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puck-luck · 25 days ago

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hallmates | quinn hughes

warnings: voyeuristic themes (thin walls), masturbation (fem), dirty talk, wet dreams, drunkenness, quinn pining but barely, garland mentioned before i found out he followed trump and tucker carlson on instagram..., PROTECTED p in v (for once), the smut in this is not as strong as previous pieces of mine, use of Y/N. pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader summary: when fem!reader moves in next to qh, there are two instances where she forgets just how thin the walls are. the second time, quinn is sure to remind her. wc: 5746

Your first grown-up job out of college has been great. You like your coworkers, you’re not bored with your daily tasks, and they gave you a very generous relocation package for your move to Vancouver. You were lucky enough to find a nice apartment with the money, and you paid the first three months’ rent easily. It’s your first one-bedroom apartment, finally living on your own for the first time in your life, and almost everything is perfect.

Almost everything.

Your one gripe is that you can hear your neighbor through the wall when he gets home from his job at weird hours, or when he has friends over during weeknights when you’re trying to prepare for work the following day, or even when he hosts holiday parties for what sounds like fifty-plus people.

It happens often enough that you’re annoyed when his presence makes itself known, but you’re not the kind of person to go over and tell him to knock it off. Plus, you decided that you’d give him a pass because it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose.

Well, that, and he’s cute.

The first time you met was on move-in day. You were lugging your suitcases up the stairs leading to the apartment and he offered to help you carry them in. He took them both– one in each hand– and lifted them like they were nothing. He brought them all the way to the lobby, then smiled softly at you instead of saying “You’re welcome” when you thanked him. You had to talk to the security guard to get your key before ascending up to your floor in the elevator, and in that time, the cute boy had disappeared. You hadn’t caught his name, but you had texted your best friends and informed them that there was at least one hottie in your building.

You learned his name the second time he helped you carry something up the stairs. You had gone grocery shopping at the market down the street and had conveniently forgotten your reusable bags. Before you realized your mistake, you had gone a little crazy with the fruits and vegetables. You’d had to pack all of your goodies into two bursting paper bags that one of the vendors had on hand, and they were filled to the brim. You made it all the way to the bottom of the steps to your apartment when the handles of the bags tore off and all of your hard work was suddenly for naught.

The bags went crashing to the pavement, dirty and littered with the fallen leaves that hadn’t been corralled when they first made their way to the ground, and the prized red onion that you were going to chop up tonight as part of your dinner rolled about a foot away.

All in all, you should’ve been glad it was the onion. You always peel the skin off of an onion before you cook it, and you always wash it thoroughly before cutting it up, but you reacted like it was the end of the world. Your prized onion was tarnished by the ground, which was silly, because they come from the ground in the first place.

The onion rolled all the way to your neighbor’s feet. He was arriving home with a friend, a short brunet with floppy hair and a mustache. “You okay?” Your neighbor asked. He picked up the onion and cradled it in his palm.

“I’m fine,” you replied. “Just not sure how I’m going to carry all of this upstairs without the handles.”

“We’ll help out. You live next to Huggy, right?” The friend said, bending down to lift one of the bags. He cradles it in his arms and your neighbor does the same.

“Huggy?” You asked, furrowing your eyebrows.

Your neighbor, in the meanwhile, had blushed beet-red and stooped down to pick up the other bag of groceries. “That’s me. It’s a nickname.”

“Huggy Bear,” his friend cooed, bumping his arm and knocking your neighbor off balance.

“It’s Quinn. My name. You can call me Quinn,” your neighbor said, diverting your attention from the silly nickname.

“How do you know which apartment I live in, Quinn?” You questioned. You walked alongside the men as they took your groceries up the stairs, into the elevator, and into your apartment.

Quinn had cut his friend off by replying first. “Moving in makes a lot of noise. I live next door and we share a wall. You weren’t really quiet when you built your bed. I’m glad you have somewhere to sleep, but I could live without the expletives.” He reveals the information with a smile, the same slight curve of his lips that you’re starting to really admire.

That was that. They dropped the groceries off on your kitchen counter and you thanked them for the help, then sent them on their way.

The third time you saw Quinn– well, it started this whole mess. He’s been nice to you twice, so you thought you would repay him with the best thing you could think of: brownies. You’d just gotten the recipe from your aunt to make them from scratch and, hey, he’s a guy, right? Guys like baked goods.

The quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Not that you’re trying to get to Quinn’s heart. You wouldn’t mind it, but you’re not… trying.

Thirty minutes later, you’re knocking on Quinn’s door with a plate of brownies. Half of your goods are on the platter, ready for Quinn to dig into. The rest are on your counter, their yummy scent rising in waves from them like in a cartoon and waiting for you to return.

You only know that he’s home because you can hear him through the wall. After he told you that the walls were thin, you’d been noticing the same thing. It wasn’t just when he gets home or when he has people over. You can hear him moving around and cooking throughout the day. You can hear his sports channels through the wall– yes, that’s right, channels. Multiple. You’re not sure, but he might have two or even three TVs.

Long story short, Quinn’s home. It takes him a few minutes to come to the door when you knock. “Who is it?” He asks, voice muffled through the door.

“Your friendly next door neighbor,” you reply. “With a plate of fresh brownies.”

The lock slides open and Quinn appears from behind the door. You hold the plate out to Quinn and he takes it from you with one hand. The other rests above his head on the doorframe. He leans over you, smiling softly.

Suddenly, you don’t know what to say. You don’t know where you were going with this. Your eyes are drawn to his neck, which looks muscular and, well, biteable.

“Enjoy the brownies,” you squeak out, then you turn on your heel and bolt away.

Like any normal woman who is shocked by her sudden visceral attraction to her admittedly-hot next door neighbor, you call your best friend. She talks you through it for a little while, then starts to stray into enemy territory: “Go out, Y/N. Get your mind off of it. Have a drink, get a little tipsy, then go over to his place and tell him how hot you think he is. You’ve never heard a girl’s voice, right? I feel like you would’ve, if he has a girlfriend. The worst he can say is that he’s not interested.”

When you try to weasel out of it, speaking in low tones so that Quinn doesn't hear you through the wall, she reminds you that your resolution for this “new stage of your life” was to stop being so anxious about what someone could say to you. You had declared that you wouldn’t let your own anxiety affect your ability to be vulnerable, especially not with the people that you find attractive.

Damn your best friend. How dare she look out for you. She even promises to call you in four hours to check in on your drunkenness.

You make plans with the girl in your office that you’ve been taking lunch with. She’s also new– not compared to you, but within the past year. She remembers what it was like to be brand new to Vancouver, so she’s eager to go out with you and offer up her friendship. She takes you to two bars in the downtown area: when the first one gets too full with what she calls “the sport crowd,” you move to the next.

Your coworker’s favorite liquor is tequila. After three shots, which make you cringe despite filling your stomach with warmth, she pulls your troubles out of you. You tell her all about your “sexy” roommate– that’s right, Quinn has been upgraded from “hot” to “sexy” as a result of the alcohol– and she encourages you to try and bag him, just like your best friend did. She agrees that there’s no reason not to and that you should be fine because you’ve been bolstered by the tequila.

She tells you about the person she’s currently seeing and how confusing it is, rambling on and on. When the time comes, and you’re still out, your best friend does call. You talk to her for a second, then she meets your coworker through speakerphone, and they bond over the fact that they both think you should hook up with Quinn.

You party into the night, getting more and more loopy. Your confidence skyrockets by the end of the evening and your drinks are tasting like water. You’re probably too far gone to actually talk to Quinn tonight, but who cares? You feel good. You needed a night out like this.

By the time you’re getting in the Uber, there’s a goofy smile that hasn’t left your face since maybe your fifth drink. You’re able to stumble up the stairs to the lobby and gleefully greet the nighttime security guard at his desk, then you ride the elevator up to your floor. You look up and see yourself in the mirrors on the ceiling of the elevator, which is a treat for Drunk-You. It’s almost a shame when the elevator dings, having finally reached your floor, and you have to leave.

You walk down the hall and consider going up to Quinn’s door, but your phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out. It’s the newly minted group chat between you, your coworker, and your bestie. It distracts you, and the clock in the top left corner informs you that you’ve gotten home at a crisp 1:30am, so you decide to go to bed.

You go to bed, alright. You get ready, you get comfy, and then you remember Quinn’s neck.

The skin looked so soft. The hair from his beard had started to creep down towards his adam’s apple, but it was neatly maintained. You can imagine how scratchy it would be in your palms, or against your cheek when he graces you with a little kiss, or against your neck while he sucks hickeys onto your skin… or against the sensitive expanse of your own thighs.

You know just how sensitive and delicate the skin is on your thighs because it’s where your fingers are dancing.

As you drift off, mind still foggy from your drinks, your touch starts to feel much more like you imagine Quinn’s would. His big fingers, on that manly hand, would touch you so carefully. He’d be so determined to play you like a fiddle.

As you imagine your very sexy next door neighbor touching you, you’re making a lot more noise than you realize. It starts with a whimper here and there, then crescendos into actual moans and desperate keens. You’ve shoved your face into the pillow below you, but it does very little to muffle your moans– considering you’re a big fan of breathing, your face is more turned to the side so that you don’t actually suffocate yourself while in the middle of getting off. Your middle two fingers are shoved into your cunt, your index finger erratically sliding against your clit.

“I know, baby, you feel so good. You want it so bad, don’t you?” Quinn’s imaginary and gently deprecating words wash over your brain like an intrusive thought.

You bite your lip and turn into the pillow, pleading with him belligerently into the cushion. You’re fighting for your life in this little fantasy, feeling so overwhelmed, and the man you’re imagining isn’t even here. But, in your mind, he’s the one with his fingers inside of you, making you gasp out his name once when his finger passes over your clit just right. In your mind, he doubles down and turns you into a mess. The drinks clogging your mind are able to make it feel more real.

You’re so caught up in your own pleasure that you forget just how thin the walls are. You miss the sound of your neighbor tossing and turning in his bed, even standing at one point and pacing around his bedroom.

It’s only after you come that you hear his bedframe creak with the weight of his body and the faint music that he seems to be playing– maybe just as white noise to fall asleep. You write it off and succumb to the clawing hands of your own slumber.

You see Quinn again the next day. You’re heading to work with a heavy hangover weighing on you– why did you listen to your best friend when she told you to go out on a Sunday? Why did you listen to your coworker when she brought out the second and third round of shots?– and Quinn seems to be heading to his own job. You still don’t know what that is.

You meet him in front of the elevator, waiting for its doors to open and let you in. You’re honestly not sure if the movement will make you feel more sick, or even push you over the edge and make you dizzy and on the verge of throwing up, like getting out of bed did when you woke up later than you meant to and you had to rush to get ready. Everything is too bright.

Quinn yawns three times in two minutes. You’re the only two in the elevator and the silence is growing more uncomfortable than the ache in your head, since you consider Quinn to be your… friend now? General acquaintance, distant crush, or next-door neighbor might be a better categorization.

“Long night?” You ask.

His cheeks turn pink, bizarrely, and Quinn seems determined to face straight forward. His eyes look a little more deer-in-headlights today, rather than the calm and serene blankness that you’re used to. Not that you’re used to looking into Quinn’s eyes. “Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you apologize, feeling for him. You’ve been the victim of a restless night many times over, so you know how dreadful it is the following day. “Do you know why?”

Quinn swallows harshly. “Um, I have an idea.”

It’s a weird answer, only because he doesn’t elaborate any further. You keep waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. That is, until the elevator arrives in the parking garage under the complex, when Quinn starts to head one way towards his car and you start to go the other way to your own. To make things even more confusing, Quinn says in a very stilted voice, “Thanks for the brownies.”

Then, like you did when you dropped the brownies off the previous day, he bolts.

At first, you’re confused, but you let it go. Maybe he was late for work. At least he took the time out of his day to thank you for the brownies, right?

You consider gifting him some of your sleepy-time tea, since he was having trouble sleeping and it’s clearly affecting him. Then you think to yourself that if you kept bringing Quinn treats, you would seem like a cat dropping a mouse at their owners’ feet… so you decide not to.

You feel vindicated with your choice in the coming days. Each time Quinn sees you, his eyes go wide and he scampers away as quickly as he can. It proves itself to be very confusing because he was so nice before.

After a tough week at work, and another near-miss with Quinn, you’re just… tired. It’s been a weird few days. What you really want is to snuggle up in your bed, throw on some ambient music, drink a glass of wine, light a candle, and fall asleep early– after blowing out your candle, of course. You’d be damned if you were the reason the entire apartment burned down in the middle of the night.

You’re lucky enough that your plans for the night work out. You get to settle in with a book– a spicy romance novel that your coworker recommended to “take the edge off if you won’t knock on Quinn’s damn door.” She seems to think that the reason you’re having a bad week is because you haven’t hooked up with Quinn yet. You don’t think there’s any correlation.

There does seem to be a correlation between the spicy book, the mention of Quinn, and what happens later. You fell asleep with your book open against your chest, having been lulled to sleep by the comfort of your own home.

It starts simple. Quinn’s lips are sliding against yours, his hand resting securely on your waist. You’re laying in bed and you’ve got a thigh over his hip, grinding into his generous length. Before you know it, and in dream-land it seems like a flash, Quinn’s length is inside of you. He’s got a thumb on your clit while the other plays with your hair, sweet kisses gracing your lips. Quinn’s content teasing you, thrusting as shallowly as he wants and leaving you whining for more.

“Quinn,” dream-you insists between kisses.

“Not enough for you, sweetheart?” dream-Quinn chides playfully, his voice riddled with fondness. “You weren’t even supposed to take my cock tonight. But no, you just had to be full. You couldn’t be content with warming me either, huh? You need me to fuck you whenever you want. Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Quinn, I need you,” you confirm, whining a little bit and pursing your lips so he finds them again.

“Music to my ears,” Quinn tells you with a smile. “Let me make you come, yeah?”

“Quinn,” you moan again, his touch reducing you to a mess that can only say one word: his name.

You wake to a loud knock on your apartment door. “Y/N!” The person calls, and it sounds like a man, which alarms you in your freshly awoken state.

You roll out of bed and tug on your bathrobe, which you had thrown in the dryer during your first stint in bed, the one that had sent you into sleep. And– and– had sparked that weird dream that has you wet in your panties and wishing Quinn had been there when you woke up.

You tie the belt of the robe around your waist and look through the peephole– it is Quinn. Your wish came true, in a bizarre way. He’s here and he looks concerned. He’s lifting his hand to knock again, but you open the door.

“Quinn, what’s–”

“Are you okay?” He asks. He’s wearing sweatpants and an undershirt, as well as his tennis shoes. He probably just slipped those on to come over here. “You were saying my name. I heard you through the wall. You said you needed me. Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

The barrage of questions leaves you rattled. You blink in surprise, trying to process all of his inquiries. “What?” You ask, squeezing your eyes shut hard to try and wipe the sleep away.

“You were saying my name,” Quinn repeats.

You squint, crossing your arms over your chest. “I was asleep,” you say, aware of how confused you sound.

“You were asleep,” Quinn repeats. He blinks twice, then repeats himself, sounding more sure. “You were asleep.”

“I was asleep,” you agree.

Quinn goes to leave, then faces you again and tilts his head to the side. “What were you dreaming about?” He asks.

You feel your face flood with embarrassment. You’ve never been good at controlling your expression. “It was nothing.”

“Was I there?” Quinn checks. “Is that why you were saying my name?”

“You were there,” you confirm, hoping it’s enough to satisfy him and he leaves.

Quinn smiles. He looks extra handsome when he smiles. He was smiling at you in your dream. He was doing a lot of good things in your dream. If only you could fall asleep and jump right back in– you were so close and his cock was filling you so well.

“What was I doing in this dream?” Quinn crosses his arms and takes a step closer to you.

You move closer to the door, keeping your hand on the doorknob, ready to slam it behind him as soon as he heads back to his apartment. “I don’t remember,” you lie. “You know, most people forget their dream within ten minutes of waking up.”

Quinn nods, still smirking. “You didn’t forget this one, though, did you?” He teases knowingly.

“Bits and pieces.”

The next thing Quinn says is Earth-shattering.

“Were you dreaming last time, too?”

You wish you could melt into the floor or camouflage yourself against the wall. You had a theory that Quinn had heard you getting off through the wall the night that you were drunk, although you don’t imagine that he understood your wanton noises. That was why he was running away so much.

But… he’s not running away this time. He’s here and he’s pressing you for more and more details.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swallowing hard.

“The last time you were saying my name,” Quinn prompts. “Were you asleep then, too?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

“No, I don’t think so,” You reply, scrubbing over your arms. It’s a sign of being uncomfortable. Hopefully Quinn picks up on that and goes, sparing you any further humiliation. You’ll never talk to him again. He’s heard you make sex noises twice, and now you know that he knows. It’s embarrassing.

Quinn takes another step forward. He’s right in the doorway now, inches away from stepping across the threshold and entering your apartment. “If you have another dream,” he says, pushing his long sleeves up to his elbows and revealing his arms. He dips his head, lowering his voice to a timbre that has you growing damp again. “You know where to find me.”

Like a final stamp of approval on an official document, Quinn touches the knot at the front of your robe. It’s a brief, fleeting touch and it’s so close to where his hands were originally planted in your dream.

He turns to leave and gets all of three steps away before you call him back. “Quinn.”

“Mhm?” He asks, knowing smile on his face.

“How, um… how much did you hear?” You scratch the back of your head awkwardly.

“The first time?” Quinn asks. “Or this time?”

You don’t really want to know the answer, but you nod anyway. “Uh...both?”

“Well,” Quinn says. “Today, you didn’t seem to get very far.”

No thanks to you, you think bitterly. I would’ve liked to see how that dream ended.

“But the first time, I heard everything,” Quinn informs you with a little shrug. “You… you sound really pretty when you come.”

It’s a sheepish admission and it has your jaw dropping. You fishmouth at him for a second, unable to think of something to say. He can just say shit like that? What? How?

“I guess I was hoping…” Quinn licks his lower lip, then looks you up and down. “That if I interrupted you this time, I’d get to… experience the real thing. Not just listen in through the wall.”

“You want…” you trail off, overwhelmed by the information he’s giving you. Quinn wants to have sex with you? But he’s your neighbor crush– this is a new development in the dynamic that you were not expecting. You’re not usually the kind of girl whose little crushes are reciprocated, at least, not like this.

Quinn raises his eyebrows, waiting for you to complete the sentence. When you don’t, he asks another question. “What was I doing in your dream, Y/N?”

“We, um, we were in bed,” you stammer out, feeling unsure. He wants to know– he’s made that very clear. Still, you’re somewhat reluctant. It might be coming off as coyness by accident.

“Can I come in?” Quinn asks. “I need to get the full picture. I don’t know what your bed looks like.”

You stand aside and allow him in. You close, and, out of habit, lock the door behind him. He follows you to your bedroom. You try to see it through his eyes for the first time, although you’ve been living here for a while, so it’s hard. It’s just your bedroom.

“So this is where we were,” Quinn says. “Then what?”

“We were laying down,” you explain.

Quinn starts to take off his shoes, then his socks, then he climbs into your bed. “Like this?”

You feel lightheaded. What is he doing? This is so bizarre.

“Kind of?” You reply. You join him. “It was more like– this?” You pull at his arm until he lays on his side, facing you. You face him, bringing his elbow up so it rests on the pillow.

He asked, you remind yourself. He wants to know. He asked. It’s weird, but you’re just showing him.

You resolutely avoid his eyes, which have been trained on your face this whole time. Your cheeks are probably going to remain stained pink from the constant blush on your skin. You lay your head on the curve of his arm, then touch his cheek. Just his cheek. You’re still avoiding his eyes. It’s getting harder. “And then, um, my leg was over your hip, too.”

“Like this?” Quinn asks, bringing his warm palm to the curve of your knee and guiding your leg into place. He leaves his hand there.

“Like that,” you confirm faintly.

All of your neurons are firing like crazy, making you question if this, too, is a dream. Has your subconscious gotten so meta that you can’t decipher what’s real and what’s fake?

“What else did we do?” Quinn’s voice has dropped to a whisper. His hand is still on your thigh.

“Well, your hand was here,” You say, correcting him and bringing his hand to your waist. “And you…”

Quinn gives your waist a little squeeze. “I… what?”

“You were kissing me,” you say, your voice barely a breath. This can’t be real.

Quinn surprises you. “Good,” he murmurs. “I’ve been waiting to do that.” He leans in, letting his lips ghost over yours before he meets you completely. He’s hesitant, waiting for you to relax with him.

You don’t fully, still confused from waking up and the fact that this happened so quickly and in such a bizarre way. When he pulls away, you voice your confusion. “Are you real?” You question under your breath.

Quinn chuckles, leaning in to kiss you again. “I’m real.”

He continues to kiss you. Over and over, until you finally melt into his touch and start to do exactly what you were doing in your dream– grinding against him.

“Were you doing this in your dream?” Quinn asks. He’s helping guide your movements and you can feel him swelling beneath you. He’s not wearing underwear– you can tell. You want it, bad, and now that you’ve been kissing him, you’re more willing to explain the rest of your dream to him.

“More,” you breathe out. “I needed your cock inside me.”

Quinn makes a noise of surprise, but the way he kisses you after you say that reveals his enthusiasm.

“And you were talking to me,” you reveal as Quinn starts to meet your rolling hips. “You were– you were teasing me for being so needy.”

“What was I saying?” Quinn’s hand twitches against your waist, pulling you closer. He licks into your mouth briefly, then pulls back. “What had you begging for me, sweetheart?”

“Making fun of me,” you exhale. “Saying– I couldn’t get enough of you. That I was greedy and that I couldn’t be satisfied with just warming you–”

“Warming me,” Quinn repeats quietly, interrupting you.

You talk over him. “So you had to fuck me, but you weren’t really fucking me– you were just, inside, barely moving and your thumb was on my clit.”

“As if I could hold myself back like that,” Quinn scoffs. You grab the sides of his shirt and tug petulantly, bringing him in for another kiss. You’re addicted.

“Show me,” you invite. “Show me how you’d fuck me. Show me what you’d do differently. Please. You came all the way over here– I want to make it worth your time.”

Quinn groans into your mouth, bringing his hand from your waist to the tie of your robe. “Really?”

“Don’t make me ask again,” you say. “I was so close in my dream.”

Quinn reacts to that in the same way. “Fuck, let me get my fingers in you first–”

“No.”

“No?” Quinn repeats, pulling away from you.

“Not no,” you correct, bringing your hands to his waistband and snapping the band impatiently. “Just– I want your cock. Just your cock. Please fuck me, Quinn.” You kiss him sweetly one more time. “Please?”

“Undress yourself,” Quinn says. “I want to see all of you.”

“You too,” you reply. “Take your clothes off.”

As you undress, untying the knot of your belt and tossing the robe to the floor of your bedroom, you talk. You take your big t-shirt off, asking, “Condom?”

Quinn digs into the pocket of his sweats, having shed his shirt. He pulls out a foil– just one, sadly– and tosses it to you.

You catch it, tearing the edge of the packet and taking out the ring of plastic inside of it. You push your panties down with one hand, while Quinn loses his sweats. As soon as his cock is revealed to you, hard and pink at the tip, you jump into action. You’re rolling the condom on quickly, unable to help yourself from pumping his shaft a few times.

“Quit,” Quinn remarks, batting your hand away and laying back down. He’s on his side, pulling your thigh back over his hip and resuming the position from before. He puts his hand under your jaw, then guides his cock to your opening. He pushes in, rolling his hips until every single inch is sheathed inside of you. “Fuck, baby. You feel so good.”

“You’re big,” you reply, holding his shoulders and tilting your pelvis forward to encourage him to move. “Filling me so nice, Q.”

“Q,” Quinn echoes, his voice sounding a little strangled. “That’s– that’s nice.”

You wonder if he’s holding back. He always seems to when it comes to talking to you. After a while, maybe he’ll give you something more than his shy words and his hesitant admissions. He’s in your bed now, but he’s still holding back.

He starts to rut against you, finding a rhythm in which his cock slides in and out of your heat. The movement is smooth because you’re so wet from dreaming about him, then kissing him, and now having him inside. Even though there’s the barrier of protection between you, he’s warm and you can feel the way his skin stretches over his veins and his tip. That, combined with the scrape of his member against your fleshy walls, creates something so warm inside of you that you can’t help but ask for more.

Quinn gives you everything you ask for like he can’t imagine doing anything else. Soon enough, he’s holding himself up slightly by his elbow so he has some leverage to fuck into you harder and faster.

You’re moaning, pulling him closer and threading your fingers through his hair. “Quinn,” you’re saying, repeating the word that inspired him to come over in the first place.

He’s saying your name, too. He’s whispering it into your ear and into your mouth as he presses kisses wherever he can reach. He thrusts, he says your name, he kisses. He thrusts again, he says your name again, and he kisses you again. It’s an endless cycle, a perpetual loop. It’s soft and sweet, even though the way he’s fucking you is anything but. His thrusts are sharp and pointed, hitting the right spot inside of you as often as he can.

The kiss to your neck is your undoing. He’s sucking a bit, biting down just barely, and his tongue works against your pulse point. It’s too much, too full of something deeper. You let go, making the noise he likes so much– the noise that he said was pretty, and he meant it, even as bashful as he looked when he said it. Your moan mixes with his name again.

Quinn spills into the condom shortly after, touching you reverently and letting his hips jerk and twitch through his release.

You feel innately close to him, like you’re part of him. It’s bizarre how one hookup with your cute neighbor leaves you feeling satisfied and unsettled– ‘unsettled’ because, well, why would you feel so close to a man you’ve slept with once and only had a few genuine conversations with?

Quinn eases your thoughts by letting you know that he feels, at least, a little bit similar to you.

“Can I take you to dinner?” He asks. “I’m busy most of the time, but I want to take you out. Let’s make time to have a real date.” Quinn pauses. “Unless you don’t want to– if you just want this, that’s okay. I just– I’d feel stupid if I didn’t ask.”

You touch his mouth, effectively silencing him, even though you hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to feel his lips move while he spoke. “I’ll go to dinner with you,” you agree. “If you sleep here tonight.”

Quinn smiles. “Done.”

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shy-urban-hobbit · 1 year ago

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"I'm telling you Geralt, my songs are definitely working."

"A few contracts not skimping on payment isn't proof Jaskier. It's coincidence." Geralt replied as he stuffed his newly purchased supplies into Roach's saddlebag. After two years, he didn't need to look to know the bard was probably doing his uncanny impression of a landed trout. His default expression when he thought himself gravely offended.

"Oh hoho. So it's proof you want? Fine, I'll get you proof you old cynic - wait, I'm here calling you old, how old are you? I know Witchers age differently but it's all so contradictory. I remember one text claiming you aged backwards. Backwards!"

Geralt was blessedly distracted from Jaskier's tangent by a small tug on his cloak causing him to look behind him and then down.

A small, tear stained face with huge, liquid brown eyes looked up at him. The hand that wasn't clutching Geralt's cloak fisted in the skirt of a green dress as she shuffled her small, booted feet. Witcher and child stared at one another and even Jaskier had fallen silent.

"Are you the White Wolf?" She asked in a small voice.

Geralt could only nod in response, keeping an eye and both ears out for angry adults about to accuse him of kidnapping.

"I can't find my Papa." She sniffled, voice trembling and eyes welling up.

He felt himself slip into Witcher mode, trying to think what could be snatching people from a crowded town in the middle of the day, "What do you mean you can't find him, has he gone missing or-"

"Sweetheart, do you mean you got separated from your Papa in the market?" Jaskier gently interjected before Geralt could start fully interrogating her. The girl gave a small nod, turning her attention to the bard now kneeling in the dirt next to her.

Geralt felt his face heat up. Right. Just a lost child. That was also a possible (and the most logical) explanation.

"It's ok, we'll help you find him. Won't we Geralt?" Jaskier's tone of voice leaving no room for argument.

It turned out that Jaskier's idea of helping was having the girl perch on Geralt's shoulders and scan the top of the crowd for her father while he stood playing silly little dittys to keep her from crying again. Geralt holding onto her shins lightly and trying to ignore the mess being made on his cloak by muddy feet.

"I see him! Papa! Papa!"

Geralt tightened his grip slightly as her weight shifted with her frantic waving. Waiting until he was clearly making his way over to them before setting her gently back on the ground.

"Mika! Oh thank the God's." He turned his attention to the two men, his eyes widened as he took Geralt in fully.

"You're-"

"Hmmm."

Geralt tried to hide his surprise as the man grasped his hand in a firm if slightly clammy grip. "My thanks Wolf. I swear, if I went home without her my wife would make sure I shared the same fate as that Hag from the song of yours." He said, smiling awkwardly at his own attempt at humour, "Come on Mika, say goodbye. Oh, here."

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out. Geralt could smell warm sugar as he handed it over. "It's not much, but I don't know a single person who doesn't like cake. I could do with cutting down myself." He said, patting his own slight paunch before taking his daughters hand with a final "Thank you." Mika turning back to give a wave which they both returned before the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

"What?" Geralt asked as they left the town. The bard hadn't stopped grinning at him like the cat who'd got the canary.

"Nothing. It just, the timing and everything. Seems Destiny agreed with me for once. The songs are making a difference."

"Hmm." Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh don't give me that." Jaskier said, swatting Geralt in the side as he unwrapped the package Mika's father had given them, "You saw as well as I did there were plenty of town guards around but she went to you. She wanted you. Oooh, maybe this would be good for a new song. The Gentle Wolf! Yes I- hey! "

"No cake for you until you stop." Geralt stated, popping a piece into his own mouth to hide his smile.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #jaskier x geralt #jaskier/geralt #witcher geralt #geralt #geralt of rivia #witcher jaskier #jaskier

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candiedspit · 3 months ago

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Smear Frame (1992)

The night I got home from the hospital, we had peas and squash and good chicken. Nobody spoke. The radio spoke for us; vitamin deficiencies, lights spotted across Vegas, another building demolition. The first couple of days, I stayed in my room throwing a ball against the wall, doing long division in my head. The television playing a documentary about squid brains. On the third night, mama asked what I was planning to do.

You can be a thing in the world, she told me.

We were in the kitchen, the evening light staining the windows above the sink.

You do have a choice, she continued. But you choose to suffer like an idiot. Even the rabbit knows better than to follow the wolf.

Learn something, Jane.

And she left the room. I held her words in the belly of my chest, going over them again and again. That night, I got dressed in my trench coat and went out to the middle of town. The lights were buoyant and fresh, amazing slashes, amazing range. The moon was pinned against the skies like a cop’s badge. I stepped into Lousy’s which was a bar I had been to before. I liked it because it was dark and cold. I often pretended I was in a cave or in some sort of comet, minutes away from approaching the quiet tendrils of earth.

I ordered a Shirley temple and sat at the bar watching the bartender spin and shake and serve drinks.

What’s the drink with the longest name? I asked.

A terrible, unearthed bitter and lame dirt tonic, he said.

I mused on this for a while and eventually someone spoke to me. An older woman wearing red and large earrings asked me what time it was. I shrugged.

Maybe sometime around midnight, I said.

Don’t you have a watch? She asked. What kinda man doesn’t have a watch?

The question of my masculinity continues to come under fire, I laughed.

So, what’s your problem? She asked. Why are you here at maybe sometime around midnight?

I got out of the loony bin last weekend, I said. I’m trying to map out the world again.

How long were you in there for?

Six weeks, I said.

Do they zap your brain? She asked. I had a cousin like that, always in and out of those places.

How is he doing? I asked.

On the side of the road, she said. Begging for cash, not hiding the bad time he’s having.

That’s admirable. But no, they didn’t zap my brain.

Did they strangle you with Valium?

I was never sedated, I said.

Who put you there?

My parents, I said, I was seeing the holes in the plot, could see the failing strings in the fabric of the universe, the whole picture. I stoped eating, stopped sleeping. All I did was play chess with spirits and paint my nails over and over again. I showed the woman my hands. See? They’re clean.

The woman was quiet, sipped on her drink. I continued.

It was sorta nice, I admitted, not speaking to anyone but sounding out the idea.

Being taken care of like an infant who can’t speak. You get medication in the morning and you moan about the news. Someone starts screaming. Someone stops screaming. You go into a dreamless, milky sleep. And your roommate mumbles in his sleep, sweet robotic poems. And you don’t have a pencil so you commit them to memory; a fog roars, abstain, chapel, chapel, chapel. And you disappear from the world. Headlines float around every day and you wander around the unit making funny faces to entertain yourself and someone calls you and they ask how you are and you tell them you can’t wait to go home. And then you get home and the world is indifferent.

Cheers, the woman said.

And we clinked our glasses. Around three, the woman stood up and gave me her number and shook my hand and left. I kept the slip of paper in my coat pocket. I went out to walk by the river-end, watching the rising of the waters, the night reflected on the surface, dark rivulets. A sort of vile peace.

A couple of months afterward, I found work at a fish market. Slicing trout in half and packaging swordfish into white papers. The work was mindless, bleeding work. Nobody spoke to me. I smoked cigarettes. When I got home, the house smelled of blood.

A while later on, I called the woman. I was on my way home from work. I had not spoken to another human being in ten hours. I had forgotten what my voice sounded like. I could see myself getting slower by the minute. Words died in my head like vermin. The woman answered within four rings. I explained who I was. The boy in the trench coat. It was nighttime and we spoke for a while. You were drinking a tall martini and every so often would dive into your purse to fix your lipstick.

You sound different, she said.

I feel different, I said. I feel like an aspirin. I feel like a headache that won’t resolve.

Where are you? She asked.

By the river, I said. I like seeing the water enunciate. Where are you?

She told me she was making tea for her husband.

He’s not feeling well, she said. I’m doing what people say to do; ginger and saltines and warm baths. But he’s persistent with his pain.

Some people are, I said.

The clouds are fragrant tonight, I continued.

It’s getting late. I can see my mother checking the time, fidgeting in the kitchen then checking again. It’s something I relish. Getting home late. The worry she must feel. The worst things happen in your brain. Perhaps I fell down a flight of stairs. Perhaps I cut my hand open on a knife and I’m in the hospital bleeding out beneath the fluorescent lights. She has a feeling but doesn’t want to endorse the feeling in case it becomes a truth. And when I arrive at last, the feeling subsides and instead is replaced with a mute disappointment. I am the one she loves but not the one she missed.

I began to call the woman—whose name I never bothered to ask for, I wanted to name her myself—often. When I was on my lunch break barely eating a tuna sandwich. When I was smoking cigarettes. When I was in my room reading the newspaper and playing with myself. When I was half asleep.

Once, I was naked in bed with the radio on, and there was a sullen exasperation in my stomach. I felt as though I knew when I was going to die and if I focused long enough the date would come to me, would emerge from the foggy brain matter and I would be freed. I had been thinking of death for weeks. Death was my babe, my habit. I had visions of my own death. Dying struck by a moving car and being stuck in the tire. An aneurysm so I’m alive one moment and exploding the next. Being stunned by a bullet and feeling my cells gasp in unison.

Death is an orgasm, I told the woman one night. Death is a great, wondrous love. You go into the light. You feel peace for the first time in your pathetic silly little life.

You sound twisted, the woman said. Death is what you avoid, everything you do, you do to put death out. Your bravado is not going to protect you from what will happen or what has happened.

That winter I was sleepless. I slept for thirty minutes at a time, watched the sunrise slur into my windows, made tea for my parents and gutted samurai fish and wrapped tuna and walked around town, dreaming of poisonous gas. Sometimes, I choked on my visions.

One afternoon, I felt a pop in the back of my head and walked out of work during my lunch break. And walked straight home. When my mother saw me, she placed me on the couch and pointed a flashlight in my eyes and placed a cold towel on my forehead. I mumbled for the angels.

I had been in the hospital for two weeks when I called the woman, I had been blotted out and cast into a week of sleep. I was feeling alright.

What kind of dreams have you been having? The woman asked,

I don’t dream, I told her. I stumble in and out of sleep like a newly born calf. I feel like I’m full of milk, a white calmness in my arteries, a saline stillness.

Come see me, I said. Come see my blue scrubs and bandaged fingers and dirty acne and limp, sedated gait.

I will, she said.

It was New Year’s Eve when she came. The nurses had hung up garlands and the television played the ball drop in New York City; that mirage a thousand light years away.

We were given virgin champagne and the nurses counted down with us and the woman was there, her hand on my back.

Focus on living one breath at a time, she said. Count the breaths until you forget you’re even counting.

The year turned over onto her stomach. That night, I laid down and recounted the poem again.

Chapel. Chapel. Chapel.

#my poetry #fiction!!!!#I really liked writing this it was fun!!!

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astrophileous · 2 years ago

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Love Bugs (Pt. 04)

Pairing: Derek Mogran x Female Reader

Synopsis: You and Derek Morgan have an arrangement. At work, your relationship is strictly business. Under the sheets, it's all about pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less. Until, of course, your feelings start to get involved. Your situation is complicated enough without the unexpexted predicament that suddenly befalls upon you. But with a maniac serial killer on the loose, will you ever get the chance to make everything right?

Warning(s): kidnapping, stalker/psychopathic behaviors, reader is being held captive, curse words (? - idk if there are any in this part but just in case), violent use of knife, tell me if I miss anything xx

Word Count: 1900-ish

Tag(s): @camilaheroine

Author's Note: I KNOW it seems like the chapters are getting shorter and shorter but I promise you it's because these last two ones are essentially mood-setters for the next big, prominent parts in the series. Sooo hang in there and I promise you'll get some juicy stuff on the new part on Thursday ;) meanwhile, don't forget to LIKE+COMMENT+REBLOG to fuel me into making more chapters (especially if you reblog or comment 💞)

Love Bugs Masterlist / Criminal Minds Masterlist

Last night, Derek was finally able to sleep for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

He had lost count of the many nights he spent tossing and turning, reaching for his phone with the intention of calling your number just to fling the device across the room before his thumb could press the call button. He would trick himself into thinking that whatever he needed to say could wait until the next day at work, only to be tongue-tied any time both of your paths would cross.

Derek Morgan had always been a courageous man. He had even proven that he would gladly give his life to hold the hand of someone sitting on top of a bomb if it meant that person wouldn't leave this world alone.

But when it came to you, Derek was an utterly, foolishly, shameful piece of coward.

"Good morning, everyone." Hotch's greeting broke Derek out of his stupor. "Let's start the day, shall we?"

"(Y/N) isn't here yet," Emily spoke up from beside him. At the mention of your name, Derek's ears instantly perked up. "Should I call her?"

Hotch stared at the empty chair where you were supposed to sit, seemingly deep in his thoughts before answering, "It's alright, I'll catch her up later myself. Shall we begin?"

The first to present their findings were JJ and Emily.

"We found something interesting while talking to the second victim's roommate yesterday," JJ began. "Apparently, the victim had been seeing some guy for the past few weeks before she disappeared."

"Why wasn't this information in our files?" Hotch frowned.

"Because our victim only disclosed this once to one of her friends at school that we didn't get to interview the first time around," Emily answered. "The roommate only just found out after they bumped into each other a couple of weeks ago."

"That's good. It's definitely a start. Gather everything you know about the date and send the information to Garcia. Maybe she can give us a list of potential suspects from there," Hotch ordered.

"Already done." JJ nodded.

"Okay, next. Reid, did you--"

"Sir?"

The sound from the doorway interrupted Hotch before he could even begin to voice his question out loud. Every head in that room turned towards Penelope standing in the doorway, a panic-stricken expression decorating her usually cheery face.

"What's up, Garcia?" Hotch questioned.

"Another package just arrived, sir," she informed nervously. "It's our UnSub."

Hotch abruptly got up from his seat. "Did you get a chance to take a look at the video yet?"

"I-It's not a video tape, sir."

"What is it, Garcia?" Rossi asked.

"It's a flashdrive." She cleared her throat. "I, uh, did a routine check to make sure that it didn't contain any viruses. Not like it matters. I probably could still access the files if he had used the common accessible viruses in the market. Thankfully, though, there wasn't a single virus in it. Which, of course, made my job a whole lot easier--"

"Garcia," Hotch warned.

"Yes? Right, right. I'm sorry, sir. What I meant to say is that the flashdrive didn't have any kinds of virus." Garcia started playing with her fingers, a physical tell which Derek knew could only mean that she was feeling anxious. "But I think you guys should see this."

Everyone scrambled from their seats to follow Garcia out of the conference room. In the middle of the bullpen, a large projector had been set up, its large screen covering the vast area of one of the walls.

"Garcia," Hotch called in confusion. "You said that it wasn't a video tape."

"It's not, sir," Garcia choked out. Her glasses-rimmed eyes taking in the sight of the hunched figure on the screen, seated on a chair in what looked like an abandoned building similar to the one they found in the first video. "This is streaming live."

"What?" Emily muttered in shock.

"This is right now?" Hotch asked, to which Garcia answered with a series of rapid nods.

"He's finally chosen his next victim," Reid commented under his breath.

"Wait, look. She's waking up," JJ pointed out.

Every pair of eyes in the room watched as the figure started to stir. When she finally lifted her head, the entire universe seemed to stand still.

Somewhere in the room, Derek heard somebody gasp.

"No."

Derek shook his head in denial. His eyes blinking rapidly to clear the fog that had started to gather in his vision. For a second there, Derek had hoped that maybe he was just seeing things. Maybe the guilt he had continuously hoarded over the past few weeks had at last caught up to him, playing cruel tricks to his mind that made him believe he was seeing things that weren't real.

When he managed to open his eyes again, Derek realized that the scene in front of him was not the product of his overly heinous imagination.

Because the figure being tied down on the chair in that video was, in fact, you.

"That's... That's not--"

"That's (Y/N)," Reid uttered in disbelief, finishing the sentence that Derek couldn't get out due to the strangled air in his throat.

Derek's legs gave out underneath him. Before he could fall helplessly to the ground, the desk behind him caught most of his body weight, ensuring that he would stay standing despite the paralysis that had begun attacking his entire limbs.

His worst nightmare had just come true.

And Derek, for the first time in his life, finally knew what a pure, unadulterated terror felt like.

The insufferable pain was the first thing you registered when you opened your eyes.

Chronic migraines were a condition that had always run in your family. Your mother had them when she was alive. You started having them when you were in high school. At their worst, the migraines you had to endure were unbearable. They became insanely painful at times that you didn't even have the capacity to get out of bed.

But this headache was definitely worse. So much worse.

You blinked your eyes once, twice, three times in an attempt to clear the white threads in your vision. When your eyes had refocused enough for you to see without feeling like you were about to topple over, you began to take in your surroundings.

The room was humid and dark. The small ventilations to your right told you that the sun was already up, meaning that you were passed out all night long. With a few hours had passed since you were last conscious to the moment you woke up, there was no way to estimate the exact location to which your captor had taken you.

As your eyes swept over the large expanse of moldy dark concrete, they caught sight of a device being mounted on the wall.

A camera.

He was watching you.

The dread was quick to sink in your stomach. The camera meant that your captor had been watching your every move. And if he truly had, it was only a matter of time before he would pay a visit after learning that you had regained your consciousness.

As if he had been rummaging through your mind himself, you heard the sound of a metal door opening barely a few minutes later.

His presence reeked of atrocity. The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed to the background sound of malice, promising all things devilish to anyone who ever caught a wind of it. You watched him appear from the darkness. All black attire--complete with a black ski mask--to cover his true identity. But even with nearly his whole face hidden, the cruel promise in his eyes alone was enough to make you shiver in place.

"Good morning, Agent (Y/L/N). You were asleep a lot longer than I thought you'd be."

You unconsciously tugged at the restrains that bound you to the chair.

"I saw your message for me, Agent. Did you like my gift?"

"The video tape. That was you?"

His eyes crinkled in the corner as if he was elated at the idea of you receiving the so-called gift he had prepared.

"You liked it?" he almost purred. "I knew you would. I knew you were different from the others. I saw you up there and I just knew that you were the one I was looking for."

"Of course. Thank you so much for such a special gift."

You knew the profile had stated that the UnSub loved attention, meaning that he also seeked validation and compliance from his victims. Trying to fight him would only result in catastrophe. Especially after considering that the video tape he sent showed apparent signs of unpredictable devolving from his organized self. He was intelligent enough to know if you ever tried to trick him, so your best bet at that moment was to play along with his fantasy and hoped that it would give you additional time to figure out a more elaborated plan of action.

"You already know my name, but I still don't know yours. What should I call you?"

The UnSub pondered your curiosity in the silence. "You don't remember me?"

His question baffled you.

His reaction implied that you must have crossed paths with him, somewhere, somehow, during the weeks that had passed since the press conference.

That knowledge alone had dread stirring higher in your gut.

"I'm sorry." You quickly tried to rectify the situation. "It's dark in here, and you're wearing that mask. A-and my head, it's throbbing really bad. Kinda makes it difficult to see or recognize anything. Or anyone."

Thankfully, he seemed to find your excuse acceptable. "You can call me Darling."

"Darling?" You hid the instant repulsion in your voice at the nickname. "Is that really your name?"

Booming laughter filled the room, chilling your bones and activating every fight or flight response in your body. The mirth in his eyes caused you to feel as if you had just delivered the biggest joke of the century by asking him that last question.

"No, it's not my real name," he let out after seemingly pleased by your accidental jab in humor. "Darling is what we are to each other. You'll be my Darling and I'll be yours. Forever."

Forever.

You ignored how that one single word ignited a massive turbulence in your bloodstream.

"Is that why you took all of those women?" you asked cautiously. "You were looking for your Darling?"

"Yes. But let's not worry about that anymore. I've got you, now." He stalked over to you then, taking your chin between his fingers and forcing you to stare into his eyes. "None of the others are as worthy as you, Darling. We are going to have so much fun together."

You inwardly cringed while imagining what exactly the type of "fun" he might have meant.

"I have a surprise waiting for us to commemorate our first day together," he suddenly told you.

"A surprise? What kind of surprise?"

He reached around his back before pulling out a dagger that he began to twirl in his hand. The sharp point of its metallic blade blinded you as your captor moved around your tied up body, stalking at every angle as if you were a prey he wanted to shred to pieces.

Eventually, his steps halted behind the chair you were tied to, rooting you in place with one hand on your shoulder while the other pressed the tip of the dagger to your jaw.

"Smile at the camera, Darling," he whispered behind your ear. "We have an audience."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your team is watching," he informed between his dark snickers. "Let's make sure the show is worth their time, shall we?"

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venus-haze · 1 year ago

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Sinnerman (Father Paul Hill x Reader)

Summary: You can’t even see your old life from Crockett Island, but nevertheless it weighs on your conscience like an anchor on the ocean floor. Father Paul Hill tries to pull the anchor up, only to sink your whole damn ship.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. Reader is a lapsed Catholic for plot reasons. I also played with the show’s timeline a little bit for this fic. Anyway, 10 years of Catholic school later and this is the result. Inspired by the Nina Simone song. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and violence. Reader’s morals are all over the place. Obviously a lot of Catholic themes (especially guilt) and imagery. Sexually explicit content between a member of the clergy and a lay person. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Unlike pretty much everywhere else in the country, houses on Crockett Island garnered very little interest. There were no frustrating bidding wars or last minute phone calls made to real estate agents. The available houses barely registered on the listings you scrolled through, some having been on the market for years. When you called about a two bedroom you’d never even stepped foot in, offering to pay upfront in cash, the agent on the other end of the line almost hung up on you, assuming it was a scam. No scam. You just wanted to disappear.

To the world, you were gone, a vapor who abruptly quit her incredibly well-paying job with a generous severance package. Painting was a hobby that got increasingly pushed to the backburner as you focused more on your career until you couldn’t remember the last time you touched a paintbrush. Of course, that wasn’t why you quit your job, but it sounded a lot nicer than the reason that ate you alive. You hoped that if you disappeared, the guilt that made its home in your gut would go away too. On Crockett Island, however, you were far from invisible.

Despite the unforgiving ocean wind that raged the day you arrived, you were met with nothing short of a welcome party. The mayor, his wife, the sheriff, and the elderly monsignor of the singular church on the island accompanied by a woman who constantly hovered. Nice enough people who greeted you with a mixture of delight and disbelief that you were moving onto the island instead of off. You shot yourself in the foot the second you mentioned you had been raised Catholic, as everyone but the sheriff extended offers to join them at mass that you awkwardly declined.

Sheriff Hassan gave you a sympathetic look when he left your new home, the last of the informal welcoming committee to do so. Get used to it, his eyes said. You almost asked him to stay for coffee if you could dig your pot out of whichever cardboard box you packed it in. You decided against it. On an island so small, coffee could turn into something else quickly enough.

It took a week or so to get into a comfortable routine. Wake up early, make coffee, take your time eating breakfast, then head out to some new part of the island with your art supplies in tow, only to be held up for fifteen to twenty minutes by someone inevitably stopping you to talk. Usually small talk, but you could tell a lot of people were just happy to have someone new to tell old stories to instead of regurgitating them to the same handful of people all the time.

Some days, when the fog made it almost impossible to see your outstretched hand in front of you, you’d find yourself drawn to St. Patrick’s, painting or sketching the church. The fog would inevitably roll away, and in the distance you’d see the monsignor, sometimes with Beverly and other times by himself. He’d always wave at you, though his face betrayed his confusion as to who you were. Poor guy. You thought the parishioners were crazy to send him over to Jerusalem.

The day after he left for his trip was another foggy one. You made your usual trek out to the church to draw. It was a nice, informal ritual. Spiritual enough for your tastes without the risk of bursting into flames if you stepped foot in the place. With the monsignor gone, mass wasn’t being held, and the area was quieter than usual. Not completely, though.

“You know, you’re always loitering outside of the church, but I never see you in it,” Beverly said while you were sketching the weathered wood building.

You kept your focus on the page you were working on, not sparing her a glance. “Not my thing.”

“At one point it was, though. You said it yourself on the day you moved in that you were raised in the faith.”

“Not my choice.”

Her lips pressed in a thin line, her voice strained, “Well, you’re always welcome at St. Patrick’s. I’m sure when the monsignor returns, he’d be overjoyed to see you in the pews. We all would.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“Yes, well, have fun doodling.”

Your jaw clenched. Doodling. You shot her a glare over your shoulder when she walked away.

Luckily, you weren’t the focus of the islanders’ attention for much longer, because the Flynns’ son had returned home from prison on the mainland. A quiet guy who kept to himself despite Annie excitedly introducing you to Riley. You were polite, but didn’t pry. It seemed like he wanted to keep to himself too. Then, the following day, the parish was in a tizzy over the unexpected arrival of a new pastor, a temporary replacement for the aging monsignor. You didn’t know the old guy very long, but he wasn’t quite with it. Doubtful the replacement would be temporary. Maybe he said that to soften the blow of not being able to give their monsignor a formal goodbye.

You had mixed feelings about the new guy. The evening following his first mass on the island, Father Paul had sneaked up on you while you were trying to paint an old fishing bungalow. He startled you so bad that you jumped, arm jerking and leaving a green streak on the paper in its wake. He was nice enough, apologizing profusely for scaring you. Still, you felt the pit in your stomach that’d become somewhat more manageable recently threaten to engulf your psyche again when he said that Beverly mentioned you were a lapsed Catholic, because of course she would, and expressed disappointment at not seeing you at mass.

“You’ll be at the potluck at least?” he asked. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

You laughed. “Yeah, the Crock Pot thing. I’ll be there.”

“Fantastic, maybe we can talk more then. I’ve bothered you enough, nearly ruined your painting.”

“Happy accident. I can make a tree,” you said.

“That’s a nice way to look at it, but really, I’ll be going now.” He smiled. “It was nice meeting you.”

��You too.”

You caught his profile as he walked away, handsome in the golden hour. Setting your painting supplies aside, you grabbed your sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing. Maybe the guilt you felt was for finding a priest attractive and not the resurgence of your past sins. The word weighed heavy on your conscience. You could sleep better at night convincing yourself you’d made some mistakes. You could learn and grow from mistakes. Sins held magnitude beyond what you could manage on your own.

The day of the potluck, you slept in, only rolling out of bed an hour before it was supposed to start. When you walked over to the gathering, you felt that pit in your stomach causing you trouble again. The islanders’ devotion left a sour taste in your mouth, and seeing the physical embodiment of it in the form of ashen crosses on their foreheads didn’t help.

You made small talk and wandered around with your plate of food, taking a seat on one of the benches. One huge perk of living on the island was the fresh seafood and dozens of people who knew how to cook it all perfectly. Everything on your plate would’ve cost at least sixty dollars in a nice restaurant on the mainland. You got it all for your five dollar donation.

While tearing apart a piece of bread on your plate, you could hear hushed voices arguing to your left. They were either speaking louder or getting closer to you, but either way, you recognized Beverly and Father Paul’s voices.

“Her? Father, she doesn’t attend mass. The church should not be—“

“I’ve made up my mind, Bev,” Father Paul whispered loudly before waving you over. “Y/N, I have something I’d like to run by you.”

You gave him a hesitant nod as you got up from your seat, leaving your plate to walk closer to where he and Beverly were standing.

“I’d like to commission you to paint a mural on the west-facing wall, where the sun sets. I already discussed the idea with Monsignor Pruitt, and he raved about your talents.”

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna end up being the next monkey Jesus lady.”

He gave you an amused smile. “I’ve seen your work. You’re more than capable of what I have in mind.”

“As long as it’s not that godless abstract nonsense,” Beverly interjected.

“Tell that to Alfred Manessier,” you said.

“I don’t know who that is.”

You scoffed. “He was one of the most celebrated modernist painters of the past century. He created some of his best works using St. John of the Cross’ Spiritual Canticles as inspiration.”

“See?” Father Paul interjected. “I can’t think of anyone better for the job. I made a mock-up, a crude sketch, really. I can show you when you have time to go over some of the details I have in mind.”

“Sounds good.”

“You haven’t given your price.”

“Why don’t we work that out afterward?” you said, not sure if you were even going to go through with this. “I am going to need supplies, though. Different paint and materials depending on the type of mural you had in mind.”

“Yes, of course, whatever you need, we’ll have Sturge bring it from the mainland.”

Not long after that, the festival ended on a heartbreaking note as Joe Collie’s dog died, was poisoned more like it, but there was no proof. You didn’t get much sleep that night. It didn’t matter. Early the next working, you were pulled from your half-slumber by a rapid knocking at the door.

Without thinking, you shuffled over, opening it to find Beverly standing on your front porch, less than impressed with your wrinkled pajamas and dazed expression at the sunlight in your face.

“Yeah?”

“Father Paul has time this afternoon to speak with you about the mural.”

“Okay.”

“Will you be there?”

“I guess, what time is it anyway?”

“Seven-thirty, I wanted to come by before the school day began. If you’re not serious about this, don’t waste his time.”

“Alright, I’ll be there around two.”

You didn’t wait for her to respond, shutting the door in her face and heading back to bed. If you woke up in time to make it to the church, you supposed you’d do it. When you lifted your head from the pillow later on and checked the time on your phone, it was a quarter after one. Damn. You were actually doing this.

The otherwise unassuming church seemed to loom over you as you approached. You sighed. It was just a building. Still, you hesitated outside of St. Patrick’s for a minute or so before building up the courage to walk inside. No hellfire or spontaneous combustion upon your arrival. Though, there should have been, with the way Father Paul was sitting on the steps leading up to the altar, legs splayed out in his jeans. Your mouth almost went dry. Suddenly his eyes were on yours. You panicked, dipping your hand in the font and making a sign of the cross with the holy water. That had to absolve you of thinking a priest looked hot for a split second.

He practically jumped up from where he was sitting, closing the distance between you with an excited smile and a folded up piece of paper that he handed to you.

He spoke animatedly and used sweeping motions in reference to the wall and what he wanted it to look like. “Call it divine inspiration, but I had a vision of an angel. It’s burned into my mind. It needs to be up here for the parish to see.”

You looked at his sketch, tilting your head as you took in the monstrous creature that resembled Nosferatu rather than an angel. Still, it wasn’t like artists regularly were commissioned to paint elaborate church murals anymore. You supposed the prestige of being able to say you did such outweighed the odd nature of his vision.

“I was thinking just on the wood wall here. That shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

“No, but I think for the best result, I’ll have to strip the existing paint off the wall and then prime it to paint over. That may take up to a week, depending on how much of the wall you want the mural to take up.”

Father Paul chuckled humorlessly. “Bev’s going to have a heart attack when she hears that. Why don’t you write a list of what you need, and I’ll give it to Sturge.”

You would have been surprised at how quickly he agreed if he weren’t so enthusiastic about his vision coming to life. He kept talking, rambling was more like it, about the angel and his vision. There was an air of conspiracy to his voice, almost as if he was telling you something that was meant to be kept between the two of you. His rambling was interrupted by Beverly’s appearance. You took the opportunity to slip out, claiming you promised your mom you’d call her to catch up before dinner.

By the end of the week, you had all of the supplies you needed, and Father Paul gave you free reign of the church when mass wasn’t going on. You hadn’t expected him to be such a big help in the preparations, figuring you’d be scraping the stripped paint off the wall yourself. It made the process go by faster, even though Beverly looked constipated every time she saw the bare wood wall in contrast to the rest of the church. Father Paul had to remind her it was temporary.

The hours spent with him felt almost natural, like you were talking to an old friend. At least, he was nice enough to let you ramble about art and the mural techniques you read about on your phone the past few days. Though, you didn’t miss his offhand comment about how so many great artists were Catholic. You wanted to clarify that you weren’t Catholic, not anymore. Besides, there were great artists of all faiths. The Catholic Church just had the money to bankroll some of the more prominent ones. Deciding it best not to stir up any unnecessary tension before you even started on the project, you let the comments roll off your back, not bothering to acknowledge them. Things were going great, otherwise. At least, they were until it was time for you to actually start painting.

That pit in your stomach started acting up again as soon as Father Paul told you that he went ahead and primed the wall already, so you could start painting the mural.

“I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll work better if I’m not breathing down your neck. Let me know if you need anything,” he said.

You smiled, giving him a silent nod as he left. Hesitation overtook you, soon followed by dread as you looked at the wall in front of you. There was no way to back out, at least not without drawing the ire of the growing number of devout islanders. You hadn’t witnessed Leeza Scarborough’s miracle, and as much as the skeptics tried to talk circles around it, you couldn’t think of any other explanation for what had happened. It scared you, how real the faith you were raised in felt here.

As soon as your brush touched the primed wall, you nearly passed out. It was a holy place, meant to reflect the power and glory of god. You didn’t feel worthy to alter it in such a significant way, as if you were Michaelangelo or DaVinci and not some corporate flunkie who only got such a big severance package because—no, you couldn’t think about it in this church of all places, not one where god seemed suffocatingly present. The brush then fell from your hand with a clatter that seemed to echo through the church, through your ears.

Father Paul spoke your name softly, tentatively, like you were a wounded animal. “Why are you crying?”

You weren’t sure how long you were in your fugue state of despair for him to find you like that. “I don’t think I’m the right person to do this. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s you. It has to be you.”

Shaking your head frantically as he approached you, you threw your hands over your mouth to muffle your sobs. He outstretched his arms, not forcing you to accept his comfort, but you felt inexplicably pulled to him, to the absolution he offered if you’d just accept it.

“Do you know what St. Teresa of Avila said about prayer?”

“What’s that?”

“She said that prayer is allowing yourself to be loved,” he said. “Pray with me.”

He took your hands in his, bowing his head and closing his eyes. You did the same, though you were unable to focus on his words, not when your mind was racing so much. Too loud, too overwhelming, you couldn’t take it.

In the middle of his prayer, you blurted out, “At my old job, my boss did a lot of illegal stuff, and I helped her cover it up because I knew if I did that I’d be set for life. Except it’s been eating me alive ever since. She offered me this huge severance package if I’d sign an NDA when I quit. I can’t–I feel like it’s gonna drown me one day.”

“What did you—surely it can’t be that bad.”

The cry you let out was akin to a howl. “Father Paul, I can’t—I’m a horrible person—“

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been—“ you paused. “I’ve never truly confessed in my life.”

He nodded, understanding and encouragement in his gaze rather than the judgment you expected.

“My boss was one of those cutthroat types. I admired her for it for the longest time, even when she got indicted. I used to work late nights, so I told her if she gave me a raise and a promotion, I’d testify that she was in the office with me on the days the prosecution had her doing some of the stuff she got charged with,” you said. “I thought it wouldn’t bother me. I’d been screwing people over to claw my way up the corporate ladder for years and learned how to shake it off, but this shit—it might as well be in my veins. Some people lost everything because of me, because I lied.”

You were hyperventilating, and all you could focus on was how tightly Father Paul was gripping your shoulders.

“The worst part is, I thought it’d make up for the emptiness. I spent so much time working that I pushed people away, and I wanted something to show for it. I’d give anything to feel that emptiness again,” you choked out. “I am sorry for these and all my sins.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is. I promise it is. The bible shows us time and time again that god can use our past sins to glorify him, to show the power of forgiveness in the blood of Christ. You feel guilt, regret, and sorrow. That’s good. Your penance,” he said, pointing to the blank wall. “God brought you here knowing you needed absolution, while this church is on the verge of a renaissance. I don’t think something like this happened by chance.”

“Okay,” you breathed. “I—I’ll do it.”

You fumbled your way through the Act of Contrition, Father Paul guiding you through the short prayer you’d embarrassingly forgotten most of the words to. In his name, my god, have mercy.

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and the resurrection of his son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the church may god give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said, making a sign of the cross over you.

You nodded, making a sign of the cross. “Amen.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin when he brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, wiping away the tear tracks that’d begun to dry. He smiled kindly, warmly, and you felt warm too. Taking a deep breath, you brought the paintbrush to the wall, making the first stroke of what would become Angulus autem Crockett Insulus, the Angel of Crockett Island.

Work on the mural went smoothly after the roadbump the first day, and you felt better than you had in months. The guilt that’d tethered itself to you for so long had vanished. You’d never received so many compliments on your art in your life. Suddenly dozens of people were admiring your work, regarding it with awe as if it were in a cathedral rather than a small fishing town’s wooden church. Erin even had you come to the school and teach an art class for the students. It helped that Father Paul took every opportunity to talk up your skills whenever someone would mention the mural.

While the lighting in the church was undoubtedly better during the day, you’d work at night sometimes, just to get an idea of how it’d look when no one was around to see it. The shadows that fell over Father Paul’s angel made it appear almost sinister. You wondered if it was something you could fix in the morning, soften it a bit to not be as harsh and imposing.

You almost laughed when you saw Father Paul standing in the door of the sacristy, knocking on the door frame as if it weren’t his church the two of you were standing in.

“I know it’s late, but do you want coffee? I’m about to brew a pot,” he said.

You smiled. “That’d be great. Thanks.”

“Door will be open, just let yourself in when you’re finished here.”

“Oh, in the rectory?”

“Yes, but if that makes you uncomfortable–”

“No, of course not. I’ll be there in a few.”

He made his leave, and you grabbed a paintbrush, noticing an odd, shadowy spot on the angel that wasn’t due to the lighting. You winced a bit. Your hand had started cramping recently. Of course carpal tunnel would catch up with you, working almost non-stop on an elaborate mural would do that.

The last thing you wanted to do was take a break on the progress you’d made. Father Paul’s enthusiasm was infectious, and you didn’t want to lose the inspiration you were running on to bring his vision to life.

Taking a step back, you frowned. The shadow over the angel almost looked worse. You set your brush down, figuring you’d have a better idea of what to do with a fresh set of eyes in the morning.

You kept your supplies on a plastic tarp to avoid getting paint elsewhere, and so it could be easily moved out of the way for mass. From what you’d heard, there was a full house every Sunday, and daily mass actually had decent attendance. You could remember seeing only Beverly, Annie, and Leeza making their way into the old church for the early morning services during the week.

The lights were off in the sacristy, and you took a few tentative steps toward it. You knew there was a door through there that led out back toward the rectory, but something in you hesitated at entering that part of the church. Instead, you walked out the main doors and around the building.

There was an eeriness to the lone house not too far off in the distance. You’d learned from your time on the island that lighthouses were meant to warn incoming ships that they were nearing cliffs or rough waters, not so much welcoming them in as advising them to stay at arms’ length, be aware and alert. The light that shone from the rectory gave you a similar impression.

You walked up to the small house, finding the door open for you. A staticy oldies station played in the living room, Father Paul leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

“All of this stuff is so old. Radio barely picks up any reception,” he said bashfully.

“It has its charm. This whole island does. I feel like I’m really starting to be part of things.”

“You are!” he exclaimed. “Our resident artist. Everyone’s wondering when they’ll see you at mass.”

“Maybe next Sunday,” you said unconvincingly.

“I think you’ll be impressed at how different it is from what you remember growing up with. Things are changing—for the better,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

He grabbed a mug from the cabinet, older and chipped with a faded ‘Crock Pot 2003’ printed on it. He poured the coffee, preparing it to your liking and handing you the mug. You followed him over to the kitchen table, taking the chair next to him rather than on the other side of it.

The radio became the slightest bit clearer a few notes into Dusty Springfield’s version of Son of a Preacher Man. It was one of those songs you grew up hearing, but never truly understood the lyrics until you got older and really listened.

“You know, growing up, I didn’t know Protestant pastors could get married. I thought they were like priests where that wasn’t allowed,” you said. “Do you think it makes that much of a difference? Not being married, or even romantically involved?”

He paused, furrowing his eyebrows before giving you the non-convincing answer of, “It allows me to devote myself to God and focus on my congregation.”

“Yeah, but the Catholic Church is so pro-family, saying all that crap about not using contraception. Why not lead by example? Isn’t it natural to do that?” you asked, stopping yourself before you could go on talking about pregnancy with a priest. “I overstepped, sorry.”

“No, they’re good questions. I’ve thought about them myself.”

“Have you ever wanted to have your Sound of Music moment? Y’know, how Julie Andrews just says ‘Fuck it’ and gives in to her feelings for Christopher Plummer?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe not Christopher Plummer specifically, but in more or less words, yes.”

“Do you ever feel lonely?” you asked softly.

He didn’t speak, only reaching over to squeeze your hand. The suddenness of the tender gesture sent a shock through your system, and you could feel your heart skip a beat. Whoever was the late night DJ at the oldies station must have had it out for you as Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely started to play.

You squeezed his hand in return. “So do I.”

He stood up, murmuring something about refilling his cup. You kept your slight grip on his hand, standing up from your seat at the table. You shouldn’t have even been thinking about it, not when you’d finally rid yourself of a guilty conscience. The corners of his lips quirked up, and he tilted his head slightly, a silent inquiry as to what you were going to do next.

You kissed him. You kissed a priest, and it didn’t even feel wrong. Father Paul pulled you closer by your entwined hands, releasing it when your chest was pressed against his. He was a bit clumsy, but you’d have been surprised if he weren’t. You opened your mouth for him the slightest bit, feeling his tongue on your lips, inside your mouth, a hesitancy behind his actions still.

Pulling away from him, you caressed his cheek. You couldn’t absolve any guilt he may feel, but you could keep it at bay, only if for a night.

“I want this, Father,” you assured him. “I want you.”

His eyes searched your face for any indication that your words weren’t sincere, and finding none, he pressed his lips to yours with more confidence than before. Still, you took the lead on deepening the kiss as he became more comfortable with how you felt, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your face. His hands held onto your hips, fingers digging gently into your jeans. Your tongue gently swiped at his lips, and he opened his mouth, allowing you access.

Your lips curled into a smile when you finally pulled away, but only to divert your attention to his throat. His breath hitched upon feeling your hand on the side of his neck, thumb pressing into the base of his throat. You bit into the crook of his neck, sucking and biting the same spot until he made a pained noise of protest.

“Don’t worry, Father. I won’t leave a mark,” you whispered, proud of the way he reacted to you, to your touch, feeling his length pressing against you through his pants.

You kissed his neck again, gentle this time, though you slid your hand from his neck, down his torso, to his crotch. Palming him through his pants, you lifted your gaze to see his eyes hooded, head tilted back a bit. He was still holding back, you could tell that much, so you squeezed a bit, feeling his cock twitch against the fabric, his hips involuntarily thrusting.

“Bedroom,” he choked out to your surprise.

Your hands were still on him, groping his crotch, his ass, the softness of his belly as he clumsily led you to the small, sparsely decorated bedroom. He kissed you again, barely managing to shut the door behind him. He moaned into your mouth as you began unbuckling his belt, unzipping his fly and relieving some of the pressure from his hard cock.

His passivity didn’t last long after that. He pushed you onto his bed, lustful determination in his eyes as he undressed you, hesitating just a moment when he reached your panties. As soon as his fingers hooked beneath the waistband, it was like a switch flipped. You watched as he rid himself of his clothes, your fingers teasing your wet pussy when he pulled off his clerical collar and unbuttoned his shirt.

You laid back as he climbed on top of you, allowing him to take the lead. He fondled your breasts, his thumbs brushing your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.

“You’re so soft, honey,” he murmured.

You smiled. Honey. Too sweet for you, what you were doing. Taking one of his hands, you guided it down to your pussy, making him feel your wetness, velvety between your folds. “Softer,” you whispered.

“Fuck,” he groaned, sliding his index and middle fingers inside you.

He pumped them in and out, almost cautiously before you lifted your hips for more. His thumb brushed your clit, rubbing it as he curled his fingers drawing a ragged moan from you. A groan escaped his lips as he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, wet and wanting for something more.

“Father, I need you,” you moaned. “Inside me—I—“

You choked out a gasp as he slid his cock inside you, your pussy clenching around his length as he thrust into you. He pressed your hands into the bed, intertwining his fingers with yours, loving and intimate. You whimpered beneath his intense gaze.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, his voice a bit husky. “Feel good. Take me so well.”

A harsh thrust, and you cried out, throwing your head back on his pillow. He kissed your open mouth, greedy for you. He released your hands, and you immediately grabbed at his forearms, digging your nails into his skin as your body began to tense up before its release.

“I’m close. Father–fuck–I’m gonna—“

“Let go, honey,” he moaned. “I’m there too.”

He came inside you, his cock pumping his cum into your pussy, his thrusts sloppy as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. Your orgasm followed the brief, scandalous realization that you’d let a priest cum in you. Tangling your fingers in his dark hair, you tugged at it as you rode out your orgasm on his cock, not as hard, but still buried inside you.

After a few moments, he pulled out, lying down next to you. His eyes didn’t show any regret or guilt, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

He traced your features with his fingertips, softly, mindlessly, as if he were in a haze until he whispered. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since golden hour.”

“Golden hour,” he repeated softly

“When you first came to see me, I was working on the painting of the fishing hut at sunset. Artists call it golden hour, when the natural light is perfect, like liquid gold.”

“I think I’ve always wanted to, it’s come and gone in waves, but it’s always been there. You—you’re something else.”

“You’ve done this before,” you said, an observation, not in judgment.

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he were about to make a confession to you. “You asked me earlier if I ever wanted to have my Sound of Music moment. I did. I should have. That mural you’re painting, the angel. It’ll make things right.”

The church bell chimed its midnight tune, and you sighed, reminded of where you were, who you were with. “I should go.”

He gave you a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I wish things were different, that you could stay and—“

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hastily threw on your clothes and gave him one more kiss before cracking open the front door. Glancing around briefly, you didn’t see anyone else around, and slipped away into the night. The overwhelming guilt you expected to feel never manifested. Instead, you felt almost giddy at the thrill of what you and Father Paul had just done.

When you returned home, you let out a laugh in disbelief. You had no expectations of it becoming a regular thing, that it’d even happen again, you having sex with Father Paul. The subtle intimacy that had coiled around your relationship with him from the start had only magnified with this. Perhaps once was all you needed, but you secretly hoped it’d devolve into something far more torrid.

Bright and early the next morning, you woke up feeling light, almost wanting to chalk up the past night to an unusually vivid wet dream, if it weren’t for the ache between your legs. You decided to detour from the church for the day, opting to work on something else temporarily while you were in a great mood. A smaller part of you worried things would be awkward with Father Paul. He didn’t seem guilty or regretful when you left, but he still had plenty of time to overthink.

You ran into Father Paul as he was leaving the Gunnings’ house, an odd expression on his face as he looked back at the place briefly.

“Would you mind coming by the church later tonight?” he asked. “I have something—it’ll be easier to explain there.”

“Yeah, of course,” you said. “See you later, Father.”

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, you sat at the docks, sketching portraits of the fishermen as they came and went. They were all so expressive, their weathered skin and deep lines in their faces betraying the decades of hard work they did. You’d heard from the islanders how difficult things had become for the fishermen between the oil spill and restrictions on what they could catch. Still, the ones who recognized you from St. Patrick’s smiled, stopped and talked to you despite being busy. Maybe you really would go to mass on Sunday.

Your stomach reminded you that you’d missed lunch, so you headed back to your house to get something to eat and look over your work from the day. Tonight. Father Paul wanted you to meet him at the church, but didn’t give a time, just at night, after dark. You wondered what he was going to tell you. Surely if it were about the two of you having sex, it could be said privately in the light of day.

Around nine o’clock, you left home again, heading for the church. It was dark. The rectory too. Was he even there? You walked up to the building, opening the front door to near pitch black. For some reason, you stood there, not bothering to call out for him.

The only light in the church came from the sacristy. Your eyes were drawn to your mural for a moment. Somehow, the angel looked like it was enrobed in shadows, far more sinister than when you’d started painting it. Your attention was soon returned to the sacristy. You could hear shuffling, low murmuring, and something almost like a strong gust of wind. Your brow furrowed. Maybe some of the local kids sneaking communion wine.

You took a cautious step toward the illuminated room, and for the first time in years, you truly prayed to god that none of the old wooden floorboards would creak and give you away. Not that you deserved his favor, having repented of your sins and then turning around and sleeping with a priest. The light only grew brighter as you approached, your heart in your throat as you peered into the room where the priest and altar servers would prepare for mass.

Father Paul stood in front of the communion wine. Your eyes were glued to the creature by his side. It looked like it could hardly fit in the room between its height and the width of its wingspan. Huge, imposing, sickeningly pale. It opened its mouth, razor-sharp teeth in full display.

You nearly gasped at the realization of what it was. The angel from the mural. Monstrous, otherworldly in a way that made you want to vomit. Surely even Beverly would regard something like that as demonic. In either shock or self-preservation, you weren’t screaming, though your brain was howling for you to leave. Get the fuck out of there while you still could.

Father Paul looked inexplicably calm around the thing, comfortable, even. You didn’t know how. There was no way you could ever look at something like that and consider it holy. You held your breath as you retreated, internally begging god for enough mercy to get out of the church alive. A floorboard creaked just as you got to the door. You ran.

The cool night air stung your eyes as you bolted down the unpaved roads, too afraid to look back and see if you were even being followed. Aside from a few porch lights, the island was pitch black. All you needed to do was make it home, and you’d be safe. No. You needed to get the fuck off of Crockett Island. Then you’d be safe.

You may have been a shitty person and an even shittier Catholic, but you knew things like this weren’t acts of god. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing all along, a power-hungry false prophet intent on turning the whole island to fit his corrupted vision of holiness.

With a final push of adrenaline pumping through your veins, you sprinted to your house in the distance. As soon as you got inside, you locked the door, pushing one of the kitchen chairs in front of it. Realistically, it wouldn’t do much to stop the angel if it were coming after you. At least you could say you’d done something.

Grabbing your suitcases from under your bed, you opened them on top of your comforter, considering what to pack. You wouldn’t be coming back to Crockett Island. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anything to come back to. You could tell as much. That thing you saw, the monster in the mural, it couldn’t mean anything good for the islanders. They deserved some kind of warning, even if they didn’t believe you.

You paused for a moment. Your mural was their warning. They could see the grotesque angel materializing for themselves, and they praised it, full of wonder and awe. A voice in the back of your mind said it wasn’t enough, it was a cop-out, another way to shirk responsibility for your actions, falling into old cycles all over again. You drowned out the voice with a bottle of wine you’d kept around for cooking, and shoved clothes and painting supplies in your suitcases in your half-drunk stupor.

Pale, golden light filled your bedroom as the sun rose. With a shaky breath, you looked around your house for the last time. In the weeks you’d been living on Crockett Island, it’d become a home. You should have known it was all too good to be true.

The suitcases in your hands made your fleeing the island appear less conspicuous, going on a short trip with the intention of returning rather than abandoning the community that had taken you in, leaving them at the mercy of the creature that was waiting to pounce.

You bought a round-trip ticket for the Breeze’s morning voyage back to the mainland. Round-trip. As if you’d be coming back.

“Father Paul know you’re headed back to the mainland?” Sturge asked, helping you with your bags.

He’s just a priest. It’s none of his business, you wanted to snap back. Instead, you gave him a small smile. “Yeah, my mom’s come down with pneumonia. I’m gonna help her around the house for a week or two.”

“Late in the season to get pneumonia.”

“Her immune system isn’t great.”

“Maybe bring her on over to the island. Miracles happening here every day.”

You knew your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I think she’d really like that.”

As you watched the island shrink on the horizon, the guilt that settled back in your gut felt comfortably familiar. Maybe you weren’t meant for absolution.

#father paul x reader #father paul hill x reader #midnight mass #father paul hill #slasher x reader #for my own blog organization sorry

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rey-jake-therapist · 2 months ago

Note

Charlotte is getting SO much backlash from the fandom it’s making me scared for her future on the show. And it’s not just the incel bros on Reddit but even big podcasts/creators like Nerds of the Rings who have a million subs on YouTube and isn’t a show hater.

Apparently it’s impossible for Galadriel to fall for anyone, not just Halbrand because an elf can only be in love once and since Celeborn is still a part of the universe she can’t love anyone else, they’re eternally married even beyond death, so the show can’t have Galadriel feel any sort of romantic love outside of that. With Charlotte explicitly saying that it doesn’t make sense to them when they saw Haladriel was nothing more than angsty comrades.

Oh, this old tune of the Elf who's not allowed to fall in love with anyone else than the guy she married thousands of years ago, and who disappeared at least a thousands years ago without leaving a trace... It's getting tiring. I don't understand why people grip on the book canon so hard to judge the show. Isn't it obvious by now that the show doesn't follow book!canon to the letter?? It takes liberties for so many things, why on earth expecting that they would follow a "rule" that was set in a book written in the 30s, by a very Catholic Tolkien, and with certain standards of his time that seem a bit out-dated now?

Not to mention that... Yes, when Galadriel fell in love with Halbrand, she believed him to be a simple man. But he wasn't a simple man, he was freakin' Sauron. Being who he was, it was quite logical that Galadriel would connect on a much deeper level with him than if he had been a simple man, precisely. She didn't know it then, but what she felt for Halbrand came from Sauron. Maybe even Tolkien himself could admit it as an exception to the rule lol

I recently commented in a post that I found the subject tricky, because if we just look at the facts, Galadriel fell for the whole package "scruffy sexy man with a heavy emotional baggage, who had done evil but was still probably redeemable, secret king of the Southlands". But isn't analyzing things this way just scratching at the surface? Would have Galadriel fallen for Halbrand if he hadn't been Sauron? Would have a man been capable of really understanding what she felt, and felt himself the exact same thing? I'd say not. Of course it was easier for Galadriel to fall for Halbrand while believing he was human, because he didn't represent everything she hated and fought against.

But at the end, what connected her to Halbrand, what she found in him that made her fall for him... It all came from Sauron who, we know, was sincere when he said how he felt about riding with her and wanting to bind this feeling to his being.

Now about Charlotte Brandström : I like to think that Amazon doesn't care anymore about these criticisms. Two days after she said this, their social media manager acknowledged Haladriel shippers publicly, something they had never done before. Before the episode, Charlotte claimed that Sauron "really loved Galadriel and that we would see it at the very end" (I think I saw it but I expected something more obvious lol). They seem to have chosen the romance route, at least in term of marketing. So I don't see why Charlotte Brandström would be in danger because of what she said. I have no doubt she was authorized to say that.

#ask answered #haladriel #saurondriel #sauron x galadriel #galadriel x halbrand

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canirove · 10 months ago

Text

My neighbour Rúben | Chapter 8

Previous chapter | Next chapter

Masterlist

This year everyone had outdone themselves with the Christmas market, making it look like something from those cheesy movies, and Julia was loving it.

She had already bought an ugly jumper to wear on Christmas day, a few ornaments for our tree, and now we were looking for one especially for me.

"You are living with us now, which means that you deserve to have your own ornament to put on the tree" Lucy said. "It must be something that represents you."

"What was yours?" Rúben asked her. He was looking so cosy and handsome with his nice coat, his hat and his scarf... It was impossible not to stare.

"A shark."

"A shark?" I chuckled.

"That's what one of my teachers told me when I finished my career, that I was a shark. So I took it as my animal” she shrugged. “What's yours?"

"A cat" Rúben and I said at the same time.

"Oh, twins!" Julia giggled.

"Twins indeed" her mum said. "Though Rúben, I think you are more of a tiger. Because of your size, I mean."

"It's not the first time someone tells me that" he grinned before both he and Lucy turned to look at me.

"Let's see if we can find twin cats for you!" Julia said, grabbing me with one hand and Rúben with the other. Now she was the one being my guardian angel.

But after checking most stands and not finding anything, she finally gave up.

"Mami, can we go ice skating? I'm bored."

"Sure. But I'm afraid that’s something Rúben isn't allowed to do, right?"

"I'm afraid not. But don't worry, Julia. We'll keep searching for those cats while you and your mum have fun" he smiled.

"Oh, perfect. We'll meet later where they have all the stands with food so we can have that hot chocolate. See you, guys" Lucy said before disappearing with Julia.

"Should we continue?" Rúben asked.

"Ok" I smiled. Or tried to. I was alone with Rúben. At a Christmas market. Looking for ornaments for my tree. Why did this look like a date the two main characters of a romantic movie would have?

"You know, if we can't find a cat, maybe we can find a piano" he said. "I know it is something kind of bittersweet, but you wouldn't be here if it wasn't because of it."

"I guess" I said, checking one of the stands and seeing a familiar face. "Is that..."

"Uh?"

"Come" I said, grabbing his arm and walking towards the stand. "That's your friend John, isn't it?"

"That is him, yes" he chuckled, checking the ornament. This stand had personalized ones with both City and United's players, and they actually looked pretty cool. "Do you think they'll have mine?"

"Hello, can I help you?" the owner of the stand said.

"We were wondering if you had..."

"Oh, you!" the man said with a big smile. "I know who you are! Looking for yourself?"

"I actually am, yes" Rúben replied.

"I think there are none of yours there, let me check down here" he said, opening a box behind him. "Yours sell really well, especially among women. Wonder why” he chuckled. “Here you are."

"Oh, my God" I said, looking at the ornament the man was showing us. "Do you make them yourself?"

"I do, miss. Do you think I make him justice?" he laughed.

"This tiny version of him is much better" I smirked, looking at Rúben through the corner of my eye. He was rolling his eyes but also smiling.

"The good thing about this one is that he will fit under your tree. The real version is too big and there would be no space for other presents” Rúben said.

"Who says I'm asking to have you under my tree?"

"Who says you aren't?" he replied with that smirk. "We'll take it."

"Oh, wonderful" the man said. "But it is a gift."

"No, no, I can't accept that. We are paying for it."

"But you are... You!" the man said, trying to not catch people's attention. "I can't make you pay for this!"

"You spent your time and money making it. It's the least I can do" he replied, his wallet already in his hand.

"Ok, then" the man said, putting the ornament on a small package. "My son won't believe me when I tell him I sold one of these to the man himself."

"Why don't you take a photo together?" I said. "That way you'll have some proof to show to your son."

"Oh, no, there is no need. I don't want to bother you anymore, have people recognise him, and ruin your date."

"We aren't..." I began.

"It'll be fine, don't worry" Rúben smiled. "Can I ask you something?" he said after I took a few photos of him with the man.

"Of course” he replied.

"Do you know about any stand that sells cat ornaments? We are looking for a couple."

"I don't know if I've seen any, but there is one that sells like cat miniatures with fur and everything. Kids love them, they aren't creepy” he laughed.

"We'll check it. Thank you very much, sir" I said.

"Thank you both" he replied. "And Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas" Rúben smiled.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

"I'll take over now" Lucy said, picking Julia from Rúben's arms. After meeting with them again and finally having that hot chocolate, she started to get tired and didn't want to walk anymore, so he carried her all the way back home until she fell asleep. "Thank you very much, Rúben."

"No problem.”

"You can keep the welcome party going, tho. There is no rush to come home" Lucy winked before closing our apartment's door. Well, technically it was hers, but...

"Do you want to come in?" Rúben asked. "We've been walking for a while, you may want to rest your feet."

"Sitting down and resting my feet sounds like a wonderful idea, yes" I said, following into this apartment. Despite being the same as Lucy's, Ruben's looked very different. And not only because there were no toys laying around.

"What do you think?"

"It looks... It looks like you."

"What?" he chuckled.

"I didn't imagine you with a house full of stuff and furniture of different colours."

"Oh, you mean that I have a boring house because I'm boring."

"That's not what I meant and you know it" I said, sitting down on his couch. His very comfy and soft couch. "Oh my God."

"Comfortable?"

"You can't even imagine. Can I lay down?"

"Make yourself at home" he chuckled.

"This is the best, Rúben. Who cares if it's boring?" I said, closing my eyes.

"Don't fall asleep."

"Too late. This is it. See you in a week."

And maybe I didn't see him for a week, but half an hour...

"Good morning, sunshine" he said when I opened my eyes. He was sitting next to me, my feet on his lap.

"What... what happened?"

"You fell asleep."

"I did?"

"Yup."

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. But I guess I was way more tired than I thought. What time is it?"

"Almost dinner time. Do you want to stay? I can order something."

"Ok."

"Just don't fall asleep again" he smiled, putting my feet to the side and getting up.

"I'll try not to” I smiled back.

━━━━━━❃━━━━━━

"Don't forget this" Rúben said, giving me the package with his ornament.

"I thought this one was for you?"

"I'm not putting my face on my tree” he laughed. “Besides, we agreed you were the one putting it because the real me was too big."

"That's what you said."

"Does that mean that you will be asking Father Christmas to find me under your tree?" he smirked.

"If you come with that sofa, maybe" I said, matching his smile. And then we just stared at each other in silence while smiling, no awkwardness between us. At least until his phone rang.

"I better go pick that up" he sighed.

"I... Yes, you should."

"Good night, neighbour" Rúben said, opening the door with a little bow like Roger always does.

"Good night” I replied, trying really hard to not start smiling like an idiot and miserably failing.

#ruben dias #ruben dias fanfic #ruben dias imagine #football fanfic #football imagine

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arlathavellan-acotar · 1 year ago

Text

Phantom Pains | I

Fandom: ACOTAR

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Reader: she/her, (3/4-High Fae, 1/4-Tartera), Y/N used

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2.5k

Something is... wrong. Time missing, memories missing, thoughts missing. Wondering where things both big and small disappeared to, like the dress you were working on or even the past seventeen hours of your day. Something is very wrong, and the thought seems to slip your mind as soon as it comes. || Azriel has been a part of your life for years now, and has been courting you since the fall of Hybern. Only, things don't seem to be as simple as you'd both assumed they'd be. It seems someone thought you were the weak link-- the easy ticket to infiltrating the inner circle through its spymaster. And maybe you are.

|| Next Part | Masterlist ||

Velaris was always a sight to behold at night. Well, it was always a sight to behold regardless of the time, but something about the blanket of night just suited the city.

Your feet drag slightly as you walk, the fatigue of the day creeping up on you as you make your way home. A large basket weighs your arms down, your fingers barely able to interlock on the other side. The last errand for the night before you can bunker in and sleep until dawn. Well, maybe even a little later than that.

The city is still alive around you; though people are careful to give you room lest they knock your package from your arms. Your eyes barely peeked over the top, even with your chin lifted high, just to be sure you won’t run into anyone who isn’t paying attention. Your routine seemed to be predictably well-known by the residents in the area.

Routine was good, it meant you would know if something was wrong. And, as you come up upon the steps leading to your shop, your favorite part of the night comes. A shadow casts over you from behind, and the familiar sensation of a gentle sentient darkness winds itself up your waist to mingle with your own shadows.

“Allow me,” a gentle voice says.

The weight of the basket is suddenly gone, and you look over your shoulder at your new aide.

“Good evening, Azriel,” you greet, resting your hand in the crook of his offered elbow as he leads you up the stairs.

“Good evening, Y/N.” His smile is soft, not at all like the cold mask he’d wear when you first met.

His wing closest to you curls out slightly, acting as a barrier against the street traffic to make sure no one would bump into you. No one ever did, of course, but you weren’t going to complain about the gesture.

“It’s heavier than last week.”

He tests the weight with a slight bounce as you smile up at him. “Not too much, I hope. I’ve been getting more orders than usual since a certain High Lady was seen wearing one of my dresses on a very casual stroll through the markets.”

The brief puff of his chest doesn’t escape your attention as you reach the top of the stairs. “Our High Lady is certainly a patron of the arts.”

You bump into him lightly, but it does nothing to affect his stride. “Well, thanks to her generosity, I’ve found myself in need of assistance filling orders. I met my new seamstress at lunch today to get to know her; she starts in the morning.”

An utterly soft expression comes over his face, hazel eyes shining as he looks down at you. The walk to your shop was never more lovely than when he was at your side, telling you as much about his day as possible.

When you finally make it to your shop it seems all too soon. Never one to risk overstaying his welcome, Azriel sets the basket down on the front desk before turning to take your hand, placing a kiss on your knuckle.

“Until tomorrow,” he says, breath hot against your skin.

“Until tomorrow.” Your hand follows his for as long as possible as he backs into a dark corner, a sudden coldness replacing his warmth as he leaves for wherever he is needed next.

“One of these days,” you sigh to yourself. “I’ll get you to at least stay for tea before you leave.”

When you first arrived at Velaris, you could only dream of your shop being a staple of the city. Even five years ago you wouldn't have imagined the High Lady of the Night Court wearing one of your gowns just to support you; at the request of the man courting you nonetheless.

You started as a barely-paid aid, working off your family’s debts to the store owner. She was an old, haughty woman who tended to look down her nose at lesser fae like your half-tartera father, and by extension yourself, but even she couldn’t deny a hundred years of your beautiful work.

Even still, you were shocked when the store passed to you upon her death. It was a bit of a struggle, keeping it afloat by yourself during the last decade of Amarantha’s reign of terror. But now, the city was healing after yet another war, and with a little support from the fae who had been courting you, your business had never been better.

The bell above the shop’s door chimes, and you lean back to see your new employee.

“Amaria!” you call, catching her attention.

She smiles as she sees you and makes her way behind the counter to join you.

“Good morning, Y/N. I hope I’m not too late, I don’t have too much experience on this side of town.” The fae woman sits in the chair next to you, her copper braid sliding off her shoulder and falling at her back.

“No worries, I’m just getting an early start on some mending. Care to join me?” You lean across the table to slide a box towards her.

She takes it gracefully, lifting the blouse inside of it to find the damage. A small hole along the seam of the left arm catches her eye, and she picks up the matching spool of thread you’d left in the box.

You find yourself watching her thread a needle from your kit out of the corner of your eye, your own work stopping for a moment. It takes about three pokes for the thread to pass through, and you’re back to your own patching before her eyes turn towards you.

“If you don’t mind me asking; didn’t you mention an influx of dress orders at lunch yesterday? I’m sure those pay better than fixing some shirts.”

A smile pulls across your lips as you tie off your thread. “These customers were here first. I love making my own gowns, but if it weren’t for the people asking me to mend their clothes, the store would have been out of my hands decades ago.”

Amaria hums in response, focusing intently on the garment in her hands. Lithe and elegant, she almost reminds you of a spider weaving a web as she works the needle between long fingers. The two of you work for hours with the occasional work-related conversation until all of the garments sent in for mending are carefully folded on the far end of the table, client tags attached.

You roll your shoulders back, sighing at the accompanying crackle. “What would you say to a lunch break before we get started on those orders?”

A light, airy laugh is your response as Amaria follows your lead in standing from the table. “I had worried you might be the type to work until your body said otherwise.”

You can’t help your smile as you lead her out of the shop. “Oh, I do some days. I just don’t want to scare you off on your first day here.”

She falls in step with you, and you walk a little faster than normal to meet a compromising pace for the both of you. The streets are busy around this time of day, and your shadows dance around your feet when another fae walks too close.

Amaria breaks the silence as the two of you walk to the cafe you’d met her at yesterday. “You mentioned your father was tarteran, correct?”

“And one of the best jewelsmiths in the Court,” you answered. “He made quite a living before my mother fell ill.”

“So why dresses? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You focused on the steady fall of your feet as the two of you walked down the cobbled street. “It started out of convenience. My mother was a seamstress, so I had easy access to training, and could help with her work as her condition got worse. Eventually, I took over for her so she didn’t have to worry about that kind of thing in the few years before she passed.”

A silence fell between you, so you sent her a smile to quell the apprehensive look you noticed on her face. “I don’t mind talking about it. I’ve had my time to grieve, and will gladly take any opportunity to talk someone’s ear off about them. Keeps their memory alive.”

She tries to return your smile, but you can tell it isn’t completely there.

“What of you? Family or profession, whichever you’re comfortable sharing.”

Amaria’s gaze flickers up towards the horizon, and the pause before she speaks has you on the edge of backtracking. “My parents died when I was young; my siblings as well. I was taken in by a family friend who paid for sewing lessons so I could make dresses for myself and his daughter. We were originally in Spring, but tensions during the war had us moving up here with his sister to escape the fighting.”

Her words are tense, almost feeling rehearsed with their near-monotonous tone. An uneasy feeling in your gut has you redirecting the conversation as you approach the cafe.

“Well, as painful as our journeys may have been, I'm glad they led us here. What better place to make your dreams come true than the City of Dreams itself?” You catch another not-quite smile as you lead her inside.

After lunch, you and Amaria fall into a steady rhythm working on an order for Morrigan as the sun begins to set. You’d only met her a few times since Azriel had begun courting you, but she was a frequent patron and always paid more than fair. One of her requests had even led to a collaboration between yourself and Neve to design both gown and jewelry to complement each other. You’d always longed for connections in the Palace of Thread and Jewels, and her shop reminded you of your late father.

“I’ve heard tales of our great Inner Court,” Amaria says, working on the hem of Morrigan’s flowing skirt. “I never thought I’d be making something for them, especially not on my first day.”

You flash a smile as you arrange the fabric for the bodice on the dressform you’d had made for her. “Morrigan and Lady Feyre have been more than generous in their support. They’re actually the reason I needed to hire another pair of hands; everyone wants to see what’s so special about a gown to be worn by the High Lady herself.”

Amaria hums in response, and you’ve gotten the impression it's something she does often.

“And the others?” Her voice has you peeking over your shoulder, but her face is practically buried in the skirt. “The High Lady’s sisters, or the High Lord’s brothers?”

A slight tug at your lips betrays you as you think of your shadowsinger. “I get some repairs from them, but I don’t believe any of them have the taste for my gowns.”

Her laugh is light and airy, and you can hear the spring court in her. A few pins later, and you stepped back to get a better vantage on the pleats of the chest. A quick look over your shoulder showed that Amaria was finishing up the hem.

“Well, I believe this is a good place to call it a night.”

She looks up at you, blinking to clear her eyesight. “I don’t think I’ve sewed for this long in ages.”

You laugh as she stretches and curls her fingers. “If we don’t stop here I might end up working through the night, sleep be damned.”

Sighing with a smile, she stood from her chair and worked the strain out of her back and arms.

“Would you mind if I walked you home?” You asked, closing up your pins. “It’s getting dark out, and I know you mentioned getting turned around this morning. I can drop off some of the repairs we did as well.”

Her expression turns to shock for a moment, but fades to a grateful smile. “It would be much appreciated. I can’t say I’m too familiar with navigating the market squares at night.”

The night is cool and the walk is pleasant. Amaria is easy company, and you find the two of you don’t need to make much conversation. You even get to introduce her to a few customers, and they take to her easily.

Her apartment is at the back of a c-shaped complex, through a brief alleyway that opens into a shared courtyard.

“It’s beautiful,” you appraise, looking up at the large tree in the center as you pass. The last fading light of sunset filters through its leaves.

“I was fortunate to find this place. The neighbors are kind, and good company on sleepless nights.” Her voice is gentle, like she’s already more at home in the courtyard than she was in the streets of Velaris.

A sentiment you understood all too well.

“Thank you, Y/N. For walking me home.”

You smile at her as she reaches her door, and she returns it brightly. ”I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

Her head dips into a low nod. “Until then.”

The courtyard is silent as her door closes behind her. A night chill settles on your shoulders like a cloak, and you find yourself shivering as you enter the alleyway. It was getting late, which meant your shadowsinger would soon make his appearance. Feeling light and giddy, your pace is enthusiastic as you make your way back to your shop and home.

There weren’t many people out tonight, those that were awake likely seeking something in one of the districts. Your feet slow despite yourself, a sluggish feeling overcoming your body as you come to a stop in the middle of the street

The light behind you is partially blocked, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck prickle as your shadows swirl in a panic at your feet. Every survival sense in your body screams at once as spindly fingers enter your peripheral vision, caging your head. A feeling of claustrophobia overwhelms your senses, and suddenly every inch of you is paralyzed. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut tight at the sudden pain blooming in your head.

When your senses return, it's to the sound of wings. You inhale like you’ve been stuck underwater, swaying on your feet as the blackness in your vision recedes, showing the streets of Velaris once more.

“There you are!” Azriel calls, landing in front of you and grasping on your shoulders as you sway on your feet.

The heel of your palm digs into your temple as you wince at the volume of his voice.

“Are you alright?” His hands and shadows both brush against you, searching for any obvious injuries.

You blink the fog out of your eyes and steady yourself against him. “I’m… I’m okay. Just got lightheaded for a moment.”

A familiar, comforting feeling of silence surrounds you as arms and wings alike shield you from the world. “I was waiting for you by the bridge, but it was starting to get late. What’re you doing out here?”

You swallow a lump in your throat as you regain your bearings. Recounting your deliveries and how you walked Amaria home, you notice the sky is much darker than it was a moment ago. Azriel’s brows are pinched, his thumb running from your temple to cheek.

“Let me take you home?” Both an offer and plea, one you don’t plan on denying.

----------------------------

Want to join a taglist? Reply or reblog with the url you want tagged and what you want to be tagged for! Fandom specific, character specific, and/or story specific are all accepted.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fic #a court of thorns and roses #arlathavellan: fanwork #arlathavellan: acotar #arlathavellan: phantom pains

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bowloflentils · 6 months ago

Text

ComuNet is an interesting mystery. From what I can tell, they were a visual novel publisher in the 2000s that helped release Phantom of Inferno in the US as a DVD game. Their old site also listed Vjedogonia, Hello World, and No Reality as future releases but ComuNet disappeared off the face of the earth before these came out.

Hirameki International, another early visual novel localizer, had some kind of connection to ComuNet as well. The AnimePlay brand that Hirameki later used in much of their marketing was seemingly first coined by ComuNet. And while ComuNet's copyright and logo is displayed all over Inferno's packaging, Hirameki is listed as the game's publisher on the back of the box.

I find ComuNet's brief history to be very interesting but there is sadly almost no information about them outside of what I just shared. But, if you want to read more about them, I created a page for the company on the Giantbomb wiki. The page also has a few of their ads for Inferno.

#comunet #phantom of inferno #vjedogonia #hello world #no reality #visual novel #hirameki international

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 2 years ago

Note

What do the M6 spent an exorbitant amount of money on? So much so that it could be considered an addiction? (Doesn't need to be expenses related to the MC, but could be.) I feel like for Lucio it would be Furry Comissions (regardless of whether or not you want to set the hc's in a modern AU or the regular story).

The Arcana HCs: M6 and their shopping weaknesses

~ a request from my wonderful fantastic mutual @helshollowhalls ? Anything for you, friend! Enjoy the madness - brainrot ~

Depending on how the two of you like to split your duties, it may be more or less frequent for you or your beloved to shop alone. Most of the time you don't have to worry too much, they're an adult! They know what they're doing.

Until they creep into your shared quarters one evening, oozing both excitement and guilt as they hide the results of their errands behind the door. "MC, you wouldn't believe what I saw for sale in the market today."

Julian

He's standing almost like a soldier, chest bared and feet braced for your reaction, arms folded under his cape behind his back

"What did you buy, Julian?"

He's not ready to answer your question. "I have it in good faith that it may one day prove essential to saving someone's life."

He's really getting into character now, and you're beginning to worry

"What did you buy, Julian?"

"A rare instrument necessary to my practice! A scientific breakthrough! Behold!"

And with a grand flourish, he pulls out a feat of engineering that seems to be an obscure medical instrument. Fair enough

"So what does it do?"

You watch him deflate like one of those car dealership tube men at the end of the day

"... I don't know."

"And how much did you spend on it?"

He clutches it to his chest protectively. "Does it matter? I'll figure out a way to use it eventually! Maybe it pairs well with leeches!"

Asra

You can't tell if they're grinning or grimacing, but their dimples are out and they're almost sparkling with excitement

"They had so many options, MC. I've never even heard of most of them before!"

He can see your eyes widening as Faust tips over the duffle-sized bag behind the door, slithering over the piles of packages that pour out across the floor

"How much did you spend, Asra!?"

"Not as much as I could have, and only my own money. They had sample packs!"

Now that their secret is out, they're excitedly unwrapping every bundle and disappearing in a mountain of paper and twine

Faust seeks refuge on your shoulder and the sheer diversity of smells filling the room are making both of you a little dizzy

Small bottles of perfumed oil, tiny pots of lotion, mini candles and twigs of incense cover every surface of the room

All the candles and incense are lit. Every tester is being applied in random patchwork

He got over 50 new scents and he is thriving

Nadia

She feels a little guilty for going without you, but she's so excited to have been part of your world like this

She went to the central marketplace

And she got everything suggested to her

Because who would know better than the people selling what she needed to get?

Two menservants are bringing in the multiple bags she brought back in the carriage while she goes over each thing with you, excitedly repeating their sales pitches

She's halfway through the second bag, telling you all about her new gilded mop holder when you finally interrupt

"Nadia, my love. How many things did you get?" You're holding your breath, hoping the question doesn't burst her bubble

"Oh, nothing extravagant. You should see the shipments that come in for palace events! We'll go back together, my darling, and we can do a proper shopping trip then."

You do go back together, and this time you steer clear of the salesmen taking advantage of her inexperience

Muriel

He's peeking around the door of the hut, and you can tell by the set of his eyebrows that he is embarrassed and has no regrets

You smile up at him, walking over to greet him after his trip into town

And the door swings a little further open to reveal his cloak, stuffed to the brim with something that keeps cheeping

He's got the squirming mass wrapped protectively in his arms, slowly kneeling to lower it to the ground

And from the depths of his clothing burst a tidal wave of baby chicks, spreading out to cover the yard and sending the chickens already present into a ruffle of squawks

"Muriel, how many are there?!"

" ... twenty-four. The pet shop had them with the kittens and puppies and," he pauses to peek at your face, "chickens are different. They wouldn't be happy in the city."

The ground is yellow. Inanna has turned into a sulky, wolf shaped jungle gymn. Muriel watches quietly. "Did I do the right thing?"

"Yes. But they are your responsibility."

Portia

You see the way Pepi perks up and Portia moves to guard the giant paper bags she's holding, and that's how you know it's food

You pick Pepi up to protect the goods and take a closer look. The two bags are each nearly the size of your beloved's torso

"Portia, what small army are we feeding!?"

She drops them on the table, flicks a stray crumb from her sleeve, and deflects Pepi's swipe at the pastry that tumbles out

"Ok so don't be mad, I may have overspent just a teeny little bit, but she was a traveling baker from up north! And I had to try some!"

"And then?"

"And then we started talking about baking, and she gave me a discount so I tried one of everything, but I didn't want you to miss out so I got two more of everything for us to eat together!"

You're not sure what to say. It's a lot of food

You end up inviting the Palace bakers to enjoy it with you (they'll be able to really appreciate the technique) and eating lentil stew for the rest of the week

Lucio

You're having flashbacks while he fidgets in the doorway. This used to happen every time you let him do the shopping alone

In his defense, nobody ever taught him to budget. His job was to hunt his food or eat his rations until the old Count took him in

But you two have been working on it together, and he's gotten pretty good at making and sticking to a list and limit

Which can only mean one thing:

"It was so shiny, MC. I know I made an oopsie, but look at it! It goes on my arm!"

It's a jewelry piece that he's clipped to the grooves on his gauntlet. It's not that big, so you can't see how it's an oopsie unless ...

"Is that an emerald? Is that real gold!?"

He nods excitedly. "Don't feel bad, MC, I got you one too! Now we match!"

It's beautiful, but, "Lucio, where did you get the money for this?"

"Next week's budget." He sees your face and grabs your hands. "But don't worry! I did the math, and I already found a job to cover it."

This man is going to be the death of you

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana shitpost #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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limerental · 18 days ago

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ficletvember 2024 - day 9

ciri & ves & roche beach holiday shenanigans (theoretically takes place within the timeline of my ciri/everyone fic but is standalone)

After the Battle of Kaer Morhen, Ciri whisks the Temerians off for a much-deserved beach holiday.

The first world Ciri whisked them off to was meant to ease her sheltered companions into the realities of time-space travel. The trouble was that almost anywhere was out of the scope of comprehension for two low-born humans who'd rarely left their backwater kingdom on a Continent yet to fight its way out of the dark ages.

She soon realized she'd underestimated what they would need warning for.

A beach vacation would fix them, Ciri thought. Warm sand and the rhythmic crash of the waves. Overly sweet alcoholic drinks bought from boardwalk bars and indulgent foods like potato wedges drowning in melted cheese or corn dogs or ice cream.

“All these women are utterly naked,” said Ves, her face burning red. It was a delightfully amusing reaction from a girl with a neckline that plunged as low as hers.

Beside her, Roche was steadfastly squinting into the distance rather than look at the sun-bathing tourists around them. Or perhaps he needed sunglasses. The quality of the light in his precious Temeria tended towards dreary and dull.

“Only nearly naked,” said Ciri, taking on her best instructive voice, as though she were their well-informed time-space tour guide. “This is what's called tanning. No, no, not like the leather, though in time, it can certainly give one's skin a leathery appearance. Well and any of these women may someday be afflicted by a terrible disease caused this very afternoon. You see, this planet's sun has evil magic beams that–”

“On this world do they not grow hair ‘tween their legs? Or anywhere?” Ves asked loudly. “That fabric covers fuck all.”

Roche dropped his face into his hands, and laughing, Ciri swiftly whisked them off to dress more appropriately for the locale.

Ves took easily to scantily clad beachwear, choosing to wear board shorts and a pale blue string bikini top. Ciri liked her cheeky smile as she examined herself in the dressing room mirror. She liked Ves and owed her something for risking her life to save her from the Wild Hunt. Ciri liked the thought of providing her a small moment of contentment, something easy and pleasant.

Unfortunately, she also owed Vernon Roche. Ciri had brought him along on their adventure only because Ves had vouched for him and because she was curious whether it was possible for him to lose his pinched frown.

So far, no luck. He seemed more than a little shell-shocked by the size and scale of the superstore they'd entered, but the deeply-furrowed frown remained. When Ciri and Ves finished in the dressing room, they found him wandering in an aisle full of wall to wall packaged bread. Perplexed shoppers eyed the strangely-dressed man in his silly hat and heavy wool armor as he mumbled to himself in a foreign language and stroked the crinkling, colorful plastic of pre-sliced loaves.

Perhaps Ciri should have introduced mass market capitalism a bit more slowly. She could have popped into a nice seaside boutique rather than the local Wal-Mart.

She and Ves corralled the dazed man back to the dressing rooms, where they plied him with a mound of clothing and shoved him into a stall.

He emerged sometime later wearing far too many layers and hideous clogs. Ves laughed until she wheezed, and Ciri snatched his rumpled chaperon from his head and replaced it with a wide-brimmed beach hat and dark sunglasses.

“Don’t worry, you'll get all your kit back when I've dumped you back home again,” said Ciri, stuffing their clothing and gear into a small bag strapped at her waist. “It’s bigger on the inside, of course.”

Ciri imagined that the poor loss protection security guards watching the shop's cameras got quite a shock when three shoplifters in swimsuits disappeared in a flicker of light. She flipped off one of the cameras for good measure.

Most of the Continent’s beaches that she’d been to were a stinking slog of muck on the borders of swampy dunes, no comparison to the glittering sand and pale blue water that stretched out before them. The foaming surf felt as warm as a bath as it wet their ankles, and it was all perfectly quaint and fairly boring.

“You mentioned drinks?” Ves asked, and Ciri found them the gaudiest beachside bar around, Jimmy Buffet blaring over the sound system, and plopped them down on sun-warmed loungers with lurid colored drinks sipped from curly straws.

Within the hour, Ves had won several arm-wrestling matches with burly, tattooed locals, and Ciri looked on fondly at the girl surrounded by a crowd of admirers, her mouth stained with blue dye, her cheeks and shoulders flushed hot red from the afternoon sun and the drink.

Even Roche looked a little at ease. Or perhaps was just queasy with the sugary alcohol. He'd taken a liking to frozen margaritas, cradling a brimming glass of slush as he watched tropical fish cruise along in the barside aquarium as if they were the most confounding things he'd ever seen.

One of the men Ves soundly defeated turned out to run a tattoo shop down the boardwalk, and she lit up at the offer of ill-advised free ink.

The sunset burned over the water, and the tequila warmed their blood.

They coaxed a swaying Roche into the chair first, adding a little fish swimming amidst the wobbly lines of the mismatched tattooed mess of his left arm. Ciri and Ves opted for the same, fins rippling as they flexed their biceps, cackling.

“My first,” said Ves, pointing to a bulbous penis and balls on her upper shoulder. “Worst is, I was dead sober. I think was either Silas or Thirteen who did it. You remember Roche?”

“Nah,” said Roche, a distance in his voice. “Been too damn long.”

Ciri thought of the rose at her inner thigh, and wanted– well, she wanted more to drink. Or at the very least to run and keep running.

The three of them sat together on the edge of the pier, legs dangling, arms folded on the weathered railing. The last glow of evening faded out over the ocean.

The night was warm, the ocean waves swelled across the sand below, and it was all insufferably idyllic.

“How about somewhere less dull next,” said Ciri.

“This isn't dull,” Ves protested. “It’s just… well.”

“It's dull,” said Roche. He stared out at the vanishing horizon line with an inscrutable expression.

Deeming herself sufficiently sober, Ciri dragged them to a world more vibrant and loud, engines roaring along a neon megahighway. She knew a mechanic in this one who could help her indulge in the sort of adrenaline she needed.

“What on earth is that?” Ves asked, and Ciri leaned over the handlebars and revved the thing, grinning. She held out a helmet, lowering the dark face shield on her own.

“Hop on! You'll love it. It's better than the fastest horse you've ever ridden. And this planet doesn't have traffic rules. So we could certainly die in a fiery crash at any moment if we’re not careful.”

“Neat,” said Ves and slung herself behind Ciri, holding on tight.

“I hate horses,” grumbled Roche. “Am I meant to fit on the back of that as well?”

“Of course not,” she said. Ciri was suddenly having a very very good time. She had a handsome girl holding her tight, anywhere in the world to run to, and she was finding that she found pestering a long-suffering Roche deeply gratifying. He deserved it a little. The vacation and the pestering.

She gestured beside the bike, waggling her fingers.

“Sidecar.”

#i hope you all know this is deeply stupid lmao #put vernon roche in the local walmart to suffer #my fic

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follow-up-news · 2 months ago

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Chinese vendor Yin Xinwei sometimes makes close to $1,400 a day selling low-priced pill boxes, barbecue spits and other items to U.S. online consumers. The future of that business, and the bargain prices enjoyed by his American customers, is now in question amid a looming U.S. regulatory change aimed largely at two Chinese e-commerce platforms he sells on, Temu and Shein. The change, which comes amid rising trade tensions between the world’s two largest economies, is likely to have major consequences for already burdened Chinese sellers such as Yin who rely heavily on overseas markets. “The business model could disappear,” he said in a recent interview at his officein the southern Chinese city of Shenzhen. Both platforms have experienced explosive growth in recent years thanks to a customs exemption that allows packages whose contents are worth less than $800 to enter the United States almost tax-free and with minimal scrutiny. Each year hundreds of millions of packages, mostly from Chinese platforms, are sent directly to American consumers eager to take advantage of rock-bottom prices on clothing, electronics and other products. But this month, the White House said it planned to narrow the loophole, known as the “de minimis” exclusion, to prevent abuse and strengthen protections for American consumers and workers. That could mean painful times ahead for the Chinese sellers that supply the platforms — and higher prices for American consumers.

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justimajin · 1 year ago

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Winter Splashes

Genre: Pure Fluff (with like a drop of angst)

↳ Writer Reader x Painter Taehyung AU

Words: 14k

Summary: Being a writer is a difficult job - you have daunting deadlines to meet, new characters to develop and constantly seek out bundles of inspiration. However, this profession also demands that you go with the flow, a simple phrase that morphs into a much bigger business issue when your book sales are on the verge of disappearing. It doesn't help that you're thrown a major curve-ball, one that leaves you asking a very ominous question:

✒ How are you supposed to write about romance?

The large brown table has a mountain of colours spewed on it, ranging from hard-covered to soft-covered, light laughs to deep wails, a short stack of words with sharp statements to a long flow of words that could have imaginations whisked away. The bound pages each have different illustrations depicted, their sheer volume only seeming to be endless when another array of them starts to form right below the table. Among all this, two words are engraved with a swirl into each of them and it’s a name that never fails to raise a hearty smile.

“Y/N L/N.”

The man on the other end repeats in the midst of your thoughts, your eyes trailing along with every book he takes out of the cardboard box. His brows are furrowed whenever he leans down, brown locks falling down onto his eyes and flush lips stretched out in wonder. He glances over at you with wide eyes from where you’re seated in the corner, the forecasted dreamy look you hold immediately vanishing into bewilderment. “There’s seriously a lot of them now.”

With a smile, you nod as he places the last batch underneath the table and turns to face you, “All of them did well in the market too.” He picks up a black book with dark purple and red swirls lining the cover, clouds of smoke in the background of a woman who holds a horrific expression, “Even after you created this,” Another book meets his hands, this time with hues of pink, blue and yellow splashed on the surface, a multitude of flowers scattered on the surface, “And then this.”

A chuckle escapes you, springing up from your seat with a cherry grin.

“Well, you know what they say!” You point a cheesy finger at him, placing a powerful hand on your hip like you were some kind of superhero, “The biggest risks will always lead to the best results.”

“Or the worst results.” He pursues his lips, “But you have managed to tackle a lot of genres in your writing, I’ll say that much.”

You stroll closer, eyes dramatically wide and mouth agape, “Was that a….compliment?”

He whips around, appearing offended. “Hey! I’ve given you plenty of compliments before.”

“You said my last book was ridiculous and that I wasn’t allowed to turn the main character into a fish.”

“Because that was ridiculous! Why would you even write something like that?!”

“It’s unique! You know, the good ol’ being interesting enough to read more?” You smirk, leaning towards him with suspicious eyes, “Are you sure you’re an actual editor, Jin?”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, placing the book in his hands down with a sigh, “I’m just saying that maybe you could try writing something simple this time around. Something without all the plot twists and weird revelations.”

You narrow your eyes, not yet ready to budge until he glares at you in exasperation, “Hm, Fair enough. So what’s hot on the market?”

You eagerly eye him, aware of his tendency to keep tabs on what the current status of the highest selling books were.

“There’s been a demand for something else recently.” His voice grows wary and you raise an eyebrow, following after him as he brings over a sealed box you’ve haven’t seen before. He slices through the tape and begins taking out the paper packaging, revealing a new set of books that don’t carry your signature.

“What is this?” You probe, picking one up that has an intricate image of a boy and a girl with glittering golden and silver eyes. “A werewolf story?”

Jin hums, “There’s other ones too.”

The books go flying from the box as you toss them out, taking one quick glance before allowing it to meet the pile you’re forming on the table. There’s covers depicting snow with a vampire, an image of a stethoscope, another of a basketball court, and heck, even one with the premise of two people switching bodies. You stare at Jin perplexed, not grasping onto how these random titles were going to be helpful to you.

He leans back, resting himself on the perch of the table. He smiles like he knows something you don’t ‒ a gesture that has you nearly pestering him for an answer until he finally speaks.

“How do you feel about romance?”

“The genre?” He nods, “I don’t know, I guess it’s nice? It’s cute and all, and that-”

He continues to smile and there’s something about it that’s unintentionally connected to the dots for you.

You’ve made up your mind already, “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s romance!” You raise up your hands in exasperation, but Jin just stares at you, not understanding the big deal, “You know, people gushing and giggling over each other for an entire book. Who wants to read something like that??”

“This is coming from someone that wrote about a guy turning into a fish.”

“It was unique!” You chime in again, but Jin simply sighs and slides over the books you had previously yanked out.

“It’s not what the market wants though, Y/N. All of these books went on to become popular just for being in the genre.” He attempts to reason, placing his hands on your shoulders, “I still think you should give it a shot.”

Your lips set into a firm line, gaze drifting over to the atrocious covers that Jin’s lined up on the table.

You suppose it wouldn’t be so bad. After all, you’ve been through writing spurts, endlessly crafting out fantasy words in efforts of making it through the deadlines you’re faced with. You’ve faced the mixture of stress and adrenaline, desperately pushing yourself to keep going even if your tank of fuel is failing on you. You’ve spent the long hours of digging your nose into hours of research, familiarising yourself with something out of your comfort zone just for the sake of making your writing better.

But...romance?

A genre you’ve skimmed over in hopes of creating something else, a genre that you’ve barely given a second glance because…...well…

You research things. You try to improve things. And the best way to improve, is totry…...

Even though you have no clue what you’re getting yourself into.

“I don’t know…” You quietly mumble, fiddling with the bottom of your sweater. “What if it sucks?”

“You’ll never know unless you try.” Jin offers, but it doesn’t take away the unsettling feeling in your stomach from just thinking about it. He simply stares as you grow silent, letting out a sigh.

Reaching over to grab a familiar coat, he tosses it over your head. You immediately react, flabbergasted by the sudden flying article of clothing.

“What was that for?!”

“Come on.” He slides his arms through a brown one with a knowing smile, “You work based on inspiration,” He glances around the dusty office, nearly packed with opened cardboard boxes and books, “and I don’t think you’ll get much from here.”

You grin, slipping on the rough material instantly.

***

The streets are bustling, packed with crowds of people huddled together. They’re surrounded by cream coloured skyscrapers from a far distance, rows of bare oak trees lining the roads. The scent of fresh winter lingers in the air, newly arrived after the scattering of orange and red leaves on the ground.

You fist your hands up, a cheer erupting from your throat. A hand suddenly pushes through, covering your mouth.

“Why are you screaming?” Jin asks in exasperation, staring at you in disbelief when you still continue despite his attempts at halting you.

You pry his hand off, “I haven’t been outside in so long!!” You instantly run off, bumping into some civilians with no care and then giving them a cheeky wink when they glare at you. Jin rushes forward, grabbing onto you again.

He sighs, stuffing his icy hands into his coat pockets, “Y/N, you’re supposed to be a writer, not a hermit.”

“You can’t have both, Jin.” You remind him, “Plus I’ve spent hours working on my deadlines so I’m in need for some fu-Ooh! Look!”

He whirls around to see you dashing over a pile of leaves in the corner, diving headfirst into them before he can stop you. Giggles escape you as Jin can’t help but smile a bit at the display too. However, that’s when he remembers why he even offered to bring you out inside, leaning over to grasp onto your arm.

“Alright, come on Miss. Tree Lover.” He helps you up, quirking an eyebrow at the leaves currently trapped and poking out of your hair. You instantly brush them out, following him around.

“Well?” He says with hopeful eyes as you take in the busy area.

“Well what?”

“Really?” He ponders, leaning closer, “No crazy amounts of inspiration yet?”

“That’s not how it works!” You chide, “It takes more than that, you know? I gotta have a type of feeling.”

“A type of feeling?”

You roll your eyes at his obvious sarcasm, “Yeah, like I see something and the urge to write just‒”

Your eyes spark up at a particular store and before you know it, you’re yanking Jin to come along with you.

“What is it??”

“Look!” You point over to the shop burgeoning with hard bound books. Planting your hands against the window, the glass fogs with the warmth you radiate as you peer inside, seeing countless of titles you recognize.

“Aren’t those…?” Jin whispers from behind you, a huge dreamy smile crossing your lips.

“Yeah.” You glance at the familiar works in front of you, eyes carefully watching people that walk across the selves. A particular group huddled in the corner catches your attention right away, one of them flicking through pages you’ve probably dispensed part of your soul into.

She pauses at one page, eyes starting to focus in and appearing intrigued. Her lips have thinned out, lost in thought even with the group near her talking amongst themselves.

You know that look.

The excitement in your eyes instantly shifts into tenderness, simply content with watching someone hold curiosity in them from your words.

But the perfect mirage cracks.

“Hey guys, check this one out!”

The girl immediately spins around, shuffling over to view the alluring title her friend has pulled out. However, in the midst of this, the familiar hard bound pages are instantly discarded, plopped back onto the shelf without another single glance.

Your smile falls, eyes tingeing with dismay. You can only watch from afar as she swipes through new material, her attention grasped unlike before.

Sight lingering down, you recognize the type of literature she holds. It only contributes more to your sorrow, left hopelessly gazing at the genre you’ve strayed extremely far from.

Jin is silent from behind you, noticing that your immediate cheerfulness has disappeared within seconds. He’s still silent when you turn to him in disappointment, muttering the words he’s been trying to drill in your head since this morning.

“I think….I’ll give it a shot.”

He hums, gesturing for you to leave. “Just try your best, and don’t force yourself.”

You nod, following after him once you’ve managed to tear your vision away from the scene. Although you’ve come down to the resolve he’s wanted, it doesn’t help at all to take away the unsettling feeling in the pit of your stomach.

***

You already have a concept in your hands. Now all you gotta do is write it.

How hard can it be?

Within the span of ten minutes, soft thugs begin to resonate through the room. You lull you head over and over again against the surface of your table, deep exhausted sighs leaving your body.

Did you really say how hard can it be? Did the you of ten minutes ago actually think this was easy?!

Sinking back into your chair, you stare at the blank document with empty eyes. It hasn’t moved an inch in that time frame and neither have you.

Romance ‒ that’s it. Just write a story about two people falling for each other and seal the deal with a pretty looking bow.

But then why are you still stuck staring at the screen?

A groan of defeat leaves your lips and you slump against your desk. A brown-haired individual pokes by your door, raising an eyebrow.

“All good?” Jin asks. You barely move your head, an indecipherable murmur releasing from your throat.

“I see…” He hums at the answer, straightening up and leaning against the frame, “If you’re that stuck, why don’t you do some research about it? You usually like that, right?”

At the sound of the suggestion, your head immediately whips back with a hopeful glint in your eyes. Jin conceals his laughter as you start rapidly typing on your keyboard, taking that as an indication to leave you be as he goes back to editing your recent stories.

Meanwhile, you’re having the time of your life.

Of course! Research! The saving grace in a writer’s world!

You’ve done it countless times before. Whether it was about being knowledgeable in understanding the mechanics of worldbuilding, to figure out the basic meanings of things you’ve previously had no clue about.

However, the aspect you’re not accustomed to is your screen filling up with random articles.

“How to tell if you’ve met your lifetime soulmate?” You narrow your eyes, “Ten ways of getting your crush to like you back…?”

You scroll through, coming across more strange suggestions that give you zero insight for your current situation. Frowning, you wonder if you’re not searching hard enough ‒ until your eyes are left staring at the small advertisement in the corner of the screen.

“Check out the latest kdrama’s here….?” Hovering your mouse over the link, a broad spectrum of shows flood your eyes instantly. There’s a range of story types and titles, but what catches your interest the most is the tagline.

In need for some romance? Heal the woes of your lonely heart here then!

You lean back, staring at the shows. You suppose it won’t hurt to check one of them out, after all, it could give you the details you’ve been searching for.

Making up your mind, you commit the mistake of watching the first episode of a series.

***

Jin rubs his sore eyes, letting out a low yawn. He’s been unpacking more and more boxes from the publisher, carefully organizing them based on genre for the past couple of hours. After that horrendous task, he has decided to go through the latest story you’ve handed over to him, vision glued to his monitor as he highlights and circles places of improvement.

He doesn’t want to take the harsh approach, but it goes without saying that your writing has been a little lacking these days. Usually he lets you do your thing and he does his own as long as you meet the deadlines, but he wonders if you’ve sacrificed the caliber in your writing in exchange.

It isn’t terrible as you would probably take it. It still follows the unique concept trend you’ve focused on for so long. However, there seems to be something missing, something he can’t quite pinpoint even after going through pages and pages.

With a sigh, he squeezes his heavy eyes shut for a moment before narrowing in onto the screen again. But his thought process is snatched away with a loud thud, and he instantly raises his head, wondering if a book has perhaps fallen down.

Surprisingly, nothing’s fallen.

Glancing around, he can only ponder until a boisterous laugh echoes through the walls, closely followed with prolonged wails. He slowly rises from his seat, following the intense sound as the frequency increases.

He comes to a pause in front of your door, knocking softly. “Y/N?”

Instead of words, he greeted to a chain of sobs. Twisting the knob to your office, he pokes his head in.

“Y/N? Are you ok‒”

To his defence, your office looks exactly how he has initially left it. But now it’s completely dark save for the subdued corner in the room, where you lie wrapped around with a blanket. Your eyes are glued to the bright source of light in the room, namely your computer screen, and there’s a bag of popcorn alongside a box of tissues right next to you. Aside from the strange position, your cheeks are completely drenched and there’s a hysterical look to your eyes.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“Uh….”

The sound of his voice catches your attention, eyes widening, “Jin! Oh my god, Jin, it's so sad!”

“What’s sad?”

“This kdrama!” You point to your screen, “It’s so sad! First they were friends, and then they started liking each other, but then they kissed and everything went downhill after this second guy came in!”

Jin crouches down, barely able to make out what's on screen due to the excessive water sticking to it.

“You’re watching a drama?”

You hurriedly nod, “Now the girl is starting to fall for the second guy because of a misunderstanding! How are they going to fix all this?!”

“Y/N…” Jin says in exasperation, “Is this what you’ve been doing for the past couple of hours?”

You pout, hiding the device that clearly displays episode seven.

“N-No........”

Jin pretends not to see it, “Y/N, your next deadline is within two weeks. You really need to start working on this.”

He grabs hold of your arm, pulling you out of the kdrama cocoon you’ve built around yourself. You let out a deep sigh, pressing your hand against your temples.

“You’re right...I need to stop wasting time…” You whisper and Jin hums, swiveling around.

“I have to get back to editing but I’ll come back in an hour once I’m done.” You nod as he turns to leave, slumping back down on your desk with a tired exhale.

He was right. The moment you clicked onto that link, the hours spun by faster than you could count them and you’ve got nothing done at this point.

Prying open your laptop again, you resume back to the blank document.

***

Jin has assumed his words have knocked some sense into you as he makes his way back to your office.

What he doesn’t assume, is to see you sitting on the ledge of the broad window with a book in your hands.

“You’re reading…?” He wonders. Normally he wouldn’t even question it, but his eyes drift over to the blank document once again and something tells him there’s more to the story than he initially thought.

You look up surprised, as if you hadn’t expected his arrival. His eyes stray over to the title of the book in your hands, a groan leaving him.

“Oh god, not this again Y/N!”

“It’s to help me understand!” You try to reason, but Jin is short of a few words when you’re reading a bulky thick book called ‘The Philosophy Behind Romance’.

“How is this supposed to help you?” He points to the book and you defensively curl your arms around it.

“Hear me out for a minute!” You quickly place it in your hands and rapidly flip through the pages. “Romantic love is considered to be a relation higher than the metaphysical and stems from a desire that transcends the physical body.”

Jin frowns, “What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea. But!” You hastily intervene as Jin looks like he’s about to protest, “I think it can help me with creating the story.”

“I don’t think any of this is going to work.”

“What?” He walks over, taking the book out of your hands and straight up discarding it into your trash can. “HEY!”

“You’re starting to run out of fuel.” He states, noticing the way your expression sours. You know he’s right, but won’t admit it. “You need to get away from all this.”

He gestures to the book and the blank document you still have pulled up, reminding you of the ill circumstance you had yet to do something about.

A dreary sigh leaves your lips, brows knitted together, “I’m trying Jin, I really am.” You gesture to the same empty document, “It’s just so hard. I-....I don’t know what to do.”

Jin places a hand on your shoulder, nodding, “You’re out of your comfort zone and you’re having writer’s block. It’s understandable, but I don’t think research is what's going to help you this time.”

You pout at that, but then Jin swivels around and hands your coat to you.

“Why don’t you try going out for a walk? Clear out your mind and come back with some fresh inspiration?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad…” You reminisce. Tugging your arms through the sleeves, Jin smiles and opens the door for you, ushering you towards the stairs that descend down. You wave at him before disappearing, hoping to yourself that you can get something out of this to clear away the clouds brewing over your creative mind.

***

Glittering stars fill up the night sky, a bright crescent moon twinkling and illuminating the empty roads. Save for the sound of awake crickets and the faint honking of cars nearby, the sidewalk you trudge on is completely silent.

It offers a different scenery compared to your cramped office room, something you didn’t realize you would appreciate as much until it dawns on you that you’ve probably spent several hours in the midst of trying to figure out your story instead of actually writing it. After all, you have been posed with a solid issue and as time spins by, you begin to think that it’s more than doing some mere research could possibly resolve.

Tugging the hem of your coat closer to your red nose, your eyes glance around. You attempt to take some of Jin’s advice to heart, pondering if anything nearby can perhaps spark a flame of inspiration that you’ve been desperately lacking.

That’s when you see it.

Your brows furrow and you have to blink your eyes twice for it to make sense. Sheer curiosity traps you as you saunter over, tilting your head to the side and then to the opposite direction until you blink once more.

Strokes of black and blue envelope the delicate white background that peeks through, specks of gray and white blotted carefully where the lines meet. There’s a peculiar circular shape portrayed in the middle of it, messily splattered with a hue of dull yellow. It looks like something you’ve come across before, something that felt familiar, something that‒

Your eyes look up, the same image appearing right above you.

A frown mars your lips and when your vision focuses back on the piece, a head full of blonde hair sticks out from behind it.

You’re almost ready to unleash a scream, not quite expecting movement from the presumed stationary canvas. You hear a soft sound, seemingly sounding like a low mumble, before silence takes over again. Raising an eyebrow, you take a step forward.

It occurs to you that the canvas you had noticed was actually perched up against a wooden bench, and on that bench, is a person that’s sleeping.

You hesitantly peer at them, noticing that the stranger was in fact a man. He appears to be in the middle of a snooze fest, chest lightly rising in the midst of soft snores escaping him. His face is entirely covered with a black beret, strands of blonde hair peeking out.

There’s a list of questions in your mind, starting from why he was randomly lying down on the bench in the middle of the night to the painting that’s positioned next to his head. While the absurd scenarios explaining his situation run through your mind, his arm moves and you experience your second heart attack for the day.

The beret falls down onto his lap as he stretches his arms, a deep yawn passes by his lips. You remain frozen as he does so, having moved a couple inches away once it dawned on you how odd it would probably be if he found out you were staring.

He sleepily blinks his eyes, narrowing them at you. You’re about to explain yourself, but he instead asks you a question.

“What time is it?”

“Uh…” You scramble around for your phone, the screen lighting up, “11:34pm.”

He hums, getting up and dusting off his jeans. Grabbing the fallen beret, he pushes the strands of his blonde hair back into the hat, revealing strong eyebrows underneath. He pulls out an old camera, hanging it around his neck and letting it drop down onto the brown coat he wears.

His feline-like eyes glance at you in wonder, drastically different from his sleeping appearance on the bench. You let out an awkward cough, a light hue of pink spreading over your skin.

After a moment of silence, he speaks up.

“Do you like my painting?” You raise your brows and blink.

“Your painting?” He nods, a soft proud smile looping on his lips. You peer at the artwork in curiosity again. “You made this?”

He hums, observing it with you, “I waited for hours to paint it.”

He points to the sky and the image finally begins to piece together for you. The black and blue embodying the sky, the shimmering stars scattered all over and the radiant moon, painted so brightly in the centre of all of it.

“You waited out here to paint the sky?”

A drawn out sigh escapes him, “Yep. I’m kind of stuck in a rut, you see.” He gestures to the painting again with a somber look in his eyes, “I wanted to paint something different, but I didn’t have any ideas, so I came out here instead to get the experience.”

“Experience?”

He hums, “It’s a lot easier to experience the moment than having to imagine it in your head.”

“R-Right…” You whisper, still staring at his painting like you were stuck in the middle of a daze. You’re alarmed when he suddenly bends down and picks up the canvas with one arm, pivoting around to face you.

“I have to get going now. Spent too much time painting that I didn’t get enough sleep.” He warmly smiles at you, outstretching his hand, “It was nice meeting you.”

You take it confused and he gives you a small nod before leaving. You watch his back disappear, gaze averting to the large canvas tucked underneath his arm.

Spinning around to head back, you dwell on his words more than you would like.

Maybe this whole time your writer’s block was stemming from something else, something you truly didn’t realize was important until now.

Experience.

But how do you experience something that’s supposed to be completely natural? Something you’re utterly clueless about?

Letting out an exhale, it seems like there’s only one person who can give you clear answers.

***

You start off the next morning at a place you would never consider yourself to express interest in.

The art museum.

You recall hearing whispers and murmurs of a new art showcase going on, your curiosity only seeming to drag you there. The sudden spike in motivation causes Jin to question about your early departure, to which you retort that you’re drawing closer to grasping a solid idea for your story.

Heading in, the gallery is completely adorned in pieces of art. There’s various types ‒ paintings, sculptures, graphic design ‒ you name it. You don’t realize you’re standing in awe until a couple behind you urges you to keep moving, an action that strains a sheepish smile across your lips as you hurriedly scurry away.

You constantly glance around, observing each work you come across. One painting captures your attention, hues of pastel pink and mint green mixed together on the overlay of a figure carrying a smaller figure in their hands. Your lips set into a firm line as you draw closer, eyes tracing the outline.

“You won’t understand it better if you keep staring at it like that.”

You whirl around at the sound of the voice, not quite expecting to run right into the person you were searching for. The man smirks, wearing the same brown coat you saw him in last time.

“How would you interpret it then?”

He takes a step closer, narrowing his eyes in a way you did and you scoff at his mimicry.

“I think it’s a painting of a mother and a child. She’s embracing her child and rocking them to sleep.” He points to the outline, “The colors are supposed to represent a sense of joy and relief with having her child in her arms.”

You blink, managing to piece together everything he said perfectly. The figures do appear like a mother and child, and the colors only emphasize the warmth the outline portrays.

“Woah.” You whisper, probably having not realized all that unless someone told you, “How did you figure that out?”

He smiles, “I’m the one who painted it.”

“Oh.” A chuckle escapes him at your embarrassment and you sheepishly smile. Your eyes are drawn to the painting again, but this time you narrow down on the faint signature at the bottom.

“V?” You raise an eyebrow, “Is that your name?”

He softly shakes his head, “That’s just what I use for my art. My actual name is Kim Taehyung.”

You hum and he leans forward, eyes curious.

You automatically shift away, averting your eyes from his strong gaze. “What?”

“This is the part where you introduce yourself.”

“Oh, right.” You outstretch your hand, “Y/N L/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He shakes your hand and swivels around, tilting his head as a means for you to follow him, “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You nod, hurriedly rushing behind him as he points out several pieces and their artists. You take occasional glances around at other pieces of artwork as well, one with a solemn blue background depicting a mountain catching your eyes instantly.

“That’s really pretty.” You point out, and Taehyung endearingly laughs, glancing at you peculiarly.

“I wonder if I should be flattered that you seem to like all my work.”

“Y-You painted that one too?”

“Yep, this gallery is pretty new so a lot of my work is in here.” He slightly turns his head, enough to see you behind him, “What about you? Got a real keen eye for art?”

“Not really…” You truthfully admit, “I just happened to be walking by and thought I check it out.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Are you sure about that?”

“What do you mean?”

He suddenly pauses, causing you to stop on your heels before you plummet right into him, “Are you sure you’re not stalking me since yesterday?”

Your eyes enlarge, “What?! No, of course not! I just came in here because I heard about the recent showcase and thought...uh...” A deep sigh leaves you from your horrible inability to lie properly, “Thought I might run into you…”

Taehyung pursues his lips, “Now that’s something I’m not sure if I should be creeped out or flattered by.”

“Please don’t be creeped out!” You raise up your hands in defence, opting to tell him the truth, “I’m just stuck in the middle of writing a book and then I saw you yesterday…you were talking about how experiencing something helps you with your art…”

His voice spikes up in awe, “You’re a writer?”

You nod, “Ah, so different cameras but similar lenses…”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” He fully turns to face you, a huge grin on his lips, “I don’t know if I’ll be of much use, but I can help you out if you’d like.”

“Really?” Your eyes spark up, “Thank you so much, I-I can’t believe you would want to help me out…”

“You’ve seen me being stuck in a rut.” He smiles, “I know the feeling.”

You warmly return his smile, tempted to ask him more about his experiences in painting when a woman with a clipboard suddenly approaches the two of you.

She intervenes, “Mr. Kim, the gallery would like to confirm your next showcase.”

His eyes widen, “Ah, yes-” You watch as he shoves his hand into his coat pocket, hurriedly fishing around.

He yanks out a small card, handing it to you, “It has all my contact information on it, shoot me a message whenever you have the chance.”

You quickly take the card before he’s dragged away, sending him a nod in response. He grins, waving you farewell before turning and weaving through the crowds of people viewing the showcase.

Gyrating around, you think it’s best you head back as well, knowing that Jin will be suspicious of the length of your disappearance. As you exit the museum, you glance down, reading the contents of the card.

The background is an array of colours ‒ ranging from blues, greens, reds and even yellows that are splattered in a way that seems to form a tornado. His art name and phone number are in the corner, eerily reminiscent of the way he paints his pieces ‒ drawing you in with the outlays and colours before declaring himself.

The corner of your mouth quirks up.

***

You set out the next morning, the sun beginning to shine brighter as you head closer to your destination.

You find him by the river, an old camera hanging from his neck ‒ just like the first time you had found him by the bench.

A grin makes its way to his lips, his hand waving for you when you begin to draw closer.

“Have difficulty finding it?” He gestures to the river behind you.

You shake your head, keeping a pondering finger to your lips, “Not really, I’ve been here before. I usually go over there to see the book shops.”

You point over to the area you had last visited with Jin, reminiscing about finding your own books there.

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, “You’re a fan of reading other’s books?”

“Of course!” You nervously chuckle, “It’s always great to see what other writers do with their books as well!”

Taehyung stares at you for a moment, his gaze unwavering.

“You went to go see your own books?”

You sigh, squeezing your eyes, “I went to go see my own books.”

Taehyung lets out a low chuckle and you look down, biting your bottom lip.

“I’ll admit, it is a little odd‒”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head, “You found me at my own showcase, didn’t you?”

You blink, “Right…”

He shrugs, “It’s a thing for everyone who creates. You want to see how the public reacts to your art.”

You hum, a tad bit surprised by his straightforwardness. It’s an aspect that no creator would take into consideration first hand, but it’s an integral part of being one.

The public always warrants how art is received, after all.

Taehyung lifts his camera, adjusting his lenses before snapping a picture of the bookstore. You watch in confusion as he examines the picture.

“I’m surprised you like taking photos.” You innocently inquire, “Does it help you paint?”

Taehyung glances at you.

“You know the feeling of trying to stop time?”

Your brows knit together and he softly smiles, “When you take a picture, you capture a moment and stop time for a second. It isn't long, but it’s enough for a photograph.”

You watch as he slips his hand into his coat pocket, showcasing a small array of photographs. Images of the sun setting with mixes of bold orange and solemn blue are shown to you, another with a stream of ducks making ripples within the water. There’s ones of buildings and people too, but all of them are taken in angles that are captivating shots of laughter and shots of despair that could have easily been missed if the photograph had a lapse of time.

It almost reminds you of when you’re attempting to capture a particular scene in your mind as your fingertips glide on your keyboard, drawing in an atmosphere that has the reader’s senses all working.

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls, observing the gears in your head turning.

It only takes you a handful of seconds to notice, a bashful smile lining your lips.

“Writing is like that too, not exactly similar⎯” You retract immediately, “But trying to draw in the five senses around you and bringing it out into literature…”

You glance up at Taehyung, curious to see if you were making any sense at this point. He’s no longer facing you at this point. Instead his body is facing the river, eyes fluttering shut.

There’s a spark in your own, and you hurriedly continue.

“Like this river isn’t just the scene,” You point out, “it’s the sun shining down and reflecting on the surface near the moss. It’s the birds crossing alongside the path and the voices of people nearby echoing. It’s the faint breeze in the air and the smell of greenery.”

“It’s peaceful,” Taehyung hums in content, “and calming.”

A soft smile crosses your features, “That’s what writing is like for me, taking inspiration from the real world and capturing it all into words.”

His eyes open and you notice the knowing gaze he holds, as if everything that you’ve tried to explain is second nature to him.

“So what has you stuck?” He inquires.

A deep sigh escapes you, the acknowledgement occurring that he was actually here to help with your current predicament.

“A new genre.” You admit with a grimace, “I’ve written plenty of different ones before, but there were always ones I understood well and I had no problem with creating stories from them.”

You continue, “And even if it was hard, I’ve always been able to figure it out somehow, you know? If I didn’t know about something, I would research it. If I was confused, I look it up-”

You decide to stop yourself, knowing that those outlets hadn’t been much help at this point. “I’m just…really out of my element, and the worst part is that it’s exactly what the market wants right now.”

You cross your arms, a small pout landing on your lips. It’s not like that you haven’t been vocal about your frustrations, but more so that you’re just slumped, unable to conjure anything up onto that document with the slightest clue of where to even begin.

Taehyung ‒ who had been quietly observing you the entire time ‒ puts his camera down and places his finger on his chin.

“Sometimes when I struggle to paint something new, I procrastinate.” You arch up a brow, “Like bad procrastinate. My canvas starts to collect dust.”

A chuckle escapes you and he smiles, “But then I try to think why I’m procrastinating. Do I just not feel like painting? Or is it because of something else…?”

He stares at you intently, like he’s waiting for you to finish his sentence.

You ponder, “I guess…I’m scared in a way? Of not knowing what I’m doing.”

He hums, “When that happens, I like taking out my camera. Going around and taking pictures not only gives me experience, but also lets me experience my surroundings better.” He glances around until his eyes land on you, “Sometimes I can find inspiration. Sometimes I can find interesting individuals.”

Your eyes round and he turns, angling himself back a bit and taking a snapshot of the river. You peer over his shoulder and he moves closer to you so you can view the picture better.

It’s pretty ‒ he was able to get the forecast of the sun over the bank of the river perfectly, alongside the little daisies growing alongside the shore.

“Nice?” He wonders and you nod, face brightening, “Good. Now just don’t ask me to paint it, that’ll be scary for me.”

You laugh and he turns to walk down the bank of the river with a smile.

***

The next time you get an opportunity to meet Taehyung, there’s a whirlwind in the sky.

It’s been a couple of weeks since your first encounter with him at the art gallery, but regrets are thrown all over the place the moment the wind blasts through your hair. The chills run down your spine, pickling at your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Jin tells you not to go, or at most, to re-schedule. But a part of you is incredibly stubborn, frustration running through you when you know you’ll just end up in the same place ‒ staring at that blank document for endless hours.

As you hug your body as much as you can, you strut down the bustling street and glance back and forth.

Taehyung thankfully appears within a couple of seconds, his silhouette emerging from across the street.

Your eyes round.

He wears the same brown coat he always wears, but this time there’s no beret on his head. Instead his blonde locks are pushed back by the wind, his strong brows furrowed and eyes closed as he tries to navigate himself against the vicious breeze.

You’re not sure if it's the cold nipping at your cheeks or the shiver running through you, but the way your cheeks burn is enough to notice.

He glances up, eyes locking with yours. A wide smile stretches up on his lips that nearly makes you falter.

“Y/N.”

His deep voice calls your name, concern crossing his features.

“Have you been waiting long?”

You shake your head, “I-I just got here.”

“That’s good.” He hums, glancing around. “Not exactly my ideal weather, if I do say.”

You laugh, “I’m surprised my ears haven’t managed to fall off yet.”

The corner of his mouth lifts and before you know it, he’s extending his arm forward. You glance at him surprised, but he nudges you and then gestures in the opposite direction.

“Come on.”

You slip your hand in, linking your arms together. Taehyung begins to walk forward, navigating you around the busy marketplace. Surveying around, there’s various stores lined up across the edge of the street, vendors alike having many displays for you to view.

There wasn’t anything in particular for you to buy, but Taehyung had suggested that it would be good for you to come out with him and explore the new area. It makes you wonder if he wanted you to get more experience going out since after all, you spent more of your time writing and being bit of a hermit.

You peer over at him, noticing his eyes occasionally flickering and observing all the stalls he went past. It was one thing you had learned about Taehyung quickly, that it didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he always had this way of taking in his surroundings carefully, like he was studying every aspect.

That’s when you hear a soft gasp escape him, his hand finding yours as he rushes forward. His feet then come to an abrupt halt and you nearly trip between your own two feet.

Regaining your balance, you peer over his shoulder and notice his eyes are sparkling. Before you have a chance to question any of it, your hand is being tugged again, the bell to the store’s door ringing above you.

Your most straightforward assumption at this point was that the store must have had something to do with painting, but you’re pleasantly surprised to find yourself surrounded with pieces of clay, all decorated with bold and bright colours on various shelves.

Ceramic Art.

You distinctly recall reading about it in a book once, but had never gotten the opportunity to see it up front and close.

A piece captures your eyes immediately, your brows drawing together.

“That’s a unique one.” Taehyung remarks, stepping to stand beside you.

Quirking an eyebrow, the question lingers in your mind.

“I didn’t know you did ceramic art as well.”

Taehyung chuckles, “I actually don’t.” He puts his hands within the pockets of his coat, “It isn’t my area of expertise, but I like seeing different forms of art. Ironically, I find the way of expressing it to be the exact same.”

You blink as Taehyung steps away, taking strides towards other surrounding pieces of art and inspecting them. You’re left staring as he gazes at a pot that’s been shaped similar to a moon, swirls of dark blue and yellow specks decorating the smooth ceramic.

You can’t help the smile that stretches across your lips.

“It looks just like something you would have painted.”

Taehyung frowns, before the corners of his mouth quirk up. “I didn’t even notice, I just thought it looked beautiful.”

“You definitely have a good eye for art.”

“It would appear so.” He lightly laughs, turning around to view more of the art.

A part of you curiously lingers, walking up to him.

You peer over, “Does this mean you see my writing as art too?”

“Of course.” His head snaps back, “Art’s all about expression, doesn’t matter what medium you choose.”

Your face lights up.

“However,” He brings up and your eyes widen, “Every artist is never the same. People always have different stories to tell and that’s completely okay. That’s what makes them all unique.”

A glimmer enters your eyes. After the endless frustrations with your recent book, his words do send you a sense of reassurance. It can sometimes be difficult to have someone else understand why you do things the way you do ‒ even you and Jin have had your fair share of arguments over various disagreements ‒ but it all pinpointed to seeing everything in a different perspective.

You grin, “I can understand that.”

His eyes soften, “I think it also means that some genres can be harder than others, but everyone can bring their unique take on them.”

Brows lifting, your gaze fixates on him. But he spins around, gesturing for you to come over and to observe more art with him.

You walk over with no hesitation.

***

The following time you find Taehyung, fall is still letting her leaves shed and he invites you over to his studio.

A part of you is beaming with excitement ‒ having only ever seen his artistic ways when he was attempting to paint the stars and you had coincidentally stumbled across him that night. But a part of you can’t shake away the jitters, jitters that you don’t want to spend time trying to understand, deciding to just push it all away as you set out for the day.

The wind is gustful, snipping at your nose and cheeks. Hues of warm orange and bright yellow litter the ground and top the trees, the sun hiding behind grey clouds that ever so let droplets of water release.

It’s scenery that grasps you within its clutches, glimmering your eyes with awe and leaving your mouth agape.

And it’s the same scenery that he seeks to capture.

You have the simple pleasure of watching as he draws lines of jade for the trees and splatters on specks of orange and yellow. He scrambles to paint the few individuals that walk past his vision, capturing their essence into carefully placed frames.

His art style lingers between mimicking the surroundings but somehow elevating it as well, drawing in the observer with his interesting use of colour and texture.

You can only seem to watch, lost in it as well.

Time flies from you as he adds the final touches to his piece and you finally notice the way his hands are completely stained, some paint having even made its way to his nose. His brushes have seen the light of day, piled next to him in a canister.

And in the midst of it, he looks upon his painting and grins. He turns to you for the first time since you’ve arrived, breaking the complete silence as he laughs with his deep tone.

“Well, that was a lot of fun.”

You can’t help but burst into laughter as well, completely astounded by the difference in his demeanour. Astounded how easily you saw both a painter in his element and a man in his twenties observing his surroundings within the same split second.

You end up helping him clean each of his used brushes, watching him walk down the street with you as paint still remains on his face and hands.

***

“Someone seems to be doing well for themselves.”

The retort breaks you out of your thoughts, your eyes snapping up.

“Huh?” There’s a book encased within your hands, one of the few titles you had referenced in writing your mystery story.

Jin laughs under his breath. He hasn’t been able to see much of you for a while, only just knowing that you had met a painter by the name of Taehyung and he was all you would talk about these days.

He tucks away a book in his own hands, “You were smiling so much that I assumed everything has been working out. Has Taehyung’s advice been that helpful?”

Your eyes twinkle, spinning around on your heels.

“It has been! He’s so much fun to talk to, and he’s got great insight, Jin.” Your smile widens, “Who knew seeing eye to eye with a painter would be so easy?”

Jin grins, “It’s definitely got you in high spirits, I can tell you that.”

“I need to introduce you to him, Jin. I think you’ll get along great!” You chirp, reaching down to open another box.

“Woah, woah,” Jin draws closer, halting you, “I’ll take care of that, you’ve got some writing to do, remember?”

A giant pout arises on your lips, “But I said I was going to help you.”

“And you will, by writing for your new book.” He points out, “Spending time with Taehyung should have sparked something, no?”

You hum defeatedly, knowing he had a point. You had spent so much of your time with him, it was only hopeful that his words would have incited some creativity to strike you.

Letting out a big sigh, you drag yourself back to your desk and open up your computer, the blank document is showcased once again to your eyes.

***

You want to pound your head against the table.

The good news is that your document is no longer left blank. There’s rough jot notes littered on it, some random junctions from the brainstorming you were doing on ideas for the story. You’re trying to indulge your unique perspective onto the story, concepts for certain scenes stemming from a cool night out in the stars, a riverside and a busy marketplace.

But it isn’t enough.

The bad news is that you, out of all people, know that ideas are just a base. You need to build up a coherent story from it, create characters, create dynamics. And you have none of those at this moment.

It’s like all the surface level information is just complete, not the heart of your story.

You contemplate on how to begin, eyes sweeping over the jot notes listed on your document countless times. You start pulling at anything in your mind, anything that could be linked to writing romance.

A deep exhale leaves your lips, shoulders slumping down. Your hand reaches out for your mouse, closing the document tab before going to the search bar, the urge to delve in and research the topic tempting you.

You know you had tried to take a different approach with this, tried not to linger too much on the various articles, but despite the unique types of experiences you’ve had in the last couple of weeks, there still isn’t an answer to the question in your mind.

How do people even start to fall in love?

You’re in the midst of searching the question, eyes already filtering through various articles ‒ when suddenly there's a flicker in your dim eyes.

Halting your racing fingertips against the keyboard, the mouse in your hands is abandoned.

You shoot up from your desk, yanking the door wide open and running outside.

***

Jin hums a soft tone in the serene silence, opening up a box to unload the books onto the table. He’s been set on organising the newer ones that had just come in, attempting to distract himself before he checks in on you and your progress with your writing.

The door comes bursting open.

The book slips through his fingers and a blood-curdling scream escapes his throat. He spins around, brows furrowed together.

You stand in a starfish stance at the door, eyes wild and breathing heavy.

“What happened?!” Jin questions, holding a frantic hand against his racing heart.

“You‒” You raise a shaking finger at him, still gasping for air. Jin wonders why you even decided to run so fast when he’s literally a couple of doors away. “You have a girlfriend.”

He blinks, sheer unamusement crossing his features, “Seriously? That shouldn’t be news to you!”

“I know!” You raise your hands in defence, “But I have some questions I want to ask you.”

He cranes his head to the side, “You’re going to interview me?”

“Kind of.” Jin doesn’t have time to react when you’re already reaching out for a chair, dragging it closer to him.

He sits down opposite to you with a groan, “At least tell me this is for the book.”

“Hold on.” You settle down, scrutinising him, “Do you love your girlfriend?”

A scoff escapes him, “Of course I do!”

“Good, now how did you fall in love?”

Jin blinks, surprised by the genuine question. You seem interested as well, eyeing him intently.

“We met back in college.” He softly smiles, his complexion tinting pink, “She was close to someone in my friend circle and I thought she was really cute.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Sort of.” Jin tilts his head, “She was kind, but I wanted to get to know her before anything so we became friends first.” He explains, “Eventually, I realised I liked her a lot and asked her out.”

You hum and Jin doesn’t even realize you’re writing something down, pen in hand as you scribble onto a piece of paper.

“I can’t believe you wanted to hear about my experience.” He remarks.

“Well, I don’t really understand the romance genre in general.” You mumble, still writing. “And Taehyung said that sometimes experiencing things can help with his art, so I thought talking to someone who has experience would help me.”

Jin quirks a brow, a scrutinising look brewing in his eyes. It catches you off guard when you finally look up, taken aback by him surveying you.

“What?”

He narrows his eyes, “What’s the deal with Taehyung?”

You stare at him wide-eyed. “Deal? What deal?”

“You know what I mean.” Leaning back in his chair, he crosses his arms. The suspicious look in his eyes doesn’t disappear. “Ever since you met him, there's been a lot of ‘Taehyung this’ and ‘Taehyung that’.”

You sigh, his words drawing out a conclusion from you.

“He’s not being distracting, Jin.” You firmly state, much to his surprise. It was always a rare occasion for you to be completely serious. “I’ve learned a lot from him, and he’s truly really fascinating and inspiring to be around.”

A soft smile spreads on your features, recalling all the fond times Taehyung was either teaching you about the way he viewed the world or the places he would take you to explore.

You’re so caught up in your own thoughts that you don’t realize that Jin is still staring at you, the suspicion only increasing further in his eyes.

Jin doesn’t beat around the bush this time.

“Do you like Taehyung?”

You nearly choke, reality bringing you back as the air leaves your lungs in an instant. Glancing up at Jin mortified, you wonder how he drew up that conclusion.

“W-What?! No!” A hue of pink scatters onto your cheeks and Jin quirks his head to the side, like he’s not impressed.

“Really?” He wonders out loud, “Since that museum trip of yours, your head seems to be up in the clouds and as someone knowledgeable in the romance department,” He flutters his fingers like he’s throwing sparkles at you, “I’m starting to think otherwise.”

“That’s crazy!” You retorted in defence, “I can’t like Taehyung!”

“You can’t?” He says playfully, “That’s far from don’t.”

You hurriedly get up, collecting the notes you’ve written. “I-I need to get back to writing.”

The corners of Jin’s lips lift, since this is the first time he hasn’t had to ask you himself to work on your book.

***

He’s just assuming.

You think, hurriedly slipping into your chair. Tapping on your computer, you wait for the pitch black screen to light up.

There was no possible way. Taehyung was simply just helping you with your writer’s slump.

Blinking your eyes a couple of times, you attempt to shake away the lingering thoughts and bring yourself back into focus for this novel.

Only for your eyes to land right on your lit screen, the search you had begun popping in front of your face.

The curiosity is drawn out from you, and before you know it, you begin to scroll.

Majority of them fall within the same bracket of the research you were attempting to do in the beginning process of this book, with links advertising love advice and even counselling. A new link to a kdrama even pops up, something you have to will yourself to ignore.

Until one article crosses your eyes, one that has you more curious than ever.

Having difficulty in finding out if you’ve fallen in love? Find out here!

You frown, hovering over it for a split second. But then you shake your head, reciting to yourself that it was for the sake of writing the novel.

The articles flashes before you, paragraphs of information presented that you proceed to skim through.

“Falling in love is compared with the feeling of euphoria…”

You mumble under your breath, moving past it.

“....There is a semblance of love and trust…”

An idea for a climax ‒ you note ‒ that would tie in nicely with the finale of a romance book.

“...Rifts are commonly experienced…”

You have to create conflict somehow, maybe a difference in opinions.

“Usually the act of falling in love progresses within five steps𑁋“

Your nose crinkles, the corner of your lips twitching.

“There’s steps?” You mutter, body abruptly freezing. Drawing closer to your screen, your eyes slowly drift over the words.

“Stages are reached, each increasing with the notion of being in love. They are known as,”

Attraction.

Curiosity.

Attachment.

Denial.

Acceptance.

It’s a list.

Your genre can follow a list?

Tossingthe thought into the back of your mind, you eagerly continue, curiosity running haywire at this point.

“Attraction is the initial stage, symbolising the origin of interest and can be considered on physical guidelines.”

“Curiosity follows as second, with interest in the person only increasing as time passes by.”

“Attachment signifies the creation of a bond, the mind filled with new thoughts and changes.”

“Denial is the hesitance, acting against any forms of acceptance.”

“Acceptance. Welcoming the thought that you have fallen in love.”

Your mouth twists, each stage sounding more vague and philosophical as the one that came before it. The thought of digging out your ‘The Philosophy Behind Romance’ book from where it was discarded suddenly occurs, until you find yourself re-reading the stages a couple of times over again.

As you lean back into your chair, there’s a glint in your eyes.

Your biggest mistake was assuming you had the willpower to wave off the lingering thoughts, because they come pouring right back in before you can stop them.

If by any chance, he was right𑁋

The stages would have to be followed….

Right?

You cross your arms, skimming through the contents once again.

Attraction.

Did you find Taehyung attractive?

You recall first finding him underneath the glittering moonlight, his sleeping form residing on the bench and his artwork displayed just inches away from him. You can remember him stirring, his feline like eyes holding a strong gaze that almost made you lose your breath.

It’s the same gaze he holds while he’s painting, you pinpoint, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You abruptly blink, shaking your head.

Curiosity.

To say you didn’t find Taehyung interesting, would have been a huge understatement.

He was different from you, but not in a way that you couldn’t understand. Instead, you found yourself a lot more alike than you had expected, his artistic lens meeting yours.

Attachment.

What even is that?

You can’t help but ponder, thinking at the most you were attached to your writing and books, having an avid imagination since you were young and always finding your footsteps gravitating towards the library. You would find yourself absolutely consumed with the different worlds, eventually leading you towards a career within it.

It was a bond in a way ‒ one that you would always have.

Your lips pursue, a hardened expression taking over.

Was it possible to have the same feeling with another person?

You let out a long sigh, eyes flickering over to the next stage.

Denial.

You freeze.

The hesitance, acting against any forms of acceptance.

The thought snaps into your head unannounced and soon you’re scrambling, attempting to get back to working on your book.

A low chuckle leaves you, tinged with nervousness.

“There’s no possible way…”

***

You stand awkwardly in front of the door, swaying between your two feet.

The home before you is small, looking only to being one-story high and consisting of old granite. There’s an exceptional amount of greenery near it, with a small garden at the side where you can notice subtle cherry tomatoes growing.

There was no telling how you could have best reacted when Taehyung had suddenly messaged you, asking if you would like to come over. You had accepted as always, but you didn’t realize what that exactly entailed until you were standing a mere couple of footsteps away from his door.

Looking down, you groan, wishing Jin had never said anything to you.

The sound of a lock turning has you abruptly on guard, the door yanking open before you can even collect yourself.

And it seems like Taehyung doesn’t give you that opportunity either.

He’s dressed in a casual tee and sweatpants, blonde hair falling to his eyes and a bit ruffled. It’s a stark contrast to constantly seeing him in his brown coat and beret, a casualness that feels too utterly unfamiliar for you.

“Hi.” He says in a low voice, greeting you with a warm smile.

For a moment, you could feel time stopping ‒ one simple thought occurring to you.

He really is beautiful.

Taehyung seems to notice your daze, brows furrowing for a moment.

“Y/N?”

“Uh, hi!” You squeak, probably too many octaves too high.

“Is everything okay?” He ponders and you aggressively shake your head, to which Taehyung stares at you peculiarly for, but ultimately decides to take your word for it.

“Come in.” He steps back in and leaves the door open for you, gesturing to you to follow. You carefully step forward, getting welcomed to the humble abode he calls his home.

The inside is spacious and ornate, the walls being painted with striking colours and light decorations littering the area. The interior seems to match the exterior in a way, appearing rustic but unique at the same time.

It’s cozy. And comforting.

“I apologize for it being messy.” Taehyung states from behind you, quickly picking up a couple of art books on the ground and moving them into a nearby shelf. “My two roommates left to go out of town, and I’ve been here by myself.”

“That’s okay.” You say right away, only to realize that also meant the two of you were alone in here.

He seems to read your mind as well, quickly continuing, “I brought you here for a reason, though I’m not too sure how you’ll take to it.”

You glance at him confused and he walks past you, heading towards one of the doors in the hallway.

Following behind him, he turns to face you. “You saw what my recent art pieces were like at the showcase, but I wanted to do something different for my next pieces. Something more abstract," He explains, eyes lighting up, “and something that’s a bit more fun.”

He opens the door and your mouth falls agape. Because before you is a completely empty room and in the center of it stands a giant blank canvas.

“What…?” You whisper in awe, walking towards it. Taehyung leans against the door frame, a huge grin on his face as he watches you.

You turn, “What is this?”

“I know you’ve been struggling with your novel,” He confesses, “and I thought we could paint this together. Give your creative mind a nice break.”

You’re still in disbelief and he struts up next to you, a playful tone in his voice you’ve never heard before. “Of course, I’ll give you credit for being part of my piece.”

A laugh escapes you, shaking your head at his antics.

Your eyes connect with his.

“Let’s do this.”

***

A wave of light orange splatters diagonally onto the white of the canvas.

You glance at it surprised, the bucket of paint still in your hands.

Taehyung chuckles, amused with your aim. “Not bad, Y/N.”

You smile, putting it down as Taehyung grabs a bright green one, putting all his force into it.

It splatters in the opposite direction, almost creating an ‘X’ shape.

He whistles at the sight and you dash over to the other buckets, kneeling down for another colour. Taehyung had luckily lent you his clothes for the occasion so as to not ruin your own, but as a result the clothes you adorned were a bit bigger in size, hanging off your frame.

You pick up a white in curiosity and Taehyung fondly watches as you quirk your head side to side, ultimately deciding to just go with it.

Chucking the colour against the canvas, the white creates a splatter right in the center. Taehyung hurriedly rushes over to you, a can of smaller paints in his hands with different colours. You chuckle at his eagerness and the way his hands are already stained with colour.

“Keep going,” He encourages, eyes brighter than you have ever seen, “It looks incredible.”

You nod enthusiastically, taking the smaller ones and splattering them across. They come out this time as blots and lines, giving more dimension to the base you and Taehyung first made.

After having used all your energy in attempting to add in more depth with the shapes and colours, Taehyung continues, following your streaks instead of disrupting them. He’s always had an exceptional visual eye, understanding perfectly on where to pick up where you left off, and it’s definitely another one of things you’ve adored about him.

Taehyung’s eyes are wide, a childish glint in them that you’re so happy to have been able to witness. But you don't know that it matches the same glint residing in your own eyes, mischievousness running through every fibre of your body when you pick up a small bucket of blue.

He turns and before he has the chance to say anything to you, a hue of azure blue covers half of his face.

He blinks in shock for a moment, hand coming up to swipe and realize that there was indeed paint on his face. However, his eyes flicker up to connect with yours and all he can see is you grinning from ear to ear.

It doesn’t take long for him to pick up a red that lands all over the front of your shirt and side of your ear.

From there, it’s like a chord’s snapped.

Colours are flying back and forth, from high to low volumes, and in the midst of all this, yours and Taehyung’s voice are running loud, laughs and giggles echoing around the room. As if two children are playing together rather than two adults simply trying to paint.

Taehyung matches your energy so well, attempting to create even more chaos when there’s orange landing directly on your hair after you skillfully managed to get a splatter of purple on his. It’s when the paint shoots out from your hair onto the canvas that an idea occurs to him, his blue covered hand slipping onto yours.

“Wait, Y/N!”

You freeze, staring at him puzzled. He takes your hand, leading you into the front of the canvas before backing away, gazing at you with intent.

The look in his eyes makes you fidget a bit, wishing he would hurriedly tell you what was on his mind.

He raises a hand, halting you in place. “Stay there. Just like that.”

To your surprise, he picks up a large volume of purple, standing right before you.

“Close your eyes, Y/N. Put your hands over them.”

His stance finally alerts you to his intentions, eyes squeezing shut and hands reaching over when you feel a wave of cold paint splash all over you. You wait for a moment as it all drips down, collecting into a pool of purple right below your feet.

Taehyung takes your hand, leading you away from the canvas and next to him as you blink, the piece of art showcasing itself to you.

There’s colours. Everywhere. All appearing between a mixture of random to extremely skillful. All coming from you and Taehyung. And right in the middle of the mix is you.

Your silhouette perfectly lined with a gorgeous shade of purple.

“It’s beautiful.” Taehyung breathes.

You are suddenly very glad there’s paint all over your face, unsure if you would be able to hide the burning expression over your features.

However, the burn abruptly increases, a stinging sensation coming from your face that wells tears.

“Ah.” You wince, rolling into yourself as your hand hovers over your eyes.

“Y/N!” Taehyung’s hands are cupping your face before you can say anything. “Y/N, look at me.”

You obey his instructions, facing him but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. His thumb pads hurriedly brush out the paint that has managed to drip near your eyes.

“Is it gone?” You urgently ask, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“Give me one second.” Taehyung whispers, his hands disappearing for a moment before a cool cloth is pressed against your eyes.

You let out a sigh of relief and the cloth is promptly discarded, your eyes fluttering open.

A part of you wishes you kept them closed.

Taehyung’s face is just inches away from yours, and you can feel the low breaths he lets out.

It’s a fact he seems to realize in that instance himself as well, and there’s a silence that cuts through the air as you continue to stare into each other’s eyes.

Your heart pounds frantically within your chest. After what feels like an eternity, Taehyung moves first, attempting to close the gap but keeping his eyes trained on you. You don’t move for a second, kept frozen beneath his entire presence being so close to you.

It’s when his lips are hovering just above yours, you break the comforting silence.

“W-Where’s your shower?” You look away, grimacing at how broken your voice sounds.

Taehyung doesn’t respond at first, a flash of hurt crossing his features that you don’t see. But it quickly disappears and he clears his throat, separating from you.

“The first door on your left.”

“Thank you.” You quietly say, turning around immediately.

You stalk up to the door, halting when your hand meets the knob. Glancing back at Taehyung, he’s standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the artwork you’ve just made together with a somber look in his eyes.

Your body stiffens and he glances back in your direction, a small smile on his lips that doesn’t seem to meet his eyes.

Turning to leave, it’s difficult to ignore the way your chest tightens.

***

Your shower was supposed to only be fifteen minutes, but it ends up feeling like a century.

The intent should be to get the copious amounts of paint out of your hair and skin, but as the steam clouds the air and the water drips down from your forehead onto the ground, your head remains planted against the shower wall, eyes squeezed shut.

It doesn’t help that there’s still a faint pool of purple swirling around your feet.

Stepping out of the shower, you open the door and peek outside, only to find your clothes folded on a small chair that’s been positioned right before the bathroom. Sheepishly reaching out, you discard the clothing Taehyung had given you and put your own back on.

You bump into Taehyung within seconds of exiting.

“Y/N.” His eyes meet with yours and you halt your steps. There’s unease brimming in his, but it’s something he doesn’t try to bring up.

“You’re leaving?” He ponders and you shake your head, completely confused on what to even say.

“Taehyung…” You begin, “I‒”

He raises his hand up, “Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”

It’s hard to not let the guilt show up on your face, but Taehyung leads you to the front door, opening it up for you.

“You helped me with creating a great piece of art.” He says optimistically, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“O-Of course.” You mumble, casting your head down.

Before you can step out, his hand finds your wrist.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He whispers, “And I wish you the best of luck with your book. If it’s you, I think it’s sure to come out amazing.”

His words always have a way of giving you a sense of comfort, your frustrations and conflicts with yourself melting away.

But you don’t expect what he says next, “If you ever need anything, anything at all,” The gaze in his eyes leaves you forgetting how to breathe, “I’m always here.”

It’s not until he lets go of you that you remember your intent to leave, slipping away slowly as he closes the door.

***

Jin doesn’t understand why you’re so intent on giving him a heart attack.

The door slams open and you suddenly emerge. But Jin doesn’t have time to retaliate about you freaking him out constantly or that you’ve been out all day and that you need to be making more progress with your book.

Instead, it looks like a piece of your soul’s been crushed.

“Y/N?” He loudly ponders, simply left just staring at you as you hurriedly kick your boots off.

“Jin!” You exclaim, seemingly breathless.

“Did you run here or something?” He asks, a tinge of concern in his words. You simply hand him your coat, heading into your room.

“Where’s my computer?” You question, glancing at him wildly. He’s taken back a bit, but he answers your question.

“There was an electrical issue that needed to be fixed so I temporarily moved it.” He points down the hall, “It’s in the spare room with all the hard copies.”

“Good.” You exhale, dashing over.

“Wait, Y/N‒” He isn’t able to get a word in, the door closing with a loud thud.

There’s a plethora of questions at the tip of his tongue, ranging from why it took you so long to what could have possibly happened, but Jin isn’t able to ponder for long when he suddenly hears the frantic typing of your keyboard.

***

Twenty-four hours.

Jin crosses his arms, standing in front of the room that you have yet to emerge from since the past twenty-four hours. He didn’t say much after you had barged in yesterday and confined yourself inside, simply locking up for the day and leaving some takeout on the table outside in case you got hungry.

And that was all due to the look in your eyes.

It’s a look he’s seen before, on days where you’ve been engrossed in your writing, too occupied with your own racing mind to halt your actions. However, this time he notices a sense of urgency that wasn’t there before.

Which is why when you do finally emerge, he can’t believe what you’re waving in front of his eyes.

“Here you go.” You say, handing him the USB in your hands, “It’s all done, the entire novel.”

“Y/N.” He says astonished, staring at you in pure awe, “How did you manage to write it all?”

You laugh at that and Jin is a little unnerved, wondering how on earth you didn’t look crazy after staying in that one room for so long and just simply typing.

“I think I’ll always be a hermit to some degree.” You toss your coat over your shoulders, reaching down for your shoes.

“Where are you going?” He questions, watching as you finish putting on your boots.

You smile, “I have to go find someone.”

Jin’s eyes widen and without saying another word, you turn to head towards the door.

He scoffs underneath his breath once you leave.

“I knew it.”

***

Taehyung isn’t picking up your calls.

You hurriedly dial the number again on your phone, hearing the familiar ringing over and over until you’re sent to voicemail.

Once the other end beeps, you mumble underneath your breath.

“Taehyung, call me please.”

After leaving the message, you slide your phone into your coat pocket, glancing at the destination you hurried towards.

The home is still there, appearing exactly how you had just left it two days ago.

You frantically knock against the door.

Surely it opens, but to reveal someone else entirely.

“Oh.” You mutter, your expression of relief morphing into awkward surprise. The man standing before you looks equally confused, surveying your face.

“You are…?” He squints, like he’s attempting to place a name to your face.

You answer right away, “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N?” He repeats, eyes sparkling. “Really? Wow, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

A nervous laugh escapes you, “And you are…?”

“Oh, sorry.” He sheepishly smiles, reaching out his hand. “My name is Jimin, I’m one of Taehyung’s roommates.”

You nod in recognition, “Are you looking for Taehyung?”

“Yes!” You suddenly exclaim, “Do you know where he is?”

“I just got back in last night.” He says with a grimace, “But Taehyung wasn’t here, the last I heard he was preparing for his next showcase.”

Your eyes widen.

“Thank you, Jimin! I’ll be on my way now!” He waves you goodbye and you spin on your heels, knowing exactly where you needed to be.

***

The art museum looks exactly the same, pieces on for display and spectators walking from room to room, inspecting each one.

However, each exhibit represents a multitude of different artists, none consisting of the one you’re searching for.

“Excuse me.”

You poke a lady that’s wearing a gallery uniform, expectantly looking at her.

“Where is Taehyung’s‒” You bite your tongue, “Sorry, V’s exhibit?”

“Ah, I’m afraid we’re in the midst of clearing up for his next one.” She says with remorse, “There are some of his pieces still left over there if you’d like to view them.”

“I see…” Your shoulders slump in defeat, but you do thank her for helping you out. Heading towards the direction she pointed out, you find the paintings from the last time you had visited the museum.

The corners of your lips curl up. You recall being here, attempting to find the peculiar man after seeing him underneath the starry sky without knowing much about how close you would grow to be.

You come across the same painting, remembering how easily his ability to capture expansive sceneries was. But that’s when you see one of his new pieces, a soft gasp escaping you.

It’s the painting you created together, fully displayed in all its glory.

But it’s not the only one.

There’s a set of three different canvases, all with artworks of you.

One of them is the same painting of the night sky you saw before, but the sky is painted with a deep purple now, the same colour that was outlined with your silhouette. The moon is completely full, stars scattered around that are brighter with a hue of white. You don’t fall to notice that there’s also a bench added at the bottom.

Another one of them is a splatter of photographs, photographs you didn’t even know he took of you. There’s images from the river side, pictures coming from the marketplace, and in all of them he’s managed to capture the spark in your eyes.

The last one has you frozen.

It’s a portrait, but not just a portrait of you.

It’s a portrait of you reading.

The image is uncanny, the light hitting your side profile at a lovely angle, the book in your hands being carefully held, the excitement in your eyes even brighter than the photographs.

Your brows furrow, wondering when Taehyung could have gotten such an image of you. But then you realize he doesn’t ‒ that he’s created the image through himself.

That’s when your eyes have the instant to flicker down, breath hitching once you discover what he’s named all three pieces.

My Muse.

By Kim ‘V’ Taehyung.

Everything stops, and all you’re left being able to do is to simply stare.

“I’m assuming I can’t keep this a surprise anymore.”

You whirl around at the speed of light, recognizing that deep tone from anywhere.

Taehyung stands before you, a soft smile on his lips.

“It’s incredible.” You whisper, “How did you…?”

“I was working on it for a while.” He steps next to you, pointing to the first, “That one was made a few nights after I met you.” He points to the second, “That one was after we had spent time together.” He points to the last, “And that one I made last night, after finishing reading one of your books.”

You stare at the portrait, observing that the book that you’re reading is indeed one of your own.

He read the one where a man turns into a fish.

“You read it?” Disbelief is laced in your voice, mixed with an odd sense of pride.

“Of course, I’ve been wanting to read one of your books since I met you.” He explains, scratching the back of his head. “You saw my art, but I never got a chance to see yours.”

You’re simply at a loss of words. You ‒ the person that had a remark for anything and was able to write countless words at bullet speed, had no more to say.

Taehyung stares at the ground, chewing down on his bottom lip.

“Has your novel writing been going okay?” He blurts, attempting to draw the attention away from his art.

That snaps you out of it. “Uh yeah, I actually finished it.”

“You did?” His head snaps up in astonishment, “Congrats.”

You warmly smile, “Thanks.”

After a moment of silence, he clears his throat, “Listen Y/N, I’m really sorry for not expressing it sooner.” He gestures to his art pieces, “I’m not the best with explaining my feelings, so it's easier for me to integrate it somehow into my‒”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your lips meeting his. The surprise spreads over his face instantaneously, but it doesn’t take Taehyung long to reciprocate, moving his lips against yours.

You separate from him and he blinks, as if caught up in a daze.

“You never asked me what my book was about.” You breathe out.

His brows furrow, “What was it about?”

You grin mischievously, “It’s about a writer and a painter falling in love.”

Taehyung seems to be at a loss for words now, gazing at you in pure surprise.

“Really?” He asks, and you cheerfully nod.

“Yup.” You find his hands, interlacing them with yours.

“I’m really sorry.” Remorse enters your eyes. “Romance has truthfully, never really been my genre.”

Taehyung lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s okay. Maybe we can see if that changes.”

There’s a giant smile on your lips that he matches with his own.

Tightening his warm hold on your hand, the pair of you walk away together from the exhibit.

You laugh to yourself.

Maybe romance as a genre wasn’t so bad after all.

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