#best briefcases for men

[bestbriefcasesformen]

The Ultimate Guide to the Best Rustic Town Leather Briefcases for Men

Introduction:

In the realm of men's fashion accessories, few items exude the timeless charm and sophistication of a leather briefcase. Among the myriad of options available, Rustic Town stands out as a beacon of quality, craftsmanship, and style. With a commitment to artisanal excellence and premium materials, Rustic Town leather briefcases for men epitomize the perfect blend of form and function. In this comprehensive guide, we explore the top Rustic Town leather best briefcases for men, offering insights into their design, features, and why they're essential additions to any wardrobe.

Rustic Town Handcrafted Leather Briefcase:

Crafted from premium full-grain leather, this mens leather briefcase epitomizes luxury and elegance.

Meticulously handcrafted by skilled artisans, each piece showcases impeccable craftsmanship and attention to detail.

Laptop briefcase bag - Spacious interior compartments offer ample storage space for laptops, documents, and other essentials.

Durable hardware and reinforced stitching ensure longevity and durability.

Whether for business meetings or everyday use, this handcrafted masterpiece is a symbol of sophistication and style.

Rustic Town Vintage Leather Satchel Bag:

Embracing the allure of vintage charm, this satchel bag men is crafted from genuine buffalo leather.

Its distressed finish adds character and authenticity, making each piece unique.

Equipped with multiple compartments and a padded laptop sleeve, it seamlessly blends style with functionality.

Ideal for those who appreciate classic aesthetics and rugged durability.

Whether commuting to work or exploring the city streets, this vintage-inspired leather satchel bag is a timeless companion.

Rustic Town Urban Leather Mens Satchel Bag:

Designed for the modern urbanite, this satchel bag boasts a sleek and contemporary design.

Made from top-grain leather, it exudes sophistication and versatility.

Featuring ample storage space and organizational pockets, it caters to the needs of the on-the-go professional.

Adjustable straps and reinforced stitching ensure comfort and durability.

From boardroom meetings to weekend outings, this urban-inspired satchel men bag effortlessly transitions between work and leisure.

Rustic Town Classic Leather Briefcase Men:

Exuding timeless elegance, this classic mens leather briefcase is crafted from premium cowhide leather.

Its sleek silhouette and minimalist design make a subtle yet powerful statement.

Equipped with sturdy handles and a detachable shoulder strap, it offers versatility and convenience.

Perfect for those who appreciate understated luxury and refined style.

Whether attending formal events or traveling for business, this classic briefcase men is a symbol of sophistication and taste.

Rustic Town Explorer Leather Backpack:

Catering to the adventurous spirit, this leather men briefcase is crafted from durable goat leather.

Its spacious interior and ergonomic design ensure comfort and functionality laptop briefcase bag on the go.

Adjustable straps and a weather-resistant finish make it ideal for outdoor expeditions.

Whether hiking in the wilderness or navigating city streets, this mens briefcases combines rugged elegance with enduring quality.

The attache cases perfect for the modern explorer who values both style and practicality.

Conclusion:

Rustic Town leather best briefcases for men represent the epitome of style, quality, and functionality for the discerning gentleman. From handcrafted elegance to vintage-inspired charm, each attache briefcase piece is a testament to artisanal craftsmanship and timeless design. Whether you prefer the sophistication of a classic briefcase or the rugged appeal of a leather briefcase men, Rustic Town offers a diverse range of options to suit every taste and lifestyle. Elevate your wardrobe with one of these exceptional leather best briefcases for men and make a statement that transcends trends and seasons.

[leathermessengerbagformens]

Upgrade Your Professional Look: Trending Men's Briefcases for Every Budget

Rustic Town is renowned for its handcrafted leather goods that seamlessly blend timeless design with practical functionality. Whether you're a high-flying executive or just starting your professional journey, Rustic Town offers a range of briefcases for men that cater to different budgets without compromising on style or quality. Here’s a look at some of the trending men’s briefcases from Rustic Town that suit every budget:

Luxury Picks: Investment-Worthy Briefcases

1. Rustic Town Vintage Leather Briefcase

For those who appreciate the finer things in life, the Rustic Town Vintage Leather Briefcase is an excellent choice. Crafted from premium full-grain leather, this briefcase boasts a sophisticated, vintage design that never goes out of style. Its spacious interior and multiple compartments make it a practical companion for any executive, ensuring you carry your essentials with elegance.

2. Rustic Town Handmade Leather Messenger Bag

Combining traditional craftsmanship with modern needs, the Rustic Town Handmade Leather Messenger Bag is perfect for the professional who values both style and functionality. Its sturdy construction and spacious design allow you to carry your laptop, documents, and other essentials securely and stylishly.

Mid-Range Selections: Balancing Style and Affordability

3. Rustic Town Leather Satchel Briefcase

The Rustic Town Leather Satchel Briefcase offers a perfect balance of style and affordability. Made from high-quality leather, this satchel features a classic design with modern touches. It provides ample space for your laptop, files, and other essentials, making it an ideal choice for the busy professional who wants to look sharp without breaking the bank.

4. Rustic Town Professional Leather Briefcase

This briefcase combines elegance with practicality, offering a sleek design that fits comfortably into any professional setting. The Rustic Town Professional Leather Briefcase includes multiple compartments to keep your belongings organized, making it a reliable choice for everyday use.

Budget-Friendly Options: Style on a Dime

5. Rustic Town Leather Briefcase Messenger Bag

Price: $100 Affordable yet stylish, the Rustic Town Leather Briefcase Messenger Bag is crafted from genuine leather and features a rugged, vintage look. Its practical design includes a padded laptop compartment and multiple pockets, making it an excellent choice for professionals on a budget who don’t want to sacrifice quality or style.

6. Rustic Town Vintage Crossbody Leather Bag

Price: $80 This versatile bag offers the functionality of a briefcase with the convenience of a crossbody bag. The Rustic Town Vintage Crossbody Leather Bag is perfect for the modern professional who needs to stay mobile while carrying essentials in style. Its affordable price makes it a great entry-level briefcase.

7. Rustic Town Leather Sling Bag

Price: $60 For those who need a compact and stylish option, the Rustic Town Leather Sling Bag is a perfect pick. It offers enough space for your essentials without the bulk of a traditional briefcase. Its sleek design and affordable price make it ideal for young professionals and students.

Conclusion

Rustic Town offers a diverse range of briefcases for men that cater to every budget, ensuring that you can find a stylish and functional option regardless of your financial situation. Whether you're investing in a high-end briefcase or seeking an affordable yet stylish option, Rustic Town’s handcrafted leather goods provide the quality and design you need to make a lasting impression in the professional world. Choose the one that best fits your style and needs, and elevate your professional look with ease.

[kodiakleather]

Kodiak Leather Everyday Carry Leather Bag

Everyday carry leather bag  combines form and function perfectly for every day carrying. Kodiak Leather designed this extremely hard-wearing bag using only the finest full-grain leathers, allowing you to carry as much as you need without sacrificing a clean, rugged timelessness that makes you stay perfectly in control and organized on the go.

Shop Now! https://kodiakleather.com/ 

[specialagentartemis]

in middle school during my Intense Greek Mythology Phase, Artemis was, as you can likely guess, my best girl. Iphigenia was my OTHER best girl. Yes at the same time.

The story of Iphigenia always gets to me when it's not presented as a story of Artemis being capricious and having arbitrary rules about where you can and can't hunt, but instead, making a point about war.

Artemis was, among other things--patron of hunting, wild places, the moon, singlehood--the protector of young girls. That's a really important aspect she was worshipped as: she protected girls and young women. But she was the one who demanded Agamemnon sacrifice his daughter in order for his fleet to be able to sail on for Troy.

There's no contradiction, though, when it's framed as, Artemis making Agamemnon face what he’s doing to the women and children of Troy. His children are not in danger. His son will not be thrown off the ramparts, his daughters will not be taken captive as sex slaves and dragged off to foreign lands, his wife will not have to watch her husband and brothers and children killed. Yet this is what he’s sailing off to Troy to inevitably do. That’s what happens in war. He’s going to go kill other people’s daughters; can he stand to do that to his own? As long as the answer is no—he can kill other people’s children, but not his own—he can’t sail off to war.

Which casts Artemis is a fascinating light, compared to the other gods of the Trojan War. The Trojan War is really a squabble of pride and insults within the Olympian family; Eris decided to cause problems on purpose, leaving Aphrodite smug and Hera and Athena snubbed, and all of this was kinda Zeus’s fault in the first place for not being able to keep it in his pants. And out of this fight mortal men were their game pieces and mortal cities their prizes in restoring their pride. And if hundreds of people die and hundred more lives are ruined, well, that’s what happens when gods fight. Mortals pay the price for gods’ whims and the gods move on in time and the mortals don’t and that’s how it is.

And women especially—Zeus wanted Leda, so he took her. Paris wanted Helen, so he took her. There’s a reason “the Trojan women” even since ancient times were the emblems of victims of a war they never wanted, never asked for, and never had a say in choosing, but was brought down on their heads anyway.

Artemis, in the way of gods, is still acting through human proxies. But it seems notable to me to cast her as the one god to look at the destruction the war is about to wreak on people, and challenge Agamemnon: are you ready to kill innocents? Kill children? Destroy families, leave grieving wives and mothers? Are you? Prove it.

It reminds me of that idea about nuclear codes, the concept of implanting the key in the heart of one of the Oval Office staffers who holds the briefcase, so the president would have to stab a man with a knife to get the key to launch the nukes. “That’s horrible!,” it’s said the response was. “If he had to do that, he might never press the button!” And it’s interesting to see Artemis offering Agamemnon the same choice. You want to burn Troy? Kill your own daughter first. Show me you understand what it means that you’re about to do.

[moonjxsung]

Visions of You in Solitude

Copyright Ⓒ 2023 by Moonjxsung

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

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

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

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

18+. Mdni!

•

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Quinton.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for the strange man.

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/n.”

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

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

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

*

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

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

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin?” You query.

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

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

“I already said yes,” he states simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are your favorite art supplies?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In apprehension, like he knows you.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paint what you see,” he orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

Museum of Modern Art.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.

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

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

“I think you’ll like the next one.”

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

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

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

“Yeah. I love these colors.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Interesting,” you remark quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, I have to go-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”

“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.

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

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

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

“Please, keep it,” he urges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.

“I am lonely,” you say simply.

“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A second one?” You echo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Should I be concerned?”

“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.

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

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

“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.

“And you know I love your art.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay…”

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

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

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

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

“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”

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

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

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

“Is this because of Quinton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I love you.”

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

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

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

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

“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.

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

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

*

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You- what? What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt incomplete without one.”

“Is that…”

“You?” You question quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[sebsbarnes]

co-workers || tangerine

tangerine x female reader (assassin)

summary: "if it took you getting shot for you two to finally, maybe, realize you like each other i would've used you as target practice a long time ago."

warnings: language, violence, fighting, injuries, blood, weapons

word count: 3.4k ; angst, fluff

tangerine masterlist

rocking back and forth on your heels you patiently wait for the bullet train to zip into the shinagawa station. the platform was moderately busy, people dressed for various occasions. some in sophisticated work uniforms, kids bopping along with their school bags, and some dressed for a night out. you, however, were not.

sporting a black jacket, long sleeve turtleneck, leggings, sneakers, and a black bag you could've faded into the growing dark sky but here you are illuminated by the neon lights of the platform begrudgingly watching the bullet train's head lights fly past as it rolled into the station.

you were ordered to be here by your employer at the request of the white death. something about his son and a briefcase of money that needed some extra eyes watching over. apparently, the white death had some gut intuition about the two unnamed men he had hired for the job and wanted your skills onboard. your employer gave you very little detail about what to expect, no description of the briefcase, a grainy photo sent via email of the white death's son who had horrid face tattoos in your personal opinion, and when asked about the men already tasked to the mission your employer replied, 'eh two guys both kind of weird' and left it at that.

you boarded the train and stood near the doors, tight lipped smiling at those who walked by, waiting for the entryway to be clear. kneeling you pulled a small revolver out of a false bottom in the bag and slipped it into an inside pocket of your jacket, next pulling extra rounds and stuffing them into the other available pocket. you fumbled with a small piece of crumbled paper telling you to go to car three and a seat number that the son should be at.

quietly making your way to car three you re-patted your now stuffed pockets, adjusting your jacket and hair to relieve any sort of budding nerves. that is until you noticed the two kind of weird guys your employer told you about.

"well, can spot that fitted suit from a fuckin' city away" the two men stood in front of you who were deep in conversation snapped their necks towards you.

"well darling, and i'd spot that shit box dyed hair from the other side of the fuckin' earth" you couldn't help your arm raising to touch your long, and well dyed hair, at tangerine's rebuttal.

you tried to hide the laugh that threatened to break through as the three of you stood quiet for a few seconds following his comment. lemon broke first pushing past his brother to embrace you in a hug, "haven't see you in a minute, was beginning to get worried."

the three of you knew each other quite well, hell, the three of you lived together for a while. you had been under tangerine and lemon's employer for a long time but shit happens and it was best you found a new employer. lemon was more talkative and affectionate of the two, constantly talking your ear off and giving you hugs whenever he saw you, strictly friends though. tangerine, well, not affectionate and not talkative. it took a while for tangerine to mutter more than five words to you for the longest time. being outright friendly just isn't his nature and you can't fault him for that. the twins cared about you deeply, you knew lemon did within a week. tangerine took more time. it wasn't at the flip of a switch, it was gradual, perhaps may be even more natural.

it was a culmination of things that made you realize the rough man cared and appreciated you. like how after a job the three of you would go eat, you would jokingly (but also quite seriously) say how you were still starving. tangerine would slip you some of his food, 'not that hungry' he'd shrug. or how on missions he unconsciously used himself as a shield for your protection. or when he would come back from being out, holding a plastic bag in hand. 'saw these figured you might need 'em' plopping the bag in front of your seated position at the kitchen table and continued walking before you could comment on the new clothes that replaced the ones recently destroyed on a job.

or how days before you left the previous employer, you, tangerine, lemon, and an additional guy were assigned to a job that did not go so smoothly. it really was no one's fault, no one could've predicted how many men were hiding in the warehouse. each of you sported numerous injuries and lost many weapons but still completed the job. you and the other assassin were alone sitting on the floor when he suddenly started berating you. saying how shit you were as an assassin, spewing hatred and profanities amongst other vile things. you had no energy to fight back, 'maybe you're right' is all you could muster before getting up and searching for a secluded place to sleep for the night. you had awoken from your sleep hours later to the sound of a gunshot, wandering until you found someone.

'tangerine, what was that? i heard a gunshot' you asked the man who was promptly walking away from scaffolding towers.

he looked at you quizzically wiping his hands on his trousers, 'i think you might have been dreaming darlin'' all you could do was rub your head in confusion, 'let's get you back to bed, love.' the next morning only three of you returned from the mission.

"i've missed you, lemon," you smiled pulling away, holding his shoulders to look at him.

you and tangerine exchanged small nods, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips. you turned towards the figure seated beside the men stepping to stand in front of who you assume to be the white death's son. to say something seemed off was an understatement. you gently grabbed the ends of his open jacket bobbing his head back.

"what the fuck?!" you jerked back dropping your grip as his body slumped forward. an older woman a few seats up shushed you.

"what the fuck?!" you whispered harshly at the twins, bug-eyed gesturing rapidly at the dead body in front of you.

"ask fuckin' percy over here," tangerine pointed to lemon.

"i'm not percy?! okay yeah i lost the case but i didn't kill the kid."

"well lemon, if you didn't have the brilliant fucking idea to stash the case, we would've been sat our squeaky fuckin' asses down in the seat not havin' to get up. young. sweet. not all there." tangerine hissed back, poking at lemon's forehead to emphasize.

mildly entertained by the twins infamous banter you sat down watching the two go back and forth before tangerine swiveled towards you both hands flat, palms up, pointing at you, "and no disrespect love, but why the hell are you here?"

"to babysit essentially. i'm here to make sure you two do your job and by the looks of it you done fucked that up. what an honor it will be to be ripped limb by limb by the white death with you idiots."

the three of you sat deliberating what the hell to do next and tried figuring out who else is on this train taking interest in the briefcase and the son. tangerine cleaned up the boy's face with his handkerchief and adorned his face with momonga glasses to hide the fact that he's well...dead.

the twins decided it would be effective splitting up and checking the train cars for the briefcase.

"ill stay here," you spoke as the two men grabbed their things to investigate the train.

"what?" tangerine asked eyebrows knotting together.

"i'll stay here. i'll see if anyone comes back for him," gesturing towards the limp body, "besides, my mission is a bit different. i'm not supposed to be seeking danger. if it comes my way then i can step in."

tangerine smooth out his moustache inhaling deeply seeming to oppose you being here by yourself.

"okay well, right then." lemon nodded stalking off down the train.

tangerine hesitated looking down at you in the seat.

"i'll be okay."

that is until ten minutes later a man sat across from you, "hi. there's a gun under this table."

"shhh," you hissed, "this is the quiet car babes."

the man in the hat and glasses took a moment to look over your shoulder at the sign, you took this opportunity to grab his hand, that held no gun, underneath the table yanking his body forward, table smashing into his shoulder.

"who the hell are you." you questioned, still holding onto his hand.

"ladybug. johannesburg, remember? your buddy shot me after you baited me to the parking garage?"

"so you're after the twins?" you asked ignoring what he said.

"the twins have a briefcase i need. i'm really not looking for trouble here miss, i just want to get the hell off this train and go meditate." he sighed taking his free hand through his longer hair.

"so you took the damn briefcase." you released his hand and brought your foot up to kick him in the groin. while he was hunched over in pain you stood up launching towards him to put him in a headlock, "where's the case."

"look lady," he sputtered, "i really don't want to hurt you."

ladybug punched your forearms to loosen your grip and when you didn't budge, he turned his head to bite your wrist.

"what the fuck!" you yelped springing back. he took this moment to sweep your legs out from underneath you. you hit the floor with a loud thud, the ache in your shoulder radiating down your arm. he leaned over your body giving you a weak smile and in return you kicked him in the face, blood instantly pouring out of his nose.

"shit balls!" he exclaimed. you clamored to your feet and started running throughout the bullet train. ladybug's steps got closer and closer and that's when you felt a burning hot sensation on the back of your shoulder. your movement immediately stopped, groaning as you reached for the knife in your back pulling it out.

"prick." you hissed turning around to face the man. your arm swiped in front of his face, the blade making a whooshing noise in the air. you managed to clip the side of his cheek.

thankfully the car the two of you were now fighting in was not occupied. he gripped your arm throwing you against the wall and stalked towards you. you stashed the blade in your pocket, shrugging your jacket to the ground, opting to fight him with your fists. you dodged the first hit and returned him a hit in the jaw. he staggered and taking advantage of his lower stance punched you in the stomach.

"i don't like hurting women." ladybug exasperated as the two of you continued fighting, punches being thrown, skin being split, bodies flying across the car.

"seems like you're in the wrong line of work, dumbass," you gripped the back of his head slamming his face into the top of one of the seats. the crack you heard made you wince. ladybug's forehead was split, blood running down his face into his eye.

it was obvious his physical state was weakening. he swallowed deeply, eyes flickering to a spot beyond you. before you realized what was happening, ladybug was running towards your jacket where the knife was. he managed to grab it and came barreling towards you. once again the battle was back on. the knife dancing between you two as its ownership changed frequently. you and ladybug were a panting mess with new cuts decorating your bodies. this old piece of shit wouldn't let up. you were becoming exhausted and you needed this to end somehow. the two of you were both on the floor, the blade in your hand. you knew you didn't have enough stamina for another round of fighting, the cuts scattering your body were aching, the large stab wound to your shoulder was now numb. instead, you sliced the closest things to you that would cause the most damage.

his achilles.

ladybug screamed out in pain, shaking hands wrapping themselves around his ankles in some attempt to soothe the sheering pain. you stood, looking over the man, the blood from the knife dripping onto your shoe. you stepped around his cradled body, making your way up the train. tangerine hasn't come past yet meaning he is still ahead. the door swished open but you'd only make it one step in before crumbling to the ground.

immediately you started hyperventilating from the intense pain that seemed to hit every nerve in your body. blinking rapidly as you scooted yourself against the wall. then you felt it. a warm sensation running down your skin, your clothes feeling wet. blood. your body was shaking, open lips huffed out puffs of breath. slowly and carefully, you looked back at ladybug.

your gun in his hands.

he must have grabbed it when he retrieved the knife in your abandoned jacket. fucking stupid.

ahead in the train tangerine heard a faint noise, but nonetheless he knew it was a gunshot. he slicked back his hair and removed his gun from his waistband. he carefully entered each train car, observing anything out of the ordinary. the door in front of him opened and his step faltered when he saw a black sneaker, and then a leg, and then the body as his eyes raked up the slumped figure.

he dropped to his knees, gun now on the floor, "hey tan," you croaked.

"bloody hell," he sighed, his eyes darting across your entire body.

"stop checking me out i don't look my best," you tried joking. tangerine didn't seem amused as he noticed your torn clothes, bloody face, your hair matted with blood.

"that old bag of bones can really fight. but he took a cheap shot when my back was to him," you finally answered. you lifted the hem of your shirt to show tangerine the bullet hole in your lower stomach above your hip.

"jesus," he muttered swallowing thickly. he seemed stunned to see you in this condition. he also seemed lost on what to do. his eyes wouldn't stop looking you over, his hands unconsciously went to your face brushing your hair out of your eyes.

"tangerine stop fucking staring at her we need to help her," lemon had found the two of you. his voice booming causing tangerine to snap out of his daze.

lemon pushed him to the side, immediately coming to your aid. he worked with what he could find. your shallow cuts weren't important. the wound to your shoulder would need stitches later on. the entrance and exit wound of the bullet was causing the biggest issue as you had lost a decent amount of blood from it. lemon continued to do his best as you sat there eyelids half open.

tangerine was silent, more silent than ever before, as if he were stuck in a trance. you slowly moved your fingers towards his hand that was resting on the floor. two of your fingers wrapped around his pinky jerking him out of his trance. this somehow sparked something in him as he shot up from the floor, grabbing his gun making sure it was loaded and set off on a mission you could only assume to be to find ladybug.

your lips pulled down in a frown as he left. you wanted him here. his presence, his touch, his whatever. any semblance of that cocky man you wanted next to you for comfort. you knew you were going to be okay, you were weak right now but the thought of him beside you somehow made you believe you would feel stronger.

lemon let out a soft chuckle as he finished securing cloth to your wound, "if it took you getting shot for you two to finally, maybe, realize you like each other i would've used you as target practice a long time ago."

you slapped his arm, "fuck off."

lemon and you agreed you need to rest, he helped you to sit in an empty seat, propping you against the window.

"alright, now, if anything serious happens i will text you alright. in the meantime, sit here and wait till we come get you, you hear me?" lemon demanded.

sometime had passed and you noticed less and less people on the platforms boarding the train. it was too quiet. your stomach was telling you something was off. you winced in pain as you gripped the armrest to stand up. a bit wobbly but you managed to put one foot in front of the other. as you continued you heard voices close by. the doors to one of the cars was open by bags tripping the sensors. you saw a young girl in pink standing looking scared and him. the greasy haired prick who shot you. he still had your gun in his hand pointed at someone.

tangerine.

"fuck." thankfully you held onto the knife and before he could notice you moving towards their train car you brought your arm over your head, swinging forward, releasing the knife. it lodged itself below ladybug's collarbone. he yelped out in pain stumbling a bit and that's when his finger hit the trigger.

"you bastard," tangerine hissed as the bullet hit his leg.

you took this opportunity while the men were distracted and ran towards ladybug. you propelled yourself onto him, spinning and wrapping your legs around his neck, you removed the blade from his chest and stuck it in the base of his neck.

"you don't touch him," you spit at the man as he crumbled to the ground.

the girl was long gone. now facing tangerine you noticed all the bruises and blood on him, drenched in sweat. his curly hair now laying across his forehead. his jacket long gone leaving him in a white button down that was criminally low on his chest and a vest. you couldn't help but check him out.

he started to say your name but you cut him off, hugging him tightly around his neck, knocking the wind out of him. he hesitated a moment before firming wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his head into your hair. after a few minutes he pulled back, sliding his hands to your waist to look at you. you held onto tangerine's elbows as his eyes wandered your face.

"darlin'," he started, "i'm- i'm sorry i didn't do anything when i found ya."

you chuckled through your nose, "tan. i'm fine."

"you're injured n' i didn't do anything except fuckin' look at you." he shook his head in disgust.

"tangerine," you said firmly placing your hands on his chest, "stop. i am fine. i am okay. we all react differently to seeing our friends hurt."

"friends, " he half laughed, "you realize i don't see you as a friend."

you paused, hands loosening their grip on his arms. god, you were dumb to think you were even friends. you're coworkers, hell at this point maybe even acquaintances, its been five months since you lived with them. all you could mutter was a shaky 'oh.'

tangerine laughed, "you know love, you can really be dense sometimes."

your mouth formed an 'o' trying to figure out what to say next, "dense?"

"love, i've wanted you the moment you almost sniped my head off in vienna." tangerine chuckled, moving hair out of your face. you couldn't look at him instead you toyed with his open shirt, fingers brushing against his hot skin.

"i guess i am kinda dumb right? should've put the pieces together when you killed anyone who was mean to me." you smiled.

he leaned down gently placing a kiss on your lips. you immediately kissed back, tasting the metallic flavor of the blood that was on his lower lip. your nails ran across his scalp sending a shiver down his spine. tangerine gripped your lower back harder, minding the wound, to bring you in as close as physically possible.

tangerine pulled away from the kiss, bringing his mouth to your ear, "by the way darlin', you spinning around on his neck and what you said was really hot."

"then i suggest we get the fuck off this train soon and i'll show you the move personally."

[phant0mth1ef]

bakugou x blunt business course reader hcs / let me know if you guys want little drabbles of this!!

- usually business course students wanted to create their own companies, but there were a select few like you and some others that agreed to take on the challenge of trying to market heroes as approachable and attractive!

- he’s known your name since first year due to your placement in the sports’ festival, honestly with your quirk he was surprised you didn’t take the hero track. anyways his nickname for you was “wasted potential business course extra.”

- the first time he actually talked to you was in second year when the teachers had told the hero course students to get more invested with those in the business course, stating that one day they’d be in charge of each and every career.

- was a pain in the ass when he first met you, like he literally sucked and you dreaded every meeting.

“hello… bakugou?” you said skimming down the list of potential heroes you were supposed to meet with.

“yeah, what?” you knew getting people to like him was going to be even harder than getting people to like another client of yours, monoma.

“don’t take that tone with me, i’m basically launching your career.” you typed away on your laptop as the boy sulked in a chair, listening to everything you said.

“as i was saying, marketing yourself in a way similar to best jeanist can have either a good outcome, they’ll approve of you. or a bad outcome, they’ll call you a copycat.”

“tch.” so he ignored your advice and launched his career in a way similar to the pro hero’s and ended up getting insane backlash to the point where you had to step in and try to completely rebrand him.

eventually you got people to start referring to him as the blast hero.

“people are calling me blasty boy.”

“wow. that’s really unfortunate for you! anyways, what’s your height? this company wants to interview you for their tall men friendly jeans.”

- hated meeting with you because of how blunt and honest you were, but also grew to like you because whenever you complimented him, he knew you were genuine.

- would try to blow off meetings just for you to find him and drag him back to the business course meeting rooms, your quirk was something similar to blackwhip so he couldn’t ever really get out of your hold.

- once he realized how popular he was quickly getting thanks to you, he started to actually value the time you’d been putting into making him an admirable hero, but he couldn’t say the same for monoma who, no matter what you did, could not be saved in the publicity department.

- would never thank you, at least not directly.

“i guess this is where we part ways.” you told him at your last meeting before graduation.

“… i guess so. 🧍🏻 thanksorwhatever.” he spoke fast, as if he’d run out of words before leaving.

- even though he said he hated you on countless occasions, he couldn’t deny that he’d begun to miss you when you weren’t around. going so far as to find your contact and call you up once he started his own agency.

“you want me so bad.” you said as you walked in, your briefcase in hand as you shoved the boy to the side, headed up to your new office.

“no i don’t! just need help. s’all!” he was so easy to piss off it was so funny.

- you made him take modeling gigs when his approval ratings were low.

- one time you both went to grab dinner and people assumed you were on a date and you guys just never corrected them and continued to do stuff like that.

- eventually you fell into a routine, and although he never explicitly asked you out, you’d moved into his apartment, did couple things like kiss and stuff, and were always around each other.

- even he thought you were dating until you got interviewed once.

“a boyfriend?… no.” you were so oblivious it was crazy, he had to tell you afterwards that he thought you were his girlfriend.

“WE’RE DATING?” you were completely shocked and he just stood like like a statue.

“YOU DIDN’T KNOW?!”

[sadesluvr]

Turbulence

You join the mile-high club with a mysterious English gentleman. 

A/N: First BT fic! Been obsessed with this movie, and just had to make something with one of our favourite assassins. I had to do a weird amount of research on flying for this... It won’t be my last so follow for more! :)

Set pre movie. 

Word count: 2.5K 

Tags: SMUT / Porn with little plot / Minor spoilers for references in Bullet Train (2022) / Unprotected sex / Creampies / Hookups / Mentions of birth control / Quickies / Canon-typical language / Canon-typical banter / Minors + Ageless blogs DNI

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard Flight 4B7 to Tokyo. We are currently second in line for take-off and are expected to be in the air in approximately five minutes time. At this time, we ask you to please fasten your seatbelts and secure all baggage underneath your seat or in the overhead compartments. Please turn off all personal electronic devices, including laptops and cell phones. Smoking is prohibited for the duration of the flight. I’m Goldie, and thank you for choosing our airline. Enjoy your flight!” 

Hanging the speaker up, you smoothed out your skirt as you fixed yourself to take the final walk before take-off. ‘Goldie’ wasn’t your real name of course, but a nickname given to you by a sleazy boss. You would’ve hated it, but you found that it greatly helped with creepy passengers who were searching for a place in the coveted ‘mile high club’, or those who simply flew with the intention of sleeping with flight attendants across the world. On the contrary, it was always cute when toddlers cooed your name from across the plane, calling for you as if you’d known them their entire life.  

As you pushed past the curtain to the business class, your eyes fell on a pair of men; one dark-skinned with curly dyed hair, the other with long, slicked back hair and a moustache. They wouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary had the moustached man not been holding a phone to his ear. Great. There was always at least one person who never listened to the announcements, but there was something about those who rode in first or business class that held a different kind of entitlement entirely. 

Swallowing, you put on your best customer service and sauntered over to them. The dark-skinned man noticed you first, raising his brows before nudging the one next to him, who seemed deep into an important, but strained, conversation. 

“...Yeah, yeah. We get the kid and the briefcase, then the train to Kyoto...Yes, we know who we’re dealing with, I forwarded Lemon the briefing. Right, can we go now? Take-offs in two minutes --” 

“Excuse me,” you cut in. “You’re going to need to hang that up...” 

The man did a double take, holding his phone away from his ear as he glanced up at you. If it wasn’t his old English accent that captivated you, it was his eyes, a striking blue with hints of grey that seemed to stare directly into your soul.  

“I’m going now.” He said snarkily to the person on the phone before hanging up, placing the object into the pocket of his navy-blue suit before staring up at you with a charming, but cheeky smile. 

“My apologies darlin’,” he said, his voice as smooth as butter. “Work won’t give us a break.”  

“Don’t I know it?” you replied, shifting your weight as you prepared to move on. “Thank you, sir. Enjoy your flight...” you said before looking down at his hands; strong and adorned with gold rings.  

“...Nice watch.” You finished with a knowing smile. Given the parts of the broken conversation you’d heard, and the elaborate way they were dressed, you figured that they were at least some kind of secret service members - not that it was any of your business, of course. Still, there was something particularly arousing about the blue-eyed man in the three-piece navy suit with the nice watch, and you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if you broke your ‘no-sex-on-the-job’ rule, just this once. If he wasn’t busy with mission stuff, of course. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He replied, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he smiled, watching you as you walked off, admiring the questionably short length of your skirt in the process. Sitting back in his seat, he chuckled to himself before turning to see his brother Lemon hastily swiping through the movie selection on the screens. 

“The fuck are you doing?” 

“Tryin’ to see if they’ve got Thomas...” Lemon said matter-of-factly. “It’s alright though. I always come prepared.” he finished, tapping his laptop pointedly. Tangerine frowned, shaking his head as he sat back in his seat, side eyeing you as you made your way to your jumpseat in the corner.  

It was going to be a long journey, but at least he had a nice view. 

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

As soon as it had been safe to take seatbelts off, you’d wasted no time in making your way back down to the business area. The best part about the job was that you were able to walk about, getting a good glimpse at the passengers you thought were attractive – all under the guise of providing good customer service. The man with watch was reading a book, whilst the other seemed engrossed with whatever was on the screen, with his fingers covering his face in a concerned manner. They seemed like polar opposites, yet seemed to work so well together, something that made your job a lot easier when it came to seating passengers. If only everyone was like them. 

If it hadn’t been obvious, you were rather interested in the blue-eyed gentleman in particular. Whilst he hadn’t given you definite signs he was interested, you fixed your make up in your compact mirror regardless, and opened a button on your blouse so it was just a little lower than industry guidelines. It never hurt to try, and it certainly wasn’t as if you were going to see him again. 

Smiling, you guided a cart down the narrow aisles, stopping at the pair of men. 

“Refreshments?” 

The dark-skinned man, ‘Lemon’, as he had been referred to, answered first, eagerly pausing his screen to speak to you. 

“I’d love somethin’, love,” he said, holding the same accent as his partner. “D’ya have anything fizzy?” 

“Of course,” you hummed. “We have Coke – regular, Diet and Zero, Dr Pepper, Sprite, some SanPellegrino --” 

“I’ll have a Coke, love. Make it Diet...” he said, and you nodded, quickly finding the box for the right can. “It’s a shame ya don’t do any bubble milk tea up here...I got a real craving for one...” 

You laughed as you handed him the can. “Luckily for you Tokyo is full of great places to get one. You probably could even find one in their vending machines...Don’t get those in the West, do you?” 

“Certainly not in London,” he chuckled, opening the can and taking a swig before pursing his lips and tapping a finger on his chin. “Say, I don’t suppose you could settle a little argument for me, could you?”  “Oh here we go...” the other man interjected, drawing himself from his book to huff and look between the two of you. “Fucking unbelievable.” 

Lemon rolled his eyes.  

“That SanPellegrino of yours...Which flavour do you sell the most?” 

You bit your lip. 

“Depends...It’s usually lemon because people think it might taste like lemonade. The orange one never goes to waste, though...” 

Lemon gave the other man a pointed look, and he scoffed before looking at you. 

“Not to completely waste your time, love, but if you had to choose between a lemon or a tangerine...” he didn’t finish, probably because it would’ve pained him to, and moved his hands as if he were balancing weights on scales.  

You stared blankly between the two men, confused but utterly endeared. 

“Tangerines are good on their own, but lemons are far more versatile...”  “See?” Lemon said triumphantly, celebrating with himself before shaking your hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, darlin’.” He grinned before restarting his movie, moving on as if nothing had happened. You chuckled to yourself, conscious of the hundred other guests that needed you, but looked back to lock eyes with the other man, ready to ask him the same question. He wore a knowing smirk on his face, the curve of his pink lips still evident under his thick moustache and tutted chidingly. 

“Really thought you’d be on my side there, sweetheart,” he sighed. “Suppose you can’t trust everyone, can you?” 

“I’m sorry,” you pouted. “You must give it to him though. Lemons are pretty good.” 

“Darlin’ I don’t have a problem with the message, but the messenger,” he said, nodding to the man next to him. “He’s a grown arse lad watching Thomas, that one.” 

You chuckled, glimpsing at the screen to see that it was indeed correct. Shaking your head, you scanned the crafted features of his face before raising a brow. 

“So, what’s your poison?” 

“A gorgeous lady pushing a cart, it seems.” 

“Smooth,” you hummed, unable to ignore the way a dangerous heat shot through your stomach and down to your core, making your legs feel like jelly. He’d hardly done anything, and yet you were under his spell. “What would you like to drink?” 

“Nothin’ at the moment, love,” he grinned. “I’m a bit peckish, if anythin’...” 

Sighing, you quickly checked the man out again, this time eyeing his body. Broad shoulders, muscular thighs, thick legs...The total package.  

“Hurry, up! I’m thirsty!” Someone from across the aisles said. The man was about to argue, but you halted him, nodding in the direction where the voice came from.  

“I tell you what,” you said softly, lowering your voice as you stared into his eyes, your composure so controlled that it would’ve been impossible to tell that your heart was pounding in your chest as you spoke. “-- Us staff have our own snacks. If you meet me by the toilets in fifteen, I can get you some...” 

“Don’t leave me hangin’, sweetheart.” The man grinned, not-so subtly uncrossing his legs and giving a cheeky wink before you headed off down the aisle. Gripping onto the handle of the cart, you tried your hardest to walk straight, excitement boiling in your loins as you counted down those fifteen crucial minutes with every strained smile at a customer. 

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

He was there when you arrived. 

“Took ya’ long enough -” was all he said before cupping your cheeks and pulling you into a passionate kiss, pressing your body against the wall of the bathroom. It was by far the most glamorous place to have sex, but there was something about the sleaziness of it all (with such a put-together man, nonetheless) that made it that more enticing. His scent was an ode to his masculinity; aromatic and woody, and it consumed you as he kissed down your neck, nipping at your collarbone as his large hands caressed the sides of your body. You moaned, writhing your front against his pelvis, desperate to feel the outline of his erection against your own. Admittedly, you weren’t entirely sure what to do with your hands, settling to drape them around his neck in fear of messing up his hair. He seemed like a man who took pride in his appearance, and he certainly wasn’t going to be able to fix it up in an airplane bathroom. 

“Feel me, darling. I don’t bite...” he whispered, his hands now sliding between your thighs as he fought to push your panties to the side. You took this as a hint, and you combed your fingers through his roots with one hand, whilst the other fumbled to undo the button on his trousers, difficult to do with his considerable bulge. You let out a broken gasp as you felt his cock, likely over average sized with a nice girth, and he shuddered in response. 

“Goldie, is it? You’re a naughty one...” he sighed, slipping a finger into your wet cunt. 

“Mhmmm,” you crooned. “’S nickname. I don’t suppose you’ll give me yours?” 

“You’re a bright bird, ‘m sure ya figured it out.” 

“Tangerine, huh?” you hummed, throwing your head back as he began to finger fuck you, his gold rings adding the extra girth that would prepare you nicely for his cock. “I like tangerines...” 

“Ya didn’t seem to back there.” 

“Well, give me a reason to...” you chuckled, and he grinned, grunting before he hoisted your leg up around his waist, his cock dangerously near your entrance. 

“Better be quick,” you teased, staring at him through your lashes. “They’ll get suspicious if I’m not back in five.” 

Tangerine chuckled.  

“I can do that. Just know it’s not a reflection of me at my best.” he sniffed. 

“Good to know.” 

Your words were unfounded as he pushed into you, his girth filling you completely as you moulded perfectly around his cock, gripping onto his shirt as he began to buck his hips. The man grunted, accosting himself to the feel of your warm, wet hole – raw and unfiltered, sighing into the nape of your neck as he fucked you. He steadied himself with his hands, gripping onto your thigh with one as the other rested above you, lending him the luxury of staring into your eyes as he drilled you. 

“God...” you panted, your lips wet and raw from his kisses. “T-Tan -- You’re so good...” 

“That’s it, love,” he beckoned, words rolling off his tongue like honey as he rolled his hips deeper into you. “Say my name...” 

“Tangerine...” you whined, eyes fluttering shut as you drowned out the vacuum-like ambience around you, focusing on the small grunts and sweet nothings the man whispered into your ear, his warm breath sending chills up your spine. The room around you was making a slight creaking sound, and you barely even cared that your calf was banging slightly against the door.  

With every passing second his thrusts became more focused, solely intended to bring you both to that point of ecstasy- yet you didn’t doubt that Tangerine was the kind of man who made sure you finished, even if he himself didn’t.  

His hair was beginning to become undone now, brown strands falling in front of his face, just barely clouding his vision, but enough to make him look even hotter. Both of your shirts became more and more dishevelled as he pressed up against you, the muffled sound of his clothed thigh against your bare ones becoming more frequent as he growled, the sound coming from deep within his muscular chest. 

“Fucking hell, darlin’...’M gonna make a mess...” he hissed through laboured breaths. “I’ve gotta pull out --” 

“It’s alright,” you lulled, and you could’ve sworn that his cock twitched at the phrase. “I’m on the pill...” 

“You naughty girl...You’re gonna get me in trouble --” he groaned, throwing his head back as he gave you a few fast and sloppy pumps, shutting his eyes as you clamped down on him during your own release, creaming around his cock as he filled you with his own. You dug your nails into his clothes as you rode off your respective highs, hair and clothes askew as he rubbed small circles your trembling leg before lowering it to the ground. 

Panting, there was a brief silence as you dressed yourselves, with Tangerine preening himself in the tiny mirror. 

“You look good as gold.” You said with a smirk, fixing your hat.  

“Thanks,” he said with a broad smile, popping some gum into his mouth as he looked you up and down. “You’re a dime a dozen, y’know? Fly this route often?” 

“Sometimes,” you hummed, opening the door so that the sign no longer read ‘occupied’. “Why, are you thinking of coming back?” 

“I’ll be headed to Kyoto,” he said, looking around before he stepped out. “Maybe I’ll catch you there.” 

“Yeah,” you grinned, fixing the final button on your shirt. He’ fucked you so good you could barely even remember what your next journey was. “Maybe.” 

[fanfic-writer-and-rambler]

And now ... My version of the actual reason Tim Drake became Robin by sheer fanboy and research... This is the actual way he got the job:

News anchor: This just in Jason Todd, a young boy has been killed by the Joker. He has been revealed to be Batman's sidekick. We have contacted his father, who is not Batman about how he's handling the situation. He said: “He is grief stricken he lost his son ... And found out he was Robin, but doesn't hold anger to Batman.”

TV turns off as Tim Drake taps his chin pondering his next move.

Tim Drake: All right, been about to... a week. My time has come. Let me just get my briefcase.

Thirty minutes and a taxi ride to Wayne Manor later, Tim knocks on the door. Alfred answers.

Tim: Hi.

Alfred: Hello, young child? How may help you? Are you lost?

Tim: Oh no, I am here for a purpose. I'm here for the role of the new Robin!

Alfred: Pardon?

Tim: Bruce Wayne is Batman, Nightwing is Robin who is also Dick Grayson of the flying Graysons. Jason Todd is, you know *swipes his finger across his neck* So I'm just here for the job.

Alfred blinks unsure of what to say.

Tim: I brought a brief case.

Alfred: I'm already invested in this, you can come in, you'll find the kitchen around the corner, there's cookies there. I'll find Master Wayne and Master Grayson.

Tim claps eagerly and heads to the kitchen.

Alfred: I always felt this day would come and now that it has... I'm struggling to contain my laughter.

Alfred walks to Bruce's office.

Alfred: Master Wayne, there's a kid here to see you.

Bruce: Why would you invite a kid in? I had to squash those rumors! Tell him to leave.

Alfred: Oh no, you must see him. You too Master Grayson. This is going to be good.

Alfred leaves.

Dick Grayson: I don't like how he was smiling.

Bruce: Yes that was odd.

Five minutes later the two men enter and Tim is eating cookies.

Tim: Dick Grayson of the flying Graysons!

He runs over and hugs the man while squealing. Dick Grayson awkwardly pats the kids head.

Tim: I'm Tim Drake, big fan! This is the best day ever! And I haven't even gotten to the best part!

Bruce: Which is?

Tim, while still hugging Dick Grayson: That you're Batman and Dick Grayson is Nightwing and I'm hugging him! I'm hugging him!

Dick Grayson: Aww thanks... What?!

Tim Drake, pulls away: You're Nightwing, who was also Robin, and… Dick Grayson of the flying Graysons! Oh my gosh, this is awesome! Let me calm down, I came here for a mission.

Tim opens his briefcase. Dick feels a intense glare his way from Bruce.

Dick Grayson: Okay, it could've been because of you.

Bruce Wayne: I doubt it so much and I can guess how he figured it out, but let's hear him out.

Tim Drake: Yes, Batman wants to hear me out. Okay I have this picture I got at the circus, the one we took together. The one with the mother flipping Dick Grayson! This is what started it all!

Dick Grayson: Oh no.

Bruce glares at Dick Grayson for a second then turns to Tim Drake.

Bruce: Let's pretend that we are Batman and Robin also Nightwing, how did you find that out, young child?

Tim Drake: Funny story, I was a big fan of the Flying Graysons, which Dick Grayson was in. Then he got adopted by Bruce Wayne after his parents died, so sad. Now for a few years, I couldn't connect it, since I was so young and naive.

Dick: How old are you now?

Tim Drake: 13!

Alfred stifles laughter while cleaning the counter top.

Bruce: I'm actually going to kill you.

Dick: I... shoot would you look at the time-

Dick tries to run, but Bruce drags him back by his ear.

Dick: I could stay a few minutes.

Bruce: Continue your theory.

Alfred: Yes please!

Alfred laughs in the background.

Tim Drake: It's funny right, two years ago I was in town and Nightwing stopped a criminal and he did this really cool, stupendous trick that I only ever saw when Dick Grayson was in the circus. I kind of put two and two together after that.

Dick Grayson: That is such a coincidence! No way would I be that awesome! I am not that strapping, amazing man. Me and Nightwing, no way!

Dick Grayson avoids eye contact from Bruce.

Bruce: Dear God.

Tim: I thought I had to be wrong, like you're both awesome, but it couldn't be connected, but then I remembered this picture, that you signed and then this autograph you did on my cap when I was in town that day. It's the exact same handwriting!

Bruce: Oh. My. God!

Tim: I sat on this info after that and then Jason Todd, may he rest in peace, died so here I am... at the Wayne Manor. Ready to be Robin.

Alfred: He's so precious. I love this so much.

Tim: Oh and this may just be me, but the picture confirmed that if you just cover your eyes in the picture, you're Nightwing. See.

Tim covers the picture of young Dick Grayson's eyes.

Alfred bursts into laugher.

Dick Grayson covers his face in shame.

Tim: I did it? I'm right aren’t I? Please tell me I'm right.

Bruce, shakes from the cute child

Bruce: You're right!

Tim: Yes! I did it! I cracked my first case! I can be the new Robin! I can be your brother! I've never had a brother!

Tim hugs Dick Grayson sobbing happily. Dick Grayson pats him on the head again, feeling the glare from Bruce.

Tim Drake: I have new designs and everything. Cause... I'm wearing pants in this. I need to stress that. I will be wearing pants.

Alfred: He's got designs. Hahahaha!

Bruce seethes.

Dick checks his non-existent watch.

Dick: Is It- Is it that time already? I should leave- Ow!

Bruce yanks Dick Grayson by the ear again.

Tim: Did I do something wrong?

Bruce to Tim: Nope, it's not you. I mean that too. Excuse me for a few minutes while I yell at my idiot.

Dick Grayson: Ow, ow Bruce I'm sorry, ow! I'm sorry I thought it was fool proof.

Bruce drags him to his office.

Bruce, angrily whispering: Let me wear an eye mask. Let me do my flips and tricks. No one will ever know it's me!

Door slam.

Bruce: I TOLD YOU AN EYE MASK WAS NOT ENOUGH!

Dick: IT WAS THOUGH!

Bruce: You just had to do the stupid circus tricks! I told you to not do that, stupid!

Dick, sobbing: I just wanted to be me! Why are you yelling at me?!

Bruce: Because I have to adopt another child and it is starting to look weird! Especially since he found out from you showing off and shit!

Tim: Did I do something wrong, Mr Alfred?

Alfred wipes a tear from his eye.

Alfred: No, child. Master Wayne is just upset about the costume choices of his son. No worries. I for one will say the research you did is impressive. Nice briefcase as well.

Tim: Thanks, it's my dad's.

Tim eats cookies as the father and son argue.

Bruce: You had to make it that obvious with the Cirque de So Dick!

Dick, sobbing: I'm sorry! Bruce: WHY ARE YOU CRYING?! Dick: Because you're yelling at me!

[anniebass]

baby don't be mad

1.3k word actverse ficlet under the jump rating: M tags: dialogue-heavy, beginning of the relationship, the boys are arguinggg, old man eddie's being a clueless slut, and also a dweeb, and steve's being... a person that rly needs therapy lol

Rapid catchups, they name it, though it doesn’t really need a name, it’s basically just talking. Early on Eddie realizes he doesn’t know all that much about his sexy old-but-new long distance serious boyfriend, that he possesses a fuckton of outdated information, that, duh, people change, especially in the long-ass time they spent apart. That the habits and opinions of a twenty-year-old shithead don’t necessarily last until someone’s forties.

That evening, they do the rapid catchups, starting off easy, prompted by the takeout dinner they have at Steve’s: best Asian food, go, at which without a second thought Steve says Chinese, while Eddie goes with Japanese, love me some sushi, yum. Later, when they’re full of kung pao and mapo tofu, lazily digesting on the couch, half-watching an old movie where Sharon Stone saunters across the screen and smolders at bad men, Steve says: you have to sleep with a woman, any woman in the world, dead or alive, go.

Eddie groans and slides down the couch, throws his hands up: dude, I don’t know! Uh, like maybe— Cleopatra? Or maybe one of those amazonian greek warriors with one boobie?

So, no one you actually know the face of? he says, with a little smirk.

Man, I don’t— I mean, there are some beautiful women walking this earth, like stunning stunning women I can’t get enough of, but that don’t mean I want to fuck them! My willy shrinks at the thought, he explains meekly, and shrugs, clicking his tongue: I dunno, maybe Eartha Kitt? She seems very fun.

Good choice, mutters Steve, and to Eddie’s your turn he tilts his head, scratches his nose: I don’t know if that question really applies to me. But if I had to have a sex list, it would be… Linda Evangelista? Or Sharon, she’s hot. Or— yeah, Monica Belucci, Jesus. Her, definitely. If not her then Cleopatra, that’s actually a great answer, she must have been good for all that shit to go down around her, he says with a smile, and Eddie sighs dreamily, oh, I’d love to watch. From the closet, imagine myself in her place. In a little egyptian wig, he adds, to which Steve snorts, rolling his eyes.

Alright, my turn. Best casual sex you’ve ever had, go, says Eddie, and Steve hums at that, leans back on the couch, rubbing his chin, mumbling under his breath, until he sighs and says: I actually didn’t have that much of it beyond my teens, and what I had back then was very… teenaged, y’know. And in that short gap between my first and second wife I slept with just three people, two dudes and one woman, and neither of those was mind-blowing. The guys were kinda disappointing, I thought after so many years of straight sex I’d be blown away, but it was just… okay. Actually—, he adds, shaking his head: it sucked. I was drunk, they were drunk, I don’t remember much of it. Or don’t want to. I remember stinky balls. So, I dunno—, he says, and sighs, and glances at him: am I a big loser if I say the best one was when we reconnected? Could say it was still casual back then, right? When we fucked in the church, or by the pool, or—, yeah, there was a lot of it, on that trip.

It really was magical, agrees Eddie, smiling at him.

So, uh, your turn, says Steve. Best you've ever had, go.

Oh, man, mutters Eddie. I know my answer to that. Japan, in the mid-nineties. We were on tour and stayed for a few nights in Tokyo, and I got to explore the city, research shit with the help of a very discreet translator, and finally, on our last night there, I ended up in a gay bar. Very hush-hush, a basement place hidden away in some grimy back alley, he says, lowering his voice into sultry tones of gossip. Met a guy there, this… slightly chubby middle-aged businessman type, suit and tie and briefcase, wedding ring on his finger, very regular looking guy, and we drank sake through the night, sang some karaoke, and ended up in some seedy by-the-hour love hotel. He didn’t know who I was, didn’t speak a lick of English, I was obviously drunk, but I still remember that night like it was yesterday. God, just— the way that guy fucked me, the way he seemed to know every inch of my body without having seen it before, the way he just knew what I wanted without any language, it was insane. We did it a few times that one night, practically without stopping, and never saw each other again. I actually jerk off to that memory to this day.

To this, Steve lets out a small hm, purses his lips and leans back, crossing his arms, and Eddie clicks his tongue, leaning closer, touching his shoulder: aw, don’t be jealous. That was casual, but out of all people, of course you are my number one, no contest. I just— remember that one time in Japan, because it worked so well without language, and that’s always kinda hot. Language of love, all that cheesy stuff. Up to that point and following it, it'd mostly happen with some hot Brazilians.

Okay, he says.

Eddie sighs, watching his face: Steve, you know that’s what my life was like back then, this neverending barrage of hookups. And most of those weren’t even that good, like, you talk of stinky balls? I met dozens, slobbered over them anyway like they were fucking Ferrero Rocher!, he says to a small groan in return, then sighs, speaks softer: being with you is a completely different quality from that, even from my previous relationships. It’s way different. With Marcell, we both slept around, there wasn’t much that we had in common beyond, like, incredible attraction at the beginning, and the fact that we work in the same industry, could endlessly talk about that. And with Zu, we— we really loved each other, but we weren’t a good fit. It was this weird thing where she needed someone more masc, but also I needed someone more masc, he says with an amused scoff. We were two bottoms in love, and it’s hard to make it work in the long term, without fucking other people. We’re way better off as friends. And the other dudes I dated, it was just— me being a drunken asshole, most of the time. I was a very shitty boyfriend for a looong-ass time.

There’s a stretch of silence, and Steve slides down the couch, still frowning: man… I just wonder why you asked that question in the first place. Because it seems to me like you wanted to brag a little about this incredible hookup you had in fucking… Japan. Do you miss fucking other people, Eddie?

He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair: Steve, I literally just told you I don’t. I might romanticize it, the— the way I might romanticize being on drugs, but I don’t want to go back to that. I asked because I want to know everything about you! I dunno, I— I guess I like Japan. It’s such a weird place, I really want to go back there, he says and inches closer, placing a calm hand on his thigh: come with me. Like, for two weeks or something. We’d take the girls with us, go in the summer or for the spring break. Would be cool to just wander around, shop, sing karaoke, eat tons of good food. Go to Kyoto, see the geishas, tea ceremony. Go to hot springs. Japan’s truly like no place you’ve ever been to.

I didn't know you liked it that much. A trip does sound nice, says Steve, with a small smile. Emily would go crazy, she loves those cartoons. Chels would like it too, I think.

Eddie smiles and squeezes his leg: sounds like a plan. Also, just to— get it out of the way: from the moment you first kissed me, I stopped thinking of us as casual. I was, like, fully fully back in love with you in point two seconds. Even before that, to be honest. If I ever for a single moment considered that a hookup, it’d totally blow that businessman out of the water. If you want, I could show you, uh, how I blew him out of the— fucking—, he falters, then snorts: sorry, failed metaphor. But you catch my drift.

Yes, please, says Steve.

[hurtghul]

The Bird and the Cat !!

―― Damian Wayne x Thief!Reader. 674 words. Part two here.

Damian hates this with every ounce of his being, and he has every reason to hate it. It's not for nothing that he puts on Robin's cape and takes to the streets following his father like a tail dog, hoping to catch the attention of criminals and kick their butts. He does it because it is a duty that he chose and to which he was guided. That's why he made fun of the love relationship between Bruce and Selina, for Damian, it is a hypocritical issue, his father, the hero, dating a thief. How funny.

And now he feels like the hypocrite.

You had just robbed some important men, a suitcase full of money. Damian was doing his daily patrol, when he saw you—he didn't have to blink twice to know it was you―he had already been alert to your activity, knowing that you would appear; because he wants you to do it.

He attacked you as you jumped from building to building, you wouldn't have even noticed his presence until he gave you that strong kick that sent you off your path. He had decided the right moment to attack you as you jumped onto a roof.

The young Robin landed a few meters away from you, he looked at the suitcase that was next to you. He approached with slow steps, and kicked the suitcase away of your grip.

“You lost a life, cat.” Robin sentences, his voice almost a whisper. His hands clench into fists as he looks at you, brow furrowed, watching as you rub your neck from the pain of the fall he caused you.

“Shut up, little bird.” You growled, trying to grab the briefcase containing your robbery target. Damian stepped on the object, narrowing his eyes at you.

“If you have courage, take it,” Damian said, and pulled the R-shaped shuriken from his belt. “Just look how much I care, cat.” He joked calmly, face Stoic with a tone of defiance in his voice, trying to provoke your reaction and show his superiority of the moment. You're just a thief, not a fighter. Damian knows this because he has analyzed you—he is very interested in you.

His green eyes stared at you, a slight smile forming on his face. He liked when you get angry whenever he interrupts your heists, when he stops you from accomplishing your crimes, and you have to fight him. But that's when something never fits: he never gave you up to the police.

You tried to attack him with a punch―or a scratch rather―but you failed horribly. Robin saw your movements and stopped your blow with his hand, looking at you coldly.

Neither of them moved a muscle, frozen at the moment between duty and crime, feeling the pressure course through his veins. His hand moved slowly, holding your wrist.

Why couldn't I arrest you? It was the question Damian couldn't answer, and he wished no one would ask it. He was even doing his best to keep Father from knowing about his failures.

Then, to your surprise, he let go of you, letting his hands fall to his sides. He uttered no words, no sounds, no clicks. He didn't even attack you, as if he was absorbed in another world.

Then you understood, he was letting you escape. You didn't waste the opportunity, although you seemed confused by it.

“Damn cats…” Damian muttered, breathing deeply, his heart beating faster than ever. He watched as you grabbed the suitcase and run away quickly.

Damian felt a rush of adrenaline that filled his entire body. It had been a long time since he had experienced someone who made him feel like this, and now the person who did it turn out to be a thief.

He is experiencing the same thing as his father, a game of cat and mouse. He chases you, defeats you, and pushes you to your limits, as if all he was looking for was your reaction—your attention. The Robin is just like his father, but that irritates him, because he is confused and doesn't know how to react…

Maybe yes, maybe you stole his heart.

[nocturnest]

Omg imagine a very innocent, civilian Y/n being on the Bullet Train, in Japan with her friends for a girls’ trip. So y/n and her friends are on the train when all the craziness happens with the train-full of assassins. When the other civilians start clearing out of the train out of fear (because there are assassins running all over the place), Y/n is tipsy and doesn’t notice the commotion, and her “friends” just leave her there to flee the train (not the best friends 😬) so when Tangerine (who doesn’t die!!) and Lemon come running by, they see a very tipsy Y/n sitting there and they’re like, “What’re you doing here??” and she just giggles which has them like, “…” She flirts with Tangerine (lmao) as he takes care of her and saves her life, and once she realizes the danger she’s actually in, the poor girl is terrified! Also when they’re all safe, Tangerine and Lemon would be so angry that her friends all just left her there

@kpopgirlbtssvt love this idea! you have the best requests! i had such fun writing this - it's much longer than i originally planned but i wanted to do it justice! i hope i succeeded! 🥺❤️

The bullet train hurtled through the Japanese countryside, the rhythmic click-clack of the tracks beneath you providing a soothing backdrop to the excited chatter of your friends. The anticipation of your girls' trip to Japan had filled you with a bubbling sense of adventure, and as you settled into your seat, you couldn't wait to explore everything the country had to offer.

The journey started on a high note, with laughter and animated conversation flowing freely as you and your three other friends shared stories and sipped on cocktails. Sure, your friend Rebecca went on and on about her rich husband, his job, and all of their fancy cars. And sure, Cara kept interrupting everyone with her latest drama about her boyfriend, but overall, you were having a great time. The atmosphere was electric, and you found yourself getting caught up in the infectious excitement of the moment. You might have been a bit tipsy, but you thought that even you deserved a break sometimes, and besides, you were around friends who you could trust. They would look out for you, or so you thought.

You were happy to have taken time off from work to come on this trip. You rarely took vacations even though you loved traveling. Perhaps it was because you didn't usually have anyone to spend time with. And sure, you had people you could consider your friends, but sometimes you wished that you could discuss things other than clothing, men, and gossip. You wanted to talk about the latest books you were reading and the movie you had just seen the other day. But, you couldnt' change your friends. Admittedly, they had been there for you. Cara had been there for you when you had first gotten drunk, and Elise practically wheeled you to her hairdresser after you got a bad haircut.

When your friends' conversations started to lull, you began observing the train carriage. You had noticed a blonde man in a bucket hat walk in and out of the carriage more times than you would have liked because he was quite frankly making you dizzy from all of his movement. The first time you noticed him, though, he was carrying a briefcase with some kind of sticker on the handle. Cara stopped mid-way in her sentence while she was discussing a celebrity's latest affair to side-eye the blonde man, who seemed to be muttering to himself about some guy named Barry.

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest when a tall man in a blue suit caught your eye as he made his way through the carriage. His presence was commanding, his strides purposeful as he navigated through the crowded aisles. His brunette hair was neatly styled with gel, and his features exuded an air of confidence. He wore gold rings on his fingers, which he twisted with poorly concealed frustration.

Your friends, ever perceptive to your reactions, quickly noticed your awestruck expression and exchanged knowing glances. Rebecca nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous grin playing on her lips. "Looks like someone's got a crush," she teased, eliciting giggles from the others.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you attempted to deflect their teasing, but it was no use. Elise joined in with a playful smirk, "Oh, I see how it is. Falling for the mysterious stranger, are we?"

Before you could respond, the man approached your group, his eyes scanning the carriage with a determined expression. You felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach as he drew nearer, his piercing gaze meeting yours briefly before he addressed the group.

"Excuse me, ladies. Have any of you seen a man with a silver briefcase running through here? " he asked politely, his voice smooth and reassuring.

Your heart skipped a beat as you struggled to form a coherent response. He was British, and all your friends knew how you felt about British men. Rebecca was quick to speak up, her tone teasing. "Why, are you looking for a secret agent or something?"

The man chuckled lightly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Something like that," he replied with a cryptic smile.

You managed to regain your composure long enough to point him in the direction he needed to go, "I believe a blonde man in a bucket hat had it. He went that way."

He looks at you with gratitude yet frustration and something else that you can't quite decipher, "Thank you, love."

Then, he stalks away, muttering, "That fucking bastard."

Your friends exchanged amused looks once more, but you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment as he walked away. You felt as if there was something special about the mysterious stranger who had captured your attention. Little did you know that things were about to get a whole lot messier.

~

It started with the snake. You thought you were hallucinating when you saw it and realized that maybe you had had too much to drink. But no, your friends saw it too.

A hushed whisper had rippled through the carriage as passengers exchanged worried glances, and you had felt a chill run down your spine. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Then, you saw it – a snake slithering its way through the crowd, its presence sending a wave of panic through the carriage. You blinked in disbelief, wondering if you were imagining things, but the terrified screams of your fellow passengers confirmed that the danger was all too real.

Amidst the chaos, you caught sight of your friends, their faces pale with fear as they struggled to make sense of the situation. Panic set in as the snake moved closer, its venomous gaze fixed on its prey.

Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the air, and you turned to see a passenger clutching their face in agony, blood streaming from their eyes. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks – the snake was poisonous, and its venom was deadly.

In a frenzy of panic, you lost sight of your friends. Where had they gone? They had been right here? Apparently, your friends had made a split-second decision, abandoning each other to get off the train and save themselves. In disbelief, you observed their empty seats and attempted to stand only to feel a spell of dizziness, so you sat back down. You could only hope that the snake wouldn't come across you as its next victim.

Your friends and the snake slithered away the carriage was now empty, and so, the only thing you could think to do was to drink some more and fall into a deep sleep, hopeful that you would wake up in Kyoto.

~

This mission was unraveling more and more by the second. Tangerine had found Lemon unconscious, knocked out by some kind of drug. Tangerine had managed to wake him up but not without getting a slap to the face.

Now, Lemon was going on and on about a Diesel who had managed to shoot him in the chest. Luckily, Lemon had his bulletproof vest on, contrary to denying it previously. Never had Tangerine been so thankful for Lemon's antics.

Now, he and Lemon were walking down the aisles of the train carriages, trying to locate this fucking Diesel and the blonde muppet in a hat who stole their case with ferocity and a rapidly diminishing sense of hope.

Tangerine was of a mind to get off the train with Lemon and say fuck it, but that would mean not finishing the job, which would have been a first for them. Then again, Tangerine did quite fancy keeping all of his limbs and was not particularly eager to encounter the infamous White Death.

While Lemon went on about the Oscar-worthy performance of the Diesel he had encountered, Tangerine heard his phone buzzing and responds, putting it on speaker. They're absolutely fucking paranoid, this lot. Lemon looks at him expectantly.

"You have been lying to me, my friend."

It's the White Death. Tangerine rolls his eyes, "Well, cat’s out of the bag now, innit?"

"You were responsible for keeping my son safe. For keeping my money safe."

"You know, I-I don’t know a thing or two about being a parent, but you know what I would do, being that it’s your son and your money?"

Lemon looks at him with alarm and shakes his head, whispering, "Don't-"

Tangerine continues, "I’d stop crying about your dead wife, get off your fucking lazy ass, come here and finish the job yourself. But as we’re having a bit of a heart-to-heart, got a couple things to tell ya. Your son’s a complete bell end and fuckin’ deserves to be bleeding out of his eye sockets. And as for your case, I haven’t seen it since Tokyo. And I hope someone’s fuckin’ found it, put it all on red and having a fuckin’ wonderful time."

As calmly as before, the White Death responds, "I will meet you at Kyoto station."

Tangerine smiles sarcastically, "Oh, how wonderful. I can’t fucking wait."

"I want to look into your eyes when I kill you and your brother."

"My brother..."

The Tangerine glanced toward his bother with a look that Lemon rarely ever saw, one of fear.

Tangerine gets ahold of himself and looks out the window, "Morning rush hour’s rolling in quite nicely. Uh, what’s your plan, mate? You gonna fuckin’ waltz up here and blow my brains out in front of the whole fuckin’ carriage of witnesses?

"There is no one left on that train. I know. I bought every ticket until the end of the line."

The line cuts short and Lemon and Tangerine are left in silence, the sole sound being the train rolling along its tracks.

"Never have we encountered a more unbearable Deisel-"

Lemon is interrupted by Tangerine, who yells in absolute frustration and anger. Brass knuckles in hand, he begins punching at the screen at the front of the carriage 'till his hands begin to bleed, "All of this for some fuckin' pathetic excuse of a father and a husband! Can't even be bothered to show his ugly mug."

Tangerine's knuckles throbbed with pain as he relentlessly pounded on the screen at the front of the carriage.

"The. Fucking. Bastard." He enunciates each word with a punch.

His frustration and anger boiled over, fueling each blow with an intensity that bordered on madness. Blood trickled down his hands, staining the metal beneath him, but he paid no heed to the pain. All that mattered was the overwhelming sense of betrayal and helplessness that consumed him.

Beside him, Lemon watched in stunned silence, his usual calm demeanor shattered by the raw display of emotion unfolding before him. He had never seen Tangerine like this – so consumed by rage and despair that he seemed almost unrecognizable.

"Tangerine, stop!" Lemon finally shouted, reaching out to grab his brother's arm. "You're only hurting yourself."

But Tangerine shook off his brother's grip, his eyes ablaze with fury. "I couldn't give a fuck!" he roared, his voice echoing through the empty carriage. Lemon raises an eyebrow and Tangerine avoids his eyes, embarrassed almost by his fit of rage. He breathes heavily before sighing shakily, "This mission's been fucked since the beginning, 'asn't it?"

"Yep."

"And we should probably get off the train, shouldn't we?"

"Yep."

"Right. Fuck the case."

Lemon pats him on the shoulder, "Damn right, bruv."

Bloodied and bruised (Tangerine more than Lemon because Lemon doesn't bleed), they make their way through the next train carriage, only to come across another figure. Someone was still on the train. As Tangerine and Lemon cautiously approached the figure, they couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation. After all they had been through, encountering another passenger on the seemingly deserted train was unexpected, to say the least.

There you were, your eyes wide with fear as she took in the sight of the bloodied brothers. You hadn't expected to come across this mysterious stranger once more. You shrank back instinctively, still shaken by the snake incident.

Tangerine and Lemon exchanged a wary glance before Tangerine spoke, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the anger still simmering beneath the surface, "Hey there, love. Ya alright?"

You calmed at the sound of Tangerine's voice and a confidence that you rarely had took over you, "Now that you're here."

Tangerine laughs, "Where are your friends?"

You wave your arms weakly, your words slurring together, "Gone... They left me behind. A poisonous snake started biting people. That guy wasn't so lucky." You point to the body of an unfortunate passenger, obscured beneath two seats. He had blood seeping out of his eyes. Lemon and Tangerine turned to observe your line of sight and frowned in disgust.

Lemon's eyes widen with realization, "Well, now we know what killed the bastard of a White Death's son." Tangerine grunted in response.

You make an effort to stand, your drunken movements clumsy and staggering, "Are you boys here to rescue me? Because I could use a knight in shining armor."

"Something like that... You're telling me that your friends left you to face off a snake on your own while fuckin' drunk?"

You nodded sheepishly, a flush of embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "Yeah, they uh... weren't exactly the most reliable companions."

Lemon snorted derisively, "Clearly."

Tangerine shot his brother a warning look before turning back to you, his expression softening slightly. "Well, lucky for you, we happened to come along. Can you walk?"

You nodded, albeit unsteadily. "I think so. Where are we going?"

Tangerine glanced at Lemon, who shrugged in response. "Anywhere but here," Tangerine replied, his tone grim. "Let's get you off this train, and then we'll figure it out."

Lemon smiles reassuringly, "I'm Lemon by the way. He's my brother, Tangerine."

"Yes - I met him earlier."

Lemon lights up and grins at Tangerine, "Ah - so this was the pretty bird you were telling me about -"

Tangerine bristles, flushed in the face, "Shut it!" He only softens when you smile at him shyly.

With that, you collect your luggage, and the three of you set off down the deserted train carriage, Tangerine's hand on your back to keep you steady, the warmth of his hand against you sending shivers down your spine. You couldn't deny the attraction you felt towards him, and with each step, your inhibitions seemed to slip away, replaced by a newfound boldness..

Continuing down the aisles, you speak up, "You know, I was of a mind to go hunt you down."

Tangerine chuckled softly, his lips quirking up into a half-smile, "Oh, really."

"Yes - I wanted to know who your tailor was because that suit of yours makes you look as though you were crafted by the Gods. Is it on purpose that it happens to match the color of your eyes?"

Tangerine's chuckle deepened at your compliment, a faint blush gracing his cheeks. "Crafted by the Gods, hm? I'll have to remember that one."

You smirked, feeling a surge of satisfaction at the effect your words had on him. "I speak nothing but the truth," you replied cheekily, earning another amused chuckle from Tangerine.

Beside you, Lemon rolled his eyes, unable to suppress his grin at the exchange. "Are we done with the flirting, or do I need to start taking notes?"

You laughed, the sound echoing through the empty train carriage. "Oh, lighten up, Lemon. Can't a girl appreciate a well-dressed man without it being considered flirting?"

Tangerine shot you a playful wink, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Flattery will get you everywhere, love."

As the three of you made your way through the deserted train carriages, the air was thick with tension and anticipation. You found yourself drawn to Tangerine, his rugged charm and playful banter providing a welcome distraction from the chaos that had unfolded around you.

Lemon, ever the voice of reason, kept a watchful eye on his surroundings, his gaze occasionally darting towards you and his brother as if to ensure that no further harm befell you. Despite the gravity of the situation, a sense of camaraderie seemed to be blossoming between the three of you, forged in the crucible of shared adversity.

Suddenly, a faint sound caught your attention, causing you to halt in your tracks. Tangerine and Lemon tensed, their bodies coiled like springs, ready to react at a moment's notice.

"Did you hear that?" you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest.

Tangerine nodded, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the dimly lit carriage. "Stay close," he murmured, his hand tightening protectively around your arm.

The sound grew louder, a rhythmic thud that seemed to emanate from the far end of the carriage. Lemon inched forward, his movements fluid and silent, every muscle in his body poised for action.

As you rounded the corner, the sight that greeted you was one of equal parts amusement and confusion. There, in the center of the aisle, was the blonde man in the bucket hat, frantically attempting to pry open a briefcase with what appeared to be a comically oversized set of pliers.

Upon catching sight of you three, the man froze, his eyes wide with panic. "Uh, this isn't what it looks like?" he stammered, nervousness clear in his voice.

Tangerine and Lemon exchanged a knowing glance, their lips curling into matching smirks of amusement. "Oh, I think it's exactly what it looks like," Tangerine drawled, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"That's our case, you muppet," Lemon chimed in, his arms folded across his chest as he regarded the man with disdain.

The man's eyes darted from one of you to the other, his grip tightening around the pliers as he searched for an escape route. "Listen-"

Tangerine's face hardened, "You drugged my brother..."

"He was trying to kill me?!"

"You pushed me off a fuckin' train..."

"Again, you were trying to kill me! How did you get back on by the way?"

"I jumped back on," Tangerine raised an eyebrow. Lemon looked at him with confusion, seemingly unaware of this information.

You looked at Tangerine in awe and admiration, impressed by the skill and effort it must have taken to jump onto a moving train. The broken glass in his hair and cuts along his knuckles now made more sense. You had a feeling that whatever you had walked into, these people you had met, were entangled in something far beyond your understanding.

"Right. Listen, you can have the case-"

"We couldn't give a rat's arse about the case anymore. What irks me beyond anything fuckin' else in that you tried to fuck us over. And if we weren't gettin' off this train, me and Lemon would be beyond thrilled to watch the White Death have a fuckin' field day with you, ripping your limbs off bit by bit."

You weren't from Japan but even you had heard of the White Death. Locals had fearfully mentioned his name in passing. Based off of what you had heard of the man, you knew that he was not someone to mess around with.

Ladybug tried to look doubtful, "Not if I bring him the case."

Tangerine rolled his eyes and looked at Lemon as if asking, "Help me out here?" and Lemon spoke up, "Do what you fucking want, man, but the White Death is planning to kill us all. Why do think there's nobody else on this train. He bought the whole thing out."

Ladybug's eyes widened with realization, "Well, shit..."

"Now you get it," Tangerine muttered, "Ya fuckin' bastard..."

Ladybug's resolve wavered as he weighed his options. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded decisively. "Alright, fine. I'll get off the train too."

Tangerine and Lemon exchanged a glance of surprise, but they quickly regained their composure. Tangerine cleared his throat, "Are you taking the case with ya?"

Ladybug hesitated, glancing at the briefcase still clutched in his hand. After a moment, he shook his head. "No. I don't want the White Death coming after me. I'll leave it here."

Tangerine nodded in understanding, his expression grim. "Fair enough. We're getting off at the next stop. Then, you do whatever the fuck you'd like and hopefully, we never have to see you again."

Still questioning whether Tangerine still had murderous intent behind his words, Ladybug muttered, "I hope so too..."

As the train hurtleed towards its next stop, the four of you found seats in the empty carriage, the tension in the air palpable. Ladybug sat off to the side awkwardly. You couldn't help but feel a sense of unease settle over you, the reality of the situation sinking in. Gone was the carefree excitement of your girls' trip, replaced by a looming sense of danger and uncertainty.

You fidgeted nervously in your seat, the events of the past hour replaying in your mind. You felt as though you had sobered up. The snake, the abandoned train, the potential encounter with the White Death – it all felt like something out of a nightmare. And yet, here you were, stranded on a speeding train with two complete strangers who seem to have a knack for attracting trouble.

Despite your best efforts to stay calm, a wave of anxiety washed over you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed. You glanced at Tangerine and Lemon, grateful for their presence but also acutely aware of the danger that surrounded you.

Tangerine noticed your unease and shifted closer to you, his voice soft and reassuring. "Hey, don't worry. We'll get through this together."

You managed a weak smile, appreciative of his attempt to comfort you. "I hope so. This whole situation is just... unreal."

Lemon nodded in agreement, his expression serious. "Yeah, it's definitely not what we were expecting when we boarded this train."

Tangerine placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch gentle yet reassuring. "But we'll figure it out. We always do. My concern, love, is what you're going to do about those friends of yours."

Lemon huffed angrily, "They're Diesels, the lot of them."

You frowned, confused, "Diesels?"

Tangerine looked frustrated beyond belief, "Here we go! Please, spare her of the Thomas references."

Lemon ignored him and stated matter-of-factly, "Everything I learned about people, I learned from Thomas." Lemon reached into his jacket to pull out a sticker-book. He chose one of the stickers with care, "Diesels are the worst of the worst. They never want the best for you. You, though... you seem like an Emily. Kind, caring, intelligent."

Lemon carefully selected a sticker from his book and offered it to you with a small smile. "Here, consider it a token of friendship."

You accepted the sticker, examining it curiously before affixing it to the back of your hand. "Thanks, Lemon. I appreciate it."

Tangerine rolled his eyes at Lemon's Thomas reference, clearly exasperated. "Great, now we're going to have to endure Thomas and his friends for the rest of the journey."

Lemon chuckled and you couldn't help but laugh at Tangerine's comment, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. "So, does that make you a Gordon, Tangerine? Strong, proud, and always in a hurry?"

Tangerine shot you a mock glare, clearly unamused by the comparison. "Oh, please. If anything, I'm more of a James. Fiery, charming, and a bit of a troublemaker."

You grinned, enjoying the banter between the brothers. "Ah, yes. I can see it now. But let's not forget about Edward over here," you teased, gesturing to Lemon. "Wise, kind-hearted, and always ready to lend a helping hand."

Lemon nodded in agreement, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Well, someone has to keep you two in line."

Tangerine groaned playfully, "Great, now there are fuckin' two of them," he mutters under his breath, earning a chuckle from Lemon and a playful nudge from you.

As the banter settled into a comfortable rhythm, you couldn't help but feel a sense of camaraderie forming between you and the brothers. However, a nagging curiosity lingered in the back of your mind, prompting you to finally voice your question.

"So, why were you two on the train?" you asked, turning to Tangerine and Lemon with a quizzical expression.

Lemon exchanged a glance with Tangerine before answering, his tone guarded. "We were on a job."

"A job?" you echoed, your curiosity piqued. "What kind of job?"

Tangerine sighed, exchanging a knowing look with Lemon before turning to you, his expression grave. "We're... assassins," he admitted, his voice soft but firm.

You blinked in surprise, the revelation sinking in slowly. Assassins. The word hung in the air, heavy with implications and danger. And yet, strangely, you found yourself unfazed by the admission. Perhaps it was the trust you had begun to place in Tangerine and Lemon, or maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through your veins, but you couldn't bring yourself to feel afraid.

Instead, you nodded thoughtfully, accepting the information without hesitation. "I figured it was something like that," you admitted, surprising even yourself with your calm demeanor. "Well, whatever it is you do, I trust you to protect me."

Tangerine's eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features. "Thank you, love. We'll do everything we can to keep you safe."

And then, just like that, the train finally came to a stop. The three of you jumped eagerly, knowing the doors would only stay open for a minute. If you missed this stop, it would mean waiting 'till Kyoto, where the White Death awaited you all. Ladybug was equally eager to get off the train and was practically tripping over his feet.

The sun was rising, casting a soft golden glow over the empty platform as you stepped off the train, and the air was crisp and cool, a welcome change from the confines of the carriage. As you stood there, surrounded by the quiet stillness of the early morning, a sense of relief washed over you.

As Ladybug stepped off the train, he turned to face Tangerine and Lemon, a grateful smile on his face. "Well, it's been... interesting," he said, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm. "Thanks for, uh, not killing me, I guess."

Lemon chuckles, warning him, "You stay out of trouble, Joburg."

With a final nod of farewell, Ladybug headed off towards the exit, pulling out his phone to call his handler. As he disappeared into the early morning light, Tangerine and Lemon turned to you, their expressions serious.

"So, what now?" Lemon asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

You shrugged, feeling a surge of uncertainty wash over you. "I honestly don't know. I don't have anywhere else to go."

Tangerine exchanged a glance with Lemon before turning back to you, his expression softened. "Well, you could always come with us," he suggested, his voice surprisingly gentle. "At least until we figure out what to do next."

You hesitated, unsure of whether to accept their offer. But as you looked into Tangerine's eyes, you saw a sincerity there that made your heart flutter. Despite the chaos and danger that seemed to follow him wherever he went, there was something undeniably compelling about him, something that drew you in and made you want to stay by his side.

"Alright," you said finally, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I'll come with you."

Tangerine grinned, relief evident in his expression. "Great. Welcome aboard, love."

With that, the three of you set off for the train station. Surrounded by the quiet stillness of the early morning, you couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement building within you.

~

After Tangerine had made a call, a car came to pick the three of you up from the train station. When Tangerine had suggested he and Lemon try to hijack a car, you had almost slapped him right then and there. Tangerine was apologetic and insisted he was joking (you weren't quite convinced) and Lemon just laughed his ass off.

As the three of you drove to a hotel in the backseat of the cab, you had fallen asleep on Tangerine's shoulder, and he certainly didn't seem to mind. Your hair tickled his neck and he looked down at you, absentmindedly moving your hair out of your eyes. Lemon watched him with a grin.

"You like her."

Tangerine huffed indignantly and narrowed his eyes, "You don't know what you're talking about."

Lemon waved his hand, "You barely give anyone the time of day. I know it when I see it."

"You don't see anything."

Lemon leaned back in his seat, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Oh, come on, Tangerine. It's written all over your face. You like her."

Tangerine's cheeks flushed slightly, a mixture of embarrassment and irritation evident in his expression. He hoped to God that you were still sleeping. "Quiet! You don't know what you're fuckin' talking about," he retorted, his tone defensive.

Lemon chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Deny it all you want, but I've seen the way you look at her. You're practically smitten."

Tangerine shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Lemon's gaze as he muttered under his breath, "It's not like that."

But Lemon wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You should tell her."

"She probably doesn't even feel the same..."

"Did you fucking hear her earlier? She obviously likes you, bruv. Sculpted by the gods, my arse."

"Oi! I will have you know-"

"Yeah, yeah... But seriously, man. Talk to her."

Tangerine prepared to interrupt but Lemon continued, "Get to know her," Lemon urged, his tone softer now, genuine concern etched on his face. "You've been through a lot together already. And let's face it, she trusts us enough to sleep on your shoulder. That's gotta mean something."

Tangerine sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He couldn't deny the truth in Lemon's words. Despite his initial reluctance to get involved, there was something about you that intrigued him, drew him in like a moth to a flame.

"I don't know, Lemon," Tangerine admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not exactly the best at this whole... relationship thing."

Lemon placed a reassuring hand on Tangerine's shoulder, offering a supportive smile. "Hey, none of us are. But you won't know until you try, right? And who knows, maybe she'll surprise you."

Tangerine nodded, a small glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. Maybe Lemon was right. Maybe it was worth taking a chance, risking his heart for the possibility of something more.

As the car pulled to the hotel, Tangerine glanced down at you again. As you stirred from your slumber, blinking sleepily up at him with a soft smile, he felt something flutter in his chest. He would talk to you, somehow, he decided. He would take that leap of faith and see where it led. He had to.

~

The hotel was nice, even nicer than the hotel you had been previously staying at with your absurdly wealthy "friends." It was modern while still retaining traditional Japanese elements. Given Tangerine's nonchalance, you guessed he was used to staying at places like this.

The receptionist gave the three of you a nervous glance, given the states of Lemon and Tangerine's disheveled appearances and bloodied attire. Tangerine, however, seemed unfazed by the receptionist's scrutiny. He stepped forward with a confident stride, offering her a polite smile.

"Good evening," he greeted in suprisingly well-spoken Japanese, his tone smooth and respectful. "We have reservations under the name 'Tanaka.'"

The receptionist's demeanor softened slightly at Tangerine's polite demeanor, and she quickly retrieved the reservation details from her computer. After a moment of typing, she nodded and handed over three room keys, her expression professional but still cautious. "Yes, Mr. Tanaka. Your suite is ready. Please enjoy your stay."

Tangerine nodded in thanks before turning to you and Lemon. "Let's go," he said simply, leading the way to the elevator without waiting for a response.

You followed behind him, feeling a mix of gratitude for his quick thinking and admiration for his composure. Despite the unusual circumstances, Tangerine seemed completely at ease navigating through the hotel, as if he belonged there.

Lemon notices your surprise and whispers loudly, "Sometimes I think he picked up Japanese since we've been here just to pick up the ladies."

He gives you a conspiratorial wink, showcasing the mischievous side that balances out his normally laid-back demeanor. "I mean, it seems to have worked on you."

You shoot Lemon a playful glare, but can't hide the slight flush that colors your cheeks at his teasing remark. "Maybe he's just a man of many talents," you counter with a sly smile.

Lemon barks out a laugh. "Oh, he's certainly got talents alright. Just don't let that smooth-talking charmer fool you into thinking he's some kind of Renaissance man."

As the elevator doors open, Tangerine holds it for the two of you, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at Lemon's comment but remaining silent. You get the distinct impression that he heard every word.

Falling into step beside Tangerine, you lean in closer as you walk down the hallway. "I have to admit, that display at the front desk was rather impressive," you murmur. "Where did you pick up such immaculate Japanese?"

A rakish grin tugs at the corner of Tangerine's mouth. "A gentleman never reveals all his secrets, love." His eyes roam over you appraisingly. "Though I may be persuaded to share a few...for the right price."

Your breath catches at the blatant flirtation, heat simmering low in your belly. Two can play at this game. "Is that so?" you purr, holding his intense gaze. "And what might that price be, exactly?"

Before Tangerine can respond, Lemon groans loudly from behind you two. "For fuck's sake, get a room you two!" His exasperated tone is betrayed by the amused grin he's failing to hide.

Tangerine chuckles, breaking the charged moment as he slides the keycard into the door. "You're just jealous you're not getting any action, bruv."

"Hey, I get plenty of action!" Lemon protests indignantly as he brushes past you both into the sumptuous suite. "More than you'd believe."

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Tangerine gestures you inside with a wink. "Don't mind him, love. He's just bitter no one can resist my charms."

As you step into the opulent room, you can't shake the feeling that there's far more to these roguish brothers than meets the eye. And there's definitely a part of you that wants to explore Tangerine in more ways than one.

As you step into the lavish suite, you can't help but be in awe of your surroundings. The spacious living area is beautifully appointed, with plush couches and chairs arranged invitingly around a sleek glass coffee table. To one side, there's a well-equipped office nook, perfect for getting work done in luxury.

But the true showstopper is the stunning panoramic view that greets you through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The twinkling lights of the city skyline stretch out before you, a breathtaking vista that seems to encapsulate the vibrant energy of Japan itself. You can't resist drifting closer to the windows, mesmerized by the glittering skyscrapers in the distance.

A small, stylish kitchenette sits off to one side, fully stocked with high-end appliances and accessories. You can easily imagine Tangerine whipping up a gourmet meal with that roguish charm of his.

Your gaze is drawn to the three closed doors leading off from the main living space, no doubt opening up into equally luxurious bedrooms and bathrooms.

"This is...very nice," you murmur with amazement as you gaze around the opulent suite.

"Yeah, not too shabby," Lemon chimes in with a dramatic yawn. "I don't know about you two, but I'm fuckin' knackered. Need to get cleaned up."

He wanders over to the closed doors and spots a notecard with his codename scrawled across it. "Ah, looks like our handler left us some essentials."

Peering into the room, you see plush bedding, a high-end ensuite bathroom...and unmistakably, a duffel bag filled with gear. Cash, burner phones, and even weaponry peeking out from within.

Tangerine notices your curious look. "Don't worry love, those are just for me and Lemon."

He shifts closer, dropping his voice. "You'll be alright on your own for a bit while we get sorted? Let me know if you need anything."

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, really. You two get yourselves situated."

With a grateful nod, Tangerine disappears into his own room, leaving you alone in the expansive living area. After a moment's hesitation, you make your way to the remaining door.

Sure enough, the bedroom is just as luxurious as the rest of the suite. A lavish king-sized bed dominates the space, with high-end furniture and a private ensuite. On the dresser, you find a change of clothes - simple sweats and a t-shirt, but incredibly soft and brand new nonetheless.

Stripping off your travel-worn clothes, you can't resist indulging in a long, hot shower, letting the tension ease from your muscles under the pounding spray. But as you sink into the plush mattress, exhaustion settles in your bones...and you find your thoughts drifting, unable to fully relax.

Loneliness and a pang of hurt wash over you as you recall your so-called friends abandoning you on the train. You'd been through so much together, but at the first sign of true danger, they fled without a second thought, leaving you utterly alone.

Except...you're not alone anymore, are you? Your gaze strays to the adjoining wall, knowing Tangerine's room lies just beyond. Those two roguish brothers have risked their lives to keep you safe.

Loneliness and a pang of hurt wash over you as you recall your so-called friends abandoning you on the train. You'd been through so much together, but at the first sign of true danger, they fled without a second thought, leaving you utterly alone.

Except...you're not alone anymore, are you? Your gaze strays to the adjoining wall, knowing Tangerine's room lies just beyond. Those two roguish brothers have risked their lives to keep you safe.

A flush of embarrassment heats your cheeks as you recall your brazenly flirtatious behavior towards Tangerine while intoxicated on the train. The boldness with which you complimented his striking looks and blatantly admired his physique in that tailored suit.

Under normal circumstances, you'd never have been so forward. But something about the adrenaline of the perilous situation, combined with the liquid courage coursing through your veins, allowed you to shed your inhibitions spectacularly.

You can't help but cringe inwardly as snippets of conversation flash through your mind.

"You look as though you were crafted by the Gods..."

"I could use a knight in shining armor."

Heat blazes across your face at the suggestive remarks. How shameless you were, practically throwing yourself at the mysterious stranger!

And yet...you can't find it in yourself to truly regret it. If you're being honest, that uninhibited side of you is something you've kept carefully locked away for far too long. The thrill of allowing it to run free, even for those fleeting moments, was intoxicating in its own right.

Perhaps that's part of what drew you to Tangerine in the first place - his own unapologetic confidence and daring bravado. He embraces his roguish charm wholeheartedly, not a shred of self-consciousness to be found.

A part of you longs to cultivate that same unrestrained spirit, to stop holding yourself back and hiding behind propriety. To truly allow yourself to live boldly, to take what you want without hesitation or apology.

As you lay in the plush hotel bed, you can't resist imagining how freeing it would feel to let that side loose once more. But this time, with no alcoholic filter - simply pure, emboldened desire guiding your actions.

The thought is as tantalizing as it is terrifying. Could you ever truly allow yourself such unrestrained indulgence? Or would you always be tempered by the nagging restraints of societal expectations?

One thing is certain - now that Tangerine has sauntered into your life, you have the distinct feeling those long-buried urges will only grow more persistent. And you can't deny, after the harrowing events of today, that a large part of you is eager to explore just how far you're willing to let them run wild.

Making a decision, you rise from the bed and make your way towards Tangerine's door, knocking lightly.

"Come in!"

You enter to find Tangerine hunched over a mirror, grimacing as he prods at a nasty cut on his cheekbone. Tiny shards of glass glisten in the wound.

"Everything alright?" you ask softly.

Tangerine glances over with a rueful smile. "Just a little souvenir from that bastard bucket-hat bloke. Nicked my face after jumping back on the train."

Without thinking, you move to his side, gently taking his chin to tilt his face towards the light. "Here, let me..."

You work carefully, utilizing all your focus to extract each sliver of glass, cleaning the wound thoroughly. Tangerine watches you intently, an unreadable look in his intense blue eyes.

"You've got a knack for this, love," he murmurs eventually. "Bit of a dab hand when it comes to patching people up."

You flush slightly at the praise. "Well...I used to be a nurse, actually." A pang of regret hits you. "Honestly, I should've offered to help with yours and Lemon's injuries earlier. I feel silly for not thinking of it."

Tangerine considers you for a long moment before speaking again, his voice lowered. "How'd you like to put those nursing skills to good use then? Properly, this time?"

You blink at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"Join up with me and my brother." Tangerine states it simply, as if it's the most logical thing in the world. "We could use someone with your...capabilities watching our backs. Keeping us in one piece."

He lets the suggestion hang in the air, letting you process it. When you don't immediately respond, he presses on.

"Don't sell yourself short, love. You handled yourself bloody well on that train when shit went sideways, and all while being tipsy. You've got a cool head and you're not afraid to get your hands dirty when needed."

A roguish grin plays across his lips. "And I don't know about you, but I certainly enjoyed the company."

You're stunned into silence, weighing his unexpected offer. Join them? In their line of work - whatever dangerous world that entails?

But even as apprehension swirls within you, you can't deny the thrill the idea sparks, the instinct to run headlong into this exhilarating unknown.

"What about money?" you blurt out, startled by your own daring even as the words leave your lips. "Your...jobs. How do they pay?"

If Tangerine is surprised by your interest, he doesn't show it. "Well enough to live more than comfortably, I can assure you. Probably more than that nursing gig of yours ever did."

His eyes burn with intensity. "Think it over, love. But I meant what I said - I'd love to have you by my side."

You search his gaze, seeing the barely concealed hope intermingled with that simmering confidence. You notice just how blue his eyes are In this moment, the choice is yours to make.

Taking a steadying breath, you meet Tangerine's stare head-on. "Alright. I'm in."

Tangerine's face breaks into a wide, genuine smile at your agreement to join him and Lemon, his eyes crinkling at the corners. For a fleeting moment, his typical bravado slips, replaced by an openness you've yet to witness from the assassin.

Then his gaze seems to catch on something - your hand, still gently cradling his jaw from cleaning his wound. A faint blush tinges his chiseled cheeks as the realization of your lingering proximity sinks in.

Clearing his throat, Tangerine averts his eyes, a hint of uncharacteristic bashfulness creeping into his tone. "That's, uh...that's great, love. I'm over the moon you're on board, truly."

He chances another glance your way, blue eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath. "To be honest, part of me was terrified at the thought of never seeing you again after this job."

Tangerine lets out a rueful chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "Sounds daft, I know. But there's just...something about you."

His calloused fingers ghost along your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. "I've not felt this way about someone in a long time. Maybe fuckin' ever, if I'm being honest with myself."

You're stunned by his vulnerability, the raw openness he's allowing you to witness. Unconsciously, you find yourself leaning into his touch, drawn in by the flickering warmth in those azure depths.

"Tangerine..." you murmur, pulse fluttering wildly. "I...you have no idea how entranced I was by you from the moment I laid eyes on you on that train."

The words tumble forth in a rush, as if a dam has broken within you. "Those things I said when I was tipsy? It was all true - what I was thinking deep down but could never normal bring myself to voice. You're gorgeous, yes, but it's more than that. The way you carried yourself with such easy confidence, the charm mixed with that protectiveness..."

Your fingers trace the sharp line of his jaw reverently. "I've been enamored with you since I first saw you. And my friends could see it plain as day too. When I first heard you speak, my God... you could narrate audiobooks with that voice of yours. I'm serious. ."

Before you can continue, Tangerine surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. It's passionate yet achingly tender, his hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you flush against him. You melt into his solid frame, returning the heated embrace with equal fervor, all thoughts fleeing from your mind aside from the searing brand of his mouth on yours.

You pull on the strands of hair that meet his neck and he lets out a whine. He traces one of his hands down your spine, the coldness of his rings making you shiver. When you grind against his crotch, he's tearing himself away with a ragged groan, resting his forehead against yours. His chest heaves with each shuddering breath, eyes dark with want.

"Bloody hell, love..." Tangerine rasps hoarsely. "If you keep going on like that, I won't be able to resist taking you right here and now."

You let out a breathless laugh, emboldened by the fire igniting in your blood. "Well, I certainly wouldn't object to that course of action..."

He groans again, dropping his head to press scorching kisses along the slender column of your throat. "You're going to be the death of me, pet."

Nipping lightly at your racing pulse point, Tangerine rumbles against your skin. "How about you stay in here tonight? No point in you being relegated to your own room..."

His heated gaze meets yours, swirling with a molten promise that sets your heart pounding. In this moment, you know there's no force on earth that could make you deny him.

As he draws you towards the bedroom, your eyes catch on the well-worn books piled on his nightstand. "You read?" You can't help the hint of pleasant surprise coloring your voice.

Tangerine follows your line of sight, the hint of a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. "Suppose that's one of my little secrets, eh? Always enjoyed a good book, ever since I was young."

Settling onto the plush mattress, he pulls you into his side, trailing kisses along your shoulder. "Go on then, have a look. See if our tastes align at all."

You happily oblige, perusing the titles - a mixture of classics and modern works spanning countless genres. Unable to resist, you pluck out a beloved old favorite, flipping through the dog-eared pages with a contented smile.

"We may just be literary soulmates, Tangerine," you tease lightly. "Though...I have to ask. What draws a hardened assassin to the poetry of Dickinson and the wit of Shakespeare?"

For a moment, he's quiet, considering your question carefully. When he speaks again, his voice is tinged with a rare wistfulness.

"They're a connection to another world, I suppose. An escape, in their own way. A reminder that for all the brutality and darkness this life can bring...beauty and deeper meaning will always exist, if you know where to look for it."

The simple yet profound wisdom of his words steals your breath. Here is a side of Tangerine few ever glimpse - a man who has stared into the abyss yet still yearns for higher truth, for exquisite artistry amid the violence and chaos.

His fingers trail along your arm, raising gooseflesh in their wake. "Lemon finds the whole thing utterly baffling, of course. For me, books are my trains. He can't seem to fathom why I insist on lugging books everywhere we go. But to me..." A soft, crooked smile curves his lips. "Well, they're part of what keeps me human, I reckon."

In this quiet moment, something ineffable seems to click into place between you two. A deeper understanding, a sense of two souls intertwining with preternatural ease.

Cradling his face, you meet Tangerine's fervent gaze once more. "Then I hope you'll always have time for them," you murmur. "And I'll be here to help keep that part of you alive."

His reply is swallowed by another ardent kiss, filled with unspoken promise. For now, at least, the world beyond these four walls can wait.

@little-miss-dilf-lover @tange-my-rine @sebsbarnes @spookyspecterino @whatiswrongwithpeople @liukangsgirl @kiss-me-cill-me I hope you guys enjoy this as well!

[miryum]

"Halloween III"

Summary: Detective!Jason Todd x detective!Reader based on Jake and Amy’s relationship

Series Warnings: Swearing, descriptions of violence (but nothing descriptive), guns and other police stuff

Series Masterlist

"Attention, squad! Today is the most important day in the history of this precinct,” Y/n cried out in the briefing room. She raised a dramatic hand and said in a low voice, “for today is Halloweeeeeen!” She turned to Captain Wayne, pouting. “I thought we were going to say it together.”

“I never agreed to that,” he stated.

Y/n sighed and continued, “as you may know, for the past two years, Captain Wayne and I have engaged in an epic battle of wits. The goal: to determine who must call the other an amazing detective-slash-genius.”

Wayne cut in. “The first year, by sheer, dumb luck, Y/n eked out a feeble victory.”

“And last year, I let the Captain win, because he's old and sad,” Y/n retorted. 

Wayne raised a brow and quickly quipped, “sad because the competition was so dismal.”

“Is this meeting about something?” Steph asked from a chair. Jason sat next to her, his nose red and eyes tired.

“It's about everything.” Y/n said, aghast that her best friend would even ask that. “This year's the tie-breaker, a final heist to decide once and for all the true ruler of the six-six. Halloween Heist Three: The Heistening. Tagline?” She pointed at Captain Wayne excitedly.

“This year we both attempt to steal the same object instead of L/n attempting to steal one from me.”

Y/n huffed and whispered, “I gave you one direction on the tagline! Make it snappy. But yes, we will be attempting to steal the same item... this.” She held up a plastic crown etched with faux jewels.

“The crown will be locked in this briefcase, which in turn will be locked in the interrogation room.” Wayne took the crown from Y/n and placed it in said briefcase. 

Y/n sang quietly, “And so unto the briefcase goes the crown!” 

“This year,” Wayne continued, “we have decided to include the rest of the precinct, and so to be fair, we're holding a draft.”

“Everyone who participates will get the night off,” Y/n said. “Captain?”

Wayne hummed. “With the first pick of the draft, I choose… Richard.”

“Alright, I'll take Steph.” Y/n grinned and high-fived her best friend.

“Damian.”

“I take Cass.” Y/n said.

“Todd is too sick to participate,” as if on cue, Jason sneezed. “In fact, I don’t even know why he's still here…” Wayne muttered. “And Drake is too loyal to L/n.”

“Nuh-uh!” Both Y/n and Tim cried. 

“Have you seen his ass-kissery?” Y/n asked incredulously. ”I can’t trust him! Tim would do anything to win your approval, including pretending to be my friend for the past years only to betray me now even though Wayne only joined the six-six three years ago.”

“L/n, you are majorly overthinking this,” Tim said.

“Maybe, but it's a risk I'm not willing to take. Tim’s out.”

“I agree. So we agree that by midnight, whoever has the crown shall be the ruler of the six-six.” Wayne had a rare smirk on his face.

“So,” Steph strolled into the room and said to Damian, “I see you've been assigned to guard the briefcase too.”

“Correct, Brown. I’ve been given clear instructions to keep a close and clear watch on both the briefcase and you.” He nodded towards the briefcase which sat in the interrogation room. He and Steph currently stood behind the two way mirror.

“Well, I have exciting news!” Steph exclaimed. “I found the perfect guy to set you up with!”

“After zero consideration, I'm happy to say, ’hard pass.’ It's incredibly… sweet that you wish to set me up with someone, but I do not trust your taste in men.”

“I have spectacular taste in men. You would love Jon.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You are impossible.”

Y/n paced the break room. Jason lay on the couch, a blanket tucked over him and a box of tissues at the ready. Y/n had Doordash open on her phone, popsicles ready to be ordered for his sore throat. Jason lightly groaned and turned over in his sleep and Y/n’s head whipped over to him. She crouched down next to him and brushed her hand over his forehead. He officially had a fever and she placed a cool washcloth over his forehead. She went back to pacing the room and suddenly, a Halloween decoration with motion sensors rang out. The cackle of the fake witch blared throughout the room and Y/n cried, “gah! Scary witch! Scary, so so scary!”

“I am not going to meet my next boyfriend through a Stephanie set-up.” Damian crossed his arms.

“It's go time, Brown.” Y/n whispered into her comm from up in the vents. “Holt and Terry have closed the blinds... release the spiders.”

Stephanie discreetly took a bag of spiders out of her pocket and dumped them onto the floor. “Oh, my god! Damian, look! Spiders!” She let out a scream and jumped back.

Damian squatted down and hummed. “Achaearanea tepidariorum. The common house spider.” He placed a finger on the ground and some spiders crawled over his hand. “How did you fellas get in here?”

Y/n strapped herself into the harness and grinned. “Commence operation, ‘oh crap, wrong vent.’” She opened the vent cover and dropped down, suspended a couple metres from the ground. “Oh crap, wrong vent,” she said. “This was a mistake.”

Damian scoffed. “Nice try, imbeciles. You blew it. Honestly, I expected better from you, L/n. It seems as if all my trainings failed to pay off.” While Damian was distracted, Cass used two plungers to suction the window glass off of the interrogation room door.

Y/n smacked her lips. “Yep, we totally blew it. And all because Brown marked the wrong vent.” Meanwhile, Cass silently somersaulted through the window and to the table the briefcase was handcuffed to.

“It's not my fault!” Steph defended. “I thought it was the right vent.” Cass took out a knife and cut open the briefcase and extracted the crown. She placed it between her teeth and flipped the briefcase over, hiding the hole.

“I'm having trouble even believing you right now.” Y/n shook her head, still hanging in the air. “That is the last time I let Steph mark a vent.”

“I'm normally great at marking vents.” 

Cass jumped back through the window and replaced the glass. She whispered into the comms, “lock picked.”

Y/n was attempting to stall for time. “Never, ever, never, ever, ever, never, ever, ever, never, ever, will I ever, never, ever, ever, ever, ever, never, never, never- I forgive you, and good-bye!” She hoisted herself up at Cass’ command and crawled back through the vents. Steph quickly excused herself and Damian’s eyes flickered to the briefcase. It was still there.

Later, the trio met crowded around Y/n’s desk and she gushed, “wow, you should have seen us, Cass! Steph and I were amazing.”

Cass folded her arms and announced, “I somersaulted through a window, cut the crown out of a briefcase, and replaced everything in under a minute.”

“Yeah, I guess you helped a little.” Y/n stuck her tongue out and returned back to her and Steph. “But our fake argument was super convincing. And all of a sudden, we had to make it longer, and we did!” She took the crown from Cass and stuck it in a filing drawer. ”Anyways, now all we gotta do is guard this drawer until midnight, and the best part is that Wayne has absolutely no idea.”

From inside his office, Wayne towered diabolically over his monitor which showed the video feed and sound from the bullpen, the camera and microphone pointed directly at Y/n’s desk. “She is such a fool,” Captain Wayne said. “Yes, believe I'm the fool. You fool.”

“So we wanted Y/n to take the crown?” Dick asked, peering over his shoulder.

“Sergeant, are you familiar with the Hungarian fencing term, Hosszú Gorcs?”

“You gotta realise my answer is no,” Dick deadpanned.

Wayne explained, “it’s a strategy of letting your opponent win points early on as to give them a sense of overconfidence, thus exposing a much easier target for you later.”

“You think she's overconfident enough?”

From the monitor, Y/n proclaimed, “I'm the smartest woman alive. I'm never gonna die!”

Damian was doing his best to ignore Steph when a knock sounded on the door. Stephanie grinned and said in a high-pitched voice, “oop, I wasn't expecting anyone.” She threw open the door with a flourish. “Come in, Jon.”

A tall, muscular man with dark windswept hair entered the room, smiling brightly. “Hey, Steph. What’s up?”

Steph turned back to Damian. “Dami, this was the boy I was telling you about.”

Damian’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down before he regained his composure and glared at Stephanie. “I know what's happening. This isn't a setup... this is a setup. He’s supposed to distract me from the heist.”

“The heist?” Jon asked, glancing at Steph.

“Shut your cute face,” Damian snapped before scoffing. “I don't buy it. This is an obvious trap and I expected better of you Stephanie. I thought you were one of the smart ones.” He turned back to Jon. “Who are you, really, Jon? If that even is your real name…” He poked Jon in the chest and pushed him towards the door. “Okay. Bye-bye, Jon!”

“Hey, Cass,” Dick shuffled up to her, knowing he was probably about to lose one of his nine lives. “I'm not saying these are from your motorcycle,” He held up a pair of handlebars. “But... I found these outside.”

Cass’ nostrils flared. “You better not have messed with my bike for this heist.” Her voice was laced with venom. ”Let me remind you, Sarge, I'm carrying a weapon and I’m not afraid to stick it to the man.”

“We all have the same weapon, Cain,” Dick deadpanned. However, when Cass pulled out an SRK, he exclaimed, “Geez, Cass! Where'd you get that?” Cass grumbled a swear and stalked off. Relieved he hadn’t died, Dick said into a comm, “Orphan has left the nest.” He swept out of the room.

“And…” Captain Wayne folded his hands together, smirking. “Ding.” On cue, the elevator opened, emitting a ding.

“You wanna see Daddy?” Kori led her daughters into the bullpen. “Come on!” Martha and Tammy were dressed in small replicas of police uniforms for Halloween, clutching pumpkin candy bags in their fists. They had just turned three and looked absolutely adorable with identical pigtails.

“Time for the twin twist,” Wayne said. “And I love a good use of alliteration.” 

“Hey, Y/n.” Kori greeted her friend.

“Hey, guys!” Y/n cooed at her goddaughters.

“We wanted to surprise Dick. Have you seen him?”

“Oh, he just went downstairs for a bit, but he should be back soon,” Y/n said.

Kori nodded and called to her twins, “Martha? Tammy? Do you guys want to take a picture with Auntie Y/n?”

“Yeah!” Martha abandoned poking a sleeping Jason and Tammy looked up from inspecting a pair of handcuffs. Y/n’s eyes narrowed at the question.

“You don't mind, do you?”

“Uh... no, of course not.” Y/n began nodding slowly. “That would be so fun.”

“What if we do it in the briefing room, like you're assigning them a case?” Kori was a perfect actress, delivering her lines with ease.

Y/n hesitated and glanced around for a sign of Damian, Wayne, or Dick. “No, I mean, you know what would be even more fun than that... is if we took a picture right here, and I could have my hand on this cabinet.” She smiled broadly, laughing loudly.

“Okay,” Kori conceded.

“Nailed it,” Y/n congratulated herself quietly.

From outside the window on the precinct deck, Captain Wayne could be seen peeking through, carefully watching Y/n and her filing cabinet.

“Here we go…” Kori held up her camera. Wayne slowly opened the window and rolled through it, crouching on the ground. “Oh, God, it was in video mode... sorry.”

“Take your time,” Y/n reassured her. “I could do this all day. Matter of fact, what if we did one where I had both hands on the cabinet... one on top, and then one on the front?” She took her arms from around the twins and placed them on her cabinet. Wayne crawled to the backside of the cabinet and took out a silenced drill. He began unscrewing the bolts of the backside of the cabinet.

“Uh, yeah? Looks good.” Kori held up her phone again as Wayne stealthily took off the back of the cabinet and extracted the crown from inside. “All right, smile... three, two, one…” The camera snapped just as Wayne stood up and showcased the crown in the picture. “Cheese! Very good.” Kori beamed and gestured to her girls. Wayne somersaulted, akin to Cass, into the break room. ”Great, you guys. Let's find Daddy!”

Y/n snickered and muttered, “daddy.”

As Wayne straightened up, the witch decoration cackled loudly. At the sound, Y/n shot out of her seat and Jason startled from his sleep. “What's going on?” She ran to the break room where Wayne threw the crown into the trash to conceal it. “Aha!” Y/n points an assuring finger towards him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing…”  Wayne looked around and spotted a can of soda. He picked it up and studied it. “Just enjoying a taste of my favourite beverage, the… soda pop.”

Y/n glared at him. “Really? I have never seen you enjoy soda before.” She clicked her tongue and tilted her chin up. “Why… uh, why don’t you have some now?”

Wayne stared at her, a look of contempt and hatred deep in his gaze. Not breaking eye contact, he took a sip. “It's delicious,” he said, grimacing.

“I don't buy it,” Y/n sneered. “You're making the same face you made when you found a chocolate chip in your trail mix!” She shook her head. “Something's up. I'm patting you down,” she decided. “Though I hope it’s not weird though, work dad. It’s just for the heist.”

“Of course,” Wayne nodded and held out his arms.

Y/n patted him down quickly and swore. “Fuck, nothing but a surprisingly toned set of abs!”

Wayne raised a brow. “And why would I have the crown, L/n? Isn't it still in the interrogation room?”

Y/n put her hands on her hips. “Yes. Yes. Of course. Of course it's still in there!” She sucked in a breath and conceded, ”Welp, I guess I'll see you at midnight.”

“After you.”

“No, after you,” Y/n smiled tightly.

“I insist.”

Y/n glowered and moved past time, triggering the witch again.

Later, Dick met up with Wayne in his office again. “You drank a soda? I’m not sure that's the worst thing in the world.”

Wayne shook his head and looked at Dick like he was delusional. “It was the worst thing in the world... worse than a fruit-forward Riesling.“ He held up a hand to stop Dick from speaking. “And no, I'm not exaggerating. Anyway, I cleverly ditched the crown in a trash can. We must wait a moment so as to not arouse suspicion when we retrieve it.”

“Got it.” Dick moved towards the door then looked back at his capitan and snickered. “Hey... while I'm in there, should I get you a soda?”

“I know you're joking, but on the off chance you aren't… No.”

“The handlebar thing was fake,” Cass announced as she marched back into the bullpen. ”They were trying to distract me. I think they made a play for the crown.”

“I thought so too, but I had my hand on the cabinet the whole time, so I'm pretty confident there's no way they could have gotten it.” Y/n said before opening the drawer to reveal an empty cabinet. “They got it.”

“Look at the back.” Cass squatted and pointed to the cabinet. “The screws are loose.”

“Damn it.” Y/n slammed her fist on her desk. “That son of a bitch is good.”

“Sir, we have a problem.” Dick rushed back into Wayne’s office. “The crown wasn't in the trash can. Y/n must have taken it back.”

“Damn it.” Wayne slammed his fist on his desk. “That son of a bitch is good.”

“We have to get that crown back!” Y/n exclaimed. “I already changed my email to "queeny/nrulez" with a z. Everyone's going to think I'm an idiot!”

“Hello, L/n,” Wayne glared at his detective.

“Captain,” Y/n greeted stoically. “Midnight nears.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Tick tock.”

“Tick tock indeed.”

“But tick tock for who?” Y/n hissed.

“It's ‘for whom.’” Wayne corrected.

“Don't try to provoke me!” Y/n cried out.

At the same time, both captain and detective declared, “I'm going to get that crown back!”

“Wait... what?” Y/n paused and squinted at Wayne.

“Huh?” Wayne shook his head. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

“Yes, I too need to be excused,” Y/n stuttered.

Y/n pushed Cass into the briefing room and whispered sharply, “he doesn't have the crown! Cass, what do we do?”

“Pull the security tape,” she decided.

Damian stepped back into the interrogation room after Dick had informed him of the events. “Richard said you stole the crown when Y/n came through the ceiling,” he hummed.

“Yeah, I can't believe you fell for that,” Steph shrugged. ”You really think I'd mark the wrong vent? I've never marked a wrong vent in my life!”

“You're incredibly intense about vents,” Damian commented. He paused and then said, “wait... so Jon wasn't a distraction?”

“No, he was very real. Handsome, cool, hair as thick as a collie's. I found you the perfect guy, and you drove him off,” Steph said.

“Ugh.” Dami’s head fell into his hands. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted you. Please call him and tell him I messed up.”

“Yay!” Steph squealed.

“Alright,” Y/n and Cass poured over the security tape. “Here I am taking pictures with Dick’s kids.” She sighed and said lovingly, “man, I look so cool standing next to them. Should I have Jason’s kids?” Jason lifted his head up from the next-door table and groaned questioningly. “Go back to sleep, love,” Y/n reached over and patted his head.

“Okay. It's Wayne.” Cass watched as Bruce tumbled through the window and extracted the crown. “Whoa, how did he do that?”

“Man has an insane set of abs,” Y/n explained. “Oh, look, he's got the crown. And he's headed to the break room.”

“He dumped it in the trash,” Cass narrated, exhaling. She fast forwarded the video. “Did he go back and get it?”

In the feed, a janitor slumped in the room and pulled the trash bag out before hauling it away. “The janitor came in and grabbed it. But which janitor? Looks like I'm going to have to squint.” Y/n pushed her face close to the computer and glared at the screen. “Her name is Alice… Alice the janitor.” She glanced at the clock and mumbled, “it's eleven p.m. now. Alice's long gone.”

“How are we going to get her home address?”

“Who's the one person you know who sends out holiday cards to every single employee?” Y/n grinned.

“Tim!” Cass shouted out.

“What do you want, L/n?” Tim didn’t look up from his computer.

“What?” Y/n scoffed and brushed him away. “Why would you assume that I want anything? What I want is to apologise to my bestie, who I hurt.”

“It's ‘whom,’” Tim corrected.

“Why does the word ‘who’ even exist if you're not allowed to say it?!” Y/n huffed. “Anyways, now that I've apologised and you've accepted, can you please give me janitor Alice’s address?”

“This is related to your heist, isn't it?”

Y/n shook her head and stumbled over her words. “No, no. It's- uh, about a crime. I think janitor Alice is... going to kill the president.”

Wayne strolled up to Tim’s desk. “Oh, Drake. There's my protégé.”

Tim took a breath. “Let me guess? You want the janitor's address.”

Wayne looked up at the ceiling and then down to the ground. “Janitor? Address? Alice?”

“I never said her name,” Tim pointed out. He then leaned back in his chair. “Well, isn't this nice? After being excluded by both of you, here I am with the power to decide who wins and who loses your little heist.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Wayne interrupted. ”You are my wisest detective.”

“Pathetic,” Y/n spat. “He can't be manipulated, sir.” She then turned to Tim and begged, “Tim, we are best friends! I know I usually reserve that title for Steph, but now’s a good time for you to take that, huh?”

“Friendship? Ha.” Wayne gawaffed. “What's friendship compared to the respect of a workplace superior?”

Y/n looked around desperately before bending some on one knee. “Timothy Drake, will you-”

“Excuse me?!” Jason shot up from his desk.

“Enough!” Tim yelled out, silencing everyone. “Pretending to be nice to me is worse than being mean. You know what? You want the address?” He picked up his phone and typed away. “Here, you can both have it.” Both Bruce and Y/n’s phones dinged. “Hope you're happy, you selfish monsters.” He stomped to his feet and slammed the break room door shut.

Y/n groaned and murmured, “I feel terrible. We should apologise.”

“Yes, I agree,” Wane said. “You definitely should now; I'll do mine later.”

“Fat chance!” Y/n snarled. “Steph!” she yelled into her comm. “I need you. Meet me downstairs.” 

Y/n, Cass, and Steph stood on the front steps to a tall apartment building, glaring up at it. “Okay, she lives on the sixteenth floor,” Y/n announced. “I think we beat Wayne here.”

“Or did you?” Their Captain appeared behind them, Dick and Damian in tow.

“I'll get the elevator,” Steph offered. When she noticed the ‘Out of Order’ sign, she cried out, “Shit! Looks like we're taking the stairs.”

“Alright, it's sixteen floors,” Cass breathed out. “Pace yourselves.”

Wayne’s team dashed ahead of them and Y/n screamed, “Forget it. Run as fast as you can!”

After a gruelling sixteen floors, Y/n pushed Wayne out of the way and slammed her fist into Alice’s door. “Ha ha! I win. I knocked first.” The door opened and an old woman greeted them. “You're not Alice…” Y/n said.

“You're looking for Alice?” The old woman asked. “She’s having a cigarette on the roof.”

“The roof?” Wayne grimaced.

Y/n burst through the roof door and panted, “yes. I did it. I… I am the greatest- holy shit that’s a lotta stairs- the greatest athlete in the world.” She leaned over and promptly vomited as the rest of the six-six trouped up after her.

“Alice? Alice?” Wayne looked around. “Where's Alice?”

Y/n glanced up to see a woman standing by the edge of the roof. “Oh, there she is. There she is! I did it! I did it!”

Wayne stared at Y/n, disgusted. “Good God.” He shook his head before turning back to the woman. “Are you Alice the janitor?”

“Nope. I'm your worst nightmare.” Alice turned around and took off her cap and the wig sewn into it. 

“Tim Drake…” Y/n gasped. “I don't understand what’s happening.”

Tim chuckled deviously, yet before he could speak, Y/n piped up and said, “allow me to explain. Tim and I were ahead of you the whole time.”

“No, you aren’t part of this.” Tim shoved Y/n back towards Wayne. “Get back to the loser side, loser.”

“Worth a shot,” Y/n murmured. “So how'd you pull it off?”

“Y/n, remember when you set off the witch?” Tim asked, lips curled into a smirk. “You made Captain Wayne flinch, which was weird, since his door was closed, but not weird, since he actually heard it over a bug he planted at your desk.” Y/n’s mouth dropped open and Tim continued, “I tapped into the bug's frequencies, so I had ears on Y/n. However, I still needed to know what Wayne was up to. That's where Jason came in.”

Jason stepped out from behind the door, still wrapped in a fuzzy blanket and his nose more red and snotty than ever before. He said in a nasally voice, “I masterminded the entire plan.”

“Jason, you did one small thing and I had to explain it to you forty-five times because you accidentally took NyQuil instead of DayQuil.” Tim shook his head before beginning his speech again. “He left a tiny crack in the blinds so I could read the Captain's lips.”

"Kori and your kids will distract Y/n. They'll be here at nine-thirty sharp. My waffle xylophone on the cheese man."

“What?” Wayne asked incredulously.

“My lip-reading is not flawless,” Tim admitted. “Now that I knew your plan, it was simple to disrupt. After I got into character, Wayne triggered the witch, which brought Y/n into the room.”

“And I threw the crown in the trash can…” Wayne nodded along.

“Exactly as I planned,” Tim grinned. “Then I sent you all here, placed an out-of-order sign on the perfectly functional elevator, made you all walk up thirty-one flights of stairs, and vomit.”

Y/n grumbled and muttered, “actually, it was three times, if you count all the stairwell stuff.”

“I'm my own person, capable of making my own decisions, and I decided to humiliate you both,” Tim finished his speech.

“One last question: where's the crown?” Wayne asked.

“Oh, it's at Orin’s Bar, the official site of my coronation.”

Tim strode into the bar, decked out in a royal cape and sash. Wayne held up the crown and declared, “all hail the crown of destiny.” The precinct cheered as their capitan concluded, “and all hail who wear it, Tim Drake, the ruler of the six-six.”

“And I believe there's something else you both need to say,” Tim snarked.

Both Bruce and Y/n said, “Tim Drake is an amazing detective-slash-genius.”

“Drinks are on us!” Wayne shouted. Y/n shook her head and he corrected himself. “Drinks are on me.”

“Heyyyyyy Y/n…” Jason sniffed as Y/n helped him through the door of his apartment. “I forgot to tell you but I think I broke up with Rose.”

“You think?” Y/n chuckled. “How about you tell me when you’re not hyped up on meds?”

“I will.” Jason fell down onto his bed. “I’ll also tell you I love ya.”

Y/n stilled and flushed. “O-oh? Really?”

“Yeah.” Jason sniffed once more before falling asleep, snoring loudly. 

Y/n swallowed before leaning down and kissing his forehead. His fever had finally broken. “I’m gonna make you some soup,” she whispered, “and you better eat it tomorrow. I already told Wayne that you’re not coming into work tomorrow, so don’t you dare try to pull another stunt like today.” She moved out of his room and before Y/n closed the door, she smiled softly. “I love you too, Jason Todd.”

[kodiakleather]

Best Canvas Gym Bag

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[archangeldyke-all]

I am. That- amab sev ceo request😳fucking hell 👀

Would you…possibly … feel comfortable ……………. Telling us abot that first ✨dicking down✨ as you called it - in sev‘s office?

Just thinking about sev getting hard against reader is….fuck

heheehehe i'd be happy to ;)

men and minors dni

you've got your legs sprawled over sevika's lap, both of you sitting on the couch. it's been hours, and at this point, you're doing more gossiping than work.

"y'know chloe and seamus are fucking?" you ask. sevika chokes on her sip of whiskey.

"i thought seamus was gay!" she coughs out. you laugh and sit up to pound her back.

"so did i." you admit. sevika laughs. "it's gonna be a mess when they break up." you say.

"maybe they won't." sevika says with a shrug. you laugh.

"you don't believe that." you say. sevika giggles guiltily.

"no, i don't." she admits. "well, what about you, are you hookin' up with anyone in the office?" sevika asks. you laugh and roll your eyes, flopping back down on your back on the couch.

"i fuckin' wish." you sigh at the ceiling. sevika hums.

"yeah? you gotta crush on someone?" she asks. you bite your lip. you do have a crush on someone in the office, that someone being the woman you're currently draped across, your boss, and your best friend. the worst part is that sevika already knows this. she's caught you staring one too many times for it to be platonic, she's constantly making you trip over your words, and behind closed doors, she's always got her hands on you. you glare at her and she giggles. "what?" she asks. you roll your eyes and kick her thigh.

"you know what, asshole." you mumble. sevika snickers.

"you're lucky you're cute, you know, otherwise i'd fire you for that kinda language." she teases. you huff.

"please, you'd be miserable without me." you say. sevika smiles because she knows you're right, her thumb drawing circles around your ankles.

you guys have been dancing around each other for weeks now. sevika's no more subtle than you are, biting her lip when she looks at you, fucking you with her eyes from across the room. (sometimes you catch her subtly shifting in her seat or holding her briefcase over her crotch, adjusting the slight bulge in her pants. you get dizzy each time.) you're both hesitant to act on the mutual attraction simmering between the two of you, with sevika being your boss. but tonight, you think something might be changing. especially with the way sevika's hand is slowly, slowly working up your leg.

"i would be." sevika says. "you're like the best thing about this place, y'know." she says. you smile.

"sounds like you got a bit of an office crush, sev." you tease her. she grins.

"what if i do?" she asks. her hand's on your knee now, tracing circles over your dress slacks. you bite your lip.

"well, i'd say buy her dinner, but you already did that." you say, gesturing to the open cartons of chinese food on the table beside you. sevika chuckles.

"so what should i do now?" she asks.

"depends." you say. sevika smirks.

"on what?"

"...what're your thoughts on office sex?" you ask, blinking your eyelashes flirtatiously.

five minutes later, sevika's got you pinned to her desk, your pants and underwear around your ankles as she fucks your squelching cunt with three fingers. your thighs are shaking, and you're drooling down onto the paperwork below you. sevika's still clothed, rutting her hard cock against your thigh. she's big, hence her three fingers.

"f-fuck i'm ready!" you whine. sevika chuckles.

"no you're not. still so fuckin' tight. don't wanna hurt you, baby." she grunts. you shiver.

"sevika!" you demand. "c'mon please! i wanna cum on your cock." you whine. sevika shudders behind you, smacking your ass with her free hand.

"fuck, y' can't just say shit like that!" she whines. you grin and arch your back, pressing your ass against her trapped cock. she groans. "asshole!" she curses you. you giggle.

"i've seen the way you look at me." you whisper against her desk. "i know you've been wantin' me. waiting for this. how many times'd you think about this, huh baby?" you ask. sevika sucks in a harsh breath behind you.

"too many to count." she whispers. you grin.

"so take those fuckin' pants off and show me what you've been wanting to do to me already."

sevika smacks your ass again and pulls her fingers out of your cunt. you miss the stretch, but you don't whine, especially not when you hear the clinking of her belt coming undone.

when her cock springs free, it smacks your ass. you groan. you haven't gotten a good look at it, but you can feel it, heavy and thick and throbbing against you. sevika's slowly grinding against you, making sweet little huffs with each thrust. you shake your ass against her.

"fuck me, sev." you demand. sevika hums, gently sliding the head of her cock through your folds. you nearly pass out when she bumps your clit.

"you're so fuckin' wet-- i wasn't the only one thinkin' about this, was i baby?" she asks. you smile against her desk.

"been thinkin' 'bout this since our second interview." you admit. sevika chuckles as she gently guides her cock inside you. you shiver as her head breaches you. she's fucking thick, and she was probably right that you weren't ready, but you've had four or five glasses of whiskey and you're so turned on you're going to pass out and sevika's whimpering behind you, so you don't really give a fuck.

"shit i'm not gonna last." she whispers as she slowly inches inside of you. you hum happily.

"'s long as 'y cum inside me i'll be happy." you tease. sevika shudders.

"fuck off!" she groans as she smacks your ass again. you laugh.

"no? 'y don't wanna fill me up? watch it drip back outta me? get me knocked up?" you tease her. sevika's grip on your hips is bruising, and you'd bet your life savings she's got her face scrunched up with her lip between her teeth.

"i'm tryna take it slow, shut the fuck up!" she grunts. you laugh.

"we can do slow some other time. tomorrow. or tonight, when you take me home after this."

"oh, 's that's what's happening?" she asks. you smile and nod.

"better be." you say. she chuckles as her hips meet your ass, her cock buried deep inside of you. she leans down to kiss your neck.

"course it is." she whispers. you grin, and sevika kisses your cheek, before she stands back up and starts fucking you with brutal, fast thrusts. you scream.

"fuck! yes, yes yes, just like that, sev, fuck!" you wail.

behind you, sevika's grunting with each snap of her hips. her cock's rubbing against your g-spot, and you know you're dripping around her from the disgusting wet sounds your cunt's making. you're grateful that she's pinned you to her desk, because your knees are jelly and you'd have collapsed onto the floor without the support of the oak slab beneath you.

"you feel so fucking good, holy shit." sevika moans. you gasp at her words. "fuck, please tell me you're close." she whimpers. you would laugh at the desperate tone of her voice if you weren't so busy moaning.

"s-so close." you whimper. sevika snakes one of her hands around you to start rubbing at your clit and you jolt beneath her. "oh shit sev, i'm gonna--"

"yeah, c'mon. on my cock baby, we can cum at the same time." she says, her voice shaky. your eyes roll back into your skull.

"sev, sev, sev, oh fuck, sevika, just like that, fuckin' love you, shit!" you gasp as sevika collapses on top of you, her cock filling you up with spurt after spurt of her hot cum. sevika's taking shaky breaths against you, kissing your neck before biting your earlobe.

"love you too, baby." she whispers as her cock continues to spill inside you. fuck, you hadn't even realized you'd let the words slip in your fucked out state until she said them back, and now that she has, you're cumming around her cock harder than you ever have before. sevika whimpers as your cunt convulses around you, milking her cock, and she sinks her teeth against your throat to hide her whines.

you're pretty sure you cum so hard you black out, because one minute you're on sevika's desk, twitching beneath her as she crushes you with her weight, and the next, she's pulling you into her arms and settling you down on the couch, kissing your face and rubbing your back. you hum against her.

"you okay?" she asks. you giggle.

"better than ever." you reply. sevika giggles and kisses your forehead.

"lemme take you home." she says. "you're gonna love my bed." you grin against her.

"okay. but... just hold me a few more minutes." you say. she laughs and tightens her grip around you. "'m sorry i said 'i love you' for the first time while you were balls deep in me." you say. sevika laughs.

"i'm not. i'm pretty sure i saw god." she says. you laugh.

"i do, you know." you say.

"you do what?" she asks.

"love you."

"hmm... you're sure it's not 'cause i'm paying you?" she teases. you laugh and pinch her side.

"i'm sure. if i loved you for that wage, i'd be a fuckin' horrible gold-digger." you tease her back. she giggles and smacks your ass.

"you're paid better than anyone else on this floor!" she says. you grin.

"yeah, i think my boss' got a crush on me or somethin'." you tease. sevika smiles.

"i think it's a little more than a crush." she says. you lift your head up to press a kiss to her lips.

"yeah?" you whisper against her. she smirks and nods.

"yeah." she says.

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

[hope-you-brought-kneepads-bitch]

Don't take them from me!

Summary: While trying to help at a crime scene you were captured and accused of killing 15 people, Fury decided to take drastic action. Taking Venom from you! But don't worry it doesn't last long

Also Nat is mentioned briefly as a bad guy, I'm sorry but someone needed to be the bad guy

Warnings: A little bit of angst, not loads but enough and Fury being a dick

A/N: I know I promised I could teach you things pt 5 and its coming but this came to me at 2am so it obviously needed to be told

Words: 2,200

*******************************************************************

God you felt sick, the bright lights of the secure jail threatened to rip your head apart, you tasted blood in the back of your throat and just wanted to throw up, how could this have gone so wrong? You tried help, that’s all you did! But of course they were allowed to get away with it while you and Venom were ripped apart, literally

“Fury you can’t do this! It’ll kill the both of them!” Wanda’s voice was barley heard in your mind as if she was far away and not being held back by security while you were strapped to a chair in the lab with high sound frequencies piercing your whole body ripping the symbiote from you, they tried their best to hold onto you but the pain was too much for both of you, eventually the room went quiet and you could think again

“Venom?” Nothing

“Venom?!” You tried again struggling against the restraints needing to see where Venom was

“Fury! What the fuck have you done?! Where’s Venom?!”

“Y/n I’m going to need you to relax, we have the symbiote in a container see”

You looked to your left where he was stood and saw the cylinder holding Venom, just some black gooey liquid trying to escape “give them back!” You shouted but the man shook his head

“Can’t do that Y/n, you and that alien killed 15 innocent people on live television, it needs to be studied and dealt with while you await trial” some man appeared and placed the container in a secure briefcase taking it out of the room

“Let Wanda go men, she can comfort Y/n before she gets put in jail” you watched a group of guards drop your witch to the ground, she quickly stood and entered the chamber with you undoing your restraints and pulling you into a hug off of the chair

“Detka! I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t help you in time”

"I didn't kill them Wanda, I didn't hurt anyone innocent and neither did Venom, it wasn't us please believe me"

"Shh baby it's okay I believe you I believe you"

You both stayed there in a huddle you crying yourself to sleep in Wanda's hold, the thought of never seeing your symbiote hurt you more than you thought it would.

******************************************************************

“Y/n”

With your thoughts interrupted you looked up to see Natasha stood on the other side of the glass looking solemn and you laughed “here she is, the one who turned me in for a crime I didn’t fucking do! How do you feel Nat? Good? Happy that you no longer have to deal with a alien beating you in every capacity? How could you? Wait I know! You want Wanda” you smirked standing up and ignoring the headache to stride over to the glass

“You want Wanda and you wanted the credit for capturing a “dangerous criminal” like me when you know full well I didn’t kill any innocent civilians” even without Venom your voice was low and deadly sounding, in all this time Nat hadn’t said a word and it pissed you off

You smacked the glass beside her making her blink, her ability to appear stoic when she was actually scared was annoying “Venom was taking over you, they needed to be removed before we lost you all together” her voice was steady and you scoffed

“We’re bonded Nat of course we’re going to act different, I wasn’t becoming dangerous, I was powerful, I felt like I could do anything with them in me, and you had to take it all away!”

“Y/n?” You looked behind Nat to see Wanda and your face softened into a smile “baby” you moved to the side watching her become face to face with you “want to help me out? I bet if you blasted the glass I’d be out of here in no time" you laughed but Wanda didn't laugh instead she looked to Nat who took the hint and left you two alone

"Honey do you remember when I found the Darkhold?" You groaned falling to the ground knowing where this was going "Wanda please I don't need to hear you going on about being a powerful witch then being pulled down a few pegs because you were too powerful or however it goes"

Wanda knelt down to you and tried again but it just annoyed you more banging on the glass again "I just need Venom back! They need me and I need them!"

You closed your eyes calming yourself down knowing it wasn't Wanda's fault "I'm sorry" you whispered not hearing the door open and suddenly being enveloped into a tight hug like the one in the lab "I'm sorry" you kept repeating letting tears fall from your eyes

"Shh baby it's okay I know I know you're sorry" Wanda reassured you rubbing your back "I need them back Wands I'm scared"

"Princess I promise I'll try to get them back but if I can't it went be the end of the world"

You sighed "I'll burn this place to the ground to get them back Wanda, no other choice"

**********************************************************************

"I need my host back! You cannot keep me in this terrible meat sack of a body! it is puny and smells funny!"

The body was thrown around the room and Venom left them standing tall in front of director Fury

"I knew you didn't like me Mister director but I feel like this is cruel and unusual" they growled out

"I don't like aliens that take advantage of a young woman to try and take over the world"

Venom groaned "if I wanted to destroy the world I would've done so already, I was happy with Y/n and we were going to propose to Wanda very soon, I had a party planned and we would eat chocolate and chicken and when Wanda said yes we would sleep with her because that is what humans do as a celebration when something good happens"

Fury rolled his eyes "that all sounds great and not believable at all, so now you'll stay right here until we figure out how to deal with you"

"You cannot kill what is already dead inside!"

The room went silent and Venom thought about it "it seems I have acquired Y/n's sense of humour, but it still stands that you cannot kill me!"

"Oh we don't plan to kill you, more like study you and find out what makes you tick, we just need to find you a host-

"I have an idea!" Fury rolled his eyes knowing where this was going

"Give me back to Y/n and I'm sure you can study us together!"

Fury left without interacting with Venom again

"Can I at least have some chocolate?! I'm starving!"

*****************************************************************

"How are you feeling kid?" Tony was the next one to visit you in jail and he brought you some doughnuts, food was always his go to when something bad happened

"Feeling like shit Tony, everything I eat tastes like shit and I'm struggling to keep water down"

He huffed opening the box of 12 doughnuts "sooo you don't want a chocolate doughnut? It's your favourite"

You sighed knowing you probably wouldn't keep the food down but god the doughnut did look delicious "go on then give me the poisonous food"

He gave you his annoying smile and passed the sweet treat through the door and watched you eat it hesitantly "I hope this doesn't put me off doughnuts forever"

The two of you ate in silence and while you did manage to keep the food down you couldn't manage another one "thanks Tony" you said quietly and instead of being annoying like usual he just replied with "it's okay kid, we'll figure this out"

******************************************************************

"Venom? Venom are you in the room or a container?" Wanda was quiet sneaking into the lab after distracting the guards with her magic, it wouldn't last too long though so she needed to be quick

"Wanda! You have come to save me! They wouldn't give me chocolate!"

Wanda went bright red trying to quiet down the alien "shh Venom shhh come on just stop you'll get us caught!" She tried whispering but had to raise her voice when they wouldn't stop

"Venom! Shut the fuck up!" She finally exploded and Venom finally stopped widening their white eyes "you are a scary redheaded woman Wanda"

"Just stop talking and get in me"

The rom was silent for a few moments when Wanda realised what she said and Venom was trying to understand why she was silent until they realised "you made a sexual innuendo didn't you?"

She gave a nervous laugh and rephrased what she said "just take over my body so I can take you back to Y/n"

"Yeah! I've missed my human!" Venom absorbed themselves into her body and Wanda wanted to be sick, how did Y/n deal with this?

"You have a comfortable rib cage Wanda and a full mind, it is very strange"

Wanda ignored the comments and exited the lab quickly going back to your jail "just stay in there and don't make a sound okay, we'll be there soon"

The symbiote was practically vibrating with excitement at seeing you again, it'd been nearly a day but that was way too long in their mind

Finally reaching the jail Venom couldn't help it leaving Wanda's body and sticking to the glass near where you lay "Y/n?! I have returned to you! Wake up!"

When you didn't wake up Wanda got concerned opening the door "Y/n?!"

Venom appeared again before you and hovered over your body "she is cold, I think she is dying"

Wanda was shocked "dying?! Why?!"

"We have been together for so long that our DNA was bonded but when they tore us apart it became harmful"

"Well go back in then! She can't die!"

Venom wasted no time in entering your body trying to wake you up, eventually you jolted and Wanda was there to hold you "Wanda? Did I pass out?"

Wanda was close to tears giving you a nod "you have them back"

Your eyes widened "what?"

She nodded and you gasped "Venom?"

"I have returned Y/n! We can continue to be annoying and propose to Wanda like we planned! No time like the present!"

You let out a laugh that soon turned to tears, god you were so happy they were back, and they were right about Wanda, definitely no time like the present

"Wanda I ha-we have a question" you managed to pull yourself up into a sitting position holding onto Wanda's hand "it's been a crazy 24 hours but whatever happens we need to ask you something important"

"Wanda couldn't say anything, you were near enough dying 5 minutes ago and now you were here sweating about a question"Wanda couldn't say anything, you were near enough dying 5 minutes ago and now you were here sweating about a question

"Wilyoummarryme?"

Wanda chuckled "say it again slowly babe"

You took a deep breath feeling Venom's tendrils appear holding a small box "will you marry me?" Venom took their cue to open the small box revealing a diamond ring making Wanda gasp and pull away from you

"Wanda? Are you okay?" You were nervous now, even Venom was slightly scared, maybe it was too soon after your near death experience, god you were really regretting it now

"Are we doing it wrong?" You were about to answer but Wanda pulled you close into a kiss "is that a yes?" you asked when she let you go "absolutely sweetheart!" She kissed you one more time accepting the ring that Venom gave you "it's beautiful" she admired it for a few moments

"How did you afford this?"

You groaned "Wanda can't we just enjoy our time together without you asking sil-

"You stole it didn't you?"

Venom decided to help you here, well help wasn't the right word "Wanda I took it from a person who no longer lives among the living"

Yeah no that was definitely not better but Wanda chose to ignore it "it doesn't matter, I love you so much!" you both embraced again feeling Venom wrap their tendrils around you both too "I want to be involved in this hug too"

The moment was cut short when the door slammed open, soldiers pilling in and Fury storming through "what the hell do you three think you're doing?! Sneaking into the lab and stealing the alien Wanda really?!"

Venom didn't let the soldiers get near you and Wanda instead wrapping more of their tendrils around you forming a close shield

"I have a small cabin we can go to, just say you want to" Wanda whispered to you and you nodded "get us the hell out of here fiancé"

"That's the sexiest thing you've ever said to me"