#chittapon leechiyapornkul

[sunshinesvr]

nct as dumb things i've done

taeyong: freaked out when a moth landed on my shoulder (while doing dishes) and splashed soap in my eyes

taeil: put a q-tip too deep into my ear and temporarily deafened myself

johnny: touched the hair straightener and burned myself after i convinced myself it "wasn't that hot"

yuta: shouted out the answer to a question on a math test accidentally, instead of whispering it to my friend

kun: didn't put sunscreen on when i went to the beach because "i never burn" and got the most painful sunburn i'd ever had

doyoung: lied for 4 days about being sick and ended up having a weeks worth of makeup work

ten: lied about needing to use the elevator and got a weeks worth of detention

jaehyun: walked down the hallway on my phone thinking it'd be fine and ended up getting smacked by two doors

sicheng: wrapped myself in 4 blankets to sleep in my 95 degree room

jungwoo: moved a music stand out of the way to prevent tripping over it, just to trip over it in that spot

yukhei: sword loudly on the bus when it was dead silent because i had my headphones and couldn't hear

mark: made secret plans to sneak out and accidentally texted my mom the plans instead of my friend

renjun: chased my brother down the road barefoot after he started mocking me

jeno: decided that putting one pink clothing in a load of whites was fine and ended up turning my whole load pink

donghyuck: shouted out "i'm so gay for her" while watching a movie with my boyfriend

jaemin: threw the ball into my own team's net in PE (and got yelled at by the upperclassmen)

chenle: wanted to walk to the store (that's like two miles from home) and got lost

jisung: put my finger in a pencil sharper, after saying my finger was small enough, and got it stuck

[just-some-random-blogger]

Obra Maestra

NCT 127  ArtCurator!Nakamoto Yuta x Painter!Reader Characters: Nakamoto Yuta, mentions of Lee Donghyuck (Haechan), Kim Dongyong (Doyoung), Jung Jaehyun, Lee Taeyong, Chittapon Leechiyapornkul (Ten) Summary: Yuta supposedly built his reputation with thick luck-- catching artists just before they’ve gone out of the art scene or went on a permanent vacation or reported missing. But what no one knows is that every artist Yuta’s grown attached to are immortalised in his own personal collection. Words: 3k+  Warnings: Fluff, angst, smut, choking, cussing, lewd language, graphic depictions of violence, murder, themes of yandere, etc.

A/N: yeah this is a work of fiction, and au, NCT AINT THIS

Yuta extends his arm lightly outward, like the ballet dancer amidst her routine last night. He is currently buzzed so high he feels drowsy, like a drenched sock. He plays the record on his player, moving the needle to the edge of the disk. He sighs once the soothing sounds of classical music fill his ears. Liquid drips on the floor from his fingertips. 

It's been a long day for him, having finished his piece.

He walks like he's floating or limping.

He moves to his red leather chair and sits back. He lets his head hang back against the back rest and sighs.

He props his elbows on the arm rest and let his warm hands bask in its heat.

Yuta is satisfied with his work. The red on his canvas is truly breath-taking. He is thankful for your contribution to his personal collection. He’s never made anything like this before, attempted yes, but none of them was worth the canvas they were lathered on.

 His dim lit studio is quiet, since you have now gone, but it is blissful.

He smiles in recollection of your first meeting.

 Yuta adored the modesty of your black dress. It was unlike the rest of the snobs in the room, trying so hard to look chic and high class, yet opting to cut their clothes in such provoking places.

Your skirt fell amidst your shin bone. Your turtle neck ceased just below your jaw. Your sleeves covered the entirety of your upper arm. Your heels were about three inches high, and your hair was held up by jade pins. He could tell you put on light make up, and yet it was more than enough to complete your simplistic look.

You conversed with the exuberant Lee Donghyuck, who had won an award for two of his paintings last year. Yuta's team has pushed him to get his hands on one of Donghyuk's paintings, but the former feels nothing for the subjects presented by the latter.

You thanked the man you were conversing with, cheeks blushing.

 You on the other hand, Yuta thought, promised so much more depth with your work.

So he went to you, pushed the boy Donghyuck aside and kissed the back of your hand. The gesture made you blush, and Donghyuck annoyingly roll his eyes as he walked away.

"A vision," Yuta speaks.

You stutter, knitting your brows, "I- I'm not."

He smirks and releases your hand, "I meant your work."

You clench your jaw and force away the blush about to spread across your face.

Yuta smiles at the memory, and basks in his genius with human emotion. How he has consistently been firmly successful in his escapades with his mastery of the push and pull method.

Push them away to have them reeling in harder.

Yuta was so kind and warm to you the day you met. And yet when he purposefully made your second meeting look coincidental, he had acted like he didn't see you, and was too busy to spare you a glance.

The next time you had coincidentally met, he approached you first and washed away any negative emotions you may have with him.

The forth time, he couldn't ignore you. And so when you were at a gala together, he made himself visible to you. However, the moment you called his name, he laughed with his co-curators and faced the other way, so to make it seem he hadn't heard you.

By the time you came over, Yuta beamed, "Oh! You're here!" He kisses your cheek, "How have you been?"

Your suspicion of him ignoring you lessened, having been overpowered by the slight the flustered feeling on your chest. "I've been calling you for ages."

Yuta plays dumb, "you have my phone number?"

"No!" You growl, "from across the room, Nakamoto."

"Wow," Dongyoung, who had been 'pre-occupying' Yuta said, "you're right about her. She isn't rookie-like. At least not the way she acts."

You turn to Dongyoung, cheeks almost blushing in embarassment. Yuta smirks, "That's why I like her." He grabs your hand, "I'm sorry. Let me give you my number so that you won't have to call me from across the room for ages."

 Correct. He does this with every one of the artists he has his eye on. But no, he will not kiss everyone in the storage room of his museum, unless that is how he would know the artist wanted their relationship to progress.

Yuta would bait them in and hook them onto his finger, up until they can give him anything he wants, absolutely anything.

 Elated from an active night, Yuta prepares scrambled eggs and a fresh salad for breakfast. Much like with art, he is skilled and quick with the knife. He finished the salad before the pan grew hot enough. By the time he starts cooking, you emerge from his bedroom to his perfectly, naturally lit, fung-shui dining room-kitchen area.

You look like a masterpiece. Wrapped in nothing but his designer dress-shirt, his lips curve upward at the sight of the purple blossoms on your neck, collarbone, cleavage, and goodness knows where else. Yuta rests his hip on the counter and releases the pan of eggs, so to cross his arms over his bare, toned chest.

You lick your bruised lips as you slowly walk to him with slight discomfort.

"You good, gorgeous?" Yuta teases and raises his brows.

You supress as smile, ignoring his cockiness, "you gonna let that burn?"

Yuta hums, "I might, if you don't run to me in a hurry."

You scowl at him. Yuta laughs proudly, "Run! Run! I believe in you."

"Fuck off, Nakamoto!"

Yuta takes it as a challenge. His expression drops. Swiftly he kills the fire on the stove. The clicking sound, paired with his sudden charging motion, frighten you enough to freeze you in place.

Once upon you, he pulls your hair back, causing you to whimper. He runs his teeth on your jugular, all before kissing it. You hold onto his torso for dear life, nails digging into his skin. He makes a sound at the slight pain, and it's the hottest thing you've heard from him since last night.

Next thing you know, he's pushed you down on his hardwood floors and ripped open the shirt on your body. The buttons pop off around you. Before him is your bare skin with a map of skin marks sprawled all over. Yuta grabs your thigh and breathes lowly, "I'd much rather fuck you."

He kisses your lips and pushes himself in between your legs causing a whimper to come out between your lips. He pulls back to place a hand on your neck, “Don’t make another sound, or I’ll make you scream so loud you’ll lose your voice.”

You shiver under his touch and gaze. You’re rendered speechless. Yuta raises a brow and matches your nudity. He releases a chuckle and kisses your lips, hand still firmly on you.

And then he’s pushing you down and ramming into you with everything he’s got. How could you not fucking scream?

It's all fun and games for Yuta in this stage. 

But when he's had your heart in his palm, it's all business.

 This is how he's done it. Not with luck, as his jealous competitors say, but with hard work, charisma, and skill. With blood, sweat, tears, and come. He has built his repertoire up so high, there is no possible way for it to go down.

Now all's that left is to finish his masterpiece.

 "Muse," Yuta says, bare chest against your fluffy mattress. Today's activities were hosted by your small, but stylish apartment. He rolls on his back and turns to your bare ceiling, thinking of how he could do his own version of the ceilings of Sistine Chapel but with a little bit more you. He could at this point, from watching you work, and from all the fun you had painting then fucking and fucking then painting.

You hum and turn over your shoulder, mind still focused on your portrait of Yuta. 

You paint incredibly well after Yuta’s just had his way with you. 

You hold a brush in your hand and a palette. Your chest feels fuzzy over your love drunk thoughts of the man.

"Make me twenty paintings for my museum."

You tilt you head to the side and close one eye to make sure of the symmetry of the nose on canvas. You suddenly realise what Yuta just said and turn to him completely, "What?"

Yuta only looks at you.

You shiver under the robe you were wearing because of his heavy gaze.

"Is it too few? How about twenty five?"

"What?"

Yuta blinks, "It should be a couple hundred thousand for an artist at your level. But depending on how much I like your work, which you know I do, I've readied three million at least."

Your heart leaps to your mouth and in your hasty movements, your brush dips in red paint. You try to compose yourself, but it only unintentionally pokes your red brush into your painting, smearing by the eyes of your subject.

You panic and cuss, looking at the done damage on your Yuta.

The said man stands and embraces you from behind, pulling your brush and pallete away. He soothes you and kisses your cheek, "Calm down," he looks at the disaster, "I like it like that. Beautiful."

You look at Yuta, eyes glossy. Yuta pushes stray hair behind your ear.

"You think my work is worth that much?"

"My muse," Yuta kisses your lips, "it'll be worth much more than that by the time you’re done."

 And so you make him 25 paintings. It takes half a year, to Yuta's surprise. You say it's because Yuta inspired you so much. 

Yuta almost feels his heart flutter at that. 

He's glad your quality of work did not decrease due to the lack of time.

 Yuta sets up your exhibit and two months later, it is open to be viewed by those who has the influence and the money to view it.

You receive mixed reviews, but you mostly don't care because Yuta is by your side.

You both decide to keep your relationship under wraps. It was really Yuta's idea, to protect you of course. "I don't want you to receive more criticism than you already have," he explains, kissing your knuckles when no one is looking, and keeping a far enough distance.

Except Yuta is certain the CEO Jung Jaehyun and his blabber mouth of a wife has already told her entire socialite, gold digging clan this juicy scoop. He can hear it now “Aigoo that hot museum curator has a girlfriend now!”

 Your next days after are basically out of a fairy tale.

Yuta decides then it's time for him to finish his own exhibit. It's been years in the making, almost a decade. It feels like a century to him.

He has done 9 pieces so far, and with you by his side, he's ready to complete his final piece. But there really isn't any real rush. He doesn't plan to showcase his work to the public. No matter how much you'll try to convince him. He thinks it’s funny how much you’re invested in his work, especially when you’ve never seen them, especially when you don’t know what it means to be part of it.

Yuta has never even shown you any of the nine pieces, or anyone for that matter-- well that lived to speak about it or even see its completion.

But today you’ll be the one who’s come closest to see it complete.

 You expect Yuta’s art to all be paintings, but you're surprised to see it's all different forms. From sculpting, to drawings, to tailoring, to music, he had it all. Leave it too him to make such striking pieces.

Yuta takes you to his basement, which isn’t all that odd to be a storage room for his art. It smells unnaturally clean, like detergent or ethyl alcohol, and it’s for your taste too poorly lit to be an art studio. You suppose Yuta just keeps his things here and brush it off.

You are behold to a fully set up exhibit in a scale similar to his actual museum work. You always felt an underlying eeriness to his work and it was no different this time around.

“I made these pieces with the artists I’ve held exhibits to before,” Yuta explains.

Knowing his work well by now, you nod as you examine the fascinating display.

First was a mannequin dressed in clothes with a style that reminded you of designs from Irene, the tailor that so shocking retired at the peak of her career. It was a tattered outfit, with holes and mud on the mannequin and cloth.

There was a sculpture of a man vividly struggling against an unknown threat. Clearly this was influenced by the work of Lee Taeyong, who is still supposedly in some Caribbean tour.

"What’s this book about, Yuta?” you ask as you move towards the hard, leather bound book on display.

“Oh, you know, typical mystery novel. A man is murdered in a swimming pool but everyone thinks he drowned.”

You feel chills run down your spine.

Yuta smiles and soothes you, “Ya, Ten helped me write that.”

You gasp, “Really?”

“Yes. I still remember his playful banter as if he was still here.” 

He had recently died in a car crash. It made you feel sorry for Yuta.

You wondered what his recording was, but somehow you knew Yuta wouldn’t let you listen to it; he never really let you see any of his work before, so you pushed the thought of even asking away.

 And yet, you still looked at him with amazement. Yuta smiles proudly, "I’ve had help from different artists and mimicked their craft. Obviously I'm not as good, but--"

"You did so well, Yuta!" you praise.

Yuta basks in your loving look. He smirks and waves his hand, "Stop."

"Really, darling. This is so good."

Yuta nods, "Well I should do even better because you're my obra maestra, my piece de resistance. I shall make a painting of your likeness, muse."

Your head is swirling with adoration. Yuta walks over to you and kisses your lips. He grips your face so delicately, as if you were going to break under his touch.

"I love you so much, Nakamoto Yuta," you whisper with your swollen lips once you've broken away. Yuta gulps and memorizes this scene, every stroke, ever line, every emotion. He wants this moment to last forever.

"You don't have to be so gentle so suddenly, darling," you chuckle. "You've handled with no care at all."

Yuta takes offence in this, "I have handled you with care in every moment you were with me."

You laugh, "of course."

Yuta narrows his eyes, "so what? Have I treated you any less than a princess?"

You break into a smile, "Noooo."

"Then what would you have me do?" Yuta narrows his eyes, "if this was your last day with me, what do you expect me to do?"

You push your head back in laughter. You pretend to bother yourself with thinking. "You know what. Take me to a ballet. An expensive ballet. The most expensive it can get."

 Yuta chuckles at your childish remark. You mimic and grab his wrists, that were still by your face, with you hands, "that and you can just take me to bed."

Yuta smirks, "I can do both."

 The next time you're together, you watch indeed the most expensive ballet there is. The dress your wearing is no longer as modest the first dress Yuta saw you in, but somehow. You are teasing him with your exposed skin, practically begging him to pounce on you now.

It's perfect, all perfect. He’s ready to destroy you.

Yuta takes you back to his house. You're all over him, grouping him, touching him, but he has not reciprocated, at least not until you reach his living room. A blank canvas is there. You can't help but smirk at it. Yuta knows exactly why you're pulling this expression.

"What? You think only you can benefit from an adrenaline high?"

Yuta shoves you on his couch. He peers down on you with a dark face, he is single-minded and purposeful. A shiver goes down your spine. Your back is laid down on the cushion. Yuta rides up your skirt and slowly lets his fingers travel on your smooth leg. He is kneeled in between your legs and incredibly hard. You’re incredibly wet as well.

Yuta brings his hands to your neck. You're excited, it was amazing the first time he did this. Yuta, unbeknownst to you, takes in check your breathing and pulse. You’re clearly enjoying this about as much as he is. The pressure on your neck gets harder. Yuta removes one hand to trail it down your body, but the pressure remains the same.

You’re shamelessly grinding on him. He chuckles and finally says it, "I love you so much. Thank you for being with me."

You want to reply, but you know you can’t.

 Yuta's blood is pumping. He opens his mouth and meets your hip movements. 

He waits for you to open his eyes, cause he swears if you had he wouldn’t have continued. But you don’t and you’ve shown you really are just prey to him.

He pulls out a blade from his back pocket and swiftly slits a vital section in your air passageway. Before you could even feel it, it's all over. 

He then brings his blade back and releases more blood from you, up until your entire torso, his arms, and shirt is drenched.

 Then begins his piece. It takes ten times longer for him to finish it, as blood has a different consistency with paint. It took a while for him to get the hang of it, but in time, with a lot of practice, he did.

Once he was satisfied, he sighs and moved to go play The Nutcracker on his record. Blood drips of the floor. He moves to his chair and sits down, still thriving from his high.

His masterpiece is complete.

His collection has its centrepiece.