#I was told this could be a print in a gallery

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

Yes I’m posting this one again, it deserves its own solo post 😌😘😘💗💗

(And cheers to new bathroom mirrors for cute photos 🥂📸)

[aquaticmercy]

The Great Wave

Summary : Bucky would do anything to make his girl happy. He would even risk his life to get you the perfect gift.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : fluff. A bit of violence. Established relationship. Bucky is just so in love???

Requested by : myself (I have a couple ideas I have to burn before I move on to the requests. I will get to them soon, I promise!)

Word count : 2.1k

Note : Reader is an art enthusiast for the sake of the plot. Enjoy!

Requests are open!

○ buy me a ko-fi ○

Bucky had always been good at listening, even when you didn’t realise you were saying something important. He’d tune in while you rambled about your day, his eyes softening when you went on and on about something that made you happy. That was how he came to understand just how much you adored art. Lately, your latest obsession was art prints. One of them, in particular. 

The Great Wave off Kanagawa.

It started with your subtle mentions, then turned into hours of research and giddy excitement as you told Bucky about its significance in art history. “It’s not just the wave, Bucky,” you’d try to explain, “it’s the effort. Woodblock print artists had to carve wooden blocks one by one, for each colour used. The precision, the patience this requires is incredible.” you’d say, eyes wide with passion. “The focus is actually on Mount Fuji, which was a personal spiritual obsession of the artist— Hokusai. He was like the Beyoncé of the Edo period.” 

Bucky, ever the silent, brooding observer, stored every detail away in his mind. 

You had admired the prints in museums, dragging Bucky there with you. Once, when you had visited a small art gallery, you had found a reproduction of it. Bucky remembered how your fingers lightly touched the frame, lingering a little longer than normal. He also remembered how you mentioned that it would make a good birthday gift.

Bucky knew he had to do something about that. In fact, Bucky knew he could do better. 

—

For the past six months, he had been looking for something so rare that it almost seemed impossible to acquire. But if anyone could help him get hands on something like that, it was Sharon Carter. 

It had taken months of planning— months of digging into Sharon’s shady art dealings, but she finally tracked one down.

Bucky had burned through a few old contacts just to arrange this. The Dealer he had found had one of only 100 copies that still existed.

Bucky now stood at the edge of the alley, his eyes scanning the dimly lit streets of Madripoor. He hated this place. The stench of greed and violence clouded every corner. Truly lawless. But for you, he’d walk through these dingy streets any day.

Sharon leaned against the wall beside him, her arms crossed. “You sure you want to go through all this trouble?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Of course,” Bucky replied dismissively. His tone was resolute.

“You’ve gone soft, Barnes,” Sharon smiled. “Risking your neck for a gift.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, glancing at the old brown purse tucked in his jacket. Inside it was more than enough money to secure the deal, but in Madripoor, cash only got you so far. 

Briefly, his thoughts wandered back to you. Was this really worth it? Was he risking too much? You had been on his mind constantly these past few months. He has thought more and more about what you have done for him. Of how you had stood by him, as he tried to piece the puzzles of his mind back together. You’ve been a constant comfort in his life, a rock for him.

And he knew your love wasn’t transactional, and he had no intention to make it that way, either. He just wanted to do something nice. That smile... He’d do anything to see it.

But Madripoor was a different world. A dangerous one. He couldn’t afford to mess this up. Bucky shot Sharon a sidelong glance as they neared the abandoned warehouse. “I don’t trust this guy,” he muttered.

Sharon gave a knowing look. “That’s why I’m here.” She patted the concealed gun under her jacket.

There was no going back now.

—

They walked into the abandoned warehouse. The Dealer was supposed to meet them here. The place reeked of decay, with crates stacked against the walls carelessly and dust particles drifting in the air.

Not long after, a door creaked open on the other side of the warehouse. 

A tall, wiry man stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in a sharp suit that looked entirely out of place in the decrepit building. Two bodyguards in tactical suits followed close behind him, both armed. 

“We’re here for the print,” Sharon said, her voice calm and collected. 

The Dealer smiled, but it wasn’t sincere. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, the infamous Sharon Carter. I’ve heard much about you.”

“Do you have the print or not?” Sharon snapped. 

The Dealer gestured to one of his bodyguards. He stepped forward with a slim black case and opened it to reveal the print, meticulously preserved under layers of protective glass. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat. For a moment, he forgot where he was, only imagining the smile you’d have on your face when you do get to see it. 

Bucky’s grip tightened on the purse as he handed it over to the dealer. 

“There’s one more thing,” the dealer said as his tone shifted, shutting the briefcase shut. “I hear Sharon Carter here has been causing a bit of trouble for some of my associates. So… I’m thinking you’re going to have to do me a favour before I hand this over.”

“We had a deal.” Bucky’s eyes darkened. He knew Sharon had a reputation in Madripoor—one she didn’t need to remind people of often.

But the dealer just smiled an arrogant grin, one that made Bucky’s gut churn. “Deals change.”

Bucky could feel the tension in the air rising. He knew this wasn’t going to end peacefully. He noticed the subtle shift in the bodyguards’ stance, their hands starting to reach toward their guns.

“I don’t have time for this,” Bucky muttered, knowing he promised you he’d be home before tomorrow. Reaching for his gun, he shot near the handle of the briefcase, just shy of The Dealer’s grip.

That was all it took for the room to explode into chaos.

When another gunshot rang out, Bucky dove for cover behind one of the crates as bullets rained on him. Sharon shot at one of the bodyguards, taking him down with a well-placed shot to the leg.

As the deafening echo of gunfire bounced off the walls, a thought crossed his mind: Why am I doing this?

As bullet whizzed past, his mind kept going back to you. The way you looked at the print in the gallery, the way you spoke about it with such passion. He found himself chuckling at how far he’d go to make you happy.

Would you even believe it if he told you what he’s done to get this for you?

The Dealer ducked behind his own men, the briefcase in his death grip. Bucky rolled out from behind the crate. He returned fire, his shots precise. He didn't aim to kill them— he didn’t do that anymore— but enough to incapacitate them. The remaining bodyguard dropped to the ground with a grunt, clutching his wound as one of Bucky’s bullets grazed his arm. For a moment, the gunfire stopped.

Bucky straightened up, his eyes locking on The Dealer, who was now cowering near the far wall. He stormed in his direction. “Give me the print, or the next one’s between your eyes,” Bucky growled, his voice deadly calm. He didn’t mean it, of course, but The Dealer didn’t need to know that. 

The Dealer raised his hands, his face pale. “Alright, alright! Take it!”

Sharon wasted no time, snatching the case with the print from the ground and tucking it under her arm. Bucky threw the purse against The Dealer’s chest. He kept his gun pointed towards him as they backed toward the door, carefully watching for any sign of movement.

Print secured, Bucky and Sharon slipped out of the warehouse, moving swiftly through the dark Madripoor alleys. The adrenaline still flowed in Bucky’s veins, but when he glanced at the case in Sharon’s arms, he felt a surge of relief.

They had done it. The print was his. Yours.

—

You came through the front door, tired but smiling. “Buck, you home?” you called out, taking off your shoes and dropping your bag on the side table. He had been away for the last couple of days. For a mission, he had said, though he had been vague. He was supposed to be home today.

“In here,” came his reply from the living room. There was a slight edge to his voice— like he was holding something back in anticipation.

You walked into the living room only to stop dead in your tracks. 

Bucky stood there with a sleeveless shirt, placing a screwdriver on the table next to him. The print was hanging on the wall, illuminated by the soft glow of newly installed lamps around it. The familiar sight of the wave crashing down with unrelenting power, the grounding calm Mount Fuji in the background made your heart skip a beat.

You've spent so much of your spare time studying it, that you know this wasn’t just a print. It was one of the prints.

Your hand flew to your mouth, your eyes widening as you took slow steps closer to it. You were almost afraid it would crumble before your very eyes if you got too close.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “This… this can’t be real.”

Bucky stepped up beside you, his hands sliding into his pockets as he gave you a small, almost shy smile. “It is,” he confirmed. 

You took another slow step forward, eyes still locked on the print. How did he do this?

Your mind raced back to the past few weeks, remembering the subtle changes in Bucky’s behaviour—how he’d been more secretive, how he’d mentioned that mission but never gave you any real details. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time, assuming it was just another dangerous job, but now it all made sense.

This wasn’t just a print hanging on the wall. This was weeks—maybe months—of effort. Planning. Risking his life in ways he probably would never tell you about. 

“Bucky… this is—this is one of the original prints.” You eyed the certificate of authenticity on the table by where he was standing.”This is—oh my God—why—how did you even get this?”

He shrugged, his lips forming a small smile. “Had to pull a few strings. Nothing too crazy. Had help from Sharon, too.”

You looked at him like you didn’t quite believe him, but the joy in your eyes made every bullet dodged, every shady deal, worth it. 

He tried to play it off like it was no big deal, but the way his lips curved up in a knowing smile told you otherwise. “You’ve been talking about getting a print for so long,” he said. 

Your heart swelled at the thought, imagining the sheer effort he had gone through just to get this for you. “Are you insane, Buck? I asked for a reproduction print, maybe. but this…”

You still couldn’t quite believe it. You knew how rare this print was, how impossible it was to find, and yet… here it was. Hanging in your living room. For you.

You turned to face him. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He gently brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “I just want to make my girl happy,” he said, his voice as soft and sincere as it has ever been. 

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him in a bear hug. “You make me happy, you know that, right?”

Bucky’s smile widened just a little, his metal arm resting on the small of your back. “I know,” he murmured. 

You wiped the hint of a happy tear on your eyes as you turned back to the print, taking it in once more. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met,” you said, “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

He chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I think we both are.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, shifting behind you. He wrapped his arm around your waist, his chin resting gently on your shoulder. The two of you stood there, side by side, gazing at the artwork. The warmth of his body against yours felt grounding, comforting.

“So…” he murmured, his breath soft against your neck, “now that you’ve got your Great Wave, what’s next? Starry Night?”

You laughed, scoffing at the thought of owning a Van Gogh. That would never happen, right? “I think I’ve got enough rare art for a lifetime.”

He grinned. “All you have to do is ask.”

You smiled, turning your head to look at him, your eyes fluttering shut as his lips met yours in the softest, most delicate kiss.

The Great Wave may be hanging on the wall in front of you, but to you, the true masterpiece— the one that truly mattered— was the man you loved.

-end

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 6

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 7,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort

Part 6: “Just Casual”

A few days after the house fire that claimed the life of Paul Richardson, father of two, Chief Bobby Singer was joined in his office by Detectives Winchester and Novak, along with his resident Squad Captain and Truck Lieutenant, Benny and Dean.

“The Richardson fire has officially been determined an arson,” Bobby revealed.

“They found a time-delay incendiary device hidden in the attic. No fingerprints. But that’s not even the odd thing,” he said. “The medical examiner found a brand mark on his wrist that was inconsistent with his other burns. Which is why you’re here, I reckon.”

Bobby directed his gaze at both John and Cas, who didn’t look surprised to hear this news.

Dean raised a brow. His gaze shifted to his father, but John only met his stare for a moment before he answered Bobby’s unspoken question.

“We’ve been investigating a series of murders in the area over the past six months,” John said. “Each victim died in their home, with the same brand somewhere on their body. Typically the wrist, or the back of the neck.”

“So we officially have a serial killer turned arsonist on our hands,” Bobby concluded. His attention shifted to Benny and Dean. “Keep this close to the vest, but keep your eyes open.”

“Arsonists are hard to catch,” Dean said, looking to the detectives. “What do you know about this guy?”

Cas glanced at John. The older man could feel his stare, but had to ignore it for now.

“Not much as of yet,” John said. “Right now he’s a coil of smoke, if you’ll pardon the phrase. Our psychologist says he’s most likely a white male, statistically speaking. College educated, or at the very least intelligent, efficient, and so far, he thinks every step through. Like he said, no prints. But the brand is a message.”

“To who, and why, is what we’ve been trying to figure out,” Cas added. “We think that’s the key to pinpointing a suspect.”

“Really,” Dean said. He raised a brow and crossed his arms. “Six months, and that’s all you’ve got?”

“Dean,” John started, but the Lieutenant shook his head.

“Come on, Dad. I know you. Who is this guy?”

“Dean, this is the best I can give you right now, but believe me, we’re working on it,” John said, that tone that boded no further argument.

Bullshit, Dean wanted to shoot back. But he held his tongue for now. He knew that John wouldn’t budge. Instinct still told Dean that his father was holding something back though.

As the men filtered out of Bobby’s office, Dean held Cas back for a moment.

“Watch the old man’s back, all right,” Dean said. “He’s got a penchant for being reckless.”

Cas gave him a wry, pointed look. “I’m doing my best. Winchesters are a stubborn lot.” 

Dean smirked and walked out with him. Meg was headed inside, having just come in from an ambulance call. She smiled when she saw her boyfriend.

“Hey, lover,” she greeted. And she smacked his ass in front of God and the entire Rescue Squad, who liked to sit outside the firehouse and play cards at their table.

Ramirez and the others smirked and called out their customary whoops and cat calls. Dean smirked at the actual blushing discomfort that tightened up Cas’s face and shoulders.

“Dinner tonight at Casablanca’s, right?” Meg asked, unfazed by the catcalling peanut gallery.

“Right,” Cas said stiffly. But he still brushed her cheek with his thumb in affection. “See you later.”

“Yep,” she nodded, though she shot Dean a wry brow. “What? I stole your boyfriend. Get over it.”

She continued on her path back inside the firehouse, leaving Dean and Cas to stare after her in annoyance and begrudging fondness, respectively.

Dean turned to his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good luck and Godspeed, my friend. That woman’s fuckin’ terrifying.” 

Cas gave him a lazy salute as he walked away. He found that John had already started up their police car. He was in the driver’s seat, as always, with a hand resting casually on the steering wheel.

Dean typically sat in much the same way. Cas thought both men were more comfortable in a car than anywhere else in life. Except, maybe, the precinct and the firehouse.

Cas slid into the passenger seat and gave his partner a knowing look.

“I still think you should tell Sam and Dean what’s really happening here,” he said.

John looked over at him with an almost unreadable expression. But they had been partners for a few years now; long enough for Cas to get a read on the older veteran.

“I understand why you want to keep them out of this, but now this guy is starting fires. Here, in Dean’s district,” Cas pointed out. “Wouldn’t it be safer for him if he had clearer eyes walking into the next one?”

If, God forbid, something should go wrong on the next call Dean responded to, John would never forgive himself. Both he and Cas knew this, but John never answered his partner’s question. He didn’t want his sons getting their noses in this just yet, even if it meant the worry he saw in Dean’s eyes.

So he put the car in “drive” and peeled away from the firehouse.

Trying to match your schedule with Dean’s was a challenge you two were trying to figure out. Though you’d fallen into a pattern of talking on the phone to fill the void when you two couldn’t meet.

Even after almost two more weeks and a third date, you were pleasantly surprised that you and Dean still had plenty to talk about. You told him more about your childhood with your grandparents, while he told you funny stories about him and Sam growing up with their dad, though he was often gone while working on cases.

It was family friend and Fire Chief, Bobby Singer who looked after them whenever John couldn’t, or his old partner Jody Mills, or even Ellen Harvelle, owner of the Roadhouse.

The more you learned about Dean, the more invested you became. And he listened to you when you went on tangents about new recipes you wanted to try out (as long as he got to be your official Taste Tester).

You two argued, playfully and fervently, about music. And you’d been creating a list of old shows the other hadn’t seen, but absolutely needed to.

Dean had suggested Dukes of Hazzard, for example, while you suggested Smallville. You each only agreed to put up with this list if you two watched it together. (Needless to say, there would be some marathon binge watching in your future.)

You particularly took notice though, when Dean invited you to join him at the Roadhouse to meet Cas, one of his best friends, and his girlfriend Meg. You’d invited Andréa to come along, and even Dean’s friend Benny, who she’d also been seeing ever since that night at the Roadhouse.

Apparently, the couple had their own plans.

You tried not to feel some type of way about her brush-off, but your friend had been increasingly distant since she met Benny Lafitte. However, you supposed you couldn’t judge. You hadn’t been calling her as much either, ever since you met Dean.

You knew that if you kept dating him, some adjustments would have to come in your life. You also promised yourself that you’d never be someone who forgot your friends for a man…even for a man like Dean Winchester.

Tonight, however, you’d come directly from work to meet him at the bar. It made more sense than to make him come pick you up from your house, so you sat with a ginger ale while you waited. He’d promised you via text that he was on the way, just stuck in traffic.

Okay, drive safe. 😘 Don’t speed, please.

You knew how he liked floor the Impala with that damn lead foot of his.

No promises. 🏎️

You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were smiling unconsciously as you read his reply.

You were soon knocked out of your thoughts when a smooth voice said your name. You looked up and to your right, and there stood a familiar face. The man greeted you with an easy smile as he sat down next to you.

“I thought that was you,” he said. He reached out his hand and re-introduced himself. “Gordon Walker. Not sure if you remember me.”

“Oh, yes! Of course I do, Gordon,” you smiled and shook his hand.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said. His dark eyes subtly took you in from head to toe in your skirt, heels, and blouse. “Though I’ve gotta admit, I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Ah, right,” you said. “Well—”

Before you could explain, Gordon held up a finger as he noticed your drink of choice.

“Oh, wait a sec. Let me get you something stronger than soda,” he said. He started to flag down Jo, but you shook your head and made a cutting motion with your hand.

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” you said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“What?” Gordon asked.

It was getting busy in the bar, making it loud enough that you could understand why he hadn’t heard you. You leaned over towards his ear.

“I’m good for now, thanks,” you said, raising your voice a bit. Gordon leaned in even closer and chanced resting a hand above your knee.

“You sure?” he asked. He gave you a smile that was all smooth sex appeal and confidence, without being arrogant.

It was undoubtedly attractive, but you were more shocked than charmed in your blush. You instinctively leaned back when you felt his hand on your thigh. Your hand clenched on the counter.

While your brain scrambled to figure out a response that would successfully remove it (without snapping rudely like you were itching to), a hand slipped along your lower back.

You jolted a bit in your seat with a flare of unease, until you turned your head and found Dean.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted, and dropped a kiss at your hairline. He also clapped a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder and squeezed. The other man graciously got the hint and leaned back, withdrawing his hand from your thigh.

“Hi,” you said, finally able to breathe a bit easier. You gave Dean a smile, and he returned it.

He looked over at his friend with a sharper smile. “Hey, Gord. How’s your night goin’?”

“Good.” Gordon nodded, now with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Though I’m sure your night’s gonna go better.”

You weren’t sure how to take that remark, considering the way Dean reacted with a tighter expression and pursed lips. Then, they flickered at a smile.

“Well, we’re meeting up with Meg and Cas in a minute. You should join us,” Dean said. Even though his tone wasn’t so very inviting. The two men seemed to have a wordless conversation between the lines that you couldn’t decipher.

Gordon shook his head, but raised his drink. “No worries, you guys hang. I’m leaving in a few.”

“All right. Let us know if you change your mind,” Dean said. He thumped Gordon once more on the back, more friendly this time.

Dean’s other hand slipped around your waist. He tapped you on the side.

“Come on, I’ve got us a table. It’s quieter,” he said.

You nodded and slid out of your seat. You offered Gordon a polite smile, even if you’d rather not.

“Have a good night,” you said.

The other man’s smile was less flirtatious and more polite this time as well.

“You too,” he said. 

Dean helped you onto your feet, like the gentleman he was, and he continued to lead you away from the bar with a hand on the small of your back. You instinctively pressed against his side to squeeze past the throng of patrons.

When you reached a high-top table in the corner, he pulled out your chair and held your hand as you climbed up in your skirt. You thanked him with a more genuine smile. Though once he was seated next to you, you leaned towards him and laid a hand on his arm, which rested on the table.

“I tried to tell him I was waiting for you. He took me by surprise,” you whispered.

Dean’s brows rose, but his face soon evened out with a smile. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Don’t worry about it. He didn’t know about us,” he said. “He was shootin’ his shot…a bit aggressively. Sorry about that.”

“Oh…it’s okay. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” you replied. Though butterflies ran through your belly when you considered what us meant.

You noted his frown at what you’d said though, and so you aimed to change the subject.

“But Cas and Meg know, right?” you asked.

Dean nodded. His frown started to lift. “Yeah. Cas is one of my best friends. Meg is…well. She’s the little sister I wish I didn’t have.”

You shook your head in amusement. Then you let out a squeal as Dean hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and brought you closer. He stopped you from becoming too unbalanced by wrapping an arm around your waist. You clenched your hands into the open panels of his plaid shirt, and his charming smile greeted you.

“Hi,” he said.

You laughed. “Yeah, you mentioned that earlier.”

“Well, I’m doing it right this time,” he said. And he dipped down for a lingering kiss.

Across the bar was Jo Harvelle, doing her job behind the counter. She poured five shots in succession and doled them out to a party of frat bros without even looking.

Her eyes were drawn to the back corner of the bar, where you and Dean sat closely together, exchanging whispers and the occasional steamy kiss.

“Mind your business,” came Ellen’s whisper in her ear.

Jo whipped her head to glare softly at her mother, but she saw Ellen’s point. It was both obvious and pathetic of her to stare.

Despite the unease making her feel a bit sick to her stomach, Jo went over to Gordon down at the end. His sympathetic smile bothered her; she knew then she hadn’t just been caught by her mother.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he remarked.

“What?” Jo said. She began wiping down his area of the counter. “Would it kill you to keep it in the glass?”

Gordon gave her an amused look as he sat back in his seat. His tumbler of whiskey was drained.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” he said.

Both of them knew he wasn’t apologizing for the spill.

Jo’s brows knitted together, mostly in annoyance. “Again, for what?”

“I know it’s gotta be hard to see him actually moving on,” he replied.

Her lips pursed, and her eyes darted to the back of the room again. She stared for a moment at the side of your face.

“Knowing him, whatever it is won’t last,” she muttered.

Gordon hissed at the "burn," with a deep chuckle. She knew her words weren’t kind, but it was how she felt.

“That may be,” he allowed. “But he’s not just chasing tail anymore. That’s what scares you.” 

Gordon dropped a nice tip for her next to his glass. He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair and left Jo with the churning in her gut.

Cas and Meg finally arrived a few minutes later.

Dean knew you’d been to the Roadhouse before, but this was different. You were meeting some of his friends, and he realized how much he wanted you to. He felt…comfortable around you. And he wanted his friends to know you, and to like you.

“As you know, Meg’s our Paramedic in Charge over at 25,” he began, gesturing at the woman as she got settled in her seat.

You admired her long brown hair, tall boots, and black leather jacket. She seemed to ooze confidence and dark charisma as she tossed you a smirk.

“Guilty,” she said.

You smiled back. Dean gestured at her boyfriend next, clad in a beige trench coat, slacks, and blazer.

“And Cas, who bravely suffers being my dad’s partner on the job.”

Cas nodded wryly at the introduction. His dark hair and blue eyes were striking, you could admit. His tie was loose and slightly rumpled. Along with the stubble coating his face, he was handsome, if a bit scruffy. It was hard for you to believe he’d earned the top scores his year in the Police Academy, but you supposed that looks could be deceiving.

“What’s that like?” you asked with a smirk. “From what I’ve heard about John Winchester, he sounds like he’s a bit of a hard-ass.”

Dean barked with a dry laugh. “An understatement.”

“He has a crab-like shell,” Cas agreed. “But he has a soft center where it counts, not unlike his sons.”

You turned to Dean with a more teasing smile. “Aww…”

He rolled his eyes, even though his arm, which had been draped across the back your chair, now dropped to curl around your waist.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Columbo,” he remarked at his blue-eyed friend.

Always had to get the last dig in, it seemed, but you couldn’t help but laugh a little along with Meg at Cas’s expense.

“You guys all seem really close,” you said. It was nice for you to see.

Dean shrugged like it was no big deal. Or rather, like it was commonplace.

“Well, maybe family ain’t just about blood,” he said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Ugh. What a friggin’ sap.”

“You love it,” Dean grinned. She smiled, begrudgingly.

Family ain’t just about blood.

You liked that sentiment as well. It seemed to be true here. 

Even Ellen Harvelle treated Dean like a son when she came over to greet your table. She kissed his cheek and gave Meg and Cas’s shoulders a squeeze. Even you got a warm hand on your shoulder when she introduced herself.

“Welcome, hun. I understand it’s not your first time here, but if you got any questions on the menu, you let me know,” she said.

Dean shot you a conspiratorial smile, and it got you wondering what he was about to do.

“I mean, I don’t know why you don’t put the order in for chili fries the second you see me come through the door,” he teased. “Come on, Ellen. How long’ve I been coming here? Since before I had a license?”

Ellen narrowed her eyes and flicked the side of Dean’s head, regardless of his flinching protest.

“Don’t you go sayin’ that so damn loud,” she reproached. “You never drank underage at my bar.”

His eyes averted with a smile, in a way that told you Ellen was a damn liar. You bit your lip to try and hide your smile.

“Anyway, I’ll get your damn fries—”

“And a beer,” Dean interjected. She rolled her eyes.

“And a beer. Four?” she pointed at the rest of you, and you, Cas, and Meg nodded in agreement.

“All right, four beers. Anything else, darlin’?” She looked at you with a mother’s charm.

You looked up from the menu and unconsciously smiled.

“Um, sure. Can I get the chicken sandwich?”

She patted your shoulder. “You sure can.”

Ellen then took the rest of their orders without writing a thing down. You were impressed by her memory. At the end though, Dean didn’t let her go without a hand on her arm.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he said with a more sincere smile.

“A-huh,” she replied, with all due sarcasm. But there was a fondness in her eyes that was hard to miss when she playfully grabbed the back of his neck. “Knucklehead.”

A giggle escaped you, and Ellen tossed you a wink before she went to put in the orders and get the drinks.

Conversation flowed easier when the alcohol came. One beer became two, and even three (four, for Meg). By then, you were sure it was one beer too many for yourself, but you didn’t want to be the odd one out. You were mostly listening to the three of them bounce back and forth between reminiscing with old stories and roasting one another mercilessly.

It was hilarious and entertaining, but you were trying not to get caught in the crosshairs of the volleying. Inevitably though, Meg’s attention turned to you with a certain sly smile.

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

You blinked in surprise.

“Meg,” Dean’s voice cut like a warning.

Your eyes widened as you took in the change, his deeper voice, his more serious gaze, versus Meg’s nonchalance. Even Cas gave her a chiding look.

“Not sure I want to know what that means,” you tried to joke.

But you could guess. It was fairly obvious.

You glanced over at Dean, whose lips pursed. Before either of you could say anything more, Meg chimed in.

“Oooh, is this gonna be your first fight?” she teased.

Dean’s brows furrowed with a glare. “That’s enough.”

“And that’s our cue,” Cas nodded. He’d already slipped out his wallet as soon as his girlfriend started talking. He left a generous few bills to cover their half of the night, plus tip, and got up out of his seat. He claimed his coat and then encouraged Meg off her chair.

“What? I’m not done with my beer,” she protested.

“I think you are,” Cas said.

Meg scoffed, but she allowed his manhandling as he wrapped a supportive arm around her waist.

“You’re not the boss of me, Clarence,” she snipped.

“Certainly not,” he agreed. “But you’re a lightweight. Time to go home, before you insult the entire bar.”

“You’re no fucking fair,” she groused, hitting his chest over his jacket. Cas leveled you and Dean with a long-suffering look of apology.

Dean waved him off with a “no sweat it” look and a shake of his head. Meg annoyed the shit out of him sometimes, especially when she was drunk. He turned to you with a sigh.

“Again, sorry about that. I didn’t think I’d have to apologize for my friends more than once tonight,” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s...okay. Overall, they were really fun.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t think Cas has been called fun even once in his life.”

You smiled in amusement, but Meg’s words still swirled around in your head like heady wine.

“Dean,” you began, but your attempt to broach the issue was cut off by his cell phone ringing. He gave you an apologetic look and fished in his pocket for his phone. His brows rose when he saw the caller ID.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I gotta take this,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay—” You’d barely nodded when Dean was up and out of his chair, heading out of the bar. You could still see him through one of the faded glass doors as he held the phone up to his ear.

It was late, and quieter now. A blonde server came to take your plates, and you actually remembered her.

“Oh, hi! Jo, right?” you asked. She hesitated when you spoke, but she bobbed her head.

“That’s me,” she said. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks,” you said with a smile. “I met your mom. She’s really nice.”

Jo uttered a wry laugh as she stacked the plates and silverware. You helped her collect the silverware and empty beer bottles.

“Yeah, when you get her good side,” she replied. 

You smirked at that, remembering how Ellen snapped back and forth with Dean. You had no doubt that woman could be a pistol if you pissed her off.

“Well, it's nice here,” you admitted, once again taking stock of the décor. The music, the warm lighting, the good food… “It’s cozy.”

Jo’s smile quirked to one side as she paused.

“Well, it’s been in my family for three generations of Harvelles,” she said. “This was my father’s favorite place in the world.”

You caught the note of melancholy in her words, in her eyes.

“Was?” you echoed. She met your gaze and nodded.

“He was a firefighter,” she said. “He died on the job.”

You dimmed considerably. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jo only nodded.

“How did he…” Your curiosity got the best of you, but you soon shook your head and backtracked. “Never mind, you don’t have to explain.”

“It was a fire that wasn’t properly vented,” Jo answered your half-spoken question. Her blue eyes were heavier. “He got caught in an updraft…but he actually worked at Firehouse 25. He was their brother. That’s why this’ll always be their place.”

You processed that with a slow nod of wonder.

“It’s good that you and your mom will always have that support,” you said eventually. “Even though…it might be hard too, to always be reminded.”

Jo’s lips quirked again. “It’s more the first one, but…sometimes the second one. A lot of these guys have known me since I had braces. It’s hard to shake that perpetual little sister thing.”

You smiled at that. “Yeah, I’d imagine that gets old real quick. A bunch of over-protective older brothers.”

“Overbearing, more like,” she scoffed. You laughed.

Unconsciously, you glanced over to the front of the bar, where you saw Dean still on the phone. You remembered the second date you were meant to have, when he was late due to a five-car pileup his team responded to.

You remembered that night he called you for the first time, after a long day he didn’t want to tell you about. He’d let you distract him instead. All the while, it had you wondering what he’d seen. What he’d responded to that day.

Had it been another car accident? A fire? What made someone as upbeat and funny and smooth as Dean seem to lose all the life in his voice?

Though while you were lost in your thoughts, Jo was watching you.

Jealousy roiled inside her, unbidden. She didn’t want to hate you, because unlike the girls Dean usually messed around with, you had some self-respect. Jo heard Meg’s snide clips at you earlier, and no one could fake the surprise in your eyes. Unless you were just that good a damn actor…

But no, she didn’t get that vibe from you.

It didn’t mean she had to like you though. 

“You’re right to think twice,” Jo said, earning your attention back with a swivel of your head. “What Meg said…she wasn’t wrong. Dean’s broken a few hearts, if you catch my drift.”

Just a few well-placed words, Jo thought. She realized then that she had the power to twist the wrench here, widening the gap between you and Dean. Feed your doubts.

She didn’t have to feel bad about it if it was the truth.

And yet…she saw the way your gaze fell. The disappointment setting in, the anxious clench of your hands on the table. You glanced over at Dean again out of the corner of your eye.

Jo realized then just what she was doing, not just to Dean, but to herself.

You’re not some petty bitch, she dully reminded herself.

“But,” she found herself adding. You raised your gaze back to her. Jo let out a subtle breath.

“It’s not always his fault,” she admitted. And maybe she was speaking a bit too much from experience. “The job demands a lot from him.”

Slowly, you nodded. You looked pensive, but not like you’d made up your mind.

Fine, Jo thought, as she collected the dishes and left your table.

She didn’t know if she wanted to sway you one way or the other on taking a chance on Dean Winchester.   

While you were talking to Jo, Dean was taking his father’s unexpected call.

“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” he said.

“Hey, son. How are ya?” John’s voice was gruff and tired. Dean frowned to hear it.

“I’m good. I’m out right now, but did you need something?”

“Have you responded to any fires lately?”

“You mean like the Richardson fire?” Dean asked pointedly. “No, haven’t had one since. And no cattle prod brandings either.”

“All right, good. Just checking in.”

Good? Dean thought. John would be chomping at the bit for a new arson. If he was “just checking in,” then he was worried about something. Is he worried about me?

“What’s going on? Is there something I need to know?” Dean asked in suspicion. This was why he had taken the call. “Seriously, you can tell me. I’m not even gonna bitch at you like Sam does.”

John chuckled. But then he hesitated. Dean knew he’d hit on something.

“Dad?” he pressed.

John’s sigh was a heavy one. “Okay. What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.”

Dean’s brows furrowed in trepidation. “Okay, fine. What the hell is it?”

“Richardson, the father of two?” John reminded. “He was a lawyer, linked to a money laundering scheme through a company called Stull Storage. It’s an old company, dates back to the seventies.”

“Okay…” 

As John continued to explain, the more confused Dean became… 

About 30 years ago, John Winchester had been a young, but promising officer in the Narcotics division. He’d married young, and by then was just barely clearing the five-year mark. Already he had the house he’d inherited from his wife’s parents, a four-year-old son, and a newborn.

Stull Storage’s units were used by a drug ring that John had been trying to infiltrate, undercover. Those units had stored cocaine, illegal weapons, and other flavors of contraband, mostly from South America (and back).

“We got close to breaking that case, once, but after the fire…I transferred out of Narcotics, as you know,” John said.

Dean knew the real story there. After his mom died, his father went into a spiral, trying to find whoever set that fire—even after the Fire Department found no evidence of arson. John had eventually been forced out of Narcotics. He requested Homicide.

As he’d told Dean once when he was extremely drunk: I seem to do better at my job when the bodies are already dead.

“Now I know that I was right about your mother’s death,” John said.

Dean released a shaky sigh. “Aw, man. Not this again, Dad. For Christ’s sake.”

“There was something wrong about that fire, Dean,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Dean’s objections. “I just didn’t find the connection…until now.”

Dean muttered a curse under his breath. His gaze fell to the ground. Sam was usually the one who drew a hard line at hearing any more about their mom’s supposed murder, but now Dean had reached the end of his tether. It was too much.

He glanced back through the glass doors to make sure you were okay. He saw you talking to Jo, and he frowned at himself.

Here you were, waiting on him back in the bar, and his dad was calling him in the middle of the night, chasing ghosts again.

“Look…it’s been my whole damn life with this.” Dean held the phone to his ear with one hand, and rubbed at his forehead with the other. “I just can’t do this with you anymore.”    

“Dean, listen,” John urged. “You wanna know what I’m digging into, this is it. I got Mary’s file unsealed.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “What? Thought you couldn’t do that without new evidence and a court order.”

“Well, I’ve got the evidence…maybe I was a bit impatient with the court order.”

Dean rolled his eyes. His father liked to play a little fast and loose with the rules.

“At the time, the medical examiner dismissed it. She’d been burned…” John paused on a deeper breath. “But I saw it. Mary had a burn on her wrist. It was the same brand found on Richardson. On Jerry Stillwell, CPA. Amanda Waller, journalist. It’s all connected, Dean. How they’re connected to one another, I’m not sure yet. We’re still digging…but I do know this. Richardson was a message.”

Dean’s back hit the wall of the Roadhouse. His brows furrowed as he struggled to digest everything John was saying.

“A message?” he asked. “To who?”

“To me, I think. Those kids, and their mother…you got ‘em out alive, but they weren’t meant to,” John said, his voice sounding heavy. "The wife told me her husband was erratic when he got home, holding his wrist. He'd been burned before the fire. He wouldn't say what happened...then they smelled the goddamn smoke."

"Shit," Dean replied. He leaned heavily against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. There was an ache starting between his eyes.

“Yeah," John agreed. "The drug ring I was investigating, when I was in Narcotics. I was getting close. And I mean close. I was about to get the Big Kahuna. The kingpin of the whole operation…and then the house fire.”

Fuck. Dean wiped at his mouth anxiously as he realized what John was saying. Fuck.

“He burned me, Dean. He must have,” John said. Meaning, the drug lord he was trying to pin down somehow discovered his identity. “Your mom paid the price of that.”

“Who is this guy?” Dean asked. His hand holding the phone was starting to tremble.

“I still don’t know his real name. Workin’ on that one too,” John said. “But they called him Azazel.”

When Dean eventually hung up with his father and returned to you at the bar, he saw you brighten. But you soon dimmed with a tinge of worry. Something of his thoughts must’ve shown on his face.

Shit. He tried his best to school his features.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he said, grasping your shoulder. “I’ll take you home.”

“I met you here, remember?” you asked.

Dean paused, then shook his head. Get it together, asshole.

“Right," he said. "Well, I’ll walk you to your car. Let me just pay real quick.”

After he sorted out the bill (he didn’t know that you’d slipped in an extra $30 in Cas’s stack for your part), he led you out, saying goodbye to Ellen and Jo while you went.

You hesitated when the two of you got to the car. Something wasn’t right with him. And both Jo and Meg’s words still rolled back and forth through your head.

“Dean, are you okay? Who was it on the phone?” you asked.

“I’m fine. It was just my dad, called to have me take a look at his car. We were just arguing about our schedules…I’m sure you can relate,” he replied, trying at a smile.

You weren’t sure if you believed him. Though he was nearly convincing, he was also shifting on his feet, hands in his pockets. His gaze roamed away from yours, above your head and over your shoulder.

“Um, I might’ve had a beer too many,” you said with a half-chuckle. “Could you walk with me for a bit? Just until my head clears enough to drive.”

“I could take you home,” Dean offered.

“And leave my car here?” you asked. In a public parking lot behind a bar?

You shook your head and pointed down the road.

“Just there and back…but if you need to go, I guess I could just sit in my car for a while.”

Dean shook his head with a frown. He couldn’t tell you that a damn serial killer was on the loose.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s a relatively safe neighborhood, but not so much at night. Not by yourself.”

He laid a hand on your back to start walking with you, but his hand soon fell back to his side. You glanced at him, but he looked straight ahead, unusually quiet and reserved.

It felt like he was checking out of this night with you. Like he just wanted to usher you into the car and leave. Did he just not want to deal with what Meg said?

“You must be real special,” she remarked, gesturing at Dean. “He usually doesn’t bring his girls around here, where he actually likes to hang out. Guess that’d mean he’d have to see ‘em again with the lights on.”

Letting out a breath, you tried to see if you could broach the subject.

“It was nice to meet some more of your friends,” you said, and with a nervous laugh, “even if it did get awkward there at the end.”

Dean finally looked over at you.

“We never exactly talked about what each of us was looking for,” you said. “What we were really doing here.” 

You stood your ground, but you tried not to look censuring. Just open to whatever he might have to say. Even so, unease churned inside you.

Dean sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, she wasn’t exactly wrong about me.”

You considered that with a nod, biting the inside of your lip.

“When was the last time you were in a relationship?” you asked. Dean gave a humorless huff of a laugh. This really was the last thing he wanted to get into tonight, but he had a feeling he had no choice.

“A few months ago, for about a minute,” he said. “But uh, before then…never.”

Together, you began to cross the street while the cars on either side waited at the red light. Pedestrians had the right of way for the next 30 seconds. You looked over at him and steeled yourself.

“Dean, is this is something casual for you?”

“Define casual,” he attempted to joke (or to deflect). Though the bravado fell the moment he saw that look on your face: tight and disappointed…and hurt.  

He reached for your hand, but you weren’t having it. You slipped away from him and continued walking at a more brusque clip, even in those platform heels.  

“Okay, hold on.” He quickly followed after you and tugged you back by the hand. It had you both stopping in the middle of the crosswalk.  

Dean squeezed your hand and peered into your eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry. Don’t close up on me,” he implored. “…Please.”

Despite your better judgment, and your pursed lips, you waited. Something told you this man didn’t often say please.

“The truth is, I’m trying to do something different here with you. I don’t think we would’ve made it to date #4 if we were just casual,” he said. “I’m not playing games either.”

You wanted to trust that he was serious. Once again, your mind and your heart were at odds; the former told you to be wary, while the latter told you to trust the earnestness in his eyes.

Your heart won. “Okay, Dean.”

“Yeah?” he asked, with hopeful brows raised.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

You finally smiled. And you leaned up, resting a hand against his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. His stubble was coarse, but familiar against your lips.

Dean turned his head and leaned in for a proper kiss. His hands found the curve of your waist and brought you closer against his chest. You both sunk deeper into it, your lips gliding as your head tilted into the kiss…

Until a horn honked loudly, making you both jolt at the sound.

The streetlight was green, and several cars were waiting for you to cross. You snorted in amusement, leading Dean to grin down at you. He tugged you back into step with him across the street.

Again, you hesitated at your car. Dean was more himself as he’d held your hand all the way back.

He now held your car door open while you threw in your purse. But when you turned back to him, you still saw something brooding behind his eyes.

You drew near and grasped the open edges of his shirt. This man wore a lot of plaid when he was out of uniform, always with an undershirt. Tonight it was green plaid on gray, complete with some faded jeans and a pair of boots. This was the only “casual” way in which you wanted Dean.  

“Hey,” you started.

“Hmm?” he replied, holding you by your arms.

“I get that we haven’t known each other all that long. So you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” you said. “But did something happen when you stepped out? When you talked to your dad?”

Dean paused. His eyes, a pale green under the streetlamp, flicked to yours.

“I just want to know that you’re okay,” you said. “And if you’re not, that’s okay too.”

After a moment to blink in surprise, your earnestness got to him. His grip moved down your arms, and he took one of your hands. His dad’s warning echoed through his mind.

What I’m about to tell you, you don’t fucking repeat. Not to anyone, you understand me? Not even your brother.

Dean knew his dad didn’t make demands without a reason, even if he wasn’t typically so forthcoming with them. But Dean drew enough courage to be as honest as he could be. You deserved that much, after everything you'd put up with tonight.

“My mom died...when I was about four,” he said. “It was a house fire.”

Your eyes widened. All this time, you’d assumed his mother had passed away. You hadn’t expected that, though. You squeezed his hands.

“I’m so sorry,” you said, and you meant it. Dean just shook his head.

“It was ruled an accident. Really they just didn’t have much evidence either way,” he continued. “But uh, my dad’s been obsessed with the idea that it wasn’t. That someone started the fire on purpose… Well, today, he might’ve found his proof.”

He held your gaze for as long as he could, but in the end, he just couldn’t. His chest was tight. Saying those words out loud made them real, and he wasn’t sure of how to handle it.  

“Oh, Dean,” you said, starting and stopping, as you struggled to formulate a response that wasn’t just “I’m sorry,” or “Are you okay?” 

He clearly wasn’t. You also didn’t want to give him platitudes like, “That’s crazy,” or the ever-inspired: “Wow.” 

Or some other variation of what you’re supposed to say. You wanted to give him something honest. Something real. 

So you curled your hands around his arms, earning his gaze.

“You must be reeling right now,” you said. “Do you think he’s onto something this time?”  

“I don’t know what to think,” said Dean. “I’ve been pressing him for answers, but…honestly? I wish he hadn’t told me a damn thing.” 

You didn’t know what to say to that. You were surprised that he actually confided in you with this. But the only thing you could think to do was lean up on your toes and slip your arms around his neck. You hugged him, warm and tight. 

You couldn’t even imagine what he was feeling, but you just wanted him to know that someone was there for him. You were there for him. 

Dean eventually hugged you back. He held you, reassuring you as well as himself. He blew out a cathartic breath, and his hand came up to cup the back of your head. His lips tugged upwards.

“You’re a sweetheart, you know that?” he said. 

A smile spread across your face. Your fingers soothed through his hair gently. You pressed your lips into his neck.

“I aim to please,” you said against his skin.

Dean smiled more fully at that. The new warmth in his chest warred against the roiling in his stomach. Despite his best efforts, his smile faded.

His mom’s killer was still out there.

The thought was haunting his mind, and he knew it probably would for many nights to come.

So for now, he’d just hold you a bit tighter.

AN: 🥲 I honestly didn't mean it to end so angsty, but Dean finally got some much-needed hurt/comfort there! What did you think of how Jo handled her jealous side? And Gordon "shooting his shot" lol.

Coming soon in Part 7, we finally get to a huge milestone between these two lovebirds, with a side helping of baking shenanigans. 😏❤️‍🔥

Next Time:

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

Keep Reading: PART 7

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @simpforbuckyb

@vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @katherineann814 @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

[carmenberzattosgf]

https://everymarket.com/products/love-is-art-canvas-and-paint-kit-abstract-art-through-intimacy-8-piece-set-liablack?variant_id=970190&gad_source=1&gclid=Cj0KCQjwlN6wBhCcARIsAKZvD5jFKQRyCRyIBuJ8jtm0mbR3mLaMP0-wIuefm36P38BkerdpoAdGKGAaAm-cEALw_wcB

I don’t know if the link works but this is something I feel like you could convince Carmy to try with you!

I’m so sorry my dear that this has been rotting for so long!

But oh my GOSH Carmen would love to do one of these. Dare I say he would bring it up? You won’t have to convince him!

He in general loves art, as we got to see more in season two. He would be obsessed with the idea of you two covering each other in paint and then fucking on top of a canvas.

He’s proud, and I mean proud to hang it up in his living room afterwards. It’s so very abstract, with all the colors mixing together, so it’s not like anyone could tell what it truly is. The only body part that can be recognized on the canvas are vague shapes of finger prints.

I’m thinking about him inviting Marcus, or literally anyone from the restaurant over to his place to work on some recipes. The canvas takes up quite a bit of the wall, so it stands out.

“That a new painting Carmy? I don’t remember seeing it last time I was here,” Marcus asks,

“Oh yeah! I just put it up last week. It’s abstract but I think it fits the wall pretty well.” Carmy talks about the painting nonchalantly. He has a damn good poker face.

“You get it from an art gallery or something? You’ve mentioned going to those, recently.”

“Dude, you think I got the money to buy something from an art gallery? Nah, my girl and I painted it—“ This time, Carmy can’t help the chuckle that escapes from his mouth. “Was some kind of date night idea she saw online. Finger painting, I guess. Who knew?”

Please the smirk on Carmy’s face would be so fucking wide I can’t. This smug motherfucker is telling you all about it when you get home.

“So Marcus asked about the painting. He thought it was pretty cool.”

“Carmen Anthony Berzatto, I swear to GOD if you told Marcus—“

“Hey, hey, hey relax. I didn’t say a thing about it. I uh—“ He breaks out into a laugh mid-sentence at the mad look on your face. “I told him finger painting?”

“CARMY—“

[cowgurrrl]

I Wish I Was

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: yay for creative energy coming back!!

Summary: Murphy’s Law dictates… [3.1k]

Warnings: art talk, discussions of a deceased parent, probably incorrect blueprint talk, a cliff hanger 😈

Temperatures rarely dip below the thirties in Central Texas. It's not impossible, as evidenced by the below-freezing temperatures ravaging much of the South in the final days before returning to school, but it's still rare. Nobody really knows what to do when there's the threat of the roads icing over, so they just decide to shut most things down, including your bar. You feigned disappointment when your manager called to tell you when, in reality, you were digging through your box of acrylic paints to find the one shade that's been calling your name. With the sudden free time, you get to work on your half-finished canvases and listen to the same record repeatedly in the hopes that your brain will zone out enough for you to make something good. 

It could be The Mamas and The Papas record spinning or the dark blue winter light shining through your blinds, but you actually like the piece of art unfolding on your canvas. It's undeniably different, a little more vibrant and a little more abstract, but it feels good— sustainable, at the very least. You feel less self-conscious about them and even snap pictures to show them off to Andie. You've finished three other canvases and sent in images of them to a local art collective that takes gallery submissions twice a year, and they've moved you on to the next part of the acceptance process. It's not a definite yes, but it's not an immediate no. You haven't told Joel about the submission or anything, really. You've just holed yourself up in your apartment to paint and sporadically respond to his texts with lots of apologies typed with yellow or purple fingertips.

He knows you're not ignoring him, and you know he's a busy guy. He has better things to do than sit around and wait for you to text him back, but you feel bad about not being as present as you were before. "It's all part of the process, I promise," you said. "Then, when I get my own gallery, you can hear all about it while you fix up my classroom." He reminded you that "pride goeth before the fall" but didn't doubt or pressure you to break your flow. The only thing he consistently texts you about is making sure you're drinking water, stretching your wrists, and, at least, looking at a vegetable during your long sessions. Otherwise, he leaves you alone to work. Everyone else, including the stack of looming emails in your inbox, gets deliberately ignored so you can live in your bubble for just a little longer before school drags you back into session. 

That's why you jumped and furrowed your eyebrows at your ringing phone when his contact photo appeared unexpectedly, breaking you out of your concentration. You wipe your hands on your old pair of too-big jeans (universally known as your work pants because they're covered in different colored hand prints) and swipe to answer him before the silly picture of him with one of your scarves on his head can go away. You hear him shuffling around when you put it on speaker and almost hang up, thinking it's a butt dial before you finally hear his voice.

"Hello?" He greets.

"Hey, what's up?" 

"Did I leave my jacket there?" He asks. You let out a relieved sigh that it's nothing too dramatic, but the lingering panic his phone call caused sits in the back of your head as you glance down at said jacket. You adjust the palette in your hand, suddenly hyper-aware of the wet paint and thanking whatever God is out there for not getting any on his clothes. You can't imagine things would go over well with the guys if he suddenly showed up to job sites with pink paint on the sleeve of his jacket.

"No..." you say, extending the vowel, and he chuckles. 

"Do me a favor. See if there's a ring of keys in the front pocket?" He says. You gently put the palette on your coffee table and wipe your hands again to ensure there's no wet paint on them before digging into both front pockets and feeling the keys in his left pocket. You pull them out and find the set of keys with a baseball keychain and a keychain with a picture of him and the girls on it. 

"I've got 'em," you say. "The Astros? Really?"

"D'you mind bringin' 'em to the office? I forgot I needed 'em." He ignores your jab, and you look down at your outfit. Clad in your work pants, a sports bra, Joel's Carhartt jacket, and your unwashed hair in a clip, you are not prepared to leave the house today, let alone go see Joel.

"Um..." 

"Somethin' wrong?" He asks, and you wince. What are you gonna say? Sorry, I know you have to do your job and all, but I look and feel like shit, so I can't bring your keys to you? He's already seen you in disarray from the school day, but that was a cuter, more socially acceptable version of disarray. This version gives credence to the messy, mentally ill artist stereotype Freud introduced however many years ago. 

"No, nothing's wrong. I just..." you sigh and rub your face. "I wasn't expecting to see you today. I kinda look crazy." 

"That's it?" He asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Baby, I don't care how you look. You could show up in a potato sack, and I wouldn't care." 

"Well, lucky for you, I don't own a potato sack, but I'm pretty sure that would look better than this."

"If it makes you feel better, the office is empty."

"Then, why are you in? It's fucking freezing."

"I needed to make sure the pipes didn't freeze over, and I left some blueprints here," he says. "I can grab 'em from you and just come back to the office."

"No, I don't want you driving more than you have to," you say, already stretching out your stiff legs. Your knees creak in protest, and fatigue seeps into your bones. God, how long have you been sitting here? "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

"I think it'll take a lot more than some messy clothes to scare me off, darlin'," he says, and you roll your eyes at his charm. With a quick goodbye, you throw on a clean enough sweater and leggings. You debate running a brush through your hair before remembering what he said about the empty office and decide you don't have the energy. If he really doesn't care what you look like, then you're not going to stress about it. 

You're a little worried about driving in the weather, even you aren't immune to Southern weather panic, but the roadways are mostly clear, and things aren't expected to get really bad until later on. Still, you drive slowly and white-knuckle the wheel against strong, frigid winds. By the time you get to Joel's office, the sky is more grey than blue, and radio announcers warn you that there might be flurries within the next forty-eight hours. You doubt they'll stick to the ground and amount to nothing more than some black ice, inconveniencing everyone in the state, but still. You leave the relative warmth of your car and walk as fast as you can into the building, clutching Joel's jacket close to your body and sending a wave of his smell over you. 

The office itself is small, with a couple of desks here and there, mostly for meeting with clients and explaining building plans. A coffee pot and water cooler sit in the corner next to the receptionist's desk, which is currently empty. It's eerily quiet in the space except for the sound of the heat rumbling somewhere in the walls, and you almost wonder if Joel left without telling you when you hear grumbling and the tell-tale sound of his boots against the tile. He doesn't notice you at first. Instead, he scowls at a paper like it owes him money and mutters under his breath. Whatever is annoying him is wiped away the second he sees you there. 

"Hey, baby," he lights up as he walks over to you and kisses you, abandoning the paper on one of the desks so he can hold you close. He tastes like coffee and the beeswax chapstick Ellie got him for Christmas. You didn't realize how much you missed him until now, and you smile against his lips. "You got my keys?" He asks as he turns to walk into his office, grabbing your hand and bringing you with him. He lets go of you to close the door behind him, and you dig the keys out of your pocket and toss them at him. He catches them in mid-air easily and walks over to the filing cabinet.

"You intentionally leave your keys with me, or is this just a happy accident?" You ask, and he smirks. 

"Maybe I just wanted to see you again."

"Sneaky," you say as you walk around his space while he searches for the correct blueprint. 

It's a relatively normal office with eggshell walls and bad fluorescent lighting, but once you step behind his desk, you get a good idea of the man who works here. His desk is old and made of some type of wood he probably knows more about than you do. It's filled with little knick-knacks and things that get him through the day: family pictures, a painted gecko from Terlingua, stress balls, and a desk calendar with his all-caps handwriting. There are even some drawings done by Ellie pinned on the corkboard behind his chair, her skill visibly improving as she gets older. 

One particular picture on his desk catches your eye. It's older than the rest, and it takes you a minute to recognize Joel's eyes in the greying man. Joel, Tommy, and their dad smile at the camera with identical grins. Tommy can't be older than ten while Joel towers over them both, his broad shoulders taking up lots of space. You pick it up to look at it closer and Joel doesn't stop you. Instead, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

"'S this your dad?" you ask, and he nods. "You guys look a lot alike." 

"You think?" He asks like he doesn't see it, and you look at him. You take a second or two to let your eyes trace his features and compare them to his dad's before nodding.

"Yeah. Same eyes," you say as you look back down. "And smile." He hums happily at that. Joel's face hasn't changed much now that he's a grown man. If anything, he looks more like his dad, with the grey at the temples and the beard framing his face. You see bits of their father in Tommy, too, but you assume he probably looks more like their mother. "How old were you in this?"

"Mm, fifteen? Maybe sixteen." Right before his dad died, you think. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing or reliving the day over again. Before the clutches of grief can sink you both, you smile to yourself and hold the picture a little closer.

"I would've been obsessed with you if we'd gone to high school together." 

"Really?" He asks incredulously, and you giggle at the thought. 

"Oh, for sure. Look at you!" You point to his little broody half-smile as if it's evidence. "Those eyes, that hair, the attitude. I mean, c'mon, Joel!" He laughs at your praise and takes the photo out of your hands.

"Alright, alright, that's enough objectification for teenage Joel." 

"I'm not objectifying you! I'm just stating the obvious." 

"Mhm," he hums, and you laugh. You continue walking around and looking at his things as he frowns at the blueprint he trekked through the cold to get. "Shit." He mumbles, reaches for a pencil, and scribbles something on the plans. 

"What's wrong?" You ask, perching yourself on the edge of his desk and leaning over to look at the intricate design. It looks like a big house with lots of elaborate details written on the margins. It's a big build. No wonder he needed to get this copy.  

"This client decided they wanted a bigger kitchen, but I don't know how to do that without eatin' into another room and changin' the whole plan," he sighs. "We're supposed to be back on the site once this storm blows over, and I gotta have an idea of how we're gonna do this by then." 

"Can't you just tell them no?" You ask, and he chuckles.

"Can’t you just tell your principal no?

"Point taken," you say. "What about pushing it into the backyard a little? Then you could use this area over here to make a sunroom or something," you suggest, gesturing to the weird leftover space that would make the house look wonky. His eyebrows knit together as he thinks.

"Then what should I do here?" He asks. Together, you go back and forth, discussing dimensions, perspectives, and measurements. You never realized how similar these designs are to art. They have to have more of a purpose and fit specific parameters, but other than that, they have the same idea: create something out of nothing. It's cool to see Joel in his own element, doing mental math and estimates that would take you ages to do and writing down his findings as you figure them out together. He's not just good at math, he's good at sketching the new designs. 

Almost seamlessly, he flips through the floor plans and layouts, adding a window there or changing the flow of a room with a singular erasure. He adds the perfect depth to see the idea clearly without crowding the space and making it seem too busy, allowing the clients to picture their furniture in the home. When you bring up an idea, he's quick to rotate the plans upside down to imagine how it would look and if it would impact the building process, his brain running through every possible solution and flipping it without even thinking. Ellie does the same thing when she gets stuck on a drawing. You see where she gets her skill from, even if he'll never admit it. 

For someone who has always struggled with math, you enjoy the balance between math, engineering, and art in the plans, but you like working with Joel the most. It's nice to feel like you're helping instead of distracting him. You're not sure how long you worked together, reconfiguring things this way and that, before you finally reached a viable solution, but you know that Joel has the biggest smile on his face when he looks away from the blueprints. 

"You mighta missed a callin', my dear." He says, and you laugh, shaking your head.

"My college algebra professor might disagree, but I do think this is interesting." 

"Well, if you ever want a job..." he trails off as he rolls the blueprints back up and secures it with a rubber band. You smirk and tug at his belt loops to bring him closer to where you're sitting on his desk. 

"You just want me to get more tattoos." You accuse, and he chuckles as he tosses the prints somewhere behind you, his hands coming up to frame your face. 

"I'm just sayin', Miller Contracting don't have a policy against it like the school district does."

"Mm, what about dating? That might get a little dicey." 

"Is sleepin' with your boss better or worse than sleepin' with a student's parent?" He asks, and you laugh. 

"They're probably in the same realm of bad."

"Then, we've got nothin' to lose." He says as he leans down to kiss you. You open your legs just enough for him to step in between your knees and get as close as he can. He's trimmed his beard since the last time you saw him, but the stubble still scratches deliciously against your skin, making you sigh. He breaks away enough to tip you back onto his desk, narrowly missing his clutter, and you giggle when he kisses your neck.

"How long have you been plannin' this one?" you ask, your years in Texas showing through in your breathless voice. He smiles as he meets your eyes. 

"I dunno what you're talkin' bout."

"Oh, so getting me alone and on top of your desk was just a coincidence?"

"Happy accident." He muses, sliding his hands up your shirt as he gets lower and lower. Your hands play with his hair, occasionally tugging on the strands just to hear the sound he makes. You would've been happy to do that all day if your phone ringing through the suddenly too-warm air of his office didn't interrupt. Joel groans and drops his head to your sternum, his hands pausing their journey up your body as you wiggle your phone out of your back pocket. Your heart drops the second you recognize the phone number.

"Who is it?" Joel asks like he's reading your mind. You sit up slowly, and he takes his hands off you without malice or frustration. You're stuck staring at the number until it disappears off your screen and goes to voicemail. 

"Um... someone from work. I should probably call them back." You say, unsure of yourself as the words fall from your mouth. Joel looks confused but doesn't push. 

"Oh. Right, yeah. School starts back up on Monday, right?" 

"Yeah, she probably just wants to talk about lesson plans or something," you say, standing from your spot on the desk. The air has changed between you, and suddenly, things feel clunky and awkward. This is the worst possible timing. "Can I call you later?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll walk you out." He says sheepishly. You don't say anything as he opens the doors for you and gives you a quick kiss and a reminder to text him when you get home. You just nod and immediately speed walk to your car even though you're not that cold. Joel watches you pull out from your parking spot and leave the strip mall, waving before you can turn out of sight. 

You wait until you're five minutes down the road before you dial the number back as if Joel would be able to hear the crackly voice through your speaker if you were any closer. Your heart beats fast in your chest, and your palms are sweaty on the wheel as the phone rings. When the dial tone finally ends, and your call is answered, the anxiety is replaced with frustration.

"What’s up?" You ask through gritted teeth, and you hear her take a breath.

"We need to talk about Ellie’s dad."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 @ignorethisplz2004 @buckyispunk @d1lf-loverrr @vee-bees-blog @moel-jiller @anoverwhelmingdin @casssiopeia @maried01 @acupofhollie

[jezabelle9299]

Intimidating S.R x FEM! reader

Overture-While you're cataloging a new collection in the archives, a young Spencer Reid wanders down in search of an art print stored in a different archive.

Inspired by the opening of season 2 episode 14 'The Big Game', when Gideon visits the Smithsonian to look at Havell's Audubon paintings. (We're going to pretend this isn't the episode Reid gets kidnapped in) Later piece is inspired by any of the many times prostitutes flirt with Reid throughout the early seasons. I looked at a few maps and online catalogs of the museums current collections to kinda figure out how long it would take to walk there, and what pieces are stored where, but it might not be 100% accurate so don't hold me to it.

Cws- Brief mentions of robbery and prostitution (separate occasions)

A/N- This has been bouncing around my brain like a DVD menu screen, I'm so excited about it. I'm a museum studies major so I'm making this girl live all of my dreams.

Your favorite part of the job by far, was cataloging the new pieces. Whether they were from other museums or private collections, unpacking those boxes let you indulge in a bit of nosiness everytime. This particular collection was from a recently closed exhibit, so you were doing the overnight shift. No one else was in this part of the museum, and your boss was doing a showing of some prints to a collections enthusiast so you had the place to yourself. 

You threw on some headphones and got to work, once you finished this you could go home. You’d just cataloged and packed the first half of the pieces, but as you were about to start on the rest, you saw something move out of the corner of your eye. Archives were a slightly creepy place to be at night anyway, the shelves looming over you, and the underground structure providing little light outside of your small workspace, but that was definitely unusual. When you finally turned around, there was a full-on stranger walking towards you. He was about your age, but he definitely didn’t work here, you would’ve remembered 

“Jesus! Walk louder! I didn’t hear you come down here.” 

“I called out twice to try and see if there was anyone down here.”

“Point taken.” You shrugged it off, you’d never seen him before. He definitely didn’t work here, he was cute and about your age. You’d remember him. You both stood there just kind of looking at each other, not fully sure what would happen next.

“Are you going to like— rob me now? Or maybe introduce yourself?”

“Oh! Sorry, my name's Spencer Reid, I was here with a colleague. He was looking at some ornithology prints upstairs, and he told me to come down to find—well you I assume, and get the last print in the set, and ask for directions to the coffee machine?”

“Sure! Just come over here and I’ll look it up for you.” You set down your clipboard to head back to your little desk, the only one with the lamp still on. 

“So, what exactly are you looking for?”

“It’s a Robert Havell, Frigate Pelican.” You typed in the name into your system to make sure, but you knew now why your boss didn’t come to get it himself. It wasn’t in this museum, it was in the archive under the Renwick gallery, almost a mile away. 

“Alright, I can be back with it in like an hour, it’s at the gallery on 17th street. This was a split collection and it’s still in that archive. There’s a coffee machine down the hall on your left, and I can meet you back in my boss’s office.”

“An hour? Are you walking this late at night?” 

“Yep. But I’ll go as quickly as possible.”

“I can’t in good conscience let you walk that far by yourself this late at night, would it be alright if I came with you?” 

“Alright! Only if you want to though, I promise you don’t have to.”

“I want to, if that’s ok.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” You smiled at him, and while you were grabbing your keys and ID, he went from relieved you said it was ok, to completely red at the idea of being around you alone for the next hour. He was stuck in place as you passed him and got halfway down the hall, before he started running to catch up. 

“Where exactly are we going?”

“We need to go up the elevator, through the garden, and then it’s pretty much a straight shot down 15th and through Lafayette park.”

“I thought we could get through the archives?”

“We could, but it would take longer. I get distracted easily, and it’s a nice night out anyway.”

*****

About halfway through your walk, you’d already felt like you knew him. When you were passing through a particularly busy part of the street, someone called out to you. Well not you, they called out to Spencer. 

“Hey cutie, you’re back. I told you I’d remember you.” A woman in high heels, a fur coat, and shorts entirely too short for the chilly weather, called out for him. You didn’t place any judgment on her, but the look you gave Spencer. Shock, and trying your best to stifle laughter at his panic.

“Oh–um. Have a good night.” He rushed off, in his haste grabbing your elbow to pull you along with him. Once he’d gotten far enough away for his embarrassment to pare down, he let go of you, realizing with a whole new sense of self-consciousness that he touched you without even thinking about it. 

“That was not what it looked like. I swear– I was talking to her with my boss last week, we were doing interviews for a case; and she well– she called me cute, which is what that was about.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I would tend to agree with her anyway– you are pretty memorable.”

“I– thank you. You’re memorable too.”

You walked the rest of the way with Spencer almost trailing a half step behind you. You were so mesmerizing, he just couldn’t help it. 

By the time you finished the walk, arriving at the security booth to get back inside the archives, you already felt like you knew Spencer. 

“ID please.” The security guard spared a singular glance towards yours, and you realized you forgot to ask Spencer if he had his on him. 

“Oh I forgot they check IDs of any guests coming into the archives, you have your driver's license on you, right? Or any ID is probably fine. I didn’t even think about it.”

While you were rambling about it, Spencer pulled out his credentials, showed it to the guard as if it were nothing. Because he’s a federal agent -apparently- he didn’t need a visitor badge. 

“You’re in the FBI?”

“Yes?”

“How on Earth did that never come up on the twenty minute walk here.” You finally got moving again towards the art storage, now trailing alongside Spencer, more focused on him than looking where you were going. 

“It did.” 

“When?”

“Why did you think I was interviewing a prostitute?”

“I don’t know! I thought you were like– a lawyer or something. You’re so fancy! And nice! And you know– Young!” 

“I–you think I’m fancy?”

“You’re wearing a suit with a sweater vest at 9pm on a Saturday night.” 

“Fair enough. But no, I'm not a lawyer. I’m glad you think I’m nice though.” It was your turn for your face to heat, and for you to hide your head. 

“Of course I think you're nice.”

When you finally found what you were looking for, you started heading back. He told you about some of his interests, but mostly he wanted to know about you. All you wanted to hear about was him though, he was so interesting. 

“What do you do for the FBI?” 

“Behavioral Analysis”

“Oh my god. Oh if I’d known that I would’ve changed everything I’ve done so far. That’s– I mean that’s so intimidating” And now he was laughing at you. 

“I don’t think anyone has ever described me as intimidating. Off-putting and annoying sure, but intimidating is new.” 

“You’re very intimidating. I’ve never met a guy who knew that much about historical art without even being in the field before, and now I know you could read my behavior? I must’ve come off like a total idiot like–15 times by now.”

“I don’t think so, quite the opposite actually.”

“Well thank you, but I was making a conscious effort not to make it clear I have a huge crush on you, and then you tell me you could tell anyway?” 

“You have a crush on me?”

“Well–yeah. I thought you could tell.”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” It felt like an eternity before he responded.

“I have a crush on you too, for the record.” 

“Yeah?”

“Most definitely.”

An older man came out of the building before you could walk back in.

“Reid! Where’d you go? JJ called, we need to leave for the office.” 

“Oh–um, I’ll call you? What’s your number?” You checked your lanyard and your pockets as best as you could while holding the flat-packed print. 

“I don’t have a pen or anything on me.”

“You can just tell me, I’ll remember it.”  After you said your goodbyes he disappeared again, and you went to put away the rest of the collection. Spencer called you the next morning to set up your first date, and though he never stopped amazing you, you wouldn’t describe him as intimidating anymore.

[theauthorunicorn]

Imagine | Nanami Kento

a painful rundown of your life with Nanami

notes: jjk shibuya arc is so painful to watch. I have read this arc but damn, it being animated hurts so much. anyway enjoy this heartbreak. reblogs, comment and likes are appreciated!

based on ariana grande's imagine.

Nanami Kento x Reader

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Nobody knew how you knew each other. Kento always gives off this stoic vibe while you're the life of the party. All of your friends, especially Satoru, tease how both of you are like polar opposites but still attract each other. Maybe he was the one made for you after all, and Nanami Kento is your other half.

You spend most of your time together, either cooking or lounging in his kitchen, telling him stories that he has probably heard before. You and your theatric movements are trying to describe what happened, and he is just humming and listening to everything.

"And that's it, Ken; that's what happened to the book that I was just reading, but," you pouted, "I really wish you could read it so that we can talk about it."

"I don't need to read it now; you've told me the whole plot anyway."

You sighed, "Oh, I saw a good book at the bookstore earlier; we could buy two of it so you can read it together with me."

He hums in agreement.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Kento was everything for you. When both of you first kissed, you knew that he was perfect for you. He doesn't need to tell you that it was perfect for him as well, because the way he kissed back was the answer you're looking for. You always loved how you two were in sync; he's either in the bathtub bathing his worries away or you, with no make-up, casually applying some skin care. It's like a routine.

"I love how my face fits so well in your neck, darling," he mumbled as he hugged you after he took his bath. "Hmm, me too, Ken; I love it."

Many nights were spent sleeping on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. Nobody knows this side of Nanami Kento, only you. He puts his guard down and acts like a regular man with no worries about tomorrow.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

"Hey Kento," you say, walking backwards to face him through the halls of Jujutsu High, "can you tell me all your secrets?"

His eyebrows knitted with your question, "What secrets, love?"

"I don't know," you shrugged, "that's why I'm asking."

He held your hands somehow, asking without a word to walk with him, "Sure. If you tell me yours as well."

You laughed as you gripped his hand tighter. "And all of the creep shit too, okay?"

"What creep shit?"

"The creep shits! So, I know it's true, Ken."

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

Kento will always treasure his moments with you; with one click of his phone camera, a moment with you is forever captured. He planned to print all the photos and make an album out of them. He thought about letting your future lineage know what kind of woman you are today. Young, vibrant, beautiful, and perfect. He wants to keep you forever until the end.

"Eh?! Why do you have these nasty pictures and videos of me?" Pouting as you scroll in his phone gallery, "I'm deleting this."

He snatched his phone. "No, you can't."

"What are you that obsessed with me?"

"Probably."

"Are you making a movie about me?"

"Maybe."

"Then, just make sure that you will name me in the credits as the lead actress." You smiled.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆⠄⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆

You reminisce about all of the days you spent with Kento. Every day of your life with him is played in your head like the lyrics of your favorite song.

You waved him goodbye, a kiss was planted on his lips, and a mumbled I love you was exchanged on the street of Shibuya on October 31, 2018.

"Be careful, Y/N. I'll see you later. I love you always and forever." He smiled.

"You too, my love." You answered, "I'll see you later." You didn't finish your sentence as a gore, painful premonition flashed in your eyes. If you were to ask someone to describe your cursed technique, you'd never be proud of it. You can see flashes of the future—an oracle of a definite future with no power to reverse it.

"I'll see you later or in another lifetime, Kento. I will scour the whole world to be with you," you promised him.

Again.

[hereticpriest]

Sriracha

Relationship: Dirk Brûlée x Reader

Warnings: Loss of parents, single mom reader raising her younger brother, rough sex, sex toys, sybian, vaginal fingering, oral sex, barely-there handjob, bad flirting, bad puns.

Once upon a time, if someone told you you would be going to a taping of Everything At Once, you would have laughed at them. A variety-talk show hybrid aimed at children wasn't something you ever thought you would be interested in. Once upon a time, you had your whole life together and spread out in front of you, ripe for the taking. You were enrolled in university, living in a decent apartment, with a stable boyfriend and a steady side job to support you. You spoke with your parents every few days, and had just attended your mother's wedding to your stepfather, with whom you had a decent relationship. She had you as a teenager, and the split with your father broke her heart, but your stepfather was a nice guy who brought some stability to her life. She gave birth to your new little brother shortly into your first year at university, and you loved to visit him whenever you could.

Now, you were a single mother to your younger brother, struggling to balance your responsibilities as a mother, father and sister with duties at work. Thankfully, you had a decent job as a PA for an art gallery owner who was also letting you intern with his art curator whenever you finished your work. Having an educated PA was a bonus that he wasn't about to let go of, and he paid well because you were loyal, and reliable, and probably at least a little bit because he pitied you. But you weren't above pity money - you needed it to take care of your little monster.

Your boss was also the only reason you managed to get these tickets and secure your place as 'best mom ever'. Being called mom wasn’t what you expected from the birth of your little brother, however, your parents passed away in a tragic accident when your brother was only four, and he barely remembered them. You were Mom more than you were his sister, and you’d learned to accept that over the last three years. Sean was a rambunctious seven year old, and like many kids his age, he was absolutely obsessed with Everything At Once. Your boss had connections with some of the crew of the show, and he was able to secure you tickets as a birthday gift.

"Not a good birthday gift for you, I suppose, but I know Sean is your world so hopefully it will suit." He’d said as he handed the tickets to you.

He knew you so well.

Which led you here, standing in the back of the studio with the other parents while Sean was led up into the audience by a friendly-looking young PA. Your baby was vibrating out of his light-up sneakers, and you couldn't stop smiling, happy to see him so excited. He'd insisted on dressing up like his idol, so he was wearing his most colourful clothes - a highlighter pink shirt and lavender pants, paired with his trusty light-up shoes. He had his Dirk Brûlée shirt stuffed into your purse so that he could see if he could get it signed after the taping, and a rather stunning photograph of the talk show host that you’d printed on expensive photo paper protected within a manila envelope. You had to promise to frame it in order for Sean to let you hold onto it during the taping.

Unlike your brother, you chose to wear a baby blue midi sundress with corset boning in the bodice, puffy sleeves, a tulle skirt, and a lovely neckline that enhanced your chest. It’s all very appropriate despite the attractive bodice, and paired with cute wedge sandals, it gives you a youthful and charming look. Despite not being on TV, you put on makeup and styled your hair to make sure you would look good since you didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of anyone. You wanted to dress your age, while still looking like an adult, and you never got to wear this kind of clothing at work since they had a strict business casual-adjacent dress code at the gallery. This dress would never fly without a blazer, and a blazer would be uncomfortable with the sleeves.

"God, she's young isn't she?"

"Gotta be a teen mom. She looks like she's barely out of high school. If she even graduated.”

You frown. You'd think by now you would be used to how catty other parents could be, but somehow, you still let it get to you. The judgement. As if they knew anything about you. A deep, centering breath brings you back to the present - Sean is happy, and their words don't matter. Instead, you focus on your sweet little brother, the most important (and only) man in your life. The hype guy is riling up the kids, bouncing around with an excitement you wish you could muster but have been struggling to manage with the extra hours you've been taking on. By the time you go to bed every night, you’re exhausted, passing out in bed the minute your head hits the pillow.

Thank god for your friends, all of whom act as amazing aunts and uncles for Sean. Your oldest friend, Nadia, has a son only a year younger than Sean, and they're thicker than thieves so they hang out often. Nadia picks the boys up from school every night, and watches Sean until you get home from work just after 5. After work, you make dinner nearly every night, then take a shower while Sean finishes his homework that he started at Nadia’s. Together, you watch the newest episode of Everything At Once on the PVR since Nadia doesn’t believe in letting the kiddos watch TV, and it’s a nice little hour of cuddle time that forces you to relax on the couch. Once that’s done, you both clean up - Sean cleans the living room and his bedroom while you clean the kitchen and whatever else needs to be tidied. Cleaning up throughout the week gives you the chance to spend weekends with Sean, with only very rare Saturday evenings reserved for gallery events.

You’ve committed to driving him to school every day on your way to work, and you’ve never missed a day except when you’re sick as a dog. You give Sean every moment of your time that you can, leaving very little for yourself, and you’re starting to feel the burn out. You haven’t had a real break since the death of your parents, and at this point, you couldn’t afford one any time soon either. Your friends would take Sean if you needed them to, but you feel guilty not spending time with him when you have it. Perhaps sometime soon, it wouldn’t feel like a failure to take more than a night or two to yourself. Even tonight, you have your friend Garrett and his wife Kimmie picking Sean up from the studio to go to their house for the weekend for their son’s birthday celebration, giving you a weekend to yourself for the first time in ages, and you feel guilty.

A PA informs the parents that Dirk is about to come out, and you snap out of the deep well of your thoughts, brightening up at the sight of Sean’s excited little foot taps. The theme music kicks in, and Dirk Brûlée swings out through the glitzy, colourful streamers to the raucous applause of the kids. You smile fondly as he passes out high-fives and fist bumps, and you can see the brilliant smile that spreads across Sean’s face as he gets one of his own. Your heart melts, and everything you’ve ever missed out on for him is worth it just to see him this happy.

Dirk greets a couple more kids, then ruffles Sean’s hair as he passes him towards his chair, and the show begins. The first guests are always there for an experimental, goofy skit-like interview - today being the stars of a popular children’s show that you vaguely recognize as something Sean watched when he was younger. The interview plays into the stars’ characters, with humorous nods towards the adults in the crowd with vague jokes that would go over a child’s head. This is followed by Dirk’s typical dance break, in which he introduces the musical guest, then hypes the kids up and dances with them to the musical guest’s set. You laugh as Sean gets his turn, and spins Dirk the way he normally would spin you when you two dance together, and you can’t help but feel some warm bubblies towards Dirk for the way he goes along with it seamlessly. It’s sweet that he seems to genuinely enjoy the children - there’s a sparkle in his eye that you recognize as sincerity. It’s such a rare thing to see, and despite hearing rumours that Dirk is a giant diva, you decide that you like him just for the way he interacts with the kids.

Once the dance break is over, Dirk welcomes the musical guest on stage for an interview, and you’re impressed that he was able to get a popular up-and-coming boyband. His accent is softer after years spent away from his home country, but you can hear it in his ‘r’s and the way he pronounces words with ‘th’ sounds. You don’t know much about Dirk, but you know his mother is a famous French actress and his father was a Hollywood director. Maybe growing up in the industry is what made him such a natural interviewer. The conversation flows easily, with Dirk asking surprisingly poignant questions for a show with a primarily child audience. He strikes an easy balance between fun and serious, keeping the kids engaged while also managing to keep his guests entertained as well. After the musical guest, the last guest is introduced with a scene from an upcoming kids’ movie, and you smile as Dirk begins a rambunctious interview with an actor you think you know, but can’t quite place from where. The show ends with another little dance party, after which Dirk promises to meet all the kids and answer questions after a quick break.

Sean nearly knocks you off your feet when he runs to you, and you lift him up into your arms as you watch Dirk walk backstage over his shoulder. The moms who were talking shit earlier greet their kids - a blond little girl with a very cute bow and seemingly endless pout, and a dark-haired boy who looks like he fell out of a bland ‘aesthetic’ home magazine photo. The poor kid looks uncomfortable in his khakis and polo shirt - Sean would scream if you tried to put him in an outfit like that. The judgemental stares don’t bother you too much now that you’ve got Sean to distract you. So long as he doesn’t notice, you couldn’t care less what they think of you. You pause to chat with a couple while Sean shows their daughter his robot book (which he refuses to leave home without), then spend the last couple minutes of the break fending off a (hopefully?) single dad who doesn’t seem to understand that you’re not interested. Finally, Dirk emerges from the back area looking refreshed, and an assistant corrals the kids and their parents into a line for the meet and greet. You end up at the back of the line due to Sean having one of his shoes untied which you make him fix, but you remind the pouting kiddo that Dirk promised he would meet every kid, so it doesn’t matter where in the line he is.

Sean has never been quite good at being patient, but he dutifully tries his best, clinging to your hand while you wait. You smile as one of the dads seems to flirt with Dirk, indiscreetly giving him his phone number, his daughter oblivious as she clings to her father’s pant leg. Dirk handles it pretty smoothly, waiting until the man is out of view before giving the phone number to a PA to get rid of it. Another PA leads those who’ve finished their meet-and-greet towards the door to leave, and you watch absently as the room slowly empties as you get closer to the end of the line.

Sean rocks on his heels as you get closer to the end of the line, and you feel a little bad for Dirk as one of the moms from earlier tries to flirt with him while he does his best to distance himself while still being kind about it. It reminds you of all the men who flirt with you at the gallery, as if your job requiring you to be nice to them means that you’ll somehow be more inclined to let them take you out. You wonder for a moment how often this happens to him, and if he ever takes anyone up on it. He’s a handsome man - you don’t blame anyone for being interested in him. Even his obnoxious moustache doesn’t take away from his gorgeous face. He’s probably nearly double your age, but you wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, as they say. Not that you needed the complication of a relationship on top of your seemingly endless pile of responsibilities.

Dirk’s in it for the kids, you realise as you watch him interact with them. He’s polite enough to the adults, but he lights up when he speaks with the children, genuinely interested in what they have to say. It isn’t in a creepy way either - it reminds you more of that feeling of meeting someone who you instantly connect and have something in common with. You wonder if perhaps the honesty of children resonates with him like it does for you. They hold nothing back, and when you treat them with respect and listen to what they have to say, they really blossom into something special. You can’t believe the amount of personality Sean has, and he’s only seven.

The line dwindles, and you begin to worry as you notice how long it’s taking. Perhaps, by the time it gets to Sean, Dirk might be tired of meet-and-greets and might rush things. Maybe you should’ve let him tie his shoes in line? You end up panicking for nothing - as the family before you departs, Dirk offers Sean a wide smile that makes his eyes crinkle charmingly.

“Hey! Nice to meet you. What’s your name?” Dirk asks, and Sean introduces himself eagerly.

“I’m Sean, and this is my mom- uh, sister. You can call her Mom - I do.” He informs Dirk with a blinding grin. Your cheeks get hot, and you pet Sean’s hair back out of his face.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” You murmur, giving him your name and letting him know that he very much does not need to call you Mom. You direct it at Sean just as much as Dirk, and the older man grins, taking your offered hand to kiss your knuckles instead of shake it. You swear his gaze runs quickly up and down your body, but the second you notice it, he looks away. He immediately directs his attention back to Sean, and you listen happily as your brother yaks the poor man’s ear off, telling him all about his robot book, how he picked his outfit especially to look like Dirk, and how he watched the show every day with you. The talk show host compliments his outfit and light-up sneakers, flipping through his book and commenting on a couple things, and you can see the way Sean thrives under the attention of the older man. Part of you laments the fact that you can’t give that same energy to him that he clearly craves.

Dirk offers to sign autographs and take photos, and you take several pictures of the two together before Dirk asks his PA to take a photo of the three of you. “Since you’re a fan too.” he claims, winking at you over Sean’s head as you approach. Your cheeks burn as he slides an arm around your waist even though it remains entirely appropriate. As you step away from him, you can still feel his heat against your side, and you wonder how he isn’t sweating his ass off in that leather jacket. Sean hands over his photo and shirt for Dirk to sign, which he does with a wide smile, his signature big and dramatic for the kids, and in a cherry red marker. You’re impressed with how quick he is while still keeping it legible.

“Vic, can you take Sean here to the prize room? Let him pick something special out, since he’s my last kiddo of the day.” Dirk instructs his PA, who seems surprised but happy enough to comply. Sean practically bounces out of his shoes as he grabs the young PA’s hand and follows her out of the room.

“Thank you for that. He… he really looks up to you.” You say as you’re left alone with the talk show host since security waits outside the room for the kids’ comfort. You don’t feel nervous being alone with him, even though normally you don’t particularly enjoy being alone with men.

“He looked like he needed it. So do you.” Dirk replies simply, shrugging and offering you a wry smile, “He’s a good kid.”

“He is. I never expected him, but he’s my entire world.”

“Unplanned pregnancy?” Dirk asks, but you can see from the look on his face that he’s only asking to coax the truth out of you - he doesn’t think Sean is yours. He didn’t miss the slip in your introduction. From the expression on his face, he’s not even trying to be subtle about it really.

“No, no, he’s my little half-brother. Our mom and his dad passed away in an accident when he was four. I was just out of uni, so I got custody of him. He doesn’t really remember them, so he calls me mom.” You reply, giving him the truth since he obviously wanted it, and not feeling guilty for putting that stricken look of sympathy on his face.

“I’m sorry.” Dirk murmurs earnestly, and you shrug your shoulders, managing a gentle smile.

“It’s okay. We’re doing okay. But this - today - really helps. He adores you. You give him a lot of confidence in his self-expression, and… I mean, I’m not naive, I know people talk about us. I know he knows, and I know he hears it sometimes. But you give him the confidence to brush it off most of the time, you know? I can’t thank you enough for that.”

Dirk takes a breath, shocked and touched, and you nearly jump out of your skin as he puts a hand on your arm.

“I think you’re discounting your own role in that.” He says gently, “it must be hard, becoming a mom right out of university. You’re only, what, 25 or 26?”

“Twenty-five.” You agree, and he nods. You watch his gaze trail over you again quickly, and you raise an eyebrow. He doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as he did with the other parents, though you’ve no idea why. You have no idea why he’s still talking to you. You expected him to maybe say hi and then go off to his dressing room or trailer. He was here for the kids, not the parents. He wasn’t here for you.

“Hey, gimme your phone for a sec.” Dirk instructs without room for negotiation, and you do it without thinking. He holds it up to you for Face ID to unlock it, then taps away while you try to scoot closer and peer at it.

“What are you doing?”

“Sending myself the photos we took today.” Dirk replies airily, smiling in a way that almost looks like he’s posing, then going back to typing.

“Oh… I can delete your number afterwards, don’t worry.” You reassure him.

“I’m not worried. Text me. I’d like to see you again.”

That makes you freeze, and you tilt your head, surprised.

“Sean, you mean?”

“No, you. It’s unfortunate that you’ve got the kid right now. I would’ve loved to make you my weekend plans.” Dirk muses with a hint of a pout, shameless as can be, while you stare at him in shock. He raises an eyebrow at your expression, a smug smile spreading across his lips as you do your best to catch up. Do you want to sleep with Dirk Brûlée? That’s what he’s asking for, right? He wants to fuck you, and he gave you his number (and took yours in return) to get a chance at something in the future. Are you really going to sleep with a talk show host who is likely nearly double your age and has a reputation as a diva? Then again, he doesn’t have a reputation for fucking around - not since he went to rehab some five or so years ago after a string of ill-advised flings and bad publicity.

“Sean is getting picked up from the studio to go to his friend’s house for their birthday sleepover.” You reply in a rush of breath, then blink in astonishment as if you hadn’t realised what you were saying. Dirk steps closer to you, skimming his hand up over your arm, his eyes darkening as he cups your cheek with his other hand.

“Come over to my place tonight. Stay the night. I’ll make you breakfast.” he demands, tipping your head back a little, his thumb stroking over your lips and down your throat. You choke on your own spit, eyes wide with shock at the way he’s touching you.

“I don’t have any clothes with me except what I’m wearing.”

“I’ll loan you something, pretty girl. How long has it been since you’ve had a break?” Dirk asks, and that makes you pause. He’s a high profile - it’s not like he’s going to kill you, probably. People saw you here, and you’ve got your location shared with Nadia at all times just in case. And honestly, you’ve got pretty good danger sense by now and you don’t get any bad vibes from the talk show host currently rubbing your hands in a tease of a massage, his thumbs skillfully digging into the meat of your palm in a way that makes you shiver. There’s a sincerity in his eyes. A desire that makes you think he might need this nearly as badly as you do.

“I drove here.” You inform him, and he hums, unworried.

“I assumed. Drive to my place. There’s plenty of room to park, and you’ll have the freedom to leave whenever you want. Have you eaten anything today? I can make dinner.” Dirk ends his stream of consciousness with an almost shy smile, and you feel your cheeks get hot at the intensity of his stare.

“Okay.” You finally reply, hesitantly lifting your hands to cup his cheeks, a twinge of heat licking up your spine when he leans into it, “Kiss me first.”

Surprisingly strong hands pull you in close, and you let yourself be drawn in, sliding your hands back in his hair and down over his shoulders as he leans in to press his lips against yours. He does not lure you into it - he doesn’t start sweet and gentle, or chaste and dry. Instead, he devours you, biting your lip and using your gasp to lick his way into your mouth. You thought his moustache would be ticklish, or at least feel unpleasant, but it doesn’t. He clearly grooms it well, and it isn’t scratchy against your skin. He moans into the kiss, adjusting to nip at you gently, sucking your lower lip into his mouth to scrape his teeth across it before kissing you properly again.

You hear footsteps approaching, gentle clicks of heels that make you gasp and pull away from Dirk with wide eyes. He grins as you hurry to wipe away the remnants of your lipstick from his face, then fix his hair to look less like you’ve been combing your fingers through it while he kisses you good enough to forget your own name. He rubs away a spot of smeared lipstick from your chin, then steps away a comfortable distance to flick through his phone as the PA from earlier, Vic, opens the door with Sean at her side blabbering away. He beams at the sight of you, holding a poster and a copy of the children’s book that Dirk wrote earlier this year. The man in question dutifully signs both for Sean, ruffling his hair while you try to collect yourself and thank Vic for taking care of your little monster.

Your phone buzzes, and you let out a soft sigh of relief, “Garrett and Kimmie are here, buddy, c’mon.”

Sean cheers, then shyly asks Dirk for a hug before he goes. You can’t help but melt a little as Dirk gives Sean a squeeze, then tells him to be good at the party. He catches your eyes, winking, then pats Sean on the shoulder as he says goodbye and departs for his dressing room. Vic leads you both out of the building, and you ask Sean if he wants to keep his merch to show his friend, or for you to take it home. The mental debate takes a while, but eventually, he gives it all to you to put in your car, just in case.

“You promised to frame stuff.” He reminds you, and you laugh.

“I did. I’ll get it done soon, I promise.”

Garrett and Kimmie meet you out front, and you help Sean into the car, putting his backpack at his feet so you can give him a couple of kisses and hugs. CJ, the birthday boy, complains until you walk around the car precariously close to the busy street to give him a hug as well, and then they’re off, leaving you alone. Once upon a time, you were very used to being alone, but now? Now, it felt empty. Maybe it was a good thing you’ve been picked up by the wild tv show host. You’re sure you’d go mad on your own all weekend.

You head to your car in the small parking area for audience members, putting Sean’s things into the back seat. As you settle into the driver’s seat and examine yourself in the mirror, you realise that your lipstick is basically gone, and you hope Sean was too excited about the day to notice. Your phone buzzes, and you find Dirk’s face looking back at you in his contact photo.

Address attached. Txt me when u get here n I’ll open the gate.

A pause, and then another message comes through.

The pool n hot tub r nice today. I’ll give u sumthin to swim in. If u want? Can u swim? R u allergic 2 anything? Do u like Thai food?

Well, he texts pretty much exactly how you figured he would. Somehow, it isn’t the turn off you thought it might be.

I can swim. It might be nice since it’s hot out today. Maybe I should go home first and get clothes? Are you even going to be there if I leave right away? I don’t have any allergies, and I like pretty much everything.

Already omw home. Driver. Up to u but I wanna see u in my clothes.

Okay, see you soon.

The drive to Dirk’s house isn’t too terrible, even with a bit of traffic. You start to get excited on the drive, as nervous as you are, to finally relax a little and do something for yourself. It’s been a long time since you’ve had the chance to let loose. You haven’t been on a date since your parents passed away, and you’ve only had a single one night stand since then. The most romantic relationship you’ve had has been with your vibrator. Based on the kisses he gave you earlier, you’re fairly sure Dirk will be able to give you a good night. If he doesn’t, at least you’ll get to lounge in his hot tub, sleep in what you imagine is a lavish bed, and maybe he’ll even feed you. Worst case scenario, you’re plenty good at getting yourself off.

Dirk Brûlée’s house is stunning. You’re not necessarily surprised - his vibrant aesthetic wasn’t necessarily what was popular these days, but it was something you saw often in the art community, and it worked for him. The house is an off-white brick with flowers and vines painted across it. The door is a large, old wooden thing that reminds you of a castle, as do the stained glass windows. The path up to the door is made of painted stones, and vibrant flowers line the flowerbeds along the sides of the path and the side of the house. You can’t wait to see the inside.

Your house is beautiful. I’m outside.

You pop a stick of gum into your mouth just to make sure your breath is fresh despite the fact that you’ve already made out with Dirk less than an hour ago. You grin when the gate begins to open, and you pull into the driveway to park. Your phone buzzes, and you glance at it as you turn your car off, your cheeks getting hot as you see the message.

Can’t wait 2 c u. I wanna take care of u n make u feel good, mon chou.

As you’re getting out of the car, you hear the front door open and nearly trip over your own feet when you see Dirk. He’s changed since he got home. He’s replaced his vibrant outfit with a pair of jeans that look painted on and a colourful apron with ‘Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo Mike Echo’ on the front. You snicker despite how cheesy it is, though you’re distracted when you realise he isn’t wearing a shirt underneath. As soon as you’re close enough, he pulls you into a kiss that has you clinging to the straps of his apron and trying to tuck your gum into your cheek. He leads you inside despite your distracted state, relieving you of your purse and setting it on the table in the front entrance. Your arms slip around his neck, trusting him to hold your weight while you carefully toe off your heels and tuck them out of the way. You only break the kiss when you smell what he’s cooking, and he mouths along your jaw and neck as you breathe in.

“God, what is that?”

“Mm, I’m making Thai lettuce wraps and fish tacos. Shouldn’t be long before it’s done.” He replies against your throat, the depth of his voice vibrating through you.

“God, that sounds delicious.” You murmur, tangling your fingers in his hair and hissing as Dirk sinks his teeth into the meat of your breast, “Ow! If you’re that hungry, I have something else you can eat, baby.”

Dirk laughs at your cheesy come-on and playfully sultry tone, nipping your chin, then kissing you properly while he backs you through the house towards the kitchen. You’d love to get a good view of Dirk's gorgeous home, but you’re far too distracted by the way this stupidly hot older man is licking his way into your pliant mouth while his hands smooth down your back to grab handfuls of your ass. When you part for breath, Dirk grins as he starts to chew, and that's when you realise that he stole your gum. With any other guy, it would probably be not just weird, but gross. You know it’s gross. And yet, something about it makes your cunt throb, and you tug on his hair as punishment for his thievery.

“Sugar, if you wanted gum, you could’ve asked.” You croon at him, and he laughs then blows a bubble. You bite it to pop it, taking the gum from him and dropping it in the garbage can at the end of the island in Dirk’s stupidly pretty kitchen. You finally get a good look at the interior of the house, and you’re not surprised to find it colourful, but you’re impressed by how cohesive it is. The blend of complementary colours in the open concept kitchen, dining room and living room make each room’s most impressive features pop. In the kitchen, vintage appliances in mint green and hand-painted tiles. In the living room, a mismatch of comfortable furniture including a royal purple chaise lounge and a phthalo green cabriole sofa. Last but certainly not least, in the dining room, a china cabinet full of what looks like uranium glass pieces that you definitely want to get a closer look at.

“Ma déesse.” Dirk murmurs against your ear, and you hum inquisitively, not understanding him but recognizing at least that ‘ma’ is a possessive and that means he’s probably talking to or about you. He nibbles at your ear, then finally breaks away from you, “Je dois finir de cuisiner.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying, honey, but you can keep talking all you like.” You reply simply, drawing another chuckle from Dirk as he finally gets back to cooking. You leave him to it, venturing into the dining room to peer at his uranium glass collection. It’s all well-maintained and unscratched, so you think it’s probably safe to be around, especially behind the thick glass of the china cabinet. It truly doesn’t take much longer for dinner to be ready, and you hum with excitement when Dirk calls for you, practically prancing up behind him and putting your arms around his waist. He sighs blissfully as you nuzzle your cheek against his back, stopping in place to enjoy the feeling, and you feel a twinge in your heart as you realise that despite being a tv show host and a relatively high profile person, he doesn’t have a lot of contact that he wants. You think back to today when that one mom kept touching his arm, and how you’d sympathised with him due to your own experiences with being harassed by overeager buyers at the gallery. Breathing in the scent of his cologne, you nip at the bare curve of his shoulder blade, sliding your hands under the apron to stroke his stomach.

“Mmm, thanks for cooking, handsome. How can I possibly repay you?” You coo teasingly, playing with his treasure trail, and he practically purrs as he leans into your touch.

“Plus-tard, tu peux sucer ma bite. Nous devons d'abord manger.” He murmurs, twisting in your arms and gripping the back of your neck, tilting your head back for a proper kiss.

“Mmm, uh huh, whatever you say.” You reply against his lips between kisses, draping your arms around his neck and laughing as he blows a raspberry against your mouth. You slap at his chest in an attempt at getting away from the strong grasp he has on you. He turns you around and slaps you on the ass, then turns back to keep plating your meal.

“Go sit down. Island or dining room, whatever tickles your fancy. What do you want to drink? I have pomegranate juice, orange juice, Sprite, Dr. Pepper and… I think I have Coke? Somewhere?” Dirk bends to peer into his fridge, and you watch with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile, examining the plentiful curve of his ass.

“Oh, you should definitely keep looking for that Coke.” You reply playfully, and Dirk snorts, glancing back at you over his shoulder.

“Should I? Is that what you want to drink?”

“Mhmm, yeah, haven’t had a Coke in like six years but it is DEFINITELY what I want to drink today if it keeps you bent over.”

That earns you a genuine laugh, the pleasantly baffled sort that says he’s not quite sure how he got you to himself. You giggle as he bends over a little further, back arched dramatically just for the laughs it earns him. He gives a loud ‘Aha!’ as he straightens up with a bottle of Coke in hand, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

“Now you’ve gotta drink it.”

“Ohh, woe is me.”

“Find a seat, ma chérie, or you’ll never get what you’re so clearly gagging for.” Dirk retorts, and you feel your cheeks get hot even as you pull one of the low-backed stools at the island out. He sets a plate in front of you, followed by the bottle of Coke, then pecks your cheek as he rounds the island to take his own seat.

“God, this looks so good. If you want me to make you breakfast in return, I definitely can.” You offer, but Dirk shrugs, reaching across to squeeze your thigh under the skirt of your dress. You moan around a bite of a Thai lettuce wrap, eyes rolling back in your head at the savoury bite of the peanut sauce.

“I like taking care of you.” He replies simply, then folds the little soft shell tortilla of his fish taco and takes a massive bite. You snicker, reaching across to wipe sauce off of the corner of his mouth and laughing as he licks it off your fingertips. Dinner is a relaxing affair, with you both mostly just devouring your food and occasionally feeding each other. Which generally ends in giggling and having to clean each other up when you accidentally smush sauce on each other’s faces, but you don’t mind. The food is delicious, and you’re fairly sure that even if he sucks in bed, you’d probably stick around for a round 2 just to get more food and the chance to keep giggling with him. You haven’t had this good of a time in years.

Once you’re done with eating, you collect your plates and bring them over to put them in the dishwasher as instructed. You yelp as Dirk steps up behind you, slipping his arms around you to cup just under your breasts, lifting them so he can cup them in his palms. He bites gently along the curve of your neck, pressing his hips into your butt so you can feel his growing erection. A grin stretches across your lips, and you bend at the waist so you can put the dishes into the dishwasher, laughing at the soft groan Dirk lets out as he strokes his hands up and down the curve of your back.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Dirk mutters, and you give a little wiggle of your hips, then straighten up and lean back into his chest.

“You’re so fucking easy.” You retort, and he snorts, sliding his hands around to squeeze your tits again.

“For you? Hell yeah, baby.” He retorts, kissing along your shoulder as he gently squeezes and massages your chest. A breathy moan escapes your lips, and you lean back into his chest firmly, letting him hold your weight as he rolls his thumbs over your nipples through the fabric of your dress and bra. Dirk whispers in french against your ear, but you can barely pick up the words, far too keyed up to focus on anything but the feeling of his big hands squeezing your chest. You reach behind you to clutch at his hair and Dirk groans softly against your ear, peppering kisses across your cheek. He spins you in his arms, laughing as you instantly pull the neck of the apron over his head, tossing it to the side so you can get your hands on his bare skin.

"Have you stretched today?" Dirk asks while stroking your sides, grabbing handfuls of your hips and squeezing. You moan quietly, running your open hands over his chest so you can feel the tickle of his chest hair against your palms.

"Uh..." Your cheeks grow hot, and you feel stupid, but can't help yourself but ask, "Do you mean my-"

Dirk interrupts you with a laugh, kissing you softly as he nuzzles his nose against yours in a surprisingly affectionate manner, "No, mon trésor, your pretty body. These incredible legs."

You gasp as he pulls one of your legs up to his hip, squeezing your thigh hard enough to almost hurt in a delicious way that sends sparks up your spine. You're already wet and he's barely even touched you.

"Uhm, I did yoga during my lunch break." You mumble, "for like, fifteen minutes."

Another laugh, and Dirk kisses you again, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you up onto his hips. You cling to his back as he carries you further into his house. You pass a simple bathroom that seems to have mosaics in tile across the floors and walls in the brief glance you get, then a series of photographs and accolades in the stairwell up to the second floor. Dirk pauses by a dark room that seems to be relatively empty, before humming to himself in a way that you read as ‘maybe later’ before he continues on past another bathroom and what looks like two guest bedrooms. An office is next, and then he’s kicking open the door to the master bedroom. This room seems to be the most normal in the house, though it is no less artistic. There’s a huge stained glass window and door that leads to a balcony with gold leafing on the metal. The California king-sized bed is pushed into an arch-shaped alcove in the wall, piled high with blankets, and resting on a plush carpet that you’re sure would feel like silk under your toes. The walls are aegean blue and covered with large, extremely intricate gold mandalas that you can’t help but stare at even as Dirk works a lovebite into the delicate skin of your throat.

“Your bedroom is beautiful.” You mumble, and he hums what may have been a thank you as you stroke his hair. There’s a large walnut vanity against the opposite wall of the bed, though the spot across from the end of the bed is taken up by what absolutely must be a custom mirror considering the size of it and the intricacy of the gold-leafed frame. There’s a door next to the vanity that leads to what looks like a massive bathroom, and the closet has double doors, so you assume it’s a walk-in. Dirk carries you over to the bed and lays you back on his navy sheets, crawling over you as he kisses down the centre of your chest.

“Can I take your dress off?” He asks, and you groan softly, trying to remember what underwear you wore today. A lick to the top of your breast wipes that thought from your mind, and you nod quickly, breath stuttering in your throat. Dirk loosens the corset bodice with clever fingers, nuzzling his nose and tickly moustache against the skin between your breasts. You lift your hips as he pulls the dress up to your waist, then let him support the arch of your back as he tugs it over your head, and your cheeks get hot as you realise what you’re wearing underneath. Dirk freezes, licking his lips, and you groan softly with embarrassment.

Large hands skillfully unclip your cow-print bra, and you let out a ragged gasp as Dirk bites the curve of your breast as he removes it. You almost think he’s going to let you get away with it until he rolls his tongue over your nipple, gives it a quick suck, then pouts up at you as he rests his chin against your chest.

“Aww, I thought I’d get a little milk for my efforts.” he teases, and you bat at him.

“It’s my laundry day! You try having a fucking seven year old!” You complain, cheeks on fire.

“Non, non, ne vous méprenez pas. J'aime votre lingerie.” Dirk insists, and you scowl at him until he realises his use of his native tongue, “Don’t misunderstand me. I love your underwear, my sweet girl. Especially these.”

You gasp as he tugs on the front of the novelty thong you’re wearing, a white strip of a thing with ‘I love cock sauce’ written on the front. His grin makes you want to slap him, but you refrain, just barely. You’re tempted to make excuses and tell him that it was novelty underwear that came in a box of extra hot hot sauce, but you decide against it.

“And here I thought you’d be more interested in what’s beneath it.” You purr, pushing him back a little so he can watch as you pull your thong aside, rub your fingers through the wet mess of your cunt, then slide one finger inside of yourself. Dirk groans lowly, stroking your thighs as he watches, his pupils blown with desire. You smirk at him as you add a second finger on your next thrust, and finally, Dirk snaps out of his awed surveillance. He leans down to kiss along your stomach, using his knees to spread your legs wider while slapping your hand away, then cupping your cunt in his palm.

“How much do you care for that thong?” Dirk asks quietly, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t.”

“Fantastique.” He replies, gripping the fabric in one hand and ripping it off of you, “I’ll give you some of mine instead.”

You stare at him with an open mouth, not your most attractive look, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He cups you again, leaning down to trail his lips across your chest, swirling his tongue around your nipples as he sucks first one, and then the other into his mouth.

“Your moustache tickles.” You mumble and he laughs quietly against your skin, “S’kinda nice.”

“I’m glad you like it, chérie. Let me know how it feels on your pretty cunt, oui?” He coos playfully, kissing his way down your stomach. He leans up for a moment to say ‘Alexa, play red playlist’ before dipping back down to swirl his tongue in your belly button in a way that makes you yelp and laugh. Music fills the room at just the right volume, and you run your fingers through Dirk’s caramel hair as the low instrumentals fill the room. You’re surprised to find the vibes just right - not too serious, not the bassy kind of shit that acts more as a pace-guide than anything else, and nothing loud enough to take you out of the moment. It takes Dirk a second to get settled between your legs, and you feel your cunt throb as you just barely hear him mumbling to himself over the music.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m introducing myself to your pretty little pussy, ma déesse. Telling her how pretty she is. How much I’m going to love on her.” Dirk replies, “I’ll make you feel so good, princesse. Tu me rends fou - fuck, so fucking stunning.”

You cover your face, whining softly as he finally leans in to kiss your clit, gentle as can be. His moustache tickles, and you start to close your legs, but he gives your thigh a sharp slap.

“Open, baby. Let me lick your pretty little pussy. She’s so lonely.” Dirk coos, pouting sympathetically up at you, then running the flat of his tongue across the length of your cunt. You arch off the bed, and he puts an arm over your stomach to hold you still as he laps up the honey dripping from you.

“God, Dirk, Jesus!” You gasp, and he snickers.

“Calling out to all of your deities, princesse?” he teases, closing his lips around your labia and sucking gently to love on all of you. He’s sloppy at first, intentionally so, warming you up with wide laps of the flat of his tongue, then fucking his tongue into your clenching heat while you gasp and yank on his hair. He doesn’t seem bothered at all by how rough you are with him, humming happily as he closes his lips around your clit and you nearly yank his hair out at the roots.

“Fuck, fuck, why’re you so good?” You moan, and Dirk practically purrs, delving in a little more eagerly. He rolls his tongue over your clit, trapping the sensitive bud in his mouth while he presses two thick fingers into your cunt. You nearly kick him in the ribs, gasping for breath at the sudden fullness, since his digits are far thicker than yours and it’s been a while since you’ve had a play time with your vibrator.

“Relax, mon trésor, I’ll take care of you. Je vais te faire sentir si bien. Vous ne voudrez jamais partir.” He coos, and noticing the way you yank on his hair, he glances up to meet your eyes and translate for you, “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby. You’re never going to want to leave.”

Your moans are probably deafening - you can’t tell if you’re being too loud, you’re too lost in sensation as Dirk’s fingers press into the spot inside of you that makes you clench around him tight enough that he chuckles. He strokes that spot as he rolls your clit in his mouth, and you feel your spine stiffen as you get closer to the edge.

“You’re going to strangle my cock.” He teases, and you groan in response, pushing his face back down against your cunt needily.

“Keep your mouth busy, m’so close.”

“Demanding.” he coos, and it sounds like praise as he gets back to work on your dripping pussy.

“Shut the fuck up, oh my god, please, make me cum.” You beg, and Dirk laughs against you, thrusting his fingers faster into you as he sucks your clit with a bit more determination, finally taking your pleasure a little bit more seriously. He moans around you, spreading his fingers a little to stretch you open a bit more. The pressure builds and builds, and you yank on his hair as a hard suck to your clit sends you reeling over the edge of the cliff into oblivion. Your vision goes white, your legs shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, and Dirk strokes them soothingly as he laps up the evidence of your release. He pulls away just as you start to get overly sensitive, and he kisses a trail up your belly as he settles between your legs.

“Fuck.” You pant, staring up at the ceiling as your vision is returned to you, and you blink a couple of times.

“Such a foul mouth.” Dirk teases playfully, kissing you so softly you barely even feel it. His moustache is wet with your essence as he drops his lips to kiss along your neck, letting you catch your breath. He seems so unhurried, but you can feel the throb of his cock through his too-tight jeans. When you look down, you find them undone, likely to give himself some breathing room, and you smile at the sight of the pink head of his cock sticking out from the waistband of his boxers.

“Take those stupid jeans off. You’re gonna cut circulation off to your balls with pants that tight.” You mutter, and he laughs but obediently shuffles out of his trousers, shedding his boxers along with them.

“You okay for more, or do you need a break?” Dirk asks, and you roll your eyes at him.

“I’m fine. Don’t get cocky.” You retort, and he shows you his teeth with how wide he grins.

“Okay, Miss ‘Why are you so good?’. I’m just being polite.”

Your cheeks are on fire as you spit in your hand and wrap it around him, stroking him from base to tip. You’re just a little bit mean with the way you squeeze the head, then reach down to cup and roll his balls in your palm. He chokes, then laughs breathily as he arches into your hand, a rumbly groan rising in his chest.

“Okay, okay, point taken. C’mon, chérie, hands and knees.” Dirk ‘helps’ you roll over onto your belly, though it’s more of a hindrance than anything since he keeps grabbing and squeezing your ass. You situate yourself, getting as comfortable as you can, knowing this is going to be a lot but unwilling to stop. Dirk strokes your lower back, adjusting the angle as he rubs the head of his cock against you. You try to relax, but you’re admittedly nervous - he’s the biggest you’ve ever taken, and you know his girth is going to be a bit overwhelming at first.

“Deep breath, baby. Biiiig stretch.” Dirk coos, and you would kick him if he wasn’t pressing the thick head of his cock into you, wiping every thought you’ve ever had from your mind. You grip his sheets tightly, going from your hands to bracing on your forearms with one single thrust. You feel uprooted. Unmoored and awash in riptide by the stretch of too much too fast. It feels like it goes on forever, but eventually, Dirk’s pelvis presses up against your ass, and he pets your lower back adoringly. You can feel his groan vibrating through you despite the fact that he isn’t leaning over your body yet, and you’re surprised to find it as loud as your own cry of his name. He stays still for the moment, letting you catch your breath while you deal with the fact that you can feel him in your lungs - can barely breathe for how deep he is.

“Not compensating.” You mumble under your breath, dizzy with fullness, and Dirk hums inquisitively, but you shake your head.

“Are you okay?” He asks, and you reach back one arm to smack him as if he’s doing something wrong by checking in. Luckily, he seems to find it amusing, as he chuckles at you and catches your hand. You shiver as he slides his hand up your forearm.

“Wait, Dirk-” You protest, but you’re not quick enough. He pulls you up by your arm, grabbing the other with his free hand, and you cry out at the change in angle. The pressure inside of you eases as he slowly pulls out, but the relief is short-lived, and you whine as he thrusts back in rather sharply. He sets a measured pace, not too slow, but not quick enough that you don’t take every single inch of him with every rock of his hips. Strong hands hold you by the arms, keeping you somewhat upright as he makes a solid effort at breaking you. Your breasts bounce every time he ruts into you, and if you were capable of conscious thought at the moment, you’d realise how sore you’re going to be later from this position. Eventually, Dirk seems to have pity, releasing his grip on your arms and pushing you down into the mattress instead, panting fervent French as he rocks your world.

You’re drooling. You can feel it under your face, and you’re fairly sure you’re cross-eyed, lost in the pleasure he’s giving you. You can feel yourself rocking back into his thrusts, taking as eagerly as he gives it to you, forcing him to be just a little rougher. If you’re going to ache later, you want it to be a bone-deep ache that’s worth the monumental effort. His hand slides up your spine to cup the back of your neck, both of you slick with sweat, and you have no idea how long it is before his other hand slips between your legs and starts to play with your aching clit.

“Come for me, love, come on. Fuck, you’re so fucking gorgeous, how the fuck did I get you to come home with me? C’mon baby, lemme make you feel good. Let go for me.” Dirk groans behind you, and you feel dizzy and cockdumb as he finds the right angle to send you screaming over the edge again. A ragged groan rips from your lover’s lips as you clench around him, and his hips stutter, the pace of his thrusts ruined. You cling to the sheets as you feel heat flood your cunt, the last couple of pumps of Dirk’s hips fucking it deeper into you. He doesn’t collapse atop you, instead carefully manuevering the both of you until you’re laying against his bare chest, face nuzzled into his fuzzy pec.

“You okay?” Dirk asks after a few minutes of panting for breath and snuggling. You groan against his skin.

“I think you broke my hips.” You retort, and he laughs, giving you a gentle squeeze on the butt.

“I promise I didn’t, chérie. Relax a little longer, then I’ll clean us up. Do you want to watch a movie or something?” Dirk asks, and you melt at his gentle tone, pouting a little as you consider your options.

“Maybe. Is more off the table?”

“Never, ma déesse.” Dirk replies, and you hum, leaning up to kiss him softly. He pets your hair back out of your face, lips pressing to your eyelids, and then your nose before returning to your wanting mouth.

“Don’t commit to something you can’t keep up with. I know you’re older than me.” You remind him, and he gives a diva-like gasp, though he’s still grinning.

“I’m only forty.” He protests, “Still plenty young enough to rock your world. Clearly.”

You giggle, using every ounce of willpower you have to pull yourself up from your position snuggled up against his side, throwing a leg over his hips so you can sit on top of him.

“So, you’re ready to fuck me again?” You ask, brow raised skeptically. He snorts, holding your hips to keep you steady and pushing his thumbs into the softer skin in the curve of your pelvis.

“Find me a guy older than 20 who can manage that, ma petite femme. But, I can take care of your pretty little cunt until I’m ready.” Dirk promises, sweeping his hands up over your sides, “Wanna meet Crème Brûlée?”

You can’t help but laugh, leaning down to kiss him again, “Didn’t I already?”

He laughs, rolling you both over so he can get up, then helping you to your feet. Your legs are a little unsteady, so he pointedly raises an eyebrow at you, but helps you from the room.

“I am not juvenile enough to have named my dick.” he insists, and you snort, following him towards the dark room he’d mused over earlier that night.

“Liar. I don’t believe that for a second!”

“Well, I’m certainly not telling you when you’re just going to make fun of me. Calling me old and cocky. Very rude.” He teases as he opens the door fully and flicks on the light. The room is a deep, royal purple, with one wall entirely taken up by mirrors. There’s a large vanity by the window, and racks of outfits that look like they each might’ve cost a thousand dollars minimum. There’s also a massage table tucked into a corner, likely only pulled out when it’s to be used.

“This is where I keep my nicer stuff. Including Crème Brûlée.” Dirk gestures to the centre of the room, where a dark waterproof mat is set out, and upon which rests what you vaguely recognise as a sybian from a little too much time on the Hub. Your eyes go wide as saucers, and Dirk strokes your lower back soothingly, nipping the tip of your ear.

“Is that…?”

“Mhm. No pressure, baby. If you aren’t into it-”

“I am very into it. Very. Gimme a second to take this in.” You cut him off, and he laughs quietly as he slips up behind you instead. His lips trail a path across your shoulder, hands stroking over your bare stomach before one slips between your legs to collect the cum leaking from you and push it back inside, “These are like, several grand.”

Dirk hums his agreement, stroking wet fingers over your clit, “With the attachments? Certainly. Do you wanna try him out?”

You whimper, grabbing and squeezing his forearm gently as you consider it.

“Yeah. But I don’t want you to stop touching me.” You admit, and he sighs dreamily, rewarding you with slow strokes to your clit.

“I won’t. I can sit behind you, play with your pretty body while you ride it. Once I’m ready, I can even fuck you on it. We can see how many times I can make you come before me.” Dirk’s offer is salacious, and you wet your lips, excitement sending heat burning up your spine.

“Yeah… yeah, ruin me.” You request, and you feel Dirk’s groan as much as you hear it. He guides you over to the toy, wiping it down with a body-safe sex toy cleaner just to be extra safe before he guides you to sit atop the grinder pad. He lets you get settled, fetching a bottle of lube that he sets on the corner of the mat within reach, then sits behind you on the machine. You sigh as he warms up some lube in his hand before he generously rubs it into your cunt, coating you in it to protect you from any possible irritation since the grinder pad is big enough to cover most of you. Once you’re settled and comfortable, he rubs the excess over his cock and balls just in case, then reaches for the remote.

“Ready, baby?”

“Ready. I want you to fuck me again as soon as you’re ready. Need to feel you stretch me open again.” You murmur, breathless with excitement, and it’s the last coherent thought you have for quite some time. The vibration starts relatively gentle, but still overwhelming in your post-orgasmic state. You tremble, attempting to lift your hips, but Dirk grabs you and holds you down.

“Ah, ah, ah. Be a good girl.” Dirk commands, and your spine turns to jelly. It’s too easy to make you come this quickly after the last one. As soon as Dirk turns the sybian up a notch, and then two, you’re crying out for mercy as you lean back into his sturdy chest, your hands reaching back to blindly tangle in his hair. One orgasm turns into two as he turns it up even higher, and you can hear yourself sobbing, distantly, almost like it’s someone else. Dirk gently pushes you to lean forwards, and you gasp for air as the blunt head of his cock presses into you mercilessly. He pulls you back to sit on him, positioning you so that your clit is still rubbing against the grinder pad, and you see stars. Lightning flashes behind your eyes as two turns to three.

“Gripping me like a vice.” Dirk growls against your shoulder, and you sob his name, clinging to him like he’ll save you from the torment he’s putting you through, “I’m not going to last if you keep this up.”

Like it’s your fault.

You scream as your fourth orgasm on the sybian rips through you like a bullet, and you’re shaking as Dirk finally pulls you up off of the machine, laying you down beside it with a fresh load of his cum stuffed deep inside you. He turns off the machine, collapsing beside you on the mat and pulling you into his arms, panting for breath. You blink to try and clear the fog from your brain, glancing at his watch to find you’ve been on the sybian for quite a while, even if it’s felt like both five seconds and five hours.

“You okay?” Dirk asks again, and this time, you curl into his arms and nod sleepily.

“So, so beyond okay.”

~

You wake in the morning curled up in Dirk’s lavish bed, naked but clean, your face buried in his chest. His arm is looped around your shoulders, your legs tangled together, and the sound of his heartbeat is so soothing you almost go back to sleep. Instead, you sit up, straddling Dirk’s leg simply because of the position you’d been in when you awoke. He blinks blearily up at you, rubbing one large hand over his face, then yawning.

“Bonjour.” He mumbles, and you smile, leaning down to kiss him closed-mouth to avoid morning breath. He smiles up at you in that dreamy way that makes you melt like warm butter, “There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom. I’ll use the other one. Steal whatever you need, and I’ll get some clothes for you.”

You thank him, slipping out of bed and stretching, bare as the day you were born. It takes you a second to walk properly, but you manage, heading into the bathroom to wash up. By the time you leave, the bedroom is empty save for a shirt and a pair of boxers on the vanity. The shirt is a Dirk Brûlée shirt which makes you snicker, while the boxers have little Sriracha bottles on them and ‘Flaming Hot’ on the ass.

When you enter the kitchen, you find Dirk cooking breakfast in a pair of obnoxious silk boxers while listening to 80s pop music. He smiles at you as you come into view and sit at the island, a hint of something in his eyes that makes your tummy do somersaults. You grab a knife from the block, and an apple from the fruit bowl on his counter, cutting it into slices while you watch him shimmy around the kitchen cooking what looks like far too much food for two. You’re far too fond of him to protest. Instead, you pop a slice of apple into your mouth and stare at the little dimples in his lower back.

“How do you want your eggs, ma petite femme?” Dirk asks, and you gaze dreamily at his stupidly pretty face, chin propped up on your fist.

“Fertilised.” You reply mindlessly, then slip another slice of apple into your mouth. Dirk’s laugh is loud and disbelievingly happy, and he leans across the island to kiss you.

“I can make that happen.”

“Should I throw out my birth control?” You ask playfully, and he snickers.

“Who says I haven’t already?” 

“Usually you don’t tell someone when you’re gonna baby trap them, honey.”

“Is it a trap if you know about it?” Dirk queries, flipping a pancake and grinning at you. You can’t help yourself. You get up from your stool, circling the island to wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his back.

“You can baby trap me any day, sugar.”

~

The weekend passes in a whirlwind of laughter and fun and ridiculously good sex. You try out Dirk’s hot tub, then laze around catching sun in his pool. Overheated, you both lay on the couch to watch a movie with cold juice, cuddling even though you’re both too hot for it to be totally comfortable. Dirk translates his pet names for you, though he refuses to translate ‘ma petite femme’ even though that one seems the most obvious to you. He tells you his future plans for the show, and listens while you tell him all about your job at the gallery.

You both take a good hundred pictures throughout the weekend, though neither of you post any of them. You make lunch, and Dirk orders out for dinner as a little treat. He doesn’t like going out too often since most restaurants have the allure of alcohol, and he’s still recovering. He shows you his five year coin, which he keeps on him at all times. He tells you about his parents, and you tell him about yours, and Sean, and he strokes your hair as you vent a little bit about how hard it’s been raising him on your own.

By Sunday afternoon, you dread the thought of leaving. You’ve always been quite independent, but you don’t want to be away from Dirk. He promises to call you, offers several times to let you stay over with Sean, though you both agree that might be a little weird for the poor kid and decide against it. He kisses you about a thousand times before letting you leave, and you see him watching you from the window as you drive off.

Your home feels cold and lifeless when you get home, and you lament the lack of colour. You’ve never been bold enough to go wild with decorating your condo, knowing you’ll have to pay an arm and a leg to repaint it should you ever want to sell. You’ve been home for twenty minutes and you’re already sick of it. As you sit at your computer, still wearing Dirk’s shirt, boxers and a pair of gym shorts, you google ‘ma petite femme’ on a whim.

The direct translation is ‘my little woman’, but you note that it is used instead to mean ‘my little wife’ in practice.

You change into your own clothes, then head out to get groceries for the week. As you’re on your way home, you stop in at a nearby store where you pretend you’ve never been before as a very upstanding single mother. You walk out with a discreet bag, and head home to put away your groceries. Finally, once you’re done and you’ve sufficiently adulted for the day, you unwrap your purchase. Three hours after you left Dirk’s house, he receives a photo of a vibrant pink cock ring in a ring box, and a simple text message.

You need to rename your sybian. I wanna be Crèmed Brûlée.

[aelinad]

Tangled Strings Of Fate

Chapter 06 - The Party Pt. 2

~~ Namjoon's POV (a couple of days ago)~~

"And that's the final track done. Everything seems ready for the listening party this Saturday. Any last-minute tweaks, or should I send it through?" Hwan-seok asked, pulling off his headphones.

We were in the production room, wrapping up Indigo for its final check before the listening party. Tonight was the deadline to submit the tracklist for production, and the albums would start printing soon. It was almost midnight; Hwan and I had been here for six hours, perfecting every detail. Somewhere along the way, Hana texted back, replying to the list of things to do in Seoul I'd sent her. Keeping track of places to visit was just something I did, so putting it together for her wasn't a big deal. What was a big deal, though, was the fact that I'd texted her at all.

After so many people had tried to exploit me for attention, part of me worried she'd do the same. Had I been arrogant, assuming she didn't know who I was? If she did, she never gave it away, and there hadn't been any hint of our encounter in the media, no matter how much I searched. Maybe that's why I texted her—to test if she was genuinely different from everyone else in my life lately. Worst case, I'd change my number again, something I'd gotten used to by now. But then she sent a sweet, inviting reply halfway through our listen of the album, and I panicked, replying back coldly to keep my distance. I regretted it immediately. I knew better than to let my insecurities mess things up.

Then, as we reached the final track, she messaged me again. Unexpected. She invited me to a gallery exhibition—something from the list I'd sent her, something I'd wanted to check out myself. Lost in thought, I barely noticed Hwan talking to me again.

"Bro, are you even listening? What's up with you tonight? Something on your mind?" Hwan looked at me with concern.

I sighed heavily. "There's this girl..."

Hwan's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned forward, listening as I told him about meeting Hana. I explained how, for the first time, I felt normal around someone new. How I wanted to keep talking to her, to get to know her, but ended up messing it all up by overthinking. Now, I didn't know if meeting her at the gallery was a good idea.

"Damn, man. Didn't see that coming," he smirked. "You sound kinda whipped, Dimples."

I shot him a glare, but he raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning.

"Hear me out," he said. "You're overthinking it. Yeah, you're famous, but that doesn't mean everyone's out to use you. Maybe she genuinely likes you—wants to know you for you?"

I shifted in my chair, staring down at the console. "You don't get it, Hwan. I don't have the luxury of taking that risk anymore. Every time I let someone in, it backfires. How am I supposed to know she's different?"

Hwan shook his head. "You're focused on what could go wrong. But what about what could go right? You said it felt... normal, right?"

Reluctantly, I nodded, recalling the ease of walking beside her, laughing over the simplest things. "Yeah. It was... nice. Different."

"Then what's the harm in trying?" Hwan leaned in, his tone serious. "You deserve that. I get it, you've been through a lot. But you can't hide behind walls forever."

His words began to sink in, loosening the knots I'd twisted in my mind. "And if it's just another mistake?"

"Then it's a mistake, and you deal with it," he said simply. "The company can spin it, and people will forget in no time. But at least you'll have tried. Don't let past bad experiences—okay, maybe a lot of them—keep you from meeting someone genuine."

I mulled it over, thinking about her gallery invitation. Nothing flashy, just a simple exhibit. Something I could easily arrange to go to quietly without the media or general public catching on. It was the sort of thing I'd attend with a friend anyway.

"You don't have to decide now," Hwan suggested. "Sleep on it. See how you feel tomorrow. If you're still curious, text her back about the gallery. Just see what happens."

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Honestly? Yeah, I do," he replied, shrugging. "And if it goes well, maybe invite her to the listening party. She'd be around people who already know you—no hiding, no pretence. You could just be yourself and see how she handles it."

I hesitated, picturing it. It felt almost too simple. "I don't know if I'm ready for her to meet everyone."

"Hey, it's just a thought," Hwan said, hands raised again. "But if you're that worried, having her meet you in your element could be a good test. You'd know quickly if she's the real deal."

He was right. It would be a chance to see if Hana was truly different. Even with doubts tugging at me, something about the idea felt right.

~~ Hana's POV (present) ~~

After our conversation in the kitchen, Jungkook and I made our way back to the party. I spotted Selina right where I left her initially, seated on the couch, chatting with her friend's cousin. The room buzzed with activity; people were scattered around, some sitting, some standing, while others were lost in the music, dancing to the rhythm of Namjoon's new songs.

As we walked, I noticed Taehyung talking with a group standing around the couch, while Jimin sat on the opposite side, occasionally glancing over at Selina with an expression I couldn't quite read. It made me wonder if there was more to their interactions than met the eye. I'd have to remember to ask her about it later.

"Are you gonna go and talk to Namjoon after the songs finish?" Jungkook's voice came from just behind me, a gentle reminder of the conversation waiting to happen.

"Yes," I replied with a slight nod. "I think it's only fair to finish what we started."

My eyes drifted to the back of the room, where Namjoon stood near the DJ, a quiet presence amidst the crowd. Then, as the song faded out, he took the microphone, and his deep voice filled the space.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, and the room quieted. "This album, Indigo, has been a journey. A way for me to speak in silence, to express myself truthfully without causing confusion." His gaze swept over the crowd, his words carrying a depth that felt almost like a confession. "I think of Indigo as the last archive of my twenties, a blend of rock, pop, hip-hop, and funk that captures who I am, in this moment."

As he spoke, I could see how much this project meant to him, the way his emotions came through in every word. I was so captivated that I forgot I was supposed to make my way back to Selina. Just as I took a step back, my gaze accidentally met his, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though he was speaking only to me. But then, a familiar jolt as I stumbled—again, nearly tripping over who I believe was the same guy who had bumped into me earlier.

As I stumbled, expecting to hit the ground, Jungkook's arm slipped around me, his hand resting at the small of my back. He pulled me close, steadying me with an ease that felt natural, almost instinctive. His hand lingered there, warm and grounding, and for a moment, it was as if we'd stepped out of the noisy party and into our own quiet space. I looked up, and his eyes met mine with a hint of a smile, something soft and unguarded. My heart fluttered, betraying me completely, and suddenly I was all too aware of how close we were.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, the words just between us.

"Yeah," I managed, barely above a whisper. "Thanks for... catching me.Maybe we should get back before I fall again. Have I mentioned I'm clumsy?"

"You didn't need to. I just saw it firsthand," he teased, his eyes sparkling.

"Whatever you say, Ian," I replied, throwing him a look, which only made him laugh.

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

Feigning innocence, I smiled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

After what felt like a small eternity, we reached the couch. Selina stood up, her eyes scanning my face as though reading every detail.

"Are you alright? I saw you almost falling back there," she asked, her tone laced with concern.

"I'm fine! Jungkook caught me before I could break anything."

"Good." She shot him a grateful smile. "So...are you two...you know, okay now?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think we're fine."

"And what about Namjoon?"

I glanced over to where Namjoon had returned to the crowd. "Haven't had the chance to talk to him yet, but I'll probably catch him when things calm down."

We sat back down, sinking into the plush cushions. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Jimin and Jungkook chatting in Korean, discussing the new album's release and what they each liked about it. I picked up bits and pieces, though my understanding of Korean was still shaky. I let my mind drift, replaying the night's events over and over.

I must have zoned out, because I didn't notice when someone seated across from me started talking until Selina nudged me lightly.

"Oh! Sorry, yes?" I stammered, snapping back to reality. Standing in front of me was none other than Jin from BTS, a warm smile lighting up his face.

"Nice to meet you," he said, his tone friendly. "Hana, right? Jungkook mentioned that you know Namjoon, too."

"That's me," I replied, glancing at Jungkook, who gave me a small, encouraging smile.

Jin turned to Jungkook, his eyebrows raised slightly. "Geu saram-eun uri-ga nugunji ara?" he asked, and I caught enough to understand: Does she know who we are?

I couldn't help but smile. "Yes, I know exactly who you all are. You're Jin from BTS. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Worldwide Handsome." The title earned a laugh from the guys around us—I guess my quick Google search hadn't been for nothing.

Jin looked momentarily taken aback, clearly not expecting me to understand. "Do you speak Korean?" he asked, obviously impressed.

"Not fluently yet, but I'm getting there," I admitted, laughing a little.

Still grinning, he turned back to Jungkook. "Na-neun i-geos-eul jo-ahanda," he said with a nod—I like this one.

***

The other members—J-Hope and Yoongi—came over to greet me as well, their smiles as warm and welcoming as they were on screen. Each one of them had a unique vibe, but there was an undeniable kindness to all of them that put me at ease. It felt surreal standing among them, sharing laughs and small talk.

Selina, meanwhile, had settled in with Taehyung and J-Hope, who were already laughing and swapping jokes like they'd known each other for years. I watched as she let loose, leaning into her natural friendliness. She seemed right at home, giggling along with them like they were old friends.

After a moment, I let my eyes wander across the room, scanning for Namjoon. I finally spotted him toward the back, standing by the equipment table, quietly helping pack up some cables and speakers now that the main listening session had ended.

I took a deep breath. This was my moment; he was finally alone. I glanced at Jungkook as I got up, who gave me a reassuring nod, as if he already knew what I was about to do. With a small smile, I left the comfort of the group and made my way through the crowd.

As I approached, I felt a strange mix of anticipation and nerves. The night had already been full of surprises, but this conversation felt like the most important one. Namjoon was so focused he didn't notice me at first. When he finally looked up and saw me, he gave a soft smile, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

"Hana," he greeted, his voice warm but cautious. "I wasn't sure if you'd still be here."

"I, um, thought I'd stay," I said, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of the moment. "I wanted to congratulate you on Indigo. It's... it's really incredible, Namjoon. You can feel every part of you in it."

Namjoon's face softened, and he set down the equipment he was holding. "Thank you. That means a lot." He glanced away for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. "This album... It's different from anything I've done before. It's my way of being real with myself, you know?"

I nodded, feeling the honesty in his words. "You can tell. There's a rawness to it, like you're letting everyone in on pieces of yourself you've kept hidden."

He looked at me, his gaze intense but kind. "That was the hardest part. Letting people see beyond the image, into... well, the mess that is me." He laughed softly, the sound a little self-conscious.

"It doesn't feel like a mess, though," I replied, finding the courage to meet his gaze. "It feels honest. It feels... real."

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us. It felt like I was seeing him as he truly was, beyond the leader, beyond the idol. Just Namjoon, with all his thoughts and vulnerabilities laid bare.

"Thank you for saying that, Hana," he finally said, his voice a little quieter. "So... I guess you probably have a lot of questions," he said, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to mine. "About why I kept my identity hidden, and why I invited you tonight without telling you much about... well, any of this."

I chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension. "You mean why you didn't just say, 'Hey, I'm Namjoon from BTS, want to come to an album release party?'"

A grin broke across his face, and he shook his head, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes. "Yeah, I guess that's exactly what I should've done." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I didn't want it to feel... different with you. It sounds strange, but it's rare to meet someone who just sees you as a regular person. That's how I felt with you, and I wanted to hold onto it a little longer."

I took a moment to let that sink in, feeling the warmth of his words settle over me. "I get it," I said softly. "It's a lot to put out there, I mean... I can't imagine what it's like for you to meet new people who already have an idea of who you are. Or think they do."

He nodded, a shadow of thought crossing his face. "Exactly. And I think that's why I didn't say much about who would be here tonight either. I figured if I told you, it might... I don't know, make you not want to come or make you feel like you have to act a certain way, or say certain things." He hesitated, then continued, "I just wanted you to come as you are. To be you, not someone reacting to 'RM' or the idea of what it means to be at this kind of party."

I could feel the honesty in his words, the vulnerability in admitting that he'd wanted something real—something uncomplicated. "Well," I said, giving him a reassuring smile, "I think you got what you wanted. Although," I added with a playful grin, "I could've used a bit of warning. You know, like, 'Hey, Hana, you might be casually bumping into some of the world's biggest idols tonight.'"

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. "I should've known. But to be honest... I didn't expect you to stay. When you first figured it out, I thought... well, I thought you'd be overwhelmed and just... leave."

I looked down for a moment, then back up, meeting his gaze. "It was overwhelming," I admitted, "and honestly, I almost did leave. But... I realised I wanted to stay. Not just because of the music or the people here, but because... well, because you invited me. I trusted that you wanted me here."

He held my gaze, a flicker of surprise, then something softer in his eyes. "I'm glad you did. Because I wanted you to see this side of me too—not just the polished, rehearsed version."

There was a moment of silence between us, charged with unspoken understanding. Here was Namjoon, stripped of the usual layers, standing in front of me not as a global superstar, but as someone who simply wanted to be known, genuinely, by someone else.

"Thank you for letting me see that," I said softly. "I know how important this night is for you, and I don't take it lightly that you wanted me to be part of it. It means... a lot."

He smiled, this time more relaxed, his shoulders easing. "It means a lot to me, too," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "More than you know."

"Hana! How's the party treating you?" It was Hwan, Namjoon's friend, grinning as he joined us, clearly picking up on the comfortable energy between us. "And what do you think of the songs? Pretty incredible, right?"

I blinked, caught a little off guard by the sudden change in conversation, but I quickly smiled back at him. "Oh, it's been amazing," I replied, glancing at Namjoon. "The music was really beautiful and I love how every song feels like its own story."

Namjoon gave me a quiet, appreciative smile, and Hwan nodded enthusiastically. "That's exactly what he was going for. I've known this guy for years, and I think Indigo's probably the most Namjoon thing he's ever put out." He chuckled, giving Namjoon a friendly pat on the back. "He was a little nervous about it, but I told him people would understand, just like you did."

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. "Thanks, Hwan. Always the hype man." Then he looked back at me, a softness in his expression that made me feel like we'd shared something meaningful in those last few moments.

"Well, I guess I'd better make the rounds," Hwan said with a grin, giving Namjoon a knowing look before heading back into the crowd. "It was great to meet you, Hana. Take care of this one—he can be a bit much sometimes!"

I laughed, and Namjoon rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of fondness in his reaction. As Hwan wandered back into the party, I realised it was getting late and the room had thinned out; only a few small groups lingered, laughing and chatting quietly as the evening wound down.

Just then, Selina approached. "Hey, Hana," she said softly. "I think it's probably time for us to head out." She glanced at Namjoon, then back at me, a knowing sparkle in her eyes.

I turned to Namjoon, feeling the weight of the night settle over me. "Thank you for tonight. For inviting us, and for... everything," I said, my voice soft but sincere.

Namjoon gave a gentle nod, his gaze warm. "Thank you for staying. It means a lot." He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more, but then he simply offered a small, almost shy smile. "Take care, Hana. I hope this won't be the last time we see each other."

"Me too," I replied, feeling my heart flutter at his words. "Goodnight, Namjoon."

With a final, shared smile, I turned and joined Selina, who was already waving goodbye to the others. I spotted Jungkook standing a few feet away, watching us with a soft smile. He approached, hands in his pockets, looking a bit more like the "Ian" I knew in that moment.

"So, heading out?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost reluctant.

"Yeah, I think it's time," I replied, smiling back at him. "It's been... quite a night."

Jungkook chuckled, glancing down before meeting my gaze again. "I'm glad we got a chance to clear everything up, Hana. I know the whole 'Ian' thing was... a lot." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. "I never meant for it to be that complicated."

I laughed softly. "Honestly, I think I'll always remember it as the most interesting introduction I've ever had." I reached out and gave his arm a light squeeze. "Thank you for being... well, for being you. Ian or Jungkook, I'm happy to know you."

Before either of us could say more, Taehyung and Jimin sidled up, grins plastered on their faces clearly a bit tipsy from the night as they looked between us. Taehyung leaned in, feigning a dramatic whisper to Jungkook. "Aww, our little Ian has found himself a lady friend," he teased, giving me a playful wink.

Jimin snickered, nudging Jungkook's shoulder. "Didn't you tell her you're an international heartbreaker, Jungkook? Or was that just 'Ian'?"

Jungkook rolled his eyes, though a blush crept up his cheeks. "Guys, come on. We're just saying goodbye."

But Jimin wasn't done. He turned to me, feigning seriousness. "Hana, just so you know, this guy"—he pointed at Jungkook—"is notorious for stealing hearts, so... be careful."

I laughed, playing along. "I'll keep that in mind, Jimin. Thanks for the warning." Then I looked back at Jungkook, letting the teasing slip away to something more genuine. He hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but instead he simply held my gaze, his eyes warm with sincerity.

Taehyung let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Alright, alright, enough with the lingering eye contact. It's getting way too sappy here." He gave Jungkook a nudge. "Let the lady go, man, before you make her go home late."

Jungkook laughed, but he stepped back with a small, reluctant smile. "Guess they're right," he said. "But I'll see you again, Hana."

I nodded, feeling a bit of bittersweetness settle in. "Yeah."

As Selina and I finally made our way out, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin stood by the doorway, calling out playful goodbyes. Selina, still giggling at their antics, hooked her arm around mine, giving me a teasing look as we stepped into the night.

As we strolled through the quiet streets back to our place, Selina couldn't help but give me a sly grin. "So... any thoughts on who's the main lead here? Dimples or Mr. Fate Guy?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hide a smile. "Selina, it's not like that. We're just friends... I think... you know, that's it."

"Uh-huh." She gave me a knowing look, crossing her arms with a playful smirk. "Good friends who invite you to private album parties and stare at you like you're the only person in the room?"

"Stop it," I laughed, nudging her. "It's not like that. They're idols, Selina. They're not going to be interested in something more. And honestly..." I trailed off, glancing at the night sky as if searching for words. "I'm just... happy to know them. To share moments like tonight."

Selina's smile softened as she took my hand. "I get it, Hana. But don't be so quick to put people on unreachable pedestals, okay? Who knows what could happen?" She winked, adding in a whisper, "Just know I'm kinda leaning towards team Dimples... though Ian has that whole fate-and-mystery thing going for him."

I laughed again, shaking my head as we continued on. In the silence that followed, I let her words linger, but not too deeply. For now, friendship was enough. ***

"What do you mean you went to the same party as BTS last night?!" Aera whispered, half-screaming as she nearly dropped the plate she was holding. Selina had just casually let it slip, and now Aera's eyes were wide with shock.

It was Sunday afternoon, and Nabi's family had invited all of us over for lunch at their beautiful, secluded home. According to Selina, a lot of influential people lived in this quiet neighbourhood, which made sense given how well-off Nabi's family was. The house, nestled behind high walls and lush greenery, was cosy and filled with warmth. Besides Nabi and her brother, only her parents lived here now; her sister had already moved out with her partner, who were both set to join us later.

In the kitchen, Aera, Nabi, Seon-Jae, Selina, and I were setting up plates and catching up on the latest news. Seon-Jae had started the conversation after mentioning that his cousin texted him last night, saying one of his friends had been at a work party with some "big names." One thing led to another, and Selina finally told everyone that the two guys I'd met during my trip so far turned out to be none other than two members of BTS.

"Wait," Nabi chimed in, pausing with a spoon in her hand, "are you telling us Ian and Joon were... Jungkook and Namjoon? As in the Jungkook and Namjoon?"

I bit my lip, glancing at Selina, who looked far too amused by the commotion. "Yes," I admitted, sighing. "I had no idea at first! They just introduced themselves as Ian and Joon. I only found out last night at Namjoon's album party."

Aera's jaw dropped. "So, you were hanging out with BTS this whole time, and you didn't even know?"

"Trust me, if I'd known, I would have freaked out ages ago!" I laughed, feeling the secondhand shock from her expression.

Selina shook her head, chuckling. "Oh, it was gold. You should've seen Hana when she figured it out. I think she turned every shade of red!"

Seon-Jae raised his eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips. "So, now that you know...are things different? Did you say goodbye to them properly, or...?"

Before I could answer, Selina stepped in, teasing, "Well, let's just say Hana's caught between 'Mister Fate' and 'Dimples.'"

Everyone burst out laughing, and I felt my cheeks heat up again. But I couldn't help smiling at the thought of Jungkook and Namjoon. Our relations had been so genuine, so effortless, that it almost felt unreal now knowing who they really were.

"Well," I shrugged, attempting nonchalance, "we said our goodbyes. But they're just friends, you know? They have their lives, and I have mine."

Nabi nodded thoughtfully. "True, but if you could pick between the two?"

I laughed nervously, shaking my head. "No way. That's not even on my radar right now."

The doorbell chimed just then, and Nabi's mom called out to let us know the rest of the family had arrived. As we headed to the dining room, Aera whispered to me, "You know, even if they're idols, that doesn't mean you can't keep in touch. Friends are friends, no matter who they are."

I smiled, touched by her words. She wasn't wrong, and I couldn't deny that, deep down, I hoped our paths might cross again someday. I had restrained myself from contacting them after last night, a bit afraid that I'd come across as opportunistic or bothersome given their schedule. I had to leave it to them to see if they wanted me to still be around.

When we went to the table to set the last plates, Nabi's sister Yeri and her partner walked in followed by Nabi's brother who was out when we arrived. The dining room was buzzing with laughter as we settled around the table for lunch. Nabi's family had set out a spread of delicious dishes, and their warmth was infectious. Nabi's mom, a university professor, had taken a particular interest in Selina and me since the moment we'd arrived. It was like being welcomed into a family we'd known for years.

As we began to eat, Nabi's mom looked over at me with a curious, friendly smile. "So, Hana," she said, "Nabi tells me you're working on a PhD in neuroscience. That's quite impressive. Do you have plans for what you'd like to do after you finish?"

I swallowed a bite of food, feeling the weight of everyone's attention shift to me. "Thank you," I replied, smiling. "I'm still deciding, actually. I might stay in research, or maybe go into teaching. But I've always loved the idea of working in neurorehabilitation, something that would have a direct impact on patients' lives."

Her face lit up with approval. "That's wonderful, Hana. You'd make a real difference in people's lives." She took a sip of water, then added, "Though I do wonder if you have any time for yourself with such a busy schedule. You must be very focused, or perhaps...you are already seeing someone special?"

The question caught me slightly off guard. "Oh, uh, no, I'm not seeing anyone," I said, chuckling nervously. "I've just been so focused on my studies and travelling lately."

Nabi's mom nodded thoughtfully, glancing over at her older son, Sun-bin, who was quietly enjoying his meal at the far end of the table. "You remind me of my Sun-bin here," she said, almost to herself. "He's also so focused on his career...too busy to date, in fact."

Nabi cleared her throat. "Eomma, not this again..."

Her mother gave her a look, half amused, half chiding. "Oh, I'm just saying. When I see such a smart, accomplished young woman like Hana, I can't help but wonder." She smiled warmly at me, her suggestion as subtle as it was kind.

I smiled, feeling a little embarrassed but touched. "Thank you, that's really sweet."

Before she could say anything else Sun-bin interfered: "Eomma, geumanhaseyo..." Stop please.

Just then, as I reached for my glass, my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced at the screen and saw it was a text from Jungkook.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Hey! I'm picking Bam up from the centre this evening. Wanna join? Bam would love the surprise!

A rush of excitement coursed through me when I received his text, but it was quickly followed by a wave of worry. We didn't have any concrete plans for the rest of the day, aside from maybe grabbing a drink later with Selina's friends. I could still go if I wanted to meet up with him, but I was quite far from home and Seon-Jae had given us a lift, so it would take some time to get back. But would it be okay to see him? What if someone saw us? I didn't want any rumours to start that could cause problems for him.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: I'd love to, but I'm actually a bit far from my place right now, so it might take me a while. Not sure I can make it in time.

His response was almost immediate.

Kook - Bam's new owner: No problem! I can pick you up, and we can go together if you're up for it. Just text me the address.

Hana - Bam's previous owner:Are you sure? It might be...um, a bit risky?

He replied with a laughing emoji.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Don't worry. I can handle everything else. Just say yes!

I looked up at Selina, who had noticed my slight distraction and was watching me with a knowing smile. I texted her under the table:

Hana: Jungkook wants to pick me up to go get Bam... should I go? I don't want to be rude to Nabi's family by just ditching either.

Selina: Yes! Go, obviously! We're meant to leave the house around 16:30 to downtown either way so maybe go then?

I nodded and typed out my response to Jungkook.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: Alright, yes. Is 16:30 a good time to pick me up though? I am currently over a friend's family for lunch and we are not meant to leave till then.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Yeah that's perfect. The care centre does not close till 8pm so no need to rush.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: I'll just wait for you outside the place I sent you then!

Kook - Bam's new owner: Deal! I'll see you then.

As lunch wrapped up, everyone began saying their goodbyes. Nabi's family insisted on sending us off with warm hugs and promises to meet again soon.

"Are you sure you don't want us to wait with you?" Selina asked as Seon-Jae went to get his car out of the parking spot.

I shook my head, smiling. "No, go ahead. Don't want you guys to be late. I'll be fine."

Aera nudged her, winking at me. "Alright, alright. But we'll expect details later!"

Nabi rolled her eyes but gave me a quick hug. "Have fun, Hana," she whispered with a grin. "Hopefully Mister Fate guy doesn't keep you waiting too long."

With that, they piled into Seon-Jae's car, and I waved as they drove off, leaving me outside the house's gate.

I watched them drive off, and did not realise when Sun-bin appeared beside me, hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced down the street. "Didn't leave with the rest of the group?" he asked, an easy smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," I replied, a little caught off guard. "No, I actually have a friend coming to pick me up soon."

"Lucky friend," he said with a soft chuckle. "My mom's subtle, isn't she?" He scratched his neck, looking a little embarrassed but mostly amused. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, it's alright!" I laughed, trying to play it off. "She's really sweet. It's nice to feel so welcomed. Plus, we all had a bit to drink, so no harm done."

Sun-bin gave a slow nod, studying me intently. "Well, if you're ever interested in the 'suggestion' she was hinting at..." he paused, his voice dipping into a more confident tone, "I'd be more than happy to give it a shot."

The statement caught me completely off guard, and my mind went blank as he took a small step closer, his hand brushing against my arm, an innocent touch that felt both casual and undeniably intentional. Was this the result of some liquid courage, or was he being genuine? I felt myself tense, unsure of how to respond, when the sudden slam of a car door jolted us both back to reality.

"Hey, Hana!" Jungkook's familiar voice rang out, a little louder and sharper than usual.

I turned, relief washing over me as I saw Jungkook walking toward us. "Oh, Jungkook, you're here!" I called out, maybe a bit too eagerly. The look on his face was serious, almost possessive, and I suddenly felt the tension rise another notch.

Sun-bin's hand dropped away from my arm as Jungkook approached, and the two of them locked eyes in a way that made the air between them feel... charged. I could almost feel the unspoken challenge radiating between them, and I cleared my throat, thinking introductions might break the tension.

"Uh, Jungkook, this is Sun-bin. Sun-bin, this is Jungkook," I said, glancing between them.

They shook hands, each holding the other's gaze a moment longer than necessary. Jungkook's grip looked firm, and Sun-bin didn't budge. Sun-bin's gaze shifted down to Jungkook's hand, his eyes lingering on the tattoos on his hand and the piercings on his face before a faint smirk tugged at his lips. A conservative at heart, he clearly wasn't a big fan of such self-expression.

"Well," Sun-bin said, his voice smooth with a slightly amused edge, "an... interesting choice for a friend, Hana." He shot Jungkook a look, his tone light but loaded with implication.

Jungkook's jaw tightened, but he returned Sun-bin's look with an easy, confident smile.

I could feel the tension brewing, and it was the kind that didn't feel like it would diffuse anytime soon. Clearing my throat, I turned to Sun-bin with a polite smile, hoping to wrap this up.

"Thanks again for lunch, Sun-bin. Please tell your mom I said thank you again for having us over," I said, adding, "but Jungkook and I really should get going."

Sun-bin didn't seem fazed, his eyes still lingering on me as he smiled. "Of course. But, Hana," he said, leaning just close enough for his voice to dip lower, "don't forget what I said. Once you're done with your... friend here, think about my suggestion. You know where to find me."

I swallowed, feeling Jungkook's gaze on us as Sun-bin held my gaze a moment longer, his expression both playful and completely serious. Then, with a slight nod toward Jungkook, he stepped back and gave me a final smile before heading toward the house.

As soon as Sun-bin was out of earshot, I could sense Jungkook's annoyance radiating off him. He frowned, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he watched Sun-bin retreat. "So, Sun-bin, huh? What was that all about?" he asked, his voice low and slightly edged.

I took a breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm sorry; that was so weird and unexpected. He caught me off guard with how forward he was. His mom was hinting at us dating over lunch, but I never thought he would actually make a move."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, scepticism lining his features. "So, do you want him to make a move?" His tone was light, but I could sense an underlying seriousness in his question.

"Oh god, no!" I replied, shaking my head firmly. "Sun-bin and I couldn't be more wrong for each other."

His expression softened a fraction as he processed my words, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Okay, if you say so." He paused, then added, "Just seemed like he was trying pretty hard to impress you."

I shrugged, forcing a smile. "Maybe he was, but I'm not interested. Honestly, I didn't even think he'd do something like that."

Jungkook nodded, a hint of relief now in his eyes. "Good to know." He glanced toward the car, shifting the subject. "Ready to go see Bam?"

"Definitely," I replied, feeling a wave of excitement wash over me at the thought of reuniting with the puppy.

As we walked back to the car, I couldn't resist the urge to tease him a bit. "You know, for someone labelled as an international heartbreaker, you sure were acting a little defensive back there."

Jungkook rolled his eyes, brushing off my comment as he opened the car door for me. "I wasn't being defensive. Just... observant," he shot back, his voice low, attempting to sound casual, but the slight tightening of his jaw revealed irritation simmering beneath the surface.

"Uh-huh, sure. Observant," I said, suppressing a grin as I slid into the passenger seat. "Didn't strike me as the jealous type, Kook."

"Please," he scoffed, pretending to adjust his seatbelt while pointedly avoiding my gaze. "It's just annoying when guys don't know when to back off."

"Right..." I teased, letting my voice drop to a playful whisper. The atmosphere shifted as he finally turned to me, a smirk creeping onto his lips. "So I'm Kook now, huh?"

The nickname had slipped out accidentally, but after the whole 'Ian' incident, it felt more intimate. I had even changed his contact name on my phone. Jungkook was too formal, but Kook was softer, warmer.

"Well, unless you want me to call you Ian?" I shot back, giving him an innocent questioning look, my heart racing as I met his gaze, the playful challenge hanging in the air.

"Nah, Kook is fine. Should've introduced me to Sun-bin like that, too," he replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Ha, funny. Although I kind of regret giving him your full name. Sun-bin isn't the type to keep up with celebrities, so I feel a bit at ease—he probably has no idea who you are."

"I don't mind if he knows. Maybe that'll teach him for being all cocky."

"Sorry about that," I said, glancing down at my hands resting on my lap, suddenly self-conscious. "Not sure if it makes a difference, but I think your tattoos and piercings really suit you. Don't mind him, he's just a bit conservative." My gaze lingered on his lip piercing, and I felt my cheeks warm as the words slipped out.

"Thanks, but I'm sure Sun-bin's opinion doesn't matter to me." Jungkook chuckled, the tension between us easing a bit, yet there was an intensity in his gaze that made my pulse quicken. He shifted into gear and pulled out onto the street, a grin breaking through as he added, "Let's go surprise Bam."

"Yeah, let's go!" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ <- Previous | Series Masterlist

[drivemysoul]

i don’t know if this is me overthinking, but the “halsey’s face” image reminds me of two things:

1) elizabeth short, also known as the black dahlia.

2) l'inconnue de la seine, the unknown woman of the seine, who is more commonly recognised as resusci annie, the face of cpr mannequins.

(i’m, for obvious reasons, not including elizabeth short’s pictures, though the page here immediately reminded me of her autopsy pictures)

both are women who were immortalised after death, regarded as being beautiful — the woman of the seine is called “the most kissed face in the world.” and, in elizabeth short’s case, her deceased face has become a prominent part of dark and macabre culture, plastered on t-shirts, art prints, makeup looks, tattoos, and even printed and sold as wearable masks.

nothing is known about the woman of the seine, she’s never been identified. she was found dead in the seine river with no clear evidence of injury. it’s speculated that she drowned herself. she was between sixteen and twenty years old. her death mask, which the cpr mannequins are based on, was displayed in galleries and museums, both in an attempt to identify her, and so people could look at how beautiful and seemingly peaceful she was.

for elizabeth short, she was an aspiring actress. her life was difficult from a young age, from being abandoned by her father while he started a new family, health issues, moving frequently, and being arrested for underage drinking. after her death, her mother was contacted and told that elizabeth had won a beauty contest. she gave the information that was asked of her, and then reporters told her that her daughter had been murdered. the media then nicknamed her the black dahlia, inspired by the 1946 film the blue dahlia, in which a cheating wife is murdered. she was reported as a sex fiend, and papers attempted to blame her for her own death — because god forbid a women exists without being blamed for a man’s actions.

the halsey’s face picture has haunted me since i first saw it, precisely because it reminds me of these two women and the way they’ve been treated posthumously — two women, who had suffered and died, but were immortalised for their beauty in death. in combination with the title track, i lean towards the parallel potentially being intentional.

i might be reading too much into this, and i probably am, but i haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. and if it was intentional, it’s poignant and effective.

[edyer-art]

“The world unwraps itself, again and again, as soon as you are ready to see it anew”, acrylic on wood panel, 9 x 12 “, 2024.

-

A gift for my bestie Alexandria Redmon. We met in high school Art 1 class by chance, something happened to my schedule and I had to switch to a different period after the first week, to the block she was in. I was a sophomore and she was a junior. We quickly became inseparable friends. She got me into photography, and I took Art 2 just so we could hang out more. Without her, I’m not sure if I would have ever gotten into art as much as I am today. After she graduated, my art teacher Ms. Foster encouraged me to continue to an AP art class. Sometime my Junior year of high school, my mom and I went to visit my uncle Karl who was working in Washington D.C. (at NASA), and so we got to go see a LOT of art. I was obsessed with MC Escher and REALLY wanted to see his work at the National Gallery of Art, so we went! I walked up to the desk and asked where his work was hanging, and they told me it wasn’t up currently. My lil face was devastated; they could clearly tell how much I wanted to see Escher’s work, and so they did something that still blows me away to this day—they let me into their library, pulled up two carts full of his lithos, and let me look through them with white gloves. I remember my hands and arms shaking with excitement as I got to go through these delicate prints, and it was at that moment I knew I wanted to be an artist. What did I document this with? A 35 mm Minolta Alex had let me take to DC. I still have the blurry photos.

This piece would also not be possible without her; she unknowingly chose the colors, which were taken from a website she made: https://save.page/ which is a cool bookmarking website (like if you remember del.icio.us). I grabbed the hex codes from her site, put them into Golden paints online color mixer, and tubed up my colors! They are: Alexandria Purple, Redmon Orange, Perfect Blue, Powerful Pink, Gorgeous Green, and Hover State Slate.

Thank your for believing in me

- E

[pentrologram]

What Normal People Do - 6

Art... and more! gird your loins, people! hold onto thy merkins! if i can pull it off, this should hopefully be the last fluff chapter before shit gets kicked to high gear. ao3! ghost/soap/gn!reader (established ghoap)

My Head Is An Animal

Johnny’s career is rapidly expanding.

The art fair had helped make Johnny excited about making art again. That, combined with the compliments you had so freely given to him yesterday and a new round of about twenty orders has him ecstatic about maintaining his storefront.

Enough time has elapsed that the first person who made the first order Johnny ever shipped had written a review- perhaps making it fancier than it needed to be when they saw how barren Johnny’s Etsy page was, but that didn’t exactly matter. Not when they had raved about how you could feel emotions behind every pen stroke! Or how they went and bought a frame for the small piece of paper! Or how it was probably hung in the reviewer’s art gallery!

It was nearly enough to make Johnny print the review out and paste it on a wall somewhere if he was being honest.

The Etsy soon turns into a TikTok page he pesters Simon into helping him set up once the storefront has gained enough traction to warrant it.

Things happen, and somehow the TikTok account gains half a million followers. Somehow, someway, Johnny finds himself in a community within Tiktok. It happens suddenly with duets and slideshows(Simon thinks, at least). Still, Johnny is soon reporting back about online friends, art trades, and after a while, being invited to local art fairs after being sniffed out by organizers, even.

Johnny is very much excited. He’s getting busier and busier, and though Simon doesn’t enjoy his time away from home, it is good for both of them, he thinks. Something to focus on. And brings back a decent amount of money, too.

You’re obviously invited to the art fairs Johnny gets stalls at. Johnny’s always over the moon to see you and sneaks free trinkets- like a bookmark or postcard- into your bag when he’s sure you’re not looking. Of course, this earns him a stern talking to when you notice, but your worries are easily quarried by puppy eyes and matching pout; “but Ae wanted to give you sa’thing, bon?”, he’s said before, and it doesn’t take very long for your resolve to crumble again. Sure, you could have argued that you could have bought it yourself, but you know that would only be matched with an offended glare from Johnny.

Truth be told, Johnny’s becoming really rather fond of you. Simon as well- such as when you had come to the third art fair Johnny showed at and had gotten lost after leaving Johnny’s booth. You’d gotten turned around a lot and were just about to ask someone when Simon caught your shoulder. He had called you a few times and when you didn’t answer, he went to find you. He corrals you back with the gentleness a shepherd must have with a lamb.

You’re starting to notice that Johnny has really started to take off. He’s gone to café’s and art podcasts and presentations at colleges and now cons and he has even been invited onto live stream with other art content creators on TikTok that he can now solidly call his friends. He gets along with them well and is even able to make meaningful friendships. For example, he meets a man who makes beautiful knitted mixed media work named Sammy who’s nothing short of a sweetheart to Johnny, talking to him via DMS and supplying him with inspiration when he gets stuck in a mood. Sammy is there, talking to him in his silly American accent and showing him the new knitted beanie he made out of recycled plastic bags for his 60-pound Maine Coon cat.

Then there’s Gloria, a cross stitcher. She’s well into her years, with her TikTok account being run by her great-grandson who kept her young with his quips and jokes. She quickly establishes herself by cursing like a sailor when her grandson jokingly insults her works from over the years. She also makes quite a few phallic pieces which, to no one’s surprise, the grandson rather likes. She’s so charming to Johnny because she sort of feels like his grandmammy.

Gloria reassures and encourages Johnny about his artwork over calls, which her great-grandson sets up and orchestrates because there's no way Gloria’s little arthritis-stricken claws would be able to navigate modern technology.

Simon likes his new online friends, too. Simon has become a staple in Johnny’s fanbase’s culture and his livestreams, oftentimes poking in to say hi or leave a coffee while Johnny draws on stream. He becomes prominent; it's easy to say that his fanbase adores the two of them especially when they get to hear their backstory, learning about how they met. It's enough to make him even more endearing to the public eye.

Life’s going awesome for him. He’s been going to art fairs in the area every other week, and even though fall is rapidly approaching, he's never been in better spirits. The cool weather usually means Johnny stops making art for a while because the warm weather helps keep him springy and stops his bad elbow joints from aching terribly. Now, he feels more than willing to tough it out.

Life just gets better when a rather large creator on the platform, someone named Jessica Johnson, invites him to an ‘ArtTok Conference’ about 50 miles away from Johnny and Simon’s flat in Manchester, so they plan to pack themselves up for the week with the dog. The venue itself is beautiful, all natural light, sleek marble and wood, and Johnny’s there to talk on a few panels to fans and do some live art as an installation; he’s going to be paid for his work, to just sit down in the gardens of the venue with Riley and do his art stuff while people walk around and observe and enjoy his art. He’d do it for free, honestly.

After he accepts the offer, he starts packing after he tells you, and it’s the happiest you’ve ever seen him. His cheeks are glowing and his smile lines have just become more defined as he's grown with his online career. When he announces that he’ll be at the con later that month, his Etsy shop completely sells out.

When the conference starts, Simon is attentive, caring and comforting. When Johnny gets ready for the first panel, Simon helps him steam the shirt he's gonna wear on the panel. When Johnny is signing prints at an M&G and his pen suddenly craps out, Simon’s there with an extra. When Johnny does his first day of sitting in the gardens and drawing, Simon stays with him, just standing there until one of the staff members brings him a chair. At the end of the first day, when Johnny face plants into the hotel room’s bed, Simon is quick to work out the knots from Johnny’s back. 

Johnny, if he’s being honest, is still a little sad that you weren’t able to make it, what with it being held in the middle of the work week and being an hour’s drive. You’re apologetic, of course, but he knows better than to be hurt terribly.  He feels better when you leave comments on all of the clips that he posts on his TikTok, and you still text whenever you can. He’s happy to be at the con and he’s thoroughly enjoying it, too. Simon’s like his own support system, leaving the conference building for coffee and bagels, and during the con, he’s like his own attraction at Johnny’s stall. People who don’t know Johnny are allured over by the six-foot-something man with the happiest-looking service dog ever and usually end up buying one of the many prints of Riley Johnny has done before.

Later in the week, he gets a panel all to himself where he talks about his charcoal art and how he made his style. Surprisingly, there’s a large turnout. He thought that nobody would want to listen to him ramble about the art he’s been making since high school or, even less, talk to him about his art. After the panel and a lengthy M&G, he starts planning when he’s going to release more things on his Etsy shop, just from how many of his prints he signed in less than three hours. In the time he has between panels and his live art installation, he finds himself doing thumbnails, just as an outlet for all the excess creative energy he has. It’s so fulfilling to see something he’s only ever seen something as a hobby grow into a whole community of his own, grow into a career and a plausible one at that.

Still, like all good things, the con comes to an end. He finishes the live art installation and then he and Simon say their goodbyes before making their way back home. Back to you.

In the space between, everything moves on in a peaceful sort of bliss. He’s restocking the Etsy regularly now, because of how much demand has ramped up. The art fairs are slowing as the cool weather sets in and he goes to his last one right as you get some free time, so it’s perfect timing for a little catch-up outing.

You get dinner at the art fair together, eating traditionally made pasta dyed colourful colours by plants while Johnny tells you everything about his time at the con. It just makes you sad that you missed it, just from how *happy* he sounds from the… Well, everything. He shows you pictures with fans and the highlight reels said fans made of his panels and endearing videos littered over his TikTok feed. You’re fully caught up in no time.

You’ve just finished dinner when Johnny gets the invitation. Johnny looks down at his phone while both you and Simon are engaged in conversation while he stares down at his screen. Then he gasps; loud and cartoonish.

“Ae- Ae go’ invited to a residency! In a gallery! Holy *hells*-“ he says, before a long and very animated string of curses as he finishes the email.

“Residency?” Simon asks.

“Gallery?” You ask.

“Yes!” Johnny says. “Oh, bleedin’ Mary. Look!” He says before he shoves his phone screen in your face, before passing it to Simon.

And, for the first time ever, you hear Simon laugh. It’s husky, like a smoker’s, but it’s endearing in a way. He wraps his arms around Johnny’s shoulders and kisses his temples.

“Yeah, I think this counts for another.” He says, flagging down the waiters for another round of drinks.

<- back next ->

[madisonmontgomeryimagines]

SOO need a part 2 to the brooke and madison roommate storyline 😭😭 LOOVE IT

💜

Madison's driving was somewhere between concerning and exhilarating - you never genuinely felt endangered, but you also would never take turns as fast as Madison seemed confident doing. Alone in the backseat (your idea, a proposal of fairness), Madison's perfume tickled your nose as it rose up from the jacket she insisted you wear to add more formality to your outfit for your destination. There were seconds here and there where you could almost feel the sparks of tension between the girls in the front, but there weren't any verbal barbs for you to hear, mercifully.

"Have you been to a gallery or exposition before?" Brooke's voice called your gaze to her, put your own thoughts on hold as you shook your head in response.

"Not like a formal one. I've been to a couple of museums and when I was growing up the city over did an art festival in the summers." You offered a tentative smile. "First time for everything, right?"

The engine turned off, the radio cutting as Madison opened her door. "You'll be fine," she said, though you weren't sure which one of you she was addressing.

You found yourself walking between them as you approached the neat building, and again once you had all crossed the threshold. On your right, Madison pointed out the featured photographers, who had a small throng of people around them. Most people seemed to have a glass in hand, you noted as Brooke's pinky hooked on yours to gently gravitate you towards one of the collections on display. Most of the photographs in this series were black and white, and it took less than a second to recognize the girl flirting with fire in each of them as your other date.

"Now you can see why we're here, Madison's ego is just as big as her talent." Brooke's soft voice held no malice, only amusement as she stepped up to one of the massive prints. Her fingers never came close enough to make contact, but through the air they traced the jagged line of flame your eyes were following.

"Breathtaking," you agreed softly, peeking over at the blonde who was watching you both closely, studying your reactions. A smile tugged at your lips, brushing against Madison's cheek when you found yourself kissing it.

"You haven't even seen my best work," Madison's flirtatious purr was low enough to coax a shiver down your spine and warmth to your cheeks. The chuckle she failed to hide told you she was very aware of the effect she had on you.

[doctors-journal]

8 August

Mum and dad convinced me to set up an appointment with a counsellor and today was the day. It was all the way in London, since I guess that’s where I’ve been living. I told them I could take the train, but mum and dad insisted on driving me and making a day of it, like we did when I was a kid.

Even though dad was taking the day off for family time, he and mum were up early anyway—they both get up much earlier than the detective. It’s been over a week, but they were still surprised to see that I was up first.

“You’ve become an early riser,” mum said as she joined me for breakfast.

I shrugged. “Doctors have to be up at all hours.”

Dad gave me a look. “So long as you’re getting enough sleep.”

At least I don’t think I’ve been shouting so much the past few nights.

The appointment was fine. I didn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. The counsellor told me to try not to be so hard on myself. She’s right, it’s not helping anyone, but it’s not like it would help anyone if I stopped worrying about it either.

Thankfully, mum and dad didn’t say too much afterward. Today was one of those nice, unseasonably cool, rainy days that London gets. Mum and dad didn’t want to walk in the rain, so we wandered through a gallery. I spent some time looking at the featured exhibit—a striking parade of human figures made out of printed textiles. Otherwise we just meandered through the halls, alternately admiring and puzzling at the art.

We went to a cafe for lunch and then spent a little while in a park afterward since the sky had cleared. It was a really nice day. The trees provided plenty of shade, their lush leaves still dripping with rain. There were some late summer flowers in bloom and squirrels chasing each other around the trees, and little robins flitting across the path.

Dad talked about work a bit, and mum conveyed some well-wishes from the neighbours. Most of my old school friends have moved on, but that’s old news. I mostly listened. In the lulls in the conversation I found myself wondering about how the detective is doing, but I’m sure he’s busy occupying himself with his Moriarty. Perhaps he has even found some other poor chap to drag along on his cases.

I also discovered something while we were out and I’ve just flipped back through my journal and confirmed it.

While we were walking in the park, the detective came up in conversation somehow, and mum asked, “What’s his name again? I know it’s over between you, but I feel like all I ever knew was that he’s a detective.”

“That’s about all I knew too,” I replied, “that he wants to be Sherlock Holmes and will accept no substitutes.”

“You wanted to be Doctor Who,” dad pointed out.

“Yes, when I was a boy. I grew out of it.”

“But you still want to save the world,” mum said.

“Not the world, just…” I couldn’t find the right words to argue.

I don’t even know what saving the world means. It’s definitely not solving crimes or even working in the hospital, and I’m not even doing that anymore.

What I said about the detective wasn’t entirely true either. I did know him, at least I thought I did. Underneath the cool, aloof facade, there was an infectious, nervous energy, a teasing sense of humour, and unshakable determination. God, I can’t believe I actually miss him.

And the whole time we were together, I don’t think I once thought of him by his name, or even wrote it in my journal. That’s what my mum’s question made me realise, and I just confirmed it. He called me “Doctor” and I just thought of him as “the detective.” For that matter, I’ve hardly used anyone else’s name either.

I guess I got so used to trying to keep my professional distance. Of course, I had to know my patients’ names to keep track of their records, but I tried not to get to know them too well, and I don’t remember most of them now. I couldn’t get too attached because they might be dead by morning. They all deserve better than that.

Well, for the record, the detective’s name—my ex’s name—is not Sherlock Holmes, though I’m sure he wishes it was. His name is Justin. I hope he’s not doing anything too stupid chasing after that Moriarty of his.

Now I want a cigarette, but I shouldn't.

Mum’s working on dinner now. I just wanted some space to compose my thoughts in between all the family time. But dinner smells good. Maybe I’ll go see if I can help.

[arwenschepers]

The Secret of the Gallery

Elodie sneaks into the famed gallery of the emperor. It has been a project for months, where a group of people with magical abilities has been working on. She tries to find a way to get an advantage out of it, something she can use in her business.

Word count: 1755 TW: none, I think. Let me know if I am wrong

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

It was the gallery of the empress. Elodie had heard the stories, the rumours through out the city. How she had teams working on this feat. The living paintings, coming only alive at night. It was claimed that that was because of the decadence, the construction of the spell. Elodie wondered if it was not also a matter of skill, that the spells had to be structured that way to work rather than a choice they made. Still, Elodie was curious for the paintings. There were some things, uses really, coming to mind, depending on what the spells were actually capable of.

Celine, the empress lady-in-waiting, had been eager to help her out. A nice benefit from dating her. She was easily impressed by the risks that Elodie took. The danger, as Celine perceived it. She liked flirting with it and that worked in Elodie’s favour. Still she had to mindful not to push it to far or cracks in Celine’s loyalty would no doubt appear. And it wasn’t clear yet where the tear in the loyalty would appear. To her or the empress.

Given the fact that she had crossed most of the palace and no guards had been looking for her, told Elodie that for now she was still in the clear. Then again, the secret passages that she used to visit Celine helped her out now as well. The last part however, to the gallery, she would have to walk through the halls. She wouldn’t use magic to hide herself or deflect the attention. The emperor had enforced most of the known prevention methods and probably also some that Elodie didn’t know of. It felt better to take the risk of being seen.

Elodie slipped through the door, small streak of light pouring through the doors, slimming as she closed the doors to the gallery behind her. The night outside was brighter than the dark room. Still, there wasn’t enough light to illuminate the gallery. The room was too dark to see. Elodie used a simple spell to light one of the candles in the room, taking it off the chandelier. It would’ve been easy enough to light all of them, but the light would no doubt be visible to the guards outside. It would be like a beacon, telling everyone where she was.

Her heels were tapping on the marble floor, a soft echo in the big hollow chamber. Elodie slowly turned into a circle. There were paintings lining all the walls. Different sizes, most of them portraits, but a few landscapes as well. State portraits and women with their dogs. Surely not all of them could be spelled.

‘Are you looking for someone in particular?’

Elodie’s muscles stiffened for a second, then she slowly turned. In her head she was running several escape plans and excuses, as well as wondering how she hadn’t heard anyone else come in. When she turned, she saw that the reason she hadn’t anyone come in, was because there wasn’t anyone there. It had been a painting. A man was pushing himself out of the frame. Man was a generous description. It was a painted man. As he moved of the canvas, the paint was glistening. It appeared wet. His hands prints left paint stains.

‘You are not what I expected.’ Elodie murmured, studying the painting standing before her. The rest of the paint on the canvas was dry, only the painted man was wet. Elodie was curious if it would feel like paint as well. Knowing that a lot of spells could have loopholes, she decided against it.

The painted man stood up straighter, placing his hands on his waist. The paint was blending together, creating a weird stain where they connected. ‘What was it that you expected?’

‘For you took look less painted. Or to step out of the frame.’ Elodie was barely focused on the conversation. She was studying the man. There wasn’t enough light to be sure what she was looking at. If it was an illusion or if they actually managed to make it possible for them to get out of the frame. She had thought that they would be able to move in their frames, talk to them. This was more than she had thought was possible.

‘Is there something amiss?’ The painting asked, as he was trying to look at himself. Bending, turning and twisting. The paint layers smudging.

‘You don’t seem solid.’ Elodie remarked.

The painting held up his arms. ‘You can’t see through me.’ He said, sounding surprised.

‘I mean, that you can stand here, but the paint seems to be wet.’

‘Of course.’ He exclaimed, as if it was the most normal thing. ‘They tried to keep us the way we are in the paintings, but it didn’t work.’ He explained. ‘We were not flexible enough, several paintings were ruined in the process. Portraits crumbling when they tried to speak, the paint not allowing for their faces to move.’

Elodie hadn’t even considered that yet. It also raised another question. ‘How do they get out of the frames? The portraits.’

‘They can’t, they’re stuck inside.’

‘They can’t get out at all?’ Elodie asked, her eyes wandering along the walls again. The majority of the paintings did not depict the full body, mostly upper body. In a lucky case the upper legs.

‘A part of them can, the part that’s painted.’

Elodie started to walk along the walls of the room. ‘Do you do it often, getting out of the painting?’ She was getting several stares from the paintings as she walked past them. Still most of them stayed put, some just speaking to each other. ‘It doesn’t look like on of you fellow paintings is eager to step out.’

The painting caught up to her, staying a few steps behind her. ‘That is because the hassle of fixing the paint is hardly ever worth it.’

She saw what he meant with the paint. There was a clear trail of where the painting had been. From his footprints to the little drips of paint that fell off of him whenever he moved, pushing the wet paint out of one of the creases.

‘It is not included in the spell that makes you… live?’

The painted man shook his head. ‘No, someone comes in and fixes it the next day.’

‘Always in the morning?’ Elodie asked.

‘Yes, we only come to live at night.’ He said it so casually, like this information Elodie would know. Everything he said, it had been so careless, almost child like. Yet the painted man was older than that, he looked older than she was.

But then, who said that they paintings were the age as which they were painted. Energy, the power for magic, it had to come from somewhere. There was a thought itching at the back of her mind, that she couldn’t quite reach.

The painting was still rambling on and she only caught the end of the sentence, ‘because that is when they sleep.’

‘That is when who sleeps?’

‘The children.’ The painting said it in a way that it was supposed to be obvious, he most likely said it not a moment ago.

‘The children.’ Elodie murmured. There was something with children, someone mentioned it the other day when they came to her. The madness. That was it, the thought hat was in her head. In the poorer areas Paris, there were children going mad. Or they appeared to be mad. They all had a magic ability and all of them were losing it. It seemed that Elodie had just found the reason why.

‘Who are you then?’ Elodie asked the painting, wondering if she would know the child.

The painted man stopped, straightened his spine as he placed his hand right under his throat. ‘I am ‘Shepherd on mountain’.’

It was the name of the painting. He was the painting. But still. It was a weird combination of who the painting was supposed to be and who the child he was tied to really was. The painted man seemed to be his own person well enough, but he felt flat as a person. He wasn’t a fully a person, but he felt one-dimensional. Elodie wasn’t sure if that was due to the ties to the child or because of the spell.

It was starting to feel like an inquisition, but Elodie wanted to know more. ‘Do you remember any of this, when you go back into the frame.’

He frowned at her question. Or that is what Elodie made of it with the moving paint.

‘I do. I might know some parts of the day even, though i am never sure if that is actually the day or a dream I have.If I can dream. The scientists were not clear about it. They seemed to be unsure of lot themselves.’

‘But tomorrow night you would know that I was here the night before.’

‘I might not be sure about the date. We don’t always come alive. It depends on the child’s sleep if there is room for us to share it’s conscious.’

Elodie was still watching him.

‘They were talking a lot when they were trying to create us.’ The painting explained. He turned, walking back to his frame.

‘Where are you going?’ Elodie asked.

He pointed behind him. ‘Back inside.’

That much was clear, but what wasn’t was the sudden need he had. ‘Why now?’

‘Because the longer we stay out, the more chance there is something goes wrong.’ He was already holding on to the frame and pulling himself back inside, leaving Elodie on her own in the gallery, surrounded by wet paint.

The gallery was a frivolity. An expense frivolity, that played with people’s lives. Elodie had hoped to find another way to spy inside the palace, but she got something much more valuable. She had the information she needed to either blackmail the emperor or start a riot in the city. Regardless, it was useful knowledge to have. Now it was the matter making sure that no one else found out. Given the fact that the paintings were operating on children’s brains, she could not trust them. Perhaps if she mentioned something to Celine, she could talk to the empress. Some excuse about the paintings embarrassing the empress, or the risk that they would repeat secrets. For this was a secret, a piece of information, that Elodie intended to use when the right time was there. 

Tags:

@thepeculiarbird @cwritesfiction @byjillianmaria @yourpenpaldee @revenantlore

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Thursday 07/11/2024

Judith Slaying Holofernes (reimagined)

We started our day with a lecture from Ireland 3000 about his work, this was an inspiring lecture as it made me consider the active nature of artwork and ways in which artwork could become more artwork, we briefly covered the idea of collaboration and then looked at his current work in which he recreates high art with religious themes using jigsaw woodcut printing techniques and bright colours. We then were challenged to create a piece based off of one of a select few high artworks as a group.

Our group was made up of Sadhbh Hennessy, Debbie Devlin, Lorena Daly, Eva Fitzpatrick, Nina BoiZ and Rachel Desmond, and myself Elle O'Connell. We chose the image Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi. We liked this piece as it symbolises female empowerment, as Gentileschi had been raped this piece was a way of her showing her empowerment by beheading a man with a likeness to that of the man who had harmed her and it is a way of reclaiming her story. This reflected an importance of maintaining the importance of feminist issues today.

We started brainstorming and came up with the concept to make the man one who persecutes and assaults women and the rights of women and considering the results of yesterdays election Donald Trump was an obvious choice as he is a tyrant in our times. We decided we would make the women Medusa, who in tattoo culture is a feminist icon who symbolises strength and survival after overcoming rape and Lady Liberty who represents freedom and justice in America and these women would overcome trump by stabbing him with liberty’s torch.

We were then told we had 5 minutes to come up with a totally new idea and so for fun we conceptualised what it would be like to replace the characters with muppets, in the end we actually found that this was a fun idea and decided that for our piece we would combine these ideas together.

We proceeded then to make sketches and I made a mock up reference picture using photos from the internet and procreate app on my iPad.

This gave us an idea of composition and we then started to collaborate on the large scale final piece, we each sketched everything out and then got to work outlining in markers and colouring in oil pastel, we used black Indian ink on the background. We also added a fabric element to the top of the piece which resembles the American flag. We decided these were the best materials as we didn’t have much time and the piece had to be quite big so we were all able to collaborate on it successfully.

When the final piece was done we stuck it up in the gallery.

I love how this piece turned out, we worked well as a group to produce an image which is clearly inspired by the original piece and although maintaining a serious message we were still able to have fun and create something tongue in cheek and approach such a dark issue with some fun and enthusiasm which got us through the process.