#he even has a dart board in his room that haloes him at one point i screamed

[waywardted]

 i don't know why i'm scared      i've been here before

happy holidays from your rom-communists secret santa, @transcendrealms!

[jawsandbones]

All is Well

[Read on AO3]

Light plays at dancing through the trees, and shadows a pattern over them. Her reaching fingertips brush up against the branches and leaves which curl downwards into their path. She plucks one as she passes, turning it between her fingers – a dizzying spin of greens, yellows and reds. Merrill and Isabela catch her attention and so she lets it go. It floats away from her, landing the step behind him. She’s turning to listen to what Merrill is telling her as they walk, and he watches the edge of her smile. The warm glow of the setting sun haloes around Hawke’s profile. It sets fire to all it touches, from the stray strands of her hair in the breeze, to what seeps through her fingers as she talks, landing on him. Fenris knows he must tell her soon.

It’s dark by the time their tired feet find the familiar cobble of Kirkwall’s streets. Hawke hugs Merrill goodnight while he turns his head towards the sky, counts stars through the smoke of the torch. Isabela’s goodbye is a merry wave, the unexpected pat of Hawke’s ass. Hawke and Fenris look at each other as the door to the Hanged Man swings shut, and after a moment begin to laugh together. They fall naturally in step beside each other. Step by steady step up the stairs of Lowtown, listening to the distant sounds of conversation and laughter, as they head towards Hightown.

Merrill tends to walk with her gaze cast towards the ground, charting steps. While Anders closely studies other people’s faces, Isabela makes a map of the rest of their body, their pockets. Aveline is always on guard, on duty, even when she says she isn’t, eyes darting around to everything that could be amiss. He’s noticed more than once Sebastian’s head tilting upwards, his eyes closed, guided by the sounds of them around him. Varric only ever spares attention for his friends, his walking usually accompanied by engaging conversation. Too often Fenris’ gaze was fixed behind, ever glancing over his own shoulder. He looks forward more now, in the same way Hawke always has.

The Chantry looms into sight, and underneath its glare, the dueling hawks above the door of her estate. Careful as he reaches out, his fingertips touching against hers, bringing her to a halt. Surprised, perhaps, but she doesn’t pull her hand away from his. “I was wondering if I could speak with you,” Fenris says. Hawke’s shoulders ease, the smile spreads.  

“Yours or mine?”

She’s haphazardly pulling at straps and buckles, trying to undo the familiar armor which marks Hawke as Champion. She sighs relief when she finally sits down, free of armor and weapons, and rolls her head forward as she works out the ache in her neck, her back. It’s with an absentminded flick of her fingers that she lights the fireplace, stretches her feet out in front of it with a grateful groan, her boots flopped over beside her. He takes the seat across from her once he has put his own armor away, and watches as Marian runs a hand through her hair. It’s the longest it’s been in years, as she’s been given no reason to cut it back yet. There’s always a reason, she had told him after Carver, Leandra, the Arishok… he doesn’t want to be the reason for it, again.  

His mantle is covered in things, now. A ship in a bottle from Isabela, wolf figures from Merrill. Even Carver has sent him things from his time spent travelling with the Wardens. Of course, they leave their marks in other places – one glance at all the things Isabela has carved into his stair rail is proof of that. Sebastian has filled his closet with clothes not particularly suiting his taste, but nonetheless appreciated. Varric has generously donated to his library, stacked his shelves. It’s not without a trace of Anders and his skill, Aveline and her frequent attempts to implore him to move. There are cups underneath the holes in his roof, and the dust, cobwebs, have been banished. Fenris wouldn’t quite call it home, but it is more than it used to be.

“What did you want to talk about?” Marian’s voice pulls him from his own examination of his place, and he sits up a little straighter in his chair.

“I have been thinking more, on what happened with Danarius,” he says. She shifts forward slightly, crosses her arms, perches her elbows on her knees as she listens. “It has finally begun to feel real, that he is dead. I thought that once I had come to this point… his death would solve everything for me. I would no longer need to run and fight to stay alive, and I would be able to truly live as a free man. Yet,” his hands clench into fists over his knees. “I am not sure how to – do that. Danarius’s life gave me purpose, direction. His death gives me nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?” She gives him a brief smile, opens her hands to him, palms out. “Now there’s nothing to hold you back. A terrible sort of gift, isn’t it? One with so many choices.”

“Perhaps it is time to move forward. I just don’t know where that leads.” His hands squeeze a little tighter. “Do you?”

“Wherever it leads, I hope it means we’ll still be able to have days like this.” She leans back, palms flat down beside her, palms curling around the edge of the bench. “The ones we spend together,” she says, as the fire casts warm light across her.

“That is my hope as well,” Fenris tells her, and her breath catches in her throat as she watches the fond smile spreads easy and true across his face. She also watches it lose its confidence, falter, as his gaze turns down from hers. “We have never discussed what happened between us three years ago.”

“No,” Marian says softly, “we haven’t.” Her fingers tangle together, pull at each other.

“I felt like a fool,” he says as he leans forward as well, before, “I thought it better if you hated me.” He pushes himself up from the chair, paces the empty space across the room, back and forth, in front of the fireplace. Finally, he comes to a slow stop near the bench. “I deserved no less.”

“I understood why you left that night Fenris,” she says. “I won’t deny that it hurt. I wish it was done in a better way. But I understood. I’ve always understood.”

“If I could go back, I would stay.”

“I know, but I’m glad you didn’t.” He blinks, taken aback. She continues quickly. “I don’t think we were the right people for each other, then. Not yet. Too many things holding us back.”

“And now we have so many choices.”

“A terrible gift, just like I told you,” she says as she looks up at him. Their shared laughter is low, but oh, it’s a relief. Fenris takes a hesitant step forward, pauses in the unending agony of organizing thought, of finding the right words.

“Even so, I… I still wish I had made the choice to tell you how I felt.”

“What would you have said?” She could sit forever in this moment. Gossamer green settling, butterfly wings of lashes falling across his color as he smiles, breathless as he looks at her, steps closer.

“Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

“Fenris –”

“I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.” She stands up slowly, closes what little distance is left between them. Touch, against his wrist, her token. Then her arms wrap around his waist, hands moving up his back. He’s slow to settle in his own allowance of such a thing, but he does. He does, so much, so needy, greedy, wanted and wanting in equal measure. Her fingers stitch at the back of his shoulder, wind into his tunic. A hand settles at the nape of her neck, his other arm pulling her closer against him. A hiccup of watery laughter, and she buries the smile she can’t be rid of against his shoulder. “If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side,” he murmurs low, his lips against the shell of her ear, as he hugs her harder, holds her tighter.

---

He wakes later with a sharp inhale, his eyes snapping open. He has a foot on the floor, leg off the narrow bed. One of his arms is asleep, trapped underneath her. Fenris is still thoroughly tangled in her, the embrace of her wings. She’s half draped over him, arms curled around him. He doubts he could free his leg from how tightly hers hug it. Starlight flickers through the cracks between the boards, cast a glow in place of still warm embers. Marian’s head is tucked into the crook of his neck, and he rests his cheek against her forehead. It’s enough. The slightest shift, and her hand moves up to brush against his face.

“Fen,” a low and hoarse murmur as her finger moves slow back and forth against his cheek, “bad dream?” Tired eyes open, stars reflected in her lyrium blue. Her affectionate touch remains steady. “Memories?”

“Memories.” She begins to move but, “good ones,” he reassures her quietly, kisses her gently, his hand warm at her back, unwilling to let her go. “Of you. Us.”

[con-fection]

ASHES TO ASHES | jim moriarty x reader | part 2/13

Word count: 4.7K

"Sherlock," John says, for what is quite possibly the third time in a row. He sighs in frustration, his eyes darting between Sherlock's phone, which is set on the kitchen counter and has been ringing incessantly for the past half hour, effectively disrupting the peace in 221B, and Sherlock himself, who is positioned on his armchair, his elbows on his knees and his hands interlocked in front of his face.

"Not now, John. I'm thinking." Sherlock shakes his head, his eyes narrowing slightly, focusing in on something imperceptible.

"Right, well, I'll get it shall I?" John says, mostly to himself. He rises from the sofa, striding over to the kitchen to grasp the phone. "Hello? Oh, hi Greg. No, no, he's here. He's thinking. Yes, I'll let him know. Yes, thanks. Bye."

John turns around, eyeing Sherlock and waiting for any form of reaction. He doesn't even blink. His spine remains ramrod straight, but the tips of his fingers are twitching slightly, tapping rhythmically against his knuckles. He'd been trapped in a cycle of thinking and tossing away clients since he had last seen Moriarty - it was rather disturbing.

"Sherlock," He tries again. John really is one of the only people that Sherlock depends on, or even tolerates, and he's probably one of the only people that can tell when something has really got to Sherlock. Moriarty is under his skin, he has been in some way for years, starting with the murder of Carl Powers, and culminating with the bombs.  

"Not now, John. I'm - "

"Thinking. Yes, I know that." John snaps slightly, huffing. The frustration is evident in his voice, but he shakes it off quickly, disregarding it in favour of a calmer, more patient tone. "Greg just called - "

Sherlock finally blinks, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. His gaze finally diverts from his interlocked hands to John. "Who?"

"Greg Lestrade, the man who you've worked with for literal years. You have known him longer than you have known me. You have a case." John explains.

Much like any knowledge of the solar system, Lestrade's name is simply deleted from Sherlock's mind, redacted on the basis of it being irrelevant. To John, it seems painfully rude, but to Sherlock, it's an everyday practice - he constantly filters out information that he deems not to be useful enough, disregarding it and then replacing it with something new, something more useful. Something smart, something interesting. And as far as Sherlock is concerned 'Greg' is neither of those things.

"Why didn't you just say so?" Sherlock looks mildly surprised, letting his hands drop and standing up, rising from his armchair. "And I think you mean that we have a case, John."

"Yes, alright, we." John begrudgingly agrees, tossing Sherlock his phone. The taller man catches it with ease, before shrugging his coat on and stuffing it into a pocket.

---

"So, ah, what happened?" Is the first thing that tumbles from John's mouth as he and Sherlock enter Lestrade's office at the police station. The door swings shut behind them, but he can still sense Donovan's burning stare at his back, piercing through the door.

Lestrade is sat at his desk, a collection of pictures strewn around him, haloed by sunlight spilling in from the window behind him. Some of the pictures have been pinned to a corkboard on the wall, connected to each other by thumbtacks and neon-coloured string. He looks rather thankful for Sherlock's presence, his shoulders sagging instantly in relief.

"Right, well, murder and arson." Lestrade says, turning one of the pictures around. Sherlock and John quickly crowd around it, both vying to see the charred skeleton of a house.

"That doesn't look much like London." John says, squinting slightly.

"Well, it's not really London London, you know? It's only London technically." Lestrade supplies, shrugging slightly.

John nods. "So, it's in your jurisdiction, but barely. And, ah, when exactly did this all happen? Do you have like an estimated time of death?"

"This morning." Lestrade says. "The fire started pretty early - we can be relatively certain that the victims were killed in the night or this morning. Our killer was pretty quick about it. We're not sure if anything's missing yet."

"Strange fire pattern," Sherlock remarks, his eyes flitting over all of the pictures. "I assume our perpetrator used an accelerant - most likely gasoline, which they would have poured throughout the house judging by the consistency of the burning. I'm guessing that the fire began in the basement?"

Lestrade nods. "It's probably the worst room in the whole house. They didn't bother as much with the victims."

"So the basement's more important, then?" John guesses.

"Or the most convenient room to start the fire in," Lestrade says. "Right, these are our victims." He rises from behind his desk and strides over to the board, pointing to three pictures depicting three women. The first is probably in her mid-thirties, and she's wearing this slinky black dress with matching silk gloves. Her pale blonde hair is arranged in waves, and she's smiling to display perfectly white teeth.

"That's Verona Archer, and those are her two daughters Aubrey and Alora."

"Twins?"

"Yes, both of them are nineteen, on their gap year. A shame really, from what I can tell they were all very well liked." Lestrade confirms.

John nods slowly, his eyes travelling over to Verona's daughters. They're identical - the pictures are different, one depicts a young blonde girl wearing a sparkly pink dress, and the other depicts a blonde girl that is her mirror image in every way riding a white pony and waving to the camera. "And their father?"

"Ah, their dad died when they were three, of kidney failure. Verona remarried - he died nine years ago, in a car crash. Poor woman, losing both of her husbands." Lestrade answers. "Here's what the Archer family look like now." He grabs another three pictures off his desk and pins them underneath the pictures of the women whilst they were alive.

They're almost impossible to distinguish in death. Their bodies have been charred, their skin turning shrivelled, red and twisted. There's blotchy patches of red and white travelling down their arms, culminating in blackened fingertips that have crumpled to reveal bone. A few strands of their blonde hair has survived, but it's marred with thick blood and ash.

Their bedrooms, too, have been completely burnt. There's dark black smudges running up the walls, smoke stains pooling on the ceilings and floors, their belongings burnt, singed or reduced to piles of ash.

Their faces have been mostly obliterated in the fire, the bedsheets around them singed. There's a matching neck wound on each of them, one that's hard to see as a result of how badly their bodies were burnt. The remaining flesh on their neck has bubbled up into blisters and stuck to the sheets, almost melting off the bone. There's a glint of pale cartilage visible, poking out from between pieces of mangled, burnt skin.

"Their necks were hacked open," Sherlock observes. "There's no hesitation marks, from what I can tell. This wasn't some robbery gone wrong - they were sleeping. They wouldn't have even seen their attacker coming. This looks like a meat cleaver - I'd wager that you could find the murder weapon in their own kitchen. That alone should imply that this was unplanned, and yet, it seems to thoughtfully executed. Delightful."

John blinks rapidly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, did you just say - you know what, never mind."

"He really hated them - he resented the Archer family more than anything. Do we know if any of the women had recently rejected a man? Broken off a relationship, perhaps?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of, but I've got people looking into that avenue - forensics is going through the girls' phones right now."

"He?" John repeats, confusedly.

"About ninety percent of arsonists are male. Most of them are also white and have a low IQ, typically ranging between seventy and eighty. They're almost always either under eighteen, or in their late twenties." Sherlock says. "We can narrow down our search once we get to the scene."

John sighs, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Lestrade. "Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but there's not much left to see."

"Not for you, but there will be for me." Sherlock says, glancing at John.

"But we're looking for a man, yes?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between all of the pictures. "Most likely, yes. But we can't rule out a female suspect yet. It's always possible that it's a scorned female lover rather than a male one, or perhaps she could be acting out of jealousy, if those Archer girls were so well liked."

"Erm, will we even be allowed in the crime scene?" John enquires. "I mean, I imagine it would be quite dangerous, with the house literally crumbling, and all."

Sherlock scoffs, "You're more than welcome to stand outside and watch, John."

---

Central London isn't quite what you expect it to be. The bus ride is a nightmare - the incessant chatter of the other passengers around you sets you on edge. Their conversation is all so mundane, so pitifully boring that it makes you feel almost resentful.

These are people who have always had their freedom - who haven't had to kill and burn their way out of a gilded cage. And they use it to discuss things as asinine as the weather. You long for the depth that you had always been denied, the warmth, the love, the meaning.

It's so strange, that you can sit among them, an outsider - a dark Cinderella - in the midst of rodents that have yet to turn to carriagemen.

You're glad when you get off, and you can escape their dull conversations. Though, the streets are much louder. There's not any pretty, delicate fragments of birdsong to be heard here. There's the occasional squawk of some hungry pigeons vying for food, but no birdsong. The air is rife with pollution - contaminated, tainted by smoke. It's all cigarette smoke or the chemical-smelling kind that billows up from factory chimneys in plumes of white and grey smoke.

It's nothing like the kind you had smelled only earlier today - it's not the corpses of your step-family being reduced to charred remains. That was far more pungent, far sweeter, if only in the way it made you feel.

There's a constant urge to look over your shoulder. You still feel intensely victorious, and full of a pride that burns just as brightly as your house had done mere hours ago. Yet, amongst those addictive, elated kind of feelings, is a sliver of paranoia.

You don't want to get caught, not now. All pictures of you, all evidence even of your existence, had been destroyed first. It had to go, you had to be free to start afresh, to reinvent yourself as the princess rather than as the maid.

Cleaning the house constantly had been so useful. It had taught you a lot about cleaning up after yourself, about making sure that there would be no evidence you were even there. All those surfaces had shined brightly, but so had the knife when you lodged it into their throats.

The streets in London aren't as nice as you had thought they would be. In every alleyway lingers a different shifty person, eyeing passersby carefully, likely determining who they would try to pickpocket next.

There's so much noise, too.

There's the drunken ramblings of men who are going through a midlife crisis and day drinking. They stumble through the streets, seemingly having gravitated towards one another, forming packs of aimless, rowdy men who just want to escape from their lives and live something that's more interesting.

Then, there's the noises of the cars. There's so many cabs, all identical in their sleek, black appearance, hurrying through the streets. And then there's the people hailing them, standing in the streets and raising their hands, calling out loudly.

"Taxi!" Yet another man yells, and you flinch instinctively, automatically turning around to look at him. He's nothing special, nothing dangerous.

In fact, you're probably the most dangerous person on this street. And yet, you remain hypervigilant. There's only the remnants of all that adrenaline in your system, but still, you remain awfully flighty. You are more than aware that soon it's going to wear off and you're going to be absolutely exhausted.

If you were any normal, entirely sane person, by now you would have been concerned at the lack of guilt.

But it wasn't like these deaths were accidental, or spur of the moment attacks. They weren't self-defense.

They were retribution.

They were violent acts of revenge designed over years and years. It was premeditated in every sense of the word. The only thing that could really, truly bring you warmth on those cold nights in the basement wasn't those scratchy blankets. It was the thought that one day you would take them out of this world, and that they would burn for everything they had done to you.

Over the years, the plan itself had taken a great many differing directions. You had planned versions where you would burn them alive, torture them for days on end, or even use something as simple as a poison to achieve your aims - that would have been remarkably easy considering that you did all the cooking. But ultimately, those fantasies had to be short-lived. They fell victim to practicality. Poison wasn't readily available, and the longer your step-family lived, the more likely they would be to escape or attract the attention of any neighbours.

It was your own version of Cinderella. And although you hadn't much planned for after the murders, you knew that if she got to rule a kingdom, then you would, too.

But first, you wanted to find a hotel room. One with nice blankets and decent heating and light walls that didn't remind you whatsoever of that basement. You'd been trawling for a while, ever conscious of the amount of cash you had, and the fact that eventually, you would have to gain some form of employment and find a more permanent housing situation.

The third hotel that you look at is the one you decide is just right. The first had been far too expensive, and the second one had looked like it shouldn't even be in business with how dilapidated it was. It's pretty enough, a grand white towering structure with flowers in all the windows and delicate borders around the windows. The price, which would be steep elsewhere, is decent for London.

You push the door open - it's a glass door with cursive, swirly golden writing emblazoned across it, and a little overhead bell jingles. The lady at the desk's head immediately turns your way, and she gives you a bright smile.

The entrance is spacious, but sparsely furnished, a few simple chairs and tables scattered around, but nobody's using them. Security seems relatively lax here, you can't see any cameras yet, and despite the hotel seeming acceptable to you, it's probably not one of the most popular establishments in London.

You approach the lady at the desk - your eyes immediately darting to her nametag. Emily.

"Hello, how can I help?" She asks, smiling. Her voice is dripping with that faux-sweetness that is innate to anybody working in customer service. It's cheery, and terribly fake - but you can't really bring yourself to feel any contempt for her lack of genuity. For her it's protection, and just a part of her job. It's not malicious.

"I'd like to book a room, please." You reply.

"Sure," She says, her fingers darting to the computer keyboard. "Do you know how long you'll be staying with us for?"

"A week, I think." You decide that it should be enough time for you to get everything together.

The top priorities for you now were evading the police and finding yourself some new documentation so that you could work, and move on with your life.

Emily nods, her finger tapping away and clicking for a few, silent moments. "We have you booked in room 125." She briefly ducks below the countertop, emerging with a keycard in hand.

It's blue, with a curvy lime green stripe swerving up through it. It's not the most impressive graphic design you've ever seen, and it doesn't really match the rest of the hotel, but it's good enough. You take it from her with a smile. "Thank you."

"Enjoy your stay!" She calls out after you, just as you've started to head further into the hotel.

You don't bother to acknowledge her comment. You simply keep walking, wandering around the bottom floor of the hotel lobby. There are these tiny, light-up signs plastered everywhere, giving the guests directions. It doesn't take you long to reach your room once you start following them.

Room one hundred and twenty five is incredibly boring.

The entrance-way is frustratingly narrow, with a cramped bathroom on your left, and a wardrobe on your right. It opens up to a relatively small space - a double bed against the left wall, a TV mounted just opposite it, a desk and some windows with terrible, thin curtains that do nothing to obscure the light.

It's so terribly basic, and the whole place smells like cleaning supplies - that alone makes you recoil. It brings you back to scrubbing each and every surface again and again. It makes your fingers twitch with the urge to just tear it all apart - to pull the curtains from their rails, knock the sparse furniture over and destroy it.

It feels so fake. It's all orchestrated to look appealing - but to you it appears bland and disingenuous.

The smell of bleach permeating from the bathroom makes you flinch. It's so sterile. There's no life in this place. There's nothing real here.

You have to constantly tell yourself over and over again that this is temporary. For a fleeting moment, you feel some kind of pain, a sharp pang of longing for your home - it had been a prison in every sense of the word once both of you parents were gone, but still it was familiar, the safe haven of your childhood where your mother would read you bedtime stories.

In your story, Cinderella would get her palace. Your happily ever after wouldn't be marred by the fact that a few people had died at your hands.

This hotel room is temporary - something to be used briefly and once you've moved on, never to be dwelled upon again. For now, you just have to lay low, and establish your new life here. The hotel room, with it's bland white and beige decor is hardly the fruition of all your planning. It's just another stepping stone.

It's only saving grace is the mattress and the heating. You're all too happy to kick your shoes off and lay face-down on the bed, letting all of the tension in your body go. The sheets, for all that they smell like cheap detergent, are petal-soft beneath your fingers. They're nothing like the ones in that cold, awful basement.

---

It doesn't take long for Sherlock to become a man obsessed.

They had first visited the residence of the victims - the scene of the crime. The Archer home had been destroyed, completely reduced to rubble and ash - even Verona Archer's car had been caught in the blaze, though the damage to the car was inconsequential next to the damage to the house and the lives lost within it.

What had once been a grand, elegantly decorated four-bedroom house was now barely standing. It's roof had caved in, and there were slate tiles strewn throughout the top floor and around the garden. Some beams of wood had been exposed, and many of the bricks had simply tumbled over, left with dark scorch marks over them.

It had been necessary to wear hazard gear within the house, and there was still one fire-engine waiting on the street, just in case the house were to be set aflame again. That was a common procedure, at the very least. A few neighbours would come out every once in a while, looking at the burnt remains of the Archer house in awe and horror.

There wasn't a whole lot actually left of the house.

Sherlock had torn his way down to the basement first, and quickly discerned what most of the items were - bookshelves, and lots of family photographs that didn't survive the blaze. But, most of the items in the basement were really irrelevant. It was the pile of scorched blankets that drew his attention.

"This is where the fire started, then, is it?" John asks, peering down at the blankets - they've melted together in some places, fusing to one another under the extreme heat. The entire house smells awful - the sickly scent of burnt human flesh mixed with gasoline - but the blankets smell awful, too. They were probably, back before they had been reduced mostly to ash, some sort of plasticy-material.

"Of course it is." Sherlock says, flitting around the basement and moving to inspect every little thing. "The Archers weren't the only ones living in the house. They were allowing someone to live in their basement."

"I thought they had four bedrooms?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. "Mm, no. One was Verona's closet. They had left their guest to sleep in the basement. The blankets are mostly polyester - they're well-used but they don't match anything upstairs. I think our guest has been down here for quite some time. The basement was a mess before the fire. Ms. Archer keeps things down here that she doesn't particularly like, but can't bring herself to throw away, just in case they become useful later."

"Wait, are you saying that the Archer girls - who, may I remind you, the mother being a grieving widow twice over, and her teenaged daughters - had been keeping somebody in their basement?" John asks, incredulously. He looks up from the pile of blankets and to Sherlock, in utter disbelief.

Sherlock scoffs. "Yes, John. That's exactly what I'm saying. Their guest was probably closely related to them. It's even possible that Verona had a third child. I'm almost certain now that our arsonist is a woman."

"A woman?" John frowns, "I thought you said most arsonists were men?"

"They are. They also tend to have a low intelligence - but she is neither a man, nor is she stupid. No, she's smart. She's smart and she's hurting right now. They're not going to find any evidence. She won't have left any. She's wanted this for a very, very long time." Sherlock whispers. "The rest of the house will be useless - the stairs are liable to give in if we try them. The basement was the only part she cared about. The burning was about obscuring her identity, not her crimes."

Naturally, the next place they turn to is the morgue.

All three bodies are already lain out on metal slabs when Sherlock and John enter, the latter wrinkling his nose. The house had, of course, smelled worse. But the actual scent of a charred corpse right in front of him was still incredibly sickening.

Molly greets them both with a smile, "Hi, Sherlock, - "

Sherlock brushes past her, his hands clasped behind his back. He circles around the bodies, his eyes darting over their wounds, their burnt, blistered skin, and the protruding bones.

The pictures had made Verona, Aubrey and Alora seem to be in even better condition than they were.

Their flesh had sunk, plastering itself to the bone in flaky pieces. They were more a mass of bloody body parts, sullen skin and ash than a real human body. There were a few persistent strands of platinum hair that had survived both the fire and the murder, clinging to their burnt scalps.

"That - oh, my god, the smell," John says between coughs, bringing a pale hand up to clasp it over the bottom half of his face. It was more a gesture of self-soothing than any actual attempt to block out the pungent fumes, but he does step back and momentarily avert his eyes.

Molly winces slightly, her cheery visage disturbed only slightly. "Yeah, I've tried pretty much everything. There's not much you can do for them. Ah, they died in their sleep, at least, so..."

"From the uh," John gestures to his throat, drawing a line across his neck horizontally with his pointer finger.

By far, the most disturbing part of the burnt cadavers is their necks. There's a grand, gaping hole in the charred flesh. It pulls away from itself, ribbons of burnt skin dangling into the throat cavity, and tiny pieces of ripped, hacked skin flaring upwards, soaked in crimson blood. They've been almost decapitated - their heads only very tenuously linked to their shoulders via the back of their necks.

It's much worse in real life - the crime scene photographs hadn't quite captured the depth of the cut.

"Yeah," Molly confirms with a grimace.

"No hesitation marks," Sherlock whispers. "Just as I thought. The twins were killed first. Aubrey, then Alora not soon after. Verona was saved for last - she was the culmination of all of this, the main target, if you will. Our perpetrator hated the twins, yes, but she hated Verona much more. You won't find any gasoline on their bodies. She put the gasoline on the floor, but not her victims. She wanted to obscure her identity but avoid damaging her work as much as possible."

"Okay, but we still don't know who the culprit is, or better yet, where they are." John says.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, we know lots of things about her. Petite, early twenties. She hates the smell of disinfectant and she hates the cold even more. We can make the assumption that she may not even be Verona's daughter at all - perhaps one of those husbands had an affair, or more likely, a previous marriage that produced Verona's step-daughter."

"So, once again, the Archer girls were keeping a... step-daughter in their basement? And she killed them?" He questions.

"Oh, yes, she absolutely did." Sherlock grins. He sounds terribly fascinated, almost breathless - it's a kind of intrigue that John has only ever seen Moriarty produce in him. It's the kind of intrigue that never ends well. The kind that leaves Sherlock invigorated as he tries to unwrap every tiny mystery, whilst John is probably in some sort of danger.

"Right..." John's voice trails off, dying slowly as he watches Sherlock's eyes light up.

The consulting detective paces around the room, stalking around the bodies, grinning and muttering softly to himself. Moriarty's game is still afoot, but whilst they're waiting for his next move, Sherlock is going to indulge himself with another clever little side quest.

"She was smart. You're probably not going to find her - I mean I can tell she's probably gone to a major city, most likely London, given the proximity and her lack of resources. But, there's not going to be anything about her that's distinguishable from any other girl living in London." Sherlock announces.

"So that's it then. Case closed?" Molly asks, confusion colouring her tone as she folds her arms over her chest.

Sherlock pauses in his stride, and narrows his eyes, going so far as to look mildly affronted. "No, of course not. We're going to find her."

"Of course we are." John groans. "Was it not enough to just identify the unstable murder-arsonist lady?"

"No, John. Don't be silly." Sherlock scoffs. "We're going to find out everything we can about our Cinderella."

John frowns, looking to Molly who still looks equally puzzled. "Cinderella?"

"What else would you call a step-daughter mistreated by her step-mother and step-sisters?"

"I don't think that Cinderella killed her step-family and burnt their house down." John points out, sighing. "She's meant to go to a ball, meet a prince, not try to decapitate her family."

Sherlock dismisses John easily, "Perhaps not in the original version, no. But in this one? Absolutely."

[baepsaetan]

Banner by @thebannershop​

Summary: In a futuristic age where a person can be coded and inserted into a new body, the rich can live forever. Born to a wealthy family, Jin expects to live life at a lofty and uncaring height. His expectations go awry when his body is murdered and a small gang steals his ‘stack’ and resleeves him in a criminal. Thrust into a gritty, neon world far below his life as an immortal, where death can be Real, Jin will discover truths that challenge his perceptions and make him wonder what - if anything - immortality is worth.

Chapters:  pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7  -> read on Ao3

Genre: Altered Carbon Fusion, Science Fiction/Futuristic, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Murder Mystery

Warnings: Shifting PoVs (primarily Jin), minor character death, abuse, torture, gangs, drug addiction, drug use, references to depression, body dysphoria, animal death, swearing, smut in future chapters

Length: 2k

A/N: I want to emphasize that the beautiful banner is done by Rose at thebannershop, please head her way and give her some love! Just as a heads up, this is going to be a real long haul project - we’re talking 20+ chapters. Hope you all enjoy. :) 

 ---

The person sitting across the table is nothing more than grease on a squeaky wheel, yet Hoseok finds himself personally disliking the man. For one, he keeps making small, covert gestures, leaning over the desk with watery blue eyes, pitching his voice low as though he were sharing a secret Hoseok should be honoured to receive. There’s nothing honest about his too-pale face, his flickering gaze, his eager attempts to be ingratiating even as he lowkey insults the precinct and everyone in it.

It also doesn’t help that he’s being a pain in the ass. Hoseok’s smile doesn’t falter, though, even as he shifts, bouncing his feet under the desk.

“The Kim family,” he repeats for what feels like the fiftieth time and is probably closer to the fifth, “has no legal claim over Seokjin’s body or stack. He was found outside of their home. Further, there is simply no reason for them to be in control of him at this time. I understand how distressing this –”

“Very distressing!” the man interjects, as though that were the point Hoseok had been making. “Very distressing, captain!” Each syllable is punctuated by a nervous, one-fingered tap on the desk, and Hoseok needs to supress his neurochems from flaring up with every tap. “Mr. and Mrs. Kim are absolutely distraught. To have their child back, to know that he is in safe keeping, that would do wonders for their emotional states.”

Idly imagining foisting this man off on one of his lieutenants – not that he ever would – Hoseok brushes back his black bangs, keeps his voice pleasant. “He’s being kept in our most secure storage area, Mr. McCall. We have very rigorous security measures.”

The lawyer’s eyes dart around the small, tidy office, his lips pursed. Hoseok knows it doesn’t look like much. Truth be told, it’s not. But the skeptical implication of that gaze – that Hoseok’s people aren’t good enough – has his own mouth tightening, aching to pull into a frown. He indulges himself for a moment and lets his neurochems activate, pulsing with lightning reassurance through his nervous system and bringing everything into bright focus. It’s a heady sensation, the flood of a potent cocktail of chemicals, difficult to let go, and he could just keep them going, just keep riding that rush…

But he won’t. Not at work. That’s the promise. Hoseok shuts the drugs down, and doesn’t let the resulting plummet show on his face.

Mr. McCall clears his throat, unaware. “Well… yes. But the Kim family have the means to set up an invested, careful and personal watch over Seokjin. They would spare no expense, whereas your department…” Another quick look at the room, hands brushing over the faded wood of Hoseok’s desk. “Your department surely does its best with what it has,” the lawyer finishes.

Fucking Meths, Hoseok thinks, and now his grin is really being threatened – maybe using his chems hadn’t been a great idea. He’s always been a strong believer in smiles being better than whips to get people to do things, but in this case… damn, theories are being tested. He’d rather be laughing any day, and his officers respond to it better than marine-sergeant shit, yet Hoseok can’t help but wonder if slapping on a glare wouldn’t get rid of this man more quickly.

Mr. McCall notices the change, either from simple perception or, much less likely, some kind of basic empathy implant, and a good deal of his fawning disappears. “Captain,” he says, again leaning forward, “truth be told, this is a mere formality. Between you and I, the Kims will have their son back. Either they will get him from you, and be in your debt…” He trails off meaningfully, and Hoseok, jiggling one leg to try to get rid of his irritated energy and the remains of his chem dose, doesn’t reply. Better to make the lawyer say it out loud, get it all out in the open. He’s recording this conversation, anyways.

“Or, they’ll go over your head to someone better suited to deal with a situation of this nature.”

Hoseok can’t help it. He stands up and straightens his black uniform, all in one easy, graceful movement that doesn’t quite mask how angry he is. Yeah. Neurochems were the best invention since God in terms of combat, but they sure as hell don’t help his temper much. “I hope your clients will be able to find someone better suited, Mr. McCall. I don’t think they will, but we can always hope. In the meantime, though, I have a precinct to run.”

“So you won’t take this murder seriously? You have better things to do?”

“I take all murders very seriously. Particularly when the victim’s parents won’t allow us to spin them up to testify. That’s pretty serious, the way I see it.”

McCall bristles. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Mr. and Mrs. Kim are very devout persons. While they have no compunctions about switching sleeves to maintain their longevity, they view uncontrollable events – such as the very unfortunate case with Mr. Seokjin – as an act of the Almighty. They can in no way jeopardize his soul by –”

“I’ve got the pamphlets; the Neo-Cs show up at the precinct often enough. You don’t need to quote their beliefs at me.”

The lawyer gets to his feet with forced calm, and that’s enough to get a sincere smile back on Hoseok’s face. Bluster and threaten all he wanted, McCall’s family wasn’t one of the big three Meth families, long established and running everything in Triptych on a leash. They were going to have to call in more than a favour, or two, if they wanted Seokjin’s body back, and in the meantime…

Well, in the meantime, Hoseok would be very interested to know just who had killed Seokjin. He would also be very interested in finding out why his family, who refused to give him a new life in a shiny new body, still wanted him back so badly.  

Yeah. And in the meantime, until Hoseok got an official letter signed by the higher-ups, or God Himself, Kim Seokjin was staying right where he was, stack, sleeve, and maybe even soul, too.

---

About six hours later, long after the Meth dog had slunk out of his office and long after his shift was officially over, Hoseok was in the breakroom, joking with one of the newest squad members. “What, you thought the captain was allowed to leave the station? These bars,” he plucks at one of the rank insignia pinned neatly to his jacket, “will electrocute me if I try.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow briefly, and Hoseok knows why he’s hesitating. You don’t get to be captain without getting a reputation, and his reputation isn’t exactly soft. The recruit is wondering if it’s safe to joke, safe to loosen up. Hell, of course it is. They’re in the damn breakroom.

“Yeah,” Hoseok continues offhand. “There’s a reason I made captain at my age. Last captain wanted to leave the station and, well, he tried and he fried. Insta-promotion, y’know?” He laughs at his own joke, loud and sudden. That scares the hell out of Jaemin, the black-haired man rocking back in his chair, but it gets him to offer an only-slightly shaky smile, too – better than nothing.

Tanesha shuffles into the room, looking half-dead, her curly black hair a frizzy halo around her drawn face. He can’t really blame her; not everyone’s a night person, himself included, and The Curve isn’t exactly the quietest precinct in Triptych. He slips out of her way as she stumbles to the coffeepot – she sniffs at it, grimaces, shrugs, and then pours herself a cup. The best tech minder in the business is not exactly picky when it comes to her caffeine high.

Not that he can judge when it comes to being picky about highs. His skin prickles at the thought.

Leaning against the table, nose almost buried in the mug – like she’s hoping the scent alone will give her a jolt – Tanesha asks, “What’re you still doing here, captain Jung? Thought you had afternoon shift.”

“Afternoon, night, morning, I got ‘em all.”

“Please,” she snorts at his grand announcement. “Even you don’t have that much energy.” Suddenly glancing at Jaemin, the tall woman raises an eyebrow. “He been feeding you that bullshit story about being trapped here?”

“Uhh… no?” the new recruit answers, cautiously side-eyeing Hoseok. Hoseok flashes him a thumbs up.

“Please.” Tanesha snorts again, leaving off her coffee long enough to gesture with the mug at the captain. “Don’t let him impress you too much. Just remember, only reason he can do fifteen-hour days is ‘cause he’s outfitted with enough hardware to run a small planet into the ground. Neurochem, internal board, ONI, amplifiers, you name it and he’s got it. Almost a robot, that one.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Hoseok doesn’t let the sting of that comment enter his voice. “Aish, you won’t let me brag, huh?” It’s not like I asked for all of these.

“You only get to brag when you deserve it,” his lieutenant replies. Somewhat unexpectedly – maybe for Jaemin’s benefit – she adds, “Besides, you deserve it so often, I have to work to cut you down when I get the chance.”

“Your hard work is appreciated,” he says solemnly, managing to remain deadpan for about four seconds. Then her round face scrunches, unimpressed, and façade cracking apart into another chuckle, Hoseok continues more seriously. “But Lieutenant Adebayo is right. I don’t expect any of you to pull long shifts like this. I get away with it because –”

The lights die, plunging them into dark and cutting off his words like a curtain dropped too soon. Suddenly an alarm is blaring from his ONI device, so loud that it completely drowns out Jaemin’s startled cry and Tanesha’s swearing. He claps his hands over his ears in pained reflex even as his eyes adjust, forcing back the dark, but it obviously does nothing to block out the noise.

“Attention,” a cool, genderless voice announces directly in his ear. It alternates with the alarm. “Attention. Cortical shelf thirteen-forty-three-forty has been illegally accessed. Attention. Immediate action required. Attention. Permission to shutdown system?”

He’s already got his watch up, the display light shining brightly in the dark, and the second the on-screen permission request appears Hoseok jabs a confirmation to block all access to the shelves. “Adebayo, get the lights back on. Preferably ten seconds ago,” he snaps at their tech, and then he’s out of the room. Even as he moves, flinging himself around desks and moving easily by the officers stumbling around in the blackness – not everyone has an upgraded sleeve and upgraded vision like he does – Hoseok is cursing. Himself, the computer system, whoever the hell is hacking them ���

And McCall. He’s definitely cursing McCall. Given the cortical shelf number, he has a feeling he’s going to be seeing the lawyer sooner rather than later.

Within about two minutes, he’s barrelled down the stairs into the basement, where the stacks are stored. Here, he doesn’t need his enhanced eyesight; the wall of small compartments glows a soft red, each occupied shelf accompanied by a light blinking just above it. The stack storage is run off a separate power source, the better to stop – well, to stop exactly this from happening. Hoseok stares for a long moment at the distinctly dead light over the shelf that his ONI is helpfully informing him is empty, before pulling up his watch. A few quick taps, and he doesn’t know whether he should be relieved, confused or just plain pissed off.

He definitely wants to take another hit of neurochems. Could anyone blame him for it?

After all, Seokjin’s ruined body is still in storage, but his cortical stack is gone.

[buckybabybaby]

One Cold Hand, Two Warm Hearts

A/n: one shot for  @firefly-in-darkness winter challenge. Thank you for letting me take part! My prompt was 'ice skating accident'... I hope you like it!

Proof read by way of a text-speech device.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader (gender neutral)

Word count: 2539

Warnings: Slight injury? Mainly just fluff.

Summary: Ice skating with Bucky Barnes.

Main Masterlist.

*****

The inhumanly cold hand tapping the end of your nose lets you know exactly who thinks its okay to wake you up before daylight on your day off. Bucky Barnes has had a key to your apartment for almost as long as you've lived here and often pops round unannounced, so often in fact that you have a section in your wardrobe full of the clothes he's left behind.

Since you moved in opposite Captain America's best friend five years ago, your life has not known peace. He's always found some way to draw you into his messes, right from the first meeting where, all in the name of being neighbourly, you'd helped him collect the fruit that had escaped out of the bottom of his paper carrier bag and scattered all across your shared hallway and staircase.

“Why do you need so many plums?” You had asked, and thus began a wonderful friendship you wouldn't be without.

Even with the pre-dawn wake up calls.

“S'early Buck. What d'you want?” You mumble into your pillow, burying yourself further under the duvet, too warm and comfortable to think of getting up.

“Ice skating! Hurry up, why aren't you ready yet?”

Whining quietly, you twist so you can peak at him over the top of your many blankets. Nobody should look that beautiful at seven in the morning, the dim light from the living room is creating a halo around his hair and making him look even more angelic than normal, and you only just stop your sleepy self from reaching out and pulling him in to lay with you.

“You forgot, didn't you?”

That kicked puppy look will be the death of you. Many people have told you you're completely smitten for him, and at times like this you can see what they mean; you can never say no to Bucky. The last thing you want to do is upset him or let him down, which is why you hold your hands out and allow him to half-lift half-drag you from your cosy bed and upright into the chilly air of your apartment.

Grabbing the warmest clothes you can spot quickly, you dart into your en-suite to change. “I didn't forget. Not completely. Just that it was today.”

How you forgot that, you don't know. Bucky has been so excited about it since you'd agreed to accompany him, the sparkle you'd seen in old photographs back in his eye every time he talks of New York winters in the thirties, when he and Steve would drive into the state to find a frozen lake to skate on.

At least for this first time he's agreed to take you to a proper rink.

Zipping up your coat, you snatch up your gloves and rush out into the kitchen where you find Bucky waiting impatiently.

“Ready?”

“Err, breakfast?”

“We can get something on the way,” He promises as he ushers you out of your home. “Come on, clocks ticking!”

*****

The car park for the Skating Arena is completely empty when you arrive, never a good sign when you know Bucky as well as you do.

“Is it even open at this time?”

“Not exactly.”

“Bucky! I am not breaking in-”

“We won't be! Don't worry, Sam is friends with the owners, they'll let us in. And this way nobody will bother us.”

You know it's more than that. Large crowds are nobodies best friend, and Bucky is recovering from years of trauma. His name may be cleared, and his new role as an avenger alongside Sam has brought in a fresh generation of fans who defend him loyally against the occasional bigot, but he still shies away from large gatherings of unfamiliar people. Following behind him as the sole employee who's in this early unlocks the front door for you both, you swear to yourself that, even if you don't, you'll make sure Bucky has a good time this morning because there's no one in this world who deserves it more.

The unmarked ice reflects the twinkling fairy lights strung around the edge of the viewing stands, making the rink look less like an intimidating sports arena and more like one of the cosy Christmas scenes from the postcards in Bucky's memory notebook. It's peaceful, and after fastening your laces you sit contentedly on the sidelines finishing your croissant and hot chocolate as you let him take the lead.

Bucky wobbles slightly when he first sets foot on the ice, making you snort.

Mock glaring, he beckons you towards him. “Come on then Y/N, let's see you do better.”

“Oh no, I know I won't be any good. But I haven't been boasting about how amazing I am for the last week.”

“Give me a second. It has been eighty years.”

You watch as he finds his balance and slides forward tentatively. He's tense at first, his movements stiff in fear of falling, but before long the muscle memory kicks in and he makes it a full circuit round the rink. Waiting until he's over on the opposite side again, you brave walking in the skates and shuffle over to the entrance gate. Clinging to the door, you put one foot then the other onto the ice, surprised by how slippery it is even just standing still.

Bucky passes by as you're dragging yourself along the barrier, not daring to move your feet off of the floor.

“Do you need help?”

“I'm good,” You reply.

It's obvious he's enjoying himself, letting you do your own thing as he zigzags all over the place, dismissing the arrows directing him anticlockwise around the rink, yet another benefit of it being just you. He laps you for a second time and you laugh, shaking your head at his smug expression.

You're half way round when you regret not excepting his help. Near the score board there's a section where the netting is gathered and blocking your way, forcing you to push away from the support of the side and glide past it. It's nerve racking and at one point you nearly slip over, eventually crashing into the wall when you make it across the gap as you have no idea how to slow yourself down.

You take a break, subtly catching your breath. Scraping at the ice with the tip of your skate, you admire the way Bucky makes it seem so effortless, every inch the natural he claimed to be.

Spotting your lack of movement, he skids to a halt by your side.

“Why aren't you skating?”

“I'm fine here.”

“No Y/N, that's not the point.”

Taking your hands his, he guides you away from the wall and into the middle of the floor. Bucky skates backwards as you try your best to keep upright, eyes locked on the ice in front of you.

“Eyes forward, Y/N. Then you won't crash.”

Looking up, he grins at you when you gasp, clinging onto him tighter as he pulls you along faster.

“Maybe try moving your feet,” He teases. You do as he says. “There! You've got it.”

You nod, a smile slowly coming back to your face as you realise that it's not that difficult with help. Maybe you'll never be as good as Bucky is, but it's a start.

After another lap where he's basically acting as your support, you let go with one hand and he moves so you're skating side by side, your rhythm becoming smoother the longer you practice. Glancing over at him, you find he's already looking back. Rosy cheeked and bright eyed, he's the picture of carefree innocence and you can feel yourself falling a little bit more as he squeezes your hand encouragingly.

The rush of love makes your heart stutter.

“I think you'll be okay now.”

Releasing your grip, he lets you go at it on your own. Your initial panic is soothed as he stays by your side, letting you get used to moving alone but not too far away if you need him, and when you look more comfortable he goes back to racing across the ice, occasionally whipping past you as you applaud his skill.

He's soon back, holding your hand and coaxing you to speed up, scarf flying behind you as you skate in circles together.

Then it all goes wrong.

“I'm going to pick you up now, okay?”

“What? I don't-”

Before you can finish your protest, Bucky's hands move to your waist and bring you into his hold. Lifting you up a couple of centimetres, his mistake is to try and spin you, as when you feel you're about to topple over your leg reflexively kicks forward, sending the blade of the skate straight into the vulnerable flesh of Bucky's shin.

Dropping you back down as he winces in pain, you struggle to keep yourself upright whilst also checking on his injury, not paying attention to how close the side of the rink you are drifting. Bucky hits it first and you crash into him in turn, both crumpling to the floor without grace.

You don't miss the way he catches you just before you fall, and how he's still shielding you from the cold ice when you come to a rest, his body heat seeping through the padded coat he's wearing as you lay in his arms in shock.

“Ow,” Bucky whispers from beneath you, snapping you out of your daze.

“Sorry!”

Scrambling off him and kneeling by his side, ignoring the melted ice seeping through your joggers, you gingerly reach out for his leg where you guess he's hurt. The way he's holding his organic hand awkwardly in his other worries you too but you have to deal with one thing at a time.

Rolling up the leg of his trousers, you are relieved to see his skin is only slightly red, and not pierced and bleeding as you feared. Satisfied, you replace his clothing and move on to his wrist.

That doesn't look so good.

“Can you stand?”

Using his metal hand as support, he picks himself up and slides to the next exit, where he sits on the end of the front bench and lets you perch next to him to continue checking him over. He's silent, watching you tend to him. When your trembling hands turn his arm over to inspect the dark bruise forming under the skin, you sniff, coughing quietly and ducking your head to hide the tears that threaten to fall.

Bucky notices. “Y/N.” Cupping your cheek with his cold hand he tilts your face to his. “It's okay.”

A couple of tears escape as you lean into his touch. “I hurt you.”

“I hurt myself.”

“But, I-”

“And I've had much worse. Don't cry.” He fishes a tissue out of his pocket and helps you dry your eyes. “Now, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” You choke out, so full of love for this man. He's always looking out for others and it makes you want to hug him and never let go.

You're interrupted by the owner who witnessed the commotion over the surveillance cameras and has brought you an icepack wrapped in a cloth. Nodding in thanks you carefully place it over Bucky's injury, sitting back on the uncomfortable seats as he tries to cheer you up with a story about Steve breaking his arm on one of their skating trips back in the day.

“So you see, could be much worse.”

“You didn't say anything about this before!”

“Because I knew you'd never agree to come with me.”

“Maybe there's a good reason!” You exclaim, gesturing to his own arm and the icepack resting on top of it, which he goes to remove. “Hey, keep that there. It'll help.”

“I don't need it any more.” Taking it off and putting it down on the other side of the seat, he flexes his wrist without flinching in pain. “Super soldier healing, remember. It was only a little bump.”

Taking his arm back into your hands, you squeeze it gently, fascinated by how the bruise disappeared in minutes whereas on an ordinary person it would take a week. Sometimes you think he's more reckless because he heals so quickly, and whenever he's on a mission you feel like you hold your breath until he's home, the need to know he's back and safe just across the hall a clear sign that you care more for him than you admit out loud.

If one quickly healed bruise has you crying, you don't want to know how you'd be if he was seriously hurt.

Letting his wrist go, you hide your emotions behind scorn.

“What were you thinking?”

He sighs, looking away. “I wasn't. I was trying to show off.”

“Didn't really work, did it? And who were you showing off for?” You say, glancing around at the empty stands.

“You.”

“Me?” He doesn't answer so you push on. “Why?”

“Because I like you!” Something in him snaps, and suddenly he's standing in front of you, pouring his heart out. “Because I think I'm in love with you but I'm too scared to actually say anything outright so I do stupid things like this, hoping that you'll be impressed and realise you like me too. I'm sorry it nearly got you hurt. I don't really know how to do this.”

He sits back down with a thump after he's finished, emotionally exhausted. Staring at each other wide-eyed, you can't find the right words to respond, nervous laughter bubbling out of you as you think about how absurd this situation is.

“Please don't laugh.” Bucky's face falls. “Tell me I've read it wrong and you'll never feel the same way, but please don't laugh at me.”

“I'm not laughing at you, I'm laughing at us! Everyone says we're both as blind as each other, but I didn't know they were so right.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you don't need to show off for me. I'm already impressed, whatever you do.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So I nearly broke my neck for nothing?”

You giggle, rolling your eyes as you playfully push at his chest. “You didn't nearly-”

The rest of your sentence is cut of as his mouth meets yours, one hand twisting into your hair to guide you closer as the other slides around your waist to hold you against him. His lips are soft and insistent, never too much, leaving you wanting in the best way.

Of course he's a good at this. Nothing can compare to how it feels to be kissed by Bucky, when he's handling you so gently and yet making your heart race wildly, better than you'd ever imagined.

“Is this alright?” He asks, breaking away for a second to search your eyes, the cheeky grin on his face suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Hmm.”

“And has this put you off ice skating forever?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Good. So you'll come with me again next week?”

“Only if it always ends like this,” You say, pressing a quick kiss to his nose.

Bucky laughs in delight. “Deal.”

Laughing with him, you pull him into another kiss, forgetting all about the cold from the ice as the warmth between you grows.

[caiuscassiuss]

Muse | Painter AU! Taeyong (M)

Description: “You are the apple of my eye, the stars in my sky; you are my muse, and most importantly, you are mine.”

Safe: In all ways, you have always played it safe, never taking risks. However, your stagnant world is shaken up when abstract painter Lee Taeyong propositions to you in the middle of an art galley.

Genre: angst | fluff | humor WC: 18.8k Warnings: graphic smut (virginity loss, rough sex, oral sex, unprotected, 69, etc), profanity

    (A/N: I’m so sorry painter taeyong lowkey turned into pseudo sugar daddy taeyong. Also, there is a detailed notations list at the end noting my references.)

   You scrutinized the lines of various lengths and curvatures that made up the design of your organic building. Your trained eye could pick out the angles were all correct, every detail arithmetically precise, but the building simply didn’t invoke any sort of passion in you. The lines were exactly just that; lines. None of the functional utility of the drawing gave way to any sort of creativity. It was like staring at a paper you’ve written on for hours with invisible ink, only to realize that you’ve forgotten the point and nothing made sense because you didn’t have any way of reading it.    A sigh escapes your lips as you stand up from your stool, a satisfying “crack” resounding throughout the empty room when you stretch your poor back. You roll your head back in a circle, refreshing your eyes from the hours spent on staring at a piece of blue paper hung up on the angled drawing board. 1, 2, 3, you count as you extend your arms out to relieve the muscles from the lack of exertion of a few hours.    Panting after the stretch, you stare at the drawing again. No matter how hard you stared, the drawing desk could not turn into a dirt-stained pottery wheel, nor could the many rulers suddenly morph into chisels, worn with constant use. It was hopeless really, as hopeless as you actually managing to put together a comprehensive design for your architecture final.    Your phone vibrated on the side table and your eyes dart over to the screen. It lay in a halo of rulers and pencils, erasers dotting the surface of the table like water droplets while pencil sketches were interspersed haphazardly. A messy desk was the sign of a messy mind, after all; you just hoped it didn’t reflect in your work.    Olivia, one of your friends at the private arts college you both attended, informed you to “hurry the fuck up” and meet her at the quad. You frowned, not recalling the reason why, but ah-ing when the reason came to you. A famous artist, whom with Olivia was absolutely enamored, was delivering a speech in one of the lecture halls on campus and she wanted you to come along. It escaped your reasoning on why your presence was needed (You were an architect major. What use was an abstract painter’s advice to you?) but you agreed anyway, even if she was acting like some silly teenage girl attending a concert.    Sighing, you did your best to organize the pathetic mess on your workshop table and gave up as soon as you started. What was the point anyway? It was going to be a quick trip, after all. You gathered your essential things in your bag and strode determinedly out of the workshop and into the maze of hallways that made up the famed Parsons School of Design. The midday sun that greeted you outside was a welcome replacement for the fluorescent lighting in the workshop.    Your friend, in her signature monochrome ensemble, was tapping her foot impatiently as she shielded her eyes from the sun. A surge of envy and sadness rose up at the sight of her paint-splattered tote bag and her stained fingers. You admired Olivia for her braveness at pursuing her passion, but also grew green-eyed at the sort of tired joy in her eyes when she recounted her brush technique class. Sighing, you continued walking through the quad, feeling the sunlight warming your skin and melting away your worries. Her disgruntled expression turned even more sour when she caught sight of you moseying along, admiring the the greenery and architecture.    “This is no time for you to enjoy nature! We’ve got to get there soon and grab some front row seats before half of the damn campus floods in!” she lectures grabs your arm. You roll your eyes and increase your pace to keep up, and you both speed walk to the lecture hall.    The lecture hall of Parsons School of Design was the pride and joy of its students and alumni. Designed by one of the alumni of the architecture department, it was a huge, intimidating structure made out of glass and metal in the spirit of postmodern design. A dome made completely out of glass soared over the amphitheater-style seating surrounding a central stage, the signature blood-red banners of your college hanging in this way and that way. Usually used for special occasions, this hall wasn’t your run of the mill lecture hall but a bold statement of creativity.    Even after having attended the venue multiple times, you couldn’t help but be amazed at its sheer size and impressive design. However, the room was filled with loud chatter and buzz, teeming with students and staff.    “Look! Over there!” Olivia exclaimed and tugged you in the direction of the inner ring of seats. You were surprised she could even see over the mass of people with her short stature, and that there happened to be seats available in the huge crowd.    As soon as the pair of you took your seats, a hush swept over the audience. Chitchat is smothered with the blanket of silence and the echoes of conversation no longer reverb across the hall, only a sort of nervous buzz signifying anticipation.    “Good afternoon, everyone. Today is-” your headmaster droned on in a monotone voice.    “This old man needs to hurry the fuck up, my god!” Olivia grumbled, resting her chin on her palm.    You roll your eyes and your thoughts drift to other trivial things. Did you water your plants? Did you save the latest design model in your hard drive? Was the hot barista still working at-    Applause resounds around the lecture hall as your headmaster steps down from the stage and hands the microphone over to a man with sunset orange-red hair and a slender build. His stage presence was immediately more noticeable than your headmaster’s. Him in his black slacks and oxford shirt rolled to the sleeves attracted the crowd’s attention like bees to honey.    “Ehem.”    Olivia, beside you, squeals in delight while you slightly lean forward, intrigued by this man.    “As you may know, I am Lee Taeyong, an artist and alumni of Parsons,” he bows slightly and your classmates murmur about his Korean heritage.    “Today, I would like to talk about inspiration.”    He started pacing the stage, making rounds to address each part of the circular auditorium.    “Inspiration is something easy to find, yet rather hard to grasp. It’s difficult to wrestle with something you see or feel onto a canvas or block of clay that makes sense. But this is basic knowledge to all of you, right?” he grins and the crowd laughs.    As the speech continues, you can never take your eyes off the painter. Lee Taeyong seemed to embody the abstract art he was so famous for, his presence departing independently from the reality around him. It was almost like there was the crowd, the stage, and then him. He cut an alternate shape in the fabric of reality and somehow, and that drew your attention.    “However, inspiration is more than what helps me pick up my paintbrush at 2 am and to pay the bills; it is an energy that I have to constantly grapple with. Inspiration will drive you to your limits or bog you down like an anchor, it can either eat at your mind or push you towards your boundaries. It can consume you or it will be the one that feeds you.”    “Inspiration cannot be underestimated; it is just as much as an energy as the electricity that lights up this building and the kinetic energy in physics. Do not take it for granted; you are under its spell, after all.”    Taeyong’s lecture comes to an end and he bows, which shakes the whole hall out of its trance and into thunderous applause. Your classmates and many staff actually stand up to give this man a standing ovation, which rarely happens. Olivia, by your side, is still starstruck and tugged at your arm in excitement while you suddenly snap out of your daze. Even though you feel like the floor has been taken from beneath your feet, you regain the use of your limbs and get up to applaud.

   The air conditioning hits you in the face like a wrecking ball, and you shiver at the temperature change from outside to inside. You clutch the handles of your tote bag harder. No matter; the cold was endearing and you wouldn’t have it any other way. The art gallery on 18th street was your home away from home, a moment of reprieve from the stressful world of college. A usual college student’s hangout spot would be the coffee shop or even at the library but no; your place of rest and relaxation was within the walls of an art gallery.    You strolled through the various galleries, greeting each piece like an old friend. In a way, they were; when you moved out from your comfy suburbs, the only thing that reprieved you from your homesickness was the paintings on the wall or the sculptures on display.    When you crossover into another exhibition room, you pause momentarily in surprise. While you were expecting to see overhanging metal mobiles by Calder (1), instead, you were greeted by paintings of various sizes in gilded frames. They were painted with a muted color palette, drab and horribly realistic. There were landscapes of wheat or empty, desolate rooms, all of them showcased in moody lighting. The banner above you proclaimed these were the works of Andrew Wyeth, a larger than life black and white photo of him hanging imposingly over the installations.    A central piece draws your eyes to its canvas. It is a rather intimate piece; a woman in full nude sitting on a stool near a barn window, her bright skin contrasted by the darkness of the background surrounding her (2). It was gorgeous and you admire the mastery of detail put into the piece. As you continued to inspect the painting, a presence sidles closely beside you. You pay no mind to the person.    “Was he in love with her?” Your intense concentration on the painting in front of you is broken, and you turn your head towards the sound of the noise. The man on your left is not looking at you, rather, in the position, you were occupying a few seconds ago: transfixed by the painting. His glasses reflect in the studio lights and they highlight his unusually sharp features. He gives off an aura you couldn’t quite identify but are somehow familiar with.    “You are to assume I know of such artistic critique?” you ask bemusedly, cocking an eyebrow at this intriguing man.    He turns towards you, and your memory suddenly clicks together. You didn’t recognize him with the glasses, but the sharp jawline and distinct cheekbones, the ruffled hair and aristocratic nose- Lee Taeyong.    Taeyong’s mouth half pulls into a grin but he motions at your emblazoned tote bag.    “Parson’s?”    “Lee Taeyong! Oh, my, I certainly didn’t expect this.” The lights feel too bright and too warm when he scrutinizes your face with his intense, coal black eyes.    “Pleasure. And you are…?”    “Y/N L/N.”    His mouth pulls into some kind of half-smile for you and he turned back towards the painting.    “So?”    “I’m part of the architecture department,” you explain, bitterness seeping into your tone.    He raises his eyebrows.    “Either way; was Wyeth in love with his muse?”    Your brows furrow at this question. You think for a few seconds before carefully deciding on an answer. There was no telling what this man wanted anyway.    “I feel it was more of an aesthetic appreciation if anything. Nudity is not inherently sexual- Wyeth wanted to just invoke vulnerability through her nude body,” you speak decisively.    “Is there not some sort of love involved in spending time painting and scrutinizing every crevice of her body?” you shiver at the almost seductive tone in his voice, passionate and fiery. His tenor was the stuff of dark rooms and rumpled sheets, dying sunlight and lingering kisses.    Nevertheless, you huff and roll your eyes. “If you see it that way, sure. She was probably just a hired model.” (3)    Taeyong stays silent for a few seconds.    “Interesting,” he hummed.    You both stand, side by side looking at the dark painting.    “I hate to inform you, but my intentions on coming over here were not... purely to ask you about your interpretation of Wyeth.” Taeyong broke the silence.    “What were they, then?” you ask, intrigued,    “Your eyes are wonderful, you know,” Taeyong says abruptly.    “What.” you deadpan, confused at his sudden shift in tone.    “Your eyes are wonderful; I should love to paint them,” he speaks absentmindedly as if he were speaking to himself and not in conversation with another.    “Will you let me paint you?” He turns his smoldering eyes to you, boring into yours like a sucker-punch to the gut.    “I… excuse me?” you sputter, secretly wondering if this esteemed artist your friend so admired was high off of his ass.    “Will you let me paint you?” he draws out as if you were lacking in brain cells.    “Um… no? I don’t pose nude. Nor do I fancy myself a model.”    “You wouldn’t have to pose nude, y/n. You would serve more as… inspiration, rather than a real-life reference. You would be paid, if that helps,” Taeyong spoke quietly, beseeching you to heed his words.    “I’m afraid I don’t have much knowledge with this sort of thing, you know?”    Taeyongs sighs, and reaches into the inner coat pocket to retrieve something white and small. He offers the object, a vellum calling card, to your perusal. His name and contact information are engraved with silver ink and you hesitantly reach up to grab the card.    “Well, if you change your mind… you can contact me.” He brushes his thumb over your knuckles as he hands you the card, the way a cool breeze brushes upon your skin to refresh you from the hot summer air. His touch would seem unintentional if not for the suggestive smirk on his face. You blush slightly at the contact, and he retracts his hands and put them into his pockets.    “I bid you adieu.”    With a final grin, he sweeps out of the room, his presence still lingering like a miasma in the air.

   You slouch into the headboard of the rickety bed of your dorm room, cuddled up with blankets and hot chocolate. It was time to do some research because you were going to be safe.    You typed in “artist model”. All that came up with was a definition, so you decided to go another route. “Artist’s inspiration” brings about nothing relevant, and you pout, frustrated at the lack of information available. You ponder for a moment, the thunderstorm pounding at your window pane. Were you going to be his “muse”? You knew, vaguely, that the term was a loaded concept, subject to controversy and misconceptions. The way Taeyong described, you were acting more like a base for his artwork, something of an anchor for his creativity; a jumping board.    A crack of thunder jump-scares you, and you almost spill your hot chocolate onto your bedsheets. Sighing, you relinquish your grip on the mug and put it on your nightstand.    Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you power off your laptop and set aside on your desk. Today was simply not that day where you would come to a definite conclusion.

   “Say, Olivia, if you were suddenly propositioned by a man to be his model, would you accept?”    “Come again?!”    Her head of blonde hair whips back as she snaps her head towards you. The brushes she is washing in the sink are quickly discarded in favor of her freezing in shock, an amusingly shaken look on her face. You, however, are unperturbed and sit on the couch, staring at the TV display nonchalantly.    You look back at her, an eyebrow raised as her mouth gapes open stupidly in your direction.    “I’m not repeating that.”    Olivia unfreezes and turns off the tap, wiping her hands hurriedly on her jeans as she strides towards the living room of her apartment. Her pretty countenance is marred by furrowed brows, a mixture of confusion and impending alarm in her eyes. She settles into the couch, and unlike usual, she does not flop into it ungracefully but sits into it cautiously with her back ramrod straight.    “Y/n can you please explain?!” she asks.    You sigh and switch off the blaring TV and turn to her.    “An artist I recently met at a gallery asked me to “serve as inspiration for him”.”    At the sight of the doubt on her face, you explain more.    “No! Not like that. I’m not posing nude for him or anything like that, more like… inspiration of sorts.”    Olivia leans her chin onto her palm, deep in thought.    “Okay, who is it?”    You cringe. You knew this question was going to come up.    “... Lee Taeyong,” you whisper.    Olivia actually physically jumps off the couch and stands up.    “WHAT?!”     You cower away from her enthusiasm. Her hair crackles with excitement and her eyes are wide, but you are not surprised by her overzealous reaction.    “Erm… yeah?” you offer hesitantly.    “Oh my god, yes! You should totally do it! This is great, y/n! Do you know how many people would kill for this opportunity?” she ranted as she threw her hands up in the air. She paced the room in barely contained excitement, while you could only stare.    She calmed down after a while and sat back down. She exhaled then drew a palm over her face, and her face was fine.    “Okay, in all seriousness, I think it would be a great opportunity for you. Y/n… I love you so much, sweetheart, but you always play it so safe in your life.”    You frown and turn your head to the side. While you have known this practically all your life, it still hurts for it be said so raw and out in the open, like a cut wound exposed to the air.    “You never want to go out clubbing with the girls or flirt with some guys. Hell, you didn't even want to pursue scul-”    She shuts up when you cut your eyes towards her, a warning and angry gaze contained in them.    “...sorry. However, you get my point: you need to take risks more. Have fun, take a breather, and get out more! I think… I think this modeling opportunity might get you out of your shell, you know? You should go for it and… just be careful.”    You stay quiet for a while, contemplating over her words. Olivia was right, as much as you hated to admit it. It loathed you to go out of the apartment, no matter how much you yearned for excitement and the vibrancy of city life. Any romantic interest or advance was clinically clipped at the bud, because what if you got hurt? What if you couldn't concentrate on your studies? Safety meant no boys, no parties, no risky decisions. Safe was always...safe for you. But was “safe” good for you?    “... alright. I'll give it a try.”    Olivia squealed and dragged you off the couch, dancing you around in a bastardized version of the waltz. Peals of laughter rang out throughout the apartment as she dragged you into her excitement.

   The numbers of Taeyong’s number glow up from your screen, all ready to be dialed. You, on the other hand, were NOT ready and instead, eyed your phone like it was some sort of bomb that might explode.    Even if Olivia had convinced you at least try and see where it took you, you could not uphold to those promises when it came down to be. The effects of pressing the red little call icon on your phone screen would be… astronomical.     Would things change? Would they be the same? Would you still be the college student struggling to make ends meet? Or would you be something else entirely, something you couldn’t even fathom in your imagination? What would happen?    You know what? Fuck it.    You could do this.    A shiver of nervous anticipation wracked your body as the dialing tone rang through your empty apartment.    “Hello?” a husky tone spoke.    “Hi,” you whisper.    “Who is this?” Taeyong asks disinterestedly.    “It’s… it’s y/n. The girl you met at the gallery on 18th street?”    “Ah, y/n! Hello!” He exclaims, a complete roundabout from the cool detachment apparent in his tone earlier.    “Have you thought about my offer yet?” He asks.    “Erm, yes. I decided I… I’d like to take you up on it.”    There are a few moments of silence until Taeyong breathes out, “Delightful.” You unconsciously let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. Your posture slumps back into the chair behind you from your hunched position over the table.    “Um… yeah.” You don't know quite what to say now.    He laughs, a rich delightful sound that rumbles through the phone line and stirs something in the pit of your stomach. You gulp as his amused chuckle does down.    “You are so cute. I'll text you the details of where we should meet up, alright?”    “Yes, of course.”    “I will see you later. Have a nice night.”    “You too. Goodbye.”    The line clicks off and it is almost like the aftermath of an explosion. You stare, dazed and shell-shocked, at the dark screen of your cell phone.    You really don’t know what you have gotten yourself into.

   Muted jazz music plays softly over the speakers of the cafe you are currently sitting at, and combined with the ambient lighting makes the place attractive indeed. It is one of the classier coffee cafes in New York, one slightly out of the price range of broke college students, so it is an oddity to see one sitting in one of the plush booths that the cafe provides; hence, why you probably stuck out like a sore thumb.    Your fingers fumble with the handle of the coffee mug in front of you as you check your phone repeatedly. You tug nervously at the collar of your shirt and look around the cafe discreetly.    Taeyong had texted you the address of this cafe with no explanation, except a time and a date. It was rather confusing at first; why did he want to meet up with your cafe? You’d think you’d be brought to some sort of studio or informal workplace, but here you were, humming along with the saxophone in a dimly lit cafe.    The display on your phone read 6:40, 10 minutes after when Taeyong had said he would meet you. Normally, you would just wait patiently, but the importance of whom you were meeting with and why had you on edge with anticipation, butterflies wreaking havoc in your stomach. You glanced down at your coffee mug; it was ¼ full, which meant you have been guzzling it down pretty quickly in nervousness. A sigh escapes your lips as you turn your attention towards the window.    You were on the fifth floor, so you had a bird’s-eye view of the pedestrians outside. People-watching was a habit of yours, albeit barely explored; it intrigued you to ponder what sort of lives the people passing you had. A woman near the corner caught your eye; she had perfectly coiffed hair and strode confidently through the mess of people with a briefcase and light overcoat. She looked like she might be a working woman, you mused, a yuppie; the sort of person your father dreamt for you to become.    A man with dyed orange hair ensnared your attention next, carrying a skateboard. While you could not see it from your vantage point, you knew he probably had some sort of Supreme-branded clothing on because of the neon yellow of his shirt and the flaming red color of his pants. People around him, particularly of the older generation, stared at him in disdain as he seemed to brush it off, not even acknowledging the world around him. You wished you could be like that; doing what you wanted, not caring about anyone wanted around you.    “Y/n?” a voice broke you out of your thoughts.    You turned your head and there was the man of the hour: Lee Taeyong.    He looked particularly dashing today, although unusually dressed. He wore a loose linen shirt tucked into some skinny jeans, his sunset red-orange hair kept in by a silk green bandana. The picture of a well-dressed, in-style millennial. Taeyong smiled a crooked grin at you and slid into the booth in the seat in front of you.    “How are you?” he asked.    “I’m doing fine myself, and you?”     “Rather well.”    The pair of you sat in silence for a few moments before he broke it.    “You must be wondering why I’ve summoned you to a cafe of all places, right? I can see it in your eyes,” he intoned.    You nod slowly.     “What I have found is that you can’t find the essence of a person while they are contorted on a podium in a studio. You can better express emotions and get a feel for the person better when you can explore all facets of them. What better to do that than to observe them in a natural environment?” Taeyong stares out the window into the crowded street.    He turns his gaze to you.    “Can I know more about you?”    “Erm, sure. What would you like to know?” you ask, unsure.    “Your social security number,” he deadpans, a cloying glint in his dark eyes.     You frown and then see the look in his eyes. Your countenance asks him: really?    Taeyong bursts out in laughter and you giggle along with him, discomfort at least a little bit gone.    “I’m joking, I’m joking. Hmm… perhaps the basic stuff?”    “That’s alright. Like what?”    “What do you like to do in your free time?”    “I… I like to watch Netflix. Um… I like to… cook? Yeah, I like to cook stuff like teriyaki chicken or stir-fry. Perhaps play around with clay or stone, if I have it on hand,” you list out.    “Sculpting? That’s rather fun. I used to do a bit of it before myself before I really got into painting. What do you like to sculpt?”    “People,” you reply immediately. “People.”    “Same as me then, hm? Are you trying to use me as a stepping stone for your career?” he asks playfully.    You laugh while he stares at you intensely as if he’s trying to commit the planes of your face to memory. Perhaps that’s what he meant by “observing”.    “Maybe I’m trying to secretly sabotage your art, so I can get a leg up. What about then, Taeyong, hm?” you tease.     He stares at you in surprise before he laughs, the sound carrying around the cafe and imprinting in your brain.    “Oh, you’re a delight, Y/n. Truly.”

   These meet-ups go along for a few more months, all in different locations. Taeyong never asks to meet up at a location you have already been to before. He takes you through the paths of Central Park, to the bustling chaos of Times Square, even taking you, in a rather memorable trip, to a show on Broadway. Every time you met up, he’s given you fifty dollars for your time. You accept it gratefully, albeit awkwardly.    You’ve exposed a lot of yourself to him now; he knows everything from where you were born, when you were born (he’s 6 years older than you), to your favorite type of frosting and even your hatred of small holes.     You often wonder what he is doing with this knowledge. He has never mentioned to you the progress of his artwork but you can see the paint smudges on his fingers or the rare smudge on his trousers when he visits you in a rush from his studio.    Taeyong, you think, is more artist than scientist; he adds different variables and he observes how you react. You are the proverbial rat in a glass box.    However, as bare as you are to him, he is as closed off to you.    Besides the basic knowledge of his occupation and age and whatnot, you never really got a read on him. Taeyong was like one of those Hanamaya puzzles you struggled with as a child, frustrated at the lack of progress unlocking the intertwined metal structures. Enigmatic, closed off; your regular Sherlock Holmes.     These thoughts ran through your head as you strolled along Battery Park. It was rather warm spring day, and you enjoyed the warm sunlight against your skin. The park was also surprisingly quiet, on such a nice day, but you weren’t complaining; comfortable silence was more conducive to stimulating conversation anyway.    Taeyong had bought you an ice cream that you had been ready to pay for despite your protests, citing “I remember when I was a broke college student. Just take the money, okay?”.    As ate your ice cream, you walked in slowly through the tree-lined path. You grew anxious and wanted to ask him a question, but your voice couldn’t formulate any sort of sound.    “Taeyong… I feel as if you know the bare fabric of me but I… know nothing of you,” you ask, uncharacteristically bold.    He pauses and looks at you, hands still stuffed in his pockets, an unreadable expression on his face.    “I’m Lee Taeyong, I paint, I like strawberry macaroons, and I hate dirty rooms. There’s not much to know about me, you see,” he says shortly as he walks ahead.    I don’t think that’s true, Mr. Lee.

   Taeyong doesn’t text you for a few weeks.  As hard as you try, you cannot be unaffected.    You never really expected how much he has inserted himself into your daily life. He is in your thoughts when you sketch out the facade of an apartment building, and he is with you when you see the strawberry macaroons made in the bakery you always pass by when going to campus.    Did your words… scare him off? Were you perhaps… too forward with him? Did you cross some unspoken boundary as the subject of artistic inspiration? You look down to see that you have traced the same line over 3 times on your architectural sketch. A groan escapes your lips and you lean back in your chair, tossing the pencil haphazardly on the desk. Concentration escaped your grasp like a sand, pouring out of every crack and crevice even when you did your best to capture it. Evasive.    Like Lee Taeyong.    An even louder groan, a gross hybrid between a scream and a groan, escapes your lips and echoes around the empty room. There you go again, thinking about Lee fucking Taeyong.    The display of your phone lights up.    Meet me in the quad ~ TY    See. You were even hallucinating text messages from him.    You shake your head as you rub your temples back and for—    Wait, TY?    You scramble for your phone, which was (as usual) buried under a pile of pencil shavings and protractors. Fishing it out, you unlock the screen and hurriedly scroll through the messages.    It really was Lee Taeyong.    You stared helplessly at your uncompleted project and then back at your phone. Since you couldn’t concentrate anyway, you might as well try to relieve it by going to the source of your distraction.    You pick up your bag and wave goodbye to your very focused classmates, who merely grunt before going back to their boards. A quick walk led you to the square of carefully cultivated trees and flowers, all intentionally grown to create a relaxed and peaceful atmosphere. It also created a visual centerpiece for the school, the flora exploding in vibrant colors to create a gardener’s paradise.    You spot Taeyong’s languid posture draped in one of the many wrought-iron benches, a book held up in one hand and the other resting upon the armrest. You were surprised no one had recognized him, even with his conservatively-dyed black hair that he was sporting recently. Taeyong was one of the rare people whose presence was immediately palpable when you were in his vicinity, magnetic yet jarring.    “Phaedrus? (4) I should’ve known that’s the sort of philosophical nonsense you artists love to read.”    Taeyong turns his head towards you and mock-pouts.    “I’ll have you know that this here book was inspiration for one of my best pieces,” he defends, closing the book with a snap and straightening up.    “Ah, yes, let’s deify our inspiration if it makes money,” you reply sarcastically as you settle into the seat beside him.    “Indeed.”    He stands up and extends a hand towards you, at which you stare at as if he were offering you radioactive waste.    “Well, come on. You didn’t expect me to not do anything for a month, did you? I have something to show you.”     You take his hand hesitantly (surprisingly calloused for a painter) and allow him to pull yourself up. He places a hand upon the small of your back as he leads you to the iron gates of the entrance of the school. After a few short blocks, he guides you to the entrance of a covered entrance way of an imposing skyscraper. A doorman greets him imperiously and opens the glass door with a glove-covered hand and Taeyong nods at him as he steps through. You merely follow, confused as hell, but trusting enough of Taeyong to guide you through.    After going through the elevator, he unlocks a door on the 23rd floor and enters the room.    “Even though I am an abstract artist, the very definition of postmodernism, I still find I have a penchant for carved mahogany bookshelves and gilded mirrors. Irony at its best, hm?”    If you were to describe Lee Taeyong, it would not be ironic. Enigmatic, yes, but not dramatically ironic.    The large suite you stepped into did, indeed, contrast him very greatly. It smelled like old books and cologne, and the dark wood paneling gleamed in the warm lamplight. Rich jewel tones tastefully complimented the decorations, in the furniture or weaved into the carpet. It was like the backdrop of one of those period dramas you saw on TV, in the age where women wore corsets and men, cravats.    However, you only caught a glimpse of the apartment as he ushered you into a room. It was pitch black until he flicked on the lights.    The room you were in was an artist’s dream. There were shelves and displays full of brushes and paints, all organized except for a little part in the corner. Half-finished canvases were slumped like dolls in a dollhouse against the walls, some covered in sheets and some not.    What drew your attention, however, were the 3 easels proudly standing in the middle of the room. The triplet of them was covered in heavy sheets, containing mystery and intrigue.    “As you might’ve guessed, these things make up the “something” I wanted to show you,” Taeyong’s voice rang out from behind you as he shut the door. He led you to the middle and brushed past you to stand next to the paintings. He pulled the sheet off.    You couldn’t contain your gasp as you take in the masterpieces before you.    The leftmost painting was of a barely perceptible outline of a woman, painted in warm yellows, browns, and red. While very comfy, it gave off an almost confused quality, like it was as if the painter were given the face of a person to memorize in 30 seconds and then asked to paint what they remembered. There were details that were hazy, but the areas that weren't were well fleshed-out.    The one in the middle was a clearer impression of the woman, her laughing in the midst of yellows, dark blues, and forest greens. It was a little bit less distorted than the previous, at least her crinkled eyes and open mouth apparent but the rest… not so much.    The one on the right was immediately your favorite. The face of the woman was only defined by the lights of neon signs, painted roughly in haphazard strokes. It contrasted against a totally black background. The placement of strokes was so masterful, however, that you could perceive the glow of amazement in the woman’s eyes and the childish nativity that emanated from her delicate features.    “These… these are beautiful, Taeyong. Absolutely gorgeous. Wow.”    “You know these are of you, right?”    You shake out of your trance and turn quickly towards him.    “What?!”    He smiles his crooked little grin at you and motions to the paintings.    “The first one is at the cafe we first met at, remember? The second was you in Central Park on that wonderful day where I slipped into the dewy grass, leaving a sort of weird bodyprint on it. The third was at the Broadway show… where you took a million photos of the posters. Remember?”    “Of course I do,” you breathe out in amazement.    “I can’t believe such beautiful things were painted because of plain, old, ugly me. Wow, you must’ve had a lot work on your palette,” you laugh suddenly.    “Don’t say that,” he cuts in sharply, his tone dark and ominous. It causes a mysterious heat to rise over your skin and a shiver to race through your nerves, the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end.    “You should give yourself more credit, y/n. You are a beautiful girl and no one can tell you less.”    You stand on your tippy toes to engulf the painter into a tight embrace.    “Thank you,” you whisper into his shoulder.    He merely chuckles while rubbing your back with a tender hand, blazing a trail of heated nerves along the way.

   “2.5 million! Holy shit! Y/n, this is fucking crazy!” Olivia screamed at you while holding a tablet in her hands.    “I fucking know!” you scream back, huddled into a ball at the end of the couch.    Undecipherable screaming filled the apartment as Olivia shouted in amazement of the selling price of the 3 abstract portraits, while you just screamed in disbelief.    The 3 portraits of you had been put on the market last week, and it had already sold to an anonymous buyer for 2.5 million US dollars. Pictures of Taeyong looking dashing in a suit flashed across your news feed, him looking extremely proud as the auctioneer banged his gavel for the ostentatiously high closing bid.    At least you weren’t his failed inspiration, that was sure.

   “Congratulations on your piece, Taeyong. I’m honored to have been part of the creative process,” you smile shyly at him behind your wine glass.    The pair of you were sharing a nice dinner on the expansive balcony of his apartment in celebration of his grand success. The New York skyline was set against a haze of sunlight and dusk, a truly beautiful sight to consume along with the seafood noodles Taeyong had whipped up. It seemed that along with being a marvelous painter, he was a marvelous cook as well. Another facet in the gem that was Lee Taeyong.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, of course. You’re my muse now,” he chuckles as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.    You exhale heavily and stare into the contents of your wine glass. You sloshed the red liquid around, and it stained the sides of the cup momentarily before disappearing. You remember what your father had told you; if the wine stains the side of the glass, you know that it is a good vintage. Of course, Lee Taeyong would have the best.    “What’s the matter, y/n? Does something not agree with you? I can always make something else if you’d like—”    “No, no, it’s quite alright. It’s fantastic actually. It’s just some thoughts that are buzzing around in my head,” you wave off.    “Would you mind sharing?” Taeyong prods.    You smile bittersweetly at him.    “I’m actually quite jealous of you, you know.”    You push out from your seat, the soft satin of your evening dress brushing against your thighs like the caress of a lover when you walked towards the railing.    “What?”    “Jealous, Taeyong. Jealous. Like the green-eyed monster,” you reply, resting your elbows against the railing and staring at the skyline.    “Explain.”    You hear the clink of a glass being set down upon a table and him getting up.    “You were able to take the risk to pursue your dreams. I… was too cowardly.”    “What are your dreams, y/n?” Taeyong whispers into the breeze.    “Sculpting,” you laugh bitterly.    “My father— he was a doctor, you know — absolutely abhorred the idea of the fine arts. A very left-minded man, if you will. When he saw paintings or sculptures, he always scoffed at them. “How are these worth 1 million?” he said, “I wouldn’t pay a cent for these works of kindergarten art!”. As you can imagine, it didn’t endear him to the owners of the local art gallery. However I… I was his complete opposite. When I first got my hands on Play-doh… god. I wasn’t able to be separated from it! My mother told me I always cried when the can was taken away from me. Then I discovered clay and stone and so many other things to make my imagination become reality.”    “Of course, Dad knew of my hobby, but never considered it more than what he thought it was; merely a hobby. He expected me to put down my chisels in favor of books and math problems. I never wanted to.” You look down at your hands momentarily, which were tapping a random beat against the railing.    “When it came time to decide a career, I mustered up my courage and told him I wanted to be an artist. He took one look at me and laughed. “Stop joking, sweetheart. A career like engineering or IT would suit you better.” I… was devastated. But, surprisingly, he brought up the idea of being an architect. I agreed immediately, knowing it would bring me to Parson’s, the school I dreamed of attending ever since I knew what college was.”    You laughed again, bitterly, the sound being absorbed in the night air. “It’s torture here, really; I don’t know why I continue to tantalize myself with what I have wanted since I was 5, but am never really able to have. Call me sadistic, I guess.”    You can feel his heavy gaze on your back as you stare stoically off into the distance. He steps closer and closer until you can smell his musky cologne and aftershave. His hands wrap around your waist and bury his head in your hair.    He didn’t say anything.    You appreciated that.

   Soon enough, brief hugs turn into cheek and forehead kisses, lingering touches into hand-holding and affectionate cuddles. Taeyong can never seem to separate his hands from your waist nowadays, and you are always pressed into his side like a leech. No one says anything because no one sees anything.    Actually, you didn’t quite know what you were now. If you were to really put a label on it, it was a messy blur between a friendship and relationship. A kind of romantic purgatory. Even when he gave you kisses and held you affectionately, Taeyong never asked you to be his girlfriend. Not even a hint of a label or definition.    However, you wanted to be his. You wanted to be the one, his darling that he wined and dined. You wanted to be the one to relax him from the stress of life with soothing words and calming touches. You wanted to be the one that he woke up next morning in bed. You wanted to be his everything.    Alas, like some tragic Greek romance, it was probably never meant to be.    Even in the midst of this confusing haze of a relationship, Taeyong produced more and more phenomenal art inspired by you. You sometimes watched him paint each painting lovingly, stroke by stroke, on those rare days he let you into his art room. The mood of his art was... changing. You could see his abstract style shifting closer and closer into what was semi-impressionism until his portfolio was an eclectic mix of both. Of course, this subtle shift led to some outcry from critics, but his artistic reputation was still on the rise.    Today was one of those rare days Taeyong brought you to his studio. Darkening sunlight shone through the huge industrial windows, juxtaposed by the mahogany paneling and gold light fixtures. You sat in a chaise in the corner with his back to you as he stood, slathering hues of paint over a large canvas. He was painting the background first, it looked like, setting up the stage for a grandiose and show-stopping centerpiece that was sure to come around.    “Y/n? Can you come here for a moment?”    “Yes?” you said, padding across the floorboards in your socks.    He steps back from his painting and comes slightly behind you. “Can you look closer and tell me if you see any dark grey streaks on the background? I’m afraid some of my brushes were contaminated, as it’s supposed to be completely oil black.”    You frown but nonetheless, bent over a bit to inspect the painting. “No? Honestly, I don’t know how you expect me to see slight color variations, you’re the artist here—”    You are cut off as his arms wrap around your waist and bury his head in the crook of your neck. You jump a bit, surprised from the sudden embrace, but quickly adapt and melt back into him. The pads of his thumb attach itself to the slightly exposed skin of your belly, running smooth circles into your skin. Your hands come over the top of his and just stay there, while you close your eyes.    “I lied. I just wanted you to come over here so I could just hug you,” he whispered roughly yet mischievously in your ear, his breath causing the back of your neck to stand up.    “How utterly rude, you nefarious villain,” You murmur as a slight smile tugs at your lips.    He hums in agreement and the two of you bask in each other’s presences for a while before he breaks the silence.    “Man, have I been getting a lot of feedback about my art style for the past few weeks,” he chuckles and lifts his head off your shoulder. “To be honest, you make me want to… want to take my head out of the clouds. Why is imagination needed when you exist, when you are so human yet flawless? I’ve always loved painting the world the way it’s not, but you... you are the way it is, and it is perfect.”        You twist slightly in his hold with wide eyes. Did Taeyong really feel this way about you? Did he see you this way when he put brush to canvas? Were you his sane anchor of reality in his flighty imagination?    Even with these tumultuous thoughts bubbling around in your consciousness, you simply reached up and gave him a peck on his lips. Unexpectedly, he captured your lips with his a tiny bit roughly, causing you to jerk back a bit. He runs his tongue across the seam of your lips and you open it for him, unable to stop him. Taeyong isn’t rough, per say, but he was very persistent in his quest of kissing you, invading your mouth with his tongue and showing his complete dominance. You moan a bit into his kiss and you feel his lips curl up into a smirk.    Taeyong’s right hand cups your chin while his left one lands on your waist, pulling you closer into his hard body. You feel the taut muscles of his chest against your breasts and his warmth completely enveloping you, intoxicating you and making you all the more pliable to his ministrations. His hand moves up while his mouth moves down, his plump lips trailing open-mouthed kisses against your neck leaving a trail of goosebumps. His calloused hands lift up your tank top slightly and rub circles into your hips makes you shiver with delight while you press more insistently against him and thread your hands into his hair.    His lips trail down into the neckline of your top and suddenly top. Instead, Taeyong moves back up to hover his lips around your ear.    “Will you let me have you?” his voice whispers, a rough texture detectable in his voice.    You can’t respond, too caught up in the way his breath caresses your skin and how his hand has moved up to just below your bra cups.    “Say yes, please,” he whispers.    “Please,” he begs as his nimble fingertips play with the edge of your bra.    “Yes,” you breath out as you lean up into him and press his lips to yours.    Taeyong is not hesitant nor gentle when he kisses you now, it is demanding and powerful and dominant. His hands slip below your bra cups and rub your nipples with his thumbs, causing your eyes to flutter shut and as you whine pitifully into his mouth. He drops his hands and scoops you up, a surprised squeal leaving your lips as he strides powerfully down the hall.    He kicks his door open and carefully maneuvers you through the door frame, all the while still attacking your neck with nips and bites. The painter drops you into his bed and climbs in after you. You hurriedly remove your tank top so you could feel his touch and went to unclip your bra, but his hands suddenly tighten over yours and keep them in place. He forces eye contact with you, his eyes burning with a lusty smolder as you can only stare up at him with pleading eyes.    “Taey-- “    He shushes you with a finger against your lips. “I want to savor you.” One of his hands makes you release your bra clasp and replace it with his, unclasping it gently and helping you get it off your breasts.    Your shamelessness retracts for a moment in front of him and you cover your naked breasts with your arms, head turned away in embarrassment. Taeyong’s thumb and forefinger lift your embarrassed gaze to his.    “I want to see you,” Taeyong whispers gently.    Your arms lift slowly from your breasts to bare them to his piercing gaze.    “Absolutely gorgeous,” he whispers reverently, as if in awe.    One of his hands cup your right breasts and a small whine escapes your mouth, not used to man’s hand on such a covered area. He weighs it in his palm briefly and then dives in.    You feel his hot tongue laving over the sensitive skin, leaving traces everywhere but your areola.    “Taeyong,” you whine piteously.    “Say please, darling.” He says. You can feel the vibrations against your chests, your nipples hardening to a point where it is almost painful.    “Please.”    “Of course.” His tongue dives in right in and a burst of pleasure rack your body, causing you to rub your core against his thigh wantonly.    “Patience, darling, I said I would savor you.”    After heaping a sizeable amount of attention to your breasts, his mouth trails down your stomach and to the edge of your shorts. He roughly gets up and pulls off his loose linen shirt, revealing a surprisingly well-built body. Your eyes rake over his sharp collarbones to his defined pectorals and to his chiseled Apollo’s belt. You see a fine dusting of hairs working in tandem with his v-line to bring your eyes down to his bulge, which is pressing against the confines of his trousers. Moisture oozes out of your core as you slip off his belt while he takes off your shorts and panties.    Taeyong forces your legs apart until you are spread out for him to see. Breathing heavily, you see him fixated on the spot between your legs, his lips parted a little. He licks his lips and his right-hand reaches out to prod your entrance. You jump a little, not used to a man touching you tenderly in such a private spot. He prods, even more, pinching your folds and holding them apart while inserting a long finger.    Your head throws back while your spine bends backward, a long groan leaving your lips and filling the room. You don’t see him smirk, but you certainly feel him descend and settle his head between your legs.    The moment his tongue pokes at your clit, you yell out. It prods even more insistently and plays your core like a flute, his touches making you scream.    You can feel yourself reaching an orgasm when he inserts his fingers back in again into your pussy and when the pad of his index fingers hit a spot, ecstasy shoots through your body like a drug and juices flow out of your vagina like a flood.    Taeyong leans back up and he takes his liquid-soaked fingers to his mouth, sucking each one clean while smirking, causing your core to clench tightly. He takes off his trousers and his boxers, his erection popping out. It is a nice pink color but a bit red from strain and arousal, the tip oozing precum.    You lean a bit forward to grasp his manhood, your thumb stroking over his head. His head throws back in ecstasy while his grips on your soft thighs tighten to the point you think there will be bruises the next morning. He rips your hands off his cock while breathing heavily.    “There’s a time for everything, just not now, darling.”    You pout but retract your hands to your sides. He takes his cock and strokes it a bit, but pulls you up and sits you in his lap. You can feel his manhood pressing insistently against your thigh, so close to your entrance yet so far. You move his dick over your pussy, not quite putting it in, but grind down on it, twisting your hips back and forth. Taeyong grits his teeth and grips your hips hard, his hips bucking in pleasure at the contact with your pussy. You can feel the veined skin of his cock slide over your well-lubed folds, his head slightly pressing against your clit as your close your eyes in bliss. This goes on for a while, you moving back and forth while he rolls his hips into your vagina. Taeyong looks you straight in the eyes while he positions his cock slightly into your entrance.   “Do you want to go on?” he asks. You nod while biting your lips.   “I’m… I’m a-" you swallow and avert your eyes, "-virgin. Please… please be gentle, Tae,” you whisper, embarrassed at your lack of experience.   His eyes widen a bit, but a new light enters them, predatorial and hunger extremely apparent even to your inexperienced gaze.   “You can stop whenever you want, okay? Just tell me.”   Psh. Why would you want this little slice of heaven to end?   You slip your pussy over his dick and bottom out on his lap, both of you groaning into the silence of Taeyong’s bedroom. You rose up, left his tip in and then slowly dropped down. You rolled your hips over him while he left harsh hickeys all over your neck, little bursts of pain and pleasure to add to the all-consuming flame.   Taeyong ripped his lips away from your chest and shoves you down roughly into the bed.   “I said I would savor this, darling, but I can’t be patient any longer,” he growls as he looms imposingly over you. He spreads your legs even wider, and thrusts in powerfully, louder groans escaping your mouth. You wrap his legs around his waist and continues in the missionary position. He pistons in and out like a machine, every part of your vagina stimulated by his moving cock, and you can feel his buttocks flex powerfully.   He muffles your moans with his lips and roughly invades your mouth, tongue, and teeth everywhere. He pounds into you even harder, the headboard shaking and creaking under his powerful thrusts. His hips slam into your thighs producing a lewd noise of flesh on flesh throughout his bedroom. You can feel a wave of pleasure rising within you, and you moan even louder.   “Louder, darling,” he growls and then his cock hits the spot.   The wave of pleasure crests and then crashes back down and you nearly scream, you head bent heavenward while your back arches off the bed. Your walls contract around his dick sporadically while lifts you into a new position, never disconnecting from you, and fucks you through your orgasm, heightening the whole experience.   “Taeyong!” you scream, the new position allowing him to thrust deeper. Your mind is in a fog of pleasure and you can feel the pleasurable sting of overstimulation overtake you.   “Taeyong, fuck! I can’t take anymore!’ you cry as tears gather at the edge of your eyes, the bliss too much for your weak body.   “Hold on for me, darling, I’m nearly there.” Taeyong grits out as he thrusts harder and quicker.   Warm cum fills your pussy when you orgasm nearly at the same time, and he groans your name while you scream out his, writhing beneath his erratic thrusts. You can feel the cum dripping out of your pussy and onto his silk bed sheets. He slows down and collapses onto your chest, and the both of you breathe heavily.   Taeyong takes his cock out of your vagina, a stream of cum oozing out as he does so. You open your eyes to see him not tired, but eyes alight with lust as he grins ominously at you. His cock rubs against your entrance, while the aftershocks of pleasure rack your body.   “Get ready darling, you’re in for this all night.”

   Bright sunlight greets you when you wake up, tangled naked beneath silk sheets. You can feel that the spot beneath your legs is sore, but your muscles are relaxed and your mind is satisfied. Taeyong had certainly had it in for you all night, taking you in so many positions and bringing you to release countless times.    It was a good night.    Unfortunately, the man who made it so wasn’t snoring on the bed covers beside you, only rumpled sheets left in his wake. You can smell his cologne in the air and on your skin, but also the stench of sex and lust.    You stretch and get up from the bed, putting on your tank and bra, slipping on your underwear and shorts as you open the door. There is a faint strain of music emanating from one of the rooms down the hall, so you follow the tune. As you get closer, you can decipher a woman warbling sweetly with a roughness from an old-fashioned gramophone.    You silently click open the cold gold handle and peek in through the door. You see Taeyong with his back turned to you, a palette stained with the colors of the rainbow in his left hand and a scrubber brush in his right. He is clad in loose beige trousers and a coal black shirt hanging from his shoulders, while completely focused on the painting in front of him.    You sidle in beside him and speak up.    “I should’ve known you’d be painting, even after such a… late night.”    He jumps a bit but then turns to you. You can now see his black shirt is half unbuttoned, his chest bared out for the world (mostly you and the walls) to see.    Taeyong sighs, sets down his tools and wraps his arms around your waist. He buries his head in your honest-to-god rat nest of hair, and stays there for a few moments, savoring your presence.    “When passion meets inspiration, obsession is born,” he murmurs.    “Where did you get that quote from?” you ask curiously.    “Heard it from… somewhere, I forget,” Taeyong says.    “Probably from one of your artsy-fartsy philosophy books” you shoot back.    Taeyong snorts. “How ironic, hm? I preach and lecture masses people how inspiration can easily become your obsession, only for me to become the heretic to my word. Only for you, darling. Only for you.”    Taeyong rests his chin on your head while you lean back into his arms. You take the time to observe the piece he implies is his obsession, the thing that stomped on his beliefs and scattered them to the wind. You instantly recognize it is startlingly different from his previous works of art.    Of course, there is his dark background and signature jewel tones but it is a lot less jarring than you are used to. That being said there is no lack of passion or skill in this piece, but it is noticeably less abstract and a bit more... realistic?    There is a shoulders-up shot of a woman with her eyes closed, her head leaning into a palm while she is (presumably) naked.  The woman is fleshed out in full detail with a jumbled haze of colors surrounding her, making her the central point in the painting. Your eyes travel from her wispy eyelashes to the tilted nose, to the curve in her slightly parted tinted lips—    Wait a minute.    Your eyebrows knit together as you recognize the arched brows and cheekbones, the lip corners and hell, even the slight mole on the collarbone.    That woman is you.    Your head snaps towards Taeyong in surprise, whom you find is gently smiling at you.    “What do you think?”    You detach yourself from his warm embrace and step closer to the painting.    “You may hear this way too much, but it’s beautiful,” you whisper reverently in awe. Your hand comes up to brush over the surface of the painting, but stops and falls back to your side, afraid that you could mess up the painting.    “Art imitates life, darling,” Taeyong purred.    A blush effused into your cheeks like a dye. Vivid memories flash in your mind’s eye of beads of sweat rolling down the bridge of Taeyong’s aristocratic nose and jawline, eyes closed in ecstasy, and pleasure pleasure pleasure—    You snap back to reality before you could get any more caught up from last night’s tryst, but unfortunately, Taeyong has noticed and wore a shit-eating grin on his chiseled features. The painter stepped closer to you and you could faintly smell his cologne and something that was all too masculine, and he stared down with you with those intense eyes that pulled you in in the first place.    “Would you like me to show you where?”

   17 million ~ TY    You stare at your bright phone screen with bleary eyes, lids half-opened and trying to stay up. You had forgotten to turn off your phone for the night and the text notification startled you into consciousness at 2am. Your pleasant dreams about passing the architecture final were interrupted crudely.    17 million? What does he mean— wait, holy shit!    Your eyes, now completely free of fatigue, widen in surprise as you sit up and unlock your phone. The search engine you used quickly brings up a multitude of articles, but the some of the top headlines read “Lee Taeyong Sells Painting For $17 Million” and “You Won’t Believe What This Simplistic Painting Sold For!” You click on the Art Newspaper article and scroll through the click bait ads and epilepsy-inducing graphics to get to the main article.

  Lee Taeyong, 27 years-old Korean painter, is smiling in the midst of thunderous applause as the final bang of the auctioneer’s gavel signifies his astounding sale. This morning, 12 am EST, his recent portrait of a woman dubbed “Sense and Sensuality” sold for a whopping $17 million USD at the New York Sotheby’s Auction House (5). This is his highest-ever sale yet, and the future is looking bright for this talented young man.

   Congratulations! You type with a growing smile on your face.    Coming over in 10 to celebrate ~ TY    What?    The sheets tangle around your feet as you nearly trip out of your bed in order to get ready. A muffled thump resounds around your bedroom as you heavily land on the floor. You cringe, hoping the grumpy couple downstairs don’t wake up from it.        You should’ve expected this, as eccentric as Taeyong was. It was no surprise he was spontaneous.    You flick the lights on and grab a bra from your drawer. You snap it on while impressively combing your hair, then change into some leggings and old t-shirt because, hell, if Taeyong wanted to see you at 2am when he had to deal with 2am Y/N.    The bronze knocker pounds on your door and you bolt out of your bedroom to get it. A quick look into the peephole shows you gleaming black hair, reminding you of the way ink looked in a bottle.    Taeyong, still in his crisp black-tie suit, is standing in your dimly-lit hallway beaming holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand.    “Hey.” His eyes look tired but are sparkling with vitality.    You leap into his arms and he holds you tightly, rocking you back and fourth. You murmur congratulations into his shoulder and he hums back, content in your cuddling. The pair of you stay in the dim light of your apartment hallway, your door half open and probably wasting your valuable air conditioner, however, you couldn’t care less: all that mattered was the man in your arms.    “Taeyong… I’m so proud of you. You deserved this so much,” you lean back and look into his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips.    The painter smiled his usual enigmatic twitch of the lips that you loved so much and leaned forward into to pull you into a deep kiss. His hands pulled you in closer to his body and the smell of his cologne was more prevalent than ever, intoxicating your senses to the point that if there were a fire alarm in the hallway, you would still be kissing his delicious lips.    “I couldn’t have done it without you, you know,” he whispers against your lips.    You roll your eyes and swat him on the shoulder.    “Oh, psh! It was 100 percent you, I was just kinda... there. A spectator to greatness and all. You don’t have to butter me up, you know?” you laugh as you lead him into the apartment.    He mumbles something you can’t hear as you are locking the door, and you turn around to face him.    “What?”    “Nothing, nothing. Just remembering something.” Taeyong casually deflects, as he tosses his suit jacket onto your kitchen chairs.    “You wanna celebrate? I can put on a movie and make food,” you ask as you clean the mess of your room.    “I’d love to.” The artist loosens his tie and chucks it in the general direction of his suit jacket, then partly unbuttons his oxford shirt until you can see the chiseled expanse of his chest.    “Cool beans.”

   The movie ended, and the credits rolled, leaving your living room blanketed in darkness and the two of you sit in silence.    “Hey… y/n?” Taeyong sounds unusually hesitant, unlike his normally suave and composed persona. You can feel his hands finger with the buttons on his shirt while he strokes your side unconsciously.    “Mmm?” you mumble, half-asleep.    “You… Do you wanna move in with me?”    This completely unexpected statement jolts you into awareness, and you look at his face in shock. Your eyes scan his face in the poor light of your living room, and of what you can see, he is dead serious.    “I- What?”    “Do you want to move in with me? Like, stay in my house?” he enunciates slowly, so alike to your first face-to-face encounter with him, like he was speaking to an idiot. However, you can see his face slightly turning red and his eyes averting downwards to his lap.    A moment lapsed in complete silence while you tried to process the implications of his statement and he tried to calm the butterflies in his stomach.    It was a stupid idea, he thought to himself sourly, too much, too soon, I should just apolo—    “Sure,” you contemplate thoughtfully.    “Yes? You want to move in with me? Live with me? If it’s too soon for you, you don’t have to—”    “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t mean it Tae. Yes, I want to move in with you and live with you. I don’t think it’s too fast.” You stroked his cheek.    “Good,” Taeyong huffs. After a beat, his lips crack into a smirk and he leans in closer.    “I think we can celebrate even more now, no?” he whispers while fumbling with the waistband of your shorts.    You giggled in delight while swooping into to kiss him.

   The two of you collapse in bed, a few weeks later, exhausted from your activities. This particular round was initiated after he caught you trying on lingerie in his bathroom when you thought he wouldn’t be home for a while. He fucked you against the counter, the full-length mirror in your closet, and then finally ending up on his bed. You sighed in delight. What this man could do with his hips was heavenly.    You looked up at the ceiling of his bedroom, where he had decorated it with murals of beautiful angels and clouds. It was just like the Vatican, where the murals had lent an ethereal feeling to the church and made you think you were in a plane above reality. The few weeks in Taeyong’s company had been absolute bliss.  You had moved out of your apartment, moved your stuff into Taeyong’s apartment, and you stayed. He would’ve let you stay for free, but you insisted on paying at least a set fraction of the rent. He gave you the price of the rent to calculate upon, but you think he had lied and lowered it deliberately. Either way: it was heaven, like the murals painted on his ceilings.    “That… That was great, Taeyong,” you pant, naked chest heaving up and down in exhaustion.    “Mmm, yeah. I loved it,” he said, voice muffled by burying his head into the valley of your chest.    “Night, Tae,” you whisper as you doze off.    “Night, y/n,” he says quietly, and you can hear that he has one foot in fairyland right now.    As you consciousness dims and fades, you can still here Taeyong mumbling something. You listen closer.    “I love your body, Y/N.”    Somehow, that doesn’t sit well in your stomach. At all.

   A notification from one of the news sites you followed popped up on your phone.    Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse?     You raise a brow at the message but quickly opened it up. Who is Lee Taeyong’s Muse? It said in bright blue, bold letters. A picture of the painting he created the morning the two of you first had sex was below the painting.

   Lee Taeyong, 27, recently has been finding major success among the cutthroat world of fine art. His most recent painting selling for 17 million USD, his artworks have been plastered on every major news site (including this one!) and has been the point of critical acclaim for their intimacy, skill, and emotion. Even after his shocking change of artistic style from completely abstract to pseudo-traditionalist, critics alike have been clamoring for his work. However, each one of his most recent paintings from the past year or so has had one thing in common: a beautiful, doe-eyed lady.

   Yes, most might be able to dismiss as an insignificant part but dear reader, it is the most important. From the painting “Broadway” to “Sense”, a similar lady has been depicted in all of them. She has been the center point of all his works. His earliest paintings of her were a triplet of paintings, her countenance growing more and more detailed with each successive work. The latest painting of her with her eyes closed and half-naked has been by far the most sensual one.

   We, at this site, have suspected from the intimate nature of his works that Taeyong has a muse: a person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist. While there has been no reports of an official girlfriend or lover, the editors of this site figure the mysterious Korean painter has a significant other. Each painting of her in successive order has been noticed to have showed the progress of their relationship from friends to intimate lovers. His lauded attention to detail and depiction of emotion definitely comes from the heart, his heavy attraction to his lover.

   However, the subject of muses have been a long and controversial one. Cries of abused and neglected muses have been major headlines in the art world, and acclaimed artists being accused of sexually and emotionally mistreating their muses. Alas, many muses have had terrible ends like the beautiful Camille Claudel and the famous sculptor Auguste Rodin (6), in which Rodin dumped Camille and Camille went insane. Will Taeyong’s muse be his Gala to his Dalí (7), his Floge to his Klimt (8)? One thing’s for certain: this mystery muse will either make or break his career.

   You stared numbly at the lit screen, which grew dark and powered off as you stopped interacting with the screen.    Was... was Taeyong using you?    A range of emotions besieged your tired mind.    Doubt was the first wave, followed by a cavalry of Worry charging through your rather pathetic moat of logic. Hurt came up hard and quick to your flank and mercilessly attacked your mental stronghold, puncturing holes in your defense and riddling your conscious.    Heart pounding, you typed in the password quickly and searched up “muse”. Countless articles popped up before you. You adjusted your searches accordingly and therein, you found your grail. However, with each passing article, you grew more horrified. Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori (9), Picasso and Gilot (10), Bertolucci and Schneider (11)— each one more terrifying than the last. While you were not sexually abused or beaten like some of the poor victims of the past few centuries, the message was clear: Taeyong was using you for his art, and his art only.

   The tea kettle whistled as you busy yourself making your breakfast on the beautiful marble countertops of Taeyong’s kitchen. The late morning sun was out and about, the birds were chirping, and you were all alone.    It wasn’t as if this were an unusual occurrence; for the past few weeks, you rarely woke to see Taeyong sleeping next to you. He came back for a night, fucked you, and left in the morning. Sometimes the empty side of his bed was warm to the touch, and others, his lingering warmth was lone gone- either way, you were left to get ready for class alone, eat breakfast alone, and leave the house alone.    You fully understood why, though. The price of Taeyong’s explosive popularity led to him having to be out and about, whether for interviews or exhibition openings or banquets. It was better than having no work at all, at least, yet Taeyong’s face was plastered everywhere, and sometimes you thought the tabloids knew more about his life than you, his… whatever you were.    A jolt of pain jerks you out of your thoughts, and you yelp and jump back. Your finger had touched the end of your frying pan, and imprinted on the tip of your index fingertip was a bright red mark.    A hiss of pain escapes your mouth which quickly sucked at the tip of your finger, while you turned off the burner. Damn, it stung like hell!    Well, at least the eggs were done.    The plush, mahogany chair of the breakfast table squeaked as you pulled it back, and plopped you in your oversized t-shirt in the chair. The sencha tea bag, which had been steeped in the cup for a few minutes, was quickly retracted and you took a long sip of it.    You dialed up Olivia on facetime, who was sure to already be at school and in some secluded corner painting. A few rings led to Olivia, in newly dyed blue and purple hair, answering her phone with the camera angle at an awkward position.    “I don’t think I really want to see the inside of your nostrils, Livy. No one does, really.”    She stuck out her tongue and snorted.    “Bitch, the boys be paying to see my face, much less my nostrils. No one wants to see your ugly ass face!” Olivia drawled while she turned her attention to her painting.    “Taeyong does. In fact, people pay millions to get a piece!” you snark back.    Olivia drops her paintbrush into a water cup and pouts at her phone screen.    “...fine. Speaking of, how is Mister Big D--”    “OLIVIA!” you shout, almost choking on your eggs.    “Oh fine, fine! Either way, how is he?”    “We’re… we’re doing fine,” you happy smile slowly turns into a frown, and you look down into your tea. You stir the tea a bit and see the minuscule tea leaves swirl around like a  mini tornado.    “It doesn’t sound fine, though,” Olivia raises an eyebrow.    “I… you’re right. I really don’t know anymore, Olivia,” you sigh and look away from the phone screen. Your eyes catch sight of the pristine living room, the late morning sun streaming beautiful rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The TV was as pitch black as the night, the comforter you brought in, untouched, and the pillows, fluffed. All lifeless.    “Oh, sweetie. I’ve been suspecting this for weeks,” Olivia says sympathetically as she dabbles some oil onto the canvas. She sets down the sponge and turns her full attention to you, her brows furrowed.    “It’s just that… Taeyong isn’t around here anymore. When he’s gone, I’m here, and when he’s here, I’m gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks!” you shout, and your fork clatters down on your plate.    “Wow, okay, chill. Y/n. Breathe. Have you at least tried to meet up with him for a date or whatever?”    You pout. “Yes, but he’s always busy or has to cancel. Sometimes, we do manage to make our schedules fit together and everything’s fine, but still!”    “ I really wish I could help, y/n. Really.” Olivia says sympathetically.    You burrow your face into your hands while tears sting at your eyes. Muffled sobs escape your lips while tears finally escape from your eyes. Your breakfast lay beside you cold and uneaten.    “I-I don’t k-know anymore. I-I saw a news article this morning and my mind went crazy and maybe I’m being paranoid or a butthurt bitch but I think he’s using me and-” you sob.    “Oh, sweetie,” all playful insults and snarky wit were gone from Olivia’s tone as she tried to keep you company from miles away in a cold, dark, and dusty penthouse.

   You couldn’t do this anymore.    Gone were the days Taeyong and you would wake up and bed and have another round and eat breakfast together, the days he would take you out to the city and watch an indie band in the local coffee shop, or the days he would bring to art openings. It just stopped.    There were days you woke up in bed alone, after Taeyong pounded you into the mattress the night before, feeling used. Like some dime and dozen whore out of the red light district. Who were you, anymore? What use were you anymore? What did you mean to Taeyong?    School went by, albeit slowly. You passed your architecture final and were in your 2nd year of college. You did pretty decently in the class at least, but the course and the rigor made you more miserable as the months went by. The novelty of your compliance to your father’s wishes wore off and made you wish to escape.    Taeyong, your degree, and emotional distress just made you break down one day. Right in the middle Taeyong’s hallway after class ended. No warning whatsoever. After piecing yourself back together and getting your fatigued and pathetic self into the bed, you started to think.    This was hell.    Olivia warned you weeks and weeks ago, begging you to let go of the artist no matter how much he admired him. She had lost all respect for him and quickly threw away the posters of his paintings she had had before Taeyong met you, completely ignored him when you were with him and her, and ripped up her thesis paper about his artwork. She even offered you refuge from the older man, pleading for you to stay in her apartment to get away from him.    You were done.

   Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.    The keypad clicked open and in walked Lee Taeyong into his apartment. Still clad in a suit, the artist had returned back to his apartment from his negotiations with a famous gallery to display his artwork. A long and arduous meeting, it had lasted way longer than the handsome man expected, and he had finally wrangled out a successful deal. His works would be displayed for a year at the famed Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea.    It was his dream since he was a young, starving art student living paycheck to paycheck in a studio apartment, who could barely speak English and was 7000 miles away from his family.    But why was he so unhappy?    He shut the door and sighed. He loosened his necktie and threw his wine-red blazer onto the coat rack, then ruffled his hair as he walked through the foyer.       He felt bad for leaving you constantly like this. He just kept getting called on and pulled away constantly to the point where he sometimes forgot that there was a woman waiting for him back home. He tried to make it up with nights of passionate sex, pounding you into the mattress and making you cum several times in succession. He couldn’t remember the last time he had taken you out somewhere… was it a month ago? A month and a half?    “Y/n?”    No response.    “...Y/n?”    He walked through the halls but there was something... off about his house. He couldn’t smell your scent of peaches of cream strongly, only faintly, like you were long gone. It looked… emptier. Dustier.    Darker.    “Y/N!”    A rising sense of panic surged up and seized Taeyong’s heart beating back and forth. Ba-bump ba bump ba bump. In vain, he tried to calm his mind, his rationale fruitlessly trying to withhold judgment, yet it seemed his heart was going to beat right out of his chest.    It isn’t true, it isn’t true, it isn’t true—    His vision narrowed as he ripped through his house. Every room in the vast apartment suite is empty. He threw open the kitchen cupboard. Your handmade coffee mug from one of the pottery students in Pearson’s isn’t there. He nearly tripped over the ottoman. Your ridiculous throw blanket with cartoon corgis plastered all over it is absent from his leather sectional. He pounds against the floorboards of the hallway, Your subway pass isn’t in the bowl in the hall.    It seems like his loosened tie was choking him as he ran to the end of the hall, your bedroom. He slammed open the door, the doorstop only barely preventing it from hitting and damaging the wood-paneled walls. Taeyong’s carpet muffled his frantic footsteps. The french doors with its billowing curtains were thrown open, but you weren’t on the balcony, lounging on the patio chair or couch reading a book.    The marble bathroom he loved to fuck you in and take long baths in while sipping decades-old wine was deserted. Your combs and products were gone, and the J’Adore Dior perfume he bought you when you were passing by Neiman Marcus sat on the counter, lonely.    Incoherent nonsense escaped his lips as he slid open the large, walk-in closet doors. The other half of the closet you and him had organized together, him grumbling when he had to push his clothes back, was simply abandoned. Wire hangers hanging on the pole, absent of the soft clothes that smelled like peaches and cream.    He clutched his chest through his shirt, and leaned on the dressing table in the middle of the closet, his breaths coming out in staccato, short and sharp. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this to me—    A scrap of paper caught his attention out of his peripheral vision. With trembling hands, he scooped it up and held it to his pale face.    I don’t think I can do this anymore, Taeyong. Thank you.

   You pulled the corgi patterned blanket around you and sipped some hot chocolate, while Olivia was retrieving the cheese Pringles from her pantry. You clicked on the television and scrolled what to watch on Netflix.    “Hey, Livy!”    “What!” she shouted from the back of the kitchen.    “Can we watch the Purge?!” you yelled as you read through the description.    “The fuck! NO!” Olivia said as she walked back in her penguin onesie into the living room.    “I’m the one who’s suffering from a break-up, bitch! I get to choose the movie and I want to scream my ass off!”    “Y/n, I don’t think that’s what you’re supposed to do after a breakup? Aren’t you supposed to watch the Notebook while in tears and a tub of ice cream in your hands?” she questions as she plops down on the couch.    You look around exaggeratedly. “The Notebook? Nope, watching the Purge. Tears? Already cried out. Ice cream? I think fuck not, I want cheesy Pringles.” “Fine, fine. Whatever.” Olivia grumbles as she stuffs several cheese pringles into her mouth.    The day you had turned up on Olivia’s doorstep, bags in hand and tears streaming from red-rimmed eyes, she had graciously allowed you to stay with her. Days and days were spent with you crying in her arms, probably going through 3 tissue boxes and ice cream tubs. You were absolutely devastated after packing up and abandoning Taeyong, wondering if it was the right thing to do and if you were a horrible person for doing so.    Olivia dismissed your worries, stating you were totally in the rights and proclaimed “good riddance!” while stomping on a Polaroid of you and Taeyong at Hyde Park.    You were still devastated of course, even after several weeks. The ache in your heart wouldn’t go away no matter how many tubs of ice cream you stuffed down your throat, and a permanent frown was always fixed in place. You missed the red-haired man with all your soul, even if you abandoned him with no warning and quite callously. You blocked his number, his email, his social media, everything you could think of to completely cut him out of your life. Photos of him were trashed and the gifts given to you by him were still in the apartment.    But at the very least, from this complete purge and detox of your life, came something that you had always wanted to do but never could do.    You switched degrees.   You woke up one day and said, fuck it, and went to the administration to completely switch departments.    Yes, it was extremely sudden. Uncharacteristically sudden of you, the girl who was afraid to go out with her friends on a school night. Too sudden of the girl that was afraid to skip class and skive off with her friends. Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to make such an important decision on the fly, but at this point, you didn’t care. You wanted to live the way you wanted, the way you needed, and all fucks that were given were thrown carelessly to the wind.   Soon enough, you were transferred into the appropriate classes to obtain a degree in Fine Arts, even taking some classes with Olivia. Your parents were understandably furious, shouting at you over the phone for wasting their money and wrecking your future. Your father, after a long rant that lasted almost 30 minutes, spitefully told you he wasn’t going to support this “destructive behavior” and wouldn’t pay for your next semesters. While you were sad that you and your parent’s relationship would probably be strained for the next few years, you were the happiest you could remember being. The royalties from Taeyong’s paintings you earned could pay your tuition a few times over, so you were stable. You finally could do what you wanted.    But Taeyong.    Your thoughts drifted to the letter you had received from a professor that afternoon previous.

   “Y/n! Could you stay back for a moment?” Professor Andrews called out as the rest of the class shuffled out of the classroom.    You head popped up like a deer in headlights, eyes wide.    “Uh, yes?”    You removed the hood from your head and navigated through your fellow classmates to the teaching podium, where your art history professor was standing imperiously.    Was something wrong? Were your papers not good enough, because you transferred in so late?    Your hands patted down your errant hair and straightened your sweatpants. You swallowed nervously. Professor Andrew was notorious for her strict grading, many people failing and flunking out of the class because of the numerous red marks all over their papers and tests.    “Professor Andrews?” you hesitantly ask as you stand in front of the podium.    “Y/n, just the girl I wanted to see.”    She stepped down from the podium in impossible sky-high heels to stand before you. She smiled, her black hair streaked with gray pulled back in a tight bun and it softened her face. You nervously smiled back.    “A prized former student of mine asked me to give this to you. He begged many of his contacts at Parsons to deliver this directly into your hands but alas, I was the only contact who had you in my class.”        She produced a white envelope from her desk and put it in your hands. From the feel of the paper, it was soft; made of vellum.    Vellum.    The material of the calling card offered to you by… that man was vellum, and who else would deliver you a card made from the expensive material?    “Uh, professor, I’m afraid— “    Professor Andrews grasped my hands with her wrinkled palms and look me directly into my eyes. Her normally piercing gaze that could bring a student to tears was soft and concerned, unfamiliar to you.    “Y/n, I am not supposed to interfere but… he looked so gaunt when he came to me. The sparkle was gone from his eyes, his bravado diminished into a shell of what it was, his tone so tired and beaten down. Especially with his indefinite hiatus—”    “What?” Your head snapped up from the envelope in shock.    Your professor furrowed her brows. “You didn’t know? He announced an indefinite hiatus around the time you first transferred in. He said that no more art would be produced until he decided to become active again.”    “I didn’t know…” you murmured as you stroked your thumb over the envelope.    “I don’t know what sort of relationship the two of you had, as it’s not my business, but whatever it was, he needed you. Desperately.”

   You had only opened it when you came home from school. A polaroid of a painting that you could barely discern placed in a dark room. One message was written on the back.    Please tell me what I did wrong.    What were you supposed to do with that?    In the movie, the doorbell was wrung by the Polite Leader beseeching the Sandins to let them release their prey to hunt.    Should you respond to him? Should you completely ignore him? Which one would be more beneficial to your health?    If you didn’t respond to him, the ache in your heart would forever be there. You would be scarred from men forever because the man who took your virginity broke your heart and used you like a toy. You would never know his side of the story.    But, if you responded to him, you would at least know his side. Have some redemption. Perhaps get in a slap. Maybe you would have a chance to stop the ache in your heart.    Well, if you were brave enough the change degrees, you sure as hell could confront your ex-... whatever he was. Lover? Boyfriend?    You would do this.    “Olivia, I’m going to do something really quickly,” you said as you removed your self from the tangle of food and pillows.    “What!” She squawked. It seemed the Purgers had broken into the house already. “Bitch, you wanted to see this stupid movie and I ain’t seeing it alone!”    “And you can survive for the full minute that I will vacate this room,” as your rushed into the guest bedroom to retrieve your phone.    You scrolled down your recents and found Taeyong’s number. With trembling fingers, you unblocked his number and texted him.    927 New Haven Apartment Complex. Apartment 507. Tuesday at 6 PM.    2 days from now, Olivia was going to be out of the apartment for Thanksgiving Break with her family in South Carolina. You, with the way things were with your father, decided it wouldn’t be the best decision to go home so you decided to stay home Within a minute, a message bubble popped up.    Thank you. I’ll be there. ~ TY

   You tapped your foot impatiently as you sat at the breakfast table of Olivia’s apartment. Looking out the window, you saw a drizzle of rain wash over the foliage below and heard the usual sounds of the city. With the weather like this, you couldn’t blame Taeyong for being at least a bit late.    5:50. It read on the electronic clock in the kitchen. The house was empty, with Olivia bidding you adieu yesterday to visit her family.    You had gotten ready an hour before, you were so nervous. At least 4 outfits were tried on, scrutinized, and then thrown to the ground before deciding the 5th outfit was adequate. The dress was too formal, the sweatshirt too casual, but the skinny jeans and t-shirt combo was perfect. See, you didn’t want to look too desperate when Taeyong came in, in fact, you were trying to be standoffish—    Knock knock knock.    Your heart beat a stamp into your ribs, while the feeling in the pit of your stomach roiled. Your hand clasped the doorknob, unlocked, and swung it open.    Taeyong, in his great glory, stood there. Just seeing the eyes that made you fall in love made your heart stutter, just a tiny bit.    However, Prof. Andrews was not wrong. Taeyong still retained his classical good looks, all sharp lines, and angles, but those lines were sharper and those angles were deeper. He looked gaunt and pale, and dressed in a black button-up it contrasted to his skin so greatly it made him look even paler. There were shadows under his eyes, but his eyes were still smoldering. Still as enigmatic as always.    “Taeyong. Come in,” you regained what little dignity you had left and graciously let him in through the door. He nodded silently and slipped off his glossy black Gucci loafers and took your lead into the kitchen.    “Do you want something to drink? Water? Tea?” you asked as you leaned against the counter and crossed your arms.    “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” Taeyong murmured as he sat uncomfortably in his chair.    An awkward silence prevailed as you stood in each other’s presence as the first time in months. Heavy, tense silence grew between the two of you as you fumbled with a knick-knack on the counter and his eyes darted nervously around. It had been far too long, but the way he sat there banished the feeling of something missing from your mind.    “I thought you were on hiatus?” you said, and waved around the Polaroid of the painting.    “I am. I just said no paintings were being released, that’s all; not that I couldn’t paint anything,” Taeyong sighed.    “Ah.”    Another heavy silence.    Annoyed by the lack of action, you harshly slammed the knick-knack onto the counter. Taeyong didn’t jump, but his eyes darted to you far too fast to be casual.    “Well, Lee Taeyong? Why are you in this apartment?” you sarcastically shot at him.    “I wanted to ask why you left me. Humor me; let me into that infuriating brain of yours, Y/n.”    “I think I already made it clear when I vacated the apartment, Lee Taeyong. I even left a note. Or were you far too busy with your obligations to remember that?” you venomously spat.    “Stop calling me that! We’re not fucking strangers!” Taeyong suddenly shouted, scooting back his chair suddenly. His fists were balled up and he had an awful look of fury on his face.    “What? Lee Taeyong? Well, I call you that because we might as well be!” you shout back.    “Damn it, Y/n! Why the fuck did you leave me, huh? Was I not good enough for you? Was I not rich enough for you? Hell, did I not fuck good enough for you?” Taeyong snapped at you, gripping the table tops so hard his knuckles turned white.    “You must one cocky son of a bitch to think I wanted you for your fucking money or your dick! I left because I know nothing about you!”    “What are you talking about?! I shared my home with you—”    “Shut up, Taeyong! I fucking trusted you with my dreams and hopes and life but you gave nothing of yourself to me! I confided in you, I told you about my past and my present, and I bared my soul and body to you! While you, always the goddamn unfathomable and ambiguous Lee Taeyong, gave me nothing of you! Zero! Zilch! Nada! I don’t know what I am to you! What was I supposed to think, y- you bastard?” you voice cracked, as you stared up at his eyes.    “Y-you” your voice broke and turned hoarse “y-you treated me like a toy. You took my virginity. You only called me over to fuck— I felt I was a whore. You gave me the best nights of my life, but you left me scarred for the rest of my nights.    His silence wrung as heavily in your ears as his shouting did. It wrung in your ears like a siren while, he could only look at you with an inscrutable expression of his face, like he couldn’t figure out whether to get angry or cry.    “Get out, Taeyong. Go use someone else to make money off of. Go be dishonest somewhere else.” You spit out and close your eyes. Your back turned to him at you stare at the textured cream wall, desperately not trying to burst out bawling.    “No.”     You spin around on your heel to yell at him some more, but Taeyong appears at your back few inches away from you, far too close for comfort. His inscrutable expression morphed into something that looked like determination, and his smoldering eyes held you in place as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Your mouth drops open in shock at his audacity before he leans his forehead to yours and sighs.    “My name is Lee Taeyong.” he started out quietly, eyes closed as if in prayer. “I am 27. I’m from Seoul, South Korea. I like to paint, I love macarons, and I hate dirty rooms. But you already know that. I am Lee Taeyong. I never really got along with my mother, perhaps that’s the reason I’m doing so bad with you.” He laughed bitterly. “She raised me to close off myself to others, not ever to trust a female. But I can’t blame her for… for my behavior. I am scared of the people who judge me, even though I am an artist and am constantly judged by the public, critics still make me want to put down my paints.”     “I came to the US when I was 19, on scholarship to Parsons. I didn’t know English very well at all, and I struggled to communicate with those around me, and I chose to delve into my craft even deeper. You… inspired me, and remember my speech at Parsons? I didn’t know how true it was until you entered my life. I didn’t know to what extent inspiration turned into obsession, how intensive it went. I’m not using you just to make money; you genuinely make my heart lighter and make me feel things I haven’t ever felt, and these things were hard to communicate. I did the best way I could, by painting you just the way I see you, but I think I didn’t get through to you.”    “I didn’t mean to make you feel like some on-call whore. I thought… I thought I could make up my absences with time spent in bed with you. That my missing days from home could be covered up by a few drawn-out orgasms. Guess it didn’t work, because you aren’t at home. With me. In my studio. In our kitchen. In our bed.” Taeyong lifted his forehead from yours and buried in your hair. He took a deep breath, comforted and saddened all at once at the familiar smell of peaches-and-cream that still plagued his memories like a ghost. The smell that he could faintly smell in the shower that he tried to scrub off until his skin turned red.    “But most importantly, the thing that you should know about me, in all my bumbling attempts to make you mine, is that I… I care for you. Fuck, I love you, and I’m so goddamn sorry I drove you away from our home. Please tell me it isn’t too late, because I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to make you feel used and unwanted. Please.”    His tone, cracked and anguished and interwoven with sadness, wrenched at your heart. He sounded so desperate, so unlike his usual suave baritone that it felt like you were listening to a song and the track skipped ahead a few beats and now all the singing was off-beat.    His mysterious nature, that you thought was permanently affixed to his character, was slowly crumbling around you. The days where you thought the gleam in his eyes was an enigmatic sparkle of that he knew something that you didn’t were gone; you could see that sparkle was of passion and affection, and a million other things in the universe that was all for you.    You didn’t realize you were crying until you could feel the wet button up of Taeyong was pressing into your cheek. Taeyong was making little shushing noises, stroking your back and whispering comforting things into your things.    “I… It’s not too late,” you whisper.    Taeyong’s head snapped up to meet your gaze, mouth partly open in shock. You smiled through your tears and stroked his cheek. You stood on your tippy-toes and gave him a kiss on his cheek, while he stood stutteringly still.    “It’s… it’s my fault too. I didn’t say anything, didn’t try to talk to you about my problems, or rather, didn’t try hard enough. I should’ve at least tried to work this out, instead of sulking about my problems like some child, before walking out of our house. I’m so sorry too, I was so rash and didn’t even let you have a chance to know what you did wrong,” you said while holding his hands.    Taeyong’s face split into a genuine smile, and dipped his head into a deep kiss, pressing you even closer to him. You missed this so much, a part of you that came together, and you responded two-fold, tilting your head to deepen the lip-lock. You gasped as his tongue entered your lips and you moaned softly, running your hands over his broad shoulders. He disengaged from lip-lock and trailed kisses all over your face. Over your brows, over your temples, over the bridge of your nose, everywhere. You giggled, ticklish from the sensation and his lips pulled up into a smirk. The hands you were using to run over his chest wandered to the lapel of his shirt, and tugged. Your hands played with the buttons before Taeyong released you suddenly.    “What?” you pouted, biting your lip and looking at him coquettishly.    His eyes darkened even further before a growl escaped his lips.    “Don’t test me Y/n, we can’t have it now. Later.”    “Why not now? Don’t you want me?”    “I do, fuck, I want to pound you until the mattress breaks, but I don’t wanna introduce sex into our relationship too soon. I don’t want to rush this like last time,” Taeyong says, stroking your fingers.    “Well, if what you said before about not wanting to fuck and chuck is true, I don’t mind it. In fact, I want it.” You take your hands out of his hold and “accidentally” brush it across his rising erection.    “Y/n,” he growls warningly, but you toss caution to the wind and push the palm of your hand into his slacks.    “Please?”    His lips curl up into a menacing smile, and he pushes you to the counter.    “If you want it, well, I live to serve,”    He tugs on your shirt, and assists in alleviating you of your shirt. You keep your lips on him, furiously making out with him. The artist pushes down your skinny jeans, his fingers brushing over your skin teasingly, soaking your panties clear through.    Once he rises up, his eyes darken even more as he scans your body, clad in just a bra and tiny panties while looking up at him with wide eyes. Licking his lips, he leans down and laves at your collarbone enticingly, while you throw your head back in ecstasy. Taeyong’s fingers pull down the cups of your bra, his thumbs rubbing circles on your aeolas making the tips of your breasts even stiffer.    “Mmph!” you moan, one hand covering your mouth while the other one is propped up to support you.    Taeyong scoops you up in his arms while you squeal.    “Which door?”    “The… the first one on the right,” you panted, barely able to talk while kissing him.    He manages to get the door open with you in his arms (an impressive feat) and throws you down on the bed. He rips off his black button up, showcasing his impressive chest that you missed, and loosens his belt.    You lean forward quickly and get back on your knees, pulling down his pants and pulling his cock out his briefs. Turgid and thick, it was exactly how you remembered. You stroked him a bit, while he threw his head back while clutching your shoulders tightly, and your mouth curled up into a cat-like grin. While rubbing the pre-cum over his head, Taeyong interrupted you.    “Y/n, I want to go down you. You can get my dick later,” Taeyong huffs as he rips your hand away from his cock.    “But I want it now, Tae. Can’t we do 69?” you asked while playing the straps of your bra.    “...fine.” Taeyong relents and helps you remove your bra and panties.    He gets down on the bed, while you climb over him and position your core directly on his face. You get eye-level with his pulsating cock and the hard tips of your breast rub his pectorals, stimulating quite nicely.    As soon as your fingers touched his cock, Taeyong sinful tongue poked at the entrance to your pussy. You unintentionally squeezed harder, and he moaned breathily, his hot breath on your vagina. Since Taeyong was rubbing his tongue over your entrance, but never entering, you decided to amp it up a notch.    You opened your lips over his dick, poking your tongue out, but only touching him slightly. He moaned, and you left little licks and kisses over his erection, fleeting touches that made his cock even harder. Taeyong seemed to get annoyed, and just fully inserted his tongue into your pussy. You whined and ground your core into his face, mouth leaving his dick momentarily and it hitting your cheeks you put your head down.    As Taeyong finally got out his hands to touch your clit, you put the length of his in his throat. You could feel the fine tremor of his thighs on your chest, and you alternated between hard and soft suction. However, you could barely think as his tongue moved in patterns on your clit, his fingers pistoning in and out. As his tongue touched your clit and his fingers touched a spot, you clenched hard and felt yourself release. You decided to speed up your handjob, and Taeyong explodes over your hand, streams of white come covering your pumping hand and slightly splattering you in the face.    The two of you rest there for a while before Taeyong’s dick rises a bit. You giggled, and you felt Taeyong lift you up from your position and putting you on your back on the bed. He loomed over you, and you clenched your thighs together to stop your juices from getting everywhere, but he wrenched them open and inserted himself between them.    “You ready, Y/n?”    “Absolutely,” you panted, a bit more wantonly than you would’ve liked.    His lips curled up in that smirk that made you fall in love with him, and he wasted no time in putting himself in.    The two of you groaned from the friction, not used to the pleasurable feelings running through your veins and in your hearts from the past few months. It felt like a homecoming, however cheesy it was, because him, here, with you, made you feel at ease.    Lubricated as you were, he set a gentle yet fast pace, slamming into you and making the bed frame rock. You didn’t know where to put your hands, one moment it was clutched tightly at sheets, and the other it was scratching down Taeyong’s back. He clenched his teeth and rocked into you faster, his biceps bulging with the effort. You every inch and crevice of his dick in your pussy, fitting perfectly with the contour of your walls.    “Taeyong!” you moan, absolutely overwhelmed by the intense pleasure and the emotional homecoming.    “Be my lover. Be my girlfriend. Be mine,” Taeyong gasped as his hips slammed into yours, creating a lewd slapping noise throughout the bedroom.    “My home… our home feels darker without you. It misses you. I miss you,” he continues.    “Say yes, darling.”    “YES!” you nearly screech out, delirious from the pleasure Taeyong was inflicting upon you. Your pussy clenched tightly around his veiny cock and released its juices. Taeyong let out an involuntarily moan and explodes, cum releases in spurts in your vagina. The two of you collapse, feeling as if a nova exploded in the room.    When your breathing as calmed down, and the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fade away, you stroke his hair.    “I think I love you,” you muse, as your fingers run through his soft black hair.    He lifts his head from your chest and smiles at you, pressing a little kiss on your collarbone.    “You’re gonna move with back in with me, right? I didn’t say that without purpose,” Taeyong murmurs, fingers drawing lines over your sensitive skin.    “I will as long as you promise me that we’ll work on communication together.”    “My darling, I would do anything for my muse.”

   The panoramic television Taeyong bought was humming softly in the background, announcing the news of Taeyong’s comeback from hiatus. The adorable corgi the two of you bought was jumping around the living room, your stupid corgi-covered throw blanket settled onto the couch once again.    You scan the small portrait of your likeness as Taeyong cradles you with his body, his head upon your shoulder and arms resting comfortably around your waist. You unconsciously lean back into him, luxuriating in his warmth and familiarity. You reluctantly break from his hold as you circle around the piece, reverent of its attention to detail and intimate vulnerability expressed in the piece. The golden plate near the base caught your eye, gleaming in the dying sunlight.    Raison D’etre.    Purpose for Existence.    Your head quickly snapped up towards his gaze and you stumbled back. 3 tiny words had the effect of a grenade, catching you off guard and leaving you in shell-shock. Just 3 tiny words made you feel like a sonic boom had swept through Taeyong’s studio and you, the unfortunate bystander, were left deafened and dazed. 3 tiny words.    “You… do you not go too far, Taeyong?”    His eyes contain a maelstrom intensive feelings. Love, passion, obsession were all rendered just as clearly with his gaze as with his oils or paints.    “Do I?”

(A/N: this a piece i have been on for a long ass time, so it is one of the best pieces i have ever written in my entire career lmao. i hope you enjoyed it as i did writing it! please like, reblog, and comment!)

Notations:

(1) Alexander Calder, an American sculptor who is best known for his innovative mobiles that embrace chance in their aesthetic and his monumental public sculptures. 

(2) Lovers- Wyeth (1981) - Part of the Helga Pictures, 240 paintings of Helga Testorf (Andrew Wyeth’s Muse and Mistress)

(3) The woman in the picture, Helga Testorf, was not a hired model. Wyeth, while married, embarked on a tempestuous affair with her and created 240 paintings.

(4) Phaedrus is a dialogue between Plato's protagonist, Socrates, and Phaedrus. The central theme of this dialogue is Eros. The problem of love serves as the provocation for the speeches, the content of the speeches and the reflection upon speech as a whole.

(5) Sotheby’s Auction House (NY)- One of the world's largest brokers of fine and decorative art, jewelry, real estate, and collectibles. It’s a big, big deal TY’s painting was sold there.

(6) Camille Claudel was the pupil of Auguste Rodin, a famous sculptor, and she eventually became his mistress. Auguste promised to leave his wife for Camille but that never happened. She went insane and was committed to a mental asylum, while Rodin went on to become an acclaimed artist. There are many doubts on how much Camille contributed to his most famous sculptures like The Thinker (because women as sculptors was unthinkable for the time).

(7) Salvador and Gala Dalí. Gala was married when she met surrealist oil painter Salvador Dalí (who painted The Persistence of Time), and immediately left her husband to be with Salvador. Gala was Salvador’s ultimate muse- he deified her in his paintings. The surrealist movement is often noted for its expression of the human subconscious and dream-state, exploring human desires and wild fantasy. For Dalí to imagine Gala in his dreams, he was extremely obsessed with her (even though she was a gold-digger and abusive).

(8) Gustav Klimt and Emilie Flöge. Gustav, who painted The Kiss, was lifelong partners with Emilie yet there was no proved romantic relationship between them. However, Gustav painted Emilie in The Kiss and many other works, leading many to believe they were romantically involved.

(6, 7, 8)- They say behind every great man is a great woman. The women mentioned above were crucial to each man’s success and artistic style. Each artist and his muse had a different sort of relationship, so that is why the newspaper mused on what type of relationship TY and Y/N had.

(9)- Nobuyoshi Araki and Kaori: Nobuyoshi Araki’s long-time model KaoRi has publicly accused the renowned Japanese photographer of misleading her into working without a contract, distributing pictures of her around the world without her knowledge or consent, and failing to compensate her fairly for her time or for her her role in Araki’s work. They weren’t lovers.

(10) Picasso and Gilot. Gilot had 2 children with Picasso and left, infuriating the famous Cubist painter who painted Guernica and The Old Guitarist.

(11) (TW) Bernado Bertolucci and Schneider. Bertolucci, an acclaimed film maker, was accused by actress Schneider for including a rape scene that wasn’t in the original script of the 1972 film Last Tango in Paris. Schneider was raped by her fellow actor Marlon Brando and the tears in the scene were real.

(9, 10 ,11)- These examples of horrible, abusive relationships between artists and their muses causes Y/N some worry, leading her to believe dear TY is using her.

[tyrannoninja]

White Lion of the Trinity River

Texas, 1875 AD

Penelope Jenkins held her brass-framed binoculars to her eyes and peered at the steamboat resting on the southeastern horizon. Even within the evening mist, the vessel’s blocky bright white form stood out against both the deep violet sky and the dark waters of the lower Trinity River, as did the lanterns that twinkled along its tiered decks. On the side of its hull read the words “The Lion’s Den” in thick black lettering.

Penelope could not resist a quiet snicker to herself. “If that ain’t his hideaway, I don’t know what would be.”

She dismounted her black stallion Ramses, hitched him to one of the oak trees that fringed the floodplain, and took out both her revolver and rifle from holsters attached to his saddle. Weaving her svelte figure through the thick reeds along the riverbank, she made sure to walk on tiptoes so that her boots wouldn’t squish too loudly in the mud.

The closer Penelope drew to the steamboat, the more audible was the vulgar banter and laughter of men on the bow of the boat’s uppermost deck. Amidst this played music like the squealing of a fiddle, the staccato twanging of a mandolin, and the buzzing of a harmonica. She could even catch a faint whiff of tobacco smoke mingling with the sweet scent of liquor. Whatever occasion these pirates were celebrating, they sure liked to party.

Looking through the binoculars again, she scanned the length and height of the ship for the likeness of the White Lion as she remembered it from his wanted poster. She could find him nowhere, not even among the noisy throng of revelers. Penelope recalled from the poster’s description that he had once been a gentleman of refined taste, so perhaps he would not associate with his own minions by dancing among them. He might have retired to one of the fancier cabins inside.

Regardless, Penelope’s plan from that point on was nothing elaborate. She would wade up to the steamboat’s stern, possibly climbing up its paddle wheel like a ladder, and sneak her way around until she found her prey and end his career of robbery and terror the way he deserved. In an ideal situation, she’d be able to accomplish all this and escape before the Lion’s men knew what hit them, but failing that…well, a few drunken pirates couldn’t be too difficult to take on or evade. Could they?

Something ice-cold and metallic prodded the dark brown skin on the back of Penelope’s neck.

It was the barrel of a rifle in the hands of a ruddy-faced white man, who sneered like a hungry coyote with yellowed fangs. “Didn’t stop to think that our boss would’ve sent patrols out to guard his whereabouts, did you, nigger girl?”

Penelope unholstered her own rifle and jabbed it into the pirate’s brow. “You don’t want to mess with me, boy. I’ve brought down many men bigger than you.”

He giggled. “Oh, I know who you are, Plano Penelope. Ain’t too many other negresses riding ‘round this state with guns on ‘em. But don’t think I’m the least bit intimidated. You shoot me here, and you’ll send all of us jumping onto you like a pack of wolves onto a doe. You understand?”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

The pirate licked and smacked his lips. “Come with us, dear. You’ll have to take your guns off, though…and your clothes, too. For, you see, we’re a little starved for nubile female company, even if it has to be of the swarthier persuasion—”

It did not take a scientist to figure out what that disgusting white pig had on his mind. Without even a second thought, Penelope pushed her trigger, blowing out his brains with an explosive report.

The music aboard the steamboat ended as the pirates all hurried to the edge of the deck to gawk down at her. One of them shouted while pointing down at her, and they all took out their guns and started banging away. She darted towards the cover of the oak trees, with bits of earth being blasted into the air behind her, until she slipped on the slick mud and collapsed face-first. Penelope did not waste her time getting back up. Instead, she crawled through the tall grass and bushes with the hope that the vegetation would hide her.

A pirate’s wet boot pressed down onto her back, while more of the bastards formed a tight ring around her, rifle barrels thrust at her like spears. Either this was another patrol, or the men on the boat were so much quicker than she had anticipated that they had managed to catch up to her on dry land.

“I got good news for you, and some bad news,” the pirate pinning Penelope down said. “Good news is our boss wants you alive. Bad news is…well, you’d wish you were dead instead.”

His diabolical cackling made her feel colder than the evening chill.

After stripping her of her guns, the men hauled Penelope like a slain doe about to be butchered as they waded back to their steamboat. She did not even want to speculate what they planned to do to here once they had her on board. Every possibility she could imagine would be more terrible than a quick death. At least a bullet to her head would have pained her for only a few seconds.

She should have never shot that patrolman back there, vile as his agenda may have been. Her impulsive recklessness had taken away any chance she had of accomplishing her mission and bringing home a bounty that would buy the food her family needed to survive. The people she cared about most in her life would continue to languish because of her.

The pirates dumped her onto the boat’s top deck. Towering before her was a white man in a white suit, who prodded her face with the curved ivory head of his walking stick while gazing down with icy blue eyes. The smooth, backswept mane of white hair that framed his wizened face bestowed upon him the aspect of a regal albino lion.

Small wonder they knew this man as the White Lion!

“Well, well, if it isn’t the renowned Plano Penelope,” the old man said with a subtle Southern drawl. “I see you’ve inherited your mother’s full lips and your father’s broad nose.”

Penelope bared her teeth in a snarl. “What would you know about my mother and father?”

“What would I know? Why, Miss Jenkins, it so happens that they were both my property…even if they ran away. Small wonder I’m familiar with their features.”

“Wait a minute, you mean to tell me you’re Col. Bruce Hartford himself? Why’d you go into hiding, then? Why sink into this miserable life of piracy and robbery?”

“It’s simple, really. You cannot even begin to imagine how the war last decade destroyed my entire livelihood. When everything you have, everything you need to sustain yourself, is taken away from you, you can’t help but find yourself in a desperate situation. Which brings me to your fate, Miss Jenkins. I present to you two choices. You shall either die a free woman, right now, or you shall live a life of servitude to me and my crew. Which shall it be?”

Penelope did not want to live any life like that her parents had suffered back on Hartford’s old plantation, let alone a life catering to these human dogs. She would rather die. On the other hand, if they killed her right on the spot, she would have no chance of escape like her parents had. No chance to escape meant no chance to launch another attack and take out Hartford, and therefore no chance to earn what her family needed to survive. But then, how would she escape in the first place?

“I’ll let you weigh your options overnight,” Hartford said. “Boys, throw her into the boiler room with the Wichita squaw. Keep an eye on them both.”

Two men dragged Penelope down to the bottom deck and tossed her into a dark room wherein only a single lantern glowed, its flickering light reflected on the curved metal sides of the boat’s boiler and pipework. After both pirates left and shut the door, they crossed their rifles together in front of its porthole, signifying that they would be keeping guard the whole night.

Upon detecting the pungent odors of human dung and urine, Penelope suppressed her desire to throw up and soil the room even more. They weren’t going to let her leave the room even to relieve herself! Though that raised the question, who would be shitting and pissing inside this room other than herself?

She heard nervous whimpering and noticed a pair of dark eyes gleaming wide with terror within the blackness away from the lantern’s halo of light. They belonged to a Native American woman huddled by the boiler’s far side, with purple bruises mottling her light bronze skin. Stains of blood and filth speckled the torn buckskin skirt wrapped around the Native woman’s stocky body.

“You look like you’ve been through a world of abuse,” Penelope whispered. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a prisoner too.”

When Penelope reached her hand out to touch the Native woman’s shoulder, the latter slapped it away and shrank back into the darkness, shuddering like a frightened child.

“Why should I trust you?” the Native woman said, her accent identifying her as Wichita. “Your people are invaders just like all these palefaces.”

“My people? Girl, my ancestors were brought to this country against their will by the very same white men who have been stealing your people’s land. Again, I am not your enemy. Matter of fact, I came here to hunt down your enemies on this boat. These men kidnapped you, did they not?”

The Wichita woman nodded. “They burned down my whole village…killed almost everyone but me…and took me captive. They did to me…everything that they’re probably going to do to you, too.”

“I know. Which is why we share a common interest in killing their ringleader and busting out of here whenever we can.”

“Kill their leader? How do you plan on doing that? How do you even plan to get out of this room?”

Penelope paused. “I…don’t know yet. Hmm…maybe, when these men next want to ‘use’ us, we spring out together and—”

One of the two guards outside tapped the door’s porthole with his gun. “I better not hear any plotting between you two!”

Penelope cursed. These pirates continued to be better prepared than she had anticipated. Even if they wanted to take her and the Wichita woman out of the room for whatever loathsome purpose, they would probably send a whole gang down to overpower her in case she tried to break free. There had to be another way out. Alas, the lantern burning in the boiler room meant that the guards would be able to notice Penelope and her fellow prisoner searching for another exit route.

The Wichita woman’s eyes lit up. “Wait a minute, this boat is made of wood, isn’t it?”

Penelope blinked. “What do you mean?”

The Wichita woman grabbed the lantern and hurled it into the door, opening it as it shattered. Flames blossomed from the point of impact and spread over the door and its surroundings, flooding the boiler room with broiling heat. Outside, the guards hollered as they ran away from sight.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Penelope yelled over the roaring of the fire. “You’ll burn the whole thing down!”

“That’s exactly what I had in mind,” the Wichita woman said. “Now follow me and jump through the fire!”

Shutting her eyes and whispering a prayer to God, Penelope hopped through the burning doorway. She tried not to scream as the searing flames licked her arms and legs. Before her, the Wichita woman jumped off the boat and dove into the river. Penelope followed suit, immersing herself into the cold, murky black water before rising back to the surface.

They were not the only ones leaping off. As the fire swallowed up more of the steamboat, many of the pirates were abandoning ship the very same way while others perished into charred bits within the inferno. Looking back, Penelope glimpsed a white figure streaking down from the uppermost deck, shrieking the ugliest curses until it vanished into the river.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Penelope said. “Damn Hartford and his minions. If he’s still alive, I can always track him down later.”

She and the Wichita woman breast-stroked close together through the water, kicking their feet to propel themselves faster. Behind them, Penelope could hear the hissing and bellowing of alligators, the screaming of splashing men, and the crunching of bone. As comforting as those devils getting their just comeuppance may have been, it also meant she and her companion had to hurry before they themselves fell between reptilian jaws.

Upon reaching the riverbank, the two women staggered over to the oak woodland and stopped to regain their breath. Strain and pain racked every muscle within Penelope’s exhausted body.

“Thanks for that ingenious solution,” she said while wringing the water out of her dreadlocks. “Shame I didn’t get to kill Hartford myself like I had planned. Either the gators got him, or I’ll have to start all over again. By the way, I don’t think I got your name, did I?”

“You can call me Dawn Beaver,” the Wichita woman said. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have even considered escaping if you hadn’t suggested it. Instead, I would’ve given up all hope.”

Behind them, a white form erupted up from the water’s edge. It was none other than Bruce Hartford the White Lion himself, his face dripping wet and blood-red with rage. He hooked an arm around Dawn Beaver’s neck while holding a revolver to her head.

“I’ll make this simple,” Hartford said. “You leave me and what remains of my men alone, or I’ll send your newfound friend to Indian heaven!”

Dawn Beaver bit down on his arm. As Hartford recoiled with an agonized roar, Penelope tore the gun out of his hand and shot him in the forehead.

“Damn you, Plano Penelope Jenkins!” the White Lion croaked as he crumbled down onto the mud. “Damn you to the blackest depths of hell!”

Penelope found a holstered rifle slung over the back of Hartford’s corpse and retrieved it for herself while handing the revolver over to Dawn Beaver. There was a gaggle of more pirates, the few who had survived both the fire and the river’s alligators, charging up the shore towards them, whooping with vengeful bloodlust. Taking cover behind the trees, Penelope and Dawn Beaver picked them off with a flurry of gunfire until the last of them had fallen.

“I got to say, you’re quite a crack shot yourself,” Penelope said. “I think I might have you as a partner. Hell, I’ll be more than happy to split the bounty between you and me, fifty-fifty.”

“You mean you’re a bounty hunter?” Dawn Beaver replied. “Strange, I never knew a woman to do that sort of thing.”

“Ah, there’s quite a handful of us out there, trust me. It’s dangerous work, but I do it because my family needs the money even more than I do. Now help me carry the old man’s body over to my horse, and we’ll go back to Plano together.”

“I don’t know, they may not take too kindly to a ‘redskin’ like me showing up in their parts.”

Penelope winked at her. “If they do, they’ll have to mess with me first…partner.”

Together, the two women carried the body of Bruce Hartford, once the White Lion of the Trinity River, and began what Plano Penelope hoped would become a beautiful partnership.

[ecotone99]

[HF] White Lion of the Trinity River

Texas, 1875 A.D.

Penelope Jenkins held her brass-framed binoculars to her eyes and peered at the steamboat resting on the southeastern horizon. Even within the evening mist, the vessel’s blocky bright white form stood out against both the deep violet sky and the dark waters of the lower Trinity River, as did the lanterns that twinkled along its tiered decks. On the side of its hull read the words “The Lion’s Den” in thick black lettering.

Penelope could not resist a quiet snicker to herself. “If that ain’t his hideaway, I don’t know what would be.”

She dismounted her black stallion Ramses, hitched him to one of the oak trees that fringed the floodplain, and took out both her revolver and rifle from holsters attached to his saddle. Weaving her svelte figure through the thick reeds along the riverbank, she made sure to walk on tiptoes so that her boots wouldn’t squish too loudly in the mud.

The closer Penelope drew to the steamboat, the more audible was the vulgar banter and laughter of men on the bow of the boat’s uppermost deck. Amidst this played music like the squealing of a fiddle, the staccato twanging of a mandolin, and the buzzing of a harmonica. She could even catch a faint whiff of tobacco smoke mingling with the sweet scent of liquor. Whatever occasion these pirates were celebrating, they sure liked to party.

Looking through the binoculars again, she scanned the length and height of the ship for the likeness of the White Lion as she remembered it from his wanted poster. She could find him nowhere, not even among the noisy throng of revelers. Penelope recalled from the poster’s description that he had once been a gentleman of refined taste, so perhaps he would not associate with his own minions by dancing among them. He might have retired to one of the fancier cabins inside.

Regardless, Penelope’s plan from that point on was nothing elaborate. She would wade up to the steamboat’s stern, possibly climbing up its paddle wheel like a ladder, and sneak her way around until she found her prey and end his career of robbery and terror the way he deserved. In an ideal situation, she’d be able to accomplish all this and escape before the Lion’s men knew what hit them, but failing that…well, a few drunken pirates couldn’t be too difficult to take on or evade. Could they?

Something ice-cold and metallic prodded the dark brown skin on the back of Penelope’s neck.

It was the barrel of a rifle in the hands of a ruddy-faced white man, who sneered like a hungry coyote with yellowed fangs. “Didn’t stop to think that our boss would’ve sent patrols out to guard his whereabouts, did you, nigger girl?”

Penelope unholstered her own rifle and jabbed it into the pirate’s brow. “You don’t want to mess with me, boy. I’ve brought down many men bigger than you.”

He giggled. “Oh, I know who you are, Plano Penelope. Ain’t too many other negresses riding ‘round this state with guns on ‘em. But don’t think I’m the least bit intimidated. You shoot me here, and you’ll send all of us jumping onto you like a pack of wolves onto a doe. You understand?”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

The pirate licked and smacked his lips. “Come with us, dear. You’ll have to take your guns off, though…and your clothes, too. For, you see, we’re a little starved for nubile female company, even if it has to be of the swarthier persuasion—”

It did not take a scientist to figure out what that disgusting white pig had on his mind. Without even a second thought, Penelope pushed her trigger, blowing out his brains with an explosive report.

The music aboard the steamboat ended as the pirates all hurried to the edge of the deck to gawk down at her. One of them shouted while pointing down at her, and they all took out their guns and started banging away. She darted towards the cover of the oak trees, with bits of earth being blasted into the air behind her, until she slipped on the slick mud and collapsed face-first. Penelope did not waste her time getting back up. Instead, she crawled through the tall grass and bushes with the hope that the vegetation would hide her.

A pirate’s wet boot pressed down onto her back, while more of the bastards formed a tight ring around her, rifle barrels thrust at her like spears. Either this was another patrol, or the men on the boat were so much quicker than she had anticipated that they had managed to catch up to her on dry land.

“I got good news for you, and some bad news,” the pirate pinning Penelope down said. “Good news is our boss wants you alive. Bad news is…well, you’d wish you were dead instead.”

His diabolical cackling made her feel colder than the evening chill.

##

After stripping her of her guns, the men hauled Penelope like a slain doe about to be butchered as they waded back to their steamboat. She did not even want to speculate what they planned to do to here once they had her on board. Every possibility she could imagine would be more terrible than a quick death. At least a bullet to her head would have pained her for only a few seconds.

She should have never shot that patrolman back there, vile as his agenda may have been. Her impulsive recklessness had taken away any chance she had of accomplishing her mission and bringing home a bounty that would buy the food her family needed to survive. The people she cared about most in her life would continue to languish because of her.

The pirates dumped her onto the boat’s top deck. Towering before her was a white man in a white suit, who prodded her face with the curved ivory head of his walking stick while gazing down with icy blue eyes. The smooth, backswept mane of white hair that framed his wizened face bestowed upon him the aspect of a regal albino lion.

Small wonder they knew this man as the White Lion!

“Well, well, if it isn’t the renowned Plano Penelope,” the old man said with a subtle Southern drawl. “I see you’ve inherited your mother’s full lips and your father’s broad nose.”

Penelope bared her teeth in a snarl. “What would you know about my mother and father?”

“What would I know? Why, Miss Jenkins, it so happens that they were both my property…even if they ran away. Small wonder I’m familiar with their features.”

“Wait a minute, you mean to tell me you’re Col. Bruce Hartford himself? Why’d you go into hiding, then? Why sink into this miserable life of piracy and robbery?”

“It’s simple, really. You cannot even begin to imagine how the war last decade destroyed my entire livelihood. When everything you have, everything you need to sustain yourself, is taken away from you, you can’t help but find yourself in a desperate situation. Which brings me to your fate, Miss Jenkins. I present to you two choices. You shall either die a free woman, right now, or you shall live a life of servitude to me and my crew. Which shall it be?”

Penelope did not want to live any life like that her parents had suffered back on Hartford’s old plantation, let alone a life catering to these human dogs. She would rather die. On the other hand, if they killed her right on the spot, she would have no chance of escape like her parents had. No chance to escape meant no chance to launch another attack and take out Hartford, and therefore no chance to earn what her family needed to survive. But then, how would she escape in the first place?

“I’ll let you weigh your options overnight,” Hartford said. “Boys, throw her into the boiler room with the Wichita squaw. Keep an eye on them both.”

##

Two men dragged Penelope down to the bottom deck and tossed her into a dark room wherein only a single lantern glowed, its flickering light reflected on the curved metal sides of the boat’s boiler and pipework. After both pirates left and shut the door, they crossed their rifles together in front of its porthole, signifying that they would be keeping guard the whole night.

Upon detecting the pungent odors of human dung and urine, Penelope suppressed her desire to throw up and soil the room even more. They weren’t going to let her leave the room even to relieve herself! Though that raised the question, who would be shitting and pissing inside this room other than herself?

She heard nervous whimpering and noticed a pair of dark eyes gleaming wide with terror within the blackness away from the lantern’s halo of light. They belonged to a Native American woman huddled by the boiler’s far side, with purple bruises mottling her light bronze skin. Stains of blood and filth speckled the torn buckskin skirt wrapped around the Native woman’s stocky body.

“You look like you’ve been through a world of abuse,” Penelope whispered. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m a prisoner too.”

When Penelope reached her hand out to touch the Native woman’s shoulder, the latter slapped it away and shrank back into the darkness, shuddering like a frightened child.

“Why should I trust you?” the Native woman said, her accent identifying her as Wichita. “Your people are invaders just like all these palefaces.”

“My people? Girl, my ancestors were brought to this country against their will by the very same white men who have been stealing your people’s land. Again, I am not your enemy. Matter of fact, I came here to hunt down your enemies on this boat. These men kidnapped you, did they not?”

The Wichita woman nodded. “They burned down my whole village…killed almost everyone but me…and took me captive. They did to me…everything that they’re probably going to do to you, too.”

“I know. Which is why we share a common interest in killing their ringleader and busting out of here whenever we can.”

“Kill their leader? How do you plan on doing that? How do you even plan to get out of this room?”

Penelope paused. “I…don’t know yet. Hmm…maybe, when these men next want to ‘use’ us, we spring out together and—”

One of the two guards outside tapped the door’s porthole with his gun. “I better not hear any plotting between you two!”

Penelope cursed. These pirates continued to be better prepared than she had anticipated. Even if they wanted to take her and the Wichita woman out of the room for whatever loathsome purpose, they would probably send a whole gang down to overpower her in case she tried to break free. There had to be another way out. Alas, the lantern burning in the boiler room meant that the guards would be able to notice Penelope and her fellow prisoner searching for another exit route.

The Wichita woman’s eyes lit up. “Wait a minute, this boat is made of wood, isn’t it?”

Penelope blinked. “What do you mean?”

The Wichita woman grabbed the lantern and hurled it into the door, opening it as it shattered. Flames blossomed from the point of impact and spread over the door and its surroundings, flooding the boiler room with broiling heat. Outside, the guards hollered as they ran away from sight.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Penelope yelled over the roaring of the fire. “You’ll burn the whole thing down!”

“That’s exactly what I had in mind,” the Wichita woman said. “Now follow me and jump through the fire!”

Shutting her eyes and whispering a prayer to God, Penelope hopped through the burning doorway. She tried not to scream as the searing flames licked her arms and legs. Before her, the Wichita woman jumped off the boat and dove into the river. Penelope followed suit, immersing herself into the cold, murky black water before rising back to the surface.

They were not the only ones leaping off. As the fire swallowed up more of the steamboat, many of the pirates were abandoning ship the very same way while others perished into charred bits within the inferno. Looking back, Penelope glimpsed a white figure streaking down from the uppermost deck, shrieking the ugliest curses until it vanished into the river.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Penelope said. “Damn Hartford and his minions. If he’s still alive, I can always track him down later.”

She and the Wichita woman breast-stroked close together through the water, kicking their feet to propel themselves faster. Behind them, Penelope could hear the hissing and bellowing of alligators, the screaming of splashing men, and the crunching of bone. As comforting as those devils getting their just comeuppance may have been, it also meant she and her companion had to hurry before they themselves fell between reptilian jaws.

Upon reaching the riverbank, the two women staggered over to the oak woodland and stopped to regain their breath. Strain and pain racked every muscle within Penelope’s exhausted body.

“Thanks for that ingenious solution,” she said while wringing the water out of her dreadlocks. “Shame I didn’t get to kill Hartford myself like I had planned. Either the gators got him, or I’ll have to start all over again. By the way, I don’t think I got your name, did I?”

“You can call me Dawn Beaver,” the Wichita woman said. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have even considered escaping if you hadn’t suggested it. Instead, I would’ve given up all hope.”

Behind them, a white form erupted up from the water’s edge. It was none other than Bruce Hartford the White Lion himself, his face dripping wet and blood-red with rage. He hooked an arm around Dawn Beaver’s neck while holding a revolver to her head.

“I’ll make this simple,” Hartford said. “You leave me and what remains of my men alone, or I’ll send your newfound friend to Indian heaven!”

Dawn Beaver bit down on his arm hard enough to draw blood. As Hartford recoiled with an agonized roar, Penelope tore the gun out of his hand and shot him in the forehead.

“Damn you, Plano Penelope Jenkins!” the White Lion croaked as he crumbled down onto the mud. “Damn you to the blackest depths of hell!”

Penelope found a holstered rifle slung over the back of Hartford’s corpse and retrieved it for herself while handing the revolver over to Dawn Beaver. There was a gaggle of more pirates, the few who had survived both the fire and the river’s alligators, charging up the shore towards them, whooping with vengeful bloodlust. Taking cover behind the trees, Penelope and Dawn Beaver picked them off with a flurry of gunfire until the last of them had fallen.

“I got to say, you’re quite a crack shot yourself,” Penelope said. “I think I might have you as a partner. Hell, I’ll be more than happy to split the bounty between you and me, fifty-fifty.”

“You mean you’re a bounty hunter?” Dawn Beaver replied. “Strange, I never knew a woman to do that sort of thing.”

“Ah, there’s quite a handful of us out there, trust me. It’s dangerous work, but I do it because my family needs the money even more than I do. Now help me carry the old man’s body over to my horse, and we’ll go back to Plano together.”

“I don’t know, they may not take too kindly to a ‘redskin’ like me showing up in their parts.”

Penelope winked at her. “If they do, they’ll have to mess with me first…partner.”

Together, the two women carried the body of Bruce Hartford, once the White Lion of the Trinity River, and began what Plano Penelope hoped would become a beautiful partnership.

submitted by /u/TyrannoNinja [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3g5HWAK

[swipestream]

A Preview of THE OPHIAN RISING

Starting with a space pirate raid of Hell, Brian Niemeier introduced us to the universe of the dead gods Thera and Zadok in the Dragon Award winning Soul Cycle as it wound down like clockwork towards its end. To cataclysm and rebirth, and to the Souldancers, wounded men and women with fractured souls and great power. Now, in THE OPHIAN RISING, the Soul Cycle weaves its way towards its conclusion.

The Zadokim healed the cosmos from the ravages of the Cataclysm, and the survivors made them kings. Now the Ophians, a ruthless insurgent movement, wage a vicious uprising against their immortal rulers’ two hundred year reign.

Xander and Astlin have transformed the desert world of Tharis into the hub of a flourishing trade empire. Their Nesshin subjects spread a new faith promising true freedom in another universe. But when Astlin seeks forbidden knowledge to resurrect her long-dead family, sinister forces exact a terrible price from those she loves.

With the Ophian threat engulfing the spheres and a primeval terror rising from its prison, Astlin must turn to a shiftless gambler, the outlaw squire of a fallen knight, and a mismatched pair of smugglers to escape the ghosts of her past and save all souls from eternal death. But can mortals succeed where even gods have failed?

In anticipation of its imminent release, CastaliaHouse.com is pleased to bring you a preview of THE OPHIAN RISING, the concluding volume of the Soul Cycle.

*     *     *      *      *

“Which ether-runner should we go to for help?” Will asked.

“Not an ether-runner,” Astlin said the moment she set eyes on the angular black hull of Night Gen nexus-runner parked at the two o’clock position of the circular landing strip below.

They made their way down to the field and crossed to the obsidian ship. True to her word, Astlin let Will take her place propping up the stabilized but still weak Brell. The Night Gen ship’s general design reminded Astlin of her lost Kerioth, but it was of much newer construction with five knife-edged tines fanning out from the central hull instead of three.

Xander and I had that ship for over two hundred years, she thought bitterly. Another debt the Ophians owe me.

When she and her companions had approached to stand before the nexus-runner’s tapered spike of a nose, Astlin projected her thoughts to the ship’s telepathic comm system. We’re survivors of the recent Ophian attack. One of your people is with us. He needs a medic.

“Did you signal them?” Tallon asked when a minute passed with no sign of activity from the ship.

“Yes, I did,” said Astlin.

“Are you sure they heard you?”

Astlin didn’t respond, but Brell answered Tallon for her. “My people have reason to be cautious, especially after tonight. They are most likely attempting to determine if we pose a danger to their ship.”

“The only one they’re endangering is you,” said Will.

A floodlight cast a blinding white beam on the five supplicants. The familiar whirring of a descending nexus-runner boarding ramp sounded from the darkness behind the light. A wary female voice spoke in the Night Gen dialect. Brell answered. The conversation went back and forth until Brell spoke to his friends in Trade.

“Her name is Niz,” said Brell. “She is the navigator and medic of the Emat. We have permission to board, but you may not bring your weapons.”

Will gripped the hilt of his sword. “As the queen’s protector, I cannot go unarmed in her presence.”

“It’s alright, Will,” Astlin said. “These people won’t hurt us—not here; not tonight.”

“Give your pieces to me,” said Tallon. “I’ll wait here and stand guard.”

Will reluctantly unfastened his sword belt and handed it and the attached sheathed blade to Tallon. Serra showed no less hesitation. “This sword is an ancient imperial heirloom,” the Temilian warned Tallon. “You already owe me my wage. Don’t add a priceless artifact to your debt.”

“Just give me that already,” Tallon said as he snatched the curved sword from Serra’s extended hand. “Every second we stand here yapping gives Lasker more of a head start.”

“You’re helping us make war on the queen’s enemies?” Will asked hopefully.

Tallon rolled his eyes. “No. I’m getting even with the guy who tried to kill me. Now get on that ship and get Brell patched up so we can get Lasker.” He turned Serra’s sword over in his hand. “You probably got this from a catalog.”

“You’ve all done more than I have any right to ask,” said Astlin. “I can handle Lasker.”

Will’s cheerful expression turned serious. “If you didn’t want my help, Your Majesty, you shouldn’t have accepted my Ostiary oath.”

“I may not be sworn to your service,” said Serra, “and I may be a criminal, but I am loyal to High Magist Dran and to you. And as Tallon said, the attempt on our lives must be answered.”

Reduced to silence by her friends’ show of loyalty, Astlin led the way up the boarding ramp. The scents of lightning and old wine casks flowed down from the ship. A woman stood atop the ramp, backlit in the soft glow of dim green lights.

“I am Niz,” she said in heavily accented Trade. Up close, she was revealed to have a willowy frame clad in a grey jumpsuit. Her typical jet black hair was tied up in a loose bun secured with slim sticks of purple crystal. She had pale eyes, but their exact shade was impossible to make out in the emerald light. “Identify yourselves.”

“You’ll understand if we don’t want to give names,” said Astlin. “Our friend was shot in the attack, but his wound isn’t serious. If you’d be kind enough to treat him, we’ll be on our way as soon as he’s mobile again.”

Niz’s colorless eyes darted to Brell, who nodded. “Bring him,” she said before turning and striding briskly back into the ship.

Astlin and her friends followed Niz through close, gloomy corridors to a station about the size of Astlin’s dining room back on Keth. Sterile white lighting activated at Niz’s verbal command, revealing racks and drawers of medical equipment surrounding an examination table. The female Night Gen’s eyes were also shown to be amber yellow.

Will and Serra helped Brell up onto the table. Astlin stood outside so as not to overcrowd the small room. Niz retrieved a box of surgical tools from a drawer, including a pair of shears with which she cut away Brell’s pant leg above the knee. She removed the improvised tourniquet, uncovering the entry wound in his calf.

The medic spoke to Brell in their native tongue as she worked. Since Astlin didn’t wish to telepathically violate the woman’s privacy, all she could glean from the conversation was the weariness and hints of sadness conveyed by Niz’s tone.

After cleaning the wound, Niz took a red crystal rod from the box and waved it back and forth over Brell’s calf. The ragged puncture closed a bit more with each pass. She kept talking to him but suddenly lowered her voice, and he raised his in audible anger and shock.

“Does it hurt?” asked Serra.

“It does,” said Brell, “but that is beside the point. Niz was making small talk to distract me from the pain. The conversation turned to her and the captain’s business, and she told me this ship’s destination.”

A chill ran down Astlin’s spine, though she couldn’t have said why. “Where are they going?”

“To Palannar,” said Niz.

It took Astlin a moment to place the name, but when she did, her apprehension deepened. “That’s the planet where the Guild finally crushed Almeth Elocine’s Resistance.”

Niz didn’t look up from her work. “Yes. It is where my people’s long exile began.”

“Why would you want to go there?” asked Will.

“To answer the Ship Master’s call,” said Niz.

Serra’s brow furrowed. “The Ship Master? I’ve never heard of him.”

“Your people fought long and hard to return from the outer darkness,” said Astlin. “Will asked a good question. Why go back to a sphere that holds such bad memories?”

“Because the reward for our long hard struggle turned out to be hollow,” said a guttural male voice to Astlin’s left. A burly male Night Gen dressed similarly to Niz approached the infirmary from down the hall. His hair was trimmed down to a dark bristle that caught the green light like an emerald halo.

“This is Vantse,” said Niz, “the captain of the Emat,”

“For now,” said Vantse. “Soon I will be the master of my own world, as Aesham Daeva has promised.”

The name drove a cold spike of fear into Astlin’s heart. “Aesham Daeva?”

“He is the Ship Master who waits at Palannar,” said Vantse. “The Night Tribe spent millennia plotting to reconquer our rightful home from the Steersmen’s Guild. When we finally returned, there was no longer a Guild to fight. Instead we made common cause with necromancers and fiends.

“We bargained with the clay tribe for Mithgar, but without new enemies; new conquests, my people lost all ambition. Our birth rates have collapsed. More of us have succumbed to suicide than to war in the past two centuries. Mithgar is a tarnished prize, but the Ship Master offers all who would join him worlds of their own.”

An expectant look passed between Brell and Niz. Vantse lowered his eyes.

Every fiber of Astlin’s being urged her to steer the Night Gen away from their chosen course. “Whoever he is, this Aesham Daeva can’t give you new worlds. Zadok wouldn’t allow it.”

“The Ship Master serves an old god more ancient and powerful than Zadok,” said Niz. “He assures us the All-Father will not interfere.”

“Even if that’s true,” argued Astlin, “you’ll eventually get just as tired of your new worlds as you are of Mithgar. But there’s another world—another creation in the light beyond the Nexus. If you can reach it, you’ll be given your own souls apart from Zadok’s. You’ll be truly free.”

Niz packed up her medical kit and turned away. Vantse kept staring at the deck plates. Only Brell met her eye.

“Please,” said Astlin. “Don’t go to Palannar. Aren’t souls worth more than worlds?”

Silence fell. At length, Vantse broke it. “We have taken on supplies, and we had planned to leave for Palannar at dawn. Instead we will leave tonight.” He looked to Brell. “You are welcome to join us, brother.”

The captain’s words struck Astlin like a blow to the stomach. “I’ll go check on Tallon,” was the only excuse she could give for her sudden need to flee the ship. Will came after her. A moment later, so did Serra. The three of them descended the boarding ramp and found Tallon smoking a cigar in the brisk night air.

“What happened to Brell?” Tallon asked. “Don’t tell me he didn’t make it.”

Astlin struggled for words against the strange turmoil in her soul. As it turned out, she didn’t have to.

“Here,” Brell called from the top of the ramp. He strode down to join the others with only a slight limp in his step.

Astlin’s spirits rose. She nodded toward the Emat. “Aren’t you going with them?”

Brell’s blue eyes stared into hers as if he saw a compelling riddle reflected there. “I know the desolation of which Vantse spoke, and I have never believed in anything—until now. You know the Kings’ Road. Guide me. Save my soul.”

Astlin took the Night Gen’s hands in hers. “I promise,” she said.

The boarding ramp retracted. With a deep hum, the Emat rose up and vanished into the night sky.

*     *     *      *      *

If you haven’t read Nethereal, Souldancer, and The Secret Kings yet, now is the perfect time to get caught up on this exciting, action-packed, and often chilling series.

A Preview of THE OPHIAN RISING published first on http://ift.tt/2zdiasi

[gladoe]

Anti Knight Bendy Fan fic  (JOKE!)

Warning Fan fic I do not own Bendy and the Ink machine..

Act 1 "The show must go on?"

The Studio is buzzing with Life and creativity but sadly quaility comes with a price! The funding for the popular Ink Deamon known as Bendy as been running dangerously low for quite some time now. Henry one of the co founder of the studio has attempted everything from merchindise,cereal box covers,even haveing to give people the horrid pink slip. Sadly not enough money was coming in to keep up with the tyranical needs of currancy. Wile this was going on in the delightful world of Bendy and his gang,

"Gee I hope things work out for the best."Exclaimed the worried devil, Bendy was never a well desighned charecter his structure small and simplistic easy on the eye, Only made from 2 colors, Black and White as the rest of the gang.The Angelic counterpart of Bendy rises to his side her form slightly curvy with the same simplsitic style only had remorce and symapthy to offer. "Henry will know what to do he has been threw a lot and so have we...we will find a way to continue the show. "It must Go on" as you always have said before...Right?", Alice's cute like face forms a disgusting heart crushing frown not knowing what to say next. Among the Gang is the silly Boris The wolf his desighn is slinky and not as furry as one would belive a wolf to be but for a cartoon style they live in every day one can easily tell he is canine like, Boris was not part of there worried conversation as he enters there blank page. "Hey, Hey, Hey yall..Whats the frown for turn them upside down!, You dont want your faces to be printed like that when we are in the show room do you?" Happily spoke the wolf. "Well the thing is Boris...We may not have work for awile if things keep hitting the fan like a dart to a board" Said the Small Devil. "Oh Dont be like that!" For a Angel she could hit quite hard and if it was not for the fact of having only 2 colors to there page Bendy would have shown a bruise. "OW!! What the H-E-double hocky sticks ALICE that hurt!"Yells the frisky demon as his tail is in a agrivated zig zag shape.

The blissful wolf Smiles as he explaimes that Henry is working out a multi partner deal to add new animators and ideas into the show to help bring it back to its former glory,As moth to a flame the crew grew atractive to the idea of being back in show biz as soon as they can! "He said we will have new colors,Animators,Objects and even a new style of drawing for us!"As Boris lists everything Henry promised Bendy cant but help feel guilt and a sickness in his stomach for quickly leaving his old form and home for something vastly different. "He...hey Boris ..Buddy, Pal..Chum dont you think..this may be to much?..Like we are going to completly change we may have our own emotions and souls but we would look,sound and be different...can we do that this easily?" Bendy's tail curls up into a question mark as he glances over at Boris and Alice for a response. Alice with a small cheeky smirk replies with gloat and cheer "Bendy dont worry we just have to Act our parts out we wont forever change, Our looks , clothes and style may but we will always be partners right Boris?" "Right!!" Replies the wolf. Bendy with a reashured sigh smiles and nods "Okay then....If you are okay with this then I am!" With excitement the three begin to day dream what new changes will happen in the near future!

  The Real world Henry has brought in a few Animators and has new unique tools for better animation quaility and desigh. The process of setting the new stuido up took a week to properly set things up from the gear to the very equipment that will be used. Henery Looks at his crew one last time before the change he gives them a smile as he takes a picture with them his tired eyes lit with joy, The Devil happy and making bunny ears with his hand above alice's halo as Boris hugs them both all excited for what is about to happen next.  The first five days was brutal on everyone working day in and out testing voice quaility,Animation,Even new styles Poor bendy was the test subject to it all! This little creature went threw many art styles ranging from Jappense Manga, To big headed Trash art Even a reatro style pixel game but none fit sadly. When all hope was lost Henry figuired out why none of the new styles worked it was because they had no Plot! The Entire crew did research and brainstormed what children today were interested in, They liked Knights right?...ya..They also like space...Why not both? Then the birth of The Anti Knight! A heroic Devil Knight setting aside his dark ways to save the angelic princess Alice with his squire Boris! The Plot was in action and so was the crew in the real world as they set forth on this new idea and plan.

What was made first was a Beautiful HD background having a dark color with bright glowing sighns and lights flashing behind the sun a beautiful yellow and organge burning bright as rubble,dirt and trash littered the ground a ruined landscape for a Loyal powerful knight to surpass and conqure! The next step is the new look it first started with Boris the Squire, His small fragile body changed into a thin mucle his overalls turned from rags to great bronze medal cleaned and polished to impress the ladies his gear consists of his musical instrument of choice a alchemy satchel set and a dagger at the end of the process his tail never stopped wagging! Now for the beautiful Maiden to be the Angelic Alice was next her looks changed to enhance her beauty 10 fold her pale skin now hinted cream with a small red blush as her eyes now own a lustful look her dress made from the finest silk in appearence as her skin was graced by a godess itself her long black silk hair reaching down to her shoulder as her halo now hovers above her glowing brightly a Needy Boris Howl can be heard in the background. Finnaly for the Anti Knight himself Bendy under goes a unique transformation as his small 4 foot height increased to a wopping 8ft towering over any weak enemy in his way his mass was past a body builder and could easily bench press a weight lifting machine wile it was in use! His armor a beautiful gothic desighn were small frail details cover the edges of it in a neon glow as his massive armor covers his chest,shoulders,forarms,knees and shins he even owned a crotch plate as for style purpose he had a cloak around his right shoulder and around his waise to cover his rear and front his face and mucles exsposed to scare enemies away as his only gear and pride would be X-Calibur a massive 6 feet sword Pure metal with a leather handel it had a Final Fantasy (TM) buster blade appearence but the edge would have a Bright energy beam when a button was pressed! Now that everyone fits there appearnce in desighn now have to sound there role, Boris sounds of a small but strong Male determined for greatness, The amazing Alice sounds like a soft suductress, As the Anti knight a boastful knight Proud,strong and ready to save his princess in any moment!

 It was all set,The stage,The sound,The roles but it was missing its high point, its finish...its Villian...

With the desires of the best intentions from Henry but with the role of a wicked creature birthed new life onto the Page. "Levia Ethan!" I shall call him exclaimed Henry,Ethan for short. Ethan is Bendy's Counter in the role of Anti knight he was the antagonist the Evil creature that would send Bendy threw challanges and steal Alice but was yet to be known is when you are born with a wicked role one might have a hard time seaperating life from work. Ethan's form surpassed Bendy he stood as 9ft tall a foot above him his arms could easily crush stones and send gods crying his skin a dark abyssal black darker then the ink used on Bendy, His eyes had a pericing blue color to them but the most distinguishable part is his cold hearted stare he had on every moment since birth.

When Ethan was brought to the Page he was greeted by the NEW gang he took very high interested with Alice and her new curves, this noticable admiration slips past Boris as Bendy took notice and buts into Ethan's and Alice's conversation. "Howdy New guy Im Bendy you must be Ethan the new guy!..Lokie here we all got a new gig and all even new voices and getups but if you wanna make it in show buis.." Rudely inttrupted by Ethan his cold dark voice sends chills down Bendy's Spin. "I will end you Anti Knight....Once I have own the princess as my queen you will be my new rug..." In this line of work they get carried away once in awile with acting but this guy was a whole new level it was as if his life IS his role and this thought rushes threw Bendys mind like a rapid river and his happy exsprestion dies down quickly.

To be continued ..Maybe?..

P.S this is a joke between me and a friend it has horrible grammar,writing and spelling due to inside joke reasons o3o