#but she did a beautiful creative art piece

[shae-la-hyene]

Someone : make a bipolar joke on insta

Me : break down crying like it's the fucking last straw because having a mental illness sucks ass

[fukikoichinomiya]

its such a hard life i lead i just want to watch aim for the ace with jelly but instead i have to study FOR 20TH CENTURY ART!!!!! IDGAF ABOUT 20TH CENTURY!!!!! TAKE ME BACK TO 19TH!!!!!!!!

[nightingale-prompts]

Talents -DC X DP prompt

The public is aware that each of the Wayne children are creatively gifted. It was almost expected. Richard Grayson was the acrobatic of course and no one was surprised but highly praised. So many parents began putting their children in gymnastics after seeing Dick's performances.

Jason Todd took up writing and published his own books at the age of 13. Poetry, anthologies, and historical fiction were the genres he favored. His books still remain on the best-seller's list, especially after his death. His poetry book "Blackouts" is an emotional journey of everyday tragedies and miracles of life. People would often quote lines from his poems after tragic events.

Tim Drake was more elusive. No one knew what he did until his name came up under a national photography award. His album called "The Shades of Gotham" was a contract between parties of the wealthy and the impoverished citizens of Gotham.

Cassandra Cain kept to herself constantly. No one knew what she did for years. People assumed that Bruce Wayne stopped forcing his kids to perform and others argued that she just didn't have any talents to showcase. All wrong of course. Cassandra posted one of her recent projects online which proved she was very talented. It was a beautiful scarf she was making for the winter. Cassandra was gifted with a talent for textiles. She knitted, weaved, and sowed many of the clothes she was seen wearing. It was no secret that some of the clothes the Waynes wore could not be found anywhere else but people assumed they had a tailor to make custom designs but no one knew it was Cassandra.

Damian Wayne did not lag behind his siblings as she quickly showed off his artistic talents. He's still young so he hasn't gone as far as opening his first gallery but one of his paintings has already been put in a museum. Some call it nepotism but art is subjective. The other Waynes disagree since they have hung every art piece Damian makes in their offices and home right next to Tim's photos.

Duke Thomas isn't one to show off too much. But he does go all out in his hobbies. He secretly takes after Jason in writing poetry and has been inspired by "Blackout" since he first learned to read. Duck related to it deeply. But along the way, he learned a different way to express himself. Kids on the streets of Gotham learned a bit of breakdancing and Duke was no exception. Duke is an accomplished dancer and has gotten a few competitions under his belt now.

Now that there is a new member of the Wayne family the public is waiting to find out what Danny Nightingale's talent is. Everyone knew that Waynes were creative but honestly, no one expected this. A play was announced at Monarch Theater and none other then Danny's names was on the ticket as the star.

[meanbossart]

Hiya! Thank you for that fantastic art of the two of them in the Bhaalist AU.

I've kind of been assuming that in the Bhaalist AU, everyone except Astarion got their bad end. Is Shadowheart a Dark Justiciar in this timeline? Also... did Drow rejoin the efforts to take over the Sword coast with the absolute, even if temporarily? Since we only see the one stone in the piece, but that doesn't mean he isn't hiding the other two elsewhere, like in his side? Did he help destroy the brain anyway, and just keep the stone for the sake of showing off?

Soooo basically I don't find the evil endings to the game particularly interesting. They are very, well, final, and with some exceptions imply that everyone around you is now a mindless zombie with no free will of their own. That's not very rich grounds for creative writing (or I'm just not that creative LOL).

So you can assume that in this timeline that I have going on with Bhaalist DU Drow, the goals all remain the same but they just aren't as simple as the game makes them for you. The control of the brain is still a work in progress/unstable, and the stones, while all in DU drow's possession, remain split, and their main use now is really as a bargaining chip as he attempts to grow his own influence and the cult's.

I think Shadowheart would have followed the same path as she did in the "canon" run (since Du Drow didn't have to persuade her to spare the Nightsong either way) but then given to Viconia in act 3 after they grew apart as DU Drow dug his heels deeper and deeper. Gale would have been killed because the last thing DU Drow wants is another god to compete with, as well as the Emperor, Orpheus, and Karlach. I don't know if there's any universe where this is possible, but I could see him also pushing Wyll to take over his father's role as duke and swaying him to operate in a way that is favorable to Bhaal's plans. Maybe we can have evil Wyll, as a treat 🤔

Sarevok is dead. Halsin is dead. Jaheira is dead but Bhaalist DU did try to get her to come to his side. Astarion spends his days lounging dramatically in bed, wearing beautiful flowy clothes and reminding DU Drow about how great and powerful he is while trying not to roll his eyes. He wears the stone all the time and really resents it.

[watercolourcritters]

Part of why I'm so passionate about the concept that anyone and everyone can make art is because - yeah, look, I know I can draw well. I know I can make pictures that look like what they're supposed to. But fuck, don't you know that that's not all that art is? Don't you know that it's so much more than that?

This fall I did collage with my mother. She's 64 years old, she's never done collage in her life, didn't even know it was a possibility. "I don't have a creative bone in my body," she says, when she sees my paintings. But suddenly - with magazine clippings and markers and glue and paper, she made these beautiful pieces, full of expression and life and love. "Oh," she says, "I didn't know I could create something like that. I didn't know it could be so fun."

There's so much more to art than drawing and painting. And even drawing and painting is so much more than making something look like it's "supposed to." And even more importantly, it's so much more than making something "look good." It's about expression, and exploration, and finding new ways to say something. And sometimes it's just about trying something new, and having fun with it. It doesn't have to be deep, or meaningful, to have value.

Explore, and play, and create. Play with shapes, play with colour, play with texture. If you want to paint or draw something that looks like it does in real life, try! And keep trying, and trying, because it never comes out right the first time you do. But please, try other things, too. Slap some paper and glue on a page and see what you can make with it. Explore with yarn, and fabric, and anything else you can create with. Mold dollar store modeling clay, and scribble on cardboard, and see what happens. There's so many possibilities. Don't you want to explore?

But I promise you - you can create art. So please, try.

[msbutterfly5294]

< I Don’t Think It’s Talked About Enough. . . - Creative Edition >

I don’t think it’s talked about enough when a Creative has the itch to create but cannot put anything down . For example , writing . The Creative may know the exact sequence of events to occur in a scene but once the document or paper is ready , nothing comes out .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that a Creative listening to music is important when creating art or a story . The beat , the lyrics , the vocals , it all connects with the stories . We are most likely daydreaming which characters are doing what based on a song and it guides us to exactly where we need to go .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that when a Creative presents you their art or story , they trust you with a piece of themself . Some Creatives ( like myself ) have been working on one or more stories for over ten years . We have continued to develop , create , and destroy our stories over and over and over and over and over and over and over again because they aren’t exactly our children. . .

But a part of us . We change thus our stories did .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough when a Creative shows you their work and once a slight uninterested appearance or words are exchanged , we either close the story(ies) , put our sketch books away , and try to conceal it . I think of it as the same feelings of being rejected or even abandoned by those you present it to . These creative endeavors are a literal part of our dedication , our spirit , and when we are told “ we’re being too much ” , “ It’s weird / We’re weird . ” , “ It’s dumb . It’s too complicated . It’s too. . . ”

I think in some cases , it’s suppose to be that way . Humans are complicated , and it’s represented in our creativity .

I don’t think it’s talked about enough that sometimes Creatives grow apathetic of their own work(s) . We stay up late nights writing , drawing , crafting . Our brains don’t stop thinking about how the characters need this or that , how they get to it , why didn’t it work , what happens next , how does this character work or fight with this character ? The plot needs this for the theme , shoot what’s the theme mean in literature , this happens in the world and how does that affect the world , creatures , and characters ? Shoot what was that word again. . . ?

Stopped .

I’m staring at the screen .

Were these stories worth it ?

Was my years of dedication all for nothing ?

Am I even worth it ?

I mean , come on , msbutterfly5294 , you have drawn some awesome pieces for the these stories ! I mean , look at these papers filled with words that blend and make sense , the stories can capture mystery and emotion , descriptions are great ! Why don’t you continue ?

Because. . . It’s a beautiful disease much like love . It infects the entirety of us . I remember the many nights my big brother ( who is my cousin ) came over to show us Legend Of Zelda games and he would tell me all about his stories , lore , world building and characters . That was years ago as a very young teenager to late teens . I don’t fully know when he started his journey , but I know he loves those characters and stories with all his heart .

And by stars , it is beautiful to know someone with that much passion . He inspired me to follow my dreams along with my big sister ( also my cousin ) . She taught me art and resilience , he taught me storytelling and dedication .

I wouldn’t be here today without them .

. . . I don’t think it’s talked about enough. . . That a Creative wouldn’t be here today without those beautiful people who do care and encourage them to keep creating . Keep being passionate . Keep writing . Keep drawing .

Keep being you .

And be proud of it .

[chaoticfandomgirly]

People who say that most of the Marauders fandom is made up, like it's a bad thing...you have another thing coming.

The whole point of our fandom is to separate us from the absolute BS of canon and JKR.

We are the ones who claimed the smallest part of Harry Potter and made it into something big and wonderful!

We are the ones who fixed plot-holes, improved representation and bought life to characters that were mentioned ONCE.

We made the most beautiful ship- Wolfstar along with Jily, Jegulus, Dorlene, Rosekiller and more!

We made a world where calling a non HP fan a muggle wasn't an insult.

We make the most elaborate pranks and have really good taste in music.

We are the ones that made the Golden Era seem like a spin off for the Marauders Era.

Our fandom knows pain and loss of a whole new level.

So yeah, what if half of it is made up? Not everything has to be canon for one to enjoy it. The Marauders are a testament to the creative minds and passion of all the HP lovers. It is art even if it's inspired by another piece of art. The Marauders fandom is a place untouched by jkr and we all know that if she ever decided to write anything about them it would just not live upto so many beautifully done fics, she really missed an opportunity with this. Therefore, it's safe and diverse which the author herself failed to achieve. Moreover, it's something that allowed people to reclaim their beloved fandom even when jkr ruined it for many. This fandom is OURS. Yes, we did not create the characters or the world but we made it BETTER.

Better ships, better representation, better world, better music, better characters and better everything!

I do not want to seem like I hate the original work, I don't and that's precisely the point. I love it, it's my childhood and the reason for my love for reading but at the same time, being mature and recognising the problems in the original series is essential no matter just how much it might break your heart. That's why I am thankful for The Marauders fandom, they gave me doorway to not abandon my love for Hogwarts and magic. In fact, I only fell deeper in love.

Thank you for reading my rant, you may proceed.

[maaikeatthefullmoon]

Someone asked about places where they could find my creative works & how I make a living.

I’ve been a self-employed artist since 2017. The current economic climate is making that *very* difficult and I may well be giving up my beautiful business soon, but for now, I’m still clinging on by my fingernails. I’ve survived a lot longer than many of my colleagues and I’ve been VERY grateful and fortunate. (Yes, my profile photo is actually me, very cold, in my freezing workshop, in my ok-to-get-covered-in-paint-ugly-clothes 😂)

You can find me/support me here:

Etsy: I have *two* Etsy shops. I make (currently exclusively Good Omens) fan-based clothing, bags, and cushion covers at FullMoonFandom. and I make fan art and children's home decor, all hand painted on high quality medite wood at Lioncub Creations. This shop has been my main business for the past 8+ years and is my bread & butter. It's been hit HARD by the cost of living crisis.

Ko-fi: If you enjoy my writing, or just generally take pity on me, I'd think you were bloody amazing if you could please buy me a coffee (although I'll actually spend it on bills...sorry). No pressure, though, I know money's tight.

AO3: I write Good Omens fanfic under the username imposterssyndrome, I’ve been writing since November after my trauma therapist recommended it and it’s been the best thing I’ve ever done (especially after my mother told 8yo me that my writing was shit and I literally never wrote another piece of fiction until age 40). I skew angsty, love historical stuff and researching stuff. Did I mention Here Be Angst?

Wavelengths & Frequencies - I'm writing this wonderfully fun enemies-to-lovers human AU with the ineffable @shadesofecclescakes. This is a DJ AU and bloody hell does it ever help that she's a professional DJ herself, because I would have given up in the first chapter otherwise. This longfic will be funny, VERY piney, a teensy-tiny bit angsty (but not too much), smutty, and just generally a whole lot of fun. And it's got footnotes! And newspaper articles! And other stuff which I won't spoiler yet!. Rated E (and P for Piney-As-Fuck). WIP, published every Monday, due to be completed by Feb.

Free - a human AU, which begins with them meeting in an acute mental health ward, where they have both recently been admitted. Initially distrustful of one another, they slowly realise how much they have in common. It is VITAL to read the content warnings as there are many mental health themes. Rated E. Now complete.

Epistolary Series - Aziraphale's diaries, read by Crowley, a romp through history, the series includes an Aziraphale POV and more, rated E, currently made of 3 completed works.

Ineffable Inspirations Series - Individual oneshots, all based on songs. Currently 2 stories, based on Fiona Apple’s Shadowboxer (set in 1941) & Finger Eleven’s Paralyzer (set in 2021)

[the-golden-comet]

Does anyone ever read a piece of fiction and start crying because of how good it is? Because I’ve done that. Several times.

The greatest part about having mutuals who write fanfiction and original works, is that I get to see some of the most creative stories that I have ever seen. Stories that align with my interests, rather than check the box for required reading (though some was good, a lot of stories I’ve been required to read were not to the outstanding quality I’ve seen on AO3 and Goodreads)

To use an analogy, I think about indie authors like indie game developers and indie artists. Some of the best works of art come from a one man team, or a smaller team. Look at Stardew Valley, made by the incredibly talented ConcernedApe (aka Eric Barone). He did EVERYTHING pre 1.4, and because of the love, time, knowledge and dedication he put into his game, Stardew Valley became one of the highest rated, highest sold games in the indie genre.

Or another example you may be familiar with: Toby Fox of Undertale. Him and Tem were a two-person team. They captivated the hearts of so many people, that their game is now a staple in the gaming industry. Fox, and his musical prowess, has created iconic tracks that have broken through to mainstream media.

Vivienne Medrano, aka VivziePop, started her journey with web comics, namely Zoophobia, and has said it best in a podcast (paraphrasing here): “Advice: just get your art out there. Get it out there for the world to see.” And she did…with Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel. She’s now working with Maxwell Adams, the creator of Cartoon Network’s The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy.

These were once one or two people teams. They all had a vision, a passion of what they do. A passion I see in all of these wonderful stories.

Writers, Artists, Creators of Wonderful Worlds….never stop creating. You can be more inspirational than anyone could ever imagine. Get your art out there. Get your beautiful hearts out there for the world to see. You have a gift to share, and that gift is your unique mind. 💫

[cowgurrrl]

It Ain't Me Babe

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader

Author’s note: A holiday present from me to you ❣️

Summary: Ellie’s first art club meeting [2.8k]

Warnings: creative insecurity, mentions of financial instability, teacher things, Ellie talking about Sarah, more flirty flirt, I think that’s it??

Nothing has ever been as annoying or guilt-inducing as an unfinished piece of art. Sure, every artist— no matter the medium— has felt like an uncreative, unoriginal hack, but it still feels just as new as it did the first time. Moonlight streams through your window as you glare at the canvas, hoping for an idea or stroke of genius. It's late. You should be in bed, especially since it's a Sunday night and you spent your weekend working at the bar down the street. But you're holding a paintbrush between stained fingers and praying for a miracle. It's been eight months since you last sold a piece for a whopping $200, chump change when it comes to living in Austin these days. Even with two jobs and doing commission work, you're living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that's why it's so hard to create? That has to be the reason. You don't remember it being this hard when you were younger.

Creating art was the only thing that brought you solace during your teenage years. It didn't matter if it was drawing, pottery, painting, sculpting. All that mattered was that you were doing it and you were good. You won awards, scholarships, and attention. Your art teacher, Ms. Henry, was a godsend. Grey-haired, glasses-wearing, colorful Ms. Henry glided through lessons and projects like it was second nature. She always had pencils in her hair, a mug in her hands, and a kind word on her lips when you entered her classroom. She's the one who pushed you to go to your artsy liberal arts college full of people richer and better than you. Even with her love and support, you struggled and almost dropped out after that first semester. 

"There's always someone better," she told you when you ended up crying across from her in a coffee shop. "But there's nobody in the world who can make what you will because there is and never will be another you. I mean, God, what a gift. I'd hate to see you waste it." That sobered you enough to keep going and eventually pursue a teaching certification. Ms. Henry has since retired to the Pacific Northwest with her wife, Mable, and sends you a postcard every once in a while because she believes smartphones will be the downfall of civilization. After so many years in education, you're ready to agree with her. 

You sigh, feeling your motivation fluttering away with your breath, and plop your paintbrush down in the cup engraved with the words "DO NOT DRINK" in bold. The canvas doesn't look like much of anything right now— just a mass of colors and shapes that could potentially pass as an abstract version of a landscape. It looks like the other painting you left at the school to work on when you have time. And the painting before that. And the one before that. You curse at exactly the same time your phone buzzes with a text. 

You awake?

You don't bother responding and go straight to FaceTiming her. She picks up on the second ring, her beautiful, round face greeting you with a smile. You met Andie during high school, and her effortlessly cool attitude and bulky violin kit quickly became a part of your heart. You two were inseparable all four years of high school, dividing your time between rehearsals and time spent in the studio, but college took you to art school and her to a prestigious orchestra program in Vienna. She's been there ever since graduation, playing for diplomats and royals alike, but she comes home for holidays, and you've been trying to save money to go see her. Being so far from her is hard, but you make it work. 

"Why are you awake?" You ask by way of a greeting, more than accustomed to your seven-hour time difference and her early riser habits. She laughs, and you hear a tea kettle whistle in the background. 

"Well, hello to you, too," she says. "I have rehearsals all day today, so I got an early start. Why are you awake?"

"I'm staring at my waking nightmare." 

"Oh, God, are you having another spiral?" 

"I'm a hack."

"You're an artist."

"I got rejected again this weekend," you say as if to prove your point, and she sucks her teeth. "They said my art didn't fit their vision for their exhibition, but to feel free and submit another time."

"Well, they must not know great art when they see it. There will be another exhibition and another chance for you to show off your amazing skills. And when you get accepted, which I know you will, I'll fly in, and we'll drink fancy champagne and talk shit the entire opening night." She says, and you sigh. Her persistent optimism is one of the things you love about her, but sometimes, all you want to do is sulk. 

"Or I could fly to you when your first composition gets performed, and we could do all those things in Austria instead of this shithole."

"Hey, some of us like that shithole."

"Some of us haven't lived in the shithole in ten years." 

"Touche," she concedes. "But I'm serious about what I said. You're a good artist, just going through a little bump in the road. One day, we'll be really sexy and successful, and we'll look back at this and laugh with our rich spouses while drinking expensive wine."

"One day," you say, smiling. "How are rehearsals going?" She groans at the question, and you laugh. Whenever you talk to her, she's working on a new show or with a new conductor and always has something to say. There are many things you could call your best friend, but lazy is not one of them.

"I feel like we're stuck on this one part, but the conductor won't listen to me. He says he knows better than I do, which might be true, but also, if he just listened to me, then we can move on. I don't know. I'm sure if I poke him enough, he'll have to listen to me."

"Sounds reasonable." 

"That's what I'm saying," she says as she shuffles her coffee mug and breakfast to her dining room table before checking the time. "It's midnight there. Don't you have school tomorrow?" She asks, and you sigh.

"And an early morning staff meeting and art club after school." 

"Sometimes, I worry about your mental health." She says, and you laugh a little too deliriously to prove her wrong. You stay up talking with her for a while before finally getting hit with a wave of fatigue and crashing into bed. 

The next day is not any less hectic than your weekend was. The staff meeting early in the morning is mind-numbing and completely unnecessary. The printer in the teacher's lounge breaks halfway through a heavy-duty print job, and you're left scrambling for new activities and lessons. Not only that, but your students were more out of control than usual, prompting a veteran teacher to come in and scold your class on your behalf. It would be kind if it didn't make you feel two inches tall and your students didn't look at you like you betrayed them. You spend your planning period indulging in the silence of your empty classroom and fighting off a migraine. 

The second the final bell sounds, your art club kids are knocking down your door, more than ready to work on their projects for the winter showcase. The winter showcase is hosted by a local art gallery that opens for submissions from students every fall. If a student's work is taken, it gets shown in the gallery, and they get entered into a prize to win money and a chance to paint a mural downtown. It's a big deal. So far, you haven't had a student win first place, but you've had them get very close. You always assure them you're proud of them no matter what, which is especially true when Ellie slinks into your classroom with a shy smile.

"Hey! We're just setting up supplies to work on stuff for the showcase. Do you have something to work on?" You ask, gesturing to the students working around the room in a buzz. 

"I think so. Are you gonna play music?" 

"Who do you think I am?" You make a face, and she laughs. "Why don't you find a spot and get comfortable while I queue up a playlist?" She hesitates for a second before she takes a deep breath and musters up the courage to approach another student to ask if she can sit with them. They start chatting easily, and her shoulders relax as she gets more and more comfortable with all the new people. You put on a random playlist and move around the room to answer any questions about colors or give an opinion when asked for one. Over the course of an hour, Ellie makes her own little group of friends, and they all talk as if they've known each other forever as they work. She seems so in her own element, and you can't fight the pride beaming in your chest. Okay, so maybe your job can be pretty cool sometimes. Not fame and fortune cool or traveling overseas cool, but cool nevertheless.

Students gradually start packing up their things and leaving when they get texts from impatient parents in the parking lot or close to dinner time, but Ellie stays behind, bobbing her head to a beat or bouncing her knee under the table. She's the only one left in the classroom when you start packing your stuff and preparing the room for the next day. "You've got a ride home, honey?" You ask, and she glances nervously between you and her phone.

"Yeah. My dad should be here soon." She says. 

"Alright, well, I've gotta lock up here, but I'll wait outside with you until he gets here."

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It'd make me feel better knowing you weren't left behind. Plus, I'm the adult responsible for you until he picks you up, so it's kinda illegal for me to just leave you here." You say, and she looks hesitant again but nods. Together, you walk out of the classroom and through the empty hallways until you get out to the scorching September afternoon. You stand outside in silence for a few seconds, taking in the sunset, before you turn to look at her.

"How'd you like the club?" You ask. 

"It was fun! I met lots of cool people."

"I told you, kid. You just needed to give it a chance."

"I know, I know," she rolls her eyes, and you smile. "Thank you for pushing me to go. I don't think I would've gone without you." She's so genuine and kind in her tone that it throws you off-kilter. You're used to being berated by students, staff, and parents. To be told you actually had an impact on someone is not commonplace, to say the least. 

"I'm sure you would've found your way there without me." 

"Maybe, but you helped me get there a lot sooner than I would've on my own." She says, and you take a deep breath. It feels nice to be acknowledged, especially after the day you've had, and Ellie seems to sense it. You're looking for something to say when she looks down at her shoes and kicks a stray rock. "Just take the compliment and move on. Don't make it a thing." 

"Alright." You say, laughing, and she cracks a smile, too. Traffic will be horrible on the way home, and you have nothing to eat for dinner, but it's okay. You did one good thing today. That's all you need. 

"Sorry, my dad is taking so long." She changes the subject, a touch of anxiety creeping in, and you shake your head. 

"Does he always work late?" You ask, and she shrugs.

"Sometimes. Dad and Uncle Tommy have been picking up jobs to send money to my sister in Boston. "

"What's in Boston for your sister?"

"Medical school. She's about to go into her internship at a hospital there."

"That's a big deal." You say, and she hums. 

"Yeah. She'll probably save the world or something one day." There's a hint of something nostalgic in her voice, and you decide to push just a little. 

"Do you miss her?"

"A lot," she says. "She's my best friend."

"She's lucky to have you." You say. She smiles but doesn't say anything. You want to ask more about her family, but a rickety, greenish pickup truck comes rumbling through the parking lot before you can. Ellie shifts her backpack on her shoulder as her dad and uncle come into view, and you smile at them. Joel, however, looks frantic. 

He's unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the driver's side door before the car can even finish moving. There's dirt on his pants and a little bit of a sunburn across his arms, the muscles straining across the black fabric. He politely pulls the ball cap off his head to reveal sweaty curls as he approaches you, jerking his head toward the truck at Ellie. "Why don't you wait in the truck with Uncle Tommy? He's got a snack for you." He says, and Ellie lights up at the mention of food. When you're alone, he tucks his hands in his pockets and gives you an apologetic look. 

"'M so sorry. We got caught up at work and lost track of time. It won't happen again." He says, wringing his hands like he's waiting to be scolded, but you wave him off. 

"It's okay. Things happen, and I'm just glad she's got someone picking her up." You say. 

"How'd she do today?"

"Really good. I think she fits right in."

"She make some friends?"

"I can't give away all my secrets. What else are y'all gonna talk about at the dinner table?" You tease. 

"I guess that's right," he says as he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "Thanks for waitin' with her."

"It was my pleasure." You say. You stand awkwardly for a few seconds, rocking back and forth on your feet. His eyes are locked in yours, and there's a silent competition to see who's gonna blink first. "Well, I should let you get home. Have a good night." 

"Uh," he starts, stopping you before you can even fully take a step. "I wanted to apologize for the other night. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," you say a little too quickly, and he smirks. "I was very flattered. Besides, it's not the first time."

"Beautiful woman like you, I'm sure you've got 'em linin' the block for a chance with you." He says. You're dancing a delicate dance here. You're not not flirting, and you're not not interested in him, but if your principal finds out, it could cause a whole new world of problems. Still, it's nice to be wanted after so long of being on your own. You're not a saint, but you're also not doing anything inherently wrong, right?

"The teacher thing usually freaks 'em out before they can get very far."

"That's a damn shame." He's quick with it, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the line. A buzz in your bag reminds you of the time and why you're still at school, and you find your footing again. 

"Uh, I usually give out my contact information to the parents of my art club kids in case they need anything or need to contact me quickly. Since Ellie's an official part of that, I figured I should give you my phone number in case anything comes up. If that's alright?" You say, and he pulls his cracked phone from his back pocket. 

"Yeah, yeah. That's more than alright." He says, handing it to you to punch in your information. 

"It's for emergency purposes only."

"What d'you consider an emergency?"

"Mr. Miller-"

"Joel." He corrects, and you give him a look as you pass his phone back. 

"Don't abuse it. I'd hate to have to put you in a group chat with all the PTA moms."

"You're evil." He groans, and you laugh. Tommy, leaning over and honking the truck horn, interrupts your conversation, and he shoots daggers through the back window. 

"I'll see you next week, Joel." You say, dismissing him, and he hesitates for another second before nodding.

"See you next week." He says and turns on his heels to get back in his truck. You think you vaguely catch Joel scolding Tommy for being impatient, but you ignore his deep voice and the engine sputtering as you walk to your own car with a little more pep in your step than this morning.

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @anavatazes @marantha @cosmoscoffeee @shyminnie07 @beezusvreeland @eddiemunsonsbedroom @harriedandharassed @doodlebob-mp3 (look at how many of you there are!)

[navybrat817]

Muse

Pairing: Artist!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Summary: Bucky is thankful to have you as his muse. Word Count: Over 1.1k Warnings: Fluff, kissing, light insecurities if you squint, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's in love (and he’s a warning, okay?). A/N: Nix was kind enough to send me an old edit she made and I ran with it for @the-slumberparty 's Across the Universe challenge. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, but any and all mistakes are my own. Banner by the lovely @sgt-seabass and divider by the amazing @firefly-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky Barnes hadn't expected to find solace in art when he was younger. It seemed more like a path that his best friend Steve would take, though both of them appreciated expressing themselves creatively. Life also taught him that his road came with unexpected bumps and turns. Trading guns for brushes and pencils after he left the army, art helped him process some of his emotions he long kept at bay. It showed him how to look at life from a different perspective. In some ways, it saved him.

Like you did.

"Mmm."

The moan you let out drew Bucky's gaze up from his sketchpad, smiling softly as you stretched your legs out under the sheets. As tempted as he was to rouse you with his tongue, he decided to let you sleep since he already woke you once in the middle of the night. It wouldn't be the first time he sketched you while you slept.

The pad in his hand was already filled with drawings of you, but one more wouldn't hurt. Over the hours and days spent with you, he studied and learned your body well. He had other sketches and paintings of you in various angles and lightning. Those would never be sold.

Some art that existed was for the artist alone.

The pencil began to move across the paper once more when you didn't stir. If you woke up and caught him drawing you again, you'd shake your head and tell him he had more than enough. He disagreed.

There was beauty in his surroundings, but they paled in comparison to you.

"Bucky," you whispered, sending a shiver of excitement down his spine. Like the color red, you speaking his name invoked deep, intense passion within him. He saw hues in brighter shades thanks to you. "Come back to bed."

"I'm almost finished," he promised.

"You drawing me again?" you mumbled, bringing your hand up to cover your yawn as he kept sketching. "You have enough and I'm a mess."

"Maybe. Maybe not," he teased with a tender smile when your eyes opened halfway. "And you're not a mess. You're beautiful."

And it’ll never be enough.

"Careful, James," you teased back, arching your back as you stretched. "Keep smiling and sweet talking and they'll take away your brooder card."

"We can't have that," he winked.

When Bucky decided to pursue art outside of a hobby, he hadn't meant to become a brooding recluse on purpose. He simply preferred solitude while he worked and he valued his privacy. While he was encouraged to promote his work on social media to help build more clientele, he never showed his face. He let his art speak for itself. It worked.

It was how he came to meet you.

Before he met you in person, you were his favorite customer. You bought multiple pieces and left the kindest comments on his page. He often went back to reread them when he got lost in his own head.

"While there are many beautiful pieces of art in the world, Bucky Barnes gives us work that defines, and defies, beauty. His art can move you to tears or give you hope of brighter days ahead. We're privileged that he chooses to share his vision with us and one can only hope to see the world as he sees it."

He may have moved you with his visuals, but you moved him with your words.

"I have to meet her," he told Steve when you commissioned a custom piece.

Steve couldn't believe it since Bucky hardly ever let anyone into his studio. He said it was the least he could do for someone who consistently showed him support. He wouldn't admit at the time how nervous he was to meet you. Or why he felt so compelled to see the person behind the name since he refused to look for you on social media.

He realized that day it was destiny to meet you.

The artist and the muse.

"Back to bed," you ordered, moving the sheets back as he set his pencil and pad down. He used the opportunity to gaze along your naked frame bathed in the soft light, lingering between your thighs. "Please, Bucky?

"Who am I to deny my muse?" he smirked, slowly standing from his stool to stretch. His sweatpants hung low on his hips and he had thrown his dark hair up in a bun to keep it out of his eyes. "Especially when you look at me like that."

I'm littered with scars and you gaze at me like I have no imperfections.

"Have you seen you? You're gorgeous," you said, patting the mattress for him to sit.

“Not as gorgeous as you.”

“Take the compliment, brooder,” you said with a sleepy grin.

When he took a seat with a chuckle, you stopped him before he could lay over you. Instead, you took his right hand and had him stay in place as began to gently massage it. You commented more than once about how long and thick his fingers were and how warm to the touch they were against your skin. Working at his hand in tiny circles, you carefully rubbed out any tension you sensed. While you focused on the task at hand, he took another minute to gaze at you in wonder.

My beautiful muse.

"There," you said, kissing his palm once you finished.

"Thank you," he said, resting the same hand over your heart.

He watched and felt your chest rise as you inhaled. The steady beat grounded him. He was lucky enough for you to let him paint you with his love.

Inside and out.

"Do you ever regret it?" he asked as he traced a small heart on your chest.

Your forehead scrunched as you looked at him. "Regret what?"

"Choosing me," he whispered.

You had a chance to live a life of luxury and you walked away from it for me. Do you regret following your heart when you could've had so much more with him?

You exhaled as you pushed yourself up to face him and placed your hands on both cheeks, making sure he was looking into your eyes. "I will never regret choosing you or being yours," you whispered back.

Bucky's eyes softened as he smoothed his left hand down your back and dropped a kiss to your mouth. He lost himself in the feel of your lips and tongue, an exchange of desire he only got to experience with you. He didn't live a life of glamor, but he would forever give you a life of love.

"Now use me as your canvas," you said as the kiss ended.

Like Bucky said, who was he to deny his muse?

I love Bucky in love. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[genericpuff]

I’ve seen some people try and defend Lore Olympus by saying that movies like Hercules and such aren’t accurate to Greek myth, yet they’re still loved. And I somewhat get where they’re coming from, i really do.

BUT- I feel like part of the problem with LO is the fact that if you replace the names, you’d almost be right to assume it takes place in a completely different setting. Meanwhile, if you take away the names from the Hercules movie, you can still tell where it’s supposed to take place. (And who’s who, if you know your myths). Plus the writing of Hercules is 100% better than LO.

The difference between LO and Hercules is that Hercules clearly has respect for the source material put into it. It might not be accurate to the source material - because it's being retooled as a Disney movie for children - but you can tell there's still a lot of thought, love, and effort put into it. The team behind that movie did research on the art and culture of Greece, and adapted it into a movie that was entertaining and recognizable as a Greek myth adaption.

They put our home boy Heracles/Hercules in a tunic! Do you know how shocking that must have looked to American viewers who didn't know a shred of Greek myth and wondered why the big buff hero was being drawn in a skirt? Still accurate though!

LO, meanwhile, writes Greek myth as if it hates Greek myth for existing. It comes across more as a white woman using these stories purely for profit and colonizing it with American-esque culture. The outfits have become noticeably less Greek since the beginning, the characters never eat Greek food anymore, and the locations are left as vague as solid color backdrops to indicate "The Underworld" and "Olympus" without actually showing any set pieces or understanding of how these locations would look and feel in a modern setting.

All of these examples I gave are things we saw a decent amount of in S1. But since then it's just become talking heads on top of flat color backgrounds, eating Chinese food and dressing in American-style clothing. When was the last time we saw a mortal? There's just nothing Greek about the comic anymore because either Rachel has gotten so complacent that she just defaults to what she knows without any research (so what she watches on TV and in movies) or she only bothered with her research in the beginning to get people hooked and convinced that she's a "folklorist" so that they'd keep reading the series and giving her money on good will alone.

Using Hercules as an example of "well it's not accurate to Greek myth either!" completely misses the point of what people are getting at when they say that LO is a bad Greek myth retelling. Guess what else isn't completely accurate to Greek myth? Hadestown. Hades (the game). God of War. Stray Gods. They all take creative liberties with the source material in order to adjust it to the medium and audience they're creating it for, but none of those adaptions are quite as disrespectful as LO's. And God of War literally has little angry man going around and brutally murdering the gods. It still respects the setting of Greek myth more than LO, but unlike LO, it doesn't try to constantly sound smart with its inaccuracies, it knows fully well that it's a video game first and foremost.

And that's the beauty of myths. They can be adapted across generations and used to tell new versions of the same stories. So it begs the question, why bother writing a Greek myth retelling if you're going to make it so non-Greek that you could have just as well just written a normal soap drama and have it still be virtually the same?

Compared to all of the other examples, LO is the definition of confidently incorrect. It should have stuck to just being Greek myth inspired, not a retelling.

[theladyofshalott1989]

 🎉 30,000 Reads on Like Moths to a Flame!!!

This morning, I hit 30,000 reads on Wattpad, Like Moths to a Flame's first home, so to speak. <3 When I started writing my series on Wattpad in March 2023, I had absolutely no idea where it would take me. In fact, I thought it was only going to be a one-shot. Silly me! In the past year and half, I'm learned so much about myself. It turns out I can write 3 whole books in that relatively short period of time, alongside a plethora of one-shots, a short story, and a spin-off fic. All combined, that amounts to over 300,000 words. (I'm including the currently unpublished word count for the third book, chapters of which I'm posting weekly.)

I've also gained so much, the best of which are the wonderful, creative, and kind friends I've met along the way. Even during the hard times, just thinking of you all (you know who you are!!!) can turn my day around. <3

Some other things I've gained:

1. My writing skills have improved considerably, despite the fact that I've been writing on and off since I was a pre-teen. Writing daily will do that (haha). 2. I finally have an AO3 account! I've been reading on AO3 for over a decade but I never had my own account. I finally joined last August and I'm so glad I did! The AO3 community is so wonderful and I'm thrilled to finally be contributing to it as a writer. 3. I rejoined Tumblr. In January of this year, a reader on Wattpad recommended I check out the HL community here, so I said, why the hell not? And now look where we are. :)

4. Fan art! Last summer, a wonderful reader reached out to me on Wattpad with fanart and it snowballed from there. Every piece I receive from an artist, even to this day, I tear up in the best way. I've never been able to create art in this way (believe me, I tried for years LOL), and I am in absolute awe of all you amazing artists that can do so. The fact that so many of you have been inspired by my work and have had the courage to reach out and share your beautiful creations with me is truly astounding. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 5. Last, but certainly not least, HL rekindled my passion for writing. Prior to last spring, it had been years since I'd written something for myself. The moment I set pen to paper (yes, I wrote the first chapter in a notebook first because I wasn't sure if I was going to share it with the world!), I knew that was it for me. I was done-zo. I was sucked back into the world of writing. And I'll forever be grateful to the game for doing that for me. Finally, here's to Sebastian and Damien, who have taken on a life of their own. They're my boys, my brainrot, my children (besides my actual child - Sorry K, LOL - and yes, she may only be three but she could absolutely point out Sebastian in a lineup), and they'll hold a special place in my heart for all time.

Thanks for being on this journey with me! It's been a blast. :)

And just because, here's my Sebastien relationship playlist, which I think I've only shared here on Tumblr once before. It has a lot of fun, upbeat songs on it. Enjoy!

[lividstar]

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Five: Consequences

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎< previous | next >

masterpost

៚ wc: 8k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ During the high-stakes fashion casting, you impress the judges but are later alarmed to discover that the agency’s influential creative director is the owner of the sketchbook that not only did you accidentally take home, yet also used one of its designs as inspiration for your attire, leaving you fearful about the potential consequences for your budding career. As the weight of this realization sinks in, you can't help but worry how you would entangle the knots of the predicament you’re now under.

a/n: there’s a subtle dbh and lis reference somewhere in here

tags: @beabatiny

The days leading up to the casting were a whirlwind of activity. Madame Dupont worked diligently on your dress, transforming the sketch into a beautiful reality. Each evening, you found yourself in the cozy confines of her room, watching in awe as she expertly sewed the intricate lace details and made adjustments to ensure the dress fit you perfectly.

Tonight was now the last day before the casting’s designated schedule, and as usual, you were busying yourself with watching her add the final touches to your attire. “You see, dear, it’s all about the details,” she began, her fingers deftly threading a needle. “Every stitch, every seam must be perfect. It’s what sets apart a good dress from a great one.”

You nodded, fascinated by her skill and patience. She had described sewing to you as one of her hobbies that keeps her grounded, but seeing her in action, your viewpoint slowly started to shift into something deeper. Sewing no longer seemed to just have been something she could use to pass time—it was a profession she seemed to be heavily passionate about. “I never realized how much work goes into making a dress. It’s truly an art.”

Madame Dupont smiled warmly. “It is, indeed. And just like with any art, it requires passion and dedication. Much like your modeling, I imagine.” You’ve spent many hours like this with her during the past few days, sharing both anecdotes and advice. Madame Dupont regaled you with tales from her youth, often making you laugh with her witty anecdotes.

As a comfortable wind of silence surrounded the room, you couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you while you were watching her work her wonders on the dress she had insisted on making for you. “Madame Dupont, I have to ask... is this hobby of yours rooted from something deeper?”

She gently set the halfway done piece of fabric down on her desk, turning on her seat lightly to face you. “You managed to see right through me, dear. Yes, it is.” Seeing how you leaned in closer as if attempting to imply you wanted to hear more of it, she chuckled. “Back in my youth, I used to love fashion. I’ve always seen it as not just a concept about making outfits and plastering them on models to showcase on runways, rather, a unique way to express one’s creativity and wide knowledge capacity of art. Intricate designs, especially those who hold a deep story within, never failed to attract me like a moth to a flame. So, when I stepped foot into college, I headed straight to the path of becoming an art student.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. You’ve always thought of Madame Dupont as a woman who had a lot going on with her life, but hearing this specific portion of it wasn’t something you could say you have expected. “Really? That sounds wonderful and admirable, Madame Dupont. No wonder you were so adamant on helping me out on my casting,” you lightly joked, making both your laughters blend in with each other. Eventually, though, your tone shifted into one that’s more serious and perhaps a little cautious. “But... why didn’t you pursue your dream?”

Madame Dupont sighed, a look of longing in her eyes. “My family and I weren’t financially stable enough to keep me walking on that path. At first, I thought of it as nothing but an obstacle, and I even tried juggling multiple part-time jobs at once just so I wouldn’t entirely lose my grip on the ambition I’ve been wanting to reach ever since I was young. But as time passed, I slowly started to realize it was impossible. I couldn’t keep balancing multiple occupations at once until I graduated, and the look of pain in my parents’ eyes whenever I tried to convince them we just had to work a little harder to achieve my dream became unbearable through every passing day.”

It was heavily painful to you hearing her words, not because you found yourself wondering how things would’ve turned out for her if she and her family were under different circumstances, but you could also relate to the experience of not being able to achieve lifelong dreams over inevitable events. There was a lot you wanted to tell her, but you kept yourself silent, allowing her to let it all out.

“I felt like such a fool back then, dear. Mourning the life I lost that was never mine to begin with... it was a really tough experience for me. When I had to give up on my ambition and settle on something we could afford and manage with, I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘What if the world was a little nicer to me? Would I have been able to permanently hold onto what I’ve always wanted?’ And even up till now, it’s still a recurring thought in my head. If things were fated to turn out how I wished them to, would I be in a studio instead of the confines of my room right now?”

You couldn’t help but resonate with her words further. Having experienced what she went through during her youth was something you could easily tell wasn’t easy to get over with, especially since you’ve already had to face a similar situation—the details weren’t spot-on, yet the idea was.

Before you could speak, she leaned forward to take your hand in hers, gently caressing it. “And that’s exactly why I didn’t hesitate to offer you a helping hand the moment you told me about your first step in your new potential career. Because if I couldn’t achieve my dream before, then I’m fine with settling on helping someone else achieve theirs.”

“Madame Dupont, I...” Tears started welling up in your eyes, but she was quick to gently wipe them away before they could fall down. Who would’ve thought her offer held such depth underneath? “This means the whole world to me, thank you so much.” Seeing how her eyes flickered to the fabric laid down on the table, you were quick to shake your head. “No, no, not that. I mean, it’s just that hearing you comfortably sharing your story with me when you haven’t even known me for longer than a month is just...”

“Oh, dear. Don’t you start crying now, or else I’ll stop making this dress for you,” she scolded jokingly, making a broken chuckle come out of your mouth. “But seriously, though, there’s no need for you to let out those tears. If anything, I should be thanking you. Because in a way, you’re letting me live out my lifelong dream. It feels like I’m actually sewing a dress for a model—which I am, technically.”

You smiled, feeling the weight of her words. “Thank you, Madame Dupont. For everything.”

She patted your hand gently. “Now, let’s finish this dress. We have a casting to prepare for, and I have no doubt you’re going to shine.”

After a short while, Madame Dupont finally finished adding the final touches to the outfit. You looked at it in awe, marveling at how perfectly it mirrored the design from the sketchbook. Madame Dupont carefully set down her sewing tools, her eyes filled with a mixture of pride and anticipation. “So? What do you think about it?” she asked, her voice soft yet eager.

“It’s so… I don’t even know what to say. It looks gorgeous and well-made, like it’s…” you trailed off, unable to both find the right words and to contain your excitement and gratitude. The craftsmanship was impeccable, each stitch a testament to her skill and dedication. You moved to hug her, and she was surprised for a second before wrapping her arms around you warmly. Her embrace was comforting, and you could feel the genuine affection she held for you.

“Why don’t you go try it on and see what it looks like?” she suggested, her eyes sparkling. She pointed you to the bathroom in her apartment where you could change, her expression one of encouraging support. You carefully took the dress, handling it with the utmost care as you walked to the bathroom. The soft fabric felt luxurious under your fingers, and you couldn’t help but feel a sense of reverence for the garment. Slipping out of your clothes, you delicately put on the dress, feeling the fabric glide smoothly over your skin. It enveloped you in its lightness and grace and fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for you. Well, in a literal context, it was, but right now it felt deeper than that.

As you looked at yourself in the small bathroom mirror, you couldn’t help but smile. When you were ready, you headed back to where Madame Dupont was waiting. You stepped into the room with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, twirling around so she could see the dress in motion. The fabric swirled around you, catching the light in a way that made the lace details shimmer. “Does it look good?” you asked, your voice bubbling with excitement.

Madame Dupont’s eyes shone with pride and satisfaction. “Good? Oh, dear, it looks perfect,” she said, her tone filled with warmth. “You look like a model already.”

“Really?” you asked, your heart swelling with happiness and disbelief. The compliment meant the world to you, especially coming from someone as experienced as Madame Dupont.

“Go look at yourself in the mirror,” she urged, pointing to the full-body length mirror on her wall. You walked over to it, anticipation building with each step. As you stood in front of it and took in your reflection, you nearly squealed with delight. The dress was everything you had hoped for and more. It accentuated your presence, making you feel confident and beautiful. Even though you had worn styled outfits before, you had never felt so much like yourself until now. The dress felt so... you. It was as if it had been made not just for your body, but for your spirit.

The color palette complemented your essence perfectly, and the off-shoulder neckline highlighted your graceful aura. The lace details were delicate and intricate, adding a touch of sophistication and elegance. As you moved, the fabric flowed around you effortlessly, making you feel as though you were gliding. You felt like some sort of a princess from a fantasy movie, like you were living a faded childhood dream.

“Thank you so much, Madame Dupont,” you said, turning to her with a grateful smile. Your eyes were, once more, filled with tears of joy and appreciation, but you held them back, not wanting to ruin the moment. “I can’t wait for the casting tomorrow.”

Madame Dupont walked over to you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’ll do wonderfully, dear,” she assured you, her voice filled with reassurance. “Now, get some rest. Tomorrow is your big day.”

—

It’s now the day you’ve been waiting for. You woke up a few minutes earlier than your alarm, and a mix of nerves and excitement buzzed through you. Deciding to reach out to your parents for some much-needed encouragement, you initiate a video call. Almost immediately, they pick up, and you’re greeted with their wide smiles, their eyes twinkling with anticipation.

“Good morning!” your mother exclaims, her voice warm and cheerful. “Morning, darling!” your father echoes, his tone equally enthusiastic.

You can’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. “You two seem livelier than usual,” you say, raising an eyebrow playfully. Had they woken up long ago?

Your mother laughs softly. “Well, we can’t help it, especially since it’s your big day today.”

“Have you been waiting for me to call you the whole time?” you tease, a grin spreading across your face. It wasn’t entirely out of character for them to do such a thing. After all, they never fail to show their anticipation when it comes to you finally reaching everything you aim to achieve.

“How could we not?” your father replies, chuckling. “We’re just as excited as you are, if not more.”

Their excitement is infectious, and it eases some of your nervousness. Remembering the dress Madame Dupont made for you, you suddenly feel a surge of both pride and excitement. “Oh, wait right there,” you say, standing up from your bed. “I want to show you what I’ll be wearing today.”

You prop the phone on your desk and walk over to your closet. Carefully, you retrieve the dress from its hanger and hold it up to the camera. The intricate lace details, the soft pastel hues, and the delicate off-shoulder design all come together to create a masterpiece. Your mother gasps in delight. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s beautiful! It fits you and your vibe perfectly.”

Your father nods, his eyes twinkling with approval. “It looks stunning. That dress seems like it was made for you, huh?” he joked, but had his jaw nearly get dropped when you nodded in confirmation. “Wait, it was?”

“Yup. My landlord offered to sew it for me,” you explained, holding the dress closer to the camera to show them the hidden details. “Look at how well-crafted it is. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Once you saw them smiling and nodding and approval, you felt yourself become satisfied. You then carefully place the dress back on the hanger and return it to your closet. Sitting down again, you feel a bit more relaxed but still slightly anxious. “I’m still so nervous, though,” you admit, looking down at your hands.

Your parents exchange a knowing glance before turning their supportive gazes back to you. “Nerves are normal,” your father reassures you. “Just remember how hard you’ve worked to get here. You deserve this opportunity.”

“And no matter what happens and however things turn out, we are incredibly proud of you,” your mother adds. “Just go out there and be yourself. Show them the wonderful person we know you are.”

“I’ll do my best to keep that in mind.” You smile at them, then glance at the digital clock on your bedside table and realize it’s time to start getting ready. “I should probably start getting ready now,” you say, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement building up inside you.

“Good luck, sweetheart. We love you,” your mother says, blowing you a kiss through the screen as your father holds a thumbs-up to the camera.

“I love you both,” you reply, your voice softening with affection. “Thank you for always being there for me.” With a final wave, you end the call. Their words of encouragement echo in your mind, giving you the strength and confidence you need to face the day ahead. The nerves were still there—you’re entirely convinced they’re never gonna go away at this point, but compared to before, you’re pretty sure you’ve gained enough confidence for the casting right now.

Just as you were about to stand up and begin your morning routine, your phone, which you now laid down on your desk’s surface, rang with the sound of a message notification. Picking it up, a smile graces your lips as you read Seonghwa’s contact number.

Good morning! Today’s the day. Hope you still remember?

You let out a soft laugh of amusement. For the past few days, it’s been Seonghwa’s thing to keep in check with you and make sure you were still up for the casting. It was funny yet also endearing how he seems to really want you to attend. Did you really hold that much potential in his eyes? Whether you’ll get accepted or not would be the answer.

Can’t say I don’t.

I blame my constant palpitations on the casting, actually.

From the other side of the screen, there was Seonghwa, lounging on his office chair while he was occupied with both paperwork and conversing with you. He’s well aware he’s probably coming off way too paranoid by reminding you of the casting nearly everyday, but you were just a diamond in the rough he couldn’t afford to let escape from his grasp. Not when you have so much potential he could make the best out of.

Oops. Sorry… not sorry?

Also, I know I’m asking this a bit too late but

Can I ask what your name is?

You let out a hum of surprise. He hasn’t asked for that yet? Although you were sure you’d already mentioned your name to him at some point… Well, he wouldn’t be asking you this question had the truth been on your side, so maybe your memory’s deceiving you. After nearly a minute of contemplating, your fingers tapped the letters of your name on the keyboard, soon then sending it. His response caught you by surprise.

Even your name is pretty!

It’s also really cool :)

Chuckling, you quickly typed out a response—you still needed to get ready, after all.

You think so?

Thanks, Seonghwa.

Also, no emoji!

With that, you turned off your phone, placing it back on your desk before standing up and stepping into the shower. The day has yet to begin.

Meanwhile, Seonghwa, who is in his office on one of the higher floors of the building, stood up from his chair, stretching his arms above his head as he walked over to the large window. The view of the street below reveals a growing line of aspiring models, each one buzzing with anticipation. Some of them were personally casted by him, while others came on their own, drawn by the promise of a new opportunity. Despite their different paths, they all share the same goal: to make a name for themselves in the world of fashion.

As Seonghwa observes the scene, he can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. The casting is a significant event, not just for the models but for him as well. It’s a chance to discover fresh talent and bring new faces to the forefront of the industry. Just then, the door to his office swings open with a loud bang, and Wooyoung bursts in, his voice booming with enthusiasm. “Rise and shine! Get up, buttercup!” he exclaims, far too loudly for the early hour. Seonghwa turns around, raising an eyebrow in mild annoyance.

“Wooyoung, it’s not even past late morning hours yet and yet you’re already causing a scene. Must you be so loud right now?” he scolds, picking up a folder—again—and pretending to throw it at him.

Wooyoung laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll keep it down,” he says, a grin plastered on his face. He doesn’t wait for an invitation and immediately lounges in Seonghwa’s chair, spinning around like a child.

Seonghwa just sighs, shaking his head as he turns back to the window. “You’re incorrigible,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

After nearly ten dizzying spins, Wooyoung finally stops, looking a bit green. “Okay, that was a bad idea,” he mumbles to himself. He then drags the chair, wheels squeaking, over to where Seonghwa stands. Both of them look down at the line of hopefuls below.

“There’s a lot of them, huh?” Wooyoung muses, more to himself than to Seonghwa. “I can’t wait to see which ones will get in. It’s not up to me anyway, so I’ll just be watching from the sidelines with you, Hongjoong, and the casting directors.”

Seonghwa nods slightly, still gazing at the scene outside. “It’s always interesting to see who stands out,” he says quietly. “Each one of them has something unique to offer. It’s just a matter of seeing who can bring that uniqueness to life on the runway.”

Wooyoung hums in agreement, his usual playful demeanor replaced with a rare moment of contemplation. “Do you think any of them will surprise us?” he asks, glancing at Seonghwa.

“Always,” Seonghwa replies, a small smile appearing on his lips. “That’s the beauty of these castings. You never know who will walk through those doors and leave a lasting impression.”

Wooyoung leans back in the chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “Y’know, I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be in their shoes,” he says thoughtfully. “The nerves, the excitement, the pressure. It must be intense.”

“It truly is. We can only go as far as we can imagine,” Seonghwa agrees. “But that’s what makes it all the more rewarding. When they eventually succeed in their path and walk down those runways and see the admiration in the audience’s eyes, it’s all worth it.”

“Speaking of which, have you seen Hongjoong this morning?” Wooyoung asks, changing the subject. “He still seemed pretty down last night about his sketchbook when I took him out to eat.”

Seonghwa sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, he’s been really stressed about it. That sketchbook means a lot to him. Apparently, according to him, losing it feels like losing a part of himself.”

Wooyoung nods sympathetically. “I get that. I just hope he can find it or at least come to terms with it. He’s got so much talent, so it would really be a shame for something like this to hold him back.” He leans back in the chair, still gazing at the line of aspiring models outside. “So, about the girl from Rue de la Paix,” he begins, a hint of curiosity in his voice. “Did you ever get her name?”

Seonghwa glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “I did,” he replies cautiously.

“And what is it?” Wooyoung asks, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Why do you need to know that?” Seonghwa counters, turning fully to face his friend. There’s a playful yet protective edge to his tone, as if he’s guarding a precious secret. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to let Wooyoung know your name, he just liked to tease the younger man often.

Wooyoung shrugs, a nonchalant smile on his face. “I’m just curious. I want to know which one of the models attending today’s casting is her.”

Seonghwa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walks back to his desk, his mind clearly made up about not divulging the information. Wooyoung, undeterred, struggles with the chair’s wheels as he attempts to follow. The squeaky protest of the wheels against the floor echoes in the spacious office.

“Are you not telling me because it’s confidential, or because you just don’t want to?” Wooyoung presses, finally managing to maneuver the chair closer to Seonghwa’s desk—not before nearly stumbling over and falling down to the ground face-flat first.

“A little bit of both,” Seonghwa admits with a shrug, his lips curling into a faint smile. Wooyoung groans dramatically, leaning back in the chair with exaggerated disappointment. Seonghwa watches him with amusement, shaking his head slightly.

“Come on, Hwa,” Wooyoung whines. “Just a hint?”

Seonghwa’s smile widens, and he leans forward, resting his hands on his desk. “I’ll make sure to tell you when it’s her turn at the casting,” he says, a glint of teasing in his eyes.

Wooyoung instantly brightens at this, sitting up straight. “Really? You promise?”

“Promise,” Seonghwa confirms, patting Wooyoung on the back. “Now, get off my chair before I throw you out the window.”

Wooyoung laughs, pushing himself out of the chair with exaggerated reluctance. “Fine, fine. But I’m holding you to that promise,” he says, wagging a finger at Seonghwa.

Seonghwa chuckles, shaking his head as he watches Wooyoung retreat. “You truly are insufferable,” he mutters, though there’s a fondness in his voice that betrays his words.

Wooyoung winks at him, making his way to the door. “And don’t you forget it!”

As Wooyoung leaves, Seonghwa turns back to the window, watching as the line outside continues to grow. The anticipation is electric, each model radiating a mix of nerves and excitement. Today was going to be a significant day, not just for them, but for him as well. Eventually, he decided to settle back into his chair. The morning sun streamed through the glass walls, casting a warm glow over his sleek, modern workspace. He reached for the stack of portfolios on his desk, each one representing the dreams and ambitions of aspiring models.

He flipped open the first portfolio, revealing the work of Kara. Her portfolio was meticulously organized, with high-quality photographs showcasing her versatility. Kara had a striking look, with an elegant poise that shone through in every image. Her resume detailed her extensive experience in runway shows and high-fashion editorials. She had a background in ballet, which explained her graceful movements and impeccable posture. Seonghwa nodded in appreciation, noting her potential for the upcoming show.

The next portfolio belonged to Connor. His photos exuded a cool, polished charm. Connor’s piercing gaze and chiseled features made him a standout in the world of male modeling. His portfolio included a range of styles, from casual streetwear to sophisticated suits. Seonghwa noticed a particular emphasis on tech-inspired fashion, which intrigued him. Connor’s resume revealed his background in acting, adding another layer of depth to his modeling skills. Seonghwa could see Connor’s potential for both the runway and more conceptual shoots.

The third portfolio was that of Markus. His images radiated a raw, magnetic energy. Markus had a unique look, with a rugged edge that set him apart. His portfolio showcased a variety of high-impact editorial shots, where his powerful presence commanded attention. Seonghwa admired Markus’s ability to convey intense emotions through his eyes and body language. His resume highlighted his involvement in various social justice campaigns, which added a sense of purpose to his modeling career. Seonghwa made a mental note of Markus's potential for more provocative, statement-making pieces.

After thoroughly examining these portfolios, Seonghwa finally reached yours, which you had given to him yesterday. He opened it carefully, revealing a collection of images that immediately caught his eye. Your portfolio was a blend of ethereal elegance and down-to-earth charm. The photographs showcased a range of styles, from flowing, delicate dresses to modern, structured outfits. Each image highlighted your ability to adapt to different looks while maintaining a unique, captivating aura. Your resume, though less extensive than some of the others, reflected a genuine passion for modeling and a determination to make your mark in the industry.

Just then, Seonghwa’s phone buzzed with a message. He glanced at the screen and saw it was from you, asking if the casting had started yet and letting him know you were on your way. As if on cue, there was a knock on his door. One of the casting directors poked their head in, informing him that it’s about to begin before leaving shortly after.

It’s about to.

Why? Are you not here yet?

He then closed your portfolio with a thoughtful smile and slipped his phone into the pocket of his tailored pants. Rising from his chair, he made his way to the casting area, anticipation building within him. Once he reached his destination, he settled into a seat in the middle of Wooyoung and Hongjoong, along with a few other casting directors. The room buzzed with anticipation, a mix of excited chatter and the occasional nervous glance from the models waiting their turn.

As Seonghwa sat down, Wooyoung turned to him and Hongjoong with a playful grin. “Big day, right? Always exciting to see who might be the next big star.”

Hongjoong nodded in agreement, already expecting a lot for the day. “We’ve got a solid line-up today. I’m looking forward to seeing how they perform. It’s one thing to look good in photos and another to command the runway.”

Seonghwa leaned back in his chair, taking in the room’s energy. “You’re on point with that. It’s all about presence. You can tell a lot about a model by how they carry themselves.”

The casting director to Hongjoong’s left chimed in. “And it’s not just about walking. It’s the confidence, the ability to connect with the audience. We’re looking for someone who can truly bring the clothes to life.”

As they continued discussing their expectations and hopes for the casting, Hongjoong turned to Seonghwa. “By the way, is she here yet? The girl you casted in Rue de la Paix?”

Seonghwa took out his phone and read a recent message from you saying you were nearly there. He quickly typed a response, telling you to hurry, then put his phone away. “Almost. She’s on her way.”

The casting then began, each model stepping onto the runway with varying degrees of confidence. The first model moved with a fluid grace that was captivating. Her steps were measured, her posture impeccable, and the way she carried herself spoke volumes of her experience. The casting directors exchanged approving glances, making notes on their tablets.

Next was a male model whose cool, polished demeanor immediately caught the eye. His walk was deliberate, every movement exuding a calm, collected energy. The way he held himself, with just the right amount of charisma, showcased his versatility. He had a way of engaging with the audience, making each person feel as though he was walking just for them.

A third model brought a raw, magnetic presence to the runway. Her movements were powerful, almost theatrical, each step filled with purpose. The intensity in her eyes and the confident sway of her shoulders commanded attention, leaving a lasting impression on everyone watching. Seonghwa exchanged a look with Hongjoong, both clearly impressed.

Meanwhile, you were doing your best to hurry to the building without ending up looking disheveled. You reached the entrance, slightly out of breath, and quickly took out your phone to text Seonghwa, asking how to get to the casting area. Seonghwa received the notification and sighed in relief upon reading your message, quickly giving you directions. Inside, you found the waiting room and were relieved to see there were still three models in line before you. You took advantage of the time, lounging in the waiting room to catch your breath and fix yourself up. The anticipation built up as you watched the other models go, each with their unique style and presence.

Finally, it was your turn. As you stepped onto the runway, you felt a mix of nerves and excitement. The room seemed to hold its breath, and you could feel all eyes on you. You nearly let go of your resolve and began considering running away, but you couldn’t back down now, so even if the feeling of being perceived almost felt like claws scratching on your skin, you did all you can to hold out.

The dress Madame Dupont had crafted for you flowed elegantly with each step, its delicate lace details catching the light perfectly. You took a deep breath, centering yourself. Every step you took was purposeful, your head held high, shoulders back. You envisioned the path before you, focusing on exuding the confidence and grace you had practiced. Each stride was smooth, the fabric of your dress fluttering lightly with your movement, giving an ethereal quality to your walk. Your thoughts raced, reminding yourself to maintain your pace and rhythm. You could see the faces of the casting directors, their expressions ranging from curiosity to intrigue. This was your moment, and you intended to make it count.

Seonghwa then nudged Wooyoung, a proud expression on his face. “That’s her,” he said quietly.

Wooyoung turned, his mouth slightly ajar. “That’s her?” He watched you intently, a look of amazement on his face. Seonghwa nodded, proud of himself for recognizing your potential.

Hongjoong, however, seemed lost in thought. “That dress…” he whispered to himself, drawing Seonghwa’s attention.

“See? I told you she’d meet your expectations. Seems the casting directors are already fond of her as well,” Seonghwa said, pointing out how everyone else in the room seemed to have been quite intrigued.

Hongjoong shook his head slightly, “No, that’s not what I…” he trailed off, giving up and deciding to refocus himself on studying the way you moved with a unique sense of confidence he’s certain he hasn’t felt from the others who had just walked the runway you were currently standing on.

You finished your walk and stood at the end of the runway, awaiting feedback. One of the casting directors leaned forward, a warm smile on her lips. “That was quite impressive. Your walk exudes a natural grace, and you have a unique ability to connect with the audience. The way you carried that dress was truly captivating.”

Another casting director nodded in agreement. “Yes, I felt a sense of authenticity in your presence. It’s clear you’re not just walking; you’re telling a story. That’s a rare quality. Not to mention, your versatility is evident. You managed to make the dress come alive, which is exactly what we’re looking for. Your movements were fluid and expressive, and you conveyed an emotion that’s essential for our brand. We need someone who can bring that kind of depth and dimension to the runway.”

Seonghwa exchanged a satisfied glance with Wooyoung and Hongjoong. You had not only met but exceeded their expectations. As you stood there, absorbing the positive feedback, you felt a surge of confidence and pride, knowing that you had made a significant impression on the casting directors. You gave a polite nod and a soft “Thank you,” before turning away from the bright lights of the runway, and beginning your walk backstage. Your heart was pounding with a mix of relief and elation. The backstage area was a hive of activity, with models, assistants, and staff bustling around. You carefully navigated through the crowd, making your way to the waiting room.

Once inside, you found a quiet corner to gather your thoughts. The adrenaline from the casting still coursed through your veins, but you took a moment to breathe deeply, allowing yourself to fully process what had just happened. You have done it. You had walked the runway, presented yourself confidently, and received positive feedback from the casting directors.

Hongjoong, Seonghwa, and the casting directors gathered in a sleek, modern conference room for a debriefing discussion. The walls were lined with mood boards, sketches, and photos from the day's casting. The atmosphere was filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as they reviewed the day’s candidates. Wooyoung, the brand’s vibrant and beloved photographer, sat among them. Though he wasn’t technically supposed to be part of these discussions, his charm and keen eye for detail, and, not to mention, how nearly everyone in the workspace was fond of him, had earned him a permanent spot at the table.

“Let’s start with the first model,” one of the casting directors said, flipping open a portfolio. “She had a strong walk and a striking presence. Her portfolio shows a lot of versatility. What do we think?”

Seonghwa nodded, glancing at the portfolio. “She definitely has potential. Her editorial shots are impressive, and she seemed confident on the runway.”

“Agreed,” another casting director added. “Her look is unique, and she knows how to carry herself.” They then moved on to the next model. “This one had a great energy,” they noted. “Her poses were dynamic, and she really engaged with the camera.”

“Yes,” Seonghwa said, smiling. “She has a lot of charisma. I think she’d be fantastic for some of our more lively, energetic campaigns.”

Wooyoung, lounging casually in his chair, chimed in, “I agree. She’d be a lot of fun to shoot. She has that spark.” As the discussion continued, they went through the portfolios and runway performances of several models, each time delving into detailed critiques and praises. They talked about their physical attributes, their runway presence, and their potential fit within the brand’s vision.

Finally, Seonghwa brought up your performance. “So, what do we think about the last model?” he asked, his eyes bright with anticipation.

One of the casting directors leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. “She was remarkable. Her walk was graceful, and she had an ethereal quality that was hard to ignore. Not to mention, her portfolio shows a lot of promise. She has this natural elegance that really stood out.”

Seonghwa’s smile grew wider with each positive comment, nodding in agreement with all of them. The casting director sitting across Seonghwa then noticed his growing smile and asked, “Do you know her personally by any chance?”

Seonghwa shook his head, still smiling. “No, but I met her at Rue de la Paix a while ago and persuaded her to attend today. I had a feeling she’d be a good fit.”

“Well, we’re glad you did that,” another director said, nodding in approval. “She definitely has potential.”

While the group was busy discussing, Hongjoong, who had been silent the entire time, was snapped out of his thoughts when Seonghwa nudged his shoulder lightly. “Hey, what’s on your mind? You look lost,” Seonghwa pointed out.

Hongjoong shook his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. “No, nothing,” he said, standing up. “I need to go to the restroom for a moment.”

As Hongjoong left, Wooyoung turned to Seonghwa, eyebrows raised. “What’s up with him?”

Seonghwa shrugged, equally confused. “No idea.”

Instead of heading to the bathroom, Hongjoong made his way to the waiting room. He knocked twice before entering and was greeted with the sight of you sitting in a corner, looking slightly nervous but composed. You immediately recognized him from the runway and sat up straight, greeting him politely.

You took a moment to take in his appearance and demeanor, noting the serene confidence he exuded. His features were striking, with a sharp jawline and expressive eyes that seemed to see right through you. His aura was both commanding and comforting, a perfect balance for a creative visionary. Yet above it all, one thing’s for sure—he was strikingly gorgeous. Is this how it feels being in an 80’s romance movie and seeing your love interest for the first time?

He then broke the silence by greeting you with a warm smile and introduced himself as the Creative Director of the brand. Upon this newfound information, you felt both nervous and excited as he held out his hand for you to shake. His grip was firm yet gentle, and you could feel the sincerity in his touch.

“You don’t need to introduce yourself,” he said, cutting you off gently just as he sensed you were about to speak. “Seonghwa has already told me quite a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope?” You tilted your head, a playful expression on your face as you attempted to both lighten the mood further and relax your spirits. Fortunately on your behalf, the comment was enough to make him laugh.

“All good things, don’t worry,” he played along, easing your nerves. “I wasn’t able to give feedback along with the casting directors earlier, so I figured I’d do it now. You did an excellent job out there. Your walk was graceful, and you have a natural elegance that's very captivating.”

You felt your cheeks warm at the praise. “Oh, really? Thank you so much. That means a lot to me."

“Don’t thank me. You should be thanking yourself for being able to exude such an exceptional aura.” He smiled, then continued, “It’s up to the casting directors to decide who will be getting callbacks, but I’ll make sure to convince them to include you in the list—just in case. Though, from what I’ve seen, I’m quite certain they’re already planning on it.”

You felt a surge of gratitude and excitement. “Thank you again, really. I appreciate it.”

He cleared his throat, glancing at his watch. “I should probably get going. But before I leave, I just wanted to say it was a pleasure meeting you.”

As he turned to leave, he paused at the door and looked back. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, but my name is Kim Hongjoong,” he said before glancing at your widened eyes and gently shutting the door behind him, leaving you nearly paralyzed.

Kim Hongjoong?

The exact same name written on the sketchbook you accidentally took home with you on your first day in Paris?

Your thoughts began to swirl into a maelstrom of worry. How could this be happening? Not only did you have a renowned creative director’s sketchbook in your hands, but this very same creative director worked under the agency whose casting you had just attended. The coincidence was almost too much to bear. What if he found out you had his sketchbook? What if he thought you had stolen it?

Your mind raced with all the possible repercussions. You envisioned Hongjoong, upon discovering the mystery behind the missing sketchbook, being livid and assuming the worst of you. It might look as if you had tried to take his work for yourself or pry into his creative processes—which wasn’t exactly a far-fetched assumption, but that’s what makes things even worse on your behalf... It could certainly jeopardize your career before it even had a chance to start. He might inform the casting directors, and they could blacklist you from any future opportunities. The thought alone sent chills down your spine.

And then there was Seonghwa. You could picture his disappointment and frustration. He had gone out of his way to persuade you to attend this casting, believing in your potential. How would he react if he found out about the sketchbook? He might think you were careless or irresponsible. You had been so excited about this opportunity, but now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers due to a misunderstanding.

The weight of the situation was heavy, making it hard to breathe. You wondered how you were going to sort this out. Should you go to Hongjoong immediately and explain? But what if he didn’t believe you? What if he thought it was just a convenient excuse? The thought of facing him, knowing what you knew now, was daunting. But then, what other option did you have?

Your mind kept circling back to the same questions. How could you have known that the man whose sketchbook you had mistakenly taken would turn out to be so crucial to your career? You replayed the events of that night over and over, trying to pinpoint how things had gone so awry. It had been an innocent mistake, yet the consequences seemed potentially devastating. What if this one mistake ruined everything you had worked so hard for? What if your dreams of becoming a model in Paris ended before they could truly begin? The uncertainty of the future loomed over you like a dark cloud, making it difficult to focus on anything else.

It didn’t help that the outfit you wore was inspired by one of what’s now revealed to be Hongjoong’s sketches. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks. Could that be the reason he had gone out of his way to approach you here? You tried to convince yourself it was just a coincidence, that he had been too genuine while complimenting you earlier for it to be otherwise. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at your mind.

A fashion designer of Hongjoong’s caliber would undoubtedly recognize his own creations. There was no way he wouldn’t. Did he already know? If he did, wouldn’t he have addressed it immediately? But then again, what if he was waiting for the right moment? Perhaps he wanted to see if you would chase after him the moment he told you his name and bring it up yourself. The uncertainty made your stomach churn.

You recalled the way he had looked at you, the intensity in his eyes. It wasn’t just the usual scrutiny of a casting director. There was something more, something you couldn’t quite place. Was it curiosity? Or was it simply professional interest in a potential model? Each possibility seemed equally plausible, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it.

What if he had recognized the dress immediately but chose not to say anything? Maybe he was testing you, waiting to see if you would come forward with the truth. The thought made your heart race. You felt caught in a web of your own making, the threads tightening around you with each passing moment. How could you possibly explain the situation without it sounding like an excuse or a lie?

Your thoughts spiraled further into confusion and anxiety. If he knew about the sketchbook, what did he think of you? Did he believe you were trying to pass off his design as your own? That was far from the truth, but would he give you the chance to explain? The idea of being misunderstood by someone so pivotal to your career was terrifying.

And then there was the matter of the compliments he had given you. They seemed genuine, heartfelt even. But now you couldn’t help but question their sincerity. Had he been playing a part, trying to lure you into a false sense of security before confronting you? Or were his words truly a reflection of his professional opinion, unaffected by the sketchbook debacle? The more you thought about it, the more tangled your emotions became. You felt a mix of admiration and fear toward Hongjoong. Admiration for his undeniable talent and fear of his potential judgment. His opinion held immense weight, and the possibility of disappointing him was almost unbearable.

You wondered if you should come clean about the sketchbook before he had a chance to bring it up. But the timing seemed impossible. How could you just casually walk up to him and confess to accidentally taking his sketchbook like it wasn’t most likely a treasured item of his? And what if, by some slim chance, he really hadn’t noticed the dress’s origins? You would be drawing unnecessary attention to it, possibly creating an issue where there was none.

Your thoughts were a chaotic swirl of what-ifs and maybes. Each scenario you envisioned seemed fraught with peril. The fear of ruining your budding career loomed large, casting a shadow over your every thought. The dress, which had felt like a beacon of hope earlier, now felt like a burden, an uncomfortable fabric attaching itself on the surface of your skin, a reminder of the precarious position you found yourself in.

You wished you could go back to that moment in the cafe, to the moment before you had mistakenly picked up the wrong sketchbook. But there was no undoing what had been done. All you could do now was navigate the consequences, no matter how daunting they seemed. Your worries wouldn’t leave you alone and it definitely doesn’t seem like they were planning to anytime soon—an unrelenting presence that made it hard to think straight. You felt a deep sense of dread at the thought of facing Hongjoong again. What would you say? Would you even be able to see him again, that is?

The moment Hongjoong opened the conference room door, he saw that no one was there anymore. The room was eerily silent, and the chairs were neatly pushed under the table. He realized he had taken too long and the debriefing session had ended without him. Letting out a sigh, he decided to head back up to his office.

As he stepped into the room, he was greeted by an unfortunately familiar yet chaotic sight: Wooyoung was laughing loudly while being pushed around in Hongjoong’s chair by Seonghwa. The sight of Seonghwa struggling to control the wheeled chair with Wooyoung gleefully directing it like a makeshift chariot brought an exasperated groan from Hongjoong.

Seeing Hongjoong from the corner of his eye, Wooyoung quickly looked at him and pointed at Seonghwa with a mischievous grin. “See? Pushing a shopping cart or a chair can be fun if you put your mind to it!”

Hongjoong sighed in frustration, “Seonghwa, quit feeding into Wooyoung’s antics before one of the wheels falls off my chair.”

Seonghwa, still smiling, immediately complied despite Wooyoung’s whining complaints. Wooyoung reluctantly got off the chair, still chuckling, while Seonghwa straightened his shirt and ran a hand through his hair. As Seonghwa moved the chair back to its rightful place behind Hongjoong’s desk, he asked, “What took you so long anyway? And why do you look so… wow. This is the first time I’ve seen a smile on your face this week.”

Hongjoong, now sitting on the couch, shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m just happy about the results of today’s casting.”

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “That’s like, really strange, because I’m sure you had a bothered look when you stepped outside of the conference room to go to the restroom. Like, really bothered.” Before Hongjoong could respond, Wooyoung continued with another question, “Speaking of, what took you so long anyway?”

Hongjoong leaned back, looking at Wooyoung with a raised eyebrow. “It’s none of your business.”

“You can’t just—” Wooyoung cut himself off, taken aback for a moment, then considered Hongjoong’s words. He finally nodded and said, “Yeah, you’re right, that’s... definitely not my business.”

Seonghwa, still curious, turned to Hongjoong, “Seriously though, what’s got you in a better mood?”

Hongjoong glanced at Seonghwa, then looked out the window thoughtfully. “I just had a moment of clarity, I guess. Today’s casting was better than I expected.”

Seonghwa nodded slowly, not entirely convinced but willing to let it go for now. “Well, that’s good to hear. We did see some promising talent.”

Hongjoong’s mind wandered back to the casting, especially the way you had walked down the runway with such grace and confidence. There was something about you that stood out, something he couldn’t quite place but felt drawn to nonetheless. The memory of your performance brought a subtle smile to his lips. Wooyoung, sensing there was more to Hongjoong’s mood shift, couldn’t help but press a little further. “Come on, there’s gotta be more to it than that. Did something happen when you stepped out?”

Hongjoong shook his head, maintaining his composed demeanor. “Just appreciating the talent we saw today, Wooyoung. Nothing more.”

Wooyoung shrugged, realizing he wouldn’t get more out of Hongjoong for now. “Alright, if you say so. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

All Hongjoong could do was smile. “I’ll be keeping an eye out there, too. Not on you, though.”

🪞 — lividstar.

[wndaswife]

every waking moment

「 thérèse raquin & fem!reader 」

tags: smut, fingering, angst, cheating, brief implication of homophobia. MINORS DNI.

word count: 4700

summary: Unbeknownst to Thérèse that you've learned about her affair with Laurent, she begins to suspect you have a lover. She spends her every moment with you henceforth, determined to make you hers again.

a/n: i attempted to write from a naturalist perspective :> which was thrilling and equally as difficult

gif credit to creator.

“I’m leaving!” Thérèse had called back to you as you rummaged through the shelfs, dividing nylon thread from polyester ones and storing them separately. Within the last fortnight, she was away from the shop more often than not. “I’ll be back late tonight with the ribbon we need,” she said.

Thérèse returned later that evening, as she promised. 

But you had tired of seeing her by then, even when she peppered your cheeks with kisses and brought back with her four handfuls of the spools of the required ribbon.

You were not able to see her undressing at the end of the night in your shared bedroom, stepping out of her crinoline and unlacing her corset, without envisioning the handsome dark-haired Laurent and his wandering hands nor the intimate sights he might have seen of your maiden. 

It was not the idea that someone else had shared in the experience of bestowing their eyes onto Thérèse’s fair skin and bare body that ate at you, but instead that partnership was meant to mean exclusivity. At least, that was what Thérèse had always preached into your ear and in the tight embrace of her arms.

Hours ago, you had followed her discreetly to the Seine and saw her sprawled out by the riverbank, tranquil and happy as she laid in the cool shadow of a great oak tree. A man was perched on his elbow laying beside her, his fingers running down the side of her face delicately, then to her chin where his thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

You did know of Laurent; the childhood friend of Thérèse’s cousin Camille, who you had not seen since he and his mother moved away once you and Thérèse started overseeing the haberdashery together. 

Laurent was a dashing man, or so you assumed from the meaningful stares he would exchange with any woman he came within fifteen feet of. 

Before you left your previous occupation to work with Thérèse at the haberdashery, you’d worked with Laurent. You would have never considered him to be anything more than an acquaintance, for the truth was that he irritated you, and sometimes you despised him. He was an arrogant lazy oaf, and should he ever come into any deal of money, no matter how small, you knew he would have never come into work. 

He lazed around and did just enough to impress the superiors, getting around by flashing a few smiles and discussing his creative history with beautiful naked models for his beautifully understated pieces of art. You could not remember what kind of artist he was, if one could ever stomach calling him such, but it was not significant to you as you continued to watch him interact with Thérèse.

In an instinctual jerk of your body as if reacting to a sudden noise, you turned your head when the man lowered his face to hers. Their lips met tenderly. Despite yourself, you peeked over, beyond the grand oak tree, to find Laurent looking deeply into your maiden’s eyes. He lifted himself up so their lips could part and he could look down at her while Thérèse grinned, her chest fluttering with her soft giggles.

Dozens of hushed secrets were exchanged within that silent stare and you abhorred yourself for wanting to know them. 

Presently, Thérèse embraces you from behind, unbuttoning the collar of your dress. She hushes you when your shoulders tense, uttering a quiet, “Shh-shh-shh.” 

You look ahead at the wardrobe you’re facing, your body stiff as Thérèse’s hands work nimbly at undressing you.

A dim candle flickers on top of a table in the corner of the bedroom, enveloping the entire room in a warm shade of orange. From the nightstand beside the bed at the other side of the bedroom, an off-white light gleams and casts Thérèse’s shadow against your back and the top of her head over your shoulder and against the wardrobe.

When your corset is undone and is placed atop of your skirts on the floor, Thérèse pushes your crinoline down your legs and you step out of it, moving to the side and finally slipping out of her arms. 

The both of you stand in the silent shadowed room in your chemises and undone hair.

Before you met her, Thérèse was a sombre, serious woman, so still and silent that one might have believed she was slumbering when she was sitting in the chair behind the shop’s counter or tending to the Thursday evening guests in her seat beside the window and away from the night’s events had it not been for the way her eyes fluttered ever so slightly at any rupture of noise and the hypnotic curling of her pale fingers as she stroked the Raquin family’s cat, François, in her lap.

Though it was nearly a year since you’d first met Thérèse and now several months since you’d known her romantically, you often felt you knew her just as much as you did that first night Camille dragged you to his mother’s shop for a game of dominoes alongside Laurent.

She reaches out to take your hand, pulling it close to her, and your arm lifts loosely. 

You turn towards her and walk towards the bed because you have little else to do. 

Thérèse wraps an arm around you, hugging you and burying her face against the side of your breast. Her arm drops when you lean forward and get into bed. She follows, moving close against your side until her breasts press against your upper arm. 

With her fingers wrapped around the side of your neck and the corner of your jaw, she turns your head to her. Thérèse kisses you, eyebrows pushing together and exhaling a soft hum in excited relief. Her arm wraps around your waist and her free hand rounds to the back of your neck, guiding you to move on top of her.

Feeling beside yourself and with little control, you let Thérèse move your body until you’re laying on top of her, knees on either side of her thighs. Her hand moves up to the back of your head, playing with your hair and leading your face down to her neck. She moans when your lips make contact with her and you begin kissing your way to her pulse.

You no longer wanted to control yourself nor anything else, and certainly not Thérèse. You no longer wanted to take, and Therese knew of nothing but how to give.

“Please,” she huffs. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

You oblige without knowing why. Perhaps you do it out of instinct; not knowing what else you would’ve done if you had declined. You push her nightgown up her thighs and she rubs her knee against your side.

Thérèse is the only woman you’ve ever known intimately. Her long dark-brown hair fans out against the pillow her head lays on. The lamp from the nightstand illuminates her face with a warm radiance, creating the illusion that the pale shade of her skin is glowing. The curves of her figure are delicate and smooth, and for a moment you entertain being the only one to know such paths of her body.

You never imagined being with any other woman, let alone ever loving anyone but Thérèse. The thought that you may have always been right disturbs you all the more. 

When your fingers find her place of pleasure and slip through her tight walls, causing Thérèse to moan out and arch up against you, you damn yourself for knowing her body so well. 

You curve your fingers inside her and lean down to bury your face in her breasts, kissing up the soft swells and parting your lips to leave trails of saliva up her skin. With your free hand, you pull the collar of her slip down and wrap your lips around her nipple, then the other. You watch as her eyes screw shut and her soft pink lips part to release her whines into the bedroom.

Your insides churn as you knew she took Laurent’s cock in the same way, a sensual ritual you also knew she loved more than your fingers. 

How could you ever compare to a man?

Yet she tightens her thighs around your hips and pants into your ear when you raise yourself to kiss her neck again as if she craves you more, as if she receives more pleasure from you than him. It disgusts you and you find Thérèse to be a repulsive animal who knows only of its own survival and carnal instincts. You feel you would’ve much rather she hated you.

You bring Thérèse to orgasm then climb down from her and lay back down onto your side of the bed, fingers weakly thrusting into her as she trembles and whimpers beside you. 

When your fingers exit from inside her, Thérèse wraps a hand around your wrist and brings your coated fingers to her lips. She stares at you intently, a soft grin forming as she takes your fingers into her mouth, cleaning it with her tongue. Then she kisses you and places your hand on your chest.

“Shall I read to you?” she asks, mounting herself on her elbow and looking at you with a smile evident of growing excitement.

You turn over to your side, away from your partner.

The smile falls from her face and she frowns. She moves closer to you, wrapping her arm around your chest and leaning up to kiss your neck. 

“Are you upset with me?” she questions, though despite her concern you can hear a twinge of lightheartedness in her tone. 

Thérèse looked incredibly bored at times, dull and near dozing off, then in the next moment, taking very little seriously and laughing at every childish jest she told.

You bury your face in your pillow, increasingly discouraged as you continue to think over the discrepancies in your understanding of her. It is of no consolation to you that after seeing your maiden with a lover, you’re now beginning to realise how much you do not know about her.

Her arm around your upper body shakes you around playfully and she urges you, lips pressed against your cheek, “Tell me. Must I ask François what happened while I was away?”

Opening your eyes and pushing your pillow away from your face, you inquire, “Who accompanied you when you went out this afternoon and until the late evening? Were you alone all day?”

“Of course not,” Thérèse replies, twisting the collar of your chemise around her finger. “I was with Laurent for a bit of the day, then some of my student friends from the university he attended. But he couldn’t join us.”

“What did you do with him?” you ask, your agitation getting the better of you.

With a reply that makes you twitch in a way that surprises you when Thérèse doesn’t notice, she responds witlessly, “Why do you ask that?”

“I’m certain people see you as a couple more frequently than they do us while we live together and show every hint of being involved,” you retort, the sudden reveal of the hidden insecurity confounding even you.

Thérèse seems incredibly amused by this and she moves her leg over your hips. With her hand flat on the bed and the other on your shoulder, she hoists herself up to straddle your lower stomach while pushing you down onto your back and making you look up at her. “Laurent is only a friend,” she says then lowers herself to trail quick pecks down the incline of your jaw, “don’t be so sensitive.”

You pull the blankets over your head, feeling finished with the conversation and fooling yourself into believing you’d end it this way.

She tugs the blankets back down to uncover your face with a strength you often forget Thérèse has. She asks as if with the intention to provoke, “What if he was my lover? Would you be jealous?” 

“No,” you answer plainly, lying.

“Why not?” she presses, unsatisfied with your response.

‘You’ve always fancied him,’ you want to say, and, ‘Because it would be your choice in doing so.”

But you say neither. 

What good would it do? 

Even if it would have been favourable to simply get your bitterness out into the open, you don’t have enough confidence nor strength to even entertain doing it.

Fortunately for you, she sleeps with her back to you that night, seemingly perturbed by your answer to her question earlier; any contact with her while you fell asleep might have conjured night terrors. 

You awaken in the morning with Thérèse’s arm around your midriff anyways, perhaps having chosen to forgive you during the night or as result of a habitual act, rejecting the troubled feelings she felt even as she was asleep. 

She stays asleep while you slip out from under her arm and stand from the bed. 

Hours you’ve spent staring at Thérèse’s sleeping face since you ravished her body intimately that first time you spent the night together. You listened intently to every soft breath she took, watched the faint fluttering of her eyelids as she dreamt, smiled at the quiet noises she would sometimes make in her sleep.

You swore your heart truly did do several somersaults when you heard her mutter out your name in her sleep once. That entire day was spent smiling giddily while Thérèse pressed you to tell her what had gotten you so joyful, to which you only responded each time she asked with kisses that made her giggle and declarations of your love that made her swoon. 

But this morning you avoid looking at her. 

How many times had Laurent seen the same sight, loved her as you do? Where do his hands travel as he watches the rising and falling of her partially uncovered breasts and the vulnerability of her soft lips? Did Thérèse like how he woke her up more than how you did, which was often with a soft kiss to her forehead or not at all?

Such thoughts ate at you from the inside, and because you were dignified, you chose to look away from Thérèse when you could. 

The shop needs to be tended to and Thérèse, despite everything, cannot run it herself for the entirety of the day, so leaving until the evening is out of the question. 

You heat water in a steel pitcher in the fireplace. You cut a few slices of bread, lather it in jelly, and place bits of cheese on top of it evenly. 

As you sit in the kitchen, fingernails running down the lines in the wooden table, eating your bread and sipping your tea, you silently question how you’d approach today. 

If Thérèse left again as she has been for the last few weeks, you’d let her without question. The time away from her would be rejuvenating, in many senses. Perhaps you’d clear your mind, think up a plan. But a plan for what, you did not know.

Thérèse descends the arcade and you feel yourself bristle, damning yourself for not having finished your breakfast in time to leave the kitchen before she arrived.

Seeing the hot water still in the kettle by the fireplace, Thérèse takes it with her and places it in front of you on the table. She rounds the chairs and lowers herself to you, a hand coming to place itself on your furthest cheek before kissing your temple. “I apologise for antagonising you last night,” she says. 

Her thumb runs across your chin and when her hand removes itself from your cheek, her fingers move down your cheek, caressing you tenderly. She pined for you the moment she woke up to find you weren’t in bed, reconsidering for several moments what she had said to you the evening prior.

She doesn’t badger you any further when you don’t respond, only making herself tea and spreading jelly onto one of the bread slices you cut earlier. She takes a seat beside you, adjacently, as you’re sitting at the end of the table.

Not a word is shared between the two of you, with Thérèse giving you time to become less irritated and you delighting in every moment you did not have to partake in conversation with her, until you both leave the kitchen after breakfast to open the shop together.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Thérèse sits behind the counter with François in her lap, petting him idly. You sit behind the counter, near her, fidgeting with various kinds of beads and thread and ribbon. The bubbling agitation she knows is brewing within you drives Thérèse slightly mad as she’s forced to watch you for hours.

Eventually, when the peak of the afternoon plateaus and working men and errand-running women finish dropping by the haberdashery during their lunchtimes, Thérèse reaches her limit in being patient with you. 

François leaps off from her lap when her thighs shift under her skirts. Thérèse stands from her seat and wraps an arm around your shoulders. She rounds you and swings a leg over your knees before sitting herself down in your lap. She wraps her other arm around your neck and pulls herself close to you.

Thérèse lifts her hand to your forehead, pushing your hair back and placing a kiss there. “I wish to pleasure you,” she says and kisses your lips. “What shall I do?” 

“I wish for nothing.”

“I want for you what you give to me.”

At the sound of the word, you perk up and look up at Thérèse, who is looking down at you with a warm smile you’d thought for months was only for you. Unbeknownst to you, Thérèse has never looked at Laurent like she looks at you, for she doesn't love him at all. She holds no sentiment for him. 

But again, you look away from her and stubbornly reply, “I am comfortable with the arrangement we have now.”

Therese’s smile falls and she follows your redirected gaze with her eyes, her lips parting as something grave settles within her. 

For the first time, Thérèse suspects you have a lover. 

She begins to see Laurent infrequently, if at all. She spends every waking moment with you, finding every way to service you and ravish you with her kisses and gentle touches. How could you possibly adore anyone more than her if she never took her eyes off you for a moment? It never crosses her that there are many ways for you to detest her for that very reason, and they come to you at every touch of her hand and every contact her soft lips have with your skin. 

Thérèse takes pride in the time she spends with you while you dread every hour with her. She hardly ever leaves your side.

Initially, you detested the way Thérèse slipped out of the shop, waving you a sweet goodbye before disappearing into the busy crowds of Rue de Seine. But now you’d count the days until she leaves you next.

An evening comes when Thérèse is overtaken with passion. Something gnaws at her and makes her unbearably anxious, the banal days in the shop having worsened her natural habit of becoming taken with nervous thoughts. She cannot keep herself away from you, roaming her hands anywhere they could reach along your body, her breath trembling with anticipation or nerves- neither she or you could tell.

She undresses you while the two of you stand in the bedroom, kissing down the valley of your breasts through your chemise as you look up at the ceiling aimlessly.

Thérèse looks up at you to see the pleasure stricken across your face as she kneads your breast in one hand, and feels dejection come over her heavily when she is met only with disinterest. 

Now desperate, she takes your wrists into either one of her hands and sits you down onto the chair by the fireplace. She climbs onto your lap and kisses your lips, then each of your fingers and your chin.

Then Thérèse’s chest flares with a sharp inhale, her breaths quickening as her anxiety further blankets her, soon to completely engulf her in doubts and terrors.

A week had passed of Thérèse’s care and concern without any notable progress. How have you been communicating with your lover? Did you truly still think of them when she was pleasuring you with her tongue or making you meals, kissing you to sleep as to banish your night terrors and taking up extra responsibilities in the shop for you? She herself forgets about Laurent most days.

“Do you think I don’t know about your lover?” she snaps suddenly, straightening herself and looking down at you. Her expression is riddled with more fright than fury, even as the red-orange light from the fireplace casts angry flames onto her face.

Like the inginiting flicker of a match, you burst up from your seat, forcing Thérèse off of your lap and nearly sending her tumbling to the floor had it not been for the quick reflex of her left foot. Your sudden passionate burst of emotion soothes Thérèse’s anxieties momentarily, but they return when you begin shouting at her.

“I have a lover?” you repeat, eyes wide and wild with wrath. At the sound of your voice and having never heard you so angry before, Thérèse stays silent, now unsure of her previous resolve. “Jest about it as much as you wish, but I know about Laurent and the relations you have with him behind my back.”

Thérèse wants to sink into herself.

“You selfish bitch, never thinking even once of me and only of yourself,” you jeer.

Her shoulders raise as she bristles. “You are correct about my affair with Laurent, but you could not be more wrong saying that I am selfish,” she opposes.

“Enlighten me, Thérèse.”

“I’ve spent this entire week tending to you, doing everything for you to abandon this imaginary mistress and become mine once more,” she argues. Her lips part to argue again but you scoff and interrupt her.

“Heaven forbid you pay any mind to your partner,” you say.

Thérèse’s anxiety returns when she silently questions if any of her gestures ever warmed your heart as she had intended for them to, and if you were involved with other people, she wouldn’t have won you over with any of the attempts she made anyways.

“Why did you begin seeing Laurent?” you question, your expression calm once more and only adding to the young woman’s nerves.

To Thérèse, her affair with Laurent is as necessary as sleep is to any creature, and being with you is as necessary as the rest of the waking day is. Could she not love being awake more? Did she damn the waking hours if she should fall asleep in the evening? To her, the answer is simple. Her reasoning is simple. 

But you did not see it that way.

There is curiosity and the exploration of another, a man, especially, as the centre of her affair. What harm could it have done if Thérèse continued to love you all the same, if not more every day? Your response to her affair contrasts her very values, the foundation in which she ever began the affair with Laurent. It confounds her more than anything, and she pleads for your forgiveness because she wouldn’t be able to bear the consequences of what she’d done, particularly if they meant you would leave her. 

She takes your hands into hers and squeezes them.

“Please, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ve stopped seeing him. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? I haven’t spent even an afternoon without you, and I don’t think of him at all. I’ve enjoyed caring for you, I’ll show you. Whatever you need, I will provide for you. I love you.”

Simply, you ask, “Why did you avoid answering my question that evening when I asked you what you did with him?” 

When Thérèse struggles to answer, you take your hands from her and leave, choosing to sleep in the spare room that used to be Madame’s.

You force Thérèse to sign off on a cheque that gives you half of your rightful claim to the rest of the money Madame left the two of you after she settled with Camille someplace else. It will be enough to move away and find a job, especially now that you have several years’ worth of experience in accounting and a few months in the haberdashery business. 

Thérèse writes to you often, and to many of her letters you never reply or even bother opening. She seals it with wax dyed with your favourite colour and prints your name and mailing post in the most delicate way on the envelope. In many ways, the letter on its own is every kiss and embrace she wishes to give you, and you sometimes cannot even give her the pleasure of doing anything more than taking it from the mailbox and tossing it into the fireplace. 

You’ve never told her your address, only the post to which she could send her letters to. 

Never forgetting to miss a week, a letter comes to you from Thérèse every Monday. 

When you do decide to open them, you do so because of curiosity- not out of concern or the feeling of obligation. Every week, Thérèse never fails to send you a letter, which you can feel with your fingers through the envelope filled with several sheets of paper. 

What could she be writing so much about every week when she often got no more than a letter back every three fortnights? 

She sometimes discusses the shop’s patrons with you, asking whether you believe red or black thread would work with a certain sleeve, or a front or back stitch on a certain hemming. Such things you often used to discusse with Thérèse when you worked together. It was a pleasure to work with someone you loved, being close to them and sharing creative ideas back and forth as you stitched and ironed together. There was little chance you could get back to her by the time the order needed to be finished, so you never understood why she kept writing about silly details like that. 

Paragraphs, and sometimes an entire page, would be dedicated to asking you questions, inquiring if you were at the very least living by the Seine or if you enjoyed your job and have finally settled into your new place, and if you’d ever consider visiting Passage du Pont-Neuf, even if only for a week in the summer. 

She ensures in every letter that you know she would welcome you back if you ever find yourself without anywhere else to go or if you were only visiting. If she ever thinks about you coming back to stay with her again, which she very often does, she never writes about it for the fear you’d never write back to her. 

Though she has implied her curiosity many times, you never tell her whether you have begun a relationship with anyone. She did not deserve to know even that. 

When you choose to take the time to do so, you write back with nearly the same answers, but Thérèse is no less thrilled each time she opens the mailbox and sees your envelope. You get a letter back twice as quickly when you send one out to her, while she still never forgets to send you another that weekend so as to ensure it arrives by Monday.

You never plan to visit Thérèse, and somewhere within her endless questions and offers for you to stay in the extra room during the summer, she finds herself knowing it too.

A year has passed since you left the young woman, and a year since you’ve seen the haberdashery or Rue de Seine.

You finish reading the stack of papers in your hands- your letter for the week.

Your eyes then run across the delicate handwriting in the lower corner of the page that reads: ‘Yours always, Thérèse Raquin.’

[meanbossart]

How did your DU Drow react to the blood trader at Moonrise Towers? Were they upset having to talk to her in the first place, and what about when they started speaking about Astarion and asking to bite her?

OH! how did they react when seeing her again during act 3?

also, I have to say your art anytime I see it I get this huge gush of inspiration lol to just keep drawing and perhaps one day I'll be able to make something as beautiful as your drawings <3

First of all, thank you so much for your kind compliments! I wish you knew how often I still grow frustrated with my own art LOL just keep at it friend! We all started somewhere and we're all still constantly learning.

To be completely honest, I entirely missed Araj in the DU drow playthrough! And while I find her interaction really impactful for Astarion's character, the "confession" dialogue you get when you don't talk to her at all does fit better with the way I was roleplaying DU drow and their relationship.

But because I have to have my cake and eat it too, and because I wanted to mention her in my story/have it that Astarion still had that experience within the fiction, I just choose to pretend that it did happen LOL aaaaand grant myself the creative freedom to have it go my own way.

Araj would have had to approach them of her own accord. DU drow would have completely thwarted what she had to offer him and made his disgust pretty clear from the get-go, but once she turned her focus to Astarion he would let them have their exchange without interfering (at that point in the relationship, it wouldn't be any of his business what Astarion wants to do with his own mouth). Once she grew insistent, he would have gotten pretty irate - half for Astarion's sake, half because of how the display fell in line with his perception of female drow and his own spotty memories of his foster mother and the women he grew up with. Rather than a simple "He said 'no" you can imagine him giving her a piece of his mind in a way that was similarly brief/snappy, but far more personal lol something charming like "He doesn't want you, you murky whore, nobody up here does." followed by swift "fuck off".

If they were to talk about it later, it would have been in the context of a mutually shared experience and a joint sentiment of "hey, screw that woman right", since I have no doubt Astarion would realize that his own discomfort didn't prompt DU drow's reaction entirely of itself. Basically, turning it into a moment of commiseration rather than Astarion feeling the need to thank him for anything.

As for act 3, again I never found her (not sure you can if you don't interact with her in act 2, or simply refuse to give her your blood) but if they were to come across her, DU drow would have just found a way to kill her without raising alarm - THOUGH I prefer to think they never saw her again.