio, probably abandoned halfway through because Haechan forgot what he was doing mid-flip.

Chaos. As always.

I step onto the court.

“Look who finally escaped the art dungeon,” Haechan calls, chucking the ball at me without warning.

I catch it. Barely. Toss it back like I’m allergic to effort.

“You disappear for a week,” he says, “and then reappear with existential bags under your eyes and vibes of romantic suffering. What happened? You fall into a painting and start dating your brush?”

“No,” I say flatly. “A girl destroyed my canvas. By accident. Mostly.”

That gets their attention.

The music clicks off. Even the grill seems to stop sizzling. Everyone turns to me like I just confessed to murder.

Mark looks up from his notebook. Lit Queen — perched beside him like a goddess who only descends for plot development — narrows her eyes slightly, interested.

Chenle squints. “Wait, destroyed? Like ruined?”

“Like iced coffee across a burning city. Rhinestones. Panic. Emotional carnage.”

“Oh my god.” Haechan’s already grinning. “Please tell me it was someone dramatic.”

“Fashion major,” I mutter. “Painted on it with me to help fix it.”

A pause.

A loaded, electric, “no way” kind of pause.

“…What was she wearing?” Lit Queen asks, suddenly laser-focused.

I blink. “Black corset. Vintage detailing. Combat boots. Paint-stained tote bag.”

Lit Queen grins like a cat with a secret. “Y/N.”

And then—

“Y/N?!” everyone explodes at once.

Chenle practically chokes on his drink. “Wait — THE Y/N?”

“Confident, pretty, terrifyingly good at dressing like a Vogue spread with unresolved emotional themes?” Jaemin adds, grinning.

“The one who helped me fix my literature board with a glue gun and glitter — unironically,” Mark says.

“She’s friends with you, right?” Jeno asks, surprised.

Lit Queen shrugs, sipping from her metal straw. “We’re not close. But she’s… nice. Surprisingly nice. Not fake nice — like, actually decent. Confident. Polite. Weirdly wholesome.”

“She complimented my hoodie once,” Jisung mumbles, barely audible.

Everyone turns to him in shock.

“You’re telling me,” Haechan says, pointing at me, “that you, Mr. ‘No One Touches My Canvas,’ let Y/N paint on your work?”

I drag a hand down my face. “She already destroyed it. It was either let her help or die slowly on the studio floor.”

“So you picked... bonding,” Jaemin says. “Crisis collaboration. Intimate teamwork. Flirting with paint.”

“I picked damage control.”

“She’s so out of your league,” Chenle adds, laughing. “She walks like the hallway’s her runway. Everyone knows her.”

“I didn’t.”

“That makes it better.”

“I didn’t even know her name until after she started fixing it.”

“Ohhh,” Haechan croons. “So she saved you, and you didn’t even know what to call her. That’s some Wattpad-level plot twist.”

“I hate all of you.”

“She’s really pretty,” Jeno says gently. “And she’s always nice to everyone. That’s rare.”

“She talks like someone put espresso in her bloodstream,” I mutter. “Nonstop. Just—words. Everywhere. Drowning in them.”

“You didn’t walk away though,” Lit Queen says, eyes sharp. “You let her stay.”

I pause.

That part’s harder to explain.

“She didn’t treat me like I was made of glass,” I say quietly. “She ruined something important to me — and stayed. Tried to fix it. Didn’t ask for credit. Just… sat with me.”

The silence after that is heavier.

Until Haechan breaks it, naturally.

“You’re in love.”

“Ew, she is not my type."

“Romantically.”

“Shut up.”

“She’s gonna paint near you again, isn’t she?” Jaemin grins.

“She needs space to hand-paint her dress panel,” I mutter. “Workroom’s booked. I told her she could come to Art Room 3.”

“She’s gonna show up,” Mark says, tapping his pen. “With coffee and chaos and probably a bag of rhinestones.”

“She already did that yesterday.”

“She’ll do it again. And you’ll let her. Again.”

I sigh. Long. Loud. Spiritually.

“I swear, the second she says something about brushstroke energy or vibes of trauma, I’m leaving.”

“Sure you are.”

“Totally believable,” Haechan smirks.

And all I can think about — despite their teasing, despite my denial — is how she said:

"I hated ruining it because it made you look at me like I was just the mess I caused.”

And I remember how she stood in the doorway.

Waiting to be forgiven.

Wearing paint like warpaint and honesty like armor.

I don't know what that means yet.

But I know she's coming back.

And for some reason, I’m not dreading it.

Not even a little.

___

Her POV:

I promised I’d be quiet.

Actually said the words: “I swear, silent as a stitched hem.” Hand on heart. Eyes wide. Pure drama. I think he almost believed me.

And so far?

I’m doing it.

No humming. No talking. No unsolicited fashion metaphors or tragic tales about the bobbin thief.

Just me. My fabric. My brushes. The back panel of the dress stretched out on the table like a silk crime scene.

I’ve already finished the sketch. Rough outlines in white across the black — sharp lines, geometric curves, dramatic tension tucked into folds of negative space. It’s loud without shouting. Complex without clutter. If I can pull this off, it’ll be the most striking piece I’ve ever done.

If.

Big if.

Because now I’m at the hard part. Color. Detail. The actual brush-to-fabric commitment. And I’ve been staring at the panel for the last full minute like it just personally insulted my bloodline.

I dab red paint on my palette. Try to match the tone I used in the underdrawing.

It’s off. Just a little.

I sigh. Quietly. Barely audible. Just frustration with a breath attached.

But apparently, it’s enough.

Because I hear movement.

Not the kind that says “he’s getting water” or “he’s shifting in his seat.”

The kind that says “he’s crossing the room.”

I blink, still not looking up.

And then he’s there.

Renjun.

Standing beside me like a silent, brooding art ghost — sleeves rolled, hair a little messy, eyes scanning the panel like he’s calculating the exact moment I lost control of the shading.

I don’t speak.

Mostly because I’m not sure what version of him I’m getting right now — Cold Glare 101? Studio Silence? Lowkey Murder Vibes?

But he just exhales through his nose. Barely.

Then he sits.

Right next to me.

Like it's nothing. Like he does this all the time.

Which he absolutely does not.

“Your lines are strong,” he says finally. Blunt. Like a critique, but also not.

“Thanks,” I whisper. “I practiced.”

He hums like he knows. Like he expected that answer.

His eyes flick to the color on my palette. “You’re blending too bright. The red’s popping too much on black. It needs depth. Lower tone. Less scarlet. More crimson.”

He reaches over. Picks up the extra brush I wasn’t using.

Just picks it up.

No gloves. No hesitation.

Renjun. The guy who doesn’t let anyone touch his stuff. The boy with the ‘no collaboration, no distractions, no help’ rulebook.

Painting.

On my fabric.

He tests a stroke in the corner. Just a blend — small, smooth, barely there. Then another. Then shifts to the edges of my design, filling in shadow like he’s sculpting the folds instead of painting them.

His expression doesn’t change.

Focused. Calm. Like this is an everyday thing.

I don’t breathe for a second too long.

“I thought you didn’t do joint projects,” I murmur, still watching his hand move like it knows more than I do.

“I don’t,” he says.

Beat.

“…Then why—”

“You looked stuck.”

Oh.

Simple. Plain. Delivered with zero embellishment.

But somehow, it lands heavier than it should.

“I was,” I admit softly.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps painting.

His movements are exact. Controlled. But not stiff. Like he’s careful because he cares — not about me, maybe, but the work. The idea. The art.

He’s warming up.

Not dramatically. Not suddenly.

But undeniably.

The space between us feels different now. Not like yesterday’s apology. Not like strangers sharing panic. More like—

Like we’re working together.

Quiet. Balanced. Hands moving in sync over a dress panel that, for the first time, feels like it might be exactly what I imagined.

Maybe, just maybe I think he considers me a friend now.

____

Her POV:

I should be glowing right now.

No, like actually — full-body radiant, stage-light level glowing. Because Ms. Kim — Ms. Kim, Queen of Critique, Slayer of Dreams — looked at my dress panel this morning, raised one eyebrow, and said, “Impressive. Finally, something worth looking at.”

And then she nodded.

NODDED.

In front of the whole studio class. People gasped. One girl nearly fainted. Someone whispered that I’d unlocked a secret boss level.

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

I submitted my piece with shaking hands and walked out like I was floating. Like all the stress, paint fumes, and lowkey breakdowns stitched themselves into something worth showing.

And now?

Now I’m in the cafe. My usual seat. A sandwich in front of me. I even bought a second one — his order, exactly. Tomato, no lettuce, extra pepper, slightly toasted. He doesn’t know I know that, but I do.

I’m not waiting for him.

Okay, I am. But not in a weird way.

It’s just… he eats here. Always has. It’s his thing. This corner, this time of day, like clockwork. So maybe I’m just hoping the clock ticks in my favor today.

And then —

The door opens. The bell rings.

And he walks in.

Renjun.

White shirt, headphones around his neck, expression like he just stepped out of a dream he didn’t ask to be in. His eyes scan the place like he’s expecting quiet.

And then they land on me.

I wave.

He freezes like I pulled a plot twist out of thin air.

Then — slowly, reluctantly, like he's being dragged by fate and also maybe caffeine — he walks over.

“Hi,” he says.

I grin. “Sit.”

He hesitates.

I push the second sandwich toward the empty chair across from me.

“I bought your sandwich.”

He just stares at me for a second. Not blinking. Like I handed him a confession instead of food.

“You bought that for me?” he asks, deadpan.

“Yeah.” I shrug, trying not to look like I care too much. “I was waiting. You always come here around this time.”

He looks at the sandwich. Then at me. Then back at the sandwich like it might explode.

“You could’ve let me know,” he mutters.

“How?” I raise an eyebrow. “I don’t even have your number.”

Pause.

“Right,” he says, almost to himself.

He finally — finally — sits down.

I watch as he unwraps the sandwich, takes a bite like it’s suspicious, and then eats it like it’s the only thing that’s made sense all day.

We don’t talk for a few minutes. Just sit in that kind of warm, stretched-out quiet that only exists when two people aren’t strangers anymore — but also aren’t sure what they are now.

Then he glances up.

“How’d it go?”

I blink. “My project?”

He nods.

I smile — slow, wide, real.

“She said it was worth looking at.”

His eyes widen — just slightly. “Ms. Kim said that?”

I nod. “With words. Full sentence. I swear the class stopped breathing.”

He huffs — not a laugh exactly, but close.

“You earned that,” he says.

“You helped.”

“You did most of it.”

“But you sat next to me and helped me.”

He doesn’t answer, just takes another bite and stares out the window like it says something profound.

We talk after that.

Not about anything major — just little things. About his friends like Jisung’s hoodie addiction. Haechan’s current gaming obsession. A professor who talks like he’s narrating a cooking show. My next design concept. His next canvas.

And somewhere in the middle of it — between shared silence and sandwich crumbs — I think:

We’re really friends now.

It’s not a big moment. No fireworks. Just… him. Here. Sitting across from me like it’s not a surprise anymore.

He finishes his sandwich, wipes his hands, and stands.

I start gathering my things too, expecting a goodbye, maybe a nod, but then—

“Hey.”

I glance up.

He holds out his phone.

“Give me your number.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“Just in case you randomly decide to buy me lunch again.”

I grin, trying not to look as giddy as I feel.

I take his phone, type in my number, and hand it back.

He taps something into his screen, then looks up.

“You’ll get a text.”

“From you?” I tease.

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“Too late.”

He walks off with that usual calm, quiet energy — like he’s already halfway back in his head, probably thinking about brushstrokes and color palettes and why he let me into his life at all.

And me?

I sit back down. Smile at the table.

And wait for the text.

___

His POV:

I don’t remember agreeing to this.

The seminar, I mean.

I don’t usually go to them unless I’m forced. I especially don’t go with people. And yet—

Here I am.

Walking across campus beside her.

Y/N.

In boots that click like entrance music, carrying a glittery notebook, and talking at a speed that suggests she had at least two iced lattes this morning.

The worst part?

I’m not even annoyed.

I should be. A month and a half ago, she destroyed my painting with rhinestones and a Starbucks spill. Now she’s... everywhere.

Everywhere.

She’s joined me to three different gallery talks, two cafe-study sessions (I didn’t study), one accidental group lunch, and now this art seminar about “visual language in transitional spaces,” whatever that means.

I glance sideways.

She’s mid-sentence.

“—and I told him, no, I’m not adjusting the silhouette again, it’s meant to look asymmetrical—like, that’s the point, it’s intentional tension, not a mistake—anyway, I just needed to vent. You get it, right?”

I nod. I don’t get it. But I nod.

She continues, undeterred.

“And then I found the dress. The one I’ve been stalking online for three weeks. And they restocked it for like, five minutes. And I got it. And also—look—” she swings her bag around like it’s an award. “New Fendi. Finally came in.”

I blink. “You named your bag?”

“No,” she says, scandalized. “Fendi is the brand, Renjun.”

“Sounds like a pharmaceutical.”

She shoves my arm gently, which for her is the equivalent of silence and reverence.

And I realize—

Somehow, without my permission, she’s become a fixture in my life.

She brings me food between classes. My usual coffee without asking. She shows up in the art room just to sit beside me while I work. Sometimes she talks the whole time. Sometimes she doesn’t.

But she always shows up.

And I… let her.

God.

I even notice when she’s not around. Which is worse.

My friends love her. Like, actually like her. Even Lit Queen tolerates her. And that’s saying something, considering she once said “I don’t do small talk or small people.”

Y/N’s somehow neither.

She compliments everyone. Remembers everyone. Once she told Jisung she liked the way his hoodie matched his phone case and he almost cried. She brought Jaemin a weird indie lip balm because she said “your smile should have a brand.” It smells like cake and regret.

Haechan said it makes Jaemin's lips look like “greasy chicken skin.” Jaemin says it’s divine and refuses to share.

And now—now we’re walking together to this stupid seminar and every five steps I have to stop.

Because she talks to everyone.

“Hi Chloe—cute boots! Oh, Mia—love your new hair! Professor Kim, how’s your cat?!”

I stand next to her like an awkward bouncer while she spreads sunshine like a walking PR campaign.

And apparently... the campus has noticed.

I’ve heard the whispers.

“Are they dating?”

“No, they’re just friends.”

“Are you sure? I saw her bring him coffee twice.”

“He doesn’t even talk to anyone else that much.”

“Is she blackmailing him?”

Honestly, not the worst theory.

We finally reach the building.

She pulls open the door and pauses dramatically, halfway inside, eyes sparkling.

“Oh! Karina and I are having a party tomorrow night. Our place. You should come. Bring your friends. And please—please ask Lit Queen. I need to know how she and Mark got together. Like, was it hate-to-love? Was there a book involved? Did he quote Shakespeare?”

I stare at her.

“Do you just decide to adopt people?”

She shrugs. “No. They just end up being where I am.”

“Terrifying.”

“Inviting,” she corrects. “So you’re coming?”

“I hate parties.”

“I’ll have your drink ready.”

Pause.

She’s looking at me with that expression she does — not pushy. Just... expectant. Like she knows I’ll say yes eventually.

And I hate that she’s right.

“Fine,” I mutter.

She beams.

Like the sun just got upgraded.

“I’ll text you the time,” she chirps, and disappears into the seminar room like she owns it.

And me?

I follow.

I don’t know what we are.

But I know she’s here.

And for some reason, I’m still following.

His POV:

The first thing I notice when we get to her place is that it smells like expensive candles and something aggressively fruity.

The second thing is that I’m not getting out of this party alive.

Haechan's already halfway to the door before we even ring the bell. Jaemin’s holding a bottle of something suspicious and whispering about “party energy.” Jisung looks like he’s being marched to his own execution. Chenle’s wearing sunglasses like it’s not 8 p.m. and dark outside. Jeno is the only normal one, as usual. And Mark’s here, holding Lit Queen’s hand like she’ll bite someone if let loose. She might.

Then the door swings open.

And there she is.

Y/N.

Wearing a dress that sparkles like it was stitched from the concept of confidence itself. Hair perfect, smile wide, bracelets jingling with every excited hand-wave.

“You guys made it!!”

I blink.

Her eyes land on me and narrow. “Even you, Mr. Art Room 3. Shocking.”

Haechan whoops and sweeps past her like he lives here.

Jaemin bows dramatically. “Goddess of Glitter, I am ready for spiritual cleansing.”

Y/N cackles, already dragging them inside. “Drinks in the kitchen! Pizza’s in the back. If anything explodes, it wasn’t me!”

I step through the doorway and immediately get hit with fairy lights, wall collages, and the faint beat of a pop remix from the living room. It’s chaos — warm, curated chaos. Exactly her style.

“Wow,” Jeno mutters, eyes catching on the color-coded bookshelf and the sequin pillows shaped like paint palettes. “It’s like Pinterest had a baby with a design major.”

“It’s like she’s the baby of Pinterest and chaos,” I say.

Lit Queen nods. “Accurate."

___

The party’s alive within minutes.

Mark’s talking poetry with a philosophy major who’s definitely tipsy. Jisung is standing awkwardly near the snack table, eating chips like a survival strategy. Chenle found the aux and is alternating between K-hip hop and lo-fi girl study beats. Haechan and Jaemin are leading a chaotic game of “truth or dare but make it academic” in the living room.

Y/N floats between everyone like a well-dressed hurricane — complimenting shoes, adjusting playlists, fixing a crooked painting on the wall mid-conversation.

She passes me once with a tray of drinks and winks. “Try not to look like you're attending a funeral.”

“This is a funeral,” I reply. “For my social battery.”

She laughs, swats my arm, and disappears again.

___

An hour later, I’ve been forced into a team debate about whether mayonnaise counts as an art medium (it does not), got lectured by Lit Queen about proper citation formatting, and watched Jaemin apply lip balm while saying, “I was born for spotlight.”

Y/N dances between everyone like she’s hosting a talk show. Every time I look up, she’s with someone new — laughing, talking, listening like they’re the only person in the world.

And yet.

I keep noticing her looking at me.

Just a flash. Just a glance. Every now and then.

And then — she’s gone.

Mid-laugh, mid-game, mid-movement — and then nothing.

I frown. Scan the crowd. No glitter. No boots. No loud voice explaining why rhinestones are a form of artistic liberation.

Weird.

I check the kitchen. Nothing.

The hallway. Empty.

I walk upstairs

Her room door’s slightly open. I knock once.

Nothing.

So I push it open.

And there she is.

Not in the room.

But outside.

Sitting on the balcony. Alone. Wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked to her chest, cup still in her hand. Quiet. Still. Like someone turned the volume down on the entire world.

I pause in the doorway.

She doesn’t see me.

Not yet.

And in that moment, I realize something terrifying.

I miss the noise she makes.

I sit beside her.

For a few minutes, we sit with the cold air and the distant hum of bass shaking the floor beneath us. Her eyes flick toward me.

"Did you see Jaemin lip-sync to Britney Spears with a candle as a microphone?"

"Unfortunately."

"He said the lip balm he’s using gave him performance powers. I think he’s high on citrus oil."

I huff. It's almost a laugh. Almost.

She grins. "See? I made you laugh. Put it in the history books."

"Barely."

"Still counts."

Then she goes quiet again. Her fingers toy with the hem of the blanket. Her drink sits untouched.

"It’s weird," she says finally. "How sometimes you can be in a room full of people and still feel like you’re not really in it."

I glance at her.

She's not looking at me. Just out over the railing. Into the dark.

"You were glowing downstairs."

"Yeah," she says softly. "That’s the thing about glowing. It’s usually followed by burning out."

I don't know what to say to that.

So I stay quiet.

And she starts talking.

"My mom once burned a sketchbook of mine," she says. "Not like, metaphorically. She literally threw it into the fireplace. I was eleven. It had these ugly little designs in it that I thought were brilliant. I’d even taped a feather to one page. She didn’t even flip through it. Just... tossed it in. Said I was wasting my time."

I don’t move. I let her keep going.

"She hated everything I made. Dresses, sketches, moodboards. She’d rip the stitches out of pieces I spent hours on. Like, go in with scissors and cut the seams apart while I was sleeping. Then in the morning she’d smile and say, ‘Doctors don’t play with fabric.’"

She laughs, but it’s breathy. Hollow.

"When I got accepted here, she didn’t say congratulations. She said, ‘What a waste of a good brain.’ Like choosing art meant I threw the rest of myself away."

I glance at her. She’s still staring ahead.

"I only ever knew about my dad because I found a locked trunk in the attic when I was twelve. She never talked about him. Just said he was a dreamer who died broke. But the trunk was full of canvases. Paintings he made. Some signed, some not. All of them tucked away like they were secrets."

She swallows.

"When I moved here, I asked the landlord if I could convert the storage closet behind my bedroom. He said no at first. Then I made him a jacket. He changed his mind."

That gets a ghost of a smile out of her.

"I turned it into a store space. Painted the walls. Hung some of Dad’s pieces. Added my own things. It's small. Just enough for a rack and a table. But it's mine. And no one can burn it."

She finally turns to me.

"Wanna see his work?"

My chest tightens. I nod.

She leads me inside, barefoot and quiet. Pulls the closet door open.

And suddenly, I'm standing in a space that feels like someone’s memory made real.

Soft lights. Wooden easels. Her designs hanging beside oil landscapes that hum with warmth. Color everywhere. Sketchbooks. Fabric rolls. A stool in the corner, paint-smeared.

Her world. His, too.

She watches me.

And I say the only thing I can.

"It’s beautiful."

She smiles. Eyes glassy. Shoulders soft.

"Thanks. I think he’d like that you said that."

And I think — somehow, without asking, she just handed me a part of her heart.

Her POV:

It’s not even 9 a.m., and I already feel behind.

The sewing lab’s closed for fumigation (yes, really), my professor’s email was vaguely threatening, and I have exactly one Red Bull left in my fridge.

So when I step outside, arms full of coffee, bag, sketchbook, backup sketchbook, and three stray bobbins that somehow made it into my hoodie pocket — I do not expect to see him.

Renjun.

Just—there.

Standing by the design building like some ghost boy summoned by oat milk and quiet tension. Yellow shirt. Pale jeans. Hair fluffy from the wind. And in his hand?

A coffee cup.

My coffee order.

I actually stop walking. Blink. Check the sky for signs of end times. Nothing.

He notices. Of course he does. Renjun notices everything.

His hand extends wordlessly.

“Vanilla oat, no foam.”

I take it slowly, cautiously. Like it might explode into paint splatters.

“You… brought this for me?”

“I needed your help,” he says.

Flat. Casual. Like it’s not the first time he’s ever come to me. Like this isn’t already rearranging the furniture in my ribcage.

“That’s why I’m here,” he adds. “No other reason.”

Right.

Cool. Fine. Completely expected and definitely not disappointing in a weird, slow-burning way that tastes like too much foam on a latte.

I nod. Sip. It’s perfect.

Of course it is.

We start walking. No destination announced. No questions asked.

We just… fall into step.

Like this is a normal thing now.

Him and me. Morning air. Shared silence. The click of my boots and the occasional slosh of coffee between us.

And somehow — somehow — I like it.

___

We reach the edge of the parking lot behind the art building. The early sun catches on metal, bouncing off the roof of a white SUV. It’s too nice to be a student’s. Too clean to be coincidence.

Renjun angles toward it like it’s his destiny.

I squint.

There’s movement in the back seat. Small. Shifting.

I step closer.

There’s a kid.

Tiny. Curled up in the backseat like a rolled-up hoodie with legs. He’s got those squishy cheeks and sleepy eyes only toddlers can pull off without being judged.

I glance at Renjun. “Um. Explain?”

He opens the door like this is normal Tuesday behavior.

“That’s Haoran,” he says. “My cousin’s son.”

Haoran.

Of course he has a cute name. And a cuter face. And impossibly tiny sneakers with cartoon bears on the sides.

“We’re going to the amusement park,” Renjun adds, tossing his bag in like he didn’t just drop a full narrative twist on my morning.

“We?” I repeat, horrified.

“You, me, and him.”

I stare. Blink. Sip my coffee because it’s the only thing making sense right now.

“So this—” I gesture violently to the cup in my hand, “was a bribe?!”

Renjun doesn’t even blink. Just sips his drink and gives me a smug little half-smile.

“Obviously. What else did you think?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Curse him softly in five languages.

But I still get in the car.

Because I’m weak. Because he brought my favorite drink. Because there's a kid involved and he’s already peeking at me from under his hood like he’s assessing whether I’m cool or not.

Because… I want to go.

___

The amusement park is small.

It’s not Disney. Not even close.

More like faded pastel signs and popcorn carts and the smell of artificial cheese in the air. But there’s a charm to it — retro, familiar, like an old photograph someone tried to color in.

Haoran immediately demands cotton candy.

Renjun tries to reason with him. Fails. I buy it.

And that’s how I become the favorite.

The very obvious favorite.

Haoran walks between us at first — holding my hand like it’s policy, and Renjun’s like it’s emergency backup. But halfway to the mini bumper cars, he lets go of Renjun entirely and full-body leans into me like I’m his designated sidekick.

I glance at Renjun, smug. He glares at me over the kid’s head.

I grin.

____

The morning is all soft chaos.

Teacup rides. Carousel spins. Mini trains that go in literal circles and make choo-choo noises that are both adorable and soul-crushing.

Haoran screams in delight. Renjun flinches every time.

There’s a boat ride that moves at the speed of trauma healing and a mirror maze that Renjun refuses to enter because he once got lost in one as a kid and was “psychologically damaged for life.”

(I call him dramatic. He calls me annoying. Haoran calls me “cool.” I win.)

___

At lunch, we sit on a patch of shaded grass, fries in a cardboard tray between us.

Haoran munches like he’s never eaten before, ketchup on his nose, crumbs on his hoodie. Renjun wipes it off gently, like it’s a reflex.

And for a second — just a second — my chest does something weird.

It pulls.

Not in the panic-attack way. Not even in the crush way.

More like… a realization.

That I like this.

This weird little trio. This quiet, surprisingly soft version of Renjun who lets a tiny human sit on his lap and insists he eat all the fries with the bent ends. This kid who clings to me like I’ve always been part of his story.

____

Later, Haoran makes us go on the flying elephants.

He sits between us — one tiny hand on each of our legs. We rise into the air, slowly, like we’re ascending into a dream.

Renjun’s expression is unreadable. I’m grinning like a child.

Halfway up, Haoran tugs on my sleeve.

“You make Junjun laugh,” he whispers.

I blink. “I do?”

He nods, completely serious.

“Junjun never laughs when it’s just him.”

I look at Renjun.

He looks away.

My heart is definitely doing something now.

____

By the time we get back to the car, Haoran is barely upright. He climbs into the back seat, curls into a warm, sleepy ball, and leans his head on my arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I freeze.

Renjun glances back once. Then leans the seat back slightly and hands me a folded hoodie to tuck behind Haoran’s head.

“You’re good with him,” I whisper.

Renjun shrugs, staring out the windshield. “He’s easy to like.”

“He’s like you,” I say without thinking. “Grumpy. Quiet. Secretly sweet.”

He hums. Doesn’t deny it.

And then—

I glance down at Haoran. His breathing is slow. Even.

“I’ve never been to an amusement park before.”

Renjun turns to me. Frowns.

“Seriously?”

I nod. “My mom didn’t believe in distractions. She said fun was a privilege.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just… watches me.

Like he’s trying to understand every version of me that led to this one.

And then, softly:

“I’m glad your first time was with us.”

With us.

Not me. Not him.

Us.

And that’s when I realize:

I’m not just falling for Renjun.

I already have.

Author's note:

And that’s Part 1 of Color Me Stupid — a story where iced coffee ends lives, rhinestones commit war crimes, and romantic tension is painted in 67 shades of emotional repression.

Part 2 is coming soon — after I recover from the emotional damage I caused myself while writing this.

Also — no, I’m not a fashion or art major. If something doesn’t make sense, just nod and pretend it was artsy and metaphorical. That’s what I’m doing too.

Stay tuned. Hydrate. Flirt with caution. And maybe don’t storm into an art room like you’re the main character... unless you are.

[medeaft]

OC Deep Dive: Kai

Tagged by @porcelainseashore and @essie-essex. Thank you! <3

I have decided to do this with Kai (mine, not Porcelain's, of course), who is the Tremere Sire of my Bloodlines self-insert, and who was executed not nearly as permanently as some would expect (but that's a story for another day). I don't feel quite right calling it a deep dive, it's hardly that, but they are interesting questions, even if it does not nearly describe him wholly; and since this is apparently the name of this ask game, I'll leave the title as it is.

The picture is a portrait of him I painted earlier, it links back to the original post. I'll put the questions and answers under the cut, since it's long.

. ⋆ ˖ ⁺‧ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽˖⁺✩⋆◯⋆✩⁺˖☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ‧⁺ ˖ ⋆ .

What common/uncommon fear do they have?

He actually doesn't have many; not ones that stick around at least. To be sure, he'll be afraid when he can see a bad outcome threatening; but that will pass as the situation is handled. He is prone to worrying about his loved ones however, and his Sire, Emmeline, might be the one he worries about with the greatest frequency.

Do they have any pet peeves?

He has very little patience with intrigue. Especially people trying to get his cooperation in conspiracies without telling him the truth of what they are trying to involve him in. If anyone comes to him saying something like "there is no need to tell [trusted ally] this, it doesn't merit their attention/would only worry them/they already know", he agrees to nothing and immediately makes sure to tell [trusted ally] all of it first thing, even if he doesn't understand what they actually wanted and doesn't personally see the harm in it. There probably was going to be harm in it somehow. He's not here for the conspiracies, he's here for the magical studies, which are a much better use of both cloak and dagger.

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?

3 items? There are 3 000 000 items in his bedroom, and you can't find even one of them… Only he knows where he ever put anything, but he remembers exactly. These include, selected for no particular importance:

A Rubik's cube

A compass (the orientation kind)

A compass (the drawing kind)

What do they notice first in a person?

Behaviours; to wit, in context rather than by themselves. (Sitting on a bench at a train station and looking upward at the arrivals-departures display, sitting on a bench at a park and looking upward at the swaying flowering branches, and sitting on a bench in front of a house and looking upward at the lit windows are distinctly different behaviours.)

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?

4. He'll get through it if he has to, but he is very aware of the function of pain as a warning of something that should not be that way, and he will not make it a point of pride to needlessly go through harmful things, he will remove himself at his earliest convenience.

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? (or freeze and fawn)

Flight. That's not a permanent solution though. He might not articulate it this way (unless he is asked), but he is aware that if someone is engaging him unexpectedly (whether that be openly framed as a battle or not), that makes it a battleground that the other chose, and that consequently favours them, even if he doesn't know yet why; this fact informs his instinct that if there is any uncertainty, he would rather remove himself and choose a different time and battleground of his own liking, one where his opponent is the one surprised and, if possible, at a disadvantage.

What animal represents them best?

From an outside perspective, a cat. He looks attractive, non-threatening, charming even, socially presentable to have around; but you'll eventually find him doing atrocities, and he won't feel even a little bit bad about them; and then he'll rest peacefully sitting in weird positions, possibly draped across his friends' laps. A lot more loyal than many expect, because he's simply not very hierarchical about his loyalties. Also enjoys his hair being petted, but naturally only those he is close to are aware of (or have permission to do) this. From his own perspective, a scorpion. He likes them and thinks they are cool, and if he had a different form, he would want it to be a scorpion.

How would a stranger likely describe them?

Cute young guy, friendly, probably into metal, what with the symbols and the piercings. A bit creepy, but probably harmless.

Do they have any hobbies?

Reading comic books and watching television are certainly hobbies he has. He also likes puzzles he can solve by manipulating objects physically (the Rubik's cube is a good example here, but there are many others). He doesn't consider learning new things to be a hobby; as a Tremere, that's his main vocation and goal in unlife.

. ⋆ ˖ ⁺‧ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽˖⁺✩⋆◯⋆✩⁺˖☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ‧⁺ ˖ ⋆ .

I had to redo this because there was something wrong with the post originally. Sorry about that to anyone who sees it twice.

Tagging @master-of-shenanigans, for when you are ready to return; @viiihouse; @ridiculus-mus (I know you do too have characters you wrote, they don't have to be VtM ones! I want to know more about them!! :D), and tagging back @porcelainseashore in the hopes that you do this with more characters!

[eydilily]

would you bite the hand that feeds you?

[noodles-and-tea]

For the twins in time AU, I genuinely wonder what kind of people the young twins grow up into because of Stan’s/Ford’s influence. Especially if it takes years for the portal to get fixed.

(Sorry if it seems like I already sent this question, I don’t know if it got sent the first time I asked)

I haven’t fully fleshed out how Ford grows up in the past but I do have thoughts on Stan presently

[canisalbus]

So i remember an ask mentioning your mortal enemy, Felis Atra and their cats, and i thought it'd be fun to draw what Felis Atra's version of your italian dogs would be.

I think they would be called Butter Knife and Flamengo! Butter Knife is not his real name, it's an nickname given by his peers because of how harmless he is. I choose Flamengo because that's the name of Vasco's rival football team here in Brazil, so i thought that was the perfect name :)

Cat Machete was slightly inspired by the Oriental Shorthair cat because of their long noses and thin head shape.

Cat Vasco was inspired by the Scottish Fold cat, because FLOPPY EARS. I gave Flamengo longer ears and orange fur to make him more like his look-alike.

The last doodle is a reference to this ask (https://canisalbus.tumblr.com/post/728923918314946560/me-i-am-machete-ear-fan-number-1-those-ears) and contains the tumblr ask stand-in dog, whose cat version was inspired by the American Curl cat! They have round ears that are slightly floppy outwards.

Final notes: I know cardinal clothes don't come in vibrant blue, but i was ADAMANT on switching Machete's and Vasco's clothing color patterns. I would draw the rest of Butter Knife's and Flamengo's clothes, but i suck at designing cool outfits.

Speaking of outfits, for Machete's iconic void outfit, i figured it would be fun to make it more baggy for Butter Knife, in contrast to Machete's, that looks very tight-fitted. I think it's cute, it kinda looks like a sweater. Also i can't imagine a Machete doppelganger without high heels boots, so those HAD to stay.

Oh, and just to be clear, i'm not like, claiming ownership of these guys or anything. I just thought it would be a fun exercise. Hope you like them!! I love your art and your characters.

.

[leek-e]

My drawing of the kids of Stugo :) I’ve only seen the first episode but it was very fun. My favourite character so far is Merian <3 she is so funny, I love her massive blazer and highly strung nature.

[closedrop]

Hi guys I hope you like Lemres

An extra I made of me crying about him and then him being okay

[medeaft]

Six Song Soundtrack Game - Medea of Angelopolis

Tagged by @porcelainseashore. I'm a bit shy and feel strange answering this as essentially myself, because my Bloodlines PC is just myself but in a different world; but I asked what character I was intended to answer this for, and that is who I am answering it with; it is now officially referred to in my tags as Medea of Angelopolis (so named to differentiate it from my real-life existence). I'm going to put it after a read-more, because this will get long. Pictures are mine: [x][x][x]

. ⋆ ˖ ⁺‧ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽˖⁺✩⋆◯⋆✩⁺˖☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ‧⁺ ˖ ⋆ .

Rules: If you're tagged, make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following… (I also added explanations in parentheses. That's not in the rules.)

1. Event that defines your character's past: Omega - Gonosz város

Translation of the lyrics for the benefit of English speakers:

Behind the walls, a million human-faced machines Grey night above concrete towers The dance is wilder and wilder around the golden-yellow idol But the captives all have chains on their souls

You will never escape anyway The evil city keeps you captive forever Go on, rebel, you won't succeed The smoke, the light, the noise dazes you You can't escape the city anyway The evil city keeps you captive forever

Every night they topple the statue of the fallen hero And paint over it the name of the new god False prophets speak of a better tomorrow They already forgot about yesterday

You will never escape anyway The evil city keeps you captive forever Go on, rebel, you won't succeed The smoke, the light, the noise dazes you You can't escape the city anyway The evil city keeps you captive forever

(Being human has not been a tolerable state for it. It finds spaces built for humans to cause sensory suffering, and a life intended for humans to be infeasible, hopeless and pointless for a creature like it.)

2. How your character sees themselves: Kaszás Attila, Szinetár Dóra - Holdbéli csónakos

Translation of a relevant section of the lyrics for the benefit of English speakers:

Boatman of the Moon, my eternal beloved, Take me up in your golden boat, I have suffered much, I have become so weary, I have watered the dark forest with my tears, I have cried enough in the dust of the Earth, Embrace me in the pure Moon, The one I long for lives not on this Earth, Boatman of the Moon, be my love!

(I could just leave this one without elaboration. But to be slightly less literal, it has always seen itself as belonging in the eternal night.)

3. How others view them: Inkubus Sukkubus - The Beast In Us All

(While everyone feels differently about this fact, the common - not inaccurate - perception seems to be to wonder how this thing is even still in the Camarilla at all.)

4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic): Enya - Fallen embers (This one is for Strauss, home of its heart; that is where it finds rest, and that is who it thinks of when it feels lost.)

5. A major fight scene: Omega - Holló

Translation of a relevant section of the lyrics for the benefit of English speakers:

The messenger of the night has come, I have a companion. The messenger of the night has come, Let me see! Circles of fire in its eyes, I know who sent it, The black messenger. […] "There is no barrier that can hold you, You can transcend the human. Will you be a monster or a victim? You are free to choose for yourself. Nothing else, no third option. The night will teach you what to choose."

(This one is for Andrei: the fight it never wanted to have, the voice it wanted to listen to pulling it in a direction its own heart had always been pulling it. Things will get better, they will not always be adversaries; but they are a strangely friendly sort of adversaries at first.)

6. End credits song: Rammstein - Haifisch

(I'm not translating this because it bothers me that the play on words won't come out right in another language. But I included this for Clan and family and belonging. Also, "and we keep the rules when we get to rule." Unlike certain awful Ventrue with a fondness for funerary artifacts and omnipresent golden curlicues whom one could name.)

. ⋆ ˖ ⁺‧ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽˖⁺✩⋆◯⋆✩⁺˖☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ ‧⁺ ˖ ⋆ .

I tag @master-of-shenanigans, @viiihouse, and @supermauswithagun!

[quartzitess]

Repost.

Lots of text and ramble in tags.

(Sadly tags are not enough to express how I feel on this. So I'll try and maybe add more in a reblog tomorrow.)

[harmoniouseclipse]

Designing some kaejean keychains for fun!! They are gripping me