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captainsophiestark · 2 years

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More Than Just A Pretty Face

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

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Written for my Year of Olympians, part of a bigger challenge being run by @yearofcreation2023 which features a ton of awesome creators and runs all year! Go check it out if you haven’t already!

Fandom: Bridgerton

Prompt: Hera; The Queen, Women, Family

Summary: Benedict runs into a woman who might just be the love of his life at a friend's underground artist party, but things might get complicated outside the walls of the artist's haven and in plain sight of the rest of the world.

Word Count: 3,745

Category: Fluff, little bit of angst maybe? Not *really*...

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

Benedict smiled to himself as he stumbled down the dimly lit hallway, people crowding in on either side of him. He was absolutely sober as far as substances went, but drunk and giddy on the feeling of being surrounded by so many artists, living lives happily as themselves and nothing more. No expectations of families or the Ton could reach them here, and it was a thrill like none other to join them any night he could.

After making a quick pit stop to grab himself a drink (he didn’t want to spend the night completely sober, after all), he continued to wander the hallways, looking for a place to pick up a paintbrush. This was one of the few locations he felt completely free to do so, with no outside pressures to weigh on him, and he’d be damned if he didn’t take advantage of it.

He swung through the doorway of a salon towards the back of the house and, as he’d hoped, found a circle of canvases around a few models in the middle. He started for an open canvas, but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw what one of the other artists had painted on theirs.

The light and colors seemed to jump off the canvas, representing the subjects in a more abstract and yet equally beautiful way. The brushstrokes and blending combined into a unique style, truly unlike anything he’d ever seen before.

“This is… incredible,” he breathed, having drifted unconsciously over to stand beside the artist, getting a better look at the canvas in the process. He blinked a few times, trying to shake the stupor, then turned to face the person responsible for the masterpiece before him.

His breath caught in his throat as he made eye contact with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“Cat got your tongue?” asked the woman with a raised eyebrow. She surveyed him critically, not looking entirely friendly, and his heart stuttered a little in his chest.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said. Was he stammering? He hadn’t been nervous around a girl since the time when Anthony had been his only sibling!

“What do you want?” she asked, continuing to stare him down mercilessly. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, trying to gather himself as he looked between her and her artwork.

"I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” he said, clearing his throat and gaining just a hair of his regular confidence back. “I just couldn’t stop myself from coming over when I saw this masterpiece.”

She turned to him with a scowl, but it quickly changed to a look of surprise when she found him referencing her painting.

“You came over here because you liked… my painting?” she asked, her tone an equal mix of suspicion and pleasant surprise. Benedict raised an eyebrow and gave her a lopsided smile.

“Well what else?” he asked, a slight teasing tone to his voice.

The woman glanced down, unable to completely hide a smile that broke onto her face before she looked back at him. “I… historically, when strange men approach me, it’s nothing to do with my skills or who I am as a person.”

Benedict shot her a roguish smile, all of his normal comfort and confidence finally returned. “Fortunately for you I suppose, even the most beautiful woman in all of existence can’t quite outshine this incredible painting.”

She stared at him, her eyes dancing with light and mischief as a smile again tugged at her lips. Despite her best efforts, she was clearly fighting a losing battle to remain stoic and critical.

“The most beautiful woman in all of existence?” she challenged, humor in her tone.

“I’d certainly say so,” he said, beaming at her and feeling a swell of pride at how flustered she seemed to become. “I’d have to go sing the news of who I’d just found to strangers in the streets, but it’s been overshadowed by the news of having found the most wonderful painting in the whole of existence.”

She laughed, and the sound sent jolts of electricity racing through every inch of his body. They shared a smile, and any doubts Benedict might have had about the truthfulness of his statements evaporated. They were facts, and nobody could change his mind.

“Well come on then, you flatterer,” she teased, patting the seat next to her. “If you’re here it means you’re an artist too, so let’s see what you’ve got other than a prolific affinity for flattery.”

He beamed at her as he took the seat next to her, securing a paintbrush and artist’s palette of his own.

“I can’t promise I’ll live up to anything like what you’ve painted, but I’ll certainly do my best.”

She shrugged. “Art is subjective. Anyone who tries to make objective value statements is a fool.”

He laughed, feeling lighter than he had in ages.

“I suppose you’re right.”

The pair spent the rest of the night and even the first few hours of the morning painting, laughing, and talking together side by side, making art and more importantly enjoying the creative space and their time with each other. Despite his initial moment of being tongue-tied, Benedict couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to this woman, like they’d known each other for ages and not just a few hours. He knew his brothers would mock him, but with each passing second he could feel himself falling deeper and deeper in love.

When the time came to say goodnight and for each of them to go their separate ways, his heart broke a little in his chest. Still, he said goodbye all the same, both of them promising to meet again the next time one of these gatherings happened. Benedict resolved with his entire being to make it happen, no matter what, and even that was barely enough to actually get him out the door.

For the next week, Benedict found himself completely distracted by thoughts of the mystery woman he’d fallen in love with in a matter of hours. He hardly thought of anything else, and his head was even more in the clouds than usual, much to the annoyance of his siblings. Anthony finally managed to snap him out of his daydreaming long enough to drag him to a long-awaited ball that had been the talk of the Ton for quite some time, although Benedict had done his best to avoid the commitment.

“The Queen herself is going to be there, along with plenty of high-ranking, eligible young women who only come out for the absolute highest society events,” lectured Anthony as the Bridgerton carriage approached Lady Danbury’s house, where the ball was to be hosted. Benedict sighed and stared out the window; he’d already heard this speech a thousand times. “Now that Kate and I are married, it’s your turn to start looking for a wife.”

Benedict rolled his eyes, knowing just how much it would irritate his brother.

“Suppose I want to die a male spinster,” he said, deciding to have some fun bothering Anthony. Anthony, as predicted, glared and sighed heavily through his nose, which immediately lifted Benedict’s spirits. He gave his brother a mischievous grin, and then it was Anthony’s turn to roll his eyes. Benedict’s fun was cut short, however, when the carriage at last arrived to the ball. Now he’d have to suffer through endless pleasantries and vicious Mamas trying to set their daughters up with him for the evening, with no support from his brother.

As predicted, the start of the night was incredibly boring. Benedict grabbed a drink as soon as he was in the door, and spent the next hour or so ducking every social encounter he could. He hovered on the edge of the room with Colin and Eloise, until finally, Anthony tracked him down and dragged him by the elbow back into the main room.

“The Queen just came out with her daughter,” Anthony hissed into his ear as they moved through the crowd. “You need to at least make an introduction.”

“Anthony, I don’t even know where to begin explaining to you how much I do not want to court the Queen’s daughter-”

Benedict had been in the middle of hissing back a terse response to his brother when he caught sight of the woman Anthony kept shoving him towards. Y/N, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and the best artist he’d ever met, stood next to the Queen in an absolutely magnificent dress, chatting politely with a suitor she didn’t appear to have much interest in. His heart stopped dead in his chest and his legs almost gave out under him. Anthony, unaware that Benedict’s world had suddenly stopped spinning, continued to push him over, until Benedict fell forward, almost knocking straight into the woman he’d spent every spare moment and then some thinking about.

She turned to him in surprise, her face lighting up for a brief second at the sight of him before her courtier’s mask quickly dropped back into place. Even that brief crack in the polite, vague interest was enough to make Benedict’s heart stutter in his chest. He just kept staring at her, still a little dumbstruck, until he heard someone clear their throat from his right.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” He turned to find the Queen herself staring down at him with raised eyebrows. He quickly righted himself and tried to regain his composure. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Y/N disguising a laugh as a cough, and had to resist grinning and shaking his head.

“Your Majesty,” he said instead, dropping into as low a bow he could. He stayed down for longer than usual, and when he finally straightened, the Queen looked grudgingly pleased.

“I assume you’re also here to speak to my daughter, now that you’ve paid your respects, like every other unwed man in this room?” she asked, a slight tone of amusement to her voice (much to Benedict’s relief).

“I…” he glaned at Y/N, slightly unsure of himself, but when he found her smiling back at him that confidence immediately returned. He turned back to the Queen, back straight and a smile on his face. “Yes, M’am. I’d love the chance to speak to her, if you’d allow me and if she’d have me.”

The Queen gave him the smallest smile of approval, then turned to her daughter.

“Well, Y/N? What do you say?”

Y/N smiled slightly at Benedict, then sighed dramatically and flapped her fan around before dropping it back at her side.

“I suppose,” she said, flailing dramatically a bit more before taking his arm with a smile. “Mr. Bridgerton, shall we?”

Benedict beamed back at her, his whole body feeling like it was about to combust in the best way possible. They strolled off through the room, walking rather quickly towards the exit to the garden, where they might actually get a bit of privacy. Anthony beamed approvingly at Benedict as they went, and Benedict made sure to shoot him a glare in response.

Every man in the crowd they passed gave Benedict a look to put his pointed scowl towards Anthony to shame, jealous venom rippling off every one of them. Benedict completely ignored them all. He was in heaven, and no one could ruin it if they tried.

Quickly, the fresh air of the garden washed over Benedict, and he took a deep breath in before letting out a contented sigh. He slowed his pace, Y/N slowing to match him as they transitioned into a relaxing stroll.

Once they were far enough away from the ballroom, definitely out of earshot of any nosy, problematic courtiers, Benedict turned to Y/N with an arched eyebrow.

“The Queen’s daughter?” he asked. She turned to him, a slightly accusatory look on her own face.

“Says a Bridgerton son, a member of one of the most prestigious, talked-about families in the Ton.”

“First of all, you and I both know talked-about often does not equal prestigious,” he said. Memories of everything to do with Daphne and Anthony as they went through the creation of their marriages flashed through his head. What nightmares. Entertaining, but nightmares. He shook it off, then continued, “And second, being the second son of a notable family is distinctly different than being in line for the throne, as well as the most sought-after woman in all of England.”

She gave him a small smile, the first he’d seen from her that was tinged with sadness, none of the light or attitude he’d come to enjoy seeing from her to be found.

“Surely you can see why I wanted to escape it all for a bit, then. Most wanted woman for my position and the power I offer a husband, and maybe my looks. Nothing else. Nothing of substance.”

Benedict felt as if an arrow had been shot straight through his heart. He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Y/N, who came to a stop a few steps later to stare back at him curiously.

“Have you truly been made to feel this way?” he breathed, his stare never leaving her face. He remembered her mentioning something of the sort when they'd first met, but not with so grave a tone. She hesitated, giving him a scrutinizing look similar to that one a week ago before she'd realized his more innocent and sincere intentions, then finally sighed, apparently deciding to give him her trust for a second time.

“It’s more than being made to feel that way, Benedict,” she said softly. “I can see it and know it in every interaction I have with suitors who approach me.”

“Y/N…” Benedict took a step forward and reached for her hands, his heart squeezing at her words, but then thought better of himself and stepped back. He took a deep breath, then met her eyes, doing his best to convey nothing but absolute sincerity. “I almost didn’t come to this little party tonight, for the same reasons. My brother finally forced me to come, and now I’m very grateful he did, although I’d never tell him that.”

Benedict shook his head, momentarily distracted by the idea of how obnoxiously smug Anthony would be if ever told he was right, then managed to refocus on Y/N and the issue at hand.

“What I’m trying to say is… every time I come to one of these things, especially now that Anthony is married, I have nothing but piranhas and sharks circling me, trying to convince me to marry them or their daughters. I have money, and I’m the next closest thing to the head of the Bridgerton family, and that’s all anyone ever seems to care about.

“I can’t pretend to understand exactly what it’s been like for you, since I have quite a bit more autonomy than you, both as a man and as a second son. But I can imagine what you mean when you say you’re usually looked at for superficial traits and what someone stands to gain from marrying you, and nothing else. And if I’ve ever played a part in making you feel that way, then I am truly, deeply sorry. You deserve far more than that.”

Benedict watched Y/N, his heart absolutely hammering in his chest. He wasn’t even sure what he was hoping for, but her reaction felt incredibly important to him all the same. She glanced down, lips pursed, then met his eyes again with a small smile and that twinkle in her eyes that he’d come to love so much. He could’ve collapsed on the spot from relief and happiness.

“I can happily tell you, Benedict, that you’re the first man I’ve met in a long, long while who doesn’t make me feel that way, and never did. So… thank you, for that.”

He beamed back at her, his heart soaring and making him feel as though he was floating.

“Well, I’m very glad to hear it. Perhaps, if you’re interested… I could do more of that?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, a small smile playing on her lips as she took a few steps closer to him.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”

He grinned, leaning in closer to her. His whole body burned, and he thought he could see a bit of the same excitement on her face.

“Well, as much of an honor as it would be for me to be allowed to court you the traditional way, it can be a bit… boring. As two fantastic and creative artists, we should be able to do a bit better than that, don’t you think?”

Her smile took on a bit of a giddy quality as she continued to look at him, and Benedict felt himself getting sucked into the same energy, riding high as he continued.

“What say you we have another artists’ rendezvous next weekend, at that same mutual friend’s house? We can find an empty room—surely there will be one in the entire house—and then draw, paint, and talk to our heart’s content. You can tell me about your favorite artists and things to do when no one else is forcing you into courtly activities, and I’ll tell you my favorite ways to upset my siblings and about the time my brothers and I almost stole the neighbor’s dog thanks to a game of dares that got wildly out of control.”

“I would like that very much,” she said, beaming back at Benedict. He swore her light put the shine of the sun to shame, and the warmth emanating from her made him completely forget the cold of the night air in the garden where they spoke. “But I have to ask… what shall we do in the meantime? After all, next weekend is an awful while to wait.”

He could’ve done cartwheels right then and there. Instead, however, he controlled himself enough to smile back at her and speak.

“Well… what would you like to do?”

She grinned, then glanced around their surroundings. Once she seemed satisfied that no prying eyes were watching too closely, she grabbed his hand and pulled her to him, linking her arm through his to return to the way they’d been walking before.

“This is going to be quite forward of me,” she warned, smiling all the same as they resumed their turn about the garden. Towards the far end, they turned back before getting improperly out of sight of any other people, making a slow, steady return towards the party they’d so badly needed an escape from.

“I’d expect nothing else from such a bold, strong woman such as yourself.”

“Well… what if, on top of our unusual form of courting that you so brilliantly suggested… we did the normal, proper society courting as well?”

Fireworks exploded in Benedict’s chest, but he did his best to tamp them down and sound somewhat put together when he responded.

“Do you mean regular courting as in… publicly spending time with each other, after I call on you to make clear my intentions to get to know you and, perhaps eventually… propose?”

Now she seemed to be the nervous one, fidgeting a bit as they got closer and closer to returning to the party. Benedict watched her with a smile, enjoying this brief role reversal.

“Well, I mean, that is… if you’d be interested in that. Of course there’s absolutely no pressure, I wouldn’t want to make you feel like you had to-“

Benedict came to a stop again, taking Y/N’s hands and pulling her to a gentle stop with him. They were only a few steps from the doors of the ballroom now, in clear eyesight of many guests of the party as Benedict smiled lovingly at this wonder of a woman he’d somehow lucked into meeting.

“Y/N… I can think of no greater honor than being allowed to court you publicly, perhaps with the intention to propose. Despite the fact that I will hear endlessly about it from my brother, I am quite confident you would be worth it.”

Y/N beamed back at him, joy clearly written all over her face. The two shared the purest, happiest smiles and held each others’ stares for a few more beats, then finally, Y/N cleared her throat and moved to take Benedict’s arm again.

“Of course, any potential proposal would hinge on our non-traditional method of courting going well,” she said as the two of them at last headed back towards the ballroom.

“Obviously,” Benedict agreed, ignoring the jealous looks of the other suitors around him and the smug expression he could see on his brother’s face even from across the room. “I could never shackle myself to someone without knowing she would be more than a pretty face to stand next to me, with whom I’d have nothing in common.”

He shot Y/N a mischievous sideways look and found her beaming back at him. Then, at the sight of Anthony quickly crossing the room, either to speak to him or to try to speak to Y/N (and either way ruining the moment), he spun to speak to Y/N again.

“So, in the name of proper courting… may I have this dance?”

“Of course you may,” she replied, a happy smile still on her face. He took her hands and they spun onto the dance floor together, then once they were chest to chest to begin the routine, she whispered so only he could hear, “And don’t think I didn’t realize you asked me to dance in order to avoid your brother.”

Benedict gave her a quick wink, then twirled her out from him in the opening moves of the dance. They were a bit sloppier than everyone else around them, which earned them both some disapproving looks from their family members, but neither of them cared.

They were both happy and having fun, and after spending so much of their time in court absolutely miserable, they deserved this. Although they couldn’t spend the entire night together, no matter how much they both wanted to, they took the moments they could and found solace in the fact that they’d be together again soon, and in a place where they’d be in private, enjoying each others’ company for hours with no interruptions. It was too early to declare it to anyone, his brother and Y/N included, but Benedict had fallen completely and totally in love, and he couldn’t wait to spend every possible second in his future with the woman he felt certain was his soulmate.

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bonezone44 · 1 year

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'Get a Grip' (18+)

Watch Model!Joel Miller x Manicurist!Reader

Word Count: 3,8k

Summary: Joel Miller comes to your salon for a manicure, then he invites you to assist him during a photoshoot.

Tags: afab!Reader, hand kink, glove kink, finger sucking, fingering, p-in-v, creampie

a/n: this story came about during a brief discussion of Pedro’s watch modeling era a few weeks ago. Thank you to @xdaddysprincessxx and @iamasaddie for the inspo!

+++++++

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job.

Every once in a while someone will walk in with a nice set of digits and you admire them while they’re in front of you. While you push back their cuticles and clean beneath the nail. Add the acrylic and the polish. Then they’re out of your mind again as you wait for the next client to plop into the chair and request a full set or a simple repair.

Your repeat clients usually want the nail art. That’s where you shine, to be honest. Delicately painted swirls. Boxes like Mondrian. Gold leaf. Rhinestones. Each nail a tiny little canvas for you to create something unique.

The male customers are different. The masculine ones, anyway.

They want simple hygienic maintenance. Maybe a massage. Maybe they just wanna flirt with a woman while she provides a service. And you appease them. It’s no bother to you.

It’s your job.

It’s just your job.

It’s the thing you do all the time every day and have done for years.

And yet no matter how many times you try to repeat those words in your head, you find yourself salivating over the man sitting across from you–with his playful baritone Texan voice and the beautiful steel and gold Cartier watch on his wrist. Not that you’re one to dig for gold. You simply admire fine craftsmanship.

Just like you admire the fineness of his hands.

The veins that rise on the top of his right hand, over his fingerbones, look like wandering rivers and you really wanna admire them with the tip of your tongue, tracing along their edges. His fingers themselves are long, thick rectangles that you wanna slip into your mouth one at a time.

In simple …admiration.

“Not too smooth,” he says when you pull out your buffer. “They don’t want me lookin’ too clean.”

“Who’s that?” you ask, keeping your voice nice and even while your cheeks feel hot and your thoughts are a million miles away from ‘appropriate’.

“The… oh, whaddya call ‘em.” He hums. “The brand specialists, I guess.” He chuckles. “They hit me up about a month ago. Got a new line coming out that’s–get this–” he says with a flash of his eyebrows. “--’safari’ inspired.” He scoffs.

“Safari, huh?” You roll your eyes. You can imagine the Cartier boardroom of pompous old Frenchmen glorifying the art and tales created during the French expansion of the 1800s—easily brushing past the eugenics-based mission of the violent nationalists. “Colonizers,” you mumble under your breath.

Joel laughs. “My daughter said the same thing.” He shrugs. “‘S no matter. I don’t mind takin’ their money if all I gotta do is have pretty hands.”

Your face burns immediately and keep your eyes and face focusing on the small nail at the end of his middle finger. “So, how’d you get started anyway?” You swallow thickly, trying to ignore the heat building between your legs. “No offense, I guess, but you don’t seem like the pretty boy-type.” Besides the watch on his wrist, he’s wearing plain Levi’s blue jeans and a black t-shirt that you can almost guarantee came from Target. You can tell his brown and grey curls don’t have any product in them and he’s got about two or three-week-old scruff on his face.

He chuckles again and you glance up, watching the deep creases in his forehead soften. “Daughter’s the one to blame for it.” He shakes his head with a smile. “We were visiting Houston and she wanted to go shopping, so I let her pick the mall.” His brows go high. “This little 12 year-old picked a luxury mall and I didn’t realize it til we got outta the truck.”

Your lips go between your teeth, imagining his embarrassment.

“She was so excited, too. She hopped down out the truck and–fyoo!--took right off runnin.” He grins. “I had to chase her down and tell her not to touch anythin. I woulda had to take out a second mortgage to pay for it if she broke somethin.”

“I bet,” you smile. You finish buffing his nails and pull out the moisturizing oil. You begin to massage each of his fingers, one-by-one, rolling the flesh between your thumb and index finger, marveling at how long it takes you to get from base to tip. You were admiring the mathematics of it.

The proportions.

The number of fingers he might could get inside you.

“Next thing I know, she goes runnin into a Cartier store sayin that they can fix my watch ‘cause they got watches in the window.” He shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I was tryin to politely escort her back out, when some big wig saw me and started talkin to me.” He shrugs again. “They took a couple polaroids and got my info. And now every once in a while, they’ll call me up for somethin.”

You stop massaging and stare at him with your eyes big and wide. “I know women who would literally murder to have that happen to them.”

He chuckles and it gets your body even warmer. “Yeeaahh, that’s what I hear.”

You shake your head in disbelief, returning to your task. You can believe his story, too. You’ve only been staring at his hands for a few minutes and you are enraptured by them. Is it the hands? Or is it him?

Or is it all of it together?

You’re not sure. You’re just enjoying the muscle you feel beneath the surface of his nearly square palm, the thick round meat between the web of his thumb and the end of his wrist. You can’t help but admire the basin in the center where the heart and head line lie parallel. Not that you were a palm reader. But you couldn’t help but know a thing or two about the intuitive art.

Hands. Fingers.

They’re your job, afterall.

“What do you do for work?” you ask, because hands like his were used. Too thick not to be. They couldn’t just sit pretty all day.

“I’m a contractor.”

You blink. You look up at him with your brows high into your forehead. “These are not contractor hands,” you say, stroking along his palm. You don’t see a single cut or abrasion. The few calluses he had could barely be considered calluses at all. More like small rough spots.

“I wear special gloves,” he says with a smirk. “It’s a special kind of leather that fits around ‘em real tight.”

“Oh,” you answer, heat fully overtaking your chest and face. You imagine how nice his fingers must look wrapped in a second skin, smoothing over all his contours and lines, making each appendage even thicker and his hands even broader. You imagine what they would feel like, sliding up your bare calves and pulling you apart at the knees. You imagine the soft, conditioned leather moving back and forth across your clit, driving you mad ‘cause your aching for his skin and his touch and his heat.

“You know, I uhh… got a shoot coming up in a couple weeks. I’d love to see you again.”

Your heart races in your chest.

He smirks, his eyes soft and hazy. “You know, since you’re doin’ such a good job takin care o’ my hands right now.”

“Absolutely,” you try to temper your excitement. “Just give me the date, time, and place.” You shrug in a way that you’re sure is very nonchalant. “I mean, I-I-I can come to you if you need me to.” The Pope himself could have an appointment scheduled, and you would cancel it without regret if this man is implying what you are desperately hoping he is implying.

“Well, alright then.” He grins.

—------------

You’re pressed into the door of the hotel room–the one right next to where Joel just finished his photoshoot. He’s got one arm wrapped around the back of your neck, pulling your face into his. His kisses are heavy and fervent. His tongue licks into you in a way that makes you want it even deeper–makes you wanna swallow him whole and keep him inside you. One of his hands is gloved–in one of the ‘special gloves’ he told you about. It’s a camel-colored leather, hand-stitched and form-fitting. And it is definitely not one he uses for work. They fit tight around the heel of his palm, like driving gloves. Must have gotten a new pair from Cartier themselves.

His gloved hand is under your shirt, sliding up your mid-section and grasping your breast. You gasp and moan into his mouth when he starts pinching and plucking your nipple.

“Open up for me,” he says after pulling away from you.

And when you do, he shoves two fingers between your lips, the rest of his hand resting on your cheek, your head still cradled by his arm.

“Good girl,” he coos with a smirk. “Good girl.” He grinds his hardness into your side.

You’re melting into the door behind you, into him, into your own body. You close your lips and suck, not quite sure what to do or how to turn him on. You curl your lips beneath your teeth and slowly bob your head back and forth.

“No no no. Not like that,” he chides you. “This ain’t no cock in your mouth.” He shakes his head. “They’re my fingers.” His eyes are wide and serious. “And I don’t want you thinkin ‘bout anythin else but that. Alright, darlin?” He’s nodding up and down, waiting for you to mirror him.

You nod back the best you can and adapt. You press the two fingers into the roof of your mouth and suck hard, scraping them along your teeth as you pull your head back. Your lips are wrapped tight around them. You rub your tongue back and forth between them as you engulf them again. You watch him as he watches you through heavy eyelids.

“Good girl,” he says again and licks his lips. His gloved hand moves to your other breast, squeezing it with a rough grip. “Good fuckin girl. Suck those fingers,” he says and you can feel him wiggle them in your mouth.

You go weak in the knees and you’re not sure how you’re able to stay upright. By the grace of god, you’re able to reach up and grab his hand. You pull his fingers out and then take only one finger back inside.

He watches you, curious, twisting your nipple in his hand.

Then you add the second finger back in, sucking it. Wetting it. Drool pooling around the edges of your mouth.

You pull those two out and then you suck three fingers in–not as deep and they’re scraping against your teeth more, but you try to give that third finger some extra attention, tracing along the bottom of it with the tip of your tongue.

“You want it bad, huh?” He looks like he’s scowling, but he’s still grinding against you–hard as ever.

You nod.

“You want my hands all over you, baby?” He applies the smallest amount of pressure to his bare, wet fingers in your mouth, causing you to gag.

Tears tumble out the edges of your eyes as you nod.

He pulls his hands away from you and steps back. “I need you on that bed. Naked. Now."

You rush to do as he says, removing all your clothes in a flurry. You barely register the low hum of the A/C and the cool temperature of the room. You’re too focused on the towering man walking towards you, your legs spreading of their own accord.

His lips are tight and he sucks in a deep breath. "That is one good lookin pussy." He unbuckles his belt and rips it from the loops of his jeans. His eyes roam over your body as he tosses it to the side, the buckle thudding against the carpet. He tugs his t-shirt up his stomach and over his head. "Can't wait to make it mine."

Once his jeans are off and he's just as bare as you (except for the glove on his hand), he waves for you to scoot back before joining you.

Joel settles himself on his side, propped up on his elbow. He makes no move toward his hardened cock. Instead, the hand you were sucking on before finds your face again–cradling it. And this time, his thumb tucks itself between your lips.

You suck on it like a straw.

"How many o’ these you think you can fit in there?" He says. But he’s not referring to your mouth. His gloved hand has found its way between your legs and folds. One lone finger is prodding at your wet entrance. He squints and looks down as he pulls it back out–only having gone in an inch or two. The tip of his glove glistens in the warm glow of the room's lamps. He looks back at you with a grin, sliding his finger in deeper. "Wonder if I can fit em all." He bites his lip as he stares at yours, plunging his finger in and out. "Fuck you with my whole hand."

You close your eyes and moan.

"Yeah? That sound good to you?" He adds a second finger, pushing both into you slowly.

You open your eyes and nod eagerly–humming in agreement. His thumb tugs at your cheek from inside your mouth.

Joel chuckles. "Nah, not this time." He licks his lips. His eyelids are heavy. “My cock’s too hungry for it.”

You pull his thumb out of your mouth. You lick his palm, tracing the deep creases with your tongue. "Whatever you want."

He curses under his breath.

His two gloved fingers curl and stroke your inner walls and while the sensation is high-pitched and pleasing, you're more focused on properly worshiping his bare hand.

Your tongue leaves his palm and you turn his hand over so you can suck the knuckles. Fulfilling one of the many fantasies you've had about Joel since first meeting him. You swirl your tongue around the hill of bone beneath the skin before lowering your mouth and suckling.

Joel groans. "You love it that much, huh?" He curls his fingers, scraping against your inner clitoris muscle. "Love sucking on me?"

"Yeah," you whimper as your hips jump.

"Fuck, that’s what I like to hear." Joel removes the two gloved fingers from inside you. He glides them up and around your folds, spreading your slick and teasing your clit.

It feels …different–how the hard and thin seams of the glove create an added sensation. A starker tease alongside the languid movement of his hand.

You look down in time to see Joel adding a third finger inside you, the pressure growing too slowly for your taste. But again, you have another task to attend to.

You suck Joel's pinky in your mouth and bob your head a few times before releasing it. You suck it right back in with his ring finger alongside it.

He grunts and moans, his three fingers jerking inside you. Your pussy is wet and squelching. His lips go tight as he watches his glove shine more and more with your slick.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth and holds your head in place as he kisses you, biting and tugging on your lips. His tongue pushing in so deep, it feels like he's trying to drink you.

"Fuck, that wet pussy sounds fuckin good. You gonna let me put my cock in there?" He speaks into your mouth.

Your stomach swoops and your body is on fire. "Yes, please, Joel," you moan. "Please fill me up with your cock."

He pulls his gloved fingers out of you. His eyes are big and wide. "You think you deserve it?"

"What?!" After everything? After all the sucking and fawning and–how? How could he deny you? You panic.

"Please, Joel," you whine. You wrap your arms around him and kiss him up and down his neck. "I sucked your fingers so good. I sucked you so good." You're desperate. "I'm so wet for you." You kiss him down his chest. "Never been this wet." You grab his cock, aiming to put it in your mouth. "Please-please-please!"

His gloved hand, covered in slick, wraps around your chin and jawbone, stopping you. "That's not the wet hole I want," he says and pushes you back, flat on the mattress. He quickly settles between your legs. There's no need for him to spit on his cock or glide it through your folds–your leaking arousal on the sheets. He uses his bare hand to guide it to your entrance.

He groans and curses as he pushes in.

"Thank you thank you thank you, Joel," you whisper and whimper as he sparks all your aching nerve endings.

His forearms are on either side of you–his broad shoulders and body cage you in. “Fuck, this pussy is heaven, baby.”

The slow moving roll of his hips is the opposite of your panicked desperation, but it feels delicious. Turning all the glowing embers into full-blown fire. “So good, so good,” you mumble.

“Yeah? You like that cock, baby?” he asks with a smirk.

“Cock’s so good, Joel.”

He thrusts harder, his speed only slightly increased. Each heavy, steady flick of his hips sends a shock wave of pleasure through you. His bare thumb finds its way back into your mouth. “Suck on this ‘til you cum, baby.”

You nod. You can’t imagine what you look like. The lower half of your face feels wet with your spit. Your eyes are barely open, but you can’t stop staring at the beautiful man above you. His furrowed brows. His tight lips. His flared nostrils as he pounds into you faster and faster.

“Good girl,” he says as he tucks his head down and presses his cheek into yours. “Good girl, suckin me so good.” His arm wraps around your shoulder and pulls your body closer. “Knew you’d take good care o’ me. Knew this pussy’d be so wet.”

The heat inside you is building faster than you expected. You’re meeting his thrusts with your own–your thighs slapping into his hips.

“Love suckin my fingers, don’t you, baby? Don’t you?” His lips find yours again and he kisses you with his thumb still in your mouth.

His hips slow down and a desperate groan escapes your lungs, punched out by your diaphragm. You plead, but your words are intelligible.

He pulls his thumb from between your lips. “Whatchu need, baby?” He's rolling into you again, languid and rhythmic.

“Make me come, Joel. Please make me come.”

“You need to come, baby?”

“Please, please,” you whine.

“Alright, alright.” He leans back, his bare thumb back in your mouth and his gloved fingers on your clit. He doesn’t thrust any faster and it drives you crazy.

You try to shift his pace, fuck yourself on him til he gets the point–but instead he stops thrusting altogether.

“You got this, baby, come on,” he says with a smirk, making you do all the work. “Come on.”

Well, except for his hand rubbing circles on your clit. You writhe and squirm on his cock, chasing chasing chasing that fiery, burning heat. It’s there. It’s so close.

“Good girl, good li’l thumb-sucker,” he says and something twists inside your gut so hard you immediately come with a loud whimper. Body pulsing and pussy contracting around him. He grunts and curls his hips–as if he didn’t have a choice but to push himself deeper into your orgasm. He pulls his thumb from your mouth and strokes your chin with it. “Good fuckin girl, comin all over me.”

He falls back on top of you and wraps you up in his arms.

Your vision is blurry and you’re trying to catch your breath when he starts thrusting again–hard and fast.

“Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d be so fuckin wet.”

Your body jerks and trembles from the stimulation, and you’re too blissed out to do anything but take it.

“Knew you’d love suckin me.” He speaks through panting breaths. “Knew this pussy’d be so fuckin good.” He pushes himself up onto his hands. “You wanna come one more time, baby?” he asks.

You’re not sure, but you think the noise that comes out of you is one of agreement. You nod your head, whole body bouncing from his thrusts.

“‘M gonna fill you up,” he grunts with his brows pulled tight. “Come with me while I fill you up.”

You want to, you really want to come one more time. And he’s pounding into you so hard, your bodies are slapping again. And his eyes and his voice and the determination on his face.

“Come with me, baby, come on,” he chokes out. Then he groans, heavy and low, and you can feel it–you can feel his milky release spurting out and filling you up. He stays above you, trying to catch his breath. “Didja come again?”

You smile. “No, but that’s okay,” you say. God, he’s beautiful. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges and how his beard frames his face.

“Like hell it is,” he murmurs and pulls out of you. He falls to your side again and two gloved fingers dip inside of you, his come spilling out. “You want my thumb again, baby?”

You nod and he gives it to you. You suck on it, pressing the pad of skin against your teeth. He pulls his fingers out and spreads his seed around your clit in circles, making a big mess of your folds.

You’re still dizzy and still over-stimulated, but his eyes are so big and sweet.

“I’ll stay here as long as it takes,” he says as he alternates between thrusting his fingers inside you and rubbing your clit. His brand-new gloves likely ruined.

You grab his wrist when you feel yourself getting close. When the heat hotter than fire starts to build inside of you again. You pant through your nose, your mouth glued to his thumb.

“Took such good care o’ me, baby.” He leans over you and presses his cheek to yours. His voice echoing through you. “Lemme take care o’ you. Lemme make you come, beautiful. Lemme make you come. Wantchu comin on my fingers every day with this pretty li’l pussy. So good for lettin me fill you up. You sucked me so good. Lemme take care o’ you, baby. Lemme make you come.”

It’s less powerful than your first, but the pulse of pleasure your orgasm sends through you is strong and satisfying. You moan and tug Joel’s hand away now that you're starkly overstimulated. “Oh my god,” you sigh, barely able to open your eyes.

Joel chuckles as his hand slides up your body. “Knew you’d be good for me.”

++++++

a/n: It’s been so long since I’ve written just-smut that I really don’t know how to end it. ‘And then they showered and took a nap!’ lol!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x afab!reader #my writing

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7pleiades7 · 9 months

Text

Madame X Madame Pierre Gautreau [Virginie Amélie Avegnol), 1883-84

Oil on canvas

The Louisiana-born wife of a French banker, Amélie Gautreau was admired in Parisian social circles for her arresting appearance, which she enhanced with striking gowns and a rigorous cosmetic regimen. The designer of this splendid satin and velvet dress has not been firmly established, although Mme Gautreau often patronized Maison Félix. One of the most prestigious Parisian rivals to Worth, Félix was admired for slim-fitting gowns and favored by celebrities like Sarah Bernhardt. But what worked for an actress brought Amélie Gautreau's downfall.

Sargent convinced her to pose for a portrait, saying he would make it be "an homage to her beauty." She had been compared to a classical statue, and together, Sargent and his sitter confected a portrait that showed off her figure in a pose reminiscent of ancient sculpture. She called it a masterpiece. But when it was displayed at the Paris Salon in 1884, in its original state with one diamond strap falling from her shoulder, the painting was ridiculed, described as indecent and a sensational, vulgar attempt to garner attention.

A fashion faux pas became a potent symbol of upstart Americans who threatened to topple long-standing national hierarchies of fashion, society, and identity.

#my photo #mine #john singer sargent #museum of fine arts #boston #fashioned by sargent

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corruptedcaps · 2 years

Text

Nailing it!

This is an unofficial, spiritual follow up / tribute to @misseviehyde and @amiee-bee’s wonderful 5 part ‘magic nails’ series. Hope everyone (especially Evie and Amiee) like it!

Heidi stood in the school parking lot, alone after the bell had rang, watching the rest of the students file in. It was hard to believe that just a few weeks ago, her best friend Lara had been standing right next to her, giggling and gossiping about the other girls in their class. But now, Lara was gone. She had been sent to boarding school, leaving Heidi all alone in their small town high school.

Heidi had been a geeky freshman before she met Lara who brought out the mean girl in her. Quite literally. The two had become fast friends due to their love of math and reading and hung out all the time but it was Lara who suggested they go to the salon and get their nails done. Heidi had been apprehensive at first, hating the superficial nature of a salon, but Aimee the owner put her at ease with her almost trance like soothing words.

Unbeknownst to both girls, the salon specialized in magic nails and once Aimee had put on the first nail it had sealed Heidi’s fate of becoming a mean girl. Lara had watched in horror as her best friend transformed before her eyes into a beautiful but heartless bitch.

However after Heidi was done, it was Lara’s turn and Heidi made sure she got it done. Heidi watched with delight as Lara transformed into her bitchy besty. After that day they were unstoppable.

Heidi became the queen bitch of their school, and Lara was her loyal number two. Together, they controlled the school, teasing and tormenting anyone who dared to cross them.

But now, as she sat alone in her empty classroom, Heidi couldn't help but wonder who she was without Lara. She just wasn’t having as much fun bullying or teasing.

“Oh honey that’s because you need a beta.” Aimee said to her one day when Heidi spilled her guts to her over a new manicure session.

“You are meant to rule like a true blue bitch. But you need a beta bitch to laugh at your jokes, compliment you, gossip with. It’s what gives you power. Can’t you bring me a girl to make into a new bitchy bestie for you?” Aimee said but she knew the answer.

“No, you know I can’t even afford these. If I hadn’t got Lara to pay for these in advance I wouldn’t even have these maintenance sessions and I’d be back to being dorky and lame.” Heidi said with a shudder.

“Well you’ll just have to find someone bitchy enough then but good luck finding anyone who can match that creation of mine.” Aimee said thinking back on Lara. She had been a fun corruption to do and a profitable one as well. Lara’s dad was filthy rich and once Lara became a superficial mean bitch she embraced the stereotype of spoilt rich daddy’s girl.

Aimee finished up and said goodbye to Heidi who felt refreshed from her nail top up but also still unsure what her next moves should be. That’s when Evie, the salon receptionist pulled her aside secretly.

“I couldn’t help but over hear your dilemma and I think I can help. I’ve been working on a new set of nails and I need someone to test them on.” Evie said in a hushed tone that made Heidi slightly uneasy.

“Well you must have heard that I can’t afford anything new and besides I don’t like the idea about being your science project.” Heidi said coldly.

“Not for you silly, for your potential new bestie. You bring me a girl and I’ll make you a new BFF. For free. No cost and no risk to you. What do you say?” Evie said.

Heidi’s eyes narrowed as she thought it over. It did sound like it was all upsides so what did she have to lose? Heidi nodded and accepted the plan.

“Then it’s a deal. Find me a blank canvas and I’ll give you a masterpiece. Oh and don’t tell Aimee, it’ll be our little secret.” Evie said with a wink.

As soon as Heidi was in school the next day she got to work on finding a new girl to become her number two, but she quickly realized that most of the other girls were lacking. The problem was that most had already been through years of bullying from herself and Lara. None of them would believe that she wanted to be friends with them now. She could never convince them to come to the nail salon with her, they’d all believe it was a trap. She could force one of them but it was too risky.

That’s when Heidi's gaze settled on Mia, the bookish plain girl in her class who was practically invisible to everyone else. Mia was the perfect candidate, a blank canvas just waiting to be painted. She was smart, but shy and timid, with no real friends to speak of. Best of all, she had just moved there from another school and had no history with Heidi or Lara.

Despite this it wasn't easy at first. Mia was wary of Heidi's advances, and it took some time for Heidi to win her over. Heidi was patient, taking things slow and building a genuine connection with Mia. She listened to Mia's problems and offered advice, and before long, Mia began to open up and trust Heidi. It was the perfect opportunity for Heidi to make her move.

"Come on, Mia, it'll be fun," Heidi said, grinning at her friend. "We'll go to the city and get our nails done and have a girls' day out. What do you say?"

Mia hesitated, fidgeting with the edges of her book. "I don't know, Heidi. I don't really like long nails. They make me feel uncomfortable."

Heidi rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. You're always cooped up in the library, studying. You deserve a little bit of pampering. And besides, the salon I'm talking about is different. They have these special nails. Trust me, you'll love them."

Mia's eyes widened as she looked at her phone. "How come this place doesn’t have any reviews? It also says it’s closed when you want to go. It all sounds a little sketchy."

"It's not sketchy at all," Heidi insisted. "I go all the time and they're amazing. They helped give me the confidence and assertiveness I needed to stand up for myself. You deserve that too, Mia. You deserve to feel powerful and in control. I asked them to open early just for us."

Mia looked uncertain, but Heidi could see the temptation in her eyes. She knew she had Mia hooked.

"Please, Mia," Heidi begged, giving her friend an imploring look. "Just give it a try. I promise you won't regret it. Plus you’re always saying how much your biting your nails, this way it won’t be your actual nails."

Mia instinctively went to bite her nails out of nervousness and realized Heidi was right. She sighed and nodded. "Okay, fine. But if anything weird happens, I'm blaming you."

Heidi grinned triumphantly. "You won't regret it, I promise. Now come on, let's go get beautiful!"

Heidi and Mia arrived at the salon, a sense of excitement and nervousness in the air.

"Okay, so what do we do?" Mia asked, looking around nervously.

"First, we pick out the colors and styles we want," Heidi said, leading the way to the display of nail polish. "Then we sit down in the chairs and let the professionals take care of the rest."

Mia nodded, still looking uncertain. "And these nails, they're not going to hurt or anything, right?"

"Of course not," Heidi reassured her. "They're completely safe. And trust me, the benefits are worth it."

As they sat down in the chairs, Heidi secretly winked at Evie who was sitting at the station with Mia. Evie smiled back at her and replaced the nails Mia had chosen with a new set she had hidden away.

“Hey what about the set I picked out?” Mia said sounding concerned.

“I need to apply these first, these are what we consider a ‘foundation’ set. Once these have been placed on we can then add your selection.” Evie said with a smile that unnerved Mia slightly.

Mia looked over at Heidi, her hand already at her mouth biting her nails and a worried expression on her face. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Heidi smiled and squeezed Mia's hand. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. Just trust me."

As Evie began to work on their nails, Heidi watched with a sense of satisfaction. This was it, the moment she had been waiting for. Soon, Mia would be a mean girl, and together, they would rule the school.

However as the magic nails were applied to Mia's fingers she was disappointed to see no change in Mia’s physical appearance. When Heidi had first put them on her hair grew thick and long, her breasts big and round and her skin smooth and tan. Mia looked the same with nearly all the nails on. Evie sensing Heidi’s disappointment launched into conversation with Mia.

“Ok Mia, we’re almost done with these, do you still want me to put on your choice of nails after this?” Aimee asked and Heidi watched with interest.

“Hmmm? Sorry I was a million miles away. The other nails? Ugh no I don’t know what I was thinking, these are perfect. I want to keep these.” Mia said in a slightly bratty voice putting Heidi’s worries slightly to rest.

“You just need to be patient with this new formula. It’s designed to release her ‘bitchification’ more gradual that yours or Lara’s did but should be more potent in the end. The slow release should also help her accept the change easier, if she figures out what’s happening too soon her body may reject them.” Evie said to Heidi alone as Mia waited outside after her nails were completed.

Mia couldn’t stop looking at her nails, admiring how they looked, they almost looked foreign on top of her tomboyish body and dress sense.

“Nails like these should have some tight outfits to match, just imagine how good they would look against a sleek and shiny dress wrapped around your curves.” A voice whispered in her mind making her nod in agreement. A change was in order.

“Come on Heidi, I want to go shopping!” Mia shouted from outside in a commanding tone that made Heidi reflectively yell “coming!” back to her.

Heidi watched Mia with curiosity for the rest of the day. Mia seemed more assured of herself as she strolled around the mall and dipped into store after store. She also appeared to have a new fashion sense. She picked out quite the mean girl attire that was certainly an improvement on her baggy hoodies and sweatpants.

“This was great today Heidi, thanks for convincing me to get these hawt nails.” Mia said as Heidi dropped her off at her house after their day of shopping.

“No problem Babe, I knew you’d love them. It’s going to be so good showing you off tomorrow at school. See you then.” Heidi said driving off. Mia felt a surge of excitement for tomorrow. She had always been one to fade into the background at school but now was looking forward to the limelight. In fact it was making her kind of horny. By the time she was up in her room the wicked voice had returned and was whispering in her head once more.

“Wouldn’t it feel so hawt to finger yourself with your new claws? It would be even hotter if you watched yourself do it in the mirror.”

She shoved her hand into her jeans and went straight for her aching pussy. She moaned as she felt the delight of stroking her clit with her new long nails on her. She stared at her reflection, watching herself finger her pussy.

“You’re going to look so fucking good tomorrow, all eyes will be on you.” The voice said making a soft moan escape Mia’s lips as she began picturing the scene of her strolling beside Heidi taking in everyone’s looks.

“Yesss everyone won’t be able to take their eyes off me.” She moaned as she imagined the scene.

As she massaged inside her pussy over and over again the formula of the nails started to react with her wetness, stripping off the coating ever so slightly. She groaned as her body began to react to the direct absorption of the formula.

Her breasts seemed to grow fuller and more pronounced, and her lips became plumper and more sensual. Even her hair seemed to change, lightening to a dyed blonde and took on more body and shine. Mia gasped as she watched her body change before her eyes but far from being afraid of what it meant, she hungered for more.

"Yesss! Don't stop! Keep going!" Mia exclaimed, her eyes glowing with a manic energy as the previous fantasy in her mind changed. She wasn’t strolling beside Heidi, instead Heidi was flanking her like a loyal 2nd. It felt more natural that way in her mind.

“Yesss you’re not a follower, your a leader. You don’t share the spotlight, you own the spotlight!” The voice hissed.

As the transformation continued, Mia's personality began to shift as well. She felt more vain and cold, her once soft and gentle demeanor hardening into something sharp and narcissistic.

"Oh my god, I can't believe how good this feels. I’m so fucking hot," Mia said, her voice dripping with vanity as she climaxed. "I feel so bitchy and bad, I can’t wait to show off myself tomorrow!"

“Why wait? Your hot and horny now! The world deserves to see you. No it NEEDS to see you.” the voice purred in her head and a playful smirk played across Mia’s new pouty lips as she was compelled to agree. She had to get as many eyes on her as possible. She wanted to dance and drink and have a man’s hands all over her body.

As the light caught her nails she knew they were somehow involved with her transformation. It made sense why Heidi was so adamant that they got their nails done and why it was so secretive. What was Heidi’s endgame? Was it something to be worried about? If so why did it feel so good? Questions piled on questions making Mia suddenly anxious and she instinctively went to bite her nails.

However as soon as they touched her lips and she tasted their coating she felt an immediate calm come over her body. A pleasure rippled across her body. Her posture changed making her stand up straight and push out her new bigger tits confidently.

“Why should I be worried? Look at how hot I am now. So what if I’m feeling meaner, more vain, more superior. Heidi clearly wants me to be like this, maybe everyone else will too.” Mia thought to herself while getting lost in her reflection.

Picking up her phone she called Heidi who answered promptly. “Hey babe what’s up?” Heidi asked with slight concern in her voice. She was in uncharted territories with these nails and so wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Let’s hit the club tonight babe, we’re too hawt to be wasted alone indoors.” Mia said as she looked at her nails with glee.

“Really? Tonight? Are you sure your, eh, ready?” Heidi said trying not to sound lame but also worried this was happening too fast and her body would reject the nails. Didn’t Evie say it would take weeks?

“Ugh fine I’ll go by myself if your going to be so boring.” Mia said snapping at Heidi.

“No! No I’ll come, I just didn’t know if you’d be tired after the day we had.” Heidi said trying not to get on her bad side.

“Cool pick me up in 30 minutes, and dress slutty.” Mia said and hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Mia didn’t need 30 minutes to get ready but bossing Heidi around started to stir up her engine again and she needed another go around with herself. She also had a theory to test out about her nails…

Heidi arrived early at Mia’s house and texted her to say she was there. Mia texted her back to tell her to come in and have a pre drink as Mia’s parents were out of town. However as she knocked on the door, Heidi was met by a girl she barely recognized.

“Hey slut, about time you showed up, get a drink into you and let’s hit the club, I’m really feeling myself tonight.” Mia said as she primped herself in the mirror.

Heidi looked at Mia dumbfounded. She was staring at a blonde bombshell, one that looked like Mia’s hotter older sister rather than Mia herself. Her posture was no longer slumped and diminutive but instead she held herself with bitchy confidence. Mia seeing Heidi’s look on her face rolled her eyes.

“You can drop the act now dummy, I know my transformation was all your doing, or rather due to these beauties.” Mia said lovingly showing off her nails which too looked like they had changed too.

“You’re not mad?” Heidi said preparing for the worst.

“Mad? I’m ecstatic! Look at the beautiful bitch I am now! I feel so mean and hawt, I love it! I can’t wait to get out there and show the world what I can do now that I’m not some loser dork anymore.” Mia purred with a glint of mania in her eyes.

Heidi beamed at her. She was certainly more sexy and confident than Lara ever was. Maybe she was ready for the world to see her.

At the club Mia was a sight to behold. She strutted into it like she owned the place. She basked in the lingering looks from all the men and women in the club. Pulling Heidi onto the dance floor she played coy with everyone, only focusing on Heidi.

Heidi for her part was captivated by Mia. It was amazing to see what a transformation she had undergone in such a short amount of time. Heidi knew the nails were amazing but something about this transformation felt different. Mia had a different energy. Heidi also knew that a new force had arrived and couldn’t wait until tomorrow for when they would have the real fun at school.

Mia spotted a group of staring men sitting nearby and broke off from Heidi to go talk to them. Well that’s what Heidi thought until Mia started to rub up against one of them. It was like watching a private lap dance at a strip club. The man was clearly enjoying it and tried to talk but with a wink to Heidi, Mia put a finger up to his lips and cheekily slipped it into his mouth. For a second Heidi could have sworn that she saw the man twitch for a moment before eagerly sucking her finger which turned into kisses down her arm and onto her neck.

Heidi watched as Mia straddled the man and kissed him deeply while the other guys watched and hooted. Mia broke off from the kiss to whisper something into the man’s ear, all the while having an evil grin on her perfect lips. The man nodded and gently slid Mia into the seat beside him before standing up and suddenly jumping on top of his friends, pummelling any of them within arms reach.

Heidi and everyone else watched in shock at the explosive scene. Everyone that was except Mia who was watching the fight with joy playing across her face. Mia watched it unfold getting steadily hornier and hornier, stroking her tits with her nails. Grabbing a nearby guy she kissed him deeply while digging her nails into his neck. He recoiled just for a moment before being dragged willingly out of the club by Mia. Heidi tried to follow them out but by the time she got outside they were gone.

Heidi went home soon after that, mainly because the ruckus in the club made it hard to get back in. She texted Mia to see if she was ok but didn’t get a reply until the morning.

“Where the fuck are you?” The message from Mia read Heidi was about to leave for school when the message came in. Heidi panicking called Mia.

“Mia are you ok? Where are you?” Heidi asked worried.

“Where am I? Where the fuck are you? You’re suppose to be picking me up this morning.” Mia snapped back at her.

“Oh sorry I just thought because you left with some guy last night that-” Heidi began before Mia cut her off.

“Your not suppose to think! That’s my job. You’re just suppose to do! Understand? Whatever. Just get over here in 5 minutes or find a new friend to hang out with.” Mia said, her voice oozing with contempt and hanging up.

Heidi felt kind of pissed at Mia but still sped over as fast as she could and waited for Mia who, despite demanding Heidi get over quickly, took 20 minutes before emerging from her house. Heidi couldn’t believe it but she looked different again. She looked blonder, meaner, and hotter.

“About time. Is that what you’re wearing to school?” Mia said getting into the car and looking at Heidi with mild disgust.

“Yeah? Is something wrong with it?” Heidi asked slightly nervous.

“Just don’t stand so close to me when we are in school.” Mia said touching up her makeup in the passenger mirror.

“Cute earrings though. Give them to me.” Mia said with a hand outstretched.

“W-what?” Heidi asked confused.

“Did I stutter? Give me your earrings. They’ll look better on me.” Mia said glaring at Heidi who felt her face flush. She awkwardly took off her earrings as she drove and gave them to Mia who put them on.

“They look great on you babe.” Heidi said trying to break the tension. She didn’t understand why Mia was acting so cruel to her. Lara never did this and yet Heidi was desperate for Mia’s approval for some reason.

“No duh. I feel great today too. After my night last night how could I not.” Mia said with a smirk to herself remembering the fun she had last night. She had figured out that her nails didn’t just effect her but had the ability to effect (or more accurately infect) others. Every time she used them she felt more cruel and evil as a result which only turned her on more.

At school everyone made whispers about who this new girl was, showing just how invisible Mia once was. Mia strutted down the crowded hallway of the high school, her designer heels clicking against the linoleum floor. She scanned the sea of students, searching for a target.

Finally, her gaze landed on a group of girls huddled around their locker. Mia smirked and approached them, Heidi following close behind.

"Hey losers," Mia sneered, leaning against the locker next to them. "What are you even wearing? Did you raid a thrift store or something?"

The girls looked down at their outfits, shame and embarrassment written all over their faces. Mia cackled with laughter as she sauntered away, leaving the girls feeling small and belittled.

Mia reveled in the power she held over her classmates now, enjoying the feeling of superiority it gave her. She didn't care who she hurt or what she said, as long as she was getting attention and causing chaos.

Heidi loved watching Mia at work but was starting to feel more and more on the receiving end of her wrath. She was feeling left out of the fun Heidi was having. Mia bossed Heidi around like she was some lackey but worse still was Heidi followed her commands obediently. Heidi didn’t want to get on the bad side of the girl who was clearly running the show now. That was until Mia started to make new friends.

It started small with a girl called Daphne, a shy, unassuming girl who Mia took an interest in one day. Heidi watched as Mia belittled Daphne like she had done to a dozen other girls that week but when Daphne failed to scurry away like the rest Mia smirked at Daphne and told her to come with her to the bathroom. Heidi naturally followed but Mia told her to wait outside.

They were in the bathroom for 10 minutes before re-emerging and when they did Daphne looked different. Mia had clearly shared her makeup and clothes with her but Daphne also had a mean glint in her eye that Heidi recognized from Mia. Daphne whispered something in Mia’s ear upon seeing Heidi waiting for them and Mia laughed deeply. The two girls walked off with locked arms like Heidi and Lara used to do.

And so it went for the next week where Mia would start collecting what she called ‘discarded girls’ and would bring them into the bathroom where they would emerge minutes later bitchier and hotter than when they went in. Mia now had a clique of sycophants praising her endlessly and laughing at her jokes. Mia roamed the halls with them flanking her at all times. Heidi was now bringing up the rear, sidelined in the school she once ran, constantly being belittled by the new queen she helped create. When one day Mia gave her a particular dressing down in front of her clique in the locker room, Heidi finally snapped.

“Who they hell do you think you are talking to bitch? Know your place!” Heidi said full of rage. Mia simply giggled at her, seemingly unfazed by her outburst.

“My place? I’m the queen of this god damn school and you’re barely even a blip anymore.” Mia said with a laugh that caused her gang of girls to follow suit.

“We’ll enjoy it while it lasts because those nails have a shelf life and you’ll be hitting your expiration date soon enough. I’ve seen your house and know you can’t afford another session, you can’t even afford a car to get you to school every day.” Heidi said with venom behind every syllable. For the first time in awhile Heidi saw the smirk be wiped from Mia’s face. Rather than feeling triumphant though, Heidi felt her blood run cold as Mia stared at her intensely.

Mia snapped her fingers and her clique rushed Heidi pinning her down on the locker room floor. Mia click clacked slowly over to her, savouring the moment.

“I’ve seen how you live too and it begs the question how do you afford to stay as powerful as you do but you’re going to tell me all of your secrets.” Mia said bending down close to Heidi.

“Like hell I am.” Heidi said still defiant but feeling like she had lost.

“Oh dear you don’t really have a choice.” Mia said with a wink as she ran her hand up Heidi’s thigh, across her stomach and up to her neck where she dug her nails in suddenly. Heidi wanted to scream out but found herself unable to do so. She heard Mia’s voice in her head telling her to do things she would never do but was feeling strangely compelled to do so.

LATER

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Aimee said on the other end of the phone not really believing what she was hearing.

“Oh yes Aimee. I’m moving away and it’s only right that someone gets my lifetime of nails. I can’t think of anyone more suited than Mia. You’ll love her.” Heidi said as Mia watched on approvingly. Heidi loved that Mia was making her give up her power. Heidi knew now that she didn’t deserve them. Not like Mia who did. She deserved everything.

“Ok if you insist. I look forward to meeting her.” Aimee said scratching Heidi out of her client book and replacing her with Mia.

“Just one other thing. She has requested that Evie do her nails. Is that ok?” Heidi asked.

“Well Evie doesn’t do nails anymore after an… incident we had but if your friend really wants her I guess we can make an exception this one time.” Aimee said while looking over at a bored Evie working reception. Maybe it was time to bring her back into the fold.

“Great. Thanks for everything Aimee!” Heidi said before hanging up.

“Was that to your liking Mistress?” Heidi asked eager to please Mia now. Mia for her part looked satisfied if a little diminished. Turning Heidi against herself proved to be very draining for Mia and she would need a nail session very soon. But she knew she still had a little time and figured the best way to spend it would be watching Heidi willingly remove her own magic nails.

A WEEK LATER

“These are gorgeous, I feel refreshed. Thanks Evie.” Mia said as Evie finished putting on a fresh set of nails for her. They looked even stronger and bitchier than before, Mia couldn’t wait to try them out.

“Don’t get into too much trouble now.” Evie said with a smirk to Mia who returned the smile.

“You ready girls?” Mia said to her friends who had just finished getting their nails done too. Of course Mia’s set was unique to her but she made sure her girls got some cheaper beta nails to save her having to infect them every time her power was warring off.

“What about her over there, she hasn’t had her turn yet.” Evie said pointing to the corner when a somewhat homely girl stood holding everyone’s bags.

“Who? Hedy? No she won’t be getting any. She won’t until she’s learned her lesson isn’t that right Hedy?” Mia called out to the girl once known as Heidi.

“That’s right mistress.” Hedy replied cheerily. One by one Aimee watch the transformed girls take their bags from Hedy and leave the store. Of course she was happy for the business but something wasn’t sitting right with her about Mia and her friends and something was so familiar about Hedy.

Mia left the salon her head held high and her chest sticking out as her friends waited for her orders. She loved being the queen and no one was taking that away from her now. How could they when she was nailing it?

THE END

#f2f #corruption #bitchification #magic #corrupted nails #evil bitch #power transfer #unofficial sequel #cc2023

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amnakhansalon · 4 months

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#Beauty #Makeup #fashion #cosmetics #Best Makeup Salon in Lahore #Canvas Salon & Studio

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reverieparacosm · 8 months

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Art's Silent Language (Lukai Hwei x GN!Reader)

Warnings: small injury

Chapter 2: The Hidden Canvas

(part 1 here)

Summary: Hwei stumbles upon your secret art place, finding art books that showcase artwork resembling his own. This discovery leads him to realize that you have been studying his work. Simultaneously, you come across Hwei's secret art pieces, exposing a remarkable and dark talent within him. As the sun sets, a conversation between you and Hwei unfolds, initially filled with concern but escalating into an argument.

The hot golden sand shifts beneath Hwei's feet as he treks through the ruins, brushing aside low hanging vines and crumbling walls. Sweat gathers on his brow in the afternoon heat, but he presses on, driven by a singular goal - to find you.

The ruins, once a grand testament to opulence and extravagance, now stand as a faded testament to the passage of time. Ornate carvings adorn the crumbling walls, their intricate details fade and wear, barely recognizable. Delicate plasterwork, once a showcase of artistic prowess, hangs in tatters, revealing the skeleton of the structure beneath.

Hwei steps further into the ruin, his footsteps echo through the desolate halls, a melancholic symphony of solitude. The remnants of what were once grand chambers and lavish salons now lie in ruins, their faded grandeur whispering tales of a time long past.

The ceilings, once adorned with elaborate frescoes, lose their luster, their colors mute and fade with the passage of time.

Chipped and cracked mirrors, remnants of a once luxurious vanity, reflect a distorted image of Hwei as he passes by.

Nature begins to reclaim the space, with tendrils of ivy and moss intertwining with the remnants of the architecture. Vines snake their way through broken windows, casting intricate shadows on the worn marble floors below. It is as if the ruin itself becomes a living canvas, merging the beauty of nature with the faded splendor of human creation.

Hwei knows that you have a secret place, a sanctuary where you pour your heart and soul into your drawings. He believes that he will find you there, lost in the depths of your artistic expression. He can barely wait to show you his latest art idea.

Over the past months, the two of you have formed a close bond through sharing your works in progress, debating techniques late into the night by the light of the moons. You understand each other in a way few others can.

Yet as Hwei picks his way deeper into the ruins, he finds no signs of life. Only your discarded paintings from past sessions remain - landscapes, portraits, glimpses into vibrant imagined worlds. Your attention to detail astounds him, as it always does.

In the corner of the room, Hwei stands, his gaze fixated on the artwork studies and meticulous notes spread out before him.

The atmosphere is filled with a sense of abandonment, as if time has forgotten this place. The room is dimly lit, with shards of sunlight piercing through cracks in the worn-out wooden shutters, casting golden rays upon the dusty air. The air itself carries a musty scent, a reminder of the forgotten years.

As Hwei examines the studies, his eyes sparkle with delight. You have taken the time to study his art, to delve deep into the intricacies of his creations. He feels a surge of gratitude and validation, knowing that his work has resonated with another soul. It is a rare and cherished feeling, as if he has found a kindred spirit in the realm of art.

With gentle fingers, Hwei picks up a notebook filled with meticulous sketches and annotations. The pages are worn and aged, evidence of the countless hours spent in thoughtful contemplation. Each stroke and line captures the essence of his art, the emotions, and stories he seeks to convey.

Hwei's eyes wander across the room, and his gaze falls upon a stack of sketchbooks tucked away in a dusty corner.

With anticipation, he reaches out and pulls one of them towards him. These are the studies of his artworks that he has never shown to his temple masters, the hidden pieces that represent his unfiltered desires and untamed creativity.

As he flips through the pages, Hwei's heart sinks. Each sketch holds a glimpse into a world of imagination that he has kept locked away.

These are the art pieces that are deemed too unconventional, too unrestrained for the watchful eyes of his masters.

Hwei's eyes flicker across the room, drawn to a glimmering display of well-crafted jewelry nestled amongst the art and sketches. With cautious curiosity, he approaches the collection, his fingers trembling with anticipation and intrigue. Each piece is a testament to the skill and dedication of its creator, someone who pours their heart and soul into the art of jewelry-making.

As Hwei lifts a delicate necklace, he marvels at the intricate design and the meticulous attention to detail. The craftsmanship is exquisite, capturing the essence of nature's beauty in every shimmering gem and carefully wrought silver. He can feel the passion and dedication that goes into creating each piece, a resonance that echoes his own artistic journey.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Meanwhile, you cautiously enter Hwei's room, your heart racing with a mix of curiosity and worry. You also have been searching for him.

Upon adjusting to the gloomy atmosphere, your eyes are immediately drawn to a large canvas placed against the wall.

The artwork before you is a revelation, a powerful testament to Hwei's talent. It is unlike anything you have seen before, an embodiment of surrealism that both fascinates and unnerves you.

The canvas depicts a haunting forest, its trees swathed in shades of black and grey that seem to devour the light around them. The atmosphere is heavy with an eerie stillness, and the clouds overhead are painted in dark blues and purples, casting a sense of foreboding. It is as if the darkness itself has taken physical form within the artwork.

Your gaze follows the brushstrokes that reveal a glimpse of sunlight penetrating the dense foliage. But even the rays of light are tinged with darkness, painted in shades of orange and red, as if symbolizing a raging inner fire. The contrast between the somber trees and the fiery light creates a chilling atmosphere, as if the very essence of Hwei's inner turmoil has been captured on the canvas.

To your surprise and shock, hidden among the twisted branches and shadows are barely visible demon-like creatures. Their distorted forms and malevolent presence send a shiver down your spine.

The details are so vivid, yet subtly hidden, as if they are meant to be discovered only by those who dare to venture deeper into the artwork's eerie depths.

The demon-like creatures, once mere brushstrokes on the canvas, begin to stir. Their twisted forms contort and writhe, as if they are breaking free from the confines of the artwork. Your eyes widen in horror as their eyes, glowing with an otherworldly light, fixate on you.

Panic sets in as you realize they are no longer confined to the world of art; they are now tangible.

The first demon, with elongated limbs and a hunched posture, scuttles towards you on all fours. Its cracked, pale skin is stretched taut across its skeletal frame, revealing sinewy muscles that writhe beneath. Its face, contorted into a grimace, holds eyes that burn like fiery coals, casting an eerie glow upon its surroundings. Jagged teeth, sharp as razors, jut out from its deformed mouth, dripping with a viscous, black ichor.

Another demon, with a grotesquely elongated neck and a face that resembles a twisted visage of anguish, floats eerily above the ground. Its elongated limbs end in razor-sharp claws that scrape against the floor, leaving deep gouges in their wake. Its translucent, ethereal form seems to flicker and distort, as if it is constantly shifting between dimensions. Hollow, empty eyes peer out from sunken sockets, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Suddenly, one of the demons lunges forward, its grotesque hand wrapping around your trembling arm with a vice-like grip. The sensation is horrifyingly real, as if their malevolence has transcended the boundaries of paint and canvas. Despair and terror grip your soul as you struggle against the demon's relentless pull.

With a surge of adrenaline, you summon every ounce of strength within you and manage to wrench your arm free from the demon's clutches. The sensation of liberation is accompanied by a surge of relief, but the horror is far from over. Without looking back, you sprint away from the painting, each step echoing in the room.

Glancing over your shoulder in anticipation of the pursuing demons, an eerie sight greets your eyes.

The painting remains motionless, as if frozen in time. The demons, once animated and menacing, are now still, their malevolence trapped within the confines of the artwork.

You stand there, your heart pounding, trying to comprehend Hwei's artistic expression. You have never known him to delve so deeply into the macabre or to conjure such haunting imagery. It is a revelation, a glimpse into a side of him you had never imagined existed.

In that moment, you understand that Hwei possesses a talent that reaches far beyond what you had previously believed. His ability to capture the darkness and transform it into art is both unsettling and mesmerizing.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

As you venture back to your secret art place, a secluded haven where you can immerse yourself in your creative process, you are taken aback by an unexpected sight. There, standing amidst the vibrant artworks and sketches that adorn the walls, is none other than Hwei himself.

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you realize that Hwei has stumbled upon your collection of art studies, meticulously crafted to capture, and understand the essence of his creations. You never intend for anyone, especially not the artist himself, to discover your private exploration of his art.

Hwei examines the sketches with curiosity and intrigue. It is as if he can see the depth of your admiration and the effort you have put into unraveling the secrets of his work. The vulnerability of having your hidden passion exposed makes you feel exposed in turn.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Breaking the silence, Hwei's voice carries a hint of surprise and gratitude.

"You honor me by studying my art," he says, his tone tinged with disbelief. "But I must confess that I do not believe I deserve such admiration."

You pause for a moment, taking in his words before responding. "Hwei, your art is nothing short of extraordinary," you reply, your voice filled with sincerity. "The way you bring your visions to life, with vibrant colors and captivating imagery, it is truly remarkable. You have a gift, and it deserves all the admiration it receives."

"I appreciate your kind words," he murmurs softly. "But sometimes, I cannot help but feel that my art falls short of the beauty I envision in my mind."

Hwei turns around, his eyes scanning the walls of your secret room, filled with artworks and inspirations.

He poses a question that lingers in the air, "Don't you feel lonely living in your own little world?"

A smile graces your lips. "Don't you feel powerless living in other people's worlds?" you reply softly.

His brow furrows in curiosity, and you continue. "Art, in all its diverse expressions, holds a captivating allure for us as human beings. We are instinctively drawn to music, poems, quotes, writing, and visual art because, at our core, we yearn for companionship. We possess an intrinsic desire to escape the clutches of solitude. We seek solace in the knowledge that we are not drifting into the depths of madness alone, but that there are others who comprehend the intricate nuances of our emotions. The profound connection that art fosters satiates our hunger for assurance, affirming that our thoughts and emotions are shared by kindred spirits."

"Hwei, I stumbled upon your secret artwork in your room, and I must say, it's truly beautiful. The way you bring your artistic visions to life is awe-inspiring. But... I can't ignore the sense of unease that it evokes in me. There's something dangerous hidden within your art, something that makes me worry about you."

Caught off guard by the expectation that you would understand and appreciate his creations without reservations, Hwei's expression hardens as he listens to your words. His voice carries a hint of anger as he responds, "You are supposed to understand, to appreciate the depths of my art. It's not just about beauty; it's about expressing the complexity of emotions and experiences. Can't you see the power and meaning behind it?"

The conversation quickly escalates into a heated argument, with your emotions colliding like waves in a stormy sea.

Hwei's frustration and disappointment fuel his words, while your concerns and fear make your voice tremble. Your once harmonious exchange of ideas turns into a clash of conflicting perspectives.

In the heat of the moment, Hwei's control over his paint magic falters. Unintentionally, a surge of colorful energy bursts forth from him, colliding with you. The impact sends you stumbling backward, pain radiating through your body.

Hwei's eyes widen in horror as he realizes what he has done. "No! I... I didn't mean to hurt you," he stammers, rushing to your side. His anger quickly transforms into guilt and remorse, his hands trembling.

Through gritted teeth, you manage to speak, your voice strained with both pain and disappointment. "Your art is undeniably captivating, but there's a darkness within it that I can't ignore. I wanted to understand, to support you, but I never expected it to lead to this. We need to find a way to control your power before it causes harm to others."

Burdened by guilt, Hwei feels the weight of the pain he has unintentionally caused, prompting a surge of remorse. Overwhelmed by the situation, he harbors an intense desire to distance himself, believing it best to leave you and prevent any further harm.

But before he can voice his thoughts, you look into his eyes, your voice filled with determination and an unwavering love. "Hwei, I want you. All of you," you say, your words cutting through his guilt. "Your flaws, your mistakes, your imperfections. I want you, and only you."

He kisses you. Without warning, without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because he couldn't have done anything else. He needs that breath you are holding.

He knows he has no right to touch you, to crave you like air, but he does both. And when he puts his mouth on yours, he recognizes the taste of you, as if you have been made just for him.

With a gentle yet firm touch, Hwei's hand found its way to your cheek, his fingers tracing delicate patterns along your skin. The touch ignited a spark within you, sending waves of electricity coursing through your body. The softness of his touch contrasted with the fervor building between you, intensifying the desire that burned within.

With a whisper against your lips he says, “I never used to let people come too close. But then there was you, that came in and settled in the depths of my soul.”

Feeling the magnetic pull between you, you close the remaining distance, your lips meet in a passionate and hungry kiss. The world around you fades away as your mouths move in perfect harmony, exploring each other with fervent desire. The taste of Hwei, sweet and intoxicating, consumes your senses, leaving you craving more.

With his hand still cupping your cheek, Hwei tightens his grip, drawing you closer and intensifying the intimacy of the moment. His other hand finds its way to the small of your back, drawing you tightly against his body. The sensation of his warmth against your skin sends shivers of ecstasy cascading through you, igniting a fire that burns with an insatiable hunger.

"My biggest fear," Hwei whispers, "is that eventually, you will see me the same way I see myself."

You bury your face in his shoulder as he holds you. All that you could think is that you need him. You need his arms around you, need him to hold you and whisper that you would find a way to be together.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

While walking back to the Koyehn temple after your argument, a soft silence envelops the air. The tension between you slowly dissipates, and without saying a word, your hands find each other, intertwining gently. The moonlight casts a gentle glow upon both of you.

In that moment, you turn to Hwei, your voice laced with vulnerability. "I am scared of the love I have for you," you confess, your words carrying the weight of truth. "Because I know it will ruin me. And I also know that I will let it."

As you find yourself gazing up at the vast expanse of the night sky, the twinkling stars above serve as a gentle reminder of the intricate dance of love that unfolds within the human heart. The eternal beacons of light, scattered across the celestial canvas, evoke a sense of both awe and contemplation.

In the presence of those luminous specks, you can't help but ponder the origins of our existence. A whisper of wonder escapes your lips as you wonder if, in some cosmic design, humanity might trace its roots back to the stars themselves. The concept of being made from stardust resonates deeply within you, igniting a spark of connection to the vastness of the universe.

However, as you reach the temple's entrance, a figure stands in the shadows, patiently waiting. There is something unsettling about his presence, a feeling that sends a shiver down your spine.

You should have listened to your feeling.

#hurt/comfort #x reader #league of legends #league of legends x reader #hwei #hwei x reader #hwei league of legends #lukai hwei #hwei the visionary #hwei lol #jhinhwei

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oceansssblue · 8 months

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[THE BAD BATCH]— "CANVAS"

ECHO/OFC 💖

OMEGA HAS THE BEST IDEA. SHE HAS BEEN EYING THE ARTIST ACROSS CID'S SALON FOR OVER A WEEK NOW; AND SHE'S FINALLY GOING TO ORDER THE BEST PRESENT EVER FOR ECHO.

WARNINGS: FLEETING MENTIONS OF ECHO'S BODY ISSUES&EXPERIENCE (NOTHING EXPLICIT). 99% FLUFF.

ONE-SHOT INSPIRED BY THIS WONDERFUL @cloned-eyes ART PIECE OF TATTOED ECHO! 💙✨

Omega counts the credits in her hands. She has been saving them for months, now; no more unnecessary mantel mix or cool accesories for her bow even if they make her momentarily happy. She's sure Echo's reaction will top all of that; and she has finally collected enough to buy the present she has being eying since she discovered the small tattoo parlour across Cid's salon. It's a cool place; full of bright neon lights and colourful images and shapes painted all over the walls. She has never actually entered the parlour; but she has seen enough through the displays of the window. She wasn't actively looking for a place like that at all, to start with; but once discovered, Omega couldn't think about anything else.

It's not just tattoos that the artist makes; but she draws and paints on every single surface imaginable too. Omega has seen a long line of clients bringing her all sort of pieces for her to decorate, to give some life to; house accesories, jewelry, books, speeders... Everything is a canvas for her. Omega's favourite one was probably a landscape design painted in a beautiful modern style on the back of a datapad.

She's got talent, the young woman that works with his collague in the shop. While she does the main art, her co-worker seems to take care of supplies and management. He helps with purely ink-on-skin jobs too. They're both not human, though they're not too far off anatomically speaking. They're definitely on the humanoid range; just small variations to their features and a whole different set of colour palette. Omega wonders if they came to Ord Mantell together from their native planet or if their encounter here was a mere coincidence. She's always curious; even about strangers that have nothing to do with her.

Their skin has a natural faint purplish tint, and they have big eyes with a pronounced double circled iris –the inner layer a darker lilac colour, the outer one a vibrant gold– and washed-out white marks on their neck and face. She has short purple hair, barely grazing her chin, and always wears six or more small braids that sometimes join together in beautiful ways. A bunch of earings hang of each of her slightly pointed ears; and tattoos roam all over her arms and the sides of her neck. She has two small ones on one cheek as well; black figures and dots Omega's not sure if they hold meaning or not. His co-worker looks and dresses in a similar way; comfortable cargo pants with military-like boots, a red T-shirt and black vest. They both look so cool Omega hasn't grown tired of staring at them yet.

The young teenager half skips happily to the parlour; a replica of Echo's prosthetics inside the bag hanging heavily on her shoulder. She had asked Tech to build them a week and a half ago; explaining her idea to the goggled clone and inmediately achieving his aproval. Tech had told her it was a very considerate and original gift. He had jumped at the challenge of building a copy of Echo's three main prosthetics –his scomp, and both of his cybernetic legs– in record time and without any of the others noticing it. Well, except Hunter, who had obviously heard his quiet screwing in the middle of the night and had quickly been informed of the plan.

Omega radiated energy when she opened the door to the parlour. Her big eyes quickly found their way to the artist that would make her idea come true, and she walked towards the front desk with a spring to her step.

"Hi! I love your work, and I'd like you to draw a bunch of stuff for me, please" she blurted out, her enthusiastic innocent voice inmediately catching the attention of the humanoid.

The artist tilted her head to the side, examining the young girl up and down. The new comer looked to be around thirteen or so; a shock of beautiful blond hair complementing her tanned skin. Her purplish-golden eyes sparkled with curiosity and humour.

"You're a bit young to get your skin inked, kid" she answered with a small chuckle. "Luckyly for you I don't really have an age minimum 'round here. Don't come crying next week when you change your mind, though. Erasing is always a torture, and a loss of my time. You sure?"

Omega's eyes widenned comically. She laughed while shaking her head vigorously to the sides, one hand coming up in a clear sign of rejection.

"Oh, no! No. I don't want to get a tattoo!" she frowned, the posibility passing through her head a second later before she nochalantly shrugged it away. "At least not now. I actually brought you some pieces for you to customize? Like you did with some of your other clients?"

The woman chuckles at Omega's lively personality. She points at the heavy bag hanging of her shoulder.

"I'm assuming they're in there?" She guesses, and Omega quickly nods and carefully places the bag in the floor, opening it up for the artist to see.

The woman crouches down and curiously peers into it. She frowns in confussion, and one hand cautiously hovers over one of the pieces while she tries to make the shape of the pile of cramped metal in her head. She realises what the girl is carrying and tilts her head up to her with clear surprise in her face.

"Are these prosthetics?"

Omega nod's proudly.

"Yeah! My brother Tech managed to make an extra improved pair for Echo –he's my other brother– in no time and I wanted you to decorate them before I give them to him. He's had his own for a while now, but I know he's not fully comfortable with them yet, even if he tries not to show it. So I thought personalizing them a bit would make him feel like they're more him, you know?"

Omega waits for the womans aproval. Tech said it was a good idea, so it must be, right? Anyhow, she kinda wants the opinion of the artist herself too. She makes a living of this; of giving soul and personality to pieces that form a part of others lifes.

To her relief, the woman seems gladly surprised. She slowly takes out one of the leg prosthetics and turns it carefully in her hand, examining the surface and caressing it here and there in an almost distracted way.

"It sounds like a cool idea, kid" she hesitates, not wanting to be the one to break the young girl's heart. "But customizing such large complex pieces is pretty expensive, specially if you want to add specific details yourself. Do you have the money?"

Omega nods proudly and takes the credits out of her pocket. She shows them to her with a smile.

"Yup! I have been saving for weeks now. It's enough, right?"

Omega sees the expression on the artist face fall, and her eyes widen. She looks back and forth between the credits on her hands and the artist; knowing what's going on.

"Is it that much more expensive?" She asks, worried, nibbling on her lower lip, trying to think of a solution to it. "I-maybe I can ask Tech and Hunter for more, uh maybe Wrecker, or I can sell some stuff around and..."

The artist interrumpts her rumbling with a hand on her shoulder, standing up besides her.

"Look, sweetheart... I can't use all my current materials in this pieces for this price, but I must have some old stock somewhere in the back. Outdated stuff is much cheaper, and we can forget about my personal fee as well, so you won't have to pay the extra. Or my time of work. Just the pure old raw materials, that should cut the price drastically" she eyes her expectant expression and the hope in her big eyes and sighs, pulling up a smile. "You can give me what you want and we'll call it a deal, alright?"

"Really?" the blonde nearly squeals, knees bouncing up and down, and the artist's smile widens.

"Yeah. Take the pieces to the front desk and lay them out. Do you have a clear idea of what you want to do with them?"

Omega quickly follows and she inmediately grabs her datapad –one of Tech's old ones– and starts pulling up photos and ideas of designs she had been investigating these last few days. She turns the datapad to the woman and grins.

"I've got loads!"

The artist smiles in amusement and pats the chair next to her. Omega hops on it and tilts her face to her, expectantly. The humanoid nods and points at the datapad with a vague gesture.

"Okay. Let's hear it, then".

(•••)

Viana didn't make a habit of being underpayed. Every inch of the fee for her job was perfectly detailed and taken into consideration; materials, time, number of details, backgrounds, how large was the piece, if it required a special varnish to seal the art, colours, layers... It wasn't the same customizing a watch with barely more than the first letter of someone's name than to decorate someone's speeder; so her prices really varied depending on each request.

The girl's –Omega, she had after learned– story had moved her enough to do a little favor for her. Just an exception to her usual strict rules. The blonde had showed her several images on her datapad –pointing out his brother Tech had runned a check up on her and decided she could be trusted with said information– and the woman had quickly put two plus two together. Those guys were clones, and not the ones that followed the laws of the Empire. These were guys that still remember what was honour, respect, doing the right thing. Viana still remembered how Rak and her had been able to escape their home planet with their help.

Truth is the saasra has always admired them. They were great soldiers, great men; and she had come from a tribe of warriors herself. She had long left those years behind; but she still payed attention to the same things. Plus, Echo's particular story was something else. Omega hadn't really gotten into details; just quickly passing of a coment on how he had been gravely injured in battle and how his body looked like now. Viana had read into the images shown before said change; the proud posture of the ARC trooper surrounded by his brothers and friends. She couldn't imagine what he had been forced to push through; not only accepting his own new body, but coping with the loss of so many dear people too.

She hand't been able to think on anything else after Omega left her workshop. The feeling of a new exciting project surged within her, ideas and splashes of colours and shapes constantly popping in her mind. Viana knew she wouldn't be able to sleep that night unless she started with this unusual project; so she had begun with the initial designs.

She always follows the same process. She draws a lazy sketch; absolutely everything she thinks could go well with the piece. Then she picks them out; re-doing them in better shapes and lines on a new datapad canvas. Once that is done, she meassures the original piece and replicates the dimensions on her app; moving her figures and details and overlapping them in layers so everything is taken to it's destined spot. She plays with colours and details –nothing too specific– in her datapad too; and then she moves onto the real piece. She draws the final selected sketch on it and then it's all a matter of colours and definition; swirls and micro-details. It's her favourite part; watching her ideas finally take life. Making dull pieces stand out.

Three days after Omega's arrival on her parlour, Viana has already drawn the main sketches out. She wanted to personalize everything to the detail, like Omega had requested; every inch of the former soldier's cybernetics was perfectly planned out. Though Omega would probably like something vibrant and jazzy best, the saasra knew it had to be something discreet enough so it wouldn't interfere with Echo's posible future misions. Viana didn't exactly knew what they did for a living, or what the future held for them; but she could get an idea. Times were difficult now, dangerous. She couldn't make the prosthetics striking enough to catch people's attention. It had to be somewhat subtle.

With that main reason in mind, she had designed a background of greys, blacks and reds for all of the three pieces in her hands. The lines parted separetly on the top of the scomp prosthetic before travelling down and crossing each other and swirling at the end; joining together in a splash of dark red. The same went for the legs; full opalascent black for were the top part attached to real skin and slowly switching to a gradient grey as they went down to the feet. Small streaks of dark red also swirled around each other as they went; almost following the shapes of human muscles in soft and precises curves. Not wanting them to look too perfectly made –he was a soldier, after all, not an inmaculate coruscanti model– she added some groundge details too; smearing some black and grey paint together here and there without any particular shape, and with her metalic sharp brushes, simulating scratches and dips on the surface.

Once that was out of the way –she had chosen those reds, greys and blacks to match the rest of the clone's armour by Omega's pictures– she followed with the small details. Viana had given it much thought. She wanted the prosthetics to really feel part of Echo, as Omega had in mind too. She wanted to give him something with which he could feel like himself. That right after he tried them on, he'd feel more confident and reassured. And not just because it was a –poorly– payed comissioned job.

Viana decided on a mix of what seemed to be the clone's most important aspects of his life. Omega had more or less explained parts of his life to her, so she could understand what to work with. Viana knew she needed to include five main pieces of Echo's life in these; the Jedi, Clone Force 99 –Omega's brothers, herself included now–, Captain Rex, the Domino Squad, and his twin Fives.

For the Jedi, Viana drew tiny light-sabers on the edges of each prothesis that at first glance looked like a line of simple stiches. She couldn't plant something on the surfaced that screamed "hey, Empire, right here, i'm your enemy" after all, so it was an unasumming little thing. No-one would find out unless they specifically looked for it. Hell, Echo might not even realise it himself.

For Clone Force 99, she designs four washed-out white skulls to compliment the one already etched on the top left of his chest plate. She adds a very carefully hand-drawn detail for each one, so it represents the rest of the members of the squad; one skull crossed by a delicate black bow, another with a stripe across the head for the long-haired clone's bandana, one with the crosshair on the right eye and the last one with a myriad of scars coming from the left side of the skull and ending on the left.

She adds a splash of a hand print for Captain Rex around the prothesis holding the scomp. The blue sticks up too much with the rest of the colour pattern, though, even if its a dark shade with some black in between; so Viana adds some minor swirls and slashes of the same tone here and there.

Following Omega's idea, she draws five small domino's in black and grey around one of the cybernetic's ankles; tying them up to each other with a thin line of scarlet red. A black five is a perfect replica of one of Omega's pictures on the other ankle; red and greys and blues swirling around the number as if trying to cling to it.

Viana gives a few extra last touches and examines the three pieces in front of her. Satisfied and proud, she gives them a final varnish so they hold all kind of atmospheric adversities; and two weeks after Omega's request, the woman has her art ready to be send on it's way.

(•••)

Viana makes her way to where Omega told her their ship would be docked with her request carefully placed inside a box with the parlour's purple logo. It's heavy, but not as much as she first imagine the prothesis would be; she's able to carry them without much effort til she's standing right in front of the Marauder –Omega's home–.

She examines the external appearence of the ship with intrigue. Omega's a bubbly thing, and she couldn't stop talking in excitement when she visited her workplace. Viana had half-listened distractedly while she pulled out basic designs and drew quick sketches for the blonde to sway in one direction or the other. By the way her eyes filled with warmth and her smile widened while talking of this ship, the saarsa knew it wasn't just a ship for them at all.

There's two men standing on the outside, one crouched down while examining something with a pack of wrenchers and tools by his side; the other observing with his arms crossed. After spending a few hours of the last two weeks staring at Omega's pics, they're easily recognizable; the one with the long hair and red bandana is obviously Hunter, while the one doing the repairs is Tech. She can't see the other two –Wrecker and Echo himself– so she asumes they're either inside or somewhere else in Ord Mantell.

Hunter's eyes flicker around his surroudings before they land on her. It's like he noticed someone staring; she wondered if she had been doing that with too much intensity. To show she's not a threat –this guy is clearly ready and alert– she shows a small gentle smile and hesitantly takes a step towards them.

"Can we help you?" Hunter asks, frowning unconsciously, his stance widening slightly while turning towards her.

Tech glances up and his eyes quickly roams over the newcomer's appearance, quickly drawing the right conclusions by the expresion on his face.

"Oh! You must be the artist from Omega's most recent quest" he nods as a way of hello, standing up and adjusting the right lense of his goggles before continuing talking with her. "I asume that you bring the final results?"

Viana nods and brings the box in her hands up as a demonstration. Hunter relaxes and Tech nods, curiously walking towards her.

"May I have a look?"

They're really polite, and really handsome too. Most clones are, of course. It's no wonder people used to like going to clone's pubs before.

"Sure" Viana answers, her mere observation not making her shy away in the slightest.

She patiently waits while Tech lifts the lid of the box up and takes a peak inside. Hunter can't hold back his curiosity either and follows him. They both stay silent for so long that Viana starts to feel a bit nervous and hesitant about her work.

"Is it... Is it what Omega hoped for?"

She's usually very confident about herself; but Echo's situation is delicate, and the details she has added in the cybernetics, albeit by Omega's request, are too personal for a stranger to play with. She hopes she hasn't overstepped.

"It exceeds my expectations, in fact" points out Tech, to her inmediate relief. "And I am sure Omega's as well. I'm particularly surprised at how detailed and lively this are without drawing too much attention to it, nothing too vibrant or extravagant. It should work perfectly well with our kind of lifestyle. Congratulations are in order, I believe".

Tech has a weird way of speaking; Viana's lips almost tugging upwards in another smile. She feels proud and happy at his observarions, though; and Hunter thinks the same as well by his firm grateful nod.

"Thank you for doing this" the latest says, his voice slightly rougher than the average clone but equally gentle. "I know for a fact Omega doesn't have enough credits to pay for this. She can be very persuasive, I should know. We can pay you a bit extra ourselves".

The offer is tempting, and Viana has spent a lof of her free time doing this; but she wouldn't feel good if she took the credits in. She feels this project has been made personal –there's always one of those once in a while– and she just feels lucky and proud to have produced such an important piece. It's obvious these guys don't have much themselves considering they don't even have a proper house; and she's sure they've already been through a lot. A bit of generosity and genuine compassion wouldn't hurt them.

"Save it for your family" she answers, then. "It has been a fun experience for me. Plus, I'm glad I'm able to do something for you lot".

Hunter watches her in surprise. They're different enough from the original clone templates that people don't usually associate them with clones, specially with a kid by their side; furthermore, they don't usually find people grateful for their service anymore.

Viana smiles.

"I'm native from Saar" she explains, and Hunter inmediately recognises the planet's name. "I remember".

A heavy silence falls between the three of them. Saar was completely destroyed by the Separatists back then; the army of warriors ruled by King Jarelan refusing to lay down their weapons after their monarch's death. They had called for the Republic's help; and two battalions of clones had been sent to them. They hand't been enough to save the planet form the separatist wrath; but they had saved uncountable lives, and the saarsa's had been able to relocate in another planet with the help of the Senate.

In that moment, someone walks down the Marauder towards them. Viana's attention is quickly snapped to the new presence; inmediately recognising the soldier in front of her. He frowns in confussion at the stranger talking with his brothers; but Echo quickly asumes she's just another woman swayed by Hunter's –or maybe Tech's– appeal and doesn't pay her too much attention while he turns to him.

"Hey, Sarge, I'm gonna go replenish our suplies now" he notifies, feeling a bit restless under the stranger's attentive purple and gold eyes. "Com's open, if you need something. Be back in a few".

Hunter nods, gives a small worded agreement and Echo's eyes glance one last time at the woman before walking away. Viana is sure he has some body issues like Omega explained; but right now he looks so confident and handsome –every bit of the perfect soldier– that the saarsa can't help but feel intrigued and attracted to him.

"Always this interested in your clients?" Hunter quietly asks, amused.

Viana tears his eyes from Echo's retreating figure and laughs.

"Not usually, no" she answers calmly, unashamed of being caught by them. "But you can learn a lot about a person from customising their things. And I had a lot of pics and details from him from that blonde girl of yours."

"So you are interested in him, then?" Tech pops in, and Viana shrugs while a telling smile makes her way on her face.

"He's hot, isn't he?" she places the box in Tech's hands, and decides it's time to return to her shop. "Tell Omega I said hi."

Hunter hums thoughtfully while watching her leave.

(•••)

Echo makes his way to the tattoo parlour with a mess of emotions twirling inside his mind. He couldn't even describe what he first felt when he opened Omega's present and his eyes landed on a new customized set of prosthetics; couldn't explain how it felt trying them on. Every swirl of paint, every line and detail... It was all him, the batch's reds and greys and Legion's 501 blue's; the brave people he had sworn to serve and his two families etched on his second skin now, both Force Clone 99 with each of their distinctives, and his Domino brothers. And Fives. Oh, Fives. He would have thought his prosthetics to be the coolest shit ever if he had been there to see him.

Echo had always had a tough time getting used to his cybernetics. He had been forced to accept them pretty quickly, mind you –inmediately jumping back to the fight in Anaxes and after that–; but there had always been a residual disgust and sense of inedequancy in the silence of his mind, after all was set and done. Suddenly half droid, it had been difficult to adjust; even if his new abilities were actually valuable to the team now. This prosthetics, on the other hand... They carried so much meaning. They hold little parts of his story, of his people; and he had felt inmediately conected to them. Echo opened the doors of the shop with a mess on his mind but feeling confident in his steps like never before.

His eyes inmediately found the stranger from the day before and he aproached her in contemplative silence. She was working on something, eyes stuck to her datapad and one of those tech-pencils on her right hand; brow furrowed and lips pursed in concentration.

"We're not taking any more clients for today" she barely mumbled, without taking a glance at the newcomer. "Come back tomorrow, please".

Echo studied her. She resembled a human, but she was undeniably different; her skin a faint purple and her eyes shining brightly even when pointed down at her datapad. His eyes wondered over each mark on her face.

"I just wanted to personally thank you" he voiced, patiently. "You did a great job with these".

She took a fleeting glance at him, nodding distractedly; inmediately abandoning her current sketch when she recognised who he was and straightening in her chair.

"Echo!" she exclaimed, surprised. He gave her a small nod and smile, and tried to stay still while her bright eyes roamed over him.

She hummed appreciately and showed him a wonderfull grin.

"You make a good-looking canvas, soldier".

Echo chuckles, left hand shyly travelling to the back of his neck, and pulls a smile as well.

Gathering up his courage, he tilts his head.

"Fancy going out for a drink, now that your closing the shop?"

Viana is momentarily stunned; but she melts and quickly nods, eager. Hunter and Tech must have pointed out her interest to him; but she doesn't really care. Echo is hot –undeniably so wearing her work–and she hasn't got any other plans for tonight.

"Give me five to close this up and we'll go" she asks.

Echo is surprised –and at the same time, relieved– at how easily all of this is; and waits patiently for Viana to finish her sketch and lock the doors. They walk to none other than Cid's salon chatting with each other and stealing glances along the way.

Maybe he can have some luck after all.

THE END.

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

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

DAMN, THAT WAS A LONG ONE! I FELT SO INSPIREEEED. I'M HAPPY WITH WHAT CAME OUT. DID YOU LIKE IT TOO? LET ME KNOW! HELPS ME STAY MOTIVATED TO CONTINUE WRITING : )

REBLOG IF YOU CAN!

REQUEST/PROMPTS OPENED. WHAT WOULD U LIKE TO READ NEXT?

MORE CLONE WARS & ARCANE CONTENT COMING!

Xx,

Sky.

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esotheria-sims · 9 months

Text

While Aruena was adding the final touches to her painting of Marcus, his father coincidentally happened to come by just then, in anticipation of an audience with the royals.

Entering the salon, Gabriel momentarily stopped in his tracks when he locked eyes with his own son (didn't he just say goodbye to Marcus and Annika back home?), but he quickly realized his mistake. Marcus had told him that he'd been asked by the queen to sit for a portrait - which, by the looks of it, appeared to be all done.

Scanning the canvas with keen eyes, Gabriel couldn't help but swell with paternal pride. He could readily admit that, as a father, he was biased towards his children; but the fact that Her Grace had chosen Marcus, over all her other subjects, as her muse, must have counted for something!

He approached, showering the queen with compliments for her artistic talents. The words, chosen carefully to acknowledge not only the beauty of the portrait but also the skill of the artist, served a dual purpose - expressing genuine admiration while subtly assuring her of his loyalty. After all, a bit of harmless schmoozing could never hurt!

And indeed, it didn't. Gabriel's little bootlicking routine ended with him and Aruena becoming best friends. xD

#sims 2 #ts2 #sims #gameplay #bacc #wyverns bay #wb gameplay #moonfeather #moonfeather week 3 #aruena moonfeather #feanor moonfeather #gabriel blackbird #marcus blackbird #mine

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aoyama-division · 4 months

Text

The morning sun cast a golden hue over the city of Shinagawa as Miho Kobayashi, known to many as the "Iron Maiden," awoke to the day that marked another year of her life. Today was not just any birthday; it was the one preceding her union with Tomi Chōten, the "High Class" socialite whose love for her was as vast as his family’s fortune.

"A fine morning to you, madam," Goro, Miho's butler greeted his mistress as she came downstairs in her robe. "And a most joyous of birthdays to you. Brunch has already been prepared for you. I hope you will enjoy it."

"Thank you, Goro." Miho stated, as she down and prepared to eat.

"Also, madam, a letter arrived for you this morning," Goro said, pulling the letter from his coat pocket. "It is from young Master Chōten."

At Tomi's name, Miho ceased eating her pastry dish and looked up in surprise. Taking the letter, as well as the letter opener, from her loyal servant, she opened and read what was inside:

"My Dearest Miho,

As the sun graces the sky on this auspicious day, I find myself reflecting on the joy and light you bring into my life. Today, the world celebrates not just the CEO who inspires awe, not just the woman who commands respect, but the soul that has captured my heart—my queen, my soon-to-be wife.

On this day, your birthday, I wish for you to be adorned in the luxury and beauty you so richly deserve. Enclosed with this letter, you will find a Master credit card, a small token of my love and admiration for you. I bid you, my dearest, to let your heart's desires lead the way. Indulge in the elegance of the city's boutiques, the serenity of its spas, and the splendor of its jewels. Today is a canvas, and you are the artist—paint it with the colors of your passion and grace.

As the evening approaches, I ask that you prepare yourself to be ready by 6 P.M. For tonight, I shall have the honor of escorting you to a celebration befitting the queen of my heart. A night of enchantment awaits us at the Tokyo Garden Theatre, a place where dreams intertwine with reality.

Until then, my love, enjoy the day that sings your praises. I await the moment when I can once again behold your radiance and share in the joy of your existence.

With all my love and adoration,

Tomi"

Miho's heart fluttered with a mix of excitement and a touch of nervous anticipation as she read Tomi’s letter. His words, always so full of adoration, reminded her of the queen she was in his eyes. The Master credit card that accompanied the letter was a token of his desire to spoil her, a gesture that spoke of his generosity and deep affection.

As she ventured into the city, the boutiques and salons welcomed her with open arms, eager to cater to the whims of the CEO whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her business acumen. Silk dresses that whispered against her skin, jewels that sparkled with the promise of forever, and fragrances that captured the essence of her strength and grace—Miho indulged in them all. Yet, amidst the luxury, her thoughts drifted to Tomi, to the life they would build together, and the love that had become her truest treasure.

The hours slipped away like pearls from a broken string as Miho pampered herself, each moment a step closer to the evening that would celebrate her existence. Returning home, she adorned herself in a gown that was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its fabric hugging her form like a lover’s embrace.

As the clock struck six, Tomi Chōten, known to the world as "High Class," arrived at the grand estate of Miho Kobayashi, the indomitable "Iron Maiden." The evening air was crisp, carrying the anticipation of the night’s festivities. Tomi, dressed in a suit that whispered of his lineage and wealth, extended his hand to Miho with a smile that could outshine the chandeliers of the Tokyo Garden Theatre.

"Happy birthday, my queen," he said, his voice a melody of genuine affection. "Tonight, the stars have descended to celebrate you."

Miho, radiant in a gown that mirrored the night sky, took his hand, her heart fluttering like the wings of a captive bird finally set free. Together, they stepped into the limousine, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and silver as they journeyed to the secret overlook in Aoyama.

The view from the highest point was breathtaking—a tapestry of Tokyo’s skyline, stitched with the threads of countless lives and stories. Tomi’s gaze, however, was fixed on Miho, the soft glow of the city illuminating her features.

"I brought you here because this is where I feel closest to my true self, without the weight of everyone's expectations on me," Tomi confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "And to my brother, Kunio. My heart carries the weight of Kunio’s absence. He despised the gilded cage of our birthright and chose freedom over fortune. I… I was too weak to join him, too afraid to break the chains of expectation."

Miho listened, her heart aching for the pain in Tomi’s confession. She squeezed his hand, a silent promise to be the strength he needed, to be the partner who would stand by him through the trials of their shared destiny.

Together, they journeyed to Aoyama’s peak, where the city lay spread out before them like a kingdom awaiting its rulers. It was here that Tomi shared his vulnerabilities, here that they found solace in each other’s company, and here that they reaffirmed their commitment to face the future as one.

The gala awaited, its splendor a reflection of their status, yet as they made their grand entrance, it was their love that shone brightest. The orchestra’s melody swelled as they took their thrones, the "King" and "Queen" of the night.

The night unfolded like the petals of an exotic bloom, each hour more intoxicating than the last. And then, as the clock neared the stroke of midnight, Tomi stood, his presence commanding the room’s attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying the weight of his love, "The next performance is a tribute to the woman whom I've dedicated my life to—my fiancée, Miho."

Holding out a hand for her to take, the CEO reciprocated and followed her husband down the stairs to the middle of the ballroom. With their HypMics in hand, the audience waited in anticipation of what was to come...

#hypmic #hypnosis mic #hypnosis microphone #hypmic oc #hypnosis mic oc #miho kobayashi #tomi chōten #happy birthday miho 2024 #the hegemony #tomi x miho #gift

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chronic-ghost · 1 year

Text

Chapter 10 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 31K (part 1: 14K + part 2: 17K)

chapter summary: how they find each other again . . . and everything else

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of mental health, medication discussions, therapy (so much therapy), everything about theater and theatre production is nothing but fake lies, and yes lots of smut

a/n: there's a longer, sappy-er reblog coming but i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along with me on this journey. this wouldn't have been possible without you and i hope to see you again soon!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Part 2 + Epilogue

▲ AO3 Link (posted there as a single chapter if you like to read it all at once)

▲ Taglist Form

“Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.” - Jane Austen, Persuasion

SEPTEMBER

“And so we can see that with the abstract paintings, color theory, as well as a fundamental understanding of color under light, is more important than ever. We can have a more immediate reaction to abstract art precisely because it digs at our unconscious thought. We see what we want to see and that can give us perspective on our own lives as well as that of the artist.”

One hand jumps up from the back of the crowd.

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier?”

You nod. “He did. But Van Gogh was a deeply disturbed man and while many of his best works come from his Yellow period, art historians have debated for decades about whether or not the madness was worth the beauty.”

The same boy in the back, blonde, lanky, frowns out of frustration, not boredom.

“So he ate yellow paint and then painted yellow things?”

“It could be said that he wanted to literally take what he was feeling inside and put it on the canvas.”

Another boy, bigger than the first and clearly used to all eyes on him, snickers. He points to a frame at the end of the salon wall.

“So, what, the artist who did that one wanted to get their blood all over everything?”

You cross your arms, unphased by yet another teenage smartass. “What does color theory tell us about the color red?”

“It’s associated with anger,” a young girl at the front says with confidence. “Or more often, love. Intense emotions.”

The same jokester in the back chuckles, louder this time. “Wow, so that guy must have really been in luuuurve to paint that.” He pinches the waist of a girl next to him and she wriggles away, giggling.

“Actually,” you say, straightening up, “I had just come out of a horrific break up and was trying to process grief, trauma, and heartbreak unlike anything I’d experienced before.”

That successfully manages to silence them all. It usually does.

“You painted that, miss?” The girl at the front asks again, her eyes wide in awe.

You smile at her. You remember being her age, fourteen, and thinking the world of art, theater was all so exciting.

“I did. Am I a vain bitch for putting my own paintings in my gallery? Probably, but for some reason, people like to buy them and I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to fund another kitchen renovation in my home.”

There’s a surprised chuckle amongst the students. Nothing endeared you faster to teenagers by some light cursing.

“What other paintings are yours, miss?” The blonde boy asks, eyes suddenly leaping from wall to wall, trying to spot similar brush strokes. You don’t miss when the girl looks at him, her cheeks red.

“Miss Lorraine only has a handful of her paintings in this gallery.” Marie steps forward from around one of the salon walls, her trusty iPad clutched against her chest. “If you are really interested in her work, I highly recommend going to see her charcoal sketches upfront. But this is the end of the tour. Your teacher has given you fifteen more minutes to view any last pieces or purchase a souvenir, but then it’s back on the bus. ”

The gaggle of high school students disperses, an excitement buzzing as a few surge towards the charcoal exhibit.

You roll your eyes, as bodies flow around you, and flick your best friend of the past ten years on her earlobe.

“That was supposed to be a secret.”

“Oh, whatever.” Marie bats your hand away. “It’s honestly some of your best work. You should be proud.”

“This is meant to be a business, not a housing facility for my ego.”

“Well, the second your ego starts to suck money out of this place, I’ll let you know.” She taps her iPad with her stylus. “Speaking of which, Andrew should be by in about ten minutes to discuss that piece he wants for his new show.”

You groan, falling behind Marie as she leads you to the front desk, where some of the students are purchasing posters of the art they liked. You watch as the sales girl rings up a few posters and some postcards, as Marie continues to scroll through her tablet, always thinking of the next thing, the next move.

“This had better be the last one,” you sigh, particularly pleased when you see someone buy a postcard of your red painting. “Why am I starting to think this damn show is going to be the death of me?”

Marie scoffs as she leans forward onto the corner of the sales counter, your bark always worse than your bite. “If you’re so concerned, think about what the notoriety of designing a set for an off-broadway production will do for this gallery.”

“Does it always have to come back to this dump?” You smile at her, knowing you are the only one who is allowed to tease her precious child.

“Duh.” Marie sticks out her tongue at you.

Despite the absolute horror you felt about starting your own gallery three years ago, you can’t say it hasn’t been a success. A reasonably-priced gallery in Brooklyn, you worked to showcase small local artists who needed a leg-up in the industry. Not that breaking into the art world yourself had come easy, but with your old connections in Hollywood and Marie’s in the music scene, you recognized the sheer number of doors open and available to the both of you. The community received the opening of the gallery better than expected, given that it was occasionally used as a center and study hall. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, but it was yours. Yours and Marie’s. You wouldn’t be here without her. Quite literally.

“Once you’re done sulking, we have a meeting with a local council member about expanding the property at two, then that new artist from the Bronx is coming by to measure his space.” She scrolls through your day, with the sharp eye of someone who never missed a beat. You told her she didn’t have to wear that crisp white shirt and pleated black pants, but she rolled her eyes at that: “I’m going to be thirty-three in two weeks. I cannot wear plaid shirts to work every day.”

Same old Marie. Using any small excuse to dress up. Unlike her, you had zero compunctions against wearing old concert shirts and paint-splattered jeans to “the office”. Except, you conceded, on days like this where it was tour after tour, client after client. You attempted something “professional” for her sake, but these heels pinched your feet and the emerald green top seemed to draw the eye of every teenage boy who walked by you.

“Ah, shoot,” Marie says suddenly, standing up right from her iPad. She glances at her watch. “Andrew asked to see a print of King Square and I totally forgot to grab it.”

“Want me to get it?”

She waves you away. “Nah, mingle. I’ll be out in a second.”

You smile as she struts away. Again you wonder what you possibly did to earn a friend like her, what you did to earn her devotion for a decade of friendship. It was as if the universe had been steering you away from all other friendships, keeping you a friend-virgin, until you met Marie. The One. The girl, now woman, who had saved your life more times than you could count, even before she became the manager of the gallery. You hoped to spend the rest of your life proving to her that she had chosen well.

The class of teenagers has thinned. Only a few remain to chat with friends, or check out one last piece they might have missed, a plastic bag with a rolled-up poster in their hands. The noise in the gallery dulls, as the patter of feet against the wood grain and the sound of eager voices falls away. You hear the front door swing close and the room goes silent. You inhale, the saw-dust smell of the space always soothing to you, even before you turned it into a gallery.

This place felt like a destination, a culmination, a breakthrough after so many dark nights. You poured your heart and soul and nearly every dime you had into building this space and its community. You could wander through the salon walls, easily identifying the artwork done from different points in your life, what each of them meant to you, by the colors or mediums used. You experimented a lot after rehab, trying every creative outlet you could find until something stuck. Hell, you even attempted cross-stitching – Marie still laughed herself silly every time it was brought up.

Early on, you processed a lot through clay, through sculpture. It wasn’t very good, but it gave you somewhere to put your rage, your frustration, those hot emotions that made you want to squish warm goo. You could never make bowls or vases – instead just absurd creations with teeth and wide eyes.

Next came the paintings that covered entire walls. You’d come home after spending hours in a rented workspace, covered in paint, hot and tired and teary, but relieved. The scratchy ball in your chest loosened after those hours of working yourself into exhaustion. That was also around the time when you had started to process decade old feelings and memories regarding your parents with your therapist. It all went hand in hand.

It was only recently that you’d turned to charcoal and your canvases shrunk. There was something hypnotic about charcoal as a medium, the stark contrast of black and white, of the delicate shading required to give depth and offer light, the way it stuck to your palms, your forearms as if the subject you sketched lingered on you.

You turn a corner and are welcomed by the sketchings of dozens of artists who also worked in charcoal. The exhibit is called The After Effects of Flame and the artists had completely risen to the challenge. The soft paper, the light etching, it makes the space beautiful, quiet, warm.

But your eyes fall to a single piece across the room, your heart thrumming in your chest.

He had shown up in your work in prior years, of course, as much as you tried to swallow him and the memories down. A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes – they were there as you sorted through the cracked pieces of your life in rehab and continued on in therapy. As you moved on from that night in the hospital.

As you moved away from him.

But you still found slivers of him, splinters that dug into your skin against the wood grain. Marie said it wasn’t noticeable, that only you saw those flashes because of what you had been through, what he had meant to you. But he was there, inside you somewhere, after ten years, and he became a different sort of ache. What he had been to you was never clear, never given structure or form, and perhaps that was why closure had been so hard to find: there was no road map to moving past whatever Dieter Bravo had meant to you. What he had become. What he still, in the fitful state between dreaming and awake, was to you.

He wasn’t haunting you; you had never known a silent ghost. But he lingered, like the remnants of last night’s perfume or the body warmth of a loved one after they’ve left the bed. You saw him in everyone and in everything and, simply put, Dieter wasn’t going away.

Much like with grief, you learn to hold this part of you that held him and let the memories, the good and the bad, pass over you without judgment.

The world is hard enough on you as it is, your therapist told you, don’t add to it by beating yourself up.

So you let him stop by, hang around if he wanted to. He kept you company as you sketched and drew and created in a way you had never experienced as an actress. This is what you were meant to do. It just took you twenty-two years and a decade of heartbreak to get here.

You stepped closer to the centerpiece of the exhibit.

A simple sketch, nothing outwardly advanced or difficult, but it is detailed. Thoughtful, introspective. It comes from an image that appears to you in the morning light of your empty bed, or as you fade into the welcoming arms of sleep. It feels like it should be a memory, but if it is, you don’t know when or where it sits in your history. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. Other times, it’s too real, the added weight in your bed almost palpable – you can smell him in the air, you could reach out and touch the curve of his shoulder – and you blink, the image is gone and you’re alone. Your outstretched hand floats through empty air, the tears stinging so sharply in your throat you can’t breathe for a moment.

To anyone else, the sketch is that of a man, naked, sleeping partially on his stomach, partially on his side, turned away from the viewer. His arm curls beneath his head, under the pillow, and the sheet slips low on his hips, the turn of the light dictating whether or not the exposure is playful or sensual. The waves of his hair fan out across the pillow, tuck around the back of his neck in a way that begs to be teased, tugged on. To everyone else, it’s a loving image of relaxation, of peace, of quiet, joy.

To you, it’s the image of Dieter that visits you most frequently.

You stand before it now and try to find that solace, that imaginary morning where domesticity dripped into your bed with him, the tension it takes from your bones. But you can’t find it. The day is coming up again, the first blush of fall breathing down the New York streets, and like a thready hangnail you forget to cut, you find pain with every movement.

He sits, melancholic, in your heart. I know, darling, I know.

Unconsciously, you rub a hand up your shoulder, unease mounting. You rub again, and something catches in the corner of your eye.

Someone is still here.

Tan coat nearly the same color as the floorboards, the man somehow blended in amongst the cream paper of the charcoal sketches. His knee-length coat looks expensive, the white Converse do not. His head is tilted back, looking up, inspecting one of the pieces.

Okay, yes, you saw him in passing on the streets – a flash there, a blur here – but this is getting ridiculous.

You stare, immobile and silent, at the dark curls that catch against his collar. At the broad shoulders that curl inwards. This is not a ghost, a specter. This is not a haunting. He even stands, holds his weight, just like – no, no, this is just desperation, you’re overworked and tired and –

Oh, fuck, the black rings –

“Darling!”

Your head snaps to the front of the gallery, seconds before you are nearly tackled to the ground by your friend and long-time benefactor Andrew Young. He had started to go gray at twenty-five, and never to be outdone by the ravages of time, he dyed his entire head silver. It’s been this color for years, blinding and shining, the only thing he changed was how it was styled. Nearly forty, he’s shaved the sides and let the top grow long. It flops in his face as he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear.

“This looks fantastic!” He beams around your latest exhibit. “Baby girl, I am so proud of you!”

You drag out a smile, your lips catching on your teeth, the buzzing in the back of your mind at a low hum.

“T-thank you, Andrew. I– uh,” you blink up at him, “sorry, it’s been a day and I haven’t eaten. I’m just a little dizzy.”

Andrew frowns and throws an arm over you. “You work too hard – has anyone told you that? And that, quite frankly, I simply cannot have. You see, I can’t do the set without you, and then I can’t do blocking and stage production, and then the damn thing itself is off the rails. Do you see my problem?” The designs you had been planning are back in your office, some initial sketches drawn up and laid out based on Andrew’s requests over the phone. You smile, settle, that gnawing sense of panic easing. Andrew watches you visibly relax in his arms and he taps your nose with a bright blue nail. “Besides, it’s up to you, you New York native, to help me show my star a good time around town.”

He steps back, arm thrown out wide, and your heart plummets.

You know who he is before he turns that thick head of hair, before you see that aquiline nose in his profile, before you are swallowed up by those endless, warm brown eyes that flicker in the corners of your heart.

“My dear, I’d like you to meet –,”

“Natalie?”

The noise is barely human, a punched out groan from a hit that maybe broke a rib, popped an organ loose.

The gallery has gone silent, or maybe it’s just you’re so suddenly stuffed full of memories, of rage and joy, grief and giddiness, that there’s no room for any sound.

He’s not a ghost, not a haunting, but he is pale, the whites of his eyes bright and round and staring.

He is not the Dieter that curls up against your neck at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, no, this one’s different. The lines marking his eyes are deeper, more pronounced – laugh lines, you remember, he’s clearly laughed a lot in the time that he’s been gone. His beard is speckled with gray, here and there, drawing your gaze to that lovely bare spot where the hair refuses to grow. His hair is longer, unkempt, and wild, and in his ear sits a small silver ring. This is not the Dieter you remember.

He’s older and so are you.

The coffee cup drops from his loose fingers and splatters against the ground, light brown liquid splashing everywhere. It rolls towards his shoes, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You couldn’t, really, even if you wanted to.

To cope, in the beginning, in the cold, sick days in the hospital, you told yourself that he had died. That’s why he left you, why he abandoned you to get the drugs out of your system alone. To get him out of your system. It was childish and petty and completely irrational, but it soothed you in a way that made living manageable. You could walk around those long white hallways, talk, eat, exist without a giant gaping bloody hole in your chest.

Consciously, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but in all the chunks inside of you that made up his lingering presence, the old idea, the old comfort, embedded itself.

Seeing him now, seeing him ten years older, it’s like he had come back from the dead. You could not have made up a more surreal dream.

“Oh, hey, Andrew, I got your print and I –,”

Marie stiffens the instant she sees who’s in your line of sight. Her mouth drops open and the poster joins the spilled coffee on the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Andrew’s perfectly manicured eyebrows eject into his hair. “What? You’ve met before?”

“W-we . . .” the rest of the sentence dies in your mouth, catches fire and turns to ash. “We – I . . .”

“We used to . . .” his voice is raspy, deep, as though scraping through a wet crevice. “We used to work together.”

It doesn’t sting, the casual distance in his words, because he’s right. All of you met a decade ago for work.

Marie swallows as her eyes slide to you.

His have traced every line of your body, once, twice, and three times over. They stay on the bridge of your nose, the crook of your neck, the arch of your cheek. He’s not looked at Marie once. Given the circumstances of your last meeting, perhaps it should have been you to appear as a ghost from beyond the grave.

“Uh, Andrew, do you mind if we give Dieter and Natalie some time alone to –,”

“No!” You both bark, a sufficient reason to tear your gaze away from the other.

He sounds genuinely frightened. Your stomach twists. Your gaze flickers to the spill at Dieter’s feet.

“Marie, would you get some towels for that?” She nods, completely forgetting the print and nearly sprinting for the bathroom. You swallow, set your shoulders, and turn to Andrew. “I’ve got the designs in my office. If you’d – if you’d both – like to–,”

“Natalie.” He tries again and you flinch as though his voice is a physical force that has pressed roughly against an internal bruise. At his side his hands clench over and over, mouth opening and closing, brow furrowed as if he’s scrambling through every word he knows and can’t find the right one.

Your chest suddenly squeezes so tightly you have to put a hand over your sternum to keep your ribs from collapsing into your spine. You can feel the blush breakout across your cheeks, down your chest, and you’re so confused as to why, a hot bloom of anger overwhelms everything else.

Andrew’s eyebrows are in danger of falling off his forehead. Dieter still hasn’t looked away.

“Okay, what am I missing here?”

“We dated.” You say. You keep your gaze on Andrew, knowing your knees would buckle if you look anywhere else. “While we worked together. We dated about ten years ago on the set of one of our movies. But,” you swallow, your knees shaking in these stupid fucking slacks, “that was a long time a-ago.” Your voice cracks and you hate it. You want to hear him say your name again, just to make sure he got it right.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second?” You nod. “Then, uh, let’s see this design.”

Dieter doesn’t follow you and Andrew. Small miracles, you suppose. As you walk Andrew through the designs, you can see out the clear office door that Dieter had taken off that rich tan coat and is using it to soak up the spill. You can’t tell by the twist in his mouth if he’s regretting that particular decision, or regretting something else, but Marie appears a moment later with a rag. His expression changes as she hands it to him, softens, that wind-swept, knocked-back-on-his-ass surprise creeping into the opening of his mouth. She says something to him – her back is to you – and his mouth flatlines. He nods and Marie turns on her heel towards the office.

You avert your eyes from her and look back at Andrew.

“So what do you think?”

He grins, completely obvious to the exchange outside, as he shuffles through a few papers. “As always, darling, you’ve managed to somehow crawl into my brain and recreate exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

You won’t be designing the actual set pieces, but more of the backdrop, what the audience will see through the open windows and around stairs. Most productions use lights to fill in their backdrop, but Andrew described wanting to make the stage feel as claustrophobic as possible. “Nothing breathes in here,” he had said over the phone. “We need something sturdier than lights.”

You have never felt claustrophobic in your office, but staring at Dieter, an older Dieter, a different Dieter, absurdly scrubbing your gallery floor spotless, the walls nestle tighter, the air stagnant and stale. You feel like you’re seeing the entire place with new eyes and you realize how dingy it is. You can’t look Marie in the eye as she opens the office door.

“How goes it in here?” She says, surprisingly breathless.

“Fantastic!” Andrew claps his hands together. “The theater has given us access to the space starting Monday, so I’d like to get to building this as soon as possible. The back lot is huge so I’m hoping to do all painting onsite.”

You nod, the request somewhat expected – Andrew was a bit of a micromanager.

Behind you, Marie is humming with unfocused energy, but only in a way you can pick up on after ten years of knowing her. To Andrew, she calmly asks,

“Would you like us to bring out those other pieces you won at the fundraiser? We can have them loaded up, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Oh god, yes, please. I’m so sorry – I told you I’d pick those up weeks ago! I’ll go get the car.”

Marie’s gaze latches onto you as he jogs past her.

“What do you want me to do with . . .”

You can’t find him through the window, but the floor is spotless.

You shake your head, that slightly dizzy feeling returning. “Go help Andrew. I’ll . . .” you shrug. “Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone with him if you don’t want to.”

You feel your back muscles tighten. “No, no – I want – I mean, it’s fine. If I’m going to help Andrew with the designs, then we’ll have to see each other, right?”

Her look is apprehensive but she gives in. “Alright. I’ll be just a minute.”

The second the door closes, you push your palms into your eyes and groan. What the fuck is happening?

You spot him again in the charcoal exhibit, as if this is the area he is confined to. He holds his coat over his arm, the bottom half of it damp and a different color, as he slowly roves from piece to piece. He’s on the opposite side of the room from your contribution, but a part of you wants to yank it down and shove it under the floorboards. A very large part of you.

“Dieter,” you say, hands up, but your voice startles him anyway. His stark white t-shirt matches his converse, and you vaguely think, he’s going to be cold without a jacket.

He physically steps back the closer you come. You don’t know if that hurts or if you feel relieved.

“Andrew went to get the car,” you say, your focus going in and out as you stare at his earring. “He has some paintings he won at an auction here and he hasn’t picked them up so Marie is bringing them out to the curb to load up.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah.” You lose track of the earring as you meet his gaze. Terror, in his eyes. Concern, worry.

Sadness. Yeah, you definitely know that one.

Without a single coherent thought in your head, you head for the front doors, feeling him fall in step behind you.

You can almost hear the storm brewing in his head.

“Natalie, wait.”

Just in front of the glass doors, you stop. On the other side, Marie and another backend worker load wrapped canvases into a Black Escalade. Even without the faint howl of wind, it looks cold outside.

He stands in front of you, older after ten years, but no less beautiful. He’s thickened over the years, more solid, an oak instead of a stretchy willow. The thought of what it would be like to wrap yourself around his chest, feel the warmth of his stomach against yours, comes crashing down on you. The inclination is to yank it back, submerge it, but you don’t do that anymore.

You look into his eyes and the old ache hums. You thought it was gone, despite the many times you think about him, the many versions of him that live in your memory. But it’s there. You’ve missed him.

“Look, I’m sorry – for, um, the surprise visit.” Voice low and quiet, like trying to pass on a secret, his thumb spins through his rings distractedly. “Andrew said he had some errands to run around the city a-and the names didn’t register with me . . . a-after all this time.” He swallows, glancing at your shoulder for a second before finding your eyes again. “Had I known it was yours, I would have . . . I’d . . .”

“You’d what?” You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Shake him until he speaks, until he explains himself for showing up and cracking your world in half.

His mouth crumbles, stricken with regret, and he shakes his head. “I – I –,”

Someone taps on the glass beside you and it’s your turn to jump ten feet in the air. Marie waves to you and Dieter, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold. On the street, Andrew gets into the Escalade as the worker heads for the warehouse around back.

“For what it’s worth, it was really, really good to see you.”

Your head snaps back to him. No stutter, no unease. Confidence. This is what he feels. This is what he means to say.

And then Dieter Bravo smiles at you. Genuinely, gently, full of wonder. He is . . . relieved.

You nod, dumbstruck, as he pushes through the glass doors and you’re following him before you know what you’re doing. The air has a bite to it, the threat of winter swirling in the gray clouds above the city streets. A particularly rough gust of wind barrels down and Marie staggers into you. Wrapping her up in your arms, you watch as he climbs into the Escalade and the passenger window rolls down.

Of course Andrew hired a driver. He leans out, his silver flop fluttering in the wind.

“We’re having a party tomorrow, my place. A little kick-off party before production and rehearsals begin. You two should come.”

You can’t see Dieter behind the tinted glass but you know for a fact he just tensed up. Beside you, Marie is shivering, the little thing.

“Maybe, you know? We’ve got a lot to do around the gallery before the weekend,” you say as you rub her shoulders. “It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Well, the art director is going to be there, so it might be nice to get to know him before we get started.” Andrew shrugs, seriously, unaware of the consequences of his simple request.

Nothing about this feels like a good idea. You nod. “Lemme get Marie here back inside before her lips go blue. I’ll text you tonight about it.”

You both step back from the curb as the Escalade eases its way into New York traffic. Your eyes stay pinned to the window until you can no longer see it in the distance. Holding her close, you kiss Marie’s cold forehead.

“C’mon, Frosty, I think we both deserve the biggest cup of coffee our Kerig can make.”

The hum of the potter’s wheel is loud in your concrete basement. Cold air curls in from the small open window at ground level, chilling the floor and the walls. It stings your bare toes just a bit to keep you awake and focused, your arms and hands already chilled by wet clay. You pump the wheel a bit faster as you try to thin the edge of this bowl – or what may be a bowl. This rarely ever works out, but at least the concentration forces out everything else in your brain. And, as an added bonus, the sound of the wheel also blocks the incessant buzzing of your phone.

Andrew and Marie had not stopped trying to call or text you since the gallery closed. Marie was not above simply barging into your brownstone if you had been quiet for too long, but this was a special case and she knew it.

Hands wet, back aching from your hunched position, fingers as steady as they’ll ever be, you smooth the rippling clay as it spins. You pump the pedal steadily – too fast and the clay will spin off, but too slow and you’re basically playing with playdough.

To your enormous surprise, the clay curves, molds between your finger tips. With every rotation, there comes a clear, distinct solid edge to this unfinished ceramic.

Yes! Okay, just a little bit to round things out and –

Your phone alarm goes off, you jump, and the maybe-bowl deflates into a pile of squishy goo.

“Damn it,” you mutter, even though you have only yourself to blame. You set this alarm because you needed two extra minutes to clean off before accepting the incoming Facetime.

You just finish rinsing clay out of your nails when you hear the familiar chimes from your phone. Switching between your phone and a dry rag, you accept the call and smile into the face of a sixty-five year old woman. Blue tips on the edges of her gray hair, oversized cat-wing glasses, Dr. Carla Holstein always reminded you of Ms. Frizzle’s evil twin sister, in appearance only.

“Natalie, how the fuck are you doing?”

Her non-existent brain-to-mouth filter was one of the things that initially endeared you to her. Talking to a shrink about your childhood trauma felt less embarrassing when the woman taking notes had electric blue nails.

“I’d say I’m good, doc,” you smirk at her as you head up the wooden stairs of your basement, “but then I probably wouldn’t be calling you.”

“It’s like you only wanna talk about the bad things with your therapist,” she shakes her head mockingly. “As if I wouldn’t appreciate you calling with good news.”

You chuckle as you drop onto the floor of the living room, mindful of any furniture that might get smeared with errant clay from you overalls. “I’ll save those for our weekly meetings, alright?”

“Which brings me to my next question – what the fuck is going on? You haven’t made an emergency appointment in years. What gives?”

You set your phone up against a stack of books on the wooden table you lugged here all the way from 42nd street. Frowning, you lean against the redbrick fireplace, in a home you decorated with ugly little trinkets and overused furniture. Tidy and messy, this place holds everything that over-spilled from your brain, a place that feels like what the inside of your heart might look like, if you could see it.

“Seriously, Natalie, what is it? You’re kinda freakin’ me out.”

“It’s Dieter.”

Those perfectly drawn on eyebrows arch into that silvery hairline. “What? He called you?”

“He showed up at the gallery this morning.” A motormouth when left unchecked, Carla is a fantastic therapist, first and foremost. She knows exactly when to shut up and let everything pour out of you. And you hated when she did that. You scrubbed your face with your hands, groaning. “Not like that, but he’s the lead role in Andrew’s new production. I don’t know how the fuck he even found out about the part in the first place, but he swears he didn’t know that Andrew and I know each other. I know it wasn’t an intentional ambush but . . .”

“But it still feels like one?” You nod, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth.

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like, what are the fucking chances that everything has to line up perfectly in the universe for him to come stumbling into my gallery after ten years?”

I really thought I’d never see him again.

“Was he actually stumbling? Is he sober?”

“No to the stumbling part, but I have no idea. I mean, I don’t think Andrew would hire someone so coked out they couldn’t remember their lines . . . but he was always so good at hiding it.”

The desperate anger in your voice makes you cringe. Even after all these years, you hate when you confess something you didn’t mean to. Dieter’s ability to mask how high or drunk he was used to scare you. Like you were never quite sure which version of him you were going to get. But then again, you were also so high and drunk you never really cared. Which was entirely the point.

“Well, that’s his shit to work out,” Carla scoffs. “I wanna talk about you. What did you feel at the time?”

“Nervous. Shocked. Surprised. Angry.”

“Talk to me about the anger.”

“I’m angry that I couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say to him. Not even a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ or a ‘hello’. I’m angry that he’s back in my life in a way where I’ll have to see him again and again. And I’m fucking pissed that after all these years, after all this work, I see my ex for thirty minutes and I’m running scared to my therapist.”

Carla’s face softens. If you were in person with her, this would be the part where she lowers her clipboard and looks at you with warmth you are barely accustomed to.

“But did you run for a drink?”

“No.”

“Did you run to the nearest street corner and pick up a bag of coke?”

“No.”

“Then the process is working. The tools we built to manage your anxiety, to find healthy outlets for your emotions, they held up under scrutiny. You can be pissed all you want but you should also be fucking proud as hell.”

Something hot and sharp threatens to choke you, your cheeks flushing. The word “pride” and you in the same sentence always fucking did that to you. You cough, clearing your throat.

“Okay, then what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I act around him? Do I treat him like a stranger? A friend? Can I be his friend? Should I?”

“Is that what you want? Don’t forget you always get to set the boundaries of any relationship you have. He doesn’t get to decide that for you.”

Your toes squeeze into the plush forest green carpet beneath you, thumb pressed into your palm.

“I . . . don’t know.” The truth of what you want sears the back of your throat, a vomit-burn on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. “But I shouldn’t be around him, at the very least, right? Isn’t rule number one for ex-addicts to keep away from contacts in their past lives?”

“Sure,” Carla nods sagely. “Old friends can bring back old patterns. But are you saying that because you are genuinely concerned about what would happen if you reconnect or because you feel like it’s what’s expected of you as a recovering addict?”

You bite your lip harder. “I don’t know, Carla. It just seems stupid to willingly let someone like Dieter back into my life.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to. This is a hard case because not only is he an ex, but he was also your dealer and fellow addict.” Carla leans into the camera – this is the part where she put away her clipboard entirely. “But whether or not you let Dieter back in is irrelevant. I want you to go through life with the security in yourself that your past doesn’t have to own you. You have come so far and done so well. You’re on medication and in therapy. You’ve built a great life for yourself, in spite of everything. There will always be temptations, cravings to go back, and I’m not saying you should be overconfident and assume nothing can go wrong, because it absolutely can. But you are not the old Natalie anymore, have faith in yourself. You get to decide your life.”

Once again, you are reminded of all the people who let you forget that. The anger, the hurt, decades in the making, it’s still there. But its bite is no longer cruel.

You nod. “Thank you, Carla. I needed to hear that.”

“I know that,” she smirks. “I’m a damn good therapist.”

“As if you’d let me forget.”

You thank her and end the call. With a sigh you lean back, staring into your living room. Back then, you grew spikes to keep back a world intent on consuming you. Dieter had been the only one to not mind the spikes, even mold around them.

If he’s still a fuckhead, I’m gonna kick his ass.

Your stomach makes a displeased noise, irritated at being empty for so long, so you stand, taking your phone with you as you head for the kitchen.

You bring up his contact and type out your message:

Hey Andrew! Would love to come to your party. What time?

Marie did not want to go to the party for a variety of reasons.

Too busy at the gallery. Invoicing. Nothing to wear. Straight up tired.

All valid reasons. Except they weren’t and it was bullshit and you made her go anyway.

Groaning all the way on the subway, she won’t even look at you as the elevator doors open to Andrew’s hallway. She’s gone uncharacteristically silent as you near the party. This is not her usual “I’d rather be in my Snuggie” scowl, but something else. Her eyes are sharp, hard.

“What?” You bump her with your elbow. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

You still and she does too. It’s like you can see inside her brain. “This is about Dieter?”

“Andrew’s a good guy,” she huffs, waving at the shut door. “He doesn’t deserve Dieter’s drama and bullshit . . . and neither do you.”

About a foot shorter than you, Marie carries enough spitfire to fill someone twice her size. You’ve never actually seen her in a fight, but you really don’t want to. Her cold pink nose from the wind outside does nothing to deter her rage.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was cleared by my therapist to be around him.”

She harumphs.

“Look, if I can make this much progress, this much change, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he can too?”

Her scowl deepens, but the murderous glint in her eyes fade as she knocks on Andrew’s door. “You are too nice for your own good.”

You mock-gasp. “You take that back!”

Just like every other party you’ve ever been to hosted by Andrew, the vibe is intimate, warm, and friendly. You run into and greet a few of the costume designers and lighting techs he’s used in the past, ones you’ve met before by way of just hanging around Andrew during rehearsals. Andrew is very fond of adopting creatives like pets and if he likes your work, chances are he’ll use you again – something uncommon in the industry, but very welcome to those whose paychecks are never steady. However, you notice how small the gathering is. You’ve seen this open-floor plan apartment full of people, partygoers nearly stacked on top of each other during Halloween parties or on New Years Eve. But this production team is a fraction of that size.

Private. That was the other word Andrew mentioned over the phone for the backdrop design. He wanted the space to feel private, as though you were staring into something that was none of your business.

That feeling doesn’t persist here. Here, everyone is welcome.

Everyone, including –

“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is up with you and him, or am I going to have to think up a very elaborate con to get you to confess?” Andrew snakes an arm over your shoulder, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. His green eyes are full of mischief, the faint lines around his eyes crinkled with glee, as he watches for any change in your expression. Dieter sits on a chair across the room from you, leaning in to listen to a story a man on the center couch cushion is animatedly telling with his hands. To his right, and nearly touching Dieter, is a blonde, beautiful, twenty-year old actress who everyone is telling you will be on Broadway any day now. You know someone told her your name, but you can’t remember it. You swat away your annoyance.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that. I’m dying to know –,”

“Is he sober?” Your frown falls on Andrew who takes a step back, his own thick eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who, Dieter?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

Andrew shrugs, the lilac pullover he wears looking soft enough to eat. “As far as I know, yeah. We met when Toby and I went to that yoga retreat in Oregon last year. It was a substance-free commune so unless he was getting drunk off the atmosphere –,”

“You’ve known him for a year?” You gape at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I tell you about some actor guy I met out on a co-op in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere? I didn’t know you knew him! We didn’t reconnect until I asked him to come read for the part.”

“And why did you ask him?”

“I . . . dunno,” Andrew says, clearly ruffled. “I liked his vibe. Matched what I had in my head for the role of Sam. And he’s got the best puppy dog eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen.”

It’s not like you can disagree so you turn away from him, scowl on the verge of pouting.

“Oh, no, the conversation does not end here, not after you’ve given me the third degree. Who the fuck was this guy to you?”

Across the room, the blonde’s knee knocks against Dieter’s and something acidic like bile claws the back of your stomach. You take the cup of water from Andrew, other hand digging into your purse.

“We dated. It didn’t end well. In fact, just watch Recovery Road – kinda says the whole thing.” You know Andrew doesn’t deserve your ire and you’ll apologize with coffee and a biscuit from his favorite bakery, but right now, if you don’t leave right now, you’re liable to pop something. “I heard it even won an Oscar.”

It’s stupid and childish and wrong to get jealous every time he talks to a woman.

Okay, notice the thought. Observe it. And let it go.

You inhale, the orange ring immolating the paper around the tobacco, and exhale smoke over the railing of Andrew’s balcony. It’s a nice balcony, as far as metal balconies go in New York. It’s private, sturdy, and a perfect place to contemplate the insanity of your own life. The sunset bleeds rapturous colors, bright and loud, across the city, light reflecting like stars in the glass windows of the buildings. The sight and the smoke is enough to ease the burden in your chest, just for a moment.

It’s not like you are even really jealous. You know that feeling and this isn’t it. The pain is farther away than the immediate nip of jealousy. You follow the feeling, careful not to nick yourself too hard on old memories as you use your toolbox to sort through the undulating waves of feeling.

But therein lies the problem. You remember.

You remember when that girl curled up next to Dieter, eyes full of adoration, used to be you.

You tap the ash against the metal railing, feeling terribly sorry for yourself, when the door to the balcony slides back. A few people had come and gone, shared a smoke, then went back inside. You know you are probably being a party pooper, gazing alone and wistful at the sunset, and you promise yourself this is the last one. It’s officially getting cold the lower the sun falls. But then you turn to the person who just came outside.

“Ah, shit.” He blinks at you as the noise from the party inside is muffled behind the closing door. “I mean, uh. Hi. Um. I didn’t know . . . look, I’ll just come back later –,”

“Andrew says you’re sober. Have been for at least a year. Is that true?”

Maybe you should have just brought a police hat and badge if you were going to grill everyone like this. You lean your hips back against the rail, the burn of the smoke forcing you to breathe slowly.

The autumn wind tugs at his hair, threatens to pull that black sweater out of his pants, as he stares, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes in his clenched fists.

“Um, yeah. He’s right. I’m . . . I’m sober. Have been, for a while.”

You nod, reeling in that invisible electric fence you kept him at the edge of. He senses it and hesitantly, cautiously, he takes a few steps forward and joins you at the railing, but at least two arms lengths away. Eying you, he taps out a cigarette and lights it. He smokes, a full inhale and exhale, before continuing.

“Going on about ten years now.”

The way he says it knots your stomach. His tone of voice. You know exactly what he means. How could you not?

You sip slowly, unable to look at him.

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single joint in ten years?”

He shrugs. “Doc says weed’s actually good for unfucking my brain.” He swallows and props himself up against the railing. “But, uh, I did go to therapy in rehab again and for the first time, I continued going after I got out. Turns out risk taking behaviors and mood swings are not things normal people experience. Looked lot at my anxiety around self-acceptance too. Triggers included feelings of inadequacy. I even got a new syndrome named after me in the DSM. Baffled my therapist for months.”

“Really?” You stand up right, mouth parted.

“No.” And there’s that Dieter grin. After a decade, it blooms across his face without any hesitation. Your heartbeat pounds rough against your throat for a second. But then his expression grows heavy. “But, uh, I was serious about the therapy part. It’s helped with the depression and anxiety attacks.”

You roll your cigarette between your forefinger and thumb as another wind blows by. You nip at your lower lip.

“Personally, I found Buspar was really good at keeping me from wanting to claw my skin off. Anxiety’s never been better.”

His eyebrows jump and he shuffles a bit closer.

“Oh, yeah? Used to give me the worst headaches, but we fucked around with the dosage and it helped.”

You nod, remembering those weeks of trial and error. You don’t know what to say, what else to admit. His gaze flutters up your shoulder to the side of your jaw and he leans forward with you.

“Did they, uh, put you on Campral too? Wish they had that the first time I went to rehab.”

You shift your weight as you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Makes coming to shit like this easier. I, um, don’t feel so overwhelmed to fight the urges, you know?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ do.”

You blame the catch in your breath on a particular rough gust of smoke. He taps out that cigarette and eagerly lights another one. Yours is barely holding on. He must think of something, remember a joke, because he smirks again.

“They also tried to put me on Metoprolol, but I told them to fuck off.”

You frown at him. “What’s that for?”

Dieter shakes his head, barely containing the smile on his face. “Fucking blood pressure medication. You turn forty-five and they wanna put you on Centrum fucking Silver.”

“Centrum? Isn’t that for –?”

His look dares you to tease him for it, all low eyes and curling lips, but you can’t swallow the fit of giggles. You snort, which makes him laugh, and then you do too.

You laugh with him, until you remember you shouldn’t. You swallow your giggles, sipping more fervently on your cigarette, hoping your abrupt end wasn’t too obvious.

But if Dieter notices, he doesn’t say. He watches the city skyline, contemplative.

“But of all that, therapy seems to be the thing that sticks the best.”

You groan, smacking your palm against the railing, hunching your shoulders. “God, doesn’t that fucking suck? The one thing that actually helps is talking about your stupid fucking feelings?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it really does.”

Grinning, you flick your cigarette into the concrete pot Andrew has specifically out here for that sort of thing and go to light another one, but your packet is empty. You both stare at the empty box and then each other.

Dieter pulls on his cigarette, with a big inhale. “Well, I guess you, um, gotta go back –,”

Your past does not own you. You decide what you want.

“Do you wanna get lunch sometime?” That is not how you should have asked that question. His eyes go wide and he’s consumed by a coughing fit. You realize your mistake only seconds too late. “That’s not a line, I swear–,”

He bats your concern away, eyes watering, shaking his head.

“No, I know–,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d like — to catch up. No – I didn’t think it was – a line.”

He barely gets his breathing right, your own hands knotted together, as the balcony door opens for a second time.

“There you are!” Marie tsks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and –,”

She frowns at the hunched-over coughing man in the shadows. He tries to smile at her, cheeks red, eyes wet.

“Hi, Marie, how are–,”

“Andrew wants to make a speech.” She talks like she didn’t hear him. “Come on.”

She all but takes you by the scruff of your neck and hauls you back inside. You wave over your shoulder to Dieter and realize you don’t have his number anymore. Haven’t had it for years. You no longer have any way of contacting him, even if you wanted to.

As speeches go, Andrew was always very good at them. Short, sweet, and to the point. He thanks everyone for coming as he stands on his dining room table, thanks the caterers and the staff. You stand in the corner with Marie, chatting with the art director you finally met until Andrew started his speech. You focus entirely on Andrew, resolutely not searching the crowd or the balcony, as he continues to welcome everyone to New York, cracking a few jokes here and there. But then the perfunctory part of his speech is over, when something thoughtful comes over his face.

“I know you’ve all got better things to do than listen to me rant and rave, but I know each of you personally, and I’d like to say I’m so happy you’re in my life. I’d like to think everyone touches each other’s lives for a purpose. Not to sound utilitarian, because those purposes can be healing an emotional wound, or filling a hole you didn’t know was there. Or, in Jack’s case, the best damn audio technician I’ve ever seen. Thanks, Jack.” He holds up his glass as the crowd laughs. Andrew smiles and shifts his weight. He had never done any sort of acting himself, always more content to be the conductor of the chaos, but you always think he would have done well. He has a presence and it’s comforting. “Every day we interact with each other in ways that we can’t foresee and leave lasting consequences we can’t explain. That’s what’s at the heart of this story, this play we’re about to create. The effects we have on each other, how those chance meetings can have lasting consequences.” He grins across the crowd, to where you know his husband, Toby, stands. “How love is the only thing that matters in this fucking world. I really hope you remember that as we start production. If nothing we do matters, then love is the most important thing we’ll ever do.” He holds his glass high and everyone follows. “To love.”

“To love,” the chorus chants.

You’ve never been good at sitting still but this is getting ridiculous. Beneath the table, your toes curl and uncurl in your boots, rubbing blisters with your thick socks. Your teeth nibble the thinnest piece of skin behind your lip, chomping constantly like an uneasy horse chewing at its bit. You stare at the menu and read absolutely nothing. It could be written in French for all that you retain.

This is such a dumb fucking idea.

The restaurant is nice. Too nice for something like this. They have glass cups and plates that clink together when stacked on top of each other. The lighting feels low, even for the middle of the day. The paneled wooden walls are too stuffy, too old money. When you asked Andrew for a brunch suggestion, you never should have trusted the recommendation of someone whose idea of loungewear is a pair of hot pink Puma track pants. You loosen your grip on the leather-bound menu out of fear of breaking it in half.

“This is so weird.”

Your eyes snap across the table to your lunch companion. Sunglasses pushed up and nestled inside his long hair, Dieter distractedly tugs at his earring, frowning at the cream-colored menu. Everything about this is wrong. The location. The vibe. The white fucking table cloth. The fact that he’s here, sitting with you, like this is some chat with a business acquaintance –

“This is so fucking weird,” he says again, slowly. “Not a single thing on this menu looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, letting it settle, before he grins up at you. With a sigh, all the air rushes out of your chest. You smile back.

“There’s this really good hot dog cart down the road.”

He snaps his menu shut with glee. “Lead the fucking way.”

Ten minutes later, Dieter groans into a steaming chili cheese dog. You’ve found a concrete bench overlooking a small nearby park. It’s Saturday so the park is full of children and their parents, dogs and their owners. It’s . . . normal.

“Holy shit, this is good.” He licks melted cheese off the space between his thumb and forefinger and goes back in for seconds.

You suck a drop of chili off your thumb and grin. “Found this place when Marie and I first moved here. We lived just down the road and Tony with his cart became our guardian angel. And even now, even though I live across town, I’ll still come by just for his hot dogs.”

The man, round as he was tall, waves over his shoulder, heat rising from his chunky yellow cart, and you both wave back.

“Can Tony adopt me? Please? I clean the dishes every time, I swear.”

You chuckle as Dieter continues to slurp every errant stream of meat juice careening down his wrist.

“I think his other kids would object, but you can try.”

He chews slowly, suddenly thoughtful, glancing over the cold autumn air at the vendor. “You told me once you felt like it was hard to make friends. Guess that’s not the case anymore.”

He glances at you and you finish off your hot dog in two bites, your mouth dry. You shrug. “I do a lot of things now that I didn’t back then.”

He nods – rather, moves his head up and down rigidly – and finishes his lunch as well. You hand him a napkin and he takes it gratefully.

“But, uh, speaking of friends, how’s Heidi? Do you still keep in touch?”

Dieter’s eyes light up. He tosses away the napkin as he takes out his phone. “They just adopted another little kid.” He scrolls through his pictures before handing it off to you.

And once again you’re struck with the weight of memories that had been at the bottom of the box for years. Heidi’s older too, her hair now completely sheared off, cut shorter even than Dieter’s, but she’s smiling. She and another woman hold up a boy who looks to be about six, while two others, another boy and a girl, sit in front of the couch. All of them smile up happily for the camera. It tugs at a soft place inside of you.

The thing that’s been circling your mind for days lifts its head out of the churning mixture of your thoughts, sniffing the air, knowing it’s almost time.

“Oh wow! He’s adorable!” You grin genuinely.

Dieter smirks as he closes his phone. “Carlos. Heidi asked me to help him practice his Spanish, but I’m pretty sure he knows more English than I do.”

“So they’re happy?”

His brown eyes fall on you like autumn leaves and your toes curl again. “Yeah, they’re happy.”

“And Mark? Do you still keep up with him?”

Dieter glances away, biting his lip. “Um, no, actually. It’s kind of hard to hang out with someone after you’ve punched them in the face and called them a liar while being so coked out you’re hallucinating.” He picks at a callus on his palm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost a friend because I did dumb shit while I was high.”

You nod, the shame and embarrassment all too familiar. Plus, every memory you have of that hotel you handle with radiation tongs and chemical-resistant gloves.

“But, uh, what about you?” He leans back against the bench, hands in his lap. Behind him, children run and scream in the cool sunlight. “Were you and Marie always friends, even back then?”

“That’s a complicated question.” You sigh and tuck your hands up into your jacket pocket, matching his position on the bench. His legs sprawl out far longer than yours. “I wanted to be her friend back then, and I tried, but then things got . . . intense, with you, and the drugs, and I stopped responding to her calls and texts. For weeks at a time.” His gaze flickers to you as you talk, between your face and your pockets. “But she was also there for me . . . afterwards. She says Heidi called her and told her what happened and she immediately came to the hospital. She just fucking forgave me. Forgave all the shitty things I had done to her, just like that. To this day, she doesn’t hold it over me and I don’t know why but I’m so grateful for her . . .” Your voice cracks and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can feel the wind on your cheeks, your unspilled tears sitting in your eyes.

You have to get this thing off your chest.

“Dieter, I’m so sorry.” With a gasp to stifle your tears, you turn to him to look him in the eyes. “For the first two years of my rehab, I thought about writing to you, or calling you. Just to say how sorry I was. I had no idea what it was like on the other side of sobriety, how every day is a such a fucking struggle, and I rubbed that in your face, over and over again until you snapped. I’m so sorry.”

He studies you for a moment, arms crossed, dark eyes almost black in the thin light. You can hear children yelling and shrieking with glee. Faint, distant. He taps his teeth together twice before finding his answer, his jaw tight.

“That’s not why I snapped and you know it.”

His voice holds like iron in the wispy wind. Everything blurs around you but not that. Not him. He shakes his head gently, eyes falling to the scarf around your neck.

“And please don’t apologize to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.”

He meets your eyes and you swear they’re damp. A shade brighter than they were before. You stare at each other, on that park bench in Brooklyn, on a cold autumn day, for a long, long time.

You have to ask it now. You can’t avoid it any longer.

“You wanna get coffee?” You pass the tremble in your hands off as a shiver. He nods, still chewing on his mouth, and you gather your trash.

It slips out of you as casually as you slip your napkins into the trash bin.

“How’s Chloe?”

You barely have turned around when his hand seizes your upper arm. His grip is almost too tight, his eyes wide and manic.

“Oh, shit.” He blinks as though he’d been slapped. “Natalie, I never told you – I didn’t even think – fuck –,”

“What, Dieter?” You want to pull away, but the touch around your arm is warm, thick. You peer up at him from furrowed eyebrows. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows.

“The baby – it’s not – it wasn’t mine.”

Your entire body goes slack as your mouth drops open. The hold he has on you is welcomed; the entire park is in danger of spinning sideways.

Somehow he has the good sense to pull you both back onto the bench. Your knees buckle the second you move and you all but collapse into the concrete. Dieter releases you and rubs his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still wide and blank.

“How do I say this?” He murmurs and that old hurt turns to panic, to anger.

“How to say what, Dieter?” You snap, hotly. “Just start at the beginning. Please.”

He shakes his head, tongue up against his molars, finally turning to look at you. “Chloe and I got divorced. Years ago.” He takes a steadying breath, thumbnail absent-mindedly against the black ring on his third finger on his left hand, as if to remind himself what was there. This is why no one over the age of twenty-five needs to wear this many rings, Dieter!

“Look, Chloe and I – our marriage was shit from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true,” he says, still soothing himself with gentle strokes. “I used Chloe, like all the people in my life, like a crutch and she felt it. I was smothering her and she couldn’t get far enough away from me, even halfway around the world. She started seeing someone in Portugal and I think she was happy there. I hope so. But, uh, she didn’t want it to get to the papers that she’d cheated on her movie-star husband and got knocked up as a result, so she passed the baby off as mine. We were about seven months in when she finally told me. I don’t know if she could tell I was coming apart at the seams or she was finally ready to be happy, but she confessed. And I confessed to her – the drugs, the affair with you – all of it. I think I just wanted it to be over, done. We weren’t going to come back from something like that and I think we were both okay with it.” He stops spinning the ring and, against all expectations, grins. “This is probably kind of fucked up of me but we kept in touch for a while. She married the baby’s dad about a month after we divorced. He’s actually a really nice guy. I was even invited to the wedding, if you can imagine.”

There must be something wrong with your hearing. He’s stopped speaking but there’s a high pitched whine nestled between your ears.

“So you don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“No, I don’t have some ten year old kid running around out there,” he huffs, shaking his head. “And no, I’m not a father. Or a husband. Not anymore.”

You say the first thing you think of.

“Dee, that’s fucking crazy.” His old nickname slips out while your brain is offline. “That’s, like, soap opera levels of insane. That’s . . . I can’t believe . . .”

With a massive inhale, where you can see the hot steam of breath enter into his mouth and nostrils, he sits back, hands limp in his lap.

“I don’t blame her, you know. After what I had done, to her, to you, I didn’t have the right to be angry that she cheated on me. In some fucked up way, it made sense and it wasn’t just my paranoid, druggy brain telling me something was off. I was never a good husband, was never going to be a good father. When I think about it, the kindest thing she ever did was agree to leave me, even when that seemed impossible.”

His massive palms smooth across his thighs, his soft hair tugged on by the wind. His fingertips stop just short of touching yours, inches from your own lap.

“Natalie, I’m sorry I never reached out after that night. Or even years later. I lost hours of sleep thinking about what I was going to say to you if you ever let me see you again. I had all these grand plans of finding you and showing you how sorry I was. But then,” he swallows, “I realized what damage that would do and I . . . I thought it would be better if we just never saw each other again.”

Your ribs expand out into your chest, just once, just enough for it to hurt, before everything settles.

“I didn’t try and find you for the same reasons. I wanted to, though.”

If that counts for anything.

Back then, Dieter always had a fascination with your hands. Holding them, inspecting them, drawing invisible artwork across your palms and over your veins. He even sketched them on notebook paper and post-it notes from time to time, when you sat still long enough to let him.

You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own back into his pockets.

Anxiety churns in your stomach. There’s more he wants to say and so do you, but for now, you’re content to let the confessions of the day settle.

It’s funny, the little things that you pull together in your mind to create an image of someone. You didn’t think of it often, but when you did, you tried to imagine him happy, with his wife and child. And now you know that’s all they were, imaginings. You wonder if you thought about it more than he did.

The label of father for Dieter was gone, after ten long, insufferable years. You had no idea what would take its place.

“Can I ask you something?”

When you look at him, the intensity in his gaze is lifted. Something lighter has taken its place.

“Sure.”

“Why were they called The Sixers?”

The whiplash between conversation topics is colder and sharper than the air around you. You suddenly remember you’re in a park full of children with Dieter Bravo inches from you.

You grin at him.

“Because it sounds like the sex-ers. Like sex-havers but said fast.”

That press of skin, the dimple on his right cheek, deepens and he smiles. “Nick came up with that one, didn’t he?”

You giggle. “Yeah, but the rest of them signed off on it.”

He nods, eyebrows arching as he shrugs. “But I actually meant why are they called The Sixers when there’s only five of them?”

Not once, after a decade, after millions of memories you shifted through, pulled out and examined and held up to the light – after shifting weight and blame and shame, putting your entire life under scrutiny – after sobriety and founding the gallery and finding Marie as the best friend in your whole world –

Not once, had you ever stopped to consider that.

It starts low in your stomach, expanding rapidly, arching up your spine, pulling your lips open, your head back until it bursts out of your mouth so absurdly loud, you clap a hand over your lips to keep from drawing attention.

You laugh so hard, you cry.

Dieter is bent over, howling alongside you.

When he orders your coffee, he remembers how you take it.

“Cream, no sugar, right?” He smiles as he hands you the steaming cup.

What else of you still lives inside of him? You hesitate to wonder.

You nod, thanking him, and follow him down the street.

A brisk evening settles between the high rises and rows of brownstones. The air has a mean bite to it now, a chill that nips at the bone. But you don’t really notice it. Not with his warm shoulder pressed up against yours, the warm styrofoam keeping your fingers from numbing. You’d brought up Andrew and the discussion quickly turned to the play. Dieter gestures wildly, chatting about this role, something so different from Hollywood.

Not that he had done much in the way of the public eye after Recovery Road. Smaller stuff, indie films, a few local LA plays. Then when all that became insufferable, he wrote a few treatments for some films, scripts to movies that never saw the light of day, and sold off the rights of those scripts to keep himself busy. He even directed a short film or two, but still felt a restlessness you were all too familiar with.

“So when Andrew called, I got the next flight out. This is the first part I’ve been excited about in years.”

You smile at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m really glad to hear that. Andrew’s a great director, I think you’ll have fun with him.”

As you led him near and nearer to your street, the conversation wove between artistic inclinations, production management, set design, character work – things you thought you’d forgotten about for the most part, but came back all too easily. You laughed easily too.

You were laughing when you stopped in front of your brownstone, but then instantly sobered when you saw who was waiting for you on the steps. Which was intentional because she absolutely had a set of keys.

“Oh, uh, hey, Marie.”

“Dieter.” But she’s looking at you, her jaw set and eyes blazing. “I just came by to get those invoices. Did I interrupt something?”

The back of your neck warms and you put more space between your shoulder and his. “No, i-it’s fine. Dieter was just walking me home. The invoices are in my kitchen.”

The chill of the air settles around you, tapping against the bubble you’d found yourself in after the park. You have him at arm’s length and you don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug. You go with neither.

“It was good catching up. I’ll see you Monday?”

He nods, grinning in that silly way that makes him look like a fourteen year old dumbass. “For sure. See you Monday.”

It’s not the way you wanted your afternoon with him to go, but in honesty, it was probably the best way it could have gone. Dieter waves at Marie as he heads back the way you came, towards the subway station.

He’s not entirely out of earshot when Marie turns on you.

“So, what the fuck was that?”

You don’t meet her eyes as you fumble for your keys, your fingers numb from the cold. The door to your brownstone creaks as you stumble inside, as if irritated with you that you’re letting all the warm air out.

“What are you talking about? We were just catching up.”

She’s hot on your heels as you slide off your jacket, almost running for the kitchen.

“You don’t just catch up with someone like Dieter Bravo. He knows all your weaknesses, Nat.”

You scowl as you toss your purse onto the kitchen island. You face off with her, your hands on your hips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s your blindspot,” she says, carefully watching your face. “Always has been. He’s not just some guy and you know it. He broke your fucking heart.”

It had been all smiles and laughing and remembering the good this afternoon. But she isn’t wrong. She rarely was.

She can see the understanding cross over your face.

“Where’s his wife anyway? Chloe?”

“They’re divorced, okay?”

Marie’s mouth falls open in disgust and you cringe. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

“So he’s back in your life for five minutes, single, and you’re getting coffee with him?”

“I didn’t know he was single when I asked him — you know what, it’s fine. I asked if he wanted to get lunch and that turned into coffee and we spent a lot of time talking about the play. That’s it.”

She crosses her arms, reading every line in your body for secrets, as if he might have slipped you a bag of Oxy. You stare back. You have done nothing wrong and neither did he.

(You store away the fact that this was the first time you hung out with Dieter Bravo in a capacity that didn’t have you both hiding in shadows, ready to examine later alone in bed.)

“And you can honestly say you didn’t feel anything for him?” Marie arches an eyebrow, waiting for your stony face to crack. “No flicker? Nothing after ten years of radio silence?

“It’s not like it was before,” you answer as honestly as you can. “Even if it was, I can’t imagine he feels anything but guilt over me, which isn’t a great starting point for a relationship. You saw his face in the gallery – he looked petrified, not in love.”

When she nods, it stings, just a bit. She eyes the paperwork, knowing the income and good word coming from Andrew’s production would benefit the gallery for years to come. And of course she knew – she was the one who came up with it. Would she have said yes if she knew Dieter was attached to it? Would you have?

“Are you going to see him again?”

You wave a sweeping hand at the invoices, as if to show how the gallery and Andrew’s show are completely intertwined.

“I have to, right?”

Marie frowns at you, angry but not at you, and then her face softens, all fight gone, and she goes around the island to hug you. This is what saved you. This is what kept you going.

“I know my boundaries, Marie,” you say to the crook of her neck, unwilling to look her in the eyes while you say this. “And I know what happened in the past. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.”

She kisses your cheek. “Good because I really can’t run the gallery by myself.”

You laugh, pulling apart, and you shuffle the invoices together. “Yeah, who would you have to cart all this paperwork around?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

You wave her goodbye from your porch, locking the door after her.

You want to google his name and “divorce” to see if it’s true. If anything he told you today was real. You want to curl up in bed, with your head under the sheets and try and piece his life without you together. But you don’t.

That was the thing with Dieter. You want things, but you can’t have them. You have this indescribable urge, but it must be tempered. The obsession is lesser, a blindspot more than anything, now that you know your next hit and how you felt about him had been horrifically tied up into one, incessant, painful need. It would never be as bad, you assure yourself because now that you don’t have that overwhelming urge to get high; whatever you would be feeling is just good plain old human brain chemicals. And if you survived being coked out for nearly a year straight, you’d probably survive your own stupid emotions.

You would survive Dieter Bravo. All you have to do now is be his friend.

OCTOBER

A sharp chill had descended over the city, bringing with it an explosion of color. A consolation prize for the painful nip in the air. It was too early in the season for snow, or anything to prevent the wind from being so cruel, so everyone had to bustle from one structure to the next, careful to avoid the cold that hounded them like dogs. Teeth clenched, hands clutching scarves, the streets were filled with scowls and pink cheeks, raw knuckles and frozen ears. The crowds moved faster, eager to get where they’re going, out of this cold, out of this wind that pressed unsuspecting bodies together with the force of it. It made getting out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth of duvets and covers, planting your feet on the freezing wood, almost a monumentally impossible task. Especially for those who hated mornings anyway.

As much as you tried – really, truly, desperately tried as you sorted through the mosaic of your life, shining up as much as you could – you simply could not turn yourself into a morning person. Yawning widely, you stirred the cup of terrible coffee aimlessly, as if with enough glaring it would not only taste better, but startle you awake.

No such luck.

“Hey, miss, where would you like us to put these?”

You grimace as you choke down the black sludge, pointing the workman to a far wall at the back of the stage. Six in the morning and you already know it was going to be a long day. There are supplies to organize, materials to sort out, work to delegate, but you can’t seem to climb out of that sleepy haze. It had been a while since you’d been on the set of a production but if you don’t plant your feet now, you are liable to get swept up into the chaos.

You shake your head and blink. Focus.

Your designs had mapped out six separate moveable pieces of extra thick balsa wood. Attached to wheels, stage hands could rearrange the pieces as needed, depending on the scene. The “walls” are light enough for Andrew’s skeleton crew, but with some shadows and shading, you could give them depth and visual weight. You just had to build the damn things first, but Andrew assured you that all of his stagehands are basically master carpenters. By the confused but eager looks on their faces, you doubt that’s entirely true. Maybe by the end of this you’ll all be master carpenters.

Smiling to yourself, you go to help them unpack the planks of wood, but freeze when you hear Andrew’s voice unexpectedly. Assuming he’d come by when most of the work is nearly done, you poke your head around the thick black curtains.

Andrew stands facing the house, his arms wide and mobile. You smirk at the Lululemon sweats – his version of dressing down – as he addresses the small crowd in front of him. It’s the cast, you realize, only about seven of them and in the center is, of course, Dieter, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d never been a morning person either. He has his arms crossed over a thin black shirt and he’s focused entirely on Andrew, thick brows furrowed.

And focused entirely on him, is Emily (you finally remember her name), the cute blonde twenty-something.

Friends help friends get dates, right? Maybe this would be a good first step.

Getting Dieter Bravo laid.

Lunch arrives well past noon, leaving everyone tired, hungry, and a little irritable. Cast and crew go off into their separate corners, looking for peace and quiet and somewhere the pounding of hammers isn’t audible.

You’re deciding between a ham or turkey sandwich when he sidles up next to you. His plate is half a sandwich, three strawberries, and four cookies. Good to see his voracious sweet tooth hadn’t dulled even a little bit.

You glance over your shoulder. Emily sits on the edge of the stage, munching on a bag of chips and reading over her script. With your elbow, you nudge Dieter and he turns to look.

“She likes you,” you grin.

He frowns, glancing back between you and the girl on stage. “Who? Emily?”

“Duh. She has eyes, doesn’t she?”

Dieter’s mouth goes tight and he turns back to the craft’s table, suddenly interested in adding something healthy to his plate.

“She flirts with everyone. Besides, I’m kind of out of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at a melon, noses through the box of chips. “Rehab makes dating kinda hard. Unless . . .” he pauses and puts down his plate, “unless you’ve figured out the secret to dating in rehab.”

Your neck heats again. “Um, no, definitely not. It’s been a while, for me too.”

“How long is a while?” His eyes darken as he asks.

You are completely baffled at how quickly this conversation spiraled out of your control.

“Dieter – I – it’s been – you —,”

He spares you and bites the corner of his cheek. He glances over to Emily as she swings a long, bare leg over the edge of the stage.

“I’m not sleeping with her.” You nod, dumbstruck by this complete and total opposite reaction you thought he’d have. He works his jaw before looking back at you. “Her or anyone else. Okay?”

Andrew calls the cast to the stage to review blocking before the buzz saws start up again, so Dieter is pulled away before you can sputter incoherent consonants at him. He leaves his plate with you.

“Don’t let anyone steal my cookies,” he says very seriously before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back to work.

What you said is true. You didn’t date anyone in rehab, the practice actually rather forbidden, and didn’t really have the inclination once you got out. It had been years before you actually tried to date anyone, but most of them ended after the first awkward hug goodbye or when he tried to put his hand up your skirt at dinner.

You hadn’t been a nun this whole time – you weren’t a fucking saint – but there hadn’t been anyone, anyone who really mattered in, years. For the first time, that struck you as odd. There wasn’t time, you reason with yourself as you watch him cross the stage on Andrew’s direction and jot notes in his script, his hair sticking up in all directions as if a cat’s tongue had licked him up the back of his neck. With moving to New York and starting the gallery and then running it, expanding it, there just simply wasn’t time to find something to fill that giant, gaping hole in your life. A hole you didn’t seem to mind or even notice, until Dieter came back.

Okay, maybe, friends didn’t need to help friends pick up dates. He didn’t seem interested anyway.

You pick up his plate, careful to not spill his precious sweets, only vaguely aware that his first inclination after loading up his lunch was to come find you.

🤍 Next: Part 2 + Epilogue

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