#I have been sitting drawing all day I need to go outside now or else I'll die :thumbsup:

[headslikekites]

new official art has me feeling so normal

[moonjxsung]

Visions of You in Solitude

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

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

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

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

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

18+. Mdni!

•

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Quinton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for the strange man.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n.”

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

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

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

*

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin?” You query.

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

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

“I already said yes,” he states simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are your favorite art supplies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In apprehension, like he knows you.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paint what you see,” he orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

Museum of Modern Art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.

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

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

“I think you’ll like the next one.”

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

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

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

“Yeah. I love these colors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” you remark quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, I have to go-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”

“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.

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

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

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

“Please, keep it,” he urges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.

“I am lonely,” you say simply.

“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A second one?” You echo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I be concerned?”

“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.

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

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

“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.

“And you know I love your art.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay…”

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

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

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

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

“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”

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

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

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

“Is this because of Quinton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I love you.”

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.

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

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

*

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You- what? What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt incomplete without one.”

“Is that…”

“You?” You question quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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add yourself to the tag list here.

[lifeofpriya]

I Mean It - Franco Colapinto

[gif credit goes to @argentinagp]

summary: your friendship with franco takes a surprising turn when his protective instincts kick in...

"Oh god, it's Chad again," you murmur under your breath, watching him stumble towards you with his friends in tow.

"Who's that?" asks Franco, not taking his eyes off the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens almost imperceptibly.

You roll your eyes, the neon lights from the street outside flickering in the car's cabin. "Chad. He's had a thing for me since high school, but I've never given him the time of day."

Franco's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection. "Well, maybe he just needs to realize you're not interested." His voice is calm, but there's an undercurrent of something else—concern, perhaps.

You sigh, watching Chad and his entourage draw closer to the car. "I've told him plenty of times, but he's like a bad penny."

Franco's jaw clenches as he shifts gears. The engine purrs beneath you, a comforting sound in the growing tension. "Why don't you let me handle it?"

You glance at him, surprised by his protective tone. "It's okay, I can handle it."

But as Chad knocks on the window, his leering smile plastered across his face, you feel a shiver of fear. You've dealt with this before, but something about the way he's looking at you tonight sends a chill down your spine.

Franco doesn't miss a beat. He rolls down the window, his eyes cold and sharp. "What do you want?" he asks, his Argentine accent more pronounced than usual.

Chad's smile falters, glancing from you to Franco and back again. "Just saying hi to my old classmate here," he slurs, gesturing towards you with a sloppy wave.

"Hi's been said," Franco replies curtly, his eyes never leaving Chad's. "Now if you don't mind, we're busy."

Chad's friends snicker, but his smile turns sour. He leans closer, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. "What's going on here, then? You two on a date?"

You tense, ready to speak, but Franco beats you to it. "It's none of your business what we're doing." His voice is even, but the muscles in his neck stand out, a clear sign of his growing irritation.

Chad's eyes narrow, his grip on the window frame tightening. "It is when they're with me," he sneers, his hand reaching for the car door.

Without hesitating, Franco's hand shoots out and grabs Chad's wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. "Back off," he warns, his voice a low growl. "Or you're going to regret it."

Chad's friends exchange uneasy glances, taking a step back. They hadn't seen this side of him before—the fierce, protective side that only emerged when someone threatened someone he cared about. You sit frozen in the passenger seat, heart racing.

"Take your hand off me," Chad spits, trying to pull away.

Franco's grip tightens, his eyes never leaving yours. "You heard me. Back. Off."

Chad tries to jerk his hand away, but Franco's hold is like steel. The unspoken message is clear: no one messes with you on his watch. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his protective stance, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the intertwined hands—Chad's meaty and desperate, Franco's firm and unwavering.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Chad slurs, his voice shaking slightly.

Franco's eyes flick to Chad's face, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea." He releases Chad's wrist and the other man stumbles back, almost falling.

Chad's friends grab his arms, whispering in his ear, trying to calm him down. His cheeks flush with a mix of alcohol and embarrassment. He glares at you before stumbling away, his words slurred and angry. "You'll regret this, you little tease."

Franco's gaze follows Chad until he's out of sight. Then, he turns to you, his expression softer. "You okay?" His hand reaches over to give your knee a gentle squeeze.

"I could have handled that myself, you know," you murmur, trying to regain your composure.

Franco's hand lingers on your knee for a moment before retreating back to the steering wheel. "I know," he says softly. "But I didn't like the way he was looking at you."

You nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions—gratitude, relief, and a flutter of something more. You've never seen Franco act like this before, not even when he's racing against the clock. "Thanks for that," you manage to say, your voice shakier than you'd like.

He nods, his eyes flicking back to the road. "No problem," he says, but you can see the tension in his jaw. He's not one to get involved in other people's drama, especially not like this. But there's something about you that makes him want to protect you, even though you've never talked about being more than friends.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and you both sit in silence, the hum of the engine the only sound. You can feel the warmth of his hand where it touched your knee, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you are. The chemistry between you has always been palpable, but this is the first time it's felt so intense.

The light turns green, and the car jolts forward. You clear your throat, trying to break the silence. "So, do you do that for all your friends?" you ask, trying to keep your voice light.

Franco glances at you, his eyes lingering for a moment. "Only the ones who are worth it," he says with a small smile.

You laugh nervously, your heart racing. The air in the car feels charged with something new. You both know there's a line that's been crossed tonight—a line you're not sure either of you is ready to talk about.

Franco's eyes flick to you again, a question in them. "Do you want me to take you home?" he asks.

You nod, the adrenaline from the encounter with Chad starting to wear off. The thought of being alone with him, in the quiet of the night, sends a thrill through you. "Yes, please."

The rest of the drive is tense, filled with the unspoken words hanging in the air. You can't help but steal glances at Franco, his strong profile silhouetted against the glow of the dashboard. His focus is solely on the road, but you can feel his eyes on you every now and then, checking if you're okay.

When he pulls up to your house, the engine's purr dies down to a gentle rumble. He puts the car in park but doesn't turn it off. The silence between you is thick, charged with the unspoken tension of the night's events.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Franco asks, his voice gentle but still holding a hint of the steel from earlier.

You nod, trying to ignore the way your stomach flutters when he looks at you with genuine concern. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks for, you know, not letting him ruin my night."

Franco smiles, his eyes searching yours. "You don't have to thank me for that." He pauses, his hand hovering over the ignition. "Do you want to talk about it?"

You shake your head. "Not really." The words tumble out before you can stop them. You're not ready to dissect the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

Franco nods, his hand dropping to his lap. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling in the dim light. "But if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

You appreciate his understanding, the sincerity in his voice. "I know," you murmur, reaching for the door handle. The cool night air seeps into the car as you open the door.

"Hey," he says, stopping you before you can step out. His hand grazes your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. "I mean it."

You look back at him, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race even faster. "Thanks," you murmur, feeling the weight of his words. You've known each other for years, but this is a side of Franco you haven't seen before—vulnerable, caring, and fiercely protective. It's intoxicating.

As you step out of the car, the cool evening air brushes against your flushed cheeks. You pause, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Would you, uh, want to come in for a bit?" You hadn't planned on asking, but the words just slip out.

Franco's eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. "Yeah," he says, a hint of surprise in his voice. "I'd like that."

You lead him inside, the warm glow of your house a stark contrast to the dark, quiet street outside. The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly, the air feels different—electric. You both know that this night has changed something between you, and you're both equally terrified and excited by it.

\\\

In the cozy living room, you offer him a seat on the couch. He sits, his movements deliberate and cautious, as if he's afraid to shatter the delicate moment. You sit opposite him in an armchair, the space between you feeling both vast and suffocatingly small.

You start with small talk, asking about his racing career, the upcoming races he's excited for, trying to keep the conversation light. He answers, his eyes never leaving yours, and you can see the excitement in them when he talks about his passion. But there's something else there too—an unspoken question, a silent plea for you to acknowledge the shift in your friendship.

As the conversation lulls, the air between you crackles with unspoken feelings. You bite your lip, wondering if you're reading too much into his protective behavior earlier. Maybe it was just a friend looking out for a friend.

Franco clears his throat, breaking the silence. "So, that guy," he says, his voice low. "What's the deal with him?"

You shrug, trying to play it cool. "He's just an old classmate who doesn't get the hint."

Franco's gaze intensifies, his eyes searching yours. "But he's more than that, isn't he?"

You swallow hard, noticing the way the shadows play across his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and the concern etched into his brow. "Yeah," you admit. "He's been bothering me for a while now."

Franco's jaw tenses, his hands clenching into fists on the armrest. "If he ever bothers you again, you tell me. I won't let him get away with it."

You nod, feeling the gravity of his promise. "I know."

Franco leans forward, closing the distance between you. "But I'm not just talking about Chad," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't like seeing you upset or scared."

You look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. "I know," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur. "But it's not your problem to deal with."

"It is when it involves you," Franco insists, his eyes never leaving yours. "I care about you."

The words hang in the air, and you feel a rush of heat to your cheeks. You've had a crush on him for what feels like forever, but you've never dared to hope he felt the same way. "Franco…"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I know we're just friends," he says, his voice a soft rumble. "But I can't ignore how I feel anymore."

You look up, your heart pounding in your chest. "How do you feel?" you ask, the question a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco leans closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I think you know," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

You can't help but lean into his touch, your eyes closing for a brief moment. When you open them again, you find him staring at you with a look that makes your heart ache. "I've had feelings for you for a while now," he confesses, his voice a soft rumble. "But I didn't want to mess up what we have."

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "You wouldn't mess it up," you murmur, your voice barely audible. "I've had feelings for you too."

The confession hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that's been building between you for so long. Franco's hand lingers on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you.

You lean closer, the space between your faces shrinking until you can feel his breath on your lips. "Then why did you wait so long?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly.

Franco's hand slides around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking your skin in a gentle, soothing motion. "I didn't know if you felt the same," he admits, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt or rejection. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

You lean into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading through your body. "It's okay," you whisper. "I've felt the same way."

Franco's gaze lingers on your mouth, and you can see the moment he decides. He leans in, closing the gap between you. His lips are soft, tentative at first, as if asking for permission. You give it, your eyes fluttering shut as you lean into the kiss. The chemistry that's been simmering between you for so long ignites, sending sparks through your veins.

The kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more needy. His other hand finds its way to your waist, pulling you closer, as if trying to erase the years of unspoken longing. You wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. The world outside the confines of the armchair fades away, leaving only the two of you.

As the kiss breaks, you both lean back, panting. The air is thick with anticipation, your hearts racing in sync. "I've wanted to do that for so long," you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion.

Franco's eyes are dark with desire, his hand still resting on the back of your neck. "Me too," he whispers, his thumb caressing your skin in a gentle rhythm. "But I didn't want to push you."

You smile, feeling the warmth of his palm against your cheek. "You didn't push. I wanted it too."

Franco's smile widens, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt. Finding none, he leans in again, his lips brushing against yours in a soft caress that sends your heart racing. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment.

You melt into him, feeling his warmth envelop you like a blanket on a cold night. His arms tighten around you, and you realize that you've never felt safer, more cherished. It's as if he's been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

"I should have told you sooner," he whispers against your lips, regret lacing his words.

You shake your head, your heart hammering in your chest. "It's okay," you reply, your voice a breathy whisper. "We're here now."

Franco's arms tighten around you, his warmth seeping through your clothes. You press closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, the comforting thud echoing in your ear. The weight of his confession settles on you, a warmth spreading through your body that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment.

You pull back slightly, needing to look into his eyes. "What happens now?" you ask, your voice a whisper in the quiet room.

Franco's gaze holds yours, filled with a vulnerability that makes your heart ache. "Whatever you want to happen," he says, his thumb tracing small circles on your cheek. "We take it slow, we talk, we figure it out."

You nod, your pulse racing. The idea of navigating a romantic relationship with your best friend is both exhilarating and terrifying. But the way he's looking at you now, with so much care and longing, makes it feel right. "Okay," you murmur, your voice barely above a breath.

Franco leans back, giving you some space. He takes a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "I don't want to rush anything," he says, his voice steady. "But I can't ignore this anymore."

You nod, feeling a mix of excitement and fear. "Neither can I." The words feel like a confession, a secret you've held close for so long finally spilling out into the open.

He smiles, a soft, gentle smile that makes your heart flutter. "Good," he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again. This time, it's slower, more deliberate, as if he's committing every sensation to memory.

The kiss lingers, and when you finally pull away, you're both left breathless. The silence stretches out between you, filled with the unspoken promise of what's to come. You can feel your heart racing, your skin tingling from his touch.

"I should go," Franco says, his voice gruff. He doesn't move, though, his hand still cradling your cheek.

You nod, your heart racing. "Okay," you whisper, feeling a mix of disappointment and relief. You stand up, and he follows, his hand slipping away as you both regain your footing in the new reality of your relationship. The space between you feels charged, the air heavy with unspoken promises and the weight of what's to come.

[murdrdocs]

always has been, always will be

description. it was only a matter of time before you realized how hard you've fallen for your roommate.

includes. roommate!tyler owens, so much fluff, pining, appearance of reader's ex, protective tyler, sexual tension, copious amounts of pet names, minor display of anxiety, drinking,

wc. 3.5k+

a/n: before you ask, i am not opposed to a part two. no promises.

You’re jolted out of a deep, and much-needed, sleep by the sound of bowls crashing onto the floor. You lay there for a second, trying to listen for any other sound while calming your racing heart. When nothing else comes, you grab your phone from the nightstand and through squinty eyes start to check locations. 

Your parents are home, your best friend is at work, and there—Tyler Owens, 0 miles away. His contact, the cartoonish drawing of him usually seen on a tee shirt, hovers right above the blue dot that represents you. 

The giddiness that instantly floods your body is embarrassing. It pulls you out of bed, somehow being the only thing to convince you to wake up on your day off, and drags your feet into the kitchen. You don’t bother checking your appearance on the way out, Tyler has seen you through your worst since he nursed you back to health during flu season, and he’s seen you first thing in the morning many times before. 

But when he lifts his head from behind a cabinet at the sound of your slippers dragging against the floor, the shock on his face momentarily scares you. Do you look like absolute shit?

It’s not until Tyler grins, luckily a split second later, that you relax. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking back into the cabinet and closing it with three ingredients in his hand. “Butter fingers.”

You yawn, walking into the kitchen and sitting at the island. “‘s okay. When did you get back? I thought y’all were gonna be in Missouri for a few more days.”

Tyler brings the ingredients to the island, settling them down in front of you on the other side. It’s then that you realize what he’s making. Brioche bread that’s about to expire, sugar, eggs, milk, cinnamon, a tub of fruit that definitely wasn’t in your fridge. 

The memory of the taste of Tyler’s French toast makes itself familiar at the tip of your tongue without your permission. 

“We were, but then Boone got a tip that there would be some action happening right back here,” he cracks the egg into one of your mixing bowls, “so here we are.”

Home. Tyler’s back home for the first time in weeks. He won’t be here for long, but that’s okay. It’s the deal you initially wanted whenever you talked to Tyler with interest in him being your roommate. 

It was nearly a year ago now, right at the end of peak tornado season of last year. Tyler had been in Arkansas doing what he usually did, wrangling tornadoes with the others with him. You knew who he was, it was impossible not to, especially living right outside of his hometown. But you had never crossed paths, not until your sweet, but meddling, grandmother—bless her heart—told you that the grandson of her Bingo partner was looking for a place to stay. Permanently. Or, as permanent as a home for a storm chaser could be. 

You were desperate, struggling financially and emotionally with a still-fresh breakup weighing on your mind. So when Tyler Owens swooped in with a brunch recommendation, promises to pay his half of the rent on time, and explanations that he would rarely be home during summer months, you jumped on the deal. 

You should’ve known that you would’ve developed a small crush on him, but that’s all it is. A small crush on a guy who was sweet enough to make you breakfast since he dropped in. It would surely go away soon enough. 

“How long are you staying for?” You’re already preparing yourself for heartbreak when you ask the question. Initially, you liked the idea of having your house all to yourself. All of the freedom, half of the financial responsibility. 

But when you and Tyler grew closer, you started to hate the summer. 

“Um…” he hesitates, adding copious amounts of cinnamon into the mixture while he drags the word out. Is he stalling? “A couple days. Maybe three?”

You try to hide your disappointment but Tyler is already trying to make you feel better. 

He looks up, mouth broken into a wide smile that shows his white teeth. “But I’m here to make it worth your while. Breakfast, I’ll take you wrangling with us if you’d like, and then Betsy’s on me. Yeah?”

The promise of quality time and fattening barbecue was enough to brighten your mood. 

“Yeah.”

You knew you weren’t particularly fond of storm chasing, but you found yourself with the others anyway. And after an EF-0 where you prayed and clutched the harness strapped across your chest and Tyler’s hand across the console, you swore to yourself—and mostly Tyler—that you would never do it again. Even though the joy from the others was infectious and you found yourself giggling with Tyler when it was all over. 

Tyler quickly made it up to you, though. He called it a day earlier than you thought he would. You knew he did it on your behalf, but he pretended like it was a strategic decision. 

“Most of the action will be tomorrow anyway.” 

And he was probably telling the truth, but you saw the shock in Boone’s eyes as Tyler told the others that the two of you were going to split off for Betsy’s just when the day was getting started. He ditched the others for you, and it made your heart flutter. 

The two of you end up in a familiar place, seated in the back corner booth of Betsy’s. You’re nestled up against the window, wearing the sweatshirt you left in Tyler’s car months ago. You’re shocked he still had it, but he assured you that he would never give it away. And if he did, he would’ve given you a Tornado Wrangler one for free to make up for it. 

“Tell me what you’ve been up to while I was gone.”

You tear your eyes away from the window to look at Tyler. You shouldn’t be shocked that he was already looking at you, he was speaking to you, but something about the way he looks at you will always make your heartbeat a little extra hard for a moment. 

You hum, lifting your eyes and thinking. There’s nothing you’ve been doing other than trying to keep sane.

“There were a few weeks there where I almost bought a dog.”

Tyler’s eyebrows raise but he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea. “Really?” he asks. 

You nod, reaching out to take a sip from your drink. “Yeah. Someone in town had rescued a puppy and he was just calling my name.”

“What would you have named him?”

You hesitate, trying to keep the embarrassment from finding your face as you fix your lips to tell Tyler the truth. “...Wrangler.”

He grins and you’re already trying to do damage control. Tyler beats you to it. 

“You missed me that much? C’mon, sugar.”

The pet name almost slips by you in your haste. Almost. 

“That wouldn’t even have been why! You’re so full of yourself, Ty.”

“You make it so easy. Don’t blame me.”

Your laughter refuses to subside even when the waiter comes to check on you both. Tyler manages to tell her that everything’s fine, while also smoothly ordering your favorite slice of pie. You didn’t even have to ask for it. He just knew. 

By the time the order’s placed, you’ve calmed down a bit, taking small sips of water in an attempt to calm down the heat in your body. 

“A German shepherd…” He nods to himself. “Loyal. Intelligent. Good search and rescue dogs. I bet Wrangler would’ve been a good addition to the house. Someone to keep you company while I’m gone.”

You try to pretend that’s not the exact reason why you wanted a dog in the first place. “And I would’ve taught him to chew on the bottom of all your jeans.”

“Well, luckily I like the rugged look.” A second goes by. “What else were you doing?”

You shake your head, your way of telling him that’s it. 

“He didn’t come by again, did he?”

A painful kick meets your insides at the mention of your ex. You knew Tyler would’ve asked you about Beau since the breakup is what allowed Tyler to move in in the first place. He hadn’t ever mentioned him before, not until Beau showed up drunk one night and demanded you let him back in. It was a terrifying and embarrassing moment for you, but it also started the bond between you and Tyler. 

Unfortunately, if it weren’t for that night, you and Tyler would’ve never been as close as you are today. He wouldn’t have even known your pie order and you probably would’ve had a year-old dog for companionship by now. 

“No. I haven’t seen him since that night.”

Tyler nods, grinning up at the waiter as she brings your pie and Tyler’s banana pudding over. 

“That’s good. And the security system works well on the house, right?”

You nod in a response, sticking your fork into your pie. 

“I’ve been checking in periodically when I’m on the road. Testing the cameras. You’re giving the tomatoes too much water, by the way.”

You’re instantly on the defensive, abandoning the next perfect piece of pie that you’d just separated for yourself. Your eyes lift, settling on Tyler, but quickly you glance behind him, and shit. 

He’s here. 

Your face must drop or something because Tyler instantly sees that something is different. He quietly asks you what’s wrong, the same tone he uses whenever you’re sick smoothing over his words, but when you don’t answer, he turns around and looks for himself. 

He swears, already turning back around. “Do you wanna leave? If you go ahead out to the truck I can cover the check. Here, pull your hood up, and you can wear my hat—”

You shake your head, staring right back at Tyler and ignoring the pull that tries to get you to look at Beau. “No. Let’s finish our dessert.”

Tyler blinks, his lips parted. You can tell he wants to ask if you’re sure, but he doesn’t. He takes a second, staring at you, and then he sits back, clears his throat, and dips his spoon into his banana pudding. 

Your heart speeds up until it’s painful in your chest. You worry for a second, image after image of everything that could go wrong flooding your mind. Tears sting your eyes but you try to sniff them away, busying yourself with dividing your pie up into pieces that you don’t even attempt to eat. 

“Honey,” Tyler says, “eat your pie.”

You feed yourself a bite and are instantly reminded of you why like it so much. 

Tyler continues to talk to you about the garden, telling you that the conditions this summer weren’t really living up to last summer so the lackluster harvest from your tomatoes wasn’t necessarily you’re fault, but the entire time you’re simply praying that Beau will leave before he notices you. 

You glance his way multiple times, staring at the side of him as he stands at the bar, likely waiting on a to-go order. Briefly, you can’t help but miss him and the way he would always pick up dinner here on Sundays. 

It’s a Friday. 

You wonder what else about his routine has changed.

Tyler continues. “There might be better conditions leading into the Fall but truly, I doubt it. It might just be time to say goodbye to the garden for now…”

You nod, mindlessly eating pie while Beau grabs his bag and turns around. You should’ve looked down or at Tyler because as soon as he turns, he looks at you. 

He lingers for a second, staring, and you do the same. Beau smiles, tight and friendly, and lifts a hand in a wave. 

You do the exact same, not giving more energy even though something in you wants him to come over and speak to you. 

Quicker than you can realize, Tyler turns around and throws up two fingers in a wave to Beau. Beau leaves not long afterward, and you can’t help but wonder if he thinks you and Tyler are dating now. 

The idea is appealing. 

“Why does it always take you so long to get out of the car?”

“You don’t have to wait, just go inside.”

“Now that wouldn’t be very chivalrous, would it?”

“Thought chivalry was dead.”

Tyler scoffs as if you’ve offended him. “As long as I’m alive it sure ain’t.”

You purse your lips to fight off a smile. “You sound like Boone.”

“He’s my brother from another mother for a reason.”

Their twin-like synchronization will always be equal parts weird and admirable. 

Tyler watches you struggle to put your boot on, holding the door open for you the entire time. You really do feel bad that you’re taking so long, but midway through the drive your purse opened and spilled its contents out onto the floor. That, paired with your tendency to get really comfortable in Tyler’s truck, has you taking longer than usual to get out of the car. 

Tyler stood silently for the first minute, but after that, he’d—rightfully—grown frustrated. 

“Okay, almost done. Just looking for my lip gloss.”

You hear the tension in Tyler’s voice when he responds. “Just leave it. I’ll find it in the morning.”

You squint, searching under the seat through your spread legs. “You’ll forget.”

When you jump out of the car, he seems excited, until you bend over and peer under the seat with a better look. Tyler sighs but you ignore him. 

You swear you’ve almost found it but then it comes out of nowhere—a crack of thunder that resounds throughout the sky, immediately followed by rain pouring down. There are no warning drops, it comes out altogether, but Tyler acts quickly. 

He pushes you into the house, treating you like you’re in the military, yelling “Go! Go! Go!” against the sound of rain. 

By the time you get inside, you can feel the damage done to your hair. You’re already wincing, looking into the mirror in front of the door, turning your face this way and that. 

“If you weren’t taking so long—” Tyler doesn’t get to respond before you’re glaring at him through the mirror. He throws his hands up in surrender, but they soon drop to your waist instead. 

Just this casual touch warms your chest. 

“You look fine,” He reassures, even though your hair textures are different in multiple spots. But he says it like he means it, and not like he’s just trying to make you feel better. He stares at you through the mirror, his body right behind yours. 

You give up trying to fix it, besides there’s not much you can do without products and tools. Instead, you turn around, watching Tyler easily slip off his boots. You do the same with yours, placing them both together by the door. 

It looks right. It is right. 

Just as right as Tyler’s suggestion of popping open a bottle of wine and throwing on reruns. 

He tells you about the storms they’ve been chasing while you pass the bottle back and forth, occasionally stopping to criticize the actions of the characters on your TV as if this is the first time he’d seen this. 

It’s not until you’re three episodes in and trying to fight off the wine sleepiness (and horniness) that Tyler turns to face you. 

“Hey,” he says, resting his hand on your ankle that sits right beside his thigh. “You doing okay?”

At first, you don’t understand the point of the question. “Yep. Trying not to fall asleep.”

He smiles as if he shares the sentiment, but still shakes his head. “‘s not what I mean. After earlier, are you okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. ‘m fine, Ty. Thanks.”

He doesn’t press it anymore. 

“Sorry I’ve been gone.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s what we agreed on.”

“I know but it doesn’t feel right leaving you here all alone.” 

“I’m fine, Tyler. Seriously.”

“I know, I know. You can take care of yourself. But I like taking care of you, too. I like being here for you.” 

You turn to face Tyler, staring at the way the pink lights of a commercial illuminate the side of his face. He looks so honest as he usually does, but there’s something in his eyes that you haven’t seen before. Maybe it’s always been there, but you hadn’t been looking for it. 

Now, it’s plain and simple, sitting right there for you to do something with. 

Just as you’re about to do something, Tyler turns back to face the TV. You push away the dismal feeling that threatens to crawl up your throat. 

It fizzes away a bit whenever Tyler rubs his thumb over your ankle. 

You feel like you’re dreaming. Maybe you are. Maybe you dozed off on the couch to Tyler rubbing soothing circles over your ankle and the arch of your foot while you both mindlessly watched reality TV. You glance down at your hand, seeing only what you’re supposed to be seeing, and then you look back up at Tyler to see what you shouldn’t be seeing. 

You’ve lived in denial for a while. It’s been easy to pretend that you didn’t like Tyler because there’s no way he could like you too. He’s just a gentleman, raised right by his momma, and that had always been the explanation. Tyler’s upbringing explained why he was so eager to risk the flu just to help you out, why he drove an hour just to give you a jump when your battery died, why he taught you line dances until you were a puddle of sweat on your living room floor. Why he ditched his friends to hang out with you, why he briefly abandoned his one true love—tornado wrangling—to give you a day he thought you deserved. Why he punched your ex without any hesitation at the first sign of disrespect.

But Tyler’s upbringing didn’t put this look in his eyes. A look so defined that you cannot deny it anymore.

Both of you stand in front of your bedroom doors, backs turned to the wood in order to face the other. Tyler stares down at you, eyes lidded with bags beneath, but no less infatuated.  

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks. 

You speak first. 

“I missed having you home, Ty.”

This surprises him. He tilts his head, letting the surprise show on his face as his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen. “I knew you did, honey bun. But what happened to loving the place all to yourself?”

You shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though your feelings are anything but. “Turns out that’s boring and too quiet. I miss your chaos.”

“You miss my chaos?” He nods as he says it, astonishment on his face. “And that’s supposed to be a compliment?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, turning around, and reaching for your door. “You knew it was a compliment, asshole.”

He’s laughing through his apology. It’s as lighthearted as your chastising. 

He extends his arms, wrapping them around your body and hugging you from behind. You don’t mean to meld with his shape as quickly and easily as you do, but maybe that’s the thing. It’s natural for you to fit yourself right into Tyler, just like it was natural for him to fit himself right into your life.

He hums, resting his chin against your head. 

“I missed you, too, love bug.” Ugh, the nickname. He makes it sound like you’re in love with him. 

(Are you?)

You spin around in Tyler’s arms, doing so easily with the space he gives you, but then he’s right back on you, arms wrapped around your shoulders and your head resting on his chest. 

You have your arms wrapped around his waist, breathing in the soft scent of laundry detergent, outside, and his cologne all melding on the cotton of his shirt. 

You sigh, content with what life has given you. 

When you say, “I’m glad you made it home”, it comes out naturally. You feel it deep within you, glad that whatever divine intervention or luck was on your side to bring Tyler back safely. 

When he agrees with an earnest, “I’m glad I’m home”, he says it like he means it too, and you’re sure he does. 

A moment goes by and Tyler calls your name. You hum, waiting for him to say something as you lazily blink at him. 

“If I asked to kiss you, what would you say?”

Your answer is quick. “I would say yes.”

Tyler nods. “And if I asked you to come spend the night in my room, what would you say?”

You think about it for a second, trying to ignore the fluttering in your stomach and the way your heart has kickstarted. “I would say no.”

His face falls. You pick it back up. 

“My room’s better.”

Tyler smiles through his annoyance, already stepping towards your bedroom. You lead him in, one hand on the doorknob as you continue to face him. His hands find your waist, holding you steady and close to him as you both enter your bedroom. It’s not until you’re both standing in your room that he pushes his lips to yours. 

[stunie]

Ume letting you draw on his arms. Doodling all over his biceps as he watches you focus with a smitten look on his face.

ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

hajime umemiya x f!reader ! sfw ^ ^ <33 i love you mino

He doesn’t really know when this little routine of yours had become the highlight of his day. It always started the exact same— with you kneeling beside him while he tends to his plants, tiny towel in your hand as you glance back at him a couple more times before finally pushing it into his hands with a loud huff. “Here, Haji,” you repeat like clockwork, “You’re covered in dirt again.”

“I am, aren’t I?” And he’s always laughing at the fact, always smiling when he’s around you. The towel never seems to help him very much, white cloth now a dark shade of gray by the time he’s done with it, and it’s already been discarded somewhere along the side once he sits down against the wall, eyes fluttering shut when you climb onto his lap the way you normally do.

This next part will always be his favorite.

You’re gently wiping at the sweat that’s collected on his arm with your thumb, mumbling something about how he should bring a bigger water bottle when he’s outside for so long, then something else about how he’s most likely going to be at risk of dehydration at this rate.

He’s not really listening to your words exactly— more like the sound of your voice itself. He doesn’t need to be paying attention to understand in the first place, not when he’s got all your worries memorized word for word already.

His eyes are still shut when he hears the pen’s cap fall onto the floor, soft hands guiding his arm towards you as you start doodling along his skin. “It was fine,” he always had to remind you at first— tell you over and over that you could draw whatever you wanted on him since he would have to shower later either way.

And as for you— you had probably told him a thousand times by now that he can’t look while you do it— it’s too embarrassing when he watches you draw with that soft expression in his eyes.

He knows good and well that you don’t like it, but he just… can’t help himself.

That’s why he only opens one eye— unbeknownst to you, of course. One eye that’s barely cracked open, silently watching you as you lean in closer to his bicep, brows furrowing as you do your best to steady your hand and lightly drag the pen along his muscle. He’d never tell you that he’s breaking his promise by peeking— but he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

[phebbsl]

Warm You Up

I was writing another fic but this popped into my head, oops.

Just a small thing on the different ways that cockwarming SDV Sebastian would go, according to my brain. Not super smutty but it is nsfw, it's more fluffy imo.

Not proofread, lmk if there's typos.

Sebastian x GN!Reader

content: fluff, nsfw, cockwarming

MDNI AND BLANK BLOGS!!

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Cockwarming was not something Sebastian saw himself doing. Not that he was opposed to it, but he never really had a partner to suggest the concept to. It seemed like it would be more frustrating than anything anyways. 

But it’s become something of a routine for the two of you these days. It wasn’t really something either of you had planned on either, it just happened. 

He hasn’t officially moved in, but he might as well have, with the amount of time he spends at the farm. He walks over, taking his daily smoke break on the trail to your place instead of by the lake or the train station. If you aren’t home yet, he takes the time to pet your farm animals or sit on the bench outside, admiring the hard work you’ve put into the land. And when you do arrive, the two of you make dinner, passing little questions about each other’s day. The two of you eat over bed trays perched on each lap so you can watch something on your old laptop on your bed, quiet hums and speculations interjecting shows or movies. It’s not exciting, nor is it boring. It’s just...peaceful. Domestic. Something he hasn’t really experienced at home in, maybe ever? Perhaps that’s why he finds himself at your place so often. He’s never been the one for daring, passionate relationships anyways, not that this lacks passion. It’s a just nice warmth that cradles the need he has inside him, and he feels so understood by you, something else that’s severely lacking in his life. 

And when you’re both craving some intimacy beyond a good cuddle, but too tired after craning over a keyboard or from whacking down trees/pulling weeds/monster hunting and whatever else you do, you’re so impressive, he thinks, he’ll pull down his pants so you can slide onto his cock. 

The first time was an accident, he’d pulled an all nighter, and almost didn’t even come over. But he missed you more than anything, and craved your touch, only to fall embarrassingly asleep when you got on top of him. He was mortified, barely looking you in the face when he woke up the next morning and realized what happened, but you just shrugged and said it was okay. You teased him about it after too, of course.

But it happened to be the best sleep he’s gotten in ages, and when he asked to try it again, you just obliged and now it’s just a part of your relationship. 

You fall asleep to kisses and hands roaming your body, curled up around each other in a way that satiates the loneliness he feels in himself. And then in the mornings, when it’s too early, the sun barely up, you coax him out of bed by riding him until he spills inside you with breathy whines. Pleased smiles are shared over breakfast and a kiss on the forehead before he goes back home.

Other times, when it’s raining in the mornings, and he’s already in his head, he wakes you with hard, desperate thrusts, drawing orgasms and moans from you until the dark thoughts go away. Luckily, you take the rainy days easier, allowing the two of you to stay in bed longer. He takes care of you then, apologizing for the way he treated you, not that you ever mind, and it almost always leads to another round. It's sweeter, tender. You whisper reassurances then, cupping his face and he kisses your brow. 

It starts happening outside of the farmhouse too now. On particularly boring days, you’ll visit him as he’s working, and while you take his job seriously, it’s become a habit to slide into his lap, a sly look on your face as you work on loosening his jeans before sinking down on him. You love the way he groans, head falling back and eyes rolling into his skull as he splits you open. His hands always fly up from his keys, gripping your waist until he remembers he has a job to do. And you stay there, peacefully drowsy until it’s finished, and then he bends you over the bed or couch. You stay the night, not leaving his room, sneaking out in the early morning after one too many knowing looks and comments from Robin afterwards. 

Sometimes, it’s when he’s playing games. Curled up in his lap again, back against his chest so he can rest his head on your shoulder to look at the screen. He twitches inside of you whenever the game gets intense, hips fucking into you as if it’s by reflex. It only makes him play worse, because then he’ll get lost in the feeling of your warmth around him. He passes the mouse for you to take over so he can focus on thrusting into your sweet spots, a hand on your hip to keep you stable and the other on your jaw, turning your face to kiss him  before urging you to focus on the game. 

Occasionally, you get impatient faster than he does, unexpectedly moving or adjusting on his lap throughout the game, making him moan straight into the mic. You give him an innocent look while he glares at you, making excuses to the other players. It repeats until you start moving your hips, bouncing up and down until he breaks. He doesn’t even try to win the game, just pushes away the keyboard and mouse so he can take you right on the desk. The fact that all his teammates could catch on turns him, and you, on more than it should. He rams into you, crooning dirty words, teasing hands never helping you finish until you’re crying and begging him for it. He always cums with the loudest, drawn out sounds, hips still moving until he’s too overstimulated to continue. He pulls you back into his lap with a chuckle and another kiss, ready to move to the bed for a cuddle until—

“Goddamnit Seb! You forgot to mute again!” 

He’s gonna have to apologize to Sam tomorrow. 

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Lmk what you guys think/which way is your fav hehe

[vetteltea]

To Be Free | CL16

Summary: You had always dreamed that your creativity would take you further than you could ever imagine. You never in your wildest dreams imagine it would take you to Monaco [5.8K, A]

Warnings: Implied Smut, Charles Leclerc being a Red Flag

Note: Hi. I’m not dead, far from it. Thank you all for being so patient as I post my first piece in over a year. I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you to @a-distantdreamer for always being my cheerleader, to @vinvantae for getting my out of the mid-writing funk and @percervall for giving me the balls to post. I love you all.

In order for art to tell a story, it has to be free.

At least, that is what your creative design professor told you the week before your final project was due. It was hard to be creative in a mundane town full of the same people, conversations and routines. Every day you would wake up while your mother told a story about how ‘Jenny at the gym seems to have filled out again!’ Your father would grunt, tell you he would be home late from work, and slip out the door, half-drunk coffee on the table.

Maybe simply being creative was difficult because you were crammed into a squadron of children—three brothers, two sisters. You were never referred to as an individual; it was always ‘She’s one of their kids.’ Your friends at school only became that because of their established relationship with your family. Nothing irritated you more than when a teacher would call you by a sibling's name. You were your own person, or at least, trying to be. It didn’t matter what colour you dyed your hair or how loud the clothes were you wore; your identity was tied to them.

Art was an escape; everybody had insisted you would be the same as everybody else in that town. In the fullness of time, you would fit into a job where you were paid to sit at a desk and answer the same two questions: No, I don’t want a coffee. Yes, I sent that report over. Your story would end traditionally, with a wedding and children.

The thought of being just another figure in suburbia terrified you. It may have been the dream for so many, but it was not yours. Each piece of art you created seemed to come back to the beginning. A frown from your teacher. She had told you once to drive outside of the town, go to the lake behind the Old Manor House, and see how it makes you feel.

Being five miles away from your hometown had created the piece of art that had skyrocketed your grades. You could only wonder what being five thousand miles away from home would feel like. It was the push you needed, the metaphorical map to make you leave.

Overnight, you packed away your life in a suitcase, kissed your mother’s cheek farewell, and set out to be free.

It turns out that being free was a lot more expensive when you didn’t have a degree behind you like the rest of your family.

Something had led to Toulouse, the classified city of art and history. With the money you had saved, you had been able to manage a week in Paris. (It was terribly overrated in your opinion, and the only highlight had been the overpriced pair of ears and waffles at Disneyland, but you couldn’t live like an artist when you couldn’t sell art.)

You have to succumb, moving away from the capital and towards the south, wondering why you didn’t come here in the first place. There was something romantic, peaceful. Neighbours said hello, and something seemed to be happening on every corner, not just middle-aged women doing pilates or another school bake sale. (Bake sales were fine, just not when the one English-speaking cafe you now had a job in seemed to have one every three days.)

There were perks to working there: Tuesday and Sunday off, where you could sit by the Garonne with a set of pastel-half sticks that had been crammed into your suitcase. It was a view you could draw over and over, the deep blue twinkling in the afternoon sun. The contrast of the great greenery on each bank of the river made for a beautiful sight—maybe, in your opinion, a beautiful piece, too. Once or twice the locals had raised their eyebrows at the girl in a fluorescent jacket and mismatched trainers, arched over a sketchbook, but even they had stopped, paused to take in her artworks, and nodded approvingly. One woman had even placed a twenty-euro note at your left-hand side in exchange for one of the copious drawings in your book.

You didn’t understand all of their words, still picking up snatches of French each day (and Duolingo had been a welcome companion on your phone), but their smiles and points between the paper and the view were enough to confirm you of their satisfaction.

On the fourth Tuesday of your arrival, your position had adjusted slightly, setting up shop on the bridge rather than the greenery. You almost drop your pencil into the river when somebody stops behind you, humming in admiration. This piece was different; inspired by Lindsay Fox; softer colours, harsher lines in an almost marble effect.

The man says something in French, but you have to shake your head; it’s way beyond a 34-Day Streak for Duolingo. He smiles, understandingly, changing to speak in English.

“That’s a beautiful piece.” He pauses. “Is it your own style?” His accent is clearly from this area but seems almost more reformed and classier.

“It’s inspired by another artist.” You explain, never bothering to go into further detail; nobody ever understands beyond that. “But it’s my own take. I never get bored of this view.”

“Can I see more?” He asks.

You still find it strange; hearing people around the area speak English isn’t uncommon, but their few words are usually to tell you they like what you’re working on or to order a coffee. There’s a hint of worry in your body language when you pass over the sketchbook, but he’s careful, fingers gently turning the pages, pausing every few moments to take in one piece, gently following his fingers across the sketch lines.

“It’s incredible.” He insists, handing the book back. “Tell me, do you take commissions?”

You have to pause. Commissions had come so few and far between; since being here, you had managed to expand your portfolio. Sometimes, locals would ask you to do a sketch of them or their loved ones, returning later in the day to pick up the piece and marvel at the design. You can’t offer a straightforward answer, so you have to just nod.

For the first time, you look at him properly, too. Dark hair, tousled, and clearly in need of a cut. His eyes are the same colour as the river you draw almost every day, with mismatched dimples on each cheek. He’s beautiful.

“Perfect.” He nods, feeling in the pocket of his loose jeans for a pen. You raise your eyebrows, watching as he holds out his hand, nodding for you to give yours over. Hesitantly, you do, eyes fixed as he scribbles a number down on the back of your palm.

“Do you know how to get to Monaco from here?” He asks casually. You have to pause.

“Is Monaco nearby?” You ask, dumbfounded. It’s worth it, you decide. For the smile on his face that appears.

“A few hours away.” He clarifies. “Can you... do that? I can just show you a photo and come back myself, but... the place. It’s special to me. I’d like to see how you would interpret it in your style.”

A frown appears on his face when you don’t answer immediately.

“I can pay you an advance now.” The man insists. “Eighty? Ninety?”

You have to pause then. Eighty or ninety euros may seem minimal in some precautions, but that could buy your groceries for a week; it was practically a day’s work at the coffee shop for a piece of art.

“That would be perfect.” You smile. “I’m off next Sunday. Would that work for you?” You ask. He’s smiling now, nodding in confirmation.

“It would work for me.” He clarifies. “Text me over your bank details." He nods, watching as I reach for my phone, typing in his phone number. “I’ll send you the advance and we can arrange a meeting time.” He finishes, looking down to his watch; his footsteps draw away from you, giving a final nod, but then holds out his hand.

“Charles.” The man introduces himself with his name. You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, shaking it back, and giving your own name to him. “Nice jacket, by the way.” He adds.

You raise your eyebrows, looking at the deep brown leather jacket around your shoulders. It oddly complimented your black and white plaid dress and deep green boots, or so you thought. A grin appears on your face when you pull off the garment, taking in the prancing horse on the back.

“It's a Ferrari.” You explain. “Pretty unique, but people don’t seem to realise it. Found it in a second-hand store.”

“Honestly.” Charles grins. “Some people wouldn’t recognise a Ferrari if it came and shouted in their face.”

Sometimes you need to clarify details before agreeing to something with a complete stranger.

To begin, he hadn’t told you that he meant Monte Carlo; you were being asked to commission in the most expensive city in one of the most expensive countries in the world. You had taken a train out of Toulouse on Saturday evening after your shift, bustling through the crowded town of people on their way out to enjoy the weekend. Suitcase in hand, you had curled up in the corner of a carriage, watching as the ocean and scenery passed you by, practically falling into bed when you arrived at the last-minute hostal bed you had booked, bypassing the sounds of the noisy couple above you.

Secondly, ninety turned out to be an incredibly misleading number.

You had let out the oddest mix between a scream and a gasp when you checked your bank later on that evening, seeing that ninety-thousand euros had been sent over under C.LECLERC. It not only gave you a heart attack, knowing that money could keep you afloat for a lot longer than it would take saving from working in the cafe, but it also gave you a name.

Typing the name into your Google search later that evening had been like discovering a state secret. Charles Leclerc, Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari. His face was plastered over your home screen, adorned in red fireproofs, atop a podium, in a car with aerodynamics you couldn’t even begin to understand.

Your stomach had twisted. A truly evil part of yourself had the idea of disappearing and never returning, ninety thousand euros richer. That money could lead to your freedom. But in your heart, you knew what you were. An artist, trying to path their way, and how would it look if you had disappeared after taking money from such a well-known being?

The train from Nice to Monte-Carlo is only forty minutes; before you know it, you’re stepping onto the train platform, mismatched converses in red and black complimenting the cherry red clip pinning back your hair. You had shoved the scrap of paper you had scribbled the meeting point on in your dungaree pocket, pulling it out and shuffling to the side of the platform. It’s only a short walk, but it’s made longer by the constant pauses, taking in the sight of the city. Extravagant, classy, old buildings piling up either side of the winding roads, peeks of an overcrowded harbour, boats that were worth more than you would ever make in your life on view. It was like walking around a movie scene; there was no other way to describe it.

The main character of the city is sitting at the bridge on the address, hands in his pockets, lips turning into a grin when he sees your figure, identical from the day back in Toulouse. Immediately, Charles has left his spot, smiling at your presence.

“You made it." He grins, starting to speak before your tone interrupts him.

“And you didn’t tell me who you were!” You exclaim, your moral compass falling over you. “Charles, I can’t accept that much.”

“I’m sorry?” He pauses. “I thought we discussed; that was just a pre-”

“It’s a pre-nothing!” You shake your head. “I’m not a proper artist—I can’t charge that much!”

“Really?” Charles pauses, nonchalantly. “You seem like a...proper artist to me. Your work is incredible.”

He doesn't give you time to argue further, offering his arm out and motioning to follow him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, falling into step alongside him. It suddenly makes sense; why is he keeping his head lower than when you originally met, keeping the sunglasses across his eyes? You want to try and make conversation; you want to feel less awkward than walking alongside a literal billionaire.

You don’t need to; he makes the conversation for you.

“Why Toulouse?” He asks, slowing down his pace, wanting to hear your answer. “Not many artists stay around the South of France for too long.”

“Paris was overrated.” You shrug, giving a completely honest answer. It doesn't hit you until you’ve said it that you had practically insulted the country where you were currently residing and your hand comes over your mouth in realization. “Oh my god, you’re not from Paris, are you?”

Charles is laughing. Something about your expressions made him grin. “You searched me up, but didn’t think to check where I was from?”

“I didn’t get to it.” You quip back. “I was kind of distracted by the fact you’re a multi-race winner in the biggest Motorsport in the world.”

“And you still didn’t recognise me on the bridge.” He pauses. “I’m from Monaco. I’m not French. Just…a lot of drivers live here.”

“A Tax-Haven, right?” Your personality comes through at long last, any sense of awkwardness washing away. “You set up camp here, but you’re not here most of the year, so... more money.” You can tell from the way Charles stays silent you’re banging on, correct in your guess.

“Monaco is my home, too. I am actually from here.”

Our pace slows as we reach a hill. The road is more prominent there, curving in a hairpin. Everything in its surroundings seems to complement it: the high buildings, the shrubbery, the bright red and white stripes outlining the road. Charles has frozen in his spot, and you can tell that this is the spot he was talking about. His commission. You can practically see the memories from track in his vision, almost as if he’s taking in every turn he’s ever made, every time he’s walked along this road since a toddler holding onto his mother's skirts.

“This is it.” You narrate for him. “This is your spot.”

He turns to you, eyes lifted, bright. “What do you think?” He asks, your own eyes still focused on the place.

“It’s beautiful.” You say it with sincerity. It is the way the entirety of Monaco, of its racing pedigree, seems to be captured in one shot. It almost feels too surreal; it almost feels as if you wouldn’t be able to do justice to this place with a mere canvas. “What kind of style?”

“That’s completely up to you.” Charles pauses. “Your creative style. How do you see this place? Because I think you see it the same way that I do, yes?”

“Yes.”

A lot can change in two weeks.

Your bedsit in Toulouse had been the biggest change; in the centre of the room was a large canvas, a curved road in the middle of the page clearly outlined. The sofa is littered with various paints, chalk, and pencils—a collage of rich reds, deep greens, and charcoal black.

The cafe hadn’t been forgotten; you had taken a sabbatical, insisting you needed two weeks—just two weeks—then you would be back to making overpowered coffee and refolding a newspaper four times in twenty minutes to place back on the front table.

Charles stays in contact; it’s a little difficult, within the midst of time zone differences and media releases. Sometimes it’s a text, and other times it's a video sent of where he is, insisting it would be good inspiration for your next portfolio piece. You don’t know how many times you have to explain it’s different; you need to feel it. Understand it further than a picture on the screen of your run-down phone. Sometimes it’s difficult to deny the flutter in your stomach when you receive one of these messages.

You get a FaceTime call on the Saturday night of his current race weekend in Barcelona. The weather is cloudy and there’s already been engine issues on his teammates home turf; Charles was frowning when he originally joined the call. Clearly a weak qualifying was looming in his head.

“Hey.” You’re starting the conversation, a paintbrush tucked behind your ear, a colourful shirt misbuttoned. “Is everything alright?”

“I just wanted to see how it was going.” Charles explains. “I mean, the painting—and well, you obviously. Did you find a chocolate pastry in the end this morning? I know you were craving one.”

A smile falls to your lips; in the midst of a race weekend with no luck, no speed, and no chance of getting into Q3, he has still found time to check in, lying back in the stupidly expensive sheets of his hotel bed, stubble and hair both overgrown, the buttons of his Ferrari Polo discarded, golden chest peeking outwards.

“It’s…going.” You shrug, “I want to do it justice—to find the colours and style that just...” One hand moves in a dramatic gesture. Charles nods understandingly as you continue your rant. “I’ve gone back there three times since the original visit, you know?”

A smirk appears on the driver’s face. “And you didn’t bother to let me know?”

“You were in Canada. You’re also my client; I want to make sure it’s what I promised.” You insist, walking back over to the array of shade pallets on your couch, fingers reaching down to select your third red chalk of the afternoon. Charles is content to watch your eyes focus, the nudge of the camera indicating you were rotating through your next tool.

“Hey.” His tone causes you to turn your attention back to the camera. “Do you want to see something cool?”

“I always want to see something cool.” You grin, watching as Charles sits himself up from his bed, the sound of his bare feet padding against the tiles of his Mediterranean hotel room. There’s telltale signs of his presence in the background: the phone charger by the mirror, the watch he had worn the first time you met him in Toulouse, a bundle of friendship bracelets, lovingly made by the Tifosi.

None of it, however, compares to when he lifts his phone, skin glowing in the soft sun, and flips the camera around to portray his balcony view.

The sight of Barcelona in the deep sun from Charles’ phone makes your heart stop. The sky a deep blue you crayoned as a child, roads twisting into an abstract stroke of tar and coloured dots of various sporting cars. There’s bright greens, specks of colour from the greenery. In the distance, you can still hear the ocean and the lapping of the waves.

You’ve always been clear that before you commit to creating art, you want to see the place and feel the place first. There’s almost certainty in your mind that the rule can be relaxed for the view you’re currently experiencing.

“It’s beautiful.” You finally whisper, after a full five minutes of transfixing through the phone screen.

“I’ll take you here one day.” Charles insists. “Paints and all.”

He doesn't miss the way your eyes flicker to the side, the pink that decorates your cheeks and matches the ribbon tying back your fringe whilst you work.

Monte-Carlo on the Saturday evening before the Monaco Grand Prix is an experience like no other.

Charles had pleaded to send a car to collect you from France, despite the fact the journey would have been faster by train—a whole two hours faster. In the end, the compromise is a ticket that would keep you safe and well-looked after in the First Class carriage. While you reclined in the leather seat, a high-end soda on your table, a canvas wrapped in brown paper, secured with nimble string, was nestled at your side.

You were certain you had spent an entire hour just…staring when it was completed. In your hearts, it was certainly your most intricate and perfect piece. A part of you could have spent the rest of eternity just staring at the landscape, the rest of your bedsit out of focus while you were transported back to that road in Monaco. It helps the mental stimulation that had overpowered you for the weeks; how you had spent an evening comparing your books on Sylvia Hikins’ minute but powerful detail and the reflection work of Dmity Oleyn.

It’s not a huge walk to Charles’ apartment from the train station; what makes it longer is the amount of racing fans, clad in bright red, papaya orange, or deep blue. A cacophony of colours lines the streets of Monte-Carlo, attention diverted to the paddock nestled alongside the arbor. Your heart rate increases as the crowds become thicker, desperately trying to keep your packaged painting away from nudges and knocks.

It’s only when you reach the edge of the city that the crowds loosen a little and there’s a chance for you to slide out your phone, thumb-tapping in the address on Google Maps, a reminder of your first encounter with Charles almost three weeks ago.

There was in fact no need for this in the end. You’re not sure which event takes place first: your map location updating to announce you were less than a one-minute walk from your destination or the shout from above you. Instinctively, your head turns upwards, feeling the long braid of hair fall down your back and locating the source of the noise as a smile beams from your mouth.

There’s two figures on the balcony, both leaning over the glass barriers. One is shorter, a mass of dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses, waving wildly to gain your attention. The other is blessed with brown hair and instantly turns from the balcony when he sees your figure.

A minute later, the door to the complex in front of you is opening, your client grinning as he steps out from the foyer, feet covered in just socks as he hops down the path to you. Maybe it’s the soft sunset, or the way his oversized tee shirt makes the muscles peeking from his arms look even more defined. You’re certain Charles Leclerc could look beautiful by any means necessary.

He doesn't give you time to process these thoughts any further as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, clearly in high spirits from his home race weekend.

“Is that for me?” He grins, eyes widening at the parcel as you shake your head.

“No.” You hum. “I just tend to carry around a giant square wherever I go.” You grin, looking down to your own outfit, then to his own. “Are you sure I’m in the right city? I feel very overdressed compared to the people in sports shirts.”

“You look perfect.” He insists, his arm falling from your shoulder to your bicep. “Come on. Come up and meet everybody.”

“I’m sorry?” You falter. “You want me to come and meet-“

“Please?” His hand falls lower, fingers tracing around your wrist as he slowly connects your palms together. “I want to introduce them to you. Put a name to a face.”

The insistence is good, and you refuse to move your hand away when he entwines your fingers together, praying that you aren’t going to drop the painting or your jaw from the unexpected intimacy.

The smile only grows on this face when you nod, letting him slip your threaded backpack from your shoulder, guiding you into the foyer.

The painting reveal goes…incredibly well.

Four hours ago, you had been led up to his apartment, introduced as ‘The next Van Gogh.’ He gives you a few moments to introduce yourself, noting to you that this wasn’t the entity of his group; you would meet some more faces tomorrow, should they be celebrating. When somebody had opened their mouth to argue that if you were really that good, you should have been nicknamed after Leonardo DaVinchi. Charles only grins when he gives his response.

“But DaVinchi was never a landscape painter like my girl, was he?”

You’re lucky enough to get to watch the reaction of several Monegasques seeing one of the most iconic portraits of their country come to life. There’s applause, cheers, and for the first time in your life, you feel like an artist. Not just somebody who places pencil and pastel to paper, hoping for the best. Your eyes can’t even focus on the work; the colours and strokes entwine into one. No, they fall to Charles; blinking back the tears, he's... overcome. You saw his vision. You got his understanding. You understood him.

He doesn't hold back from walking over to you, arms wrapping and squeezing you oh-so-tightly, applauding and thanking you over and over for your work.

In the remaining three hours and thirty-eight minutes since the reveal, there had been celebrations, soft drinks, and music. Your attention has been completely stolen by a golden dachshund—Leo, somebody tells you—who licks your ankle and insists on being lifted. Do you spend the rest of the gathering with the puppy in your arms? Quite possibly.

When the group dies down, Leo is placed in his sofa spot, chewing on one of his toys, occupied whilst you take the opportunity to look over the lights of the city—lights of buildings twinkling along the shoreline, a clear sky enveloped in black, how the deep blue of the ocean in the harbour is illuminated by the streetlamps.

You’re so engrossed that you jolt when you feel a hand on your back, before a string of apologies and a soft laugh fall from Charles’ lips. A comfortable silence settles for a moment before he speaks again, looking back over the skyline.

“I used to look out over the harbour when I was young.” He explains. “After I had a bad race or lost on something... I knew my home would always welcome me back.”

“It is quite beautiful.” You hum, shuffling from the open-aired area and back into the lounge. Your art piece now hangs in pride on the wall, next to a silver trophy. His first win, one of his friends had told you when they had caught you staring.

Both of you stare at the trophy and then the art piece, and the smile crawls back onto Charles’ face. Before he can fall into an endless spiral of gratitude again, you have to speak.

“Did you always want to be a racing driver?” You ask. Charles nods.

“It’s a part of me, no? Like I believe that being an artist is a part of you.” His expression softens as his vision finally meets the side of your cheek. “I want to know the other parts of you, too.”

It’s enough to make you turn your head from the view, and for the first time all evening, you see Charles. The same one you had seen at the hairpin turn all those weeks ago. Slowly, his hand comes back out, gently circling your wrist. You swear the entirety of Europe could feel your heartbeat, most certainly the man in front of you.

“I want to know about these paintings you love.” He murmurs. “About the necklace you always wear and why your eyes sparkle when you see open water.” His forehead skims across your own, noses bumping, lips dangerously close as his hand moves from your wrist, dancing up your arm, holding your chin.

“Will you come to the race tomorrow?” He asks softly.

Words seem almost incomprehensible until you softly breathe out. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes; the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he surges forward, finally pressing his lips to yours. The world seems almost right; everything finally makes sense; you don’t need to be free to create art; you just need to be found. Found by a man who understood art on the banks of France. Who understood the tri-colour shirts you wore on a phone call? Who understood you?

You had never felt more found then when your lips pressed back into his and he softly guided you back into his bedroom.

Being found washed over you for the next fifteen hours.

You had rolled out of the Navy Blue bed sheets that morning after a deep slumber, wrapped up against Charles’ bare body. Any detailing of his room had been completely bypassed when you had sauntered through his apartment, the top he had been wearing the previous night covering your frame.

Part of you is disappointed to see his golden torso now covered by a scarlet shirt as he bends down to give Leo his water bowl, humming in contentment as his puppy excitedly laps at the water. The happiness only grows further when he reaches back up, arms opening to envelope you into his chest, a hand threading into the back of your head as he tucks you into his neck.

“I didn’t expect you to be up so soon.” He murmurs. “Did I wake you?”

“Leo did.” You grin. “But I could never be mad at that face.” You insist, feeling Charles’ chest vibrate with laughter. Eventually, the hands on your hips have to pull away, a soft kiss being pressed to your hairline.

“Joris is going to be here in a couple of hours to bring you and Leo to the track.” He hums. “I left your Paddock Pass next on top of the mantelpiece. Otherwise the raptor would have chewed it.” He grins, his smile dropping when he sees you look out of the window, towards the track layout. “I’ll… You’re still coming?” He asks curiously.

“I am.” You smile. “I said I would.”

True to your word, you do so. True to his word, Joris appears at Charles’ apartment door one hour and a bit later. He greets you pleasantly enough, asking how you found Monaco and congratulating you again on your art piece. When he goes to collect Leo into his arms, the puppy backs away, sniffing at your legs as he practically demands to nestle back into your arms. You can’t help but laugh, letting him nuzzle into your chest.

Joris says nothing, but when he leads you to his car and you’re reunited with the group of friends who would be attending the race in the Paddock, he makes sure that he takes Leo so that you can enjoy the conversation with the remaining people in the group.

The conversation flows freely and happily, only interrupted when the puppy begins to bark, pulling on his lead towards a figure in front of the group. A beautiful, slender figure dressed in soft pink, dark hair glossy and neat, a smile worth a million stars as she steps in time with Charles.

Joris laughs as he lets go of the lead, and Leo goes bouncing over to the figure, clearly recognising her. When she stands back up, the puppy in her grasp, and steps closer to Charles, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, your stomach immediately drops.

Charles’ own eyes flicker to you for a split second. He’ll never erase the look that was washed over your face when the girl nudges him softly, telling the group that her Charles must have slept well the previous night, which he never usually does before a race day.

Part of you—a strong, passionate part of you as deep and as powerful as the paints in your works—wants to scream out and tell this woman that her Charles had been wrapped up in your hot touch less than twenty-something hours ago. That he had whispered in your ear as his hips rolled against yours, that he had told you soft stories of a promised future together as you had found rest in his arms.

In such a short amount of time, you had allowed yourself to be chained, to be latched into a rope of feeling from the beautiful man who had approached you in a city that was almost perfect. If it had been perfect, the man would have walked to you, squeezed your hand, and gently kissed you again. Instead, his hand finds the woman’s hip, walking with the rest of the group whilst you falter behind, barely giving a second glance, slipping away from the gaggle of conversation, unseen.

As Charles climbs into his car that afternoon, you slide the keys to your bedsit into a small envelope, leaving a wad of cash and an apology note for leaving your contract so early.

In order for art to tell its story, it has to be free.

Charles returns to Toulouse on Monday morning, low on the P8 result he had received the afternoon before and the way his girlfriend had kissed his cheek and told him not to worry, that his luck would change. All whilst she whispered praises into his lips, caught in a kiss at the back of some overpriced club, his mind is overpowered by the thoughts of you, as bright as the landscapes in your sketchbook.

He has to explain. He longs to pull you into his arms and tell you he meant what he said. When he arrives, he looks everywhere. In every art shop, every park, every museum. He remembers you mentioning a part-time job in a cafe. On his ninth attempt, he freezes when he steps through the entrance, the chime of a bell hitting the front foot in mid-ring when he sees a landscape displayed proudly on the wall.

He doesn't need to ask. Feet come over to the counter as he looks over. Two girls. Neither of them are you. One of them turns around and smiles nicely enough, asking what the man would like to order.

“The woman who painted that.” He nods to the picture of the Garrone. “Where did she go?” It’s clear the girl behind the counter knows something and bites down on her lip to stay silent. It only takes one more pleading look from Charles before the words spill from her lips.

“She’s gone. Left the city on Sunday.” She pauses. “She’s gone to be free. I don’t think she’ll be back."

Charles feels his heart crack as harshly as the damages in Manet sculpture on your phone screen wallpaper. Your story insisted on you being free. After all, you had been the art. The piece where no matter what he saw for the rest of his existence, he would never be able to forget.

[iknowyuu]

helloooo i was wondering if you could do a fanfic where the reader is clumsy please? like girl is so clumsy that even sieun gotta hold her mf hand so she doesnt fall like damnn... BUT YEA i hope this is a good idea 😕anyways i hope u have a good day, remember to not overwork yourself much okay? <33

kdrama! sieun x reader

// read req! around 1k words

note: shaki my fave. this ask is probably a year old LMFAOO, pero espero que disfrutas anyway !!!

daily click to help palestine and other important causes!

any outsider who happened to be looking into your life- whatever god that’s out there, whatever mysterious force that’s looking, controlling you like you were a sim had to be getting a laugh. in fact, they had to have been steadily laughing for at least a year now.

and for god’s sake, “ouch!” is not your favorite word!!

these thoughts ran through your head just as you bumped into the doorframe as you were attempting to enter your classroom. none of your classmates even looked up at the noise. they were all so used to your clumsiness that it became a daily routine. it was like a little warning that there was ten minutes left before class.

you make your way to your seat, pouting with your arms crossed. you don’t blink or move, even as the boy who sat beside you placed an ice pack on your desk. “thank you.” you mumble begrudgingly, placing it on your elbow.

sieun was like that, too— well, not the never-ending confusion in your balance as well as perception, causing you to constantly trip over invisible matter (air). it’s the consistency. every time you walked home from school together, you would trip over a pebble. every time the two of you were in the lunch line, you’d drop your money, trying to count exact change. i think you get the idea; he was like you in a sense that he expected it.

at lunch, you would constantly complain to sieun about it, telling him the amount of bruises or cuts you'd gotten that day. "sieunnnn," you'd draw out through your attractive pouty lips, sitting down at your usual table, waiting for suho and young-yi to arrive. "look at the paper cut i got. you'd think that my skin would've developed a thicker skin after the amount of times i've nearly died," you say dramatically. "it's so annoying.." you sigh, absentmindedly grabbing a hand of his, playing with his fingers. you sit next to him, placing an arm on the table, and laying your head on your arm, staring up at him.

he didn't say anything, only staring at the way you played with his fingers. he tried not to pay attention to the way you gave him butterflies, and from the way he only gets it from your touch. "it's so unfair. how come this never happens to you.." you ask dejectedly, bringing his fingers towards your lips. "or suho... or young-yi.." you mumble, kissing each of the pads of his fingers, before teasingly blowing at his pinky.

he snatched his hand from you embarrassedly, looking away with a deep blush on his face. "its your fault. you need to pay more attention where you're going."

you scoff. "my fault? are you serious? you know, i was never like this before i met you." you sat up. "it's your fault. maybe if you stopped looking at me with those eyes, stopped hanging around me, stopped looking so cute, and stopped living in my mind i'd be able to finally live my life pain-free." you say, heaving a heavy sigh just as you spotted your friends walking towards the table. the words that had just left your mouth instantly left your consciousness when you waved at them, giggling at the stupid face suho was making.

sieun, though, did not move. instead, he sat there, blushing and thinking.

yes, it's true. ever since the big-eyed introvert entered your life, you suddenly became less and less aware of your surroundings, yet more and more aware of the way sieun's hair would stick up in certain places after you ruffled it. or, even how the tip of his ears would light up red after you complimented him.

he didn't pay you (or anyone else) any mind at all when he was a school-obsessed nerd, but now that he has a social life for once, he was beginning to realize that you only treat him like this. you did not kiss the tips of suho's fingers, nor did you hold the waist of young-yi. it was only him.

these thoughts plagued his mind as the school day came and went, and as per usual, the two of you were walking home together. the sunset was just approaching, and the whole city was bathed in a golden hue, reflecting off of every surface to be found. the two of you walked side by side.

"sorry."

"what?" you turned to look at sieun with curiosity. "sorry for what?"

"for being the one who distracts you all the time. you always get hurt because of me." he says, looking down at the ground as the two of you continue walking.

"sieun.. i was just jo-" he interrupted you, "i should take responsibility for my actions." he said, boldly grabbing your hand and pulling you towards him, just narrowly saving you from bumping your shoulder into a pole.

"o-oh." you say. for once, you were the one who was embarrassed. it didn't last long though, as you giggled softly you interlaced your fingers with his. you miss the way he squeezes your hand, looking away with a faint smile on his face.

"it's about time." you whisper, looking down with a smile that was the opposite of his. noticeable and wide.

[luveline]

OMG need to see more of Steve drawing reader in the zombie au!!!

steve zombie au —steve draws you all the time. fem

Sometimes, you collapse under the weight of it all. A lot of bad things have happened to you, and the world in this state is overwhelming. You used to wake in a soft, warm bed, spend days surrounded by loved ones, eating and drinking when you needed to, when you wanted to, with no worrying about where your next tube of toothpaste or toilet paper was going to come from. 

These days, you wake, and it's into a world where you've seen agony, and inhumanity, and it's hard. You're his sweetheart and he doesn't care, he'll take care of you for the rest of his life, but there's only so much he can do. 

“Sure you don't need anything else?” he whispers, pulling the linen blankets up to your chin. 

“M'sure. Thanks, Steve.” 

He feels bad touching you when you're squirming. “Yeah, no problem. I'm just gonna sit outside and read, okay? I'll be right there.” 

“Okay,” you mumble, pressing your face into your pillow. 

Steve grabs his rucksack and drags himself outside of the tent. From here, the sea of tents, he can see the fire in the centre of camp leaching smoke into the air, and he can hear the unmistakable hum of hundreds of people in one place. He figures it to be almost like an army base, and the small amount of military personnel only cements that. 

Robin's off somewhere. He misses her more and more lately, not sure where she is, but you've been sick this week. He has to stay close to home. She'll be back tonight for sure to see you both. And Eddie, your new (and, to Steve's reluctance, good) friend, popped by to see you both an hour ago. You weren't in the mood to talk and so he mostly talked to Steve about the next run for supplies. 

You're loved, but you're lonely. You lost everyone you knew. 

You need time to mourn now you're somewhere safe enough to do it. 

Steve rummages through his rucksack for his novel, but he doesn't want to read it without you. Between that and his sketchbook, he has very little to do. Still, you'd brought him those nice pencils and a new skinny sketchbook full of smooth paper, and there are pages yet to fill. 

It's all you. Every inch of space. Your unknowing smile as Eddie showed you how to make an origami crane, or your stomach in the dark as your t-shirt rode up in sleep. Your hands clasped around one of his, squeezing, and the figure of your crouched by the river watching tiny fish swim by. You're in lilac, and sepia, and green, green-green-green, the darkest green pencil he has in want of a black detailing your pupils and the seam of your lips over and over. 

He looks in through the tent door and sketches the curve of your hip under the blanket. He could likely draw you head to toe and inch by inch without reference, or he likes to think it, having seen it all a hundred times, maybe more. You sigh in your dozing and curl inwards, and he starts again. 

He notices when you start to cry because he's focused on your shoulders as they tremble. Steve folds the pen between leaves of paper and shoves it all back into his bag. To comfort you or let you cry? Sometimes people just want to be left alone. 

“Steve?” you ask through a little sniffle. 

“Yeah, honey, I'm here.” 

“Will you come in here?” 

He must be doing something right if you're calling him in when you need him. Finally, something right. Steve crawls into the tent and presses your shoulders against the tent flooring, shaking his head at you. “It's okay,” he says, enthusing his voice with a light amount of loving ridicule. “What are you crying for, huh? You're okay.” 

“Yeah, I'm okay,” you agree, snuffling as he touches your cheek. 

“You are. You're okay. You're beautiful.” He goes sticky like syrup, praising. “I'd write you love letters if I had a pen.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Just talking about how pretty you are would take up ten pages. I keep trying to get it down, you know? So when I'm gone, they'll know someone as pretty as you was walking around loving on some loser,” —you laugh wetly and distract him— “right? So why are you crying?” 

“Just don't feel well.” 

“I don't blame you,” he says, nudging a tear off of your cheek with his thumb. 

“But,” you say, smiling at him weakly, “I have to keep my head up. Yes?” 

“Yeah, honey.” He swallows a funny lump. “God, you're fucking everything when you smile.”

It's not that he doesn't care, he wants to hear it, but you just don't know how to tell him. How do you verbalise a mountain of grief? So he rescues you instead, flirts and soothes the wound with a warm smile. You respond to it as he'd hoped and perk up with a couple of carefully pressed kisses. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

“Were you drawing me, before?” 

“How'd you guess that?” 

“You were really quiet. It's like you go somewhere else.” 

“Nah. Just with you.” He clears his throat. “Did you… wanna see?” 

“Really?” 

Steve would write an itemised list of all his worst secrets if it meant you'd smile. A few pages of shoddy pencil sketches is nothing. 

[ghostofaboy]

Finally and Final

Pairing: Javier Peña/Steve Murphy Rating: Explicit. Serious over 18s only Word count: 2444

Warnings: Hand job, period typical homophobia, infidelity

Summary: At first, Javi believes Steve is angry with him, but it turns out it's something else entirely.

Note: This has not been beta read, so I apologize for any mistakes. My first time writing Stavier, but I fucking love them as a pairing. This was a request from Anonymous as part of my 100 Follower Celebration.

It was clear Steve was still mad at him. Only the week before, he'd shoved Javi up against the wall in the embassy, hissing accusations in his face before storming off. Javi hadn’t done what Steve accused him of, of course he hadn’t, but he did need Steve to be onboard with what came next in the fight with Escobar. 

But in that moment, instead of defending himself, all Javi had been able to think about was Steve's breath on his face, how warm his hands were and how hard Steve had made him. Heading home, Javi had jacked off to the thought in the shower, covering the tiles in his come before climbing into bed and pushing the deviant thoughts of his partner out of his mind.

Now Escobar was out of his bullshit prison and the hunt was back on, that should have been good news. Except, Steve’s wife Connie had also returned to Miami, leaving Steve a drunken mess. He’d been damn lucky Messina hadn’t sent him home then and there. Javi had vouched for him, explained the situation, and that seemed to be good enough for their new boss. Javi had thought it would also be good enough to win Steven over. But apparently not.

Now Steve was glaring at him as they went over tedious reports filled with nothing that was remotely helpful to their goals for finding Escobar once more. As he looked up from his desk, Javi could see those blue eyes were analyzing him, watching his every movement, taking in every detail.

“What?” Javi finally snapped, prompting a smirk from Steve. “You’ve been staring at me all fucking day.”

“No law against it.” Steve’s drawl sounded thicker than usual and as he glanced to the other agent’s left, Javi spotted an empty whiskey glass sitting on Steve’s desk.

“Damn it Murphy.” Javi ran a hand down his face, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’re drunk? Here? Are you serious?”

“I’m not fuckin’ drunk.” Steve scowled.

“Then quit fucking staring at me.” Javi frowned. “Or else people’ll think you’re sweet on me.”

It had been a throwaway line. A joke meant to break the tension. Something that Javi had said to Steve a thousand times before and gotten a “fuck you” or a laugh from. But as the words left his mouth, Javi watched in fascination as Steve’s face flushed, his eyes trained on Javi’s lips and a flicker of embarrassment danced across his handsome face.

“Fuck this.” Steve muttered, pushing himself up from his desk abruptly and striding out of the office space. “I need a break.”

Javi just sat there watching Steve’s ass as he left, the realization of the moment hitting him and twisting inside him uncomfortably. Sure, he’d been lusting after Steve since the blond had landed in Bogotá, but Steve was married. And up until very recently happily married. Lusting after someone he knew he couldn’t have was one thing, Javi was used to it whenever he met a handsome man. But the slither of possibility that Steve’s eyes had offered him just then was something Javi hadn’t had to deal with before, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

#####

Steve hadn’t returned to his desk by the time the sky went dark outside and the men of the Search Bloc were chatting about calling it a day. Glancing around as they filled out, Javi knew he had to go find Steve, but quietly without drawing attention. Grabbing his gun, jacket and pack of cigarettes, Javi set out to start checking all the places the blond could have slipped off to.

It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to find Steve. After checking the cafeteria, bunks and bathrooms, Javi had remembered something Steve had said about an unsecured outbuilding on the every edge of the school grounds where Search Bloc, and themselves, were now based. It was filled with old boxes of files, the original contents of which were far too water damaged to make sense of. Whatever it had originally been used for, Javi had no idea, but as he quietly made his way over to the boarded up structure, sure enough there was a small light inside.

Sitting on a chair that looked like it was a stiff breeze away from collapsing was Steve, thumbing through a very beat up looking magazine. At his feet an old lantern was giving off a soft warm glow, although how wise it was to have that in a room filled with paper, Javi wasn’t sure. Approaching the slightly ajar door, Javi coughed lightly, prompting Steve to quickly roll up the magazine and raise his head to meet his partner’s gaze before dropping it back down slowly.

“What are you doing out here, Murphy?” Javi slipped inside before leaning against the door frame. The whole room smelt of damp, musty paper and sweat.

“Just thinkin’.” Steve offered a lopsided smile, still not meeting Javi’s eyes. “You were lookin’ for me?”

“Course I was.” Javi took a step forward to crouch in front of Steve, trying to get him to look at Javi. “Was worried about you.”

“Yeah?” Steve let out a mirthless laugh. “I’m ok. I just needed…” Steve trailed off, shrugging and running his thumb over the worn magazine.

“Look, about before-”

“Forget it.” Steve shook his head. “Look, get outta here, man. You’ve got better things to do than babysit my sorry ass.”

“True.” Javi gave a small laugh. “But I don’t want to just leave you here like… this. You wanna go grab a drink?”

Steve just shook his head. “Not really in a social mood.”

“Fair enough.” Javi nodded, letting silence fill the space. Not moving from his position in front of Steve, Javi found his eyes being drawn to the rolled up magazine that the other man was still clutching. 

Steve had rolled it up as soon as Javi had come in, not letting the other man get a look at what it was. Small pieces of the faded cover peeked out from between Steve’s fingers, and Javi knew immediately what kind of magazine it was. He had plenty of them at home and the more he looked, the more skin he could see, then a nipple. Yeah, he had plenty of these at his apartment.

Looking over Steve slyly, Javi started to take in the details he’d missed when he’d first entered the small building. Steve’s flushed cheeks, the crumpled up pieces of paper he’d used to clean up with, and the most obvious, the not quite zipped up fly of his jeans.

“You, er, you want me to leave you for some more quality alone time?” Javi chuckled, motioning to the magazine in Steve’s hand, watching as the other man’s face grew redder.

“It’s not like that.” Steve’s eyes shot up. “I mean, I just found it and-”

“Hey, I’m not judging.” Javi held his hands up in mock surrender. “You know how many of those I’ve got at my place? Which one is it, maybe I’ve got it?”

Steve didn’t answer, his hands curling tighter around the magazine, as his eyes studied Javi’s face. At first, Javi was confused. Sure, Steve was married, but every guy jacks off, right? So what if he’d found a dirty magazine and spanked one out. But then, achingly slowly, it started to dawn on Javi why Steve was reacting like this. The beads of sweat on his temple, his large dark pupils as he watched Javi lick his bottom lip, the twitch under his jeans that not even the thick denim could hide.

“Like I said,” Javi swallowed hard, locking eyes with Steve, “maybe I’ve got that one.”

Steve nodded, understanding Javi’s meaning, and slowly loosened his grip on the magazine. Gradually, it unfurled in Steve’s trembling hand, letting Javi get a better glimpse at the oiled up ass cheeks on the man on the cover. Huh, he did have that one at home, Javi thought as he pushed down an amused chuckle. 

“You got a favorite in there?” Javi growled out, locking his eyes with Steve’s again as he reached for the zipper of the other man’s jeans. “I like the one near the end. The one dressed like a cowboy.” Tugging the denim open, Javi carefully pulled out Steve’s hardening cock. “I like his ass. You?”

“Yeah.” Steven nodded, licking his lips and shifting his hips to help Javi free his dick. “Yeah, he’s… he’s hot. Nice thick… fuck… nice cock.”

“Yeah.” Javi began to slowly pump Steve, pulling a gasp from the blond. “You know, I used to watch the guys my dad would hire. There was one, when I was about 16, he’d get changed in the barn. He knew I watched.”

“You ever… fuck… you ever do anythin’ with him?” Steve moaned out, bucking his hip slightly as Javi stroked his cock steadily. 

“First cock I ever sucked.” Javi chuckled, reaching out with his other hand to clumsily free his own trapped erection. “You ever done anything like this before?”

“No.” Steve’s voice was little more than a whisper as his eyes drifted down to Javi’s thick cock. “Fuck, can we… I mean… shit…”

“Not here.” Javi continued to pump both cocks, gently thumbing over Steve’s head to collect the precum that was beginning to flow. “But another time, somewhere more private. Sure. We can have some fun.”

“Fuck.” A small smile creeped across Steve’s lips as he let his head drop back, exposing his neck, while Javi began to pick up the pace.

The strokes had been slow at first as Javi tested how much Steve would let him do. So each stroke had been tender and leisurely, his fingers sliding down Steve’s shaft pulling quiet gasps and moans from the other man. But now Javi needed to come, he needed to watch Steve come. The spell might break any second, someone could come find them, anything could happen that could mean this might be the only chance Javi got. 

Javi’s pumps became more rhythmic, quicker, as he stroked himself and Steve in time. Another time, if he got another shot at this, he’d want to bring their erections together, to touch them, and let the friction of the other's shaft add to the heat. But for now Javi settled for this as his skin prickled with arousal. The coiling tension inside him building with each motion as his whole body throbbed with need.

Steve’s eyes were fixed on Javi’s hands, watching as his thick fingers skirted over hot flesh and pulsing veins coated in their own arousal. His plush lips were slightly parted, flushed as pink as his cheeks, and Javi longed to plunder Steve’s mouth. The only thing stopping him was the thought that actually might be too intimate just yet. A hand job was one thing, a kiss was another. An act more sensual than sexual. Javi didn’t want to rush Steve, he wanted to savor everything he could get.

They were both breathing heavier now, the burning fire inside them desperate to explode, so Javi increased the pace again. It was time for them to finish. And so Javi began to quicken his hand until the stroke turned into frenzied jerks that had Steve clasping a hand over his mouth and Javi biting down on his bottom lip. If anyone were to come in now, he wouldn’t be able to stop, wouldn’t be able to hide what they were doing together. So Javi pushed on, frantically pulling him and Steve to the edge.

Steve came first with a muffled cry. The thick white ropes flying from his cock, coating Javi’s hand and hitting his forearm. The hot release cooling on his skin as Steve trembled in his seat. Javi had only just let go of Steve’s dick and let himself fall back slightly to give the other man a good view before he too came. Letting his head drop back, Javi pinched his eyes shut and growled out a curse as he painted the floor of the room with his seed. 

For a moment, the world melted away as Javi allowed himself to dissolve into the pleasure of the moment. His thighs shook as his whole body vibrated with his orgasm, and all Javi could do was ride the brief high. Finally, as it ebbed away, Javi opened his eyes to find Steve slumped in the chair gazing at him.

“Fuck.” Javi panted out, looking around the space for something to clean himself up with. Grabbing some crumpled paper and roughly wiping his arm and hands, Javi turned back to Steve.

The other man seemed in a daze, watching Javi without really seeing, his soft cock still hanging from his open jeans. Tucking himself away, Javi watched as Steve seemed to slowly come back to reality once Javi’s dick was out of view. In a flash, Steve redressed and ran a shaking hand down his flushed, glistening face.

“I… um… shit.” Steve frowned up at Javi. 

Opening his mouth to answer, Javi jumped as voices began to drift in through the still ajar door. The two voices, both speaking Spanish, were still a way off, but the effect on Steve was immediate. Leaping up out of the chair, Steve rushed over to the door and peered out.

“Relax.” Javi tried to soothe him, taking in the scene in the area. Come spattered the floor, alongside gay porn, and the scent of sex hung in the air. “Come on, as soon as they pass we’ll leave. Get somewhere more… well… more private.”

Still staring out the door, Steve just nodded. Then after a few moments waved Javi over for the two of them to leave. Walking briskly across the campus, Javi could see Search Bloc officers jogging in the distance, others were walking and chatting while he and Steve made a beeline for the bunk room and straight to their sparse room. If only they knew of what the two gringos had just done in that outbuilding.

Once safely inside, Javi slumped down onto the thin mattress of his bed, while Steve shakily lit a cigarette before offering the pack to Javi. As they sat smoking in silence, Javi had a sinking feeling that this was never going to be mentioned again by Steve. Once the sun came up, it would be as though he never happened as far as Steve was concerned. He’d go back to trying to fix things with Connie, and Javi would have to return to his hookers. And the worst part was, Javi was almost sure he could live with that.

[bellarkeselection]

When Dutton's Marry, They Go Big

Request from wattpad mackleann - Kayce and the reader come back from their honeymoon and the bunkhouse crew talk about how amazing the wedding was ( huge wedding 😏 )

"There's nothing that says we have to go back today. We could just stay out here." Kayce had his arms wrapped around me from behind while I was trying to put my shirt on.

Kayce and I had recently got married a few weeks ago. And we had been spending our honeymoon here at the Dutton Summer Camp. I giggled trying to not cave into his embrace when he kissed my neck. “Kayce, we have to go back to work.”

“Your mother doesn’t need you for another week right?” He mumbled into my neck until I spun around in his arms.

My mother Lynelle Perry was going to be stepping down and leaving Montana in the coming weeks since she got a higher job in government. Kayce’s father John was taking over her position as governor of the state. “No, she's busy helping your father. But I want to spend time with her before she leaves.”

“One more day won’t hurt anybody, darling.” Kayce leaned down, capturing my lips deeply.

I squealed when he got the chance to pick me up by my thighs and I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Kayce!” He carried me over to the edge of the bed sitting me down on it where we both fell backwards on the mattress.

“By the way you're looking at me right now I can tell that you’re not complaining too much.” Kayce smirked down at me only wearing some blue jeans and his boots that he kicked off.

Running my hands up his chest I wrapped my hands down his neck drawing him in for another long round of the morning. “Who I am kidding you’re hard to resist, Dutton.”

“So are you Mrs. Dutton.” He mumbled in between kisses and we laid in the bedsheets together till the next morning when we had to get back to the ranch.

Kayce drove the truck up underneath the Yellowstone Dutton ranch sign. We parked outside the main house where I turned in my seat facing him. “You know we could always hide out in the bunkhouse till the cowboys are done with work for the day.” A smirk was playing off my lips.

“I like the way you think, baby.” He smiled hoping out of his seat and I scrambled to get my door open. Kayce scopped me up before my feet could even hit the ground, carrying me to the bunkhouse door.

I giggled, wrapping my arms around his neck and he kicked the door opened. He sat me down on the nearest bed beginning to remove my shirt until someone else's voice entered the building. “You two look just like you did the day you got married.”

“Ryan! What the hell are you doing here?” Kayce broke the kiss, breaking the kiss that we was sharing seeing the cowboy standing at the edge of the bed.

Ryan raised a brow. “I should be asking, are you going to sleep on my bed right now?”

“Oh god! We didn’t mean for that to happen.” Covering my face with my hands I groaned feeling somewhat embarrassed at the very thought of what we we’re about to do before he walked in. “Wait what did you mean we are just like how we were on our wedding day?”

Ryan chuckled with a smile. “Your wedding was huge and I don’t mean it’s just because of who your mother is. But I also mean weddings and other big events don’t really happen here.”

“Ryan, Rip says we have to move more cattle across the ranch before Gator starts dinner. What….what are you talking to these two about?” Colby enters the barn seeing the three of us talking.

Ryan turns toward his fellow cowboy working. “I was talking about their wedding.”

“Ah yeah. I remember that day. That was the biggest amount of people I had ever seen here before. And the food spread was insane.” Colby throws his head back, running his fingers through his black curly locks.

Thinking back on my wedding day I smiled at the memory. Kayce had been dressed in a light white dress shirt, black tie and his only pair of not dirty blue jeans and some boots. I was wearing my dress obviously that had lace all over the train. I had put some of my hair up with a flower crown braid leaving the rest of it down going down my back. Paring it with my light tan cowgirl boots instead of heels. “I didn’t think you guys were so focused on our wedding. We weren’t even that focused on the details after we got to the ceremony and said the words "I Do.”

“Okay we’ll y’all should get out of here before Rip comes and kick your asses or better yet I’ll kick your asses if you tell anyone else we are back yet.” Kayce threatened sitting down on the bed beside me glaring at the two cowboys who were still standing in the bunkhouse doorway.

Ryan raised his hand up in the air. “Chill out man. We’re going.”

“Who knew married Dutton’s could be more demanding than they already were before.” Colby mumbled exiting the bunkhouse with his fellow cowboy.

Kayce ran a hand through his hair looking back at me. “Are you reconsidering coming back home early like I knew I would?”

“Possibly….do ya think we could sneak back to the truck without them noticing?” I asked him, grabbing his discarded cowboy hat up from the dirty floor putting it on my head after dusting it off.

Kayce smirked the same expression as me. He moved forward, capturing his lips with mine. “You are a genius. But we could just drive back to the Summer Camp for a few more days.”

“Fine Mr. Dutton you win.” I caved knowing he wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed. We grabbed our jackets and ran as fast as possible to his truck in the driveway. I knew the day I said yes I was in for one hell of a ride changing my last name to Dutton and I wouldn't change one thing.

Comments really appreciated ❤���

[pedroshotwifey]

Hi! I have one request. Just a horny Joel Miller jacking off to porn. A solo session. That’s pretty much it 🫶

You got it, baby. Hope this is what you were looking for ;) If not, please feel free to send me another request or message and I'll fix it up for you!

Also gonna make a PSA here and say sorry that I still don't have updates for TTF or FB. I also want to apologize for not being super active lately. I promise I'm trying, I just have a lot going on right now. Love you all and hope you're doing well!

W/C: 1.1k

Tags/warnings: male masturbation, pornographic details, I mean c'mon it's pretty self explanatory

Stress Relief

It’s been an absolute shit show of a day. Wrong tile ordered after being on the waitlist for a week, two employees calling out, a customer changing their mind on the layout three fourths of the way through the project. Between it all, Joel didn’t get a single break. 

He’s tired, fed up, and ready to go home to an empty house. With Sarah gone to sleep over at a friend’s, he knows what he’ll be doing tonight. He’s pent-up as hell and there’s only one good release he can think about right now. Unfortunately, he’s been brewing on it the entire hour-long ride home. 

Thinking about the pull on his cock, his fist wrapped tightly around it. How good it’ll feel as he pushes all his thoughts away for the build-up. How the relief will take over him after he comes, exhaustion finally able to catch up to him and let him rest.

By the time he pulls into his driveway, he’s straining almost painfully against his jeans. And by the time he’s locked the door, he’s decided that anything else he needs to do tonight can wait. 

He shoves his coat off and drops it in the front fall before making his way to the living room. He doesn’t waste time turning on the light, instead bypassing the switch and scooping up his laptop to open on the coffee table in front of where he takes a seat on the couch. 

Shamelessly, he unbuckles his belt and opens a new tab. He clicks on the first video, not bothering to be picky. It begins to play, showing a man sitting on a couch, a woman coming up to him and sliding into his lap. Joel licks his lips and reaches for his cock about halfway before coming to a stop. His lube is sitting in the top drawer of his nightstand. 

And sure, he doesn’t need it, but god would it be so much better if he did. He decides to just get up and get it, stomping through the house into his bedroom to retrieve it. 

By the time he’s back to the couch, the couple in the video are naked and grinding against each other. As he opens the bottle of lube and squirts it on his open palm, the man slides inside of the woman’s heat. He begins thrusting up into her as Joel frees his length from his boxers, his heavy balls resting outside of them. Even the cool air against him feels heavenly. 

“Oh, fuck,” Joel groans as he wraps his lube-slicked fist around his aching cock. His hips buck with the contact, thighs tensing in both relief and anticipation. Lewd moans stream from the speakers of his laptop, the exaggerated noise turning him on way more than it probably should. 

He can’t help it though, the way his dick twitches when he looks down at the screen just in time to see the couple in the video switching positions. The man grabs the woman roughly only to bend her over the arm of the couch and slam back into her. The camera comes in close to capture the way her body jolts with the force in which the man is thrusting into her stretched pussy. 

Joel grunts, his teeth gritting together as he squeezes his cock. His stomach clenches as he tries to control himself. She sounds so sweet, her little whimpers and pleads for more of her partner’s cock swirling around his lust-filled head. He resumes up and down motions on his cock, tugging furiously and focusing only on the way the smooth skin of him feels so good gliding against his lubricant. He wants to draw it out, but he knows he can’t. 

He closes his eyes and listens to the symphony, imagining it’s him pounding into her sweet pussy instead, him getting his frustrations out through her body. His cock making those squelching noises with each push in, his cock collecting a milky rim at the base as the girl writhes in pleasure around him. 

He licks his lips, chest and cheeks pinking as he gets lost in his own fantasy. He pictures himself using the side of the couch for leverage, thrusting fast and slamming as hard as he can against her to get her to scream out in ecstasy. He would wrap her hair in his fist to pull her soft, warm pussy onto his dick until he spills inside, filling her up to the brim. 

Joel begins to pant as he tugs harder, opening his eyes to see they’ve switched positions again. This time, the girl is laying flat with her back on the couch, the man in front of her with his tongue on her cunt. The man is holding her down by her thighs and stomach as she squirms in overstimulation, but she cries for more even as her body tries to get away. 

Joel wishes he could taste her on his own tongue. It’s been far too long since he was able to feast on a woman in such a way. Too long since he had anybody to get him off but himself. 

Suddenly, the girl starts to come, her moans getting louder and more high pitched as she clenches around the man’s fingers. He doesn’t slow as he helps her through it, prolonging the orgasm until the girl is openly sobbing. 

The sound of Joel’s furious pumping is starting to get louder as the lube spreads and warms even further, the slick slapping noise every time he hits his pelvis almost drowning out the sound of the video. If he tries hard enough, he can even imagine it’s a real cunt he’s fucking into right now. 

He knows he’s getting closer. His balls start to tighten and he throws his head back, ears beginning to ring as he puts all of his focus on crossing that finish line. His breath comes out thinner but still noisy, whines and groans tumbling from his lips, unrestrained in the empty house. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” he grunts a final time before spilling over his hand. His jaw falls slack as he drags it out, pumping himself dry even after it becomes too much. He relishes in the way his own cum easens the slide and keeps him warm as he softens. He wants so badly to keep going, get himself hard again, but he can’t. 

He hisses through tightened teeth and finally lets his hand fall from his limp cock. The video’s ended, leaving him alone in his living room to cool off. Deciding he’ll just let himself relax to get his bearings for a moment, he lays his head against the headrest on the couch. His eyes fall closed again as his breathing starts to even out. He can only tell at the last second that he’s about to fall asleep, but he’s too far gone by then to care.

[radiant-reid]

300

him in cult episodes >>>>

Summary: Reader recalls something Spencer told her months ago when he’s taken hostage by a cult (based on 14x01)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (angst/fluff)

Content Warning: mentions of most of spencer’s trauma

Word Count: 3.4k

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Everything’s a mess.

Y/n’s used to the BAU lifestyle, and today is not the first day a team member has been abducted. It’s not even the first time that it’s been Spencer’s life in danger. Last time it was a three-month-long nightmare that seemed never ending during his time in prison.

It was different now. After what he said, everything between them changed.

She’s not expecting anyone when Spencer slides open the door to the balcony, and she whips her head around to see him.

It’s late in the evening, and she’s escaped the ground floor of Rossi’s mansion, where everyone’s partying, to a quieter balcony upstairs. Cicadas chirp in the spring night air, and there’s a faint beat of the bass of the music from downstairs. Rossi lives far enough outside of DC that the stars are bright, shimmering in the dark sky.

The balcony has a comfortable outdoor couch and armchair, perfect for sitting there and tuning out the world. She needs to do that. Spencer, her fellow BAU team member and friend, has been out of prison for a month, but the stress hasn’t dissipated completely. If she thinks about it hard enough, she’s back sitting at the round table while Penelope reads over an arrest report from Mexico, feeling completely helpless.

“There she is.” He greets her with a kind smile.

His smiling is something she seriously missed when he was away. “Hey.” She replies.

He holds out her jacket that she’d left downstairs, helping put it on her shoulders. “I thought you might be cold up here.” He explains the thoughtful gesture. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, not at all.” She shakes her head, nodding to the armchair she’s not occupying. “Sit, please.”

He accepts her offer eagerly. Then he follows her eyes out over Rossi’s perfectly maintained yard to the sky. “Wow.” He comments.

She hums at his tone. “I know.” She agrees. “Has everyone else gone home?”

Spencer shakes his head. “No, but they’re onto karaoke.” He informs her, laughing before his following statement. “Very alarming sounds.”

She chuckles slightly. He wouldn’t believe it, but he’s funny. She appreciates their time together more now, having gone without it for three long months.

“They’re missing out on your singing.” She jokes, smirking at him.

It’s mostly in reference to karaoke at The Benjamin all those years ago, where they sang all night long. It seems like a long time ago, and so much has changed, but despite what he’s been through, Spencer’s glow never diminished. He’s still the guy who somehow knew how to deliver a baby when he needed to.

“They don’t need to hear that.” He assures her, chuckling. “Again.”

“I thought it was great.” She admits or teases: she’s not sure which. “A highlight was Bohemian Rapsody.”

He cringes, shaking his head at the foggy memory. “I was hoping by then you’d had enough to drink.”

“Oh, I had.” She assures him, earning a confused look from the genius before she reminds him of something he had happily forgotten. “Hotch videoed that whole night.”

Spencer does something he rarely does then, sharing the feelings in his big brain. “I miss him.”

Y/n does too. She’d never missed someone more than she missed Hotch when Spencer was in prison, knowing that his skills as a prosecutor would have been insanely helpful.

“Me too. I’m happy he’s spending time with Jack, though.” She reminds them why it had been his time to go. “The kid deserves it.”

Spencer agrees, but he doesn’t feel the need to say anything, so they sit there in silence. It’s the most peace he’s felt in a long time.

“Y/n?” He asks, briefly getting her attention when she turns to look at him.

“Mm?” She replies, prompting him to continue.

It’s now or never. He draws in a deep breath, preparing for what he needs to say. There’s been so much weight on his shoulders for the last month, and this confession will lift some of it off. One thing he’s learned since prison is that he needs to say what he feels before it’s too late.

“I think I’m in love with you.” He admits, voice wavering slightly. “I think I was always meant to be in love with you.

There’s a beat of silence. And then another. One more.

She’s taking the information in at a slow processing speed, and the words don’t reach her mouth.

He takes it as his answer. He didn’t tell her expecting anything, like her to love him back, just to feel lighter, which works. “I just- I need you to know that.”

She should kiss him. It’s the right thing to do. Not right as in socially acceptable, but right for herself. In her heart, she’s meant to be with him and now is the perfect opportunity. A literal confession spoken to her. There’s no room to worry about him not returning her feelings and their friendship souring. He’s in love with her, and she can’t reply.

More silence, and he decides that it’s getting awkward. He spirals about making her uncomfortable, so he stands up, walking back to the door. “Good night, Y/n.”

She wills her legs to work, to run after him and catch him on the stairs, eagerly jump into his arms and kiss him like she’s wanted to do since she met him in front of Rossi’s expensive artwork. 

She doesn’t.

It’s what she’s thinking about on the jet. Maybe it’s selfish when everyone else goes over where the cult could have taken him, but she’s replaying that evening. How his hand felt when he grazed her bare shoulder, the sound of his shoes as he shuffled away, and how sweet the air tasted that night compared to the bitter resentment she tasted after she didn’t follow him.

“He told you the truth, huh?” JJ asks, sliding into the seat across from her before she even notices someone’s focus on her.

“You know?” Y/n asks in reply, slightly shocked. Sure, they’re best friends, but she didn’t expect Spencer to be spilling his romantic feelings about a colleague to JJ.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know for so long.” She remarks, met with a confused look from her friend. In her mind, Y/n had assumed Spencer had been in love with her for a few months, maximum. “He’s been in love with you for years.”

Her heart sinks in her chest. Is it wrong for her to feel warm? Knowing Spencer’s out there alone- hurt, from what Penelope said- it seems inappropriate. “He has?” She repeats. 

“Since he met you.” She answers before amending her speech. “Maybe a week or two after.”

So about as long as she had loved him. And she might never get to tell him. 

She can’t help but think about how she might stand over his casket and cry next week, wishing she had told him that night, back when everything was perfect.

JJ sees the panic, how her face goes pale, and she reaches out to touch her friend’s arm. “He’ll be okay.” She promises. She has to have that faith, too, if she’s going to be able to function.

Y/n nods, willing herself to keep it together. “I know. Let’s get him back.”

She must have spent most of the flight before JJ came to sit with her in shock because soon the plane’s landing, and they’re in SUVs driving to the cult’s compound.

Her heart races in her chest, pulse thumping once they arrive, and Emily initiates the infiltration plan. They’ve got to be quick and quiet, knowing the cult will claim Spencer as their 300th victim without being talked down. To them, his being there is a decade in the making. It’s spiritual, and there’s no way they’ll let him go. 

He’s completely tied up onto a structure, standing upright, when she gets a peek at him, his hands strapped by his side, legs tied, and a band wrapped around his head to keep his head in place. It’s very sacrificial with The Messiah and Agent Meadows standing around him. 

He’s bruising, too, red marks around his face that will develop into a deep purple. She can’t see into his mind, but she wonders if he’s formulating an escape plan because he looks like he’s accepted it, conceded defeat, and come to terms with dying. Even from far away, his eyes are watery and his breathing steady, like he’s finally admitted to himself that they’re not coming to save him. 

It’s easily the most terrifying expression she’s seen on anyone’s face. It’s bone-chilling.

They move in quickly, knowing he has seconds, not minutes. Y/n dashes to Spencer with JJ, the cult members around her getting shot or arrested being blocked out of her mind. 

His face softens when he sees her, fingers flexing as she and JJ untie his restraints. When his hands are free, he falls forward onto her, clutching her tightly, one arm over her shoulder, one under. 

It’s the tightest she’s ever been hugged, his grip making her feel like she’s his lifeline and he’s coming back to life. He pants out a breath like he hasn’t breathed since he was tied up. His hands spread out on her back, he buries his chin in her neck, and they rock side to side. 

“Y/n.” Spencer whispers, closing his eyes and focusing on holding her. “You came.”

“Of course.” She replies. “Always. You good?”

“Can I have another minute?” He asks, practically begs. Even if she’s not his, he needs to hold her for a bit longer before he can’t ever again.

She squeezes him tighter, assuring him it’s okay. “Always.” She repeats. 

It feels like it’s just the two of them, despite the chaos behind her. She takes in his cologne and how right it feels to be comforting him. Her feelings for him are much more straightforward in her head than they were that night at Rossi’s. 

His breathing calms down, so it’s not erratic hyperventilating, and he loosens his grip around her, more than ready to get out of there now that he feels alive and whole again. 

She loses him after that, keeping some distance while he hugs everyone else and thanks them in true Spencer fashion. There isn’t an opportunity to talk to him when they’re on the jet home since Emily is. She just sits and watches him, reminding herself that he’s okay.

She can’t stop thinking about his expression from the cult compound when she saw him, how unafraid he looked despite knowing he was about to get sacrificed. Maybe he knew they were there, like something deep inside him told him he’d be okay, but he looked prepared to die.

There are more hugs when they get back to Quantico, Penelope practically unwilling to let him go or out of her sight. The case has to end, and exhaustion falls over them when the adrenaline wears off, despite a new day dawning. 

That night, she runs after him like she should have done at Rossi’s, barely making it to the elevator before the doors shut. 

He looks surprised to see her. “I thought you went home.” He says.

She couldn’t. She’s not sure she’ll be able to leave him in the BAU ever again. “I didn’t.” She reports then immediately feeling like an idiot because that much was obvious.

“Why?” He asks caringly. 

“You were still here.” She admits honestly, looking up at his gentle brown eyes. They’re always more golden in the morning.

“I just had to do a psychological counseling thing.” He explains.

Her eyebrows furrow, confused about why someone would make him do that only hours after he was saved. “This soon?” 

He nods. “Damaged goods.” He says, like it’s his label. And he fully believes it. 

“You’re not.” She firmly tells him, mostly angry the FBI would subject him to something invasive so early.

“Y/n.” He says in a tone that sounds like he’s begging her not to sympathize with him falsely. 

Y/n shakes her head, eyeing him with fiery irises as she dares him to continue speaking negatively of himself. “You saved yourself, Spencer.” She informs him sincerely. “Are you hungry?” She asks.

The change of topic disorients him, but it seems a better conversation than arguing over how much of a mess he is. “Starving.” He answers. He didn’t have much time to think about it, with being abducted by a cult, but he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday, if you can call a packet of chips lunch.

“Do you want to get breakfast?” She offers before quickly retracting any implications her suggestion could have. “Unless you just need some time alone or don’t want to hang out with him. I won’t be offended.” She wants to tell him, needs to confess what she should have before, but he’s in such an emotional state that she would hate to take advantage of that.

She couldn’t get further from the truth. Spending time with her, specifically, has always made things easier. “I’d really like that.” He admits, sending her a soft smile. 

They barely speak on the drive into DC. There’s a lot of tension in the air, words left unspoken, but Spencer needs time to look at her. He’s at a point where he knows nothing will happen between them, but there’s still a life he imagines when he needs a quick spike of dopamine. She, and an imagined future between them, is his drug of choice now.

He orders pancakes, copying her, rather than getting his usual meal of eggs, bacon, and toast. He ditches coffee in favor of juice, knowing he’s going home to sleep after breakfast when the rest of the adrenaline wears off. 

No deep conversation gets brought up at breakfast, either. Instead, there’s laughter, and every time she looks up at him, Spencer smiles. 

He’s used to going home alone after any trauma in his life. Even after prison and Mr. Scratch, he returned to an empty apartment. After he was abducted by Tobias Hankel, when he got out of the hospital after getting poisoned by anthrax, and even after he got shot in the neck in Texas after Alex dropped him at home, he was by himself.

It’s better with someone else -he decides while they’re sitting there- because he can not think about it in favor of thinking about her.

He eats like he’s been without food for a week, even getting a refill of juice, although everything he’s been through would make anyone hungry.

And he pays, despite her telling him she would, so she drives him home through the traffic-less streets, thanks to everyone being at work.

He hesitates before he gets out of the car once they arrive at his apartment. “Do you want to come up?” 

She accepts, following him up the stairs. It’s a good time to do it, now that they’re alone and in private. 

His apartment is lighter than when she saw it when she went with Penelope once to water his plants while he was in prison. It’s neater with the curtains open, and he might have added even more books to the impressive collection she previously noticed.

Unsure of how long she’s staying, Y/n takes off her shoes on instinct. Spencer’s not sure why he invited her up other than wanting to spend more time with her, so he’s not sure what to do now that she’s there. 

She speaks before he can offer her water. “Were you scared?” She asks before realizing the insensitivity of her question. She doesn’t want to sound like a shitty Bureau psychologist, just his friend, haunted by a snapshot in her mind of his expression. “I just mean... we were, and Penelope was when she came. JJ was because you’re her best friend. You weren’t even shaking. Sorry I didn’t-”

Spencer cuts her off before she can spiral. “I wasn’t. Not when Penelope was safe.” 

“Why not?” She asks. It makes sense, his wanting to protect Penelope, but she can’t understand why he wasn’t scared when he was moments away from death. She’s thought about it enough without coming up with an answer for it to be necessary to ask. 

“Because, Y/n, what I told you that night at Rossi’s.” Her breathing hitches at the mention of the best, or maybe one of the worst, nights of her life. “If that’s the last proper, non-case-related discussion we have, I’m okay with that. I couldn’t die without you knowing I love you.”

She shakes her head, eyes tearing up at the confirmation of his acceptance of dying. “There’s more for you than that.” She says, hoping he knows it. 

He does. 

He’s got three perfect godsons, he’d love to go back to Paris, he’s always wanted a family, a wife and a big house, there are still books he hasn’t read, there are still sequels being written, there are classes yet to teach and profilers yet to train, there are chess games to win and to lose, and old friends left to see. 

They both know his life isn’t close to be finished. 

“You knowing is what mattered.” He repeats. “Right from when I realized I wasn’t going to get out by myself, I knew it would be okay since you knew.”

“It wouldn’t be okay!” She says a little too loudly, close to crying. “You can’t be okay with that.”

There’s more in her head, and he’s reluctant to push her to find out, but he does. “Why?”

She sighs, feeling small standing there in front of him. “Because if you died, I couldn’t have told you I love you.” She reveals one of her deepest fears that she hadn’t realized until recently. 

“Oh,” Spencer says, jaw going slack. He’s rarely speechless. “Recently or...” It’s the only thing he can think to do: establish a timeline.

“For a long time.” She admits. “I just- I froze that night. I couldn’t say it, but I felt it.” 

He senses the apology that’s about to spill and shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He believes it when he says it and walks closer to hold her hands in front of her. She’s surprised by the contact, but it’s nice, even if his hands are slightly cold.

For a moment, they just stand there, and she admires his gorgeous cheekbones and those honey-colored eyes that make her weak when he looks at her so intensely.

He doesn’t rush his next move. Slowly, he drops her hands and cups her cheeks, smiling softly. Then he leans forward, giving her what she’s been waiting for for a long time. His lips are soft on hers like he’s testing the waters, giving her a chance to pull away before pouring passion into it. She matches his pressure while basking in the glow of kissing Spencer Reid. Spencer Reid, who loves her. 

They share a matching fond look when they pull back. 

Then he’s laughing, and it’s the cutest thing in the world, along with being confusing. The slight, amused frown on her face causes him to explain. “You love me, and I love you.” He says like he can’t believe it. “Wow.”

She knows that reaction from when she had it at Rossi’s, and he looks adorable experiencing it, grinning so hard his face might split. For a long time, he’s wanted to be loved by someone romantically, and now he is. After everything he’s been through, Spencer thought it wouldn’t happen, and for the first time in his life, he’s glad to be wrong.

“What are you doing today?” He asks when he’s collected himself.

“Well, I was going to go home and sleep.” She answers, wondering what he’s going to suggest they do while knowing she could be persuaded into almost anything by him.  

“Sleep here.” He says quickly. “Not like that.” A blush fills his cheeks. “If you want. Then we could go to dinner, lunch, a movie theatre, or the park, wherever you want.” 

She’s nodding before he finishes. He could ask her out on a date to watch paint drying in his spare bedroom, and she would eagerly accept. “Yes.”

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Same as it ever was 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: Sorry to those who expected a team-up or simps!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your eyes burn as you rub them with the heels of your hand. It's late, very late, and Pete's not home. He missed bath time and bedtime. You're only fortunate that the sitter fed the kids.

You continue your tedious Excel mission, yawning at the sharepoint file as you sweep your fingers over the touchpad. You sit against the pillows propped against the bed frame and struggle not to doze. You're almost there, you can do it. Yeah, keep telling yourself that and it might even be true.

You hear an engine. You're not much of an automotive enthusiast but you recognise it. It's Pete unnecessary Corvette. The vehicle he convinced you would be the perfect company car. You sigh and hunker down, blocking out the ruckus of his return.

Still, you hear it all. Him unlocking the door, pausing to take off his jacket and shoes, climbing the stairs, at least considerate of the hour as he keeps his steps light. He enters, seemingly shocked to find you awake as his eyes round in your direction. He stretches, pushing his neck side to side in an exaggerated gesture of fatigue.

"Ugh, long day," he rubs his shoulders with a groan.

You don't acknowledge him as you keep your fingers fluttering over the keyboard. It's too late and you're too drained to be any more angry than you already are. You narrow in on the laptop as he hovers at the edge of your vision, undressing piece by piece.

"Big meeting today. Might've found another investor," he talks above the bellowing elephant in the room. "I think we're almost there."

You curl your lip but say nothing. One word and it's over. It will all come spewing out. Between him and your asshole boss, you have a thread of patience left.

He tosses his pants at the hamper and they catch on the edge before falling on the outside. He doesn't pick them up. You wonder why he insists on spending label name money when he doesn't take care of his clothes. Why he wears big names as you're digging through thrift store bins. You blow out a breath, a sigh that fills the room.

"So," he rolls down his underwear, shamelessly naked but for his black socks, "you just going to give me the silent treatment when I worked all day--"

"I'm still working," you snap and still your hands, glaring up at him, "I'd be done by now if you had picked up the kids from Emma's."

"I... you weren't serious about that, were you?"

"Don't," you warn him and lower your gaze back to the laptop, "I have a big meeting in the morning and I'm gonna spend enough time getting this done. I don't need an argument--"

"Relax," he snips, "I'm gonna shower and sleep. You don't gotta worry." He lumbers over to the bathroom door and you roll your eyes, "we both know nothing else is going on in that bed."

You swallow as your eyes sting again. He slams the door and you hiss. If he wakes up the kids... 

You wait and listen for any stirring beyond your bedroom walls. Thankfully, the house is silent but for the sudden scour of the showerhead. You bat away the layer of tears threatening to spill and shake your head. It's not like you didn't try; you put on some old lingerie two weeks ago and he rolled over and went to sleep. Still, you're the problem. It's always you.

You hit save to make sure the sharepoint updates and you take a final look over each sheet. You're done, you think. You hope. You're too tired to care. You shut the laptop and put it on the night table.

You slide down onto your side and flip off the lamp. You lay with your back to the bathroom door and squeeze your eyes shut. Sleep should be easy but your anxiety further jabs the migraine into your skull. You hate this, all of it. How did it come to this? Where did you go wrong?

🗄️

A couple hours of sleep is hardly enough to recover from the hectic day behind you, or the one awaiting you. You get the kids up, packed, and off to school knowing Pete is probably not even awake. You didn't even try to rouse him as he would only add to your list of worries.

You head to the office, your hope of getting in early crushed as you hurry in at your usual time. You fall into the chair, coat still half-on as you jab the button on the monitor. The PC is asleep but not off. You hit the space bar to wake it up.

You finish stripping off your outer layer and hang it over the back of your chair. You swivel in and gape at the sight before you. Every cell is empty. You click through the sheets as your heart plummets. You close and try reopening the file, hoping it merely timed out.

Nothing. It's all gone but how? You can't believe it. You go into the recovery settings and search through revision history. It's all be locked, you can't see any past edits.

You clutch your head as despair and panic and grief swallow you up. Luck has never been your friend but this is a new low. You roll back slightly and fold over in your chair. You have a choice; accept defeat and tender your resignation or hope for mercy and pretend in the meeting that the file was corrupted without your knowledge. 

"You know," your chair jolts as someone kicks a wheel, "there's a very strict security policy around here. All work devices should be locked and shut down before they are left unattended."

You sit up and spin, dizzy from grief and utter dread as you face Mr. Hansen. He smirks down at you, a black button-up under a sleek evergreen jacket. His wardrobe is even more ostantatious than your husband's; probably because he can afford it. You lift your face and deflate.

"Mr. Hansen," you murmur.

"Anyone could just see the budget… they could tamper with it," he watches you smugly, "or even…delete it."

Your ribs rack and your ears tingle. He did this. Is he crazy? You stand up and he stays as he is. The closeness between you is suffocating.

"Mr. Hansen," you repeat, "I had the numbers done–"

"Oh, you do?" He chuckles, "that's great."

"What did you do? Why?" You accuse.

"I told you, honey bun, you owe me," he pishes his shoulders back, "so…" he lifts his arm and checks his watch, gold and expensive. Probably worth as much as your mortgage, "how exactly are you gonna pay me back? First I let you off early," he holds up a finger  "then… I work a miracle and help you recover that pesky budget."

"Sir," you choke out, mortified, "I'll… I'll stay overtime all week. I swear, I'll–"

"Hmph, nah, I got enough soldiers running the ant hill," he tweaks a brow, "overtime… boring. You got kids, they need mommy home to kiss them goodnight."

You clamp your lips together and watch him desperately. He just wants to torture you. You can feel it all slipping away; your job, your husband, and yourself.

"What do you want?" You exhale weakly.

He tilts his head and lets the tip of his tongue poke out, "you know," he wags his index in front of you, "I know this trick on Excel, why don't I show you?" He pauses for effect, basking in his victory, "in my office?"

A stitch dimples between your eyebrows. His office. Why? You don’t let the trickle of suspicion overflow. You’re not his type. Definitely not Kendra. No, this will be worse than whatever disgusting thoughts he has in her direction.

You set your chin and turn your hands out, “alright, fine. Show me.”

You wait, and he hesitates, as if waiting for you to flinch first. Finally, he pivots on the heel of his ridiculous loafers and struts towards his office. You leave your chair facing the rest of the office and follow, pressing your sweaty palms to the pilled wool that strains across your thighs.

He opens the door of his office and you enter behind him. He lingers by the door and closes it as you stop just inside. For all your years there, you’d never actually been inside his office. There was never any reason for it. Thankfully.

He doesn’t say a word as he rounds his desk and sits casually in his tall-backed chair. It’s much better than those out in the bullpen with the worn cushion and squeaky wheels. You wait, patiently impatient, for him to begin. You feel him plotting, measuring his next move.

He rolls closer to his desk and takes the nearly flat apple mouse, moving it atop the leather pad and clicking with a single finger. His eyes reflect the large screen of his iMac and the corner of his mouth curves upward.

He looks at you and beckons with his other hand, “come here. I’ll show you.”

You reluctantly round his desk. There’s something about his nonchalance that both irks and unsettles you. You near and look at his screen. You see the slobbery lips of a teary-eyed woman right before he minimises the window. You pretend not to notice as he clicks onto the excel file.

It’s there. All your work. You squint and see the title in the bar of the window; Copy of… He kept a copy but he destroyed yours. It’s all a trick. You can’t be surprised by that.

“There it is,” he clicks his tongue, “all your hard work. Wow, I gotta say, that’s impressive.”

“You…” you put your hands on your hips and glance between him and the screen, “what do you want?”

“Nothing much,” he snickers, “and I’d say it’s not too different than what you want. What you really want.”

You blink at his vague statement. You bring an arm up across your stomach and stare at him nervously. Men like him just want their ego inflated. You just have to remember how to kiss ass.

“So,” he leans back and reaches for his belt, “we don’t got much time. Meeting’s in a smooth fifteen so–”

“What are you doing?” You hiss.

He stops, keeping his hands over his lap. You see his velvet pants twitch.

“We can play pretend. I don’t mind. You like the whole hard to get thing, I get it, you got class,” he says, “but we both know the old man isn’t giving you what you need. I can tell by the way you keep your ass clenched–”

“Mr. Hansen,” you snarl.

“I’m not asking for much. A quick handy,” he unbuckles his belt, “I just want a little more than you give the husband. I don’t want it to be a chore, alright? You’re not washing dishes–”

“You’re gross-”

“And you’re going to do it,” he opens his fly. Again, your shock is lacking. No underwear, nasty. “Because you’ve been here, what…” he reaches into his pants and pulls his dick out as he talks, “twelve years?” He strokes himself without shame, “and you walk out of here without a single reference and you’ll be lucky to get a job at the McDonald’s drive-thru.”

You focus on his face, horrified. Like most women, it’s not the first time you’ve been in this position. Propositioned in such a revolting way. Put in a winless situation. Yet, you somehow believed those days were over for you. You’d found safety in age.

“You can’t be serious…” you mutter.

“I’m fucking serious and I’m horny. Since you wanna cockblock me, you can deal with the consequences, honey,” he turns the chair towards you, “you do remember how these things work, right?”

You stare at him, almost glaring. You don’t let your revulsion seep through fully because as repugnant as he is, he’s right. You need this job. You’re not young, you can’t just walk away and crash on a friend’s couch until you find something better. You’re a mother and a wife. A wife.

“Is it really cheating if you can’t stand it?” He chortles as if reading your mind.

You take a breath and step forward. He winces at your suddenness. He braces the armrest of the chair as you reach for his rigid length. You grip him, biting down to keep from ripping your touch away. You look past him to the wall as he grunt and lets out a quivery breath.

You pump him and he hisses, “honey, it’s not a stick shift. Be fucking nice. Get some fucking lube on it.”

You tamp down your disgust and pull your hand back. You hold it up and spit onto it, hiding the action as best you can. You’d rather spit in his face.

You grab him again and run your hand from base to tip and back. He chokes and clings to the chair tighter as it shifts beneath him. He groans as you fixate on the framed Harvard Business School degree. Just when you thought life couldn’t slap you in the face again.

He pushes his head back and rumbles as you feel him tensing. He’s like any man. Simple, through and through. 

You feel him trembling and sense the change in his tone. He’s close. You taste bile, sickened by yourself and him. You stop and keep your hand around him.

“Send it,” you demand.

“Huh?” He puffs.

“Send the file or I don’t finish. And neither do you–”

“Honey, that’s not–”

You squeeze, “send the file.”

“Fine, fine,” he reaches over, straining as he taps a few buttons. You watch the screen and he hits share, you wave him away from the keyboard. You type in your email with your free hand and press enter.

“Great,” you pump your hand again, hips aching at the awkward way you have to bend.  

You grasp the chair above his shoulder as you speed up. He growls and plants his feet, rasping through his rising pleasure, “don’t fuck up my suit–”

You angle his dick and cup your hand under the tip. You have to look then. You watch as he explodes, catching the gushing flow in your palm as he quakes and moans out his delight. Your stomach churns as you stroke him until he’s empty and squirming.

You retract your hand and turn to grab a tissue to wipe away the mess. You’re certain to take a healthy dollop from the sanitizer bottle as well, clearing your throat as you try to shake off what you just did. You look at your watch and roll your shoulders.

“I’ll see you in the meeting,” you retreat to the door as his breath peters out.

“Honey…” he sighs.

“Mr. Hansen,” you reach for the door, leaving him with his limpening dick hanging out.

You march out, not looking one way or the other, as you head for your desk. You’re shaking by the time you reach it, nearly collapsing into the chair. What have you done? You are just as disgusting as he is. You’re pathetic, you’re a loser, you’re… a cheater.

[avonne-writes]

[ GIFT ] sender gives receiver a present (specify)

Aw I have to request this cause Bucky gift giving is the sweetest thing ever. Happy birthday week ☀️

Thank you so much! ❤️ I decided to write this in my friends with benefits au 🥰

Gale licks the ice cream off his spoon serenely as Bucky fidgets opposite him, sideways in his seat. Bucky's eyes track the motion, so Gale makes sure to drag it out and show how much he enjoys it. Not a hard feat to pull off when one likes it as much as he does. The taste, the thick liquid on his tongue, the spoon pressing down... Bucky's attention is a bonus. It’s nice to have it, especially now that Gale knows he can touch those thick thighs if he plays his cards right.

Bucky drums his fingers on his own forearm, then shifts again. Gale scoops up another spoonful and puts it in his mouth. He draws it out, his eyes on Bucky the whole time. He wonders if Bucky realizes that Gale had him figured out the moment he showed up with his jacket draped over his arm and refused to leave it at Gale’s place even though it's hot and sunny outside.

There’s something in that jacket he’s trying to hide. When he started his telltale restless shifting, Gale’s suspicion became certainty. It’s a gift, and Bucky's thrumming with excitement as he waits for the perfect moment to "surprise" Gale with it. God help him, Gale finds it endlessly endearing. He doesn’t want it to stop. Like good sex, he wants to enjoy it as long as possible even if it means denying himself the climax a little longer.

"Need some help with that?" Bucky jerks his chin towards Gale's melting dessert.

Gale debates his options, but his longing to act like Bucky's boyfriend wins over his desire to drag this out as long as possible. He takes a spoonful of ice cream and holds it out, heart fluttering when Bucky barely falters before leaning forward and letting Gale feed it to him. Thank God that Bucky had a cone instead of a cup, leaving them with only one spoon and just enough willingness to go with the excuse.

"You can leave it if you don’t wanna eat the whole thing." Bucky says, squirming in anticipation again.

Gale scoops more liquid ice cream into his mouth. Heat pools in his stomach when he thinks about the fact that he’s sucking on the spoon that has just been in Bucky's mouth. "What's the rush, you have a date or something?"

"I wish." Bucky sighs wistfully, and, well, that does sting. "I'm just... uh, bored."

It's painful enough that Gale’s appetite, for ice cream or anything else, vanishes as if it never existed. He puts down the spoon and pushes his cup away, then moves to stand. "Didn't they teach you how to sit still in first grade?"

"They gave up on the first day."

Bucky lets their elbows brush together as they start walking towards the exit. He grins wide and bright, and all of Gale's disappointment succumbs to the butterflies in his stomach that set off at the sight. As they leave the café and step into the bright summer sunshine that lights up the green grass of the park, Bucky reaches into the jacket he keeps carrying around and pulls something out.

"Got you something to celebrate your paper."

Gale takes it and turns it around in his hands. It's a mug. Dark as the night sky, a spaceship doodle and a dorky text breaking it up with white lines. 'Forget princess, I want to be an astrophysicist'.

It doesn't even make sense why Bucky wanted to give it to him now and not in the café, but Gale doesn’t mention that. He just runs his thumb over the cool ceramic and tries not to smile like he’s in love. Wouldn’t do them any good if he did. "Thanks."

Bucky throws his arm around Gale's shoulders. "You should give me a best friend of the year award."

I would if I didn’t know that you’ll break my heart, Gale thinks, but he just keeps on walking forward. "Don’t count on it." He says, and Bucky laughs.

[lostdreamr-blog1]

That's My Goddaughter

Summary: Bradley might have told you he would back off if you started dating Jake, but what happens when he tells Maverick? Second part of Bradshaw’s Date

Word count: 2k

A/N: Here is part 2 of Bradshaw’s date! I hope you all enjoy this one as much as the first!! Thanks for reading!

The look of bewilderment on Jake’s face was something Bradley would never forget. Maverick had been hounding Hangman all day to the point where others were starting to feel bad for him.

The group of them were sitting in one of their debriefs, where Mav was currently picking apart Jake’s near perfect run. Phoenix leaned over to Rooster and asked if he knew what was going on. The smug look on his face told her everything she needed to know. “What did you do, Bradshaw?”

Bradley was enjoying every second of today and would continue to enjoy it for many days to come. “I didn’t do anything. Hangman decided it was a good idea to take my sister out on a date last night.”

Bob choked on his water when he overheard what his teammate had said, drawing attention to the three of them. Hangman turned in his seat to see what was going on, but the second his eyes landed on Rooster, everything clicked. Phoenix leaned back in her seat and shook her head, “You’re in for it now.”

Bradley didn’t care in the slightest how Hangman felt. He was getting everything he thought he deserved. Mav dismissed the group but asked Jake to stay behind. The others walked out sending him looks of encouragement, knowing whatever conversation they were going to have, wasn’t going to go in his favor.

Jake remained in his seat in the front row, waiting for Maverick to explain what was going on. The look on Bradley’s face gave him a small insight to what this was going to be. He had hoped his teammate would leave personal business outside of work, but clearly that was asking for too much. It was karmas way of slapping him in the face.   

“I’m going to come right out with it. Just because Bradley can’t do anything about it, doesn’t mean the same rules apply to me. That’s my Goddaughter and you better treat her a hell of a lot better than you cover your teammates out there. That girl is something special and you best believe I won’t be the only one keeping close tabs on you.”

All Jake could do was nod his head. He didn’t know if he was talking to his captain or Pete Mitchell and any comment he wanted to say wouldn’t go over well.

“For as long as you date her, expect every day to be like this. You will see no special treatment and will continue to be pushed harder than everyone else until I see you are good enough for her. Do I make myself clear?”

Jake let out a slow breath, “Yes, sir.”

Maverick dismissed him, but called out when he was near the door of the room.

“Oh, and Lieutenant, Admiral Kazansky sends his best.”

Just as Jake thought it couldn’t get worse, his body seemed to freeze at those last words. He had always wanted admirals to know his name, strived for it, but not like this. This was an abuse of power and there was nothing he could do about it but swallow his pride.

Jake was fuming as he made his way back into the locker room. While most of his teammates figured it was because of how Maverick made him look today, it was actually for a whole different reason.

The moment he walked through the door, all conversations stopped. Word had gotten around of what happened and opinions were formed because of it. But no one was dumb enough to say those opinions out loud to either guy.  

Jake looked around the room until he spotted the one guy that was slowly pushing him over the edge. The cocky smirk was normally seen on the blonde pilot, but in this case, the roles were reversed, and Bradley was racking in every ounce of discomfort that was coming from him.

It didn’t take a genius to know Jake was furious. His usual slicked back hair was sticking up in a few places where he had run his hand through it. His cheeks have a slight pink tint to them that for once wasn’t because of the California heat. But what really stood out, was the silence. Jake was always quick to run his mouth and had a comeback for everything. So, when the pilot stood there and stared at Bradley, the others knew things were about to get ugly.

“Do you get off on the fact that you’re messing with your sister’s life?” Bradley’s smirk quickly fell when he heard the question directed at him.

“Excuse me?” Jake took a few steps towards him, making Coyote and Bob shift towards them in case they needed to break anything up.

“Because your sister told you to back off, you went and ran to Maverick about it, knowing he would be pissed. Well congratulations pal, Maverick is going to keep pushing me until I walk away. But for once did you ever think how your sister would feel if she found out what was going on?”

Bradley stood up now, fists clenched as he tried to keep his anger in check. “Are you threatening me?”

Jake let out an unamused laugh, “And here I thought I was the most self-absorbed person in the room. This isn’t about you. Hell, this isn’t even about me. Your sister told me last night that it was one of the first times where she felt happy and could let go of the past for a few hours. Being back here hasn’t only affected you, she lost her dad too. Her mom lost her husband in the same damn house ya’ll are staying in. While you went off into the Navy, she was the one who stayed back and took care of her.

“Did she ever tell you the number of stories your mom shared with her about your dad? About Top Gun and how much he loved flying with Maverick? Those memories have stayed with her to this day, making the move out here so damn hard for her. But now you have some personal vendetta to make sure my life is nothing but hell. Did you stop and think about how she would feel if I walked away because I didn’t want to deal with all this bullshit?”

Jake’s face was now red with rage, whole body tensed. He kept trying to put himself in Bradley’s shoes, but he couldn’t see himself doing this to one of his sisters. Not when the price was this high.

Bradley on the other hand had lost most of his color. He had zero idea his sister was unhappy following him out here and had only wanted to look out for her. He knew how ruthless Hangman was in the skies, but he didn’t think to separate that from his personal life. Yeah, the speech he gave that night had him second guessing a few things, but Jake was known to be a smooth talker. How was he supposed to know if he was telling the truth?  

“And I hate to tell you this but I’m not giving up that easily. It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than Maverick telling me how to be better or Admiral Kazansky making his position known. Your sister is worth putting up with all of this and more. So do us all a favor and get over yourself.”

Jake grabbed his stuff out of his locker and slammed the door, not sparing anyone a second glance. The room was silent. Nothing could’ve prepared any of them for what just happened. Natasha glanced over at Bradley and saw how defeated he looked. The once gloating man was long gone as he processed everything that was said. 

Bob went over to him and gave his shoulder a quick pat. A small show of support but he then proceeded to walk out of the room. Everyone slowly followed, not sure what else to do. Jake Seresin was always the villain of the story. No one ever questioned that. But today, roles were reversed, and the once golden boy of Bradley Bradshaw had now been painted as the new antagonist.

His phone started to vibrate, and he looked down to see that you were calling. After a few breaths to calm himself down, he answered.

“Hey, so I know you weren’t too thrilled about me going on a date with Jake. But I really appreciate you at least letting me leave the driveway last night. I promise he was the perfect gentleman. Even let me talk him into stopping for ice cream on the way home. Something you never let me do. Also, he told me how great of a teammate you are.” He snorted when you said that last part.

“Good try. I know he would never say that.” Your laugh on the other line confirmed that.

“It was worth a try. Anyway, I made dinner if you want it. I thought maybe we could stay in and watch a movie tonight. My way of saying thank you for not being psycho about all this.” Bradley shook his head knowing he was in fact acting like that.

“Yeah, that sounds good. I have to talk to Mav really quick and then I’ll be on my way home.” He had grabbed his stuff and slowly made his way out of the locker room to Maverick’s office.

“Oh, tell him I said hi and that he owes me dinner. I convinced Penny to give him a second chance. Tell him not to mess this one up. I can only work so many miracles.” Bradley smiled as he sat across from Mav.

“I’ll let him know. See you in a few.” He hung up and sighed. Mav was sitting at his desk with a knowing smile on his face, making Bradley feel even worse about the situation.

“A few things. First, I’m going to need you to lay off on Hangman. I appreciate you making him sweat a bit, but Y/N seems to really like him, and I don’t want to ruin that.” Maverick nodded his head and sat back in his chair.

“Are you sure? Ice and I had a whole good cop bad cop thing planned out. He was going to be the bad cop because he just has this stare that seems to pierce your soul. Used to give me nightmares back in the day.”

Bradley couldn’t help but chuckle, “Yeah, Mav. Thanks though. Also, she said you owe her dinner. Convinced Penny to give you a chance or something.” He watched Mav’s whole face light up.

“I owe that kid a whole lot more than dinner.” He watched as Bradley stood up and make his way to the door.

“I know you may not like this, but she has to grow up some time. I’d rather it be here where we can help her if she falls than halfway across the country. Seresin has his work cut out for him, but I think he’s a good choice for her. Cut yourself some slack though. She’s a lot like your mom in the sense that no one is going to stop her from doing what she wants.”

Bradley offered him a small smile and walked out. Maverick waited a few minutes to make sure he was gone and pulled out his phone to text Ice.

“The kid said to lay off, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”  

A/N: Thoughts? Likes or dislikes? I love to hear back from you all! I have tagged some of you who wanted a part 2. Let me know of you want to stay on the tag list for the future :)

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