#it warms my heart when people want to know about my characters or my art

[littlemoondarlingarts]

Did an artstyle study of the gorgeous art of @iliothermia and I genuinely learned alot so I'm very thankful that he gave me permission to do this 🙏🏻🙏🏻

As usual, rambles and process pics under the cut, be warned that I talk alot because this drawing was a true labor of love both for his art and Rouge

I wanted to use elements from his art but at the same time i know how deeply personal his art is to his own life and struggles and culture so i tried to be as respectful as possible (and if I failed at that please tell me I have no problem in deleting this) and tried to minimize my use of direct elements from his art to keep it to the skull which was heavily inspired by a drawing he has done, the waves which are such a beautiful staple of his art that I just couldn't not put it and the use of candles and small floral patterns and the style of the mold, but I tried to keep the rest to things that are symbolic to the character.

While he may have restraint to not explain everything, I'm not famous for that lol, so I will be explaining the symbolism behind my choices.

Part 1: the symbolism:

The red rose is Rouge's flower and it is heavily associated with him. The meaning of it being romantic desire and passion mixed with the thorns of it perfectly sum up his position as a beautiful black widow.

Voyeurism is a big part of this drawing and it is first noticed with the eyes motif on the roses' leaves, this symbolises his response to his trauma which left him feeling like an unwanted pervert on his own self. I can talk about this aspect of his story for hours but I'll spare you lol.

The X-ray cutouts are his complicated relationship with his own body and death, it is a thing that is constantly on his mind as he suffers from suicidal thoughts but at the same time he is always running away from it in fear, but he knows that eventually, he will have to stop running.

The candles melting represent him being only wanted when he is useful, when he is giving parts of himself up for others to use and abuse, when he is lighting their lives by slowly draining his own.

The piano is one of the rare things that bring him happiness and peace, but he needs to be heavily dissociated to be able to enjoy it which is represented by the hands being disconnected from the rest of the drawing and just floating in their own reality.

The snake represents two things, one is him being venomous to those around him, the mistakes he's made, the promises he's broken, the pain he's caused etc. But it also represents those who slowly wrap themselves around him in a warm embrace, presenting themselves as a saviour in his most dire times only to end up being the ones who will hurt him the most.

The book is about his obsession with keeping track of everything and of studying people, accidentally turning himself into an unwanted voyeur on their lives to the point where he has written the life stories of many people who would never want to be remembered through his eyes in his little books.

The butterflies are him, both in the way they are seen as "the good insects" and the beautiful delicate ones despite the fact that they eat flesh sometimes, it is also related to the way his simple presence for a few minutes in someone's life can create a whirlwind of change that will leave it unrecognizable, or he can simply be another body in their bed.

The hair turning into waves is meant to reflect the way he is always drowning in his own thoughts, a hand crafted constant state of misery.

The beta fish are some of the most beautiful and colourful fish out there, yet they are seen as cheap and easy first pets, leading to them being neglected and given environments that are too small and crammed, making their beautifully slow death the only thing they can offer to their owner. I don't think I need to explain more..

The skull is probably someone he's loved, or someone he's killed, or both.

The heart is his, it is rotten and covered in mold, any love he offers is tainted by his inability to heal and it is spreading to infect every aspect of his life.

Part 2: the inspirations:

The roses are a homage to the way Rachamim always places flowers in his art, either in the background or as a focal point of the illustration, most of the flowers he uses are cultural in nature, so I opted to not reuse any of them and changed it to a flower related to my oc.

Eyes are a repeated theme in his art, whether it be angel eyes, the evil eye or anything else, and as you can tell both of these are cultural and religious and while the evil eye exists in my culture, it does not in my oc's so I didn't use it. Instead I opted to pay homage to one of his beautiful merman drawings in which he used the plants to make an eye-like shape that stares at the viewer.

I thought I was being real smart in turning the hair into waves but yesterday I saw an illustration where he did the same so rip to me thinking i was being original lol.

The snake and butterflies are my way of replicating his use of animals while trying to not directly copy any animals that have a connection to himself or his culture/religion.

The beta fish is just to reference the ever present fishies in his art. I know he uses them because they represent friendship for him and they are the only animals safe from the evil eye (thanks for the fun fact) so I uh... I don't really know if this was disrespectful or not to be honest but I tried to use a different type of fish, idk this might still be slightly problematic and again I'm always ready to delete this if it makes anyone uncomfortable.

The waves are a direct copy of how he draws the gorgeous waves in his art, another case of something I fear may be crossing the line because the waves are drawn in the style of cultural jewelry 😭

The tiny flowers are an obvious reference to his own tiny flowers that decorate his art and characters.

The skull with the candles is heavily inspired by a specific drawing of his.

The cutouts are my way of paying my respects to my absolute favourite piece of art he's done without directly copying its concept because as far as I can tell, it is a very personal and emotional piece.

The mold style is a reference to his mold man (I forgot his name I'm sorry).

And the candles are another repeated motif in his art as well as the pillars and the pant style.

And ouf I sure do talk alot don't I? I just really love the amount of things I was able to cram into this piece and I haven't even mentioned everything😭😭 I will NOT be doing this again because I'm simply not as patient as he is and as proud as I am of the result, this was torture. I hope I didn't disrespect him, his art or his culture and I genuinely tried my best to be as respectful as possible but I might have some blind spots due to our experiences being so vastly different so again, please don't hesitate to inform me if you want this deleted!

[pin-k-ink]

Chrollo! There isn’t enough dark content about him. I want to see how Chrollo is, compared to Yandere Chrollo. I love both, but we don’t get enough dark content of Chrollo.

Chrollo is seen as manipulative, and cold. Considering he’s a mass murder, and his empathy is nonexistent to people outside of the phantom troupe. Though, he’s able to act like a gentleman, and a curious man who seems sweet. He definitely isn’t stable, but catching his attention would be terrifying. He collects what he’s interested in. Being in a relationship with him would be interesting, but complicated.

entropy // chrollo lucilfer

tw ⇢ emotional abuse/manipulation, psychological trauma, toxic relationship, mention of self-harm, suicide attempt, dub-con, non-consensual/coercion, stockholm syndrome(?), mention of violence and criminal activities, power play, some unspecified mental health issues, rough sex, cunnilingus, begging, idk kinda rushed ending, narrator’s pov

wc ⇢ 7.1k

a/n: i really liked this idea, anon, so i present you with 7k words of chrollo brainrot. i really tried not to make chrollo a cliche, run-of-the-mill yandere but im not sure i did a good job. its also my first time using y/n and i hated it

The dim lights of the crowded bar cast an amber glow across the room, the air thick with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. Perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, I nursed my whiskey, the smooth glass cool against my palm, the rich amber liquid swirling hypnotically as I lifted it to my lips. The first sip burned pleasantly down my throat, warming me from within as my eyes scanned the crowd out of habit, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

That's when I saw him.

He moved with a fluid grace that stood out amidst the tipsy stumbles and raucous laughter of the other patrons. Dark hair fell across his face in an artful sweep as he leaned in close to whisper something to the bartender, who nodded knowingly and slid a drink across the polished wood, the crystal tumbler gleaming under the soft light. As if sensing the weight of my gaze, he turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat, my fingers tightening reflexively around my glass.

A polite smile curved his lips as he approached with measured steps, sliding onto the stool next to mine with a nod of acknowledgment. "Good evening," he said, his voice smooth and cultured, with a faint lilt of an accent I couldn't quite place. "I hope you'll forgive my forwardness, but I couldn't help noticing you from across the room."

I felt a flush creep up my neck at his directness, a heat blooming under my skin that had little to do with the whiskey. But I maintained my composure, lifting one eyebrow in a practiced arch. "Is that so?" I asked, taking another sip of my drink, letting the smoky flavor linger on my tongue. My heart fluttered in my chest, a mix of excitement and nervousness at the attention from this intriguing stranger.

"Indeed. It's rare to find someone so comfortable in their own solitude. It speaks to a certain strength of character." His eyes held mine, dark and fathomless, seeming to search for something beneath the surface, beneath the mask of cool indifference I wore like armor.

I smiled slightly, intrigued by his observation, by the way he seemed to see beyond the carefully constructed facade. "And what would you know about my character?"

"Very little, I admit. But I'd like to learn more, if you're willing." He extended a hand, long fingers elegant and strong. "Chrollo Lucilfer, at your service."

"Y/N," I replied, placing my hand in his. His grip was firm, his skin cool and smooth against my own. A shiver raced down my spine at the contact, a spark of something electric and unfamiliar. I found myself drawn to his enigmatic aura, the hint of danger that lurked beneath his charming exterior.

As the evening wore on, Chrollo and I fell into easy conversation, trading stories and opinions over drinks, our knees brushing under the bar in a way that felt both accidental and deliberate. He was articulate and well-read, with a keen insight that made me feel like he could see straight into my soul, past the walls I'd so carefully constructed. There was a magnetism to him, a pull that I couldn't resist, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I felt a connection growing between us, a sense of understanding and shared secrets that left me both thrilled and unnerved.

We began seeing each other regularly after that night, meeting for dinner at quiet candlelit restaurants or for coffee in cozy bookshops, the rich scent of roasted beans and old pages enveloping us as we talked for hours. Chrollo was always the perfect gentleman, holding doors and pulling out chairs, his manners impeccable, his attentiveness unwavering. But there were moments, fleeting glimpses, where something else seemed to flicker beneath the surface, a darkness that both thrilled and unsettled me. I found myself drawn to that darkness, to the mystery that surrounded him, even as a part of me whispered warnings in the back of my mind.

One evening, we were walking through the city, the pavement damp with recent rain, the neon signs reflecting in puddles at our feet. A man stumbled out of an alleyway, clearly drunk and disoriented, his clothes rumpled and stained. He lurched towards us, mumbling incoherently, his breath sour with the stench of alcohol. I tensed, expecting Chrollo to step in and help, to offer the man a steadying hand or a kind word. Instead, he sidestepped the man neatly, his movements fluid and precise, not even sparing him a glance. There was a coldness to the action, a calculated indifference that left me feeling chilled despite the warm summer air. A flicker of unease stirred in my gut, a sense that there was more to Chrollo than met the eye, but I pushed it aside, not wanting to shatter the illusion of the perfect romance.

Another time, we were at a restaurant, a trendy spot with exposed brick walls and industrial light fixtures. The hum of conversation and the clink of silverware against plates filled the air, a pleasant buzz of activity. A commotion broke out at a nearby table, a woman's voice rising in pitch as she gestured wildly at her companion, her face flushed with anger. Chrollo watched the scene unfold with a detached sort of interest, like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen. When I expressed concern, my brow furrowed with worry, he simply shrugged, the movement languid and unconcerned.

"Some people thrive on drama," he said, his tone indifferent, almost bored. "It's best not to get involved."

I tried to brush off the nagging feeling that something wasn't quite right, telling myself that no one was perfect, that everyone had their flaws and quirks. Chrollo was attentive and affectionate, showering me with gifts and attention, his touch always gentle, always reverent. It was easy to get lost in the romance of it all, in the heady rush of new love. But even as I surrendered to the warmth of his embrace, to the tender caress of his lips on my skin, a part of me remained wary, a tiny voice whispering doubts in the back of my mind.

But the doubts continued to gather at the edges of my mind, like storm clouds on the horizon, dark and ominous. There were inconsistencies in the stories he told, small details that didn't quite add up, pieces that didn't fit into the puzzle of his past. He was evasive about his work, about his family and his childhood, always changing the subject with a charming smile and a clever turn of phrase when I pressed for more. I tried to ignore the growing sense of unease, the feeling that I was only seeing a carefully crafted facade, a mask that hid the true nature of the man I was falling for.

It all came to a head one night when we were out for a walk, the city streets quiet and still around us. A police car raced by, sirens blaring, red and blue lights flashing against the buildings. Chrollo tensed, his body going rigid beside me, his eyes tracking the vehicle with a sharpness that made me pause, my heart skipping a beat in my chest. There was something in his reaction, a hint of fear or guilt that I had never seen before, and it sent a chill down my spine.

"What is it?" I asked, searching his face for clues, for some hint of the thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes.

He relaxed just as quickly, his expression smoothing into a mask of calm, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Nothing, just lost in thought for a moment."

But I saw it then, in that brief unguarded instant. The hairline fracture in his facade, the glimpse of something raw and real beneath the polished surface. The realization hit me like a freight train, stealing the breath from my lungs - I didn't really know the man I was falling for at all. He was a mystery, a puzzle with missing pieces, and I had no idea what secrets he was hiding behind that charming smile and those fathomless eyes. Fear and doubt coiled in my gut, a sickening sense of dread that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that everything was fine.

The doubt became an itch I couldn't scratch, a constant presence at the back of my mind. I found myself watching Chrollo more closely, looking for clues, for any sign that might confirm my growing suspicions. He was as attentive and affectionate as ever, his touch gentle, his words sweet. But there was a guardedness to him now, a sense that he was always holding something back, always keeping a part of himself locked away. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth.

One evening, we were at his apartment, curled up on the plush leather couch with a movie playing on the large flatscreen TV. The room was dimly lit, the flickering light from the screen casting shadows on the walls. Chrollo's phone buzzed with an incoming message, the screen lighting up on the coffee table. He glanced at it, his expression hardening for a split second, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly before he smoothed it away, reaching for the device with a casual hand. My heart raced in my chest, a sense of foreboding washing over me as I watched him, a part of me desperately wanting to believe that it was nothing, that I was overreacting.

"Everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Just work," he replied, his thumb swiping across the screen, his eyes scanning the message quickly before he slipped the phone into his pocket. "Nothing to worry about."

But there was a tightness to his smile, a strain around his eyes that belied his easy words. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me, some secret he was keeping locked away. The doubts gnawed at me, a constant ache in my chest that I couldn't ignore, no matter how much I wanted to lose myself in the fantasy of our perfect love.

As the weeks passed, the distance between us grew, an invisible chasm widening with each passing day. Chrollo would disappear for hours at a time, offering vague explanations about meetings or errands, his tone carefully neutral. He was increasingly evasive about his activities, changing the subject with a practiced ease or deflecting my questions with a charming smile and a clever quip. I felt like I was losing him, like the man I had fallen for was slipping away, replaced by a stranger wearing a familiar face.

I knew I should confront him, demand answers, but a part of me was afraid of what I might uncover. The man I had fallen for, the gentleman with the quick wit and the electrifying touch, felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face, a mask that was starting to crack at the edges. I was torn between the desire to cling to the illusion of our perfect romance and the need to know the truth, to see the man behind the mask, no matter how painful it might be.

The final straw came late one night when I was leaving Chrollo's apartment, my mind whirling with unanswered questions, my heart heavy in my chest. As I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, I nearly collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. He was tall and lean, with cold eyes that seemed to look right through me, his face all sharp angles and harsh lines. A shiver of unease ran down my spine, a sense of danger emanating from him like a palpable force.

"Excuse me," I mumbled, trying to sidestep him, my skin prickling with unease.

But he blocked my path, his large frame filling the narrow hallway, his gaze flicking past me to Chrollo's door, a flash of something dark and dangerous in his eyes. "He's expecting me," the man said, his voice flat and emotionless, sending a chill down my spine.

I glanced over my shoulder, but Chrollo had already closed the door, the sound of the lock clicking into place loud in the sudden silence. A wave of dread washed over me as I hurried past the man, my heart pounding in my ears, my hands shaking as I jabbed at the elevator button. Questions swirled in my mind, a growing sense of fear and unease that I couldn't shake, no matter how hard I tried to rationalize it away.

I didn't sleep that night, my mind racing with possibilities, with questions I was afraid to voice aloud. Who was the man in the hallway? What business did he have with Chrollo at such a late hour? The not knowing was almost worse than the truth, my imagination conjuring up all manner of dark scenarios, each more terrible than the last. I tossed and turned, my sheets tangled around me, my heart aching with the growing realization that the man I loved was not who I thought he was.

The paranoia grew like a cancer, spreading through every aspect of my life, tainting every interaction with Chrollo. I found myself watching him constantly, analyzing every word, every gesture, looking for some hint of the truth behind the mask. Every phone call he took, every message he received, every unexplained absence became a clue in a puzzle I was desperate to solve, a mystery I couldn't let go. I was consumed by the need to know, to uncover the secrets he was hiding, even as a part of me feared what I might find.

I started making excuses to drop by his apartment unannounced, hoping to catch him off guard, to glimpse the man behind the facade. But Chrollo was always one step ahead, his mask of charm and civility firmly in place, his explanations smooth and plausible. It was like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands, always slipping through my fingers just when I thought I had a grasp on the truth. I felt like I was losing my mind, like I was trapped in a maze of lies and half-truths, with no way out.

The strain began to take its toll, the constant state of heightened awareness, of second-guessing every moment. I was distracted at work, jumping at every unexpected noise, seeing shadows in every corner. My friends noticed the change, commenting on my withdrawn behavior, the dark circles under my eyes, the way I seemed to be constantly on edge. I brushed off their concerns with a forced smile and a wave of my hand, not wanting to voice the suspicions that consumed my every waking moment.

I started to pull away, to put distance between us, needing time to clear my head, to make sense of the tangled web of lies and half-truths. I made excuses to avoid seeing him, claiming work obligations or family commitments, my voice shaking only slightly as I lied through my teeth. I needed space, needed to step back and look at the situation objectively, without the haze of love and desire clouding my judgment. But even as I tried to distance myself, I found myself drawn back to him, like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the pull of his magnetism.

But Chrollo wouldn't let me go so easily, his presence a constant pull, a magnetic force I couldn't seem to resist. He showed up at my work, at my favorite coffee shop, always with a bouquet of flowers and a contrite smile, his eyes soft and pleading. He promised to be more open, to answer any questions I might have, to lay his secrets bare before me. And for a moment, I wanted to believe him, to fall into the warmth of his embrace and let the world fade away.

I started to dig deeper, to research Chrollo's past, looking for any clue that might explain the inconsistencies, the blank spaces in his history. Late one night, huddled over my laptop with a mug of coffee growing cold beside me, I found it. A news article, buried deep in the archives of a local paper, a few scant paragraphs that made my blood run cold. A string of high-profile thefts, linked to a shadowy group known as the Phantom Troupe, their methods as elusive as their identities. And there, in grainy black and white, a photograph of a man with dark hair and piercing eyes, a face I would know anywhere.

My heart stopped in my chest as I stared at the screen, the pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place with a sickening clarity. The man I loved, the gentleman with the silver tongue and the devastating smile, was a thief. And not just any thief, but a member of the most notorious criminal organization in the city, a ghost in the shadows, a phantom in the night. I sat back in my chair, my hands shaking as I tried to process the truth, to reconcile the Chrollo I knew with the man in the article.

The reality of my situation crashed over me like a wave, cold and unrelenting. I was in love with a lie, a beautiful fiction wrapped in a tailored suit and a charming smile. The future I had imagined for us, the life I had started to build in my mind, was nothing more than a house of cards, ready to come tumbling down at any moment. I felt like I couldn't breathe, like the walls were closing in around me, trapping me in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

And I had no idea what I was going to do about it.

The truth hung heavy in the air between us, a suffocating presence that filled the room and pressed down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. My heart raced as I confronted Chrollo with the article, my voice trembling with a potent mix of anger, fear, and betrayal. He sat across from me, his posture relaxed, his eyes downcast, his hands resting calmly in his lap. The silence stretched on, broken only by the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall, each second an eternity of agonizing anticipation.

When he finally spoke, his voice was even and measured, devoid of any discernible emotion. "I never intended for you to discover the truth this way," he said, his gaze meeting mine, his dark eyes revealing nothing. "I considered telling you, explaining everything, but I couldn't find the right approach."

Disbelief and heartache surged through me, constricting my throat and stinging my eyes with unshed tears. "Explain what, Chrollo? That our entire relationship has been built on a foundation of lies? That the man I fell in love with is nothing more than a carefully crafted illusion?"

His expression remained impassive, unfazed by my accusation. "The connection between us is genuine, Y/N. My feelings for you, the moments we've shared, none of that was a deception."

A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped my lips, echoing harshly in the oppressive stillness of the room. "But everything else? The thefts, the Phantom Troupe? How can you claim that's not an integral part of who you are?"

Chrollo sighed, a subtle indication of impatience rather than genuine weariness. "It's not that simple. The Troupe is like family to me. We have each other's backs, keep each other safe. What we do isn't solely about financial gain or the adrenaline rush. It's about survival, about carving out a place in a world that's never given us a fair chance."

As I sat there, my mind reeling, a chill crept down my spine, raising goosebumps on my skin. Chrollo's dark eyes bored into mine, a glimmer of something cold and dangerous lurking beneath the surface of his composed exterior. In that moment, the true depth of his detachment became starkly apparent, sending a fresh wave of fear washing over me.

"You need to understand, Y/N," he continued, his voice low and even. "The Phantom Troupe is more than just a gang. It's a way of life. A family bound by blood and loyalty. I've committed heinous acts in the name of that loyalty. Acts that would make your blood run cold."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a trapped bird. "And what about me, Chrollo? Was I just another pawn in your twisted game? Another plaything to be discarded when you grew bored?"

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his features, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. "No, Y/N. Never. What I feel for you is the closest thing to genuine emotion I've ever experienced. But I won't deceive you. I am what I am. That's not going to change, not even for you."

With shaking legs, I stood up, my entire body trembling with a mixture of fear, anger, and despair. "I can't do this, Chrollo. I can't be a part of your world. The things you've done...the person you truly are...I can't turn a blind eye to that."

He nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I expected as much. I knew this moment would arrive sooner or later. I merely hoped..." He trailed off, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. "It's irrelevant now."

I took a step back, my mind struggling to process the revelation of Chrollo's true identity. The man I had fallen for, the charming and enigmatic gentleman, was nothing more than a meticulously crafted facade, a mask concealing the cold, ruthless criminal beneath.

"I can't be a part of this, Chrollo," I repeated, my voice quivering with a mixture of fear and resignation. "I can't be with someone who lives a life of crime, who has no regard for the people he hurts."

Chrollo's expression remained inscrutable, his dark eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin crawl. "I'm afraid you don't have a choice, Y/N. You see, you've become quite an intriguing diversion for me, a delightful puzzle to unravel. And I'm not in the habit of relinquishing things that keep me entertained."

His words, spoken with chilling calm, carried an unmistakable undercurrent of threat that turned my blood to ice in my veins. "What are you saying, Chrollo?"

A smile devoid of warmth or humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. "It's quite simple, really. You have two options. You can choose to stay with me, to accept me for who and what I am, and continue to be a part of my life. Or..." He paused, his gaze hardening. "You can refuse, and face the consequences."

My heart raced, a sickening realization dawning on me as the true nature of my predicament became clear. "And what consequences would those be?"

Chrollo shrugged, the gesture casual and unconcerned. "Death, of course. I can't risk you going to the authorities, exposing me and my associates. If you can't be with me, then you can't be allowed to live."

The words hung in the air between us, a chilling ultimatum that left me feeling trapped and utterly helpless. I searched Chrollo's face for any sign of remorse, any hint of the man I had thought I knew, but found only cold, calculating resolve.

"I...I need time to think," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper, my throat constricted with fear and despair.

Chrollo nodded, his expression impassive. "Of course. Take all the time you need, Y/N. But remember, the clock is ticking. And I'm not a patient man."

With those words, he turned and walked away, leaving me alone, the weight of his ultimatum crushing down on me. I sank to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me, as the full horror of my situation crashed over me in relentless waves.

I was trapped, caught between a love that had turned to ashes and a fate worse than death. And no matter which path I chose, I knew that my life would never be the same again.

I sat there, numb and disbelieving, as Chrollo's words echoed in my mind. Stay with him, or die. The choice was no choice at all, a cruel mockery of free will in the face of his cold ultimatum. With a heavy heart and an overwhelming sense of despair, I realized that I had no other option.

"I'll stay," I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue, tasting of ashes and defeat. "I'll stay with you, Chrollo."

He nodded, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark eyes, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A wise decision, Y/N. I knew you'd see reason."

But even as I agreed to his terms, a part of me rebelled against the idea of being trapped in this nightmare, of living a life shackled to a man who saw me as nothing more than a possession, a plaything to be discarded when he tired of me.

In the days that followed, I went through the motions of my life, a hollow shell of my former self. I smiled when Chrollo was around, played the role of the dutiful girlfriend, but inside, I was screaming, my soul withering with each passing moment. The weight of my despair pressed down on me, suffocating me slowly, day by day.

I couldn't bear the thought of living like this forever, of being forever bound to a monster who held no love, no true affection for me. In a moment of desperation, I made a decision. If I couldn't escape Chrollo in life, then I would find my freedom in death.

I sat in the bathtub, the steaming water lapping at my skin, providing no comfort to the icy numbness that had settled in my heart. The razor blade rested against my wrist, the metal cool and inviting, a whispered promise of release from the nightmare my life had become. My hand trembled, the weight of my decision bearing down on me, tears streaming down my face and mingling with the bathwater.

But even as I sat there, the razor poised to end my suffering, I couldn't bring myself to do it. My hand shook, the blade biting into my skin, drawing a thin line of crimson, but I couldn't find the strength, the resolve, to finish the job. Sobs wracked my body, my chest heaving with the force of my anguish, as I sat there, paralyzed by fear and despair.

"Well, well, what do we have here?"

My head snapped up, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of Chrollo's voice. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a look of detached amusement on his face, as if he'd stumbled upon a mildly entertaining scene.

"Chrollo..." I whispered, my voice hoarse and broken, barely recognizable to my own ears.

He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered into the bathroom, his movements casual and unhurried. "Did you really think I wouldn't know, Y/N? That I wouldn't sense your desperation, your pathetic attempt at escape?"

I lowered my gaze, shame and despair warring within me, my cheeks burning with humiliation. "I can't do this anymore, Chrollo. I can't live like this."

He crouched down beside the tub, his dark eyes glittering with a cruel sort of amusement. "And yet, here you are, unable to even commit to your own demise. How tragic."

With a sudden motion, he grasped my wrist, yanking the razor from my fingers. I gasped, more from surprise than pain, as he held the blade up to the light, examining it with a detached sort of interest.

"Did you really think this would be the answer, Y/N? That you could escape me, escape your fate, with something as trivial as this?"

He tossed the razor aside, the metal clattering against the tile floor, and cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You're mine, Y/N. Forever. And no matter how many times you try to run, to hide, to end your own miserable existence, I will always find you. I will always bring you back."

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the bathwater, as the hopelessness of my situation crashed over me anew. Chrollo was right. There was no escape, no way out of this hell I had foolishly walked into.

He stood, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and cold amusement. "Clean yourself up, Y/N. And let this be a lesson to you. Your life is mine, to do with as I please. And I'm not done with you yet."

With those words, he turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the bath, my skin pruning in the cooling water, my heart shattered beyond repair. I had gambled everything on Chrollo, on the love I thought we shared, and I had lost. And now, I had to live with the consequences, forever trapped in a nightmare of my own making.

Chrollo led me from the bathroom, his hand wrapped around my wrist in a grip that was both gentle and unyielding. I followed him numbly, my mind still reeling from the events that had transpired, the razor's bite still stinging on my skin. He guided me to the bed, the plush comforter soft beneath my bare legs as he lowered me onto the mattress.

I sat there, my hands clasped in my lap, my eyes downcast, as he moved about the room, his presence a tangible force, a weight pressing down on me from all sides. Fear and despair coiled in my gut, my heart racing as I tried to anticipate his next move, dreading what new torment he might have in store for me.

"Look at me, Y/N," he commanded, his voice soft but firm, leaving no room for disobedience.

I obeyed, raising my gaze to meet his, my breath catching in my throat at the intensity I saw there. He stood before me, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his dark hair falling across his brow in a way that was both casual and calculated.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, as if we were discussing the weather rather than the complete and utter destruction of my life. "Do you see the futility of your actions, the pointlessness of your resistance?"

I swallowed hard, my throat tight with unshed tears. "I understand that I'm trapped," I whispered, my voice hoarse and raw, barely recognizable to my own ears. "That there's no escape from this nightmare, from you."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a flash of satisfaction in his eyes. "Good. You're learning."

He reached out, his fingers ghosting along my cheek, tracing the curve of my jaw with a touch that was almost tender. I shivered, my skin prickling with a mixture of fear and revulsion, my stomach churning at the unwanted contact.

"You belong to me, Y/N," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, sending a chill down my spine. "Body and soul, heart and mind. There is no part of you that is not mine, no corner of your being that I do not possess."

I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping to trail down my cheek, the hot sting of it a bitter reminder of my helplessness. He was right. I was his, wholly and completely, a moth caught in the web of a spider, helpless to resist the pull of his power.

Chrollo's lips brushed against my skin, trailing a path of fire down the column of my throat. I gasped, my hands fisting in the comforter, my body responding to his touch despite the revulsion that churned in my gut, despite the voice in my head screaming at me to fight, to resist, to do anything but submit to his twisted desires.

"You will never leave me," he whispered, his words a dark promise, a vow etched in blood and tears. "You will never escape. You are mine, now and forever."

And as his mouth descended on mine, his hands roaming over my body with a possessiveness that bordered on violence, I knew that he was right. There was no escape. Not for me, and not for anyone else who crossed his path.

I was his. And there was nothing I could do about it.

His kiss was like a drug, the taste of him addictive, the feel of his hands on my body intoxicating. I tried to resist, to push him away, but it was a futile effort. My body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more.

He broke the kiss, his eyes dark with desire, his breath ragged against my skin. "You can fight me all you want, Y/N. But in the end, you'll give in. You'll surrender to me, just as you did before."

"I won't," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.

He smiled, a cold, cruel smile that sent a chill down my spine. "We'll see about that."

With a growl, he claimed my mouth again, his lips rough against mine, his teeth nipping at my skin. I cried out, my nails digging into his back, my body surrendering to the pleasure even as my mind screamed in protest.

I knew this was wrong, that I should resist, should fight him with every fiber of my being. But the line between pain and pleasure was blurred, the boundary between fear and desire a thin and fragile thing. And as he ravaged my body, his touch bruising, his voice a low and menacing growl in my ear, I realized with a sickening jolt that a part of me wanted this.

A part of me craved the pain, the darkness, the twisted power play. And that realization, more than anything else, was the final nail in the coffin of my doomed resistance.

Chrollo's hands moved over my body, his fingers tracing the lines of my hips, the curve of my breasts, a strange mix of gentleness and possessiveness in his touch. I gasped, arching into him, my pulse racing, a dull ache building between my thighs.

"That's it," he murmured, his lips ghosting over the sensitive skin of my neck. "Give in to me, Y/N. Surrender."

His teeth grazed my earlobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair, his name a whisper on my lips.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice rough and low. "Say that you're mine."

"I'm yours," I breathed, the words tumbling from my lips without hesitation, a damning admission of defeat. "I'm yours, Chrollo."

He kissed me again, hard and possessive, his tongue delving into my mouth. I surrendered to him, my body and mind consumed by the raw, primal need that burned between us.

He pulled back, his gaze dark and hungry, a satisfied smile curving his lips. "Good girl," he murmured, his thumb brushing across my swollen lips. "Now, let's see just how much you're willing to give me."

He moved with a predatory grace, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, his body a weapon honed to lethal perfection. He knelt before me, his fingers deft and sure, as he spread my thighs, his lips ghosting across my heated flesh.

I cried out, my back arching off the bed, as his tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves at my core. He growled, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place as he feasted on my body, his tongue and lips working their dark magic on me.

Pleasure rippled through me, hot and urgent, my skin tingling with electricity. I gasped, my hands clutching at the sheets, my body writhing beneath his touch.

"Chrollo," I moaned, my voice hoarse and desperate. "Please, please..."

He laughed, a dark and dangerous sound, his eyes glinting with a mix of lust and amusement. "Please what, Y/N?"

"Please," I begged, the word a broken whisper, a plea for release. "I need you."

"What do you need?" he asked, his tone mocking.

"I need you inside me," I gasped, my body aching with desire, a dull, throbbing heat pulsing through my veins. "Please, Chrollo, I need you to fuck me."

His eyes darkened, a look of pure, animalistic lust flashing across his features. With a low growl, he rose to his feet, his fingers digging into my hips, lifting me effortlessly, and drove himself into me, the sudden fullness tearing a cry from my lips.

I clung to him, my nails scoring his back, my body shuddering with the force of his thrusts. He claimed me, his mouth hot and hungry on mine, his hands gripping my flesh with a bruising intensity.

The room was filled with the sounds of our bodies colliding, the scent of our desire hanging heavy in the air. I cried out, my voice hoarse and raw, the waves of pleasure crashing over me, drowning out all thought, all reason.

I lost myself in the moment, in the feeling of him inside me, filling me, completing me. For a brief, shining moment, there was nothing but us, our bodies moving as one, the line between pain and pleasure blurred and meaningless.

And then, with a cry, I shattered, my body convulsing, the release tearing through me, an explosion of sensation. I felt him follow, his movements growing erratic, his breath a ragged gasp in my ear, his release hot and intense.

We collapsed in a tangle of limbs, the sweat cooling on our skin, the aftershocks of our shared pleasure still rippling through us. I lay there, breathless and spent, a strange mix of emotions churning within me.

I was disgusted with myself, with the way I had surrendered to him, with the pleasure I had found in his arms. But beneath that revulsion, buried deep beneath the surface, was a sense of shameful satisfaction, a twisted sort of gratification.

I had given in to him. I had surrendered to the darkness, the madness, the primal desire that raged between us. And as his arms tightened around me, his breath warm against my skin, a part of me reveled in the knowledge that, no matter what happened, he would always be a part of me.

"Are you satisfied?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning, with implications. I glanced at Chrollo, my gaze flicking over his naked form, his skin still flushed with the aftermath of our encounter. He was watching me, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"No," I replied, meeting his gaze evenly, a thrill of anticipation running through me. "I'm not."

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest sparking in his dark eyes. "Oh? And what more could you possibly want, Y/N?"

I swallowed, my heart pounding in my chest as I forced myself to hold his gaze. "I want the truth, Chrollo. The real you, not the mask you wear for the world."

A slow smile spread across his face, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "Careful what you wish for, my dear. The truth can be a dangerous thing."

I shook my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I knew the risks when I chose to stay with you. I'm not afraid of the darkness."

Chrollo chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Brave words, Y/N. But we both know that's not entirely true, don't we?"

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin, his fingers trailing along the curve of my jaw. "You may think you want the monster, but can you truly handle the reality of what I am?"

I met his gaze unflinchingly, my pulse racing with a heady mix of fear and desire. "There's only one way to find out."

With a sudden movement, Chrollo pinned me to the bed, his body covering mine, his eyes glittering with a dark hunger. "Then let me show you," he murmured, his mouth descending on mine in a searing kiss.

As the hours passed and the shadows lengthened, we lay there, entwined, our bodies slick with sweat, the air heavy with the scent of our mingled desire. Chrollo traced idle patterns on my skin, his fingers moving over my body with a familiarity born of countless encounters. But there was a distant look in his eyes, a contemplative expression that I hadn't seen before.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, curious despite myself.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze focused on something far away. "I was wondering," he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "how things might have been different, if we had met under other circumstances."

I felt a flicker of surprise at his words, a strange sensation of hope and longing stirring in my chest. "What do you mean?"

Chrollo sighed, his fingers stilling on my skin. "If I wasn't who I am, if I wasn't a criminal, a member of the Phantom Troupe... could we have had something real, something genuine?"

I swallowed hard, my heart aching at the wistfulness in his tone. "I don't know," I replied honestly. "But I'd like to think so."

He smiled then, a sad, fleeting thing that barely touched his eyes. "In another life, perhaps I could have truly fallen in love with you, Y/N. Without the lies, the secrets, the constant threat of danger hanging over us."

I reached up, cupping his cheek in my hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my palm. "But this is the life we have, Chrollo. The one we've chosen, for better or worse."

He leaned into my touch, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. "I know. And I don't regret it, not really. But sometimes, I can't help but wonder..."

His words trailed off, the unspoken possibilities hanging in the air between us. I knew what he meant, knew the bittersweet ache of imagining a different path, a different fate. But we both knew that there was no going back, no changing the choices we had made.

"We have each other," I said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "Here and now. That's what matters."

Chrollo smiled, a real smile this time, his eyes warm and fond as they met mine. "You're right," he murmured, pulling me closer, his arms tightening around me. "And I wouldn't trade it for anything."

[psicheanima]

i admire how much you love and understand Makima, even as someone completely outside of the csm fanbase i can tell you know her character very well! i really look up to you in the sense of being so deeply connected with a character you can draw and talk about them endlessly.

have you always loved her that much? or was it a more gradual thing? and in your opinion do you feel like it’s easier to instantly attach yourself to a character in such a way, or slowly learn to love them as you consume more of the media they’re in?

i hope that isn’t a weird question, i’d just love to hear your thoughts on the process! seeing people so enamored by a single character is really awesome :-)

Oh wow! I’m really honored you can think that way—- especially as someone who hasn’t even read Chainsaw Man? I find that very incredible. Since I most draw her, it’s interesting not only my work could still connect to you, but you can feel my love, as well.. ahh… it’s a good thing to be known for your love, and it makes my heart really warm. That’s how I want to be seen, so thank you.

I always liked Makima. However, I had other Chainsaw Man characters I was more entertained by (since I read as it released, being amused was the most important thing) But I started to love her when the control Devil arc released and we learned her true motivations. She became my favorite Chainsaw Man character. During that year gap after part 1 ended, my love for her grew, and she became one of my favorite characters of all time.

Because, it’s not just about the antagonist Fujimoto wrote. Her fan content frequently had Catholic imagery, and she was a mother. These are two “themes” that are INTENSLEY attractive to me, even back then (it’s increased since 2020!) and are tropes I push onto characters who don’t even fit it, so having it just there for me was incredibly fun. It felt like she was just for me! I didn’t really think too deeply about her past until the last chapter dropped. And then there was nothing. So I was alone with that.

I found myself really loving her in a way that I had only loved one character before (Kaworu Nagisa, and I’m sure the similarities don’t need to be explained in depth) They’re both characters who love humanity. I love humanity. I love people, and it’s tender. So being able to explore this in a character added to it. Then, as I grew up a bit more, I started exploring womanhood through her character. It was cathartic and also interesting for me, because it did not only aid me, but also helped re-contextualize everything about her, and I saw her in a new lens once again, where there were so many parts of her that I hadn’t even peaked in on.

There was a specific art I saw in about 2021 of Makima with her hair down, on her bed. She looks very lonely. It’s a set, and the other drawing is her greeting her dogs at the front of her apartment— night time. It’s really that artwork that dictated who Makima was to me. She was the type of woman who went home to an empty apartment that she paid for. As Part 2 grew separated from what I liked about the series, and as the anime brought in fans who saw her as a sexual object, and her status as a popular “dommy mommy” character cemented, I found myself attaching to her even more, because in a sea of people who didn’t seem to get her at all, I was always wanting to defend her concept. Not her personally. But what made her a “character” in the story and why she had to do the thugs she did, and why she wouldn’t act certain ways and such!

It’s easy for m to attach myself to characters, but not in such a way I do with Makima. I don’t buy merch much ever, but I have 2 Makima figures and 3 pieces of clothing with her on it. That’s a lot for me! I wouldn’t do that with any other character in existence. She has a comforting presence, because I feel I truly understand her heart down to the smallest compartment. She feels like a friend! Just seeing her makes me happy. I understand her, so the “love” I have for her is like an old married couple that are best friends in older age. For other characters, it might be something a little more— violent? I get cuteness aggression a lot. When I say I love a character, I may say insane things like “I want to push them down a flight of stairs”— actually, that’s only when they’re male. I tend to like pathetic male characters I want to be a parent for, and I tend to like female characters I’d want to be the friend of, so for those, I’d say something like “my lovely sweetie pie❤️❤️”

but for Makima, it’s obviously not that way. I don’t make too many sarcastic rude comments about Makima the way I would for other characters I like. O don’t want to, because it’s not true, and it almost hurts me to even think about— like, the type of hurt that’s vulgar and disrespectful. I really do just love her. But I don’t see her as a sweetie pie either, haha. I don’t want violence on her but I also don’t want overwhelming love. Because she is a character that is grounded in reality.

I don’t want to be her friend. I think that’s kind of a foolish concept! I can only understand her like I do because we’re separated, and I can view her objectively like a bug. But because she’s been by my side so long, her concept is familiar, and I find comfort in just the idea of her. I’ve written a lot, but it was an interesting question, so I wanted to explain it as best that I could. Thank you very much for asking it!

[semuji]

₩arning: Yan? HSR × You?, grammar mistakes, out of character.

Let's say you are a Kaslana in the HSR verse, being the "knight" of Humanity is no joke, even more so that you can't even protect your home.

Your homeland got attacked by the Swarms Disaster hundreds of years ago, and you are the only survivor, eventhough not exactly. The price of that is being trapped inside a doll body, you can feel, can touch and can speak, ... like a normal human. But you have no heart inside your body, just an artificial gem that deemed as your source of living. And with that body, you also often got shrink into a size of a grown man palm. Maybe something can change it, but you don't know how.

Oh, and did I mention that you also have amnesia, you have forgotten completely everything before you got transferred into a doll body. That's why you are on a journey to find it back, but on the way, you accidentally lost into a small box. However, you got saved by a tall and muscular man in the name of Veritas Ratio. He is curious about your origin and how your body shrink, therefore allowing you to follow him around as you vow to repay him for helping you out.

In the process, you met Aventurine, a man with a sinister smile and peculiar eyes, who your savior was talking to when they met at the front of the Dewlight Pavilion, The Oak's base of operation. Aventurine sure does notice you, and did ask about you to Ratio, and he replied with just a saying: "research partner", which made the blonde snickers.

However, later when Aventurine got sent out by the Head of the Oak's family, Sunday, Ratio secretly sent you with him, that the professor said it's for you to keep an eye on him, which you do. Aventurine quickly warmed up to you, eventhough he is in an illusion, he still recognizes you as a real person and allows you to follow him on his shoulder.

Maybe in his way, he encountered some drunken men who purposely causing a problem with him, which makes you angered. And with that, you and him discovered that lips to lips touches can make you grow back in some times. After that, you sure did beat up those people and give them to the Bloodhound.

When the time comes, you turned back to Ratio, but got lost along the way 'cause of your size, which makes you meet the Nameless. Surely they are friendly, and helped you out finding Ratio. When you got back on the professors shoulder, you show him the new discovery you founded without a word (or maybe you just can't talk in that form), which makes Ratio mad. But looking at your dumb smile of happiness of finally being helpful to him, Ratio stopped his lectures that was about to spill out and forgive you.

Maybe in the future, you will learned how to protect humanity again, and learned how to love again with the artificial heart inside you. But to vowed to be the shield of humanity is not a good thing at all. Because the people around you will surely never let you go get a single scratch on your face, let alone that you will sacrifice yourself for a person that you don't even know.

But do they know that you are the strongest Emanator in the whole universe, that can rivals even Aeons?

Or....

It's just my new oc lore that I want to share. I might expand it in the future if I got a chance.

Part 2

(unfinished art, credit belongs to me, please don't take it anywhere)

[heartofbusan]

My advice to JJK

Trying to describe Jeon Jungkook is like trying to grab sunlight. It's intagible, unattainable yet ever present. Slipping through your fingers while warming you up. He might actually be so EXTREMELY simple to figure out that people get lost, expecting a greater mystery. How do you solve a problem like Jungkook?

It requires patience.

His true character will reveal itself if you take the time to listen and observe instead of wanting him to fulfill your expectations of him.

He's very much of his time. He's willing to be vulnerable when most people would prefer to hide behind a facade of calm, cool, and collected. He's someone who has put his heart out there for us to see. Not just for us, but for himself, because he prioritises honesty and authenticity. He's not into bapid or superficial. He's actually not that deep. He's sensitive and a deep thinker, but hes not someone who needs words to express his feelings because his feelings are just there for tue taking. He's been showing and telling us who he is, yet people are unwilling to listen. Isn't that kind of tragic?

It's no surprise that he likes to work with non-verbal art mediums. Using words in a superficial way, mostly constructing a puzzle through layering rather than through concepts. He's got a great eye for color and timing, rhythm, and he loves humor that can handle a dark turn! That might be the most mysterious thing about him, his love for drama and his playful side. Pretending to be a different character, shed his mask by donning a far more 'interesting' one. Because he's that simple. He either likes something or he doesn't. His belly is connected to his heart. His gut is his guide. Never falter. It will always lead me home. If it feels good, if I trust it, then It can't be wrong.

Yet words like Simple. Easy. Clear. Those sound too plain for a man like Jungkook, who is kindhearted, grounded, and precise. He lives in the now.

I hope age brings him closer to expressing himself through words. I'd really love to see him try to articulate his brain. It is a worthy challenge, but one he need only take for his own satisfaction. I'm glad that, at times, he seems less harsh or self-critical than he used to be. That is also a working of time and age.

On his birthday, I hope he feels a sense of satisfaction on a day well lived. It's that simple joy that might bring him a sense of peace. And of course, knowing that he has a person in this life who can handle him just fine. That, too. Mostly that. Because that person SEES HIM. And isn't that what life is all about? A person who accepts you for who you are, not who they need you to be for them. That is a person worth fighting for.

[cece693]

Monster in the Making (Will Graham x Male! Lecter)

Hey :) I know I haven't uploaded much, but life has gotten in the way. So, to jump back into writing, I've decided to write something about my favorite murder husband, Will. What was meant to be something short turned into (possibly) my longest post yet.

Summary: The Lecter siblings were obsessed with Will Graham but for entirely different reasons. While Hannibal wanted to deconstruct the puzzle that was the detective, M/N wanted Will to be his.

tags: jealousy, possessiveness, m/n being a little shit, Will indulges him, why can't they just talk it out like normal adults, oh yeah 'cause one's a murderer in the making and the other is related to Hannibal :)

M/N Lecter was a mirror image of his elder brother, Hannibal: with sophisticated tastes and an appetite for human meat, it was their façades that set them apart. While both inherited a charisma unlike any other, it was M/N Lecter whose mask never slipped off. Unlike Hannibal who instilled an unconscious fear in people with his dominating and blunt persona, M/N preferred to play the role of the unsuspecting innocent.

He derived pleasure from allowing others to spin their own webs of deceit, all the while believing they had any significance in his life. Whether they be lovers, friends, or colleagues, no one was immune to his subtle influence. His manipulations were veiled behind gentle words and tender gestures, a feigned desire to enrich their lives until they found themselves isolated and reliant solely on M/N. This artful deception ensnared all whom M/N cast his gaze upon, until the arrival of Will Graham.

A detective with a peculiar gift that Hannibal simply dubbed ‘pure empathy’, Will immediately knew something was wrong with the Lecter siblings. His dark, almost onyx eyes perceived the monsters both Hannibal and M/N were, yet (he hated himself for saying this) there was a complexity to their darkness that intrigued him. So, despite the warning bells ringing in his mind, Will couldn’t help but be drawn to the siblings. Hannibal wanted to bring out Will’s own dark side, seeing a capable partner in the man who cloaked himself with a ruse of normality. But for M/N, he simply desired the man.

He couldn’t explain what about Will attracted him, but for the first time, M/N felt drawn to another being. He wanted to own the detective—his mind, heart, body. It was a puzzling revelation that M/N could even feel these things for another being. 

"I assume you're pleased with my surprise," Hannibal whispered to M/N as the familiar sight of the detective's car pulled into their driveway. The siblings had decided to host another dinner party, though with M/N's hectic schedule, the majority of the preparations fell upon Hannibal. This entailed cooking, setting the table, and sending out invitations—invitations M/N was not permitted to see.

M/N should have anticipated that Hannibal was scheming something, but he never imagined this. Developing feelings for the detective was one thing, but inviting Will into their home—a place that would undoubtedly unsettle the detective—angered him.

M/N couldn't pinpoint when his desire to possess Will shifted into protectiveness, but it was too late now. Hannibal had retreated to the kitchen, likely to evade M/N's impending wrath, leaving him alone to greet their newest guest. Slipping into character, M/N forced a smile as the detective's figure hesitated at the open door. "Mr. Graham." M/N greeted, his voice warm and friendly. "It's good to see you. Please, come in."

Will's gaze flickered from M/N to the grand interior of the Lecter residence, taking in the opulent furnishings and the faint aroma of culinary mastery wafting from the kitchen. Despite his reservations, there was a reluctant curiosity in his expression. "Thank you." Will replied, his tone guarded yet polite as he crossed the threshold. "I must admit, I didn't expect an invitation." And why would the Lecters invite him? Will was hardly good company, always managing to unsettle people with his personality.

Catching the subtle self-deprecation in Will’s words, M/N frowned. “Why wouldn’t we invite you, Mr. Graham? I find your company quite pleasant.” 

Internally, M/N couldn't help but smirk at the reaction of his detective—the rosy hue that enveloped the tips of Will's ears, and the subtle shift in his demeanor as he lowered his head, avoiding M/N's gaze. M/N couldn't quite discern if Will was simply oblivious to his flirting or intentionally ignoring it, but either way, it stirred something inside him to see the effect he had on the guarded detective. 

Not wanting to further embarrass the man, M/N turned on his heel and began guiding Will further into the house, towards the dining room where the rest of their guests were gathered. Some were engaged in lively conversations, their voices mingling in the air, while others took in the opulent surroundings, their eyes roaming over the intricate decorations and paintings adorning the walls.

M/N felt a surge of pride at the sight of the meticulously arranged table, adorned with fine china and gleaming silverware. The aroma of Hannibal's culinary creations wafted through the air, tantalizing the senses and adding to the air of anticipation that hung over the room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." M/N told Will with a reassuring smile. “Dinner will be served shortly." Leaving the detective was the last thing M/N wanted to do, but he knew he had to fulfill his duties as a co-host and mingle with their other guests. With a lingering glance at Will, M/N reluctantly excused himself, promising to return shortly. 

Watching M/N walk away, Will was taken aback by the unexpected pang of disappointment that washed over him. He knew M/N couldn’t stay by his side all night long, but a part of Will hoped he would. He and M/N had been playing a game as of late; one Will had been initially taken aback by but had quickly returned. Flirting—subtle, yet charged with an unspoken tension that seemed to crackle between them whenever they were together. 

M/N had a way of getting under his skin, of teasing out the darker, more dangerous parts of himself that Will hadn’t known he even possessed. In M/N's presence, Will felt alive in a way he hadn't in years, his senses heightened and his inhibitions loosened. M/N Lecter had become his downfall—hell, M/N was all Will thought about these days.

As he watched M/N mingle effortlessly with the other guests, a wave of conflicting emotions washed over him. Will knew he should stay away, that getting too close to M/N Lecter would only lead to trouble. And yet, the allure of the forbidden was too strong to ignore, drawing him inexorably closer to the flame.

As the evening wore on, Will found himself retreating into the shadows, avoiding interactions with the other guests. The lively chatter and laughter only served to amplify his own sense of isolation. He didn’t belong here; all he wanted was to return home and snuggle against the warm fur of his dogs. But just as Will debated the possibility of slipping away unnoticed, a sudden burst of laughter echoed from behind him, pulling him from his thoughts. 

As if summoned, Will’s gaze landed on M/N, who stood across the room, his charming smile directed towards a striking woman. She was elegant and poised, with cascading waves of chestnut hair that framed her delicate features. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter and interest as she leaned closer to M/N, her hand resting upon his arm as they continued conversing.

The attraction between them was evident—the way the woman pressed herself against M/N, with the man doing nothing to stop such indecent action. Will couldn't tear his eyes away, a knot of jealousy tightening in his chest at the sight of M/N's easy rapport with the woman.

It was irrational, Will knew. He had no claim over M/N; no right to feel possessive or jealous. And yet, as he watched them, Will couldn't shake the resentment and betrayal that coiled within him, a bitter reminder of his insecurities and desires. For a brief moment, Will entertained the dangerous thought of intervening, of inserting himself into their conversation and reclaiming M/N's attention for himself. But he quickly dismissed the idea, knowing it would only make him appear foolish and desperate. 

But that’s exactly what M/N wanted. He craved to unravel the layers of Will Graham's complex psyche, delve into the darker corners of his mind, and explore the depths of his desires. M/N wanted to see this other, darker side of Will, to witness the raw passion and intensity that lay beneath his stoic exterior. So when their eyes met across the room, M/N couldn’t help but smirk as he turned back to the woman on his side.

Helen was beautiful, in a conventional sort of way, but something was lacking in her presence that failed to capture his interest. Her conversation was dull and predictable, devoid of the spark and intrigue that he craved. So even as his whole body wrenched when her hands settled on his forearm, M/N forced himself to maintain the facade of polite interest.

He couldn't help but contrast her with Will Graham, whose mere presence ignited a fire within him that he struggled to contain. Will was enigmatic and complex, a puzzle waiting to be solved, while Helen was little more than a passing distraction—a shallow attempt at filling the void that only Will could satisfy. And as he stole another glance across the room, M/N couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Jealousy and anger were swimming in the detective’s eyes; he only needed one final push so they could both indulge in what they desired.

The tension between them crackled like electricity, a palpable force that hung heavy in the air. Will's gaze bore into M/N's, filled with a mix of longing and frustration that mirrored his own. It was as if they were locked in a silent battle of wills, each daring the other to make the first move. But M/N was done playing games. He wanted Will, and he wanted him now. With a sly grin, he leaned in closer to Helen, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he murmured something in her ear. The effect was immediate. As Will stormed towards them, his eyes ablaze with fury, M/N felt a surge of satisfaction. 

"Can we talk privately?” The detective hissed, not even sparing a glance at the woman. 

“Of course.” M/N's response was measured and composed, his outward demeanor belying the inner excitement that churned beneath the surface. Sensing an opportunity to push the boundaries further, he delicately extricated himself from Helen's grasp and softly pressed his lips to her cheek.

“Please excuse us, darling.” He murmured, his voice like velvet, eliciting a blush from the woman and a frustrated huff from Will. Gesturing for the detective to follow, this exchange wasn’t missed by Hannibal, who smoothly redirected the attention of the other guests, allowing M/N and Will to slip away unnoticed. 

The journey to M/N’s office was painful; in the sense that Will’s dark emotions only fueled M/N’s desire for the detective. With every step he took, M/N could feel Will’s presence like a blazing fire at his back, the heat of his breath sending shivers down his spine. Personal space seemed non-existent between them; with Will’s front nearly pressing against M/N’s back as they moved in lockstep. It took all of M/N's self-control to resist the urge to turn around and claim what he had long desired.

As they finally entered M/N's office, the weight of the locked door didn't escape Will's notice, but his focus was consumed by the fury pulsating through his veins. M/N's calm demeanor only served to stoke the flames of his anger further. 

"What is it that you wished to speak of, Mr. Graham?" M/N's voice remained cool and collected, a stark contrast to the seething rage burning in Will's gaze. Allowing himself to be cornered against his desk, M/N maintained unwavering eye contact with the detective. Yet, despite the intensity of the situation, the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly, mischief glimmering in his eyes.

Will's jaw clenched as he struggled to find the words, his chest heaving with pent-up emotion. "I want to know what you were doing with that woman," he finally managed to spit out, his voice low and charged with accusation.

M/N arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "And why does that matter to you?" he countered, his tone teasing yet tinged with a hint of challenge. His eyes held a gleam of amusement as he awaited Will's response; he might be pinned to his desk, but M/N still held the power. He was the one dictating what their encounter would result. Will’s expression softened, his features momentarily reflecting his more reserved nature. But then, to M/N’s surprise, a smirk ghosted across his face. "You're mine." 

"Is that so?" M/N mused, "And what exactly does that entail, Detective Graham?" 

Spurred by an unspoken desire, the detective's patience wore thin. Surging forward, Will captured M/N in a searing kiss, his hands finding a place on the other's hips to draw him closer. The kiss was electric, a fusion of pent-up longing and unspoken passion. At that moment, words became unnecessary as they surrendered to the heat of their mutual desire, lost in the intoxicating embrace of each other's lips.

M/N gripped Will’s curls, finding pleasure in hearing the sweet, husky moans the detective emitted. However, the need for air soon became undeniable, and with a deep, reluctant sigh, M/N drew away from the kiss. His chest heaved with the effort to regain his breath as he gazed into the detective's eyes once more. But instead of finding regret, as he had anticipated, M/N was surprised to see a glimmer of giddiness dancing in the depths of Will's gaze. Perhaps now it would be easier for the Lecter siblings to sway Will Graham into joining their murder family

[komoboko]

There's a new official art and this tweet changed the trajectory of my life so I NEED AN ARTIST MUI X READER

Maybe the reader would be admiring his way of drawign and nad nadua ndaud *explodes*

𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤

Artist!Muichiro x gn!reader

this character art changed my life cloudy i forever thank you for showing me this

Artist!Muichiro who first started having a crush on you after you complimented his art. It wasn’t something really big or important like slaying demons for example, just a passion he would do every now and then to pass the time.

While Muichiro was always aware that he's always had some skill when it came to art. He won't even realize how much people appreciated the craft until you complimented him one day.

"Muichiro you drew this yourself?" Your question snaps him out of the trans he was in previously. He stares at you a moment before nodding his head, noting the surprised but delighted expression that appears on your face. He never thought people actually admired his art, sure he's seen some lower ranks peer over to look at what he was drawing, but walking up to him? Complimenting him?? New territory for him.

He pulls his sketchbook in-between the two of you as he saw you take a seat next to him. He flips through the pages as he hears your comments and reactions to things he's drawn over the past couple months. "Who taught you how to draw?" You ask more eager to know where he learned his skills.

"I taught myself." He replies in a more relaxed manor with easily makes your jaw drop to the floor. Your reaction surprises him partially but he keeps his composure for good measures. "I could teach you if you wanted me to." He adds as your mouth continues to fall agape but your eyes shine with happiness. "Seriously? You wouldn't mind??" Muichiro nods his head as a goofy smile appears on your face. In response Muichiro can't help but let a small smile appears on his face.

He doesn't want to forget how beautiful you look when you smile, in-fact he doesn't really want to forget anything about this short conversation at all.

When the sun begins to set and you wave Muichiro goodbye, Muichiro immediately goes back to drawing. Instead of drawing the dragon like he showed you before or other animals he saw, he starts to sketch your face. He wants to make sure he remembers what you look like and who you are, and the next time he can see you for your first art lesson.

One sketch then turns into two, then two sketches turn into three. Then a sketch turns into a page, then two, then it turns into more pages then he can count. Different sketches of things you like or the food you told him you really hated. His favorite is the drawing of you two sitting next to each other while your sharing furofuki daikon, he was quite happy you remembered his favorite food for him.

"Love does crazy things to somebody, yes?" He hears Mr. Ubuyashiki states as Muichiro stares up at him, his face more confused than impressed. Kayaga only smiles before sitting next to the boy. "I'm surprised you haven't realized you've fallen in love yet." He. adds on as Muichiro can only look at him in surprise.

"Who have I fallen in love with..?" Muichiro asks the corps leader as he can only let out a laugh. He watches his finger glide until it lands on your face drawn delicately in his sketchbook. It only hits him then of what his master was saying.

So that's what he's been feeling when he's spending time with you. The warm feeling that bubbles in his chest. Love. You've struck him in the heart with your affection and now he can only wonder. Has he done the same to you?

[highabovethecloudssomewhere]

Bi-Yearly Book Catalogue (2024)

Every book I’ve read the past six months and what I thought, told as briefly as I can manage.

One Star Books:

Loveless by Alice Oseman

I understand that this book was helpful for a lot of people. It was the opposite of helpful for me.

The Midnight Library by Matt Haig

My gripes with this can be whittled down into: this writer does not understand depression but really, really wants to cure it. Also, if you do decide to give this book a try, please mind the subject material. It really, really isn’t for everyone.

Two Star Books:

N/A

Three Star Books:

A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman

A simple book about an old man learning to want to live again. Where ‘The Midnight Library’ failed for me, this one succeeded. If you plan to read this one, be mindful of the content warnings. It also isn’t for everyone.

Lily and the Octopus by Steven Rowely

It’s about a dog who has cancer. I think that says it all. There were parts of this book I really liked and parts I really didn’t like. It lost me halfway through and I stopped caring about the stakes, which is really upsetting when the stakes are a dog. But the good parts are really, really good. Just be mindful of the premise going into it.

In the Lives of Puppets by TJ Klune

I liked the character work, loved the world building and on a technical level the writing was well-done. My gripes have to do with the story’s internal contradictions and how the only character traits I can think of for the main character are “asexual” and “inventor,” neither of which are explored properly (emphasis on asexual here). I didn’t like that despite being 21, the main character was narratively treated like a child, often involving his sexuality. I had to google how old he was multiple times because I couldn’t believe he wasn’t in his mid-teens given how he reacted to the story and how the story treated him. Loved the writing on a technical level, though, and I do plan to read more from this author.

Four Star Books:

Legends and Lattes by Travis Baldree

A COFFEE shop AU? In MY high fantasy? If you like DnD, low-stakes high-fantasy and fun character work, give this one a read. It’s very cozy.

A Psalm for the Wild-Built by Becky Chambers

It’s a book about a nonbinary tea monk and a robot who lives in the mountains. Slow-paced with good vibes and great world building. I read it in an evening and came away from it feeling warm.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Achilles and Patroclus’ relationship breaks my heart again. This was incredibly well-written and appropriately devastating. I just wanted them to be happy.

Countdown to Countdown by Kong Xiao Tong (graphic novel)

I bought a physical copy of this because I’ve always loved the artist’s work and wanted to support, and I enjoyed it a LOT. Beautiful art, fantastic characters. I know not everyone can avoid a physical copy, but the webcomic is available to read for free online and I highly recommend giving it a try.

Our Dining Table by Ori Mita (manga)

Learning to enjoy mealtime with loved ones again after childhood trauma? Y’all. It’s a single-volume manga and it’s well worth your time.

Five Star Books:

Beartown by Fredrik Backman

This was the most devastating book I’ve ever read. If you are interested in reading it: find a list of content warnings first. I went in blind. It is hauntingly real and the author handled the material so, so well. I can’t recommend this book without that caveat. But it’s one of the best-written books I’ve read.

The Saturday Night Ghost Club by Craig Davidson

This book is about a man looking back on his life as a boy - the friends he made and the misadventurous ghost-hunts his uncle dragged them into. It’s just the right amount of campy with fun characters and a brilliant use of prose. If you’re a less experienced reader and want a book that is easily digestible while also being extraordinarily well-written, I’d recommend this book in a heartbeat, and it’s every bit as entertaining for more advanced readers.

What you are looking for is in the library by Aoyama Michiko

Five stories about five people, all in different stages of life, and their unique experiences with the same librarian and the same library. Individually, each character in each story has their unsatisfying lives changed in an unexpectedly simple way, thanks to the library. There’s nothing wild about this book, but it is wildly impactful. The library is for everyone!

Tress of the Emerald Sea by Brandon Sanderson

Heroine travels the treacherous seas to save the man she loves. It’s a book about perspectives and joy and making unlikely friends, breaking curses through clever means and never, ever giving up. It has all the whimsy of a classic fairytale, yet not once could I predict how it was going to end. It’s fast-paced and hard to put down. The world is intriguing and the characters are wonderful.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

This book is utterly mind-bending and I loved it. Two time-travelers chase each other through reality on opposing sides of the Time War and gradually fall in love. It’s great. The biggest complaint I see leveled at this book comes from less experienced readers who struggle to follow the narrative - and I do agree, if you’re just getting into reading for fun this might be a book to save for later. But don’t let me stop you. I loved this book.

Conclusion:

Reading is great. Libraries are your friend. I always love book recommendations and I’m on GoodReads as BeyondTheClouds777, predictably. If any of y’all take a stab at these books (or have taken stabs in the past), I’d love to hear your thoughts! I’m back in my bookworm era and thriving.

[kitsuneisi]

I was in the car on my way home from the doctor's when I saw you had posted part 10. I ended up ranting and raving for the 20 minute drive to my support worker, and then some when I showed her the comics when we got home. Since I spent so much time appreciating your stuff today, I thought I would say something about it to you.

I absolutely love everything about it. I am genuinely so, so excited to see where the lore surrounding non-humans is going. I am so excited for all of this, I love all of this.

I cannot pick a single favourite thing about this, it is all too good, but I will say I did cry like a little baby when I first came across this comic because of Scar being disabled. I have never, ever seen a disabled hero who's just a disabled guy. No powers that completely negate any disability, just a type of mobility aid that is actually treated as a mobility aid.

Not to mention, Scar is the one Grian has a crush on. I do not believe I have ever seen a queer story with a disabled guy being sought-after, or just any story of a disabled person being desireable. Seeing that cute, classic 'Oh his fingers brushed mine' moment happening with a character who is like me makes me indescribably happy.

I just see so much of myself in this Scar. So, so very much. We even have similar body types, and that makes me so happy as well.

Your art has just touched me in such a beautiful, meaningful way. I just thought that I should mention it, to let you know that you have made someone so so happy.

Thank you so much.

Just as you share your experience with me I want to return the gesture

Your comment and experience was such a heartwarming and fulfilling. I've always wanted to make stories for people to feel seen and comforted, and to believe I have gotten to achieve this kind of responses truly warms my heart and gives me so much hope

Art school have convinced me that I don't really have something to offer, that I dont have anything to say or that what I do doesnt really impact in any way. So your comment truly moves me.

To have the chance to write this story with my best friend and share it with you all has truly being amazing

Thank you for hearing and seeing my art <3

[lividstar]

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤTHE CITY OF LOVE

ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ Chapter Nine: May I Have This Dance?

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

masterpost

៚ wc: 10.3k (total: ???)

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

៚ playlist !

៚ The initial plan was to stay the night in Hongjoong’s art studio to finish one of his designs, but as one thread tangled itself into another and kept the chain going, a series of unexpectedly charming experiences began to unfold, one of which contains running an errand to buy flowers for Madame Dupont’s vases—the very event that led to you and Hongjoong enjoying a little sophisticated dancing session while moving to the soft melody of La Vie En Rose.

a/n: this took so long i’m so sorry 😭 these past few weeks have been so hectic and i had little time to write but i finally pulled through! lmk what you guys think about this one hehe

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

The room was filled with the warm, ambient light of late-night lamps, casting soft shadows on the walls. The hum of the city outside was faint, muffled by the closed windows of Hongjoong’s studio. You both had decided to work late, wanting to finish the third design for his autumn collection before dawn. The atmosphere was relaxed as the hours passed.

“And then, when he pulled the green ribbon off her neck... her head fell to the ground!” you concluded the tale with a dramatic flair.

Hongjoong let out a startled gasp, his eyes wide with shock. “No way!” he exclaimed, causing you to burst into a fit of laughter. The sight of his genuine reaction, so vulnerable and out of character, had you clutching your stomach, tears forming in your eyes.

“Don’t laugh at me like that!” Hongjoong protested, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m sure you reacted just the same when you first heard that story.”

Still giggling, you wiped away your tears. “Actually, I did not. And come on, how can I not laugh? Seeing you so scared is just, I don’t know, uncharacteristically priceless?”

Hongjoong crossed his arms, a mock pout on his lips. “I don’t usually react like that, you know. It’s just that… that story... caught me off guard.”

You grinned, teasing him further. “Guess I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, then. So, are you always this easily frightened? Or was there a particular incident that made you this way?”

He hesitated, a shadow passing over his features. “Well, there was one major event,” he admitted, his tone softening.

Intrigued, you leaned forward, eager to hear more. “What happened?”

Hongjoong looked thoughtful, as if weighing his words carefully. “When I was younger, I had this experience... It was late at night, and I was at home alone. The power went out, and there was this eerie silence, you know? The kind that makes you hear things that aren’t really there. Suddenly, there was this loud crash from the kitchen. I thought someone had broken in. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a baseball bat—and slowly made my way there, heart pounding. But when I got to the kitchen, there was nothing. No sign of anyone. Just an open window that I knew I had closed earlier.”

He paused, taking a deep breath. “Ever since then, I’ve been quite jumpy, especially when I’m alone at night. It’s silly, really, but it left a mark on me.”

You listened intently, feeling a pang of sympathy. “That sounds terrifying. I can’t imagine going through something like that alone—at a young age, too.”

Hongjoong smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it honestly still creeps me out a little when I remember it. But enough about me, what about you? Any fears?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “It’s not exactly spooky, but my biggest fear is being left alone. Not just physically alone, but emotionally. The idea of someone I care about just disappearing without a word... It terrifies me.”

Hongjoong’s expression softened, a hint of understanding in his eyes. “That’s understandable. It’s a fear many people have, I think. The fear of abandonment.”

You nodded, feeling a bit vulnerable yet also comforted by his empathetic response. So far, Hongjoong has proven himself to be very empathetic, and it’s a trait of his that you hold deep appreciation for. “Have you ever felt that way? Worried that someone might just leave without any explanation?”

A contemplative look crossed Hongjoong’s face, and he sighed softly. “It’s not exactly my biggest fear, but... yes, it’s happened to me before.”

Surprised, you looked at him, sensing there was more to the story. However, you also sensed his reluctance to delve deeper, so you decided to shift the topic. “Then... what is your biggest fear?”

Hongjoong glanced away, his gaze distant as he seemed to search for the right words. The studio fell silent, save for the ticking of a clock on the wall. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “My biggest fear... is losing myself. Losing who I am, what I believe in, what I love. It’s easy to get lost in this industry, to become someone you’re not just to please others. Sometimes, I worry that in trying to be everything for everyone, I might end up being nothing at all.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his confession. You felt a deep empathy for him, understanding the struggle of maintaining one’s identity in a world that often demands conformity. “That’s really deep,” you said softly. “But from what I’ve seen, you’ve always stayed true to yourself. That’s something to admire.”

Hongjoong gave you a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. It’s not always easy, but I try. And it helps having people around who remind me of who I am.”

The conversation left both of you in a pensive mood, the laughter from earlier replaced by a contemplative silence. “You’re one of those people, you know,” Hongjoong says after a few seconds, his voice soft and sincere, a hint of a smile showing up on his lips.

His words caught you off guard, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. You smiled back at him, a mixture of gratitude and affection in your eyes. “I’m glad I am.”

The quiet moment between you was filled with an unspoken understanding, a deeper connection that had blossomed unexpectedly. The soft hum of the city outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this shared space. However, the peaceful silence was soon interrupted by a soft hiss from Hongjoong, followed by a muttered curse.

Concern immediately washed over you as you noticed him cradling his hand, a thin line of blood trickling down from his finger to the floor. “Are you alright? What happened?” you asked, quickly moving closer to him.

“It’s fine, just a small scratch,” he dismissed, waving his injured hand nonchalantly. “I’m used to it.”

You shook your head, not convinced. “Where do you keep your first aid supplies?”

He hesitated for a moment, then relented under your determined gaze. “Top drawer of my desk.”

“Stay put,” you instructed, getting up and heading to the desk. You rummaged through the drawer, pulling out a small first aid kit. Kneeling beside him, you opened the kit and carefully took out the necessary supplies. “Let’s get this cleaned up,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

Hongjoong watched as you worked in silent awe. You cleaned the wound with a delicate touch, your brows furrowed in concentration. As all your attention was poured on his small wound, a stray strand of your hair fell into your line of sight. Before you could brush it away, Hongjoong reached out and gently tucked the hair behind your ear. The brief contact made your breath hitch, a small, almost imperceptible gasp escaping your lips. You felt a flutter in your chest, but you quickly pushed it aside, reminding yourself there was something you needed to get done.

Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on your face, taking in the soft curve of your features, the gentle way your lips pressed together as you concentrated. Up close, he noticed things he hadn’t before—the delicate lines around your eyes when you smiled, the way your lashes cast faint shadows on your cheeks. There was a quiet beauty to you, one that he found himself increasingly drawn to. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts, but the feeling remained—a growing awareness of the attraction he felt toward you.

“There,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you leaned back, inspecting your handiwork. The wound was now clean and bandaged, and you held his hand gently, your fingers still wrapped around his.

Hongjoong’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he looked down at your hands. “You know, you’re still holding my hand,” he teased, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Startled, you quickly released his hand, a flush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh, right. Sorry,” you mumbled, standing up and hastily putting the first aid supplies back in their place. You could hear Hongjoong’s soft laughter behind you, a sound that sent a pleasant warmth through you, despite your embarrassment.

As you turned back to face him, you found him still smiling, a look of fondness in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. He seemed different tonight—more open, more... vulnerable? It was as if the late hour and the intimacy of the shared space had stripped away some of his usual guardedness, revealing a side of him you hadn’t seen before.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hide the smile in your own voice.

“Nothing,” he replied, shaking his head. “Just... I’m not used to being shown any concern. It felt nice having you clean my wound, since I usually do that myself.”

You felt a pang of sympathy for him, wondering what his life must be like, always busy, always under pressure—and on top of that, always being his own savior. “Well, someone’s got to look out for you,” you said lightly, trying to ease the sudden heaviness in the air.

He nodded, his expression turning more serious. “I suppose you’re right.”

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between you. There was so much you wanted to say, so many questions you wanted to ask, but the words seemed to stick in your throat. Instead, you just smiled, hoping that your expression conveyed the warmth and support you felt for him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, breaking the silence. “For everything.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The moment felt fragile, like a bubble that could burst at any second, and you were afraid that saying too much might shatter the delicate balance between you.

As the room settled into a comfortable silence, you both resumed your tasks. The design for the autumn collection was nearing completion, but there were still some intricate details that needed attention. Hongjoong broke the silence, his voice cutting through the quiet like a soft melody. “Hey, could you help me with something?” he asked, his tone gentle.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. “Of course,” you replied, setting aside the fabric you had been working on. “What do you need help with?”

He gestured towards the piece he was working on, a delicate embroidery that required precision. “I’m struggling with this part,” he admitted, a hint of frustration in his voice. “The stitches need to be tighter, but my hands aren’t steady enough right now.”

You nodded, understanding the predicament. “Let me see,” you said, scooting closer to him on the floor. As you took the fabric from him, your fingers brushed against his, sending a small jolt through you. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest coming back as you focused on the task.

Hongjoong leaned in to guide you, his breath warm against your cheek. “Here, you need to pull the thread like this,” he instructed, his voice low and soft. His proximity made your heart race, and you could feel the heat of his body close to yours. The scent of his cologne, subtle and earthy, filled the air between you.

You nodded, trying to keep your focus. The embroidery required delicate handling, and the small, detailed work was challenging. As you worked, your hands occasionally brushed against his, sending small electric shocks through your skin. Hongjoong seemed oblivious to the effect his closeness was having on you, or perhaps he was just as affected but hid it well.

“Your studio’s so awfully quiet,” you murmured, breaking the silence. The quiet had become almost oppressive, making you hyper-aware of every small sound and movement.

Hongjoong chuckled softly. “I usually play music when I’m working,” he admitted. “I don’t like the silence. It can feel... lonely.”

“Then why haven’t you played any songs so far?” you asked, genuinely curious. The thought of him working alone in silence, surrounded by the tools of his craft, seemed sad.

He paused for a moment, considering his response. A small smile played on his lips as he looked at you. “Your presence alone is enough to drown it all out,” he said simply, his eyes meeting yours. There was a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

The room felt suddenly smaller, the air charged with something unspoken as you felt warmth spread through you. Hongjoong’s words were unexpected, and they left you feeling both flattered and slightly overwhelmed. You returned his smile, unable to think of a response that could adequately express what you were feeling. It’s mildly frustrating how you could never seem to be able to trust the words wanting to come out of your mouth whenever he was around.

Once you were finally done with the task Hongjoong assigned you, you leaned back, a satisfied smile spreading across your face. It was a small victory, perhaps, but it felt like a significant one. Hongjoong noticed your expression and tilted his head in curiosity. “What’s the matter?” he asked, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

You shrugged, still smiling. “Nothing, really. It’s just... you asked me for help. I mean, you don’t usually do that, so it’s kind of a surprise.”

He mirrored your smile, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I don’t usually ask for help. But... I don’t know. I felt comfortable enough to ask you.”

There was a brief silence as he contemplated his own words, realizing at that moment just how much he had let his guard down around you. It was a strange feeling, one that left him feeling both vulnerable and relieved. It was dangerous, he knew, to let someone in so easily, especially in a world where trust was a rare commodity. But somehow, despite the potential risks, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was something about you that made him feel at ease, something that made the usual walls he kept up around himself feel unnecessary.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his phone, which had been lying on the floor atop a piece of fabric, lit up with a notification. You glanced over and immediately recognized the wallpaper: a candid photo of Hongjoong with Pompidou, the one you had taken and sent him right before bed that night. You smiled, a soft, heartfelt expression. “You set that as your lockscreen?”

Hongjoong picked up the phone, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he looked at the image. “Yeah,” he admitted, glancing at you before reading the notification—a message from Wooyoung. It was one that demanded a response, but in that moment, he decided to just set his phone aside for now, his attention fully on you. “It’s only fair enough if I do the same thing you did, right?”

You chuckled, the sound light and airy. “I guess so,” you replied, the atmosphere between you warm and comfortable.

As the hours passed, you both became so engrossed in your work that time seemed to slip away unnoticed. It wasn’t until you both finally finished the design that you realized just how late—or rather, how early—it was. You stood up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a long night’s work. The outfit you had both labored over was stunning—a perfect blend of deep, earthy tones and detailed embroidery, capturing the essence of autumn with its rich textures and warm hues. The fabric was soft yet structured, the design elegant yet grounded, reflecting the beauty of the season in every stitch.

You turned to Hongjoong, a wide grin on your face, and held both your hands up. He looked at you, confused for a moment, before realizing what you wanted. With a laugh, he raised his hands and high-fived you, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“Great job,” you both said almost simultaneously, laughter bubbling up between you. You glanced around the studio, the mess of fabrics and tools evidence of the hard work you had put in.

As the adrenaline of the work began to fade, you pulled your phone from your pocket, intending to check the time. When you saw the display, your eyes widened in shock. “It’s 4 in the morning already?” you gasped, incredulous.

Hongjoong glanced at the clock, a look of surprise crossing his face. “Wow, I didn’t even notice,” he said, running a hand through his hair. The fatigue was beginning to set in, but there was also a contentness in the air, a satisfaction over a job well done.

As the realization of the late hour settled in, both you and Hongjoong decided it was time to clean up the studio before heading home. The room was a testament to your hard work: sketches strewn about, fabrics piled in corners, and various tools scattered across the desks. Hongjoong paused, glancing at you with a gentle smile. “I’m just going to use the restroom real quick,” he said, his voice soft yet a little slurred.

“Go ahead,” you replied, waving him off with a tired smile of your own. As he left, you turned your attention to one of the desks, starting to gather the scattered mess. Your movements were slow, each task requiring more effort as exhaustion began to weigh heavily on you. Feeling your body grow weary, you dragged a chair over to the desk and sat down, intending to sort through the papers and materials.

But as soon as you rested your head on your folded arms, the world around you started to blur. The soft hum of the city outside, the quiet ticking of a clock somewhere in the studio—all these sounds faded into the background as your eyes fluttered shut. You hadn’t intended to fall asleep, but the comfort of the moment and the sheer exhaustion from the long night overcame you.

Just as you drifted off, Hongjoong returned to the studio, ready to continue cleaning. “Let’s—” he began, only to stop mid-sentence as his gaze fell upon you. You were peacefully asleep, your head resting on the desk, breathing softly. A tender smile crept onto his lips as he observed you, taking in the serene expression on your face. An unexpected gentle warmth in his chest then came by, yet it felt so on-brand with his nature that he didn’t even notice it.

Without a second thought, Hongjoong quietly crossed the room and scooped you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style out of the studio. You were light and fragile in his embrace, and he was careful not to jostle you. The hallway was quiet, the early morning light just beginning to seep through the windows, casting a soft glow on the scene.

Hongjoong carried you into his office, where he gently laid you down on the couch. He adjusted a pillow beneath your head, ensuring you were comfortable. Glancing around, he looked for something to cover you with, wanting to keep you warm. When he couldn’t find any spare fabric or blanket, he hesitated for a moment before pulling off his sweater, revealing the plain black shirt he wore underneath. He draped the sweater over you, its warmth and the faint scent of his cologne enveloping you.

He took a step back, his eyes lingering on your peaceful form. There was something intimate about the scene, a quiet moment of care that felt oddly significant. Hongjoong shook his head with a soft chuckle, feeling a strange mix of affection and concern.

With a sigh, he walked over to his office chair and sat down, glancing at the stack of papers and sketches on his desk. If he was still awake at this hour, he might as well get some work done. But as he picked up a pencil and began to sketch, his thoughts kept drifting back to you, sleeping soundly on the couch. The room was quiet, the only sound being the faint scratch of pencil on paper and your steady breathing.

You seemed to have already weaved the threads of your veins in the fabric of his mind, and it was dangerous.

—

Your eyelids flutter open, the soft murmur of voices slowly pulling you from sleep. You blink against the light filtering through the room, momentarily disoriented by your unfamiliar surroundings. As your vision clears, you see two figures across the room, engaged in a hushed conversation.

“I know you can only be quiet once a year, so why not use that trial card now and keep your voice down?” Hongjoong’s voice, though hushed, came off irritated.

“I’m not being loud!” came Wooyoung’s indignant reply, his voice just a tad louder than a whisper.

Their exchange halted abruptly as you sat up on the couch, instinctively pulling the sweater around you closer. The room was spacious, filled with a blend of modern and personal touches, but what caught your eye was the two men now looking at you, their conversation forgotten.

Hongjoong was the first to speak, “See? I told you not to be so loud,” he chided Wooyoung, who threw his hands up in mock defeat.

“Hongjoong?” you murmured, still groggy and a bit confused. Hongjoong was quick to leave his chair, grabbing a cup of coffee as he approached you. The rich aroma of the brew filled your senses as he placed the cup gently on the glass table in front of you.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his voice soft and soothing. “You fell asleep earlier at dawn while we were cleaning up the studio. I didn’t want to wake you, so I brought you here to my office.”

You nodded slowly, the events of the night starting to come back to you. As your consciousness fully returned, you noticed Wooyoung sitting comfortably in a chair across from Hongjoong’s desk. He offered you a friendly smile, his dimples deepening. “Hey there—didn’t mean to wake you up, sorry about that.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assured him, smiling back before turning your attention to Hongjoong, who had now taken a seat across from you. The atmosphere felt unexpectedly cozy, almost domestic.

“Did you end up cleaning the whole studio by yourself?” you asked, a hint of guilt in your voice.

Hongjoong shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “No, I just left it as it was when I brought you here. I finished cleaning up an hour ago.”

Wooyoung, not being able to hold back his curiosity, leaned forward slightly, “So, why were you here all night?” He figured it should be in his best interest to always throw out inquiries about your relationship with Hongjoong here and there whenever you were around, because 1. He and Seonghwa genuinely believe the details are their necessities, and 2. He will never be able to gather any intel from Hongjoong.

You chuckled lightly, the memory of the previous night making you feel both amused and sheepish. “We got too caught up finishing one of Hongjoong’s designs. We didn’t even realize how late it was until we were done.”

Wooyoung made a mental note to share this little tidbit with Seonghwa later while he gave you a playful grin, as if to say he knew something was up, but he didn’t press further.

Hongjoong then turned his attention back to you, his expression sincere. “Do you want to go home now? I can drive you to your apartment.”

You shook your head, remembering the errand you needed to run. “No, I actually have something to do today. My landlord asked me to pick up some flowers from a shop for her. She wants to change the arrangements in her vases.”

Hongjoong looked intrigued. “Does she have a specific flower shop in mind?”

“Yeah, she does,” you replied, nodding. “I know the address, but I’m not exactly sure how to get there.”

Without missing a beat, Hongjoong offered, “I can drive you there.”

You glanced between him and Wooyoung, feeling a bit hesitant. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want to leave Wooyoung here…”

Little did you know, Wooyoung was already picturing you and Hongjoong at a wedding venue, the image making him inwardly chuckle. He waved a dismissive hand, grinning. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Hongjoong turned back to you, his eyes warm and reassuring. You sighed softly, finally giving in to his offer. He smiled, clearly pleased. As you stood up from the couch, you realized you were still clutching his sweater. You blushed, holding it out to him apologetically.

He shook his head, a gentle smile on his lips. “You should keep it and put it on. The weather forecast said it would be a bit windy today.”

You hesitated for a moment before slipping the sweater on, the fabric feeling warm and comforting against your skin. It hung loosely on you, a stark contrast to how it fit Hongjoong. The sight seemed to catch him off guard; his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, a look of something akin to awe crossing his features. Wooyoung cleared his throat, pretending to cough, snapping Hongjoong out of his thoughts. He sent Wooyoung an annoyed glare, which only made the younger man grin wider.

A few minutes later, you found yourself in Hongjoong’s car, the morning air crisp and slightly chilly. Despite the warmth of the sweater, you shivered a little, the coolness seeping in. Hongjoong noticed immediately, reaching over to turn off the air conditioner. You glanced at him, smiling gratefully. “Thank you,” you murmured, appreciating the small gesture.

As he drove, the city slowly waking up around you, the car ride was filled with a comfortable silence, broken occasionally by small talk. The earlier events played in your mind, the way Hongjoong had looked at you, the warmth in his voice, the care he showed. It was all so… unexpected, yet it felt oddly right. As the car moved smoothly through the streets, you felt a strange sense of contentment, a warmth that had nothing to do with the sweater or the car’s heater.

After a few more minutes of driving, the soft chime of bells greeted you as you and Hongjoong stepped into the quaint flower shop. The air was filled with the delicate fragrance of blooms, creating an atmosphere of calm and serenity. You couldn’t help but marvel at the array of flowers on display, each one vibrant and inviting in its own way.

“All the flowers look so beautiful,” you murmured, your eyes wandering over the petals and leaves.

Hongjoong glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips before he turned his attention back to the shop. “They sure do.”

A young woman behind the counter greeted you both with a warm smile, her voice cheerful. “Good morning! Please let me know if you need any assistance.”

You returned her smile, nodding politely. “Thank you, we will.”

As you and Hongjoong wandered through the aisles, the colors and scents enveloped you, making it feel like you were walking through a garden in full bloom. You turned to him, a playful glint in your eyes. “Hey, if you were a sweet old lady, what flowers would you like to put in your vases?”

He chuckled softly, considering the question with surprising seriousness. After a moment, he replied, “I think I’d choose peonies. They’re elegant, with layers of petals that unfold like a story. And they symbolize prosperity and good fortune—qualities any old lady would appreciate.”

You nodded thoughtfully, impressed by his choice and the sentiment behind it. As you pondered his suggestion, the soft melody of “La Vie en Rose” began to play through the shop’s speakers, filling the space with a romantic, timeless charm. You hummed along, the familiar tune bringing a smile to your face.

Suddenly, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you found Hongjoong holding out a single rose, his expression playful. “For you, my lady,” he said with a dramatic flair.

You laughed, delighted by his unexpected gesture. Placing a hand over your heart, you accepted the rose with a mock curtsy. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

The two of you shared a light-hearted laugh, the atmosphere between you warm and easy. The woman at the counter, watching your interaction with a knowing smile, subtly turned up the volume of the music, as if encouraging the moment. As the music swelled, Hongjoong offered his hand to you, a glint of amusement and sincerity in his eyes. “May I have this dance?” he asked, his voice low and inviting.

A smile spread across your face, the offer too delightful to refuse. Placing your hand in his, you allowed him to lead you into an impromptu dance. The two of you moved into the open space between the aisles, surrounded by the vibrant colors and fragrances of the flowers. Hongjoong began by twirling you gently, the world around you blurring as you spun, the music carrying you both into a rhythm that felt natural and unforced.

As he twirled you back toward him, you found yourself closer than before, your steps in sync as you followed his lead. Hongjoong’s movements were confident yet gentle, his hands guiding you with a surety that spoke of trust. He spun you out again, your skirts flaring slightly, and then pulled you back, his hand resting lightly on your waist as you moved together.

The dance took on a playful tone, with Hongjoong adding little flourishes—an extra twirl here, a playful dip there. You laughed, the joy of the moment bubbling up uncontrollably. Each movement felt like a conversation, unspoken yet understood, the two of you communicating through the language of dance. The flowers around you blurred into a vibrant backdrop, the soft hues of roses, daisies, and peonies blending together as you spun and swayed.

Hongjoong led you into a classic ballroom move, his hand firm on your back as he guided you into a dip. As you leaned back, your eyes locked onto his, the room seeming to narrow until it contained only the two of you. There was a shared breath, a moment suspended in time where the music, the shop, and the world outside ceased to exist. The dip was graceful, his hold secure, and for a brief moment, you felt as though you were floating, supported entirely by him.

As he pulled you back up, the song reached its crescendo, the final notes lingering in the air like a whispered secret. The two of you stood there, breathless and grinning, the joy of the dance and the unexpected intimacy of the moment lingering between you. The corners of your mouth lifted into a teasing smile as you remarked, “Didn’t know you had that whimsy in you.”

Hongjoong laughed in return, a sound that felt warm and familiar now, like a melody that lingered long after the music had ended. He shook his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “And here I thought I was full of surprises.” He then paused, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you with curiosity. “But, I have to ask—have you ever taken ballroom dance lessons? You moved like you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You found yourself laughing again, shaking your head at the suggestion. “Not at all,” you replied, your voice light and amused. Unconsciously, you twirled the single rose he had given you during your playful dance, its soft petals brushing against your fingers. You hadn’t even realized you were still holding it, the delicate flower becoming an extension of the moment you had just shared.

Hongjoong’s eyes followed the movement of the rose, his expression thoughtful as you continued. “Dancing was just something I did for fun,” you explained, your tone growing a bit more nostalgic. “Back when I worked at the diner in Arcadia Bay, I’d sometimes be left alone to close up after a long shift. If it got really late, and the place was empty, I’d turn up the speakers and play whatever music I could find. The freshly cleaned floors made it easy to glide around, so I’d dance while I cleaned. It was my way of winding down, I guess.”

He leaned against the wall beside him, his posture relaxed yet attentive. A fond smile played on his lips as he listened, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze softened. “I never would have guessed,” he said quietly, almost as if the thought was meant more for himself than for you.

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued by the tone of his voice. “Really?” you asked, your voice dropping slightly, matching the intimacy of the moment.

For a long, quiet moment, the two of you just looked at each other. It was one of those instances where words felt unnecessary, where the silence between you spoke volumes. The connection that had sparked during your dance now hung between you, a quiet understanding that neither of you was quite ready to acknowledge fully.

Hongjoong’s eyes held yours, the intensity of his gaze making the world around you blur into insignificance. The soft hum of the flower shop, the vibrant colors of the blooms, even the scent of fresh petals—all of it faded away until there was only him, standing just a few feet away, yet feeling impossibly close.

But then, the gentle chime of the shop’s doorbell rang out, breaking the spell. The sound was like a pin pricking the bubble that had formed around the two of you, pulling you both back to the reality of where you were. The moment shattered, and you blinked, the trance broken.

You cleared your throat, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring your cheeks as you tore your gaze away from Hongjoong’s. He straightened up, pushing himself off the wall, his own expression a mix of awkwardness and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

“We should probably keep looking around,” you said, your voice sounding a little more hurried than you intended. You needed to anchor yourself back into the present, to remember why you were here in the first place.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong agreed, his tone softer now, almost subdued. His eyes flickered briefly to the floor before he glanced back up at you. “We should.”

After what felt like a careful, almost meditative process of choosing the right flowers, you and Hongjoong finally settled on a selection that seemed to embody the essence of Madame Dupont’s home. The bouquet was a harmonious blend of soft, pale pink peonies that spoke of tenderness and nostalgia, interspersed with the rich, deep purples of lilacs that exuded a subtle yet undeniable elegance. You added delicate sprigs of baby’s breath to weave through the arrangement, creating an ethereal touch that seemed to float among the other flowers. Finally, a few stems of white freesia were tucked in, their graceful blooms adding a layer of purity and lightness to the ensemble. It was a bouquet that, even in its stillness, seemed to tell a story—one of warmth, beauty, and timeless grace.

Satisfied with your choices, you and Hongjoong made your way to the counter to finalize the purchase. The young woman behind the register rang up your selection, and as the transaction was completed, you stepped away from the counter, your mind suddenly jolted with the realization that you had left your phone somewhere in the aisles.

“Oh, I think I left my phone in one of the aisles,” you said, turning to Hongjoong with a small, sheepish smile. “You can go ahead; I’ll just grab it and meet you outside.”

He gave a nod, a relaxed smile on his lips. “Sure, I’ll wait by the car.”

With that, you watched as he made his way toward the exit, the sunlight catching in his hair as he pushed the door open and stepped outside. You quickly retraced your steps through the aisles, scanning the shelves until your eyes finally landed on the familiar shape of your phone, resting innocently among the vibrant blooms. You let out a soft sigh of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing as you picked it up.

Just as you were about to head out, the florist’s voice called out to you, halting your steps mere moments before you could reach the door. You turned to face her, curiosity piqued by the sudden interruption.

“Can I ask you something?” she began, a playful glint in her eyes as she nodded toward the window, where Hongjoong was now leaning casually against his car, his attention elsewhere as he waited for you. “Are you two dating?”

The question caught you off guard, and you instinctively waved your hand dismissively, shaking your head with a quick, almost flustered laugh. “Oh, no, we’re just good friends,” you explained, the words tumbling out in an attempt to clarify. “He’s just helping me out with buying flowers for my landlord today.”

The florist nodded in understanding, though a knowing smile played on her lips. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think you two would look cute together, though.”

You blinked in surprise, your eyes widening at her unexpected comment. Before you could form a response, she leaned in even closer, her tone even more hushed as she added, “The security cameras actually caught footage of your cute little dance together. Do you wanna see it, by any chance?”

Do you?

The question hung in the air, wrapping itself around your thoughts as you considered the offer. Why would you want to see it? You told yourself it was just a silly moment, a fleeting bit of fun that didn’t hold any deeper meaning. But the more you thought about it, the more a strange, inexplicable curiosity began to take hold. The idea of watching that moment from an outsider’s perspective, of seeing the way you and Hongjoong moved together, felt oddly compelling. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why it mattered—or why you were even hesitating—but the thought lingered, tugging at the edges of your mind.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of internal deliberation, you found yourself nodding. “Sure, I guess I’d like to see it.”

But then, a new thought occurred to you, and your gaze flickered to the door where Hongjoong was still waiting. “But he’s waiting outside,” you murmured, the conflict between curiosity and courtesy evident in your voice.

The florist seemed to catch on immediately, her expression softening with understanding. “No worries,” she said, her tone light and reassuring. “I can send it to you. Here,” she quickly jotted down her contact number and handed it to you with a smile. “Maybe you’ll change your mind later, but if you ever get curious, I’m just a message away.”

Her words were punctuated by a knowing smile, one that hinted at an understanding beyond the surface of your interaction. You returned her smile, feeling a mix of gratitude and a strange sense of anticipation as you tucked the number away.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice sincere as you bid her farewell.

As you stepped outside, the warmth of the setting greeting your skin, you saw Hongjoong look up from his spot by the car. The brief exchange with the florist still lingered in your mind, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the simple pleasure of being in his company.

“There you are.” The look in his eyes was fond as he pushed himself off from his car, rounding it to open the passenger seat’s door for you.

You muttered a silent comment of gratitude with a smile, ducking your head as you went inside and shuffled in your seat for about a couple times until you felt comfortable. As Hongjoong went inside the car seconds later, he turned towards you. “What were you two talking about?”

“Oh, the florist?” You tilted your head, and he nodded. It took you a short while to respond as you looked down on your lap. Eventually, you decided to finally meet his gaze. “She was just… asking me who we bought flowers for.”

The look on Hongjoong’s face seemed like an implication that he wasn’t satisfied with your answer, but he decided not to press further, settling with a small smile as he leaned back on his seat and began driving on the way to your apartment. As you and Hongjoong settled into the comforting ambience of his car while admiring the scenery of the warm sky outside, on the flip side, Seonghwa and Wooyoung, who were now snooping around Hongjoong’s studio, were having the time of their lives psychoanalyzing whatever’s going on between the two of you.

“Oh—speaking of, when I was on my way to my office, I crossed paths with one of your fellow photographers and they asked me about her relationship with Hongjoong. Asked him why they were suddenly curious about it and apparently they saw her wearing the sweater Hongjoong would usually wear to work on his lazier days…” Seonghwa trailed off, and Wooyoung’s eyes widened at his words.

Wooyoung snapped his fingers in the air, getting lost in the moment and slamming his hands on one of the tables in Hongjoong’s studio. “Right! I forgot to tell you, but, see, here’s the thing. So, you already know she stayed the night here with the willingness to help Hongjoong finish one of his designs, right?”

Wooyoung waited for a silent nod from Seonghwa, seeing it as a sign for him to continue. When he got what he wanted with the older man, he cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I can’t be too sure about this, but when I visited his office earlier in the morning, she was there, laying down on his couch with his sweater draped over her.”

“I think some sort of seismic activity from my jaw hitting the floor just occured,” Seonghwa whispered to himself. “So, what else is there for me to know about the sweater?”

Wooyoung clasped his hands together, leaning back on his seat slightly. “She told him her landlord asked her to buy some new flowers for her vases today, and he offered to drive her there. At that moment, she realized she was still holding onto his sweater and held it out to him. But, much to the surprise of all of us in the room except for Hongjoong, he told her to not only keep it, but he also told her to wear it because the weather’s cloudy outside! I’m telling you, there has to be something going on between them!”

“I wouldn’t say that…” Seonghwa muttered in a low tone while rubbing his chin. “They’re definitely not dating yet, that’s for sure, but somehow… I feel like Hongjoong’s got heart eyes for her yet is blissfully unaware of it. I mean, you know how he is.”

Just as Wooyoung was about to contribute his own theories to the gossip session, his phone rang in his pocket. Pulling it out, he was greeted by a message notification from Hongjoong flashed on his lockscreen.

It might take a while before I can get back there. The traffic on the way to her apartment is horrible right now.

“...”

“Yep, he’s definitely unaware of it.”

—

“Um…”

You didn’t exactly have the capability to own up to your words, were you to ever say that you’re used to having guests come over your house. The first and last person who’s ever done such a thing was Chloe, and most of the time, she’d only wish to bask in the silence of your house when she felt like hers was becoming too loud to bear.

Now, here you were, feet swaying slightly to the sides as you fiddled with the hem of Hongjoong’s sweater that you haven’t noticed you still haven’t taken off, while he was settled comfortably on the couch, looking at you with a soft gaze—as always…?

“Is everything alright? It’s alright if you’ve changed your mind about having me stay over for dinner, just say the word and I’ll—”

“No, no, that’s not, um…” You were quick to wave your hands off, shaking your head and instinctively moving one step forward, as if to stop him from leaving your abode. “I just… Would you like some water? Or coffee, perhaps? Wait, no, sorry, that sounded so stupid, there’s no way you would want coffee at 7PM in the evening—”

His gentle laugh stopped your mouth from running even faster, and you looked at him with a confused gaze. “Is that why you’ve been silently staring at me for the past few seconds?”

“Well,” you began as you looked around the room, pressing your lips together, making it form a thin line. “I mean, I’m not used to having guests come over, so I just didn’t know what the appropriate thing to say was…”

“A glass of water would be lovely.”

“Right. A glass of water. Gotcha.”

His gaze followed you as you rounded the couch and made your way to the kitchen by your fridge, yet he turned his eyes back to the television in front of him the moment your head subtly moved to the side. Having a nice conversation with the carpet on the floor as he patiently waited for you to come back, he finally turned his head back up with a look of gratitude as you placed a glass of water on the table in front of him. “Thank you,” he said before chugging it all down in one go.

You settled down on the empty spot beside him, making the cushion underneath you sink. You turned your body slightly towards him, the fabric of his loose denim pants rubbing against the skin of your thigh lightly. “Is there anything you’d like to have for dinner? Any favorite dishes, maybe?”

“Actually,” he began, settling his palms on his thighs. “I was thinking we could cook dinner together. It wouldn’t be fair for you to do all the work, especially after a long day.”

You were quick to shake your head in protest. “Hongjoong, I’m the one who invited you over for dinner. It’s my responsibility to make sure everything’s taken care of. You’ve had a long day yourself, and I wouldn’t want to—”

“Let me.”

“...Please?” he soon added, looking at you with a mildly pleading gaze. After a few seconds of contemplation, you finally gave in, responding to his offer with a nod of resignation, which made him smile. It’s endearing how you never have to do anything alone, as long as he’s around. Just how much longer would it take until the idea of doing things without his aid becomes unimaginable?

As you and Hongjoong stood up and made your way to the kitchen, you decided to keep the conversation light and breezy, your earlier question slipping out again as you searched for a starting point. “So… is there any favorite dish you’d like to eat tonight?” you asked out of curiosity.

Hongjoong hummed thoughtfully, leaning against the counter as he crossed his arms. He tilted his head slightly, as if searching through the vaults of his memory. “Hmm… there is one dish that comes to mind, actually. It’s something my mother used to make for me all the time when I was a kid. It’s kind of a comfort food for me, I guess.”

Your interest piqued as you looked at him with anticipation. “Oh? What dish is that?”

He smiled warmly, the light in his eyes softening with nostalgia. “It’s a type of kimchi jjigae, but not just any kind. My mom would make it with extra soft tofu, lots of garlic, and a touch of sweetness from a bit of sugar or honey. She’d add in some pork belly, but the real kicker was the homemade anchovy broth she’d use. It gave the stew this deep, rich flavor that I haven’t been able to replicate on my own. And she always served it with freshly steamed rice and a side of crunchy radish kimchi.”

You could almost taste the dish as he described it, and you nodded along. “That sounds amazing. I’d love to try making it together—if you’re up for it?”

Hongjoong’s face brightened, and he smiled in excitement. “I’d love that too. I’ll do my best to guide you through it, but fair warning, my cooking skills aren’t nearly as good as my mom’s,” he joked while raising his hands in mock surrender.

“I literally worked at a diner for a good long while before I got fired for the most ridiculous reason ever. I’ve got you,” you reassured him with a smile.

You both began the process, starting with reaching for the tofu from the fridge. As you turned back, you nearly collided with Hongjoong. His hand was just inches from yours, holding the green onions, and the proximity caught both of you off guard. For a moment, you were both still, the space between you charged with something electric. His eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of surprise there. Your breath hitched slightly, feeling your nerves go haywire until Hongjoong cleared his throat softly and took a step back.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured, his voice a little lower than before.

“No, it’s okay,” you replied quickly, your cheeks warming as you placed the tofu on the counter. The lingering closeness left your skin tingling, and you tried to focus on what you were supposed to do, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the way he had looked at you.

Hongjoong began instructing you on how to make the anchovy broth, and you both worked together, cleaning the dried anchovies and preparing the kelp, your hands occasionally reaching for the same ingredient at the same time. At one point, when you both reached for the soy sauce, his fingers wrapped around the bottle just as yours brushed against the cool glass. The brief contact made you both pause, and you glanced up to find him already looking at you, his expression annoyingly soft.

The moment stretched out, a silent exchange passing between you before he finally released the bottle, allowing you to take it. As you poured the soy sauce into the pot, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind—and if it mirrored the thoughts swirling in your own.

As you leaned over to check the pot on the stove, you felt Hongjoong’s presence close behind you. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the warmth of his body just inches away, and the awareness of how close he was made your pulse quicken. His breath fanned lightly against your neck as he leaned in to adjust the heat, and for a split second, you thought he might press closer, but he didn’t. Instead, he lingered there, close enough that you could feel the energy between you, almost tangible in the small space.

“You’re really good at this,” he commented, his voice close to your ear, making your heart skip a beat. The compliment was simple, but for some reason, you felt something different due to the way the words came out of his mouth.

“Thanks,” you replied, your voice nearly hushed as you turned slightly to meet his gaze. “I just hope it turns out the way you remember.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. “I’m sure it will.”

The moment lingered longer than it probably should have, and you found yourself staring at him, your thoughts racing. His eyes were warm and inviting, and for a second, you wondered if he might be thinking the same thing you were. But before you could dwell on it, he stepped back, giving you room to breathe.

As you continued cooking, the conversation shifted to lighter topics—his favorite childhood memories, your own cooking mishaps, and the occasional joke that had you both laughing. At one point, when the time to add the garlic and kimchi to the pot came, you reached for a knife just as he did, your fingers accidentally grazing the back of his hand. You both froze for a moment, and when you pulled your hand back, he did the same, a soft laugh escaping his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his gaze lingering on your hand for just a moment longer before he returned to his task.

“No problem,” you replied, feeling a bit flustered as you resumed chopping the garlic.

A little later, while you were stirring the pot, Hongjoong came up behind you, his hands gently guiding yours on the ladle. His touch was light, but the effect was immediate. Your heart skipped a beat as his fingers rested over yours, and you felt the warmth of his breath against your temple as he leaned in closer.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered gently.

As the stew continued to simmer, you found yourselves moving in closer proximity, your movements almost synchronized as you prepared the final touches. You were reaching for the lid of the pot, intending to cover it, when you suddenly felt Hongjoong’s hand on your lower back, a light touch that made you pause. He was standing behind you, his body just inches from yours, and you could feel the warmth of him seeping through your clothes.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, and the closeness of his face to yours caught you off guard. For a split second, you thought he might lean in and close the distance between you. The air was thick with anticipation, your breath caught in your throat as his gaze dropped to your lips.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He stepped back, his hand leaving your back as he cleared his throat. “Let’s not overcook it,” he said lightly, but there was some sort of hesitance in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

You nodded, feeling a mix of relief and somewhat disappointment as you placed the lid on the pot.

As the final moments of cooking approached, when you reached for the soup bowls at the same time, your fingers brushed against his once more, but this time, neither of you pulled away immediately. You both laughed softly, but the way his hand lingered over yours told you there was more to this moment than just a little joke.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your cheeks heating up as you finally withdrew your hand.

“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice soft, almost tender. “Really.”

When you both finally sat down to eat, the tension from earlier hung in the air like a weight you couldn’t quite shake. Hongjoong tried to focus on the meal, making small talk about the dish. “This really turned out well,” he said, breaking the silence with a warm smile. “You did a great job with the broth.”

You nodded, returning his smile, but you could feel your mind drifting back to those moments in the kitchen—the closeness, the way he felt so close, yet so far away. “Thanks,” you replied, trying to sound casual. “It’s all because you knew exactly what to do.”

Despite the light conversation, your thoughts kept slipping away from the food in front of you and back to the way his fingers had lingered on yours, how his breath had warmed your skin when he leaned in. You could hardly focus on anything else, and the awkwardness you felt only seemed to grow with each passing moment.

Hongjoong, on the other hand, seemed more composed, as if the closeness had been as natural to him as breathing. You could tell that the only unease he felt was a reflection of your own, a mirror to the nerves that were slowly tying you up in knots. But even so, there was something in his eyes—something just beneath the surface that told you he wasn’t completely unaffected either.

“This is really good,” you commented after a few bites, desperate to fill the silence with anything other than your racing thoughts. “I’d love to eat this more often.”

He looked up at you, a small, pleased smile forming on his lips. “I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favorites.”

You hesitated for a moment, your mind scrambling for something else to say, something to ease the tension, even if only slightly. “You’ll have to come over more from now on,” you joked. “So we can make it again.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you realized how they might have sounded, and your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t meant it to come out that way, but now it was too late to take it back.

Hongjoong paused, his fork hovering in midair as he glanced up at you. For a moment, he just stared, and you could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as his gaze lingered on your lips.

You tried to focus on your food, your grip on the utensils slowly loosening as you found yourself getting lost in his eyes. It was as if everything around you had faded away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, dimly lit room. Not even the warm lights scattered all over your living room were able to help. You glanced down at his lips, and for a second, you thought he might be leaning in closer, that maybe this time he wouldn’t hesitate.

But then you quickly tore your gaze away, trying to steady your breathing. “Your food’s getting cold,” you muttered, the words coming out softer than you intended.

Hongjoong blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Right, sorry,” he replied, a touch of embarrassment in his voice as he rubbed the back of his neck. You noticed his hand ghost over his face, as if trying to hide the rosy tint that had crept into his cheeks.

Fortunately, before you knew it, dinner was already over, and you found yourselves standing at your front door, the cool evening air slipping in from the hallway. Hongjoong shifted slightly, his hand lingering on the doorframe as he turned to face you.

“Thanks for inviting me over today,” he said with a gentle smile. “I had a really great time.”

You smiled back, though you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “No, thank you for coming with me to buy those flowers. I probably would’ve been lost without your help.” You let out a light laugh, hoping to ease the tension you both felt, but it only seemed to make it more palpable.

As the conversation lulled, you became acutely aware of just how close he was standing, the space between you shrinking as the seconds ticked by. You could feel your pulse quickening, a soft flutter in your chest that made it hard to breathe normally. There was a moment of silence, just the two of you standing there, lost in each other’s eyes.

You took a small step forward, and almost unconsciously, he did the same, the gap between you closing even further. His hand slowly began to rise, moving towards your neck but stopping just short of touching your face. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the way he hesitated as if unsure whether he should take that final step.

For a second, you convinced yourself that he wouldn’t actually do it, that he would pull back just like before. But then, to your surprise, his hand found its way to your face, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed against your cheek.

Almost without thinking, you nuzzled into his hand, welcoming the touch as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Your own hand came up to rest on top of his, your fingers curling around his as if to anchor yourself in the moment, to make sure it wasn’t just a dream.

But just as you were about to say something, to lean in just a bit closer, the shrill ring of his phone cut through the quiet, startling you both. You flinched slightly, pulling back as you glanced down at the screen, which displayed Wooyoung’s name.

The sudden interruption felt like a cold splash of reality, and you quickly stepped back, trying to regain your composure. “You might need to answer that,” you mumbled, turning your face to the side to hide the disappointment in your expression.

Hongjoong hesitated, clearly torn between ignoring the call and staying in the moment with you. But seeing how you had pulled away, he sighed softly and stepped back as well. “Yeah, I probably should,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “He’s been trying to reach me all day.”

You let out a small, forced laugh, finally looking back at him. “See you when I see you?”

He nodded, a reassuring smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, see you when I see you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the doorway, watching as he disappeared down the hall. The moment the door closed behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, leaning against the door as you slid down onto the floor.

Your heart was still racing, the memory of his touch still lit aflame, and you couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Wooyoung hadn’t called—if that tension would have finally broken, or if you both would have continued to dance around it, pretending it wasn’t there.

It was all confusing, truly. The way his gaze kept traveling back and forth between your lips and your eyes, the way he kept initiating small touches here and there that seemed to still have been lingering on your skin even up till now, the way it felt like you two were separate threads tangled up in each other attempting to break free from the knot. What was most confusing was how you didn’t even mind any of it. Maybe it was all bound to happen, maybe the circumstances required the proximity, maybe he just couldn’t move around that much.

But your kitchen wasn’t even that small.

🪞 — lividstar.

[callahanisms]

lovin' me

part 01

a continuation of my previous set of headcanons. i wanted to write something more romantic. less pining. maybe a bit more...steamy. i got inspired after showing my friend the movie.

yes i am continuing the fifty fifty vincent renzi interpretation. he's sooooo fifty fifty coded. he's just like me fr

character: vincent renzi

for vibes: "lovin' me" by fifty fifty

"you have not changed. not a bit."

"stop." you can't help but laugh. you know it's...predictable of you. to get the same order you got every time you guys came to this cafe. but familiarity called to you.

habits were hard to break.

vincent leans back, placing a cigarette between his lips. he pulls his lighter out and tries to light it. it fails after a minute of trying. he must be out of fuel.

"you got a lighter?"

"always." you pull it out and place it in his hand.

his hand is soft and slightly cool. your fingers linger, trying to warm his hand with your own. he pulls away too quickly. you wanted your fingers to linger against each other just a bit longer.

he looks at the lighter. it was decorated. he recognizes the little line of pearls, going up and down with roses at the points the arches meet. he did it himself. and then he had given you the lighter as a gift. you laughed, brushing off the blush dusting his cheeks. you thought it was the wine.

the lighter you decorated at the time was a little more crude. less pattern like. it was chaotic, with a variety of charms that you thought represented him. he remembers how you cursed when the cross charm moved. it was crooked and you were too frustrated to try to fix it.

all while your friends' laughter filled the room and more wine was being poured into your glasses.

"you still kept this?" vincent lights his cigarette with the lighter. he takes a drag and blows the smoke away from you. it comes out as a steady stream.

his jawline. the way his hair framed his face. his turtleneck. his laxed posture. he was charming, your vincent.

charming and attractive.

"why wouldn't i?" you take your lighter back to light your own cigarette.

"i just...i would have expected all the pearls and roses to have fallen off by now."

"you were...generous with the modge podge."

he laughs. "i was, yes."

"what about you? just decided to throw the one i made for you away or...?"

vincent shakes his head. "no. i've...in truth, i've never used it. it's locked up in my desk drawer."

part of you felt a little offended. you place a hand over your heart, feigning offense. "vincent! how could you!"

"it's not like that! i swear! you put so much stuff on it that it...is kind of unusable!"

"it is not!"

"well...it isn't. i've used it. once." he puts up his index finger. "one of the moon charms came off. and i didn't want to spoil the art piece you had made for me. so it sits in my drawer. because i don't want it to be destroyed."

you watch him take another drag and blow away from you. your heart beats faster and you feel your cheeks warm.

he was sure he had the right address.

was this too much?

bringing flowers to you? properly prepared, put in a vase already. a balance between the vibrant colors of the flowers and the greens.

you seem to sense that he's there, because he raises his hand to knock and the door opens.

you're holding a wine glass and dressed casually in some loungewear.

"you're early! and with flowers!"

he looks down at them. "think of them as...a homecoming gift?"

you smile widely. "just come in!"

you had made dinner. a simple steak and frites. nothing special. vincent reminisces about how often you made this for him while you guys were in university. while on a budget, of course.

the meal is delicious. and then you introduce the big thing you invited him over for: baking and cake decorating.

"we always joked that we could do better than the people on cooking shows."

"can we?" he rolls his sleeves up. "do we even know how to...start?" he had a vague idea. baking wasn't exactly his specialty. he preferred to cook.

the last time he baked was in university. and you were there to help him clean his oven, which took over three hours to do.

"if we follow a recipe, we should be fine."

except it wasn't that simple.

there was flour and cocoa powder everywhere. you were pretty sure you had gotten some in vincent's hair, making it look whiter than it was.

he looks so cute though with flour on his nose.

the wine kept coming as you guys pushed the cake pans into the oven. in your drunken stupor, you both forget a timer. he's paying more attention to you, following you into the living room. he sets his wine glass down, half full with red.

you pull a record out of its sleeve and set it down on the player. it rotates as you drop the needle and music begins to play.

he raises his eyebrows. "you still listen to this song?"

"hey. it's great. and totally american." you giggle, taking another sip of your red.

you move towards him. drunken but effortless. there was a purpose in your movements as you walk towards him. you put your hand out.

vincent smiles and takes your invitation. he puts his hand in yours, feeling its warmth. your warmth. you pull him over and dance.

i think we're alone now. there doesn't seem to be anyone around. i think we're alone now. the beating of our hearts is the only sound.

somehow, you don't spill your wine. you finish it and set the glass down. you spin in his arms. they wrap around you, like a warm blanket.

he smells good too. coffee, pear, and white florals.

his sweater is soft. his touch is gentle. he looks at you with those big, puppy dog eyes of his.

and then you fall.

you bring him down with you.

the plush carpet holds your head. you look up at him. he looks into your eyes and you see your face reflected in his pupils. your cheeks are flushed red.

there's something unspoken between you two and you pick your head up, trying to meet him.

vincent meets you halfway, his lips soft. he tastes sweet, like honey.

his hands cup your face as you move in sync. he's in tune with your rhythm, letting you take the lead and guide him on what to do.

your fingers play with the ends of his hair, wrapping it around one of them. you press your hand against the middle of his back, pulling his body closer.

a small moan escapes you when he moves his hips. he grinds softly, your crotches rubbing against each other through your clothes.

you kiss him harder, deeper, sliding your tongue past his lips to caress his own. vincent moans into your mouth, one of his hands resting on the carpet and digging his fingers into it. he could feel himself beginning to slip and lose control.

and then, the smell of something burning reaches your nose.

you pull away, face flushed. his face was completely red. and not from the wine either.

"fuck the cake!"

vincent's brief feeling of happiness dissipates as he smells the cake burning. his lips curl upwards into a smirk. "leave it." he goes back in, pressing a small kiss against your lips. "we'll try again."

you kiss him back, giving into the bliss. "i think we fucked up the measurements anyways."

he laughs.

it feels like home.

[flowerandblood]

Girl with a Pearl Earring

[modern! photographer • Aemond x female]

[warnings: dirty talk, domination, sexual tension, fluff]

[description: Aemond is a photographer dealing with works referring to the painting of the old masters. His sister poses in class for a girl who catches his attention. He decides that she would be a perfect model for one of his photos. Lots of sexual tension and slowly built fascination.]

Part 2 - Magdalene with the Smoking Flame

Part 3 - Ophelia

Part 4 - Lady with an Ermine

Part 5 - Rokeby Venus (End)

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

_____

It's been a long time since there was such a beautiful model in a painting class as Helaena Targaryen. With her fair, almost white hair, slender, fair face, snub nose, and blue eyes, she looked like an angel. She was able to create an amazing hairstyle with her combed braids.

The students and the professor decided to dress her in a blue gown, borrowed from costume designers from a nearby theater, in the style of seventeenth-century French fashion. Behind her was a large yellow background falling into the shade of warm gold. Even as herself, sitting half-profile towards them, she looked like a painting.

She had a great connection with her right away and they talked a lot. She knew that Helaena was the daughter of the dean of the university, a famous furniture maker and sculptor. Their entire family was famous for their strong commitment to the arts. She knew that Helaena's brother, Aemond, was in the fifth year of photography.

She was in her second year of painting and knew most of the people in his major - they often traded lecture halls - but he was always completely withdrawn. She had never seen him talk to anyone, he was always the first to leave the classroom.

Several girls from her year tried to flirt with him and get his attention, but their attempts ended in total failure. Still, she felt it wasn't fair that they were talking about him behind his back after being rejected. She tried not to express an opinion about him, because she didn't know him.

Even though it was known how Helaena got this temporary job, no one held any grudges about it because she bravely endured hours of posing without flinching. She decided to paint her portrait in the style of the Italian masters, starting with a monochromatic underpainting, applying the color with glazes in delicate layers. She was just starting to apply color to her face, making the character's face seem to emerge from the sketch around it.

The professor called a break and everyone got up to stretch a bit. Helaena stepped down from the platform and approached her, wanting to see how she was doing, as usual. She was delighted to see that the work was slowly moving to an advanced stage.

"What you do is amazing. You have real talent!” She said with her hand over her heart, playing with the chain. She smiled warmly at her.

They were talking for a while about ways of painting and different types of portraits when suddenly Aemond entered their room. He was looking for his sister with his eye, and when he saw her he walked towards her, greeting only the professor on the way.

"Ah, Aemond, thank you." Helaena said as he handed her apparently her own phone. "I had completely forgotten about him. Come closer, do you want to see how beautiful my new friend paints?” Helaena asked happily and she looked down in embarrassment. She guessed he didn't want to, but out of politeness he came over and stood behind them.

He literally said nothing. She glanced at him uncertainly over her shoulder and met his intense gaze which almost scared her. She blinked and opened her mouth slightly, then closed it, wondering if she should say something. She turned her head away, swallowing softly.

"Beautiful, isn't it? It makes me look like a baroque countess." Helaena said happily, looking at her brother.

Aemond only grunted, nodded, and stepped around her easel as he left the room. She looked at Helaena slightly shocked, but she seemed completely unfazed by his behavior.

"Is he always like this?" She asked quietly, wondering what had just happened. Helena laughed.

"Yes, he is very economical with words."

***

She entered the painting room first. She liked to look at her paintings from a distance before going back to work. When she looked at it with fresh eyes, she suddenly noticed all the mistakes she hadn't seen the day before.

It immediately caught her eye that she had painted one of the eyes a little too close to the nose. She immediately grabbed the brush, mixing the paints properly, wanting to fix it without even waiting for the model to show up.

She heard someone enter the room and, thinking it was Helaena, greeted loudly. Surprised after a while that no one answered her, she leaned over the easel and realized surprised, that her brother was standing in front of her.

Aemond, as usual, was dressed all in black. His black turtleneck emphasized his slender, long face and long, blond hair partly pulled back. He looked at her expectantly, as if he wanted to say something. She blinked, wondering what he might be looking for here, and suddenly it dawned on her.

“Helaena hasn't arrived yet, she'll probably be here in a few minutes. Should I tell her something?" She asked softly and smiled warmly at him. She decided that she would not be guided by the opinion of others and would form her own opinion about him.

Aemond turned his head, staring out the window, his mouth tight. He tapped his fingers on the sill as if thinking hard. After a moment he looked at her suddenly.

"Pose for me." He said indifferently, looking at her with a stony face. She sucked in a breath, completely taken aback by his proposal. She blinked, putting down her brush, looking at him curiously. She's never stood on the other side, modeling for someone.

“I take photos stylized as copies of paintings by old masters. I'd like you to pose for me as a Vermeer Girl with a Pearl Earring." He explained, apparently wanting to make it clear that he didn't mean the act or anything else that might seem inappropriate to her. She smiled widely.

"Very willingly! That sounds great. Will I also have to prepare the appropriate costume for this?" She asked, clearly excited, stepping closer to him. Aemond stared at her, surprised by her energy.

"No, that won't be necessary. I'll get you something." He said looking at her face thoughtfully. She blinked.

“I can sew well, and a lot of photography is about making the fabric look real. I can take care of it, I used to sew some historical costumes as a hobby.” She said lightly, looking at him expectantly. Aemond stared at her, clearly amazed at her commitment. He didn't seem to know what to say to her for a moment, because he hadn't expected such a pleased reaction.

“Well … if you want, of course, you can sew something. I'll bring something too. I will book a photo studio for next friday. Will you make it by then?" He asked softly, clearly appeased by the way she was acting.

"Yes, I will."

***

She was incredibly excited about his proposal. They exchanged phone numbers in case the studio was busy that day or needed to contact each other for other details about the shoot.

She had no idea why he chose her or what he saw in her, but she was very pleased that he wanted her to pose for him. She always dreamed of being someone's model, and she knew he was a talented photographer.

His pictures were really miniatures put in huge frames, almost like paintings. His photos, although colorful, had a kind of noise and blur that made the photo look old. He probably used special plates and exposure methods for this, but she wasn't very familiar with it. However, she knew that he was great at capturing the moment, chiaroscuro and color. There was something painterly about his photographs.

She spent one afternoon wandering around second-hand clothing stores where fabrics could be found cheaply. She was pleased that she had found everything she needed.

When she got home, she turned on her sewing machine, sewing a brown blouse for herself, and what she couldn't sew on the machine she sewed by hand.

She looked at herself in the mirror, looking at the effect of her work and decided that everything looked great. The fabrics she chose were soft and draped smoothly without looking artificial. She suddenly realized that she was missing the most important thing - a pearl earring. The pictures were to be taken the very next day, so she texted him quickly, scared.

[Y]: "I completely forgot that I need an earring, and I can't buy anything at this hour!"

After a few minutes, she saw that she had received a reply.

[Aemond]: "I was able to find a virtually identical pair of earrings at one of the pawnshops. I also have some fabrics if needed."

She took a quick portrait photo of her reflection and sent it to him along with the message.

[Y]: "I don't think any additional materials will be necessary."

He didn't write back to her for a long time. She got scared that he didn't like what she had created and started to worry. She jumped as her display lit up and she got a new message.

[Aemond]: "Well done."

***

She entered the studio at the time stated, looking around. Aemond was already inside, apparently adjusting the lighting. He just glanced at her and went back to working on setting the lamp.

"Close the door." He said coldly. She dutifully did as he asked and placed her backpack on one of the chairs against the wall. She took out all the materials she had prepared. She looked at him uncertainly.

"Can I change somewhere?" She asked quietly. Aemond looked at her in surprise and cleared his throat.

"Yes, you have a small storage room on the other side." He said, pointing to the opposite side of the room. "The door is open."

She nodded and quickly walked into the small room. With resignation she found that there was no mirror in it. There was no problem with putting on the shirts, but she had some issues with tying the bonnet and scarf.

Resigned, she poked her head out of the door, searching for him. He was looking through the camera at the place where she was supposed to be sitting.

"I need your help. I can't see if I tied it properly." She said pointing to the fabric on her head. Aemond motioned for her to come closer.

"Sit down. Here, like this.” He said, turning her with his hand, so that her body sat in profile to him. When he touched her with his large, cool hand, she shivered.

She watched him from below as he busied himself with tidying up her headgear. He glanced once in a while at the printed reproduction of the painting on the floor in front of him to get it right.

After a while he seemed pleased with the result. He handed her a pearl earring, and she put it on, empathizing with the person she was about to be. Aemond pulled away, took the camera in his hands and looked through the lens.

"Turn your head slightly towards me. No, not that much. Oh, that's right. Open your mouth slightly." He said matter-of-factly and suddenly she heard the sound of the camera shutter. Aemond pursed his lips.

"Don't look at me with such terrified eyes. Relax." He said and she swallowed softly, squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pull herself together.

This time she tried to keep her gaze soft. Aemond took the picture again. He pulled back and looked at her thoughtfully. His gaze was intense and he seemed to be thinking about something.

"Lick your lips." He said suddenly. She shivered at his words and looked at him in surprise, thinking she had misheard.

"What?" She asked quietly. Aemond looked at her expectantly.

"Rub your lips with your tongue. So that they shine." He recommended.

She felt her heart pounding. She blushed, ashamed and pursed her mouth, not looking at him, her tongue running slowly over her lips. She looked at him and saw that he swallowed softly.

He walked over to her and lowered the material of her shirt so that it showed more of her neck. She felt his fingers brush over her bare skin and gasped, wondering if he had done it on purpose. She looked at him and saw a shadow pass over his face.

"Yes. Look at me like that." He said, looking quickly through the lens. She lowered her eyes, embarrassed, feeling the tension in her whole body.

"Don't look away. Look at me. That's how you're supposed to look at me." He said in a tone that conveyed some kind of arousal and desire that made her shiver. She looked at him, her eyes hazy and slightly dreamy.

"Open your mouth." He ordered in a low voice, and when she did, he immediately took a series of photos of her.

"God, yes. Just like that." He said with a delight that made her even more embarrassed.

She lowered her eyelids, feeling her cheeks burn, pressing her lips together. Aemond looked at her with a mixture of admiration and something she couldn't name.

"Pose for me more often. I will pay you." He said suddenly and she looked at him surprised. She swallowed loudly.

"I… you don't have to pay me." She spluttered, looking away from him, looking down at her hands. She didn't know what was happening to her. She could feel his intense gaze on her, her heart pounding like crazy.

"Is that all?" She asked suddenly without looking at him.

Silence answered her. She heard him swallow hard.

"…yes, that's all." He spoke low, with a note of unreasonable uncertainty in his voice. She nodded and got up without looking at him, heading to the room where her things were.

She took off her costume and only now felt her hands tremble. She wondered what had just happened between them. She felt as if something inexplicable, artistic, intense and sensual had developed between them.

She left the room as soon as she was done. Aemond looked at her, obviously tense, looking at her expectantly. They looked at each other in silence.

"When can I see the result of your work?" She asked softly and saw him flinch as if he was thinking of something completely different, and her question brought him back to earth.

"On exhibition in two weeks." He said calmly, looking away. There was silence between them for a moment.

"Shall I go now?" She asked quietly, not knowing if he needed her for anything else. He looked at her in surprise and hesitated for a moment.

"Yes…yes, thank you, you can go." He said low. She nodded, said goodbye and left, closing the door behind her.

***

Aemond and she hadn't spoken to each other since the photos were taken. She saw him stare at her as they passed, but neither of them dared to speak. She wondered if he felt what she felt then too. She thought resignedly that his proposal was probably already out of date, but she had no intention of pestering him.

Helaena encouraged her to go with her to the exhibition. She had lost her will, but what Helaena said shocked her.

"Are you kidding? Your photo is at the center of his part of this exhibition. In the middle of the wall, in a beautiful frame, spotlit, the rest of his works are on the walls on the sides. This is probably his most beautiful picture!”

She blushed at her words and bowed her head. Her words made her feel that despite her fears she had to see it live.

What he saw on the other side of the lens.

That evening, she and Helaena arranged to meet outside the hall. She didn't want to go there alone, knowing that few people she knew would be there. She was grateful that she wanted to keep her company.

They went inside together, there were a lot of guests inside, talking intensely about something. The exhibition consisted of a series of works by several artist photographers, including Aemond. She noted with interest that her painting professor was also among the crowd.

At the very beginning there was a speech by the patron who funded the exhibition. He talked a bit about the assumptions of the exhibition, their artists and the works themselves. After it was over, as people rushed to fetch glasses of wine dispersing to explore, she saw with a lump in her throat what Helaena was talking about.

On the other side of the room hung her portrait. She had to get very close to it becasue photography was small in size, about the size of a notebook page.

The photo was slightly hazy, but sharp at the same time as if you could feel the air that was filling the studio at the time. She was delighted to see that indeed, the colors of her outfit perfectly reflected the saturation of those in the original painting.

She felt both awe and shame as she looked at her face. Her glossy lips were gently parted as if she was exhaling softly. Her gaze was warm, hazy, full of some unspoken, intense feeling.

She gave the impression that she wanted to say something to the viewer, as if she was already opening her mouth to say the words. She thought it was indeed a great photo and barely recognized herself in it.

She swallowed hard as she saw that indeed, her gold-framed picture was the only one on the main wall, the rest of his work was more closely spaced on the side walls. He clearly made this work the focus of his exhibition.

She looked curiously at his other works, and saw that they too alluded to the works of the old masters. She flinched as she heard a low voice behind her.

"What do you think?" Aemond asked, standing literally inches from her. He was so close she could feel his hot breath. She looked at him over her shoulder, confused.

"It's beautiful." She said softly. Aemond looked down at her, his gaze dark. He took a sip of wine from his glass, looking at her searchingly.

“I agreed with my professor on the subject of my diploma thesis. I want you to pose for me for female portraits like this one." He spoke calmly and matter-of-factly. She opened her mouth in surprise and blinked rapidly.

"I… I'd be very happy if I could help you." She said softly and smiled warmly, trying to control her facial expressions and her trembling heart.

Aemond looked at her intently. He pursed his lips, apparently debating whether or not to say what he was thinking.

"Be my muse."

_____

I decided that I wanted to write something that would be a one-shot and I came up with this idea. I really like what came out of it and I'm curious about your opinion. Let me know if you'd like it to be a mini series with other paintings in the background. If you want to be tagged, leave a comment below. ♥

@zenka69 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff

[autistichalsin]

My case for Halsin x Art Cullagh as a ship

First of all, these are two characters with a LOT in common. Both are intimately tied to the Shadow Curse. Both lost everything because of it: Halsin lost his homeland and Thaniel, while Art lost (temporarily) his sanity and would eventually lose his life to it.

Both care very deeply for Thaniel (and, later, Oliver). Thaniel was Halsin's first friend, who "made (Halsin) who (he) is today", while Thaniel helped Art in the Shadowfell. Thaniel played with both of them. Both of them felt protective- one might say paternal- towards Thaniel. Art tells the player that Thaniel is a sweet soul- too sweet for the Shadowfell- and he can't wait for the player to meet him.

Both are kind, gentle souls with a strong sense of justice and a call to do right in the world- Halsin by fighting against threats like the Shadow Curse and the Absolute, Art by being a Flaming Fist.

The link through Thaniel is strong (and not just in the "Thaniel has two daddies" sense). Thaniel tells Art about Halsin; Art repeatedly says that Thaniel told him that only Halsin can save him, that Thaniel "spoke of little else".

After being comatose for who knows how long, when Art startles awake and calls out for Thaniel, the first person he sees- and the first person to speak to him- is Halsin. Halsin, who instantly kneels to softly, kindly tell him to relax and breathe- a heartwarming way to be introduced to someone (and indeed, the devnotes say, "warm. Good bedside manner.") As soon as Halsin mentions that he too wants to help Thaniel, Art recognizes him, saying in shock (perhaps amazement?) "You're... you're Halsin," before repeating his request that Halsin find Thaniel. Which Halsin instantly agrees to, but repeats that he needs Art's help, and Art gives it.

When the curse is lifted, Halsin tells the player how sad he is to be leaving Thaniel's realm, how he hopes Thaniel and Oliver will stay as a pair because then they can have a friend after he's gone... clearly missing them, but knowing he has a greater mission in stopping the Absolute. What does Art say if you talk to him in the act 2 epilogue? That he feels Thaniel should have someone with him when he wakes, so he's staying. One might even argue that Art staying is the reason Halsin felt so comfortable leaving- sad, yes, but not worried. He knew Thaniel and Oliver were in good hands with Art. He trusted the two halves of his best friend to Art.

Art knows, tragically, that he's going to die soon after. He mentions it to the player, and in the epilouge, he sends this note to the player:

To an old acquaintance, I write to you from the sunny porch of the Last Light Inn. A light breeze blows now and then. People are milling in and out - builders, visitors, the children of all ages in Halsin's care. I can no longer hold a quill, or eat without assistance - a kind friend is transcribing this for me. Thaniel, re-joined with Oliver, has promised to be with me when the end comes, and as our old songs drift on the wind, ever louder, I know I have mere days left. But I do not fear it. If not for your help, this land would still be shrouded in darkness, and I'd still be lost within it. Know that my heart is full and happy, and I am grateful for my last moments. Do visit some day. And if you have time to stop by an old Flaming Fist's grave, I know I'd love to see you. Art Cullagh

Halsin and Art are still in contact. Art lived long enough to get to see Reithwin being reconstructed- by Halsin. Halsin lifted his shadow, Thaniel and Oliver's shadow, and brought Art peace during his last days- including the peace of having his close friends with him as the end comes. And presumably, Halsin himself stays- it's hard to imagine that Halsin, of all people, wouldn't.

They just work really well as a tragic ship, brought together by loss and heartbreak.

Fittingly, that extends into scenarios when one of them dies. If Halsin dies before act 2, or dies when the portal collapses, and the player tells Art this, he is heartbroken- while he frames it primarily in terms of being sad the curse can never be broken now, he must also be sad that Thaniel's friend has been lost, too.

And if Art dies (either because Last Light fell or for some other reason) and the player learns what they need from Art's corpse? Well.... let's just say that Halsin has some VERY strong things to say for someone he barely knows.

Halsin: That is what I needed to know. It should be cause for joy, but... that poor man didn't have to die.

Player: His existence was worse than death. Now he's at peace, and we have what we need.

Halsin: True. But are we still deserving? Only time and nature can tell.

To think that he might not be worthy any longer of breaking the Shadow Curse because a man he barely knows died is.... quite an intense emotion. Almost illogical, and Halsin is an extremely reasonable person. Make of that what you will.

Alternatively:

Player: There was no other way.

Halsin: You can claim it so... but I don't think it will ever be true. Oak Father willing, we will soon lift the curse from this place. But I suspect a shadow will linger here, because of what was done to that man.

Again... these are VERY intense emotions. Understandably so, of course- Art was clearly Thaniel's friend, and he suffered so much only to die. But if Last Light falls, MANY people die besides Art, yet Halsin is focused on him- the only other person he mentions with quite this much grief is Isobel, and even she doesn't get a mention from him here. "A shadow will linger here, because of what was done to that man"? Not "what was done to those people" or even "what was done to Art and the others"? It is.... a very interesting way of phrasing it.

In conclusion: Halsin cares Art A LOT, Art deserves peace and happiness, and Thaniel and Oliver deserve two daddies. Flaming Bear is the ultimate tragic doomed ship and we are sleeping on this ship

[gffa]

Hello! I love your posts about the Jedi, and I was wondering if I could ask you a question: What's something you would love to see explored with the Jedi?

Hi! I'm glad you're enjoying them, I love the Jedi and I hope I can help make being in the fandom around them a little more fun for people. <3 For me, my #1 wish for things I'd love to see explored with the Jedi: TELL ME ABOUT OUR FAVE JEDI'S APPRENTICESHIPS. I want to know so much more about Mace's apprenticeship, I want to know who was Shaak's Master, I want to know if Shaak and Plo were Padawans at the same time together, I want to know just exactly how Depa was a chaos gremlin for Mace, I want to know how much trouble Kit Fisto got into, I want more stories of Obi-Wan & Siri & Bolla & Pre being "a merry band of brats" as Yaddle called them, I want more stories of Yoda training Dooku and probably forcing Dooku to let Yoda ride on his shoulders! I want more stories of Luminara's time as a Padawan, I want more stories of Adi as a Padawan and what made her take the career paths she did, I want to know if Saesee was as much of a hellion as a Padawan as I suspect he was. I want to know more about various Jedi and their time as apprentices, rather than just more about Obi-Wan or Anakin's time as Padawans. I also want more worldbuilding on everything about the Jedi, I want to know what their schooling scheduling looks like, given how well-educated every Jedi we meet is, I'd love to know just how their classes are arranged, I want to know exactly what the layout of the Jedi Temple is, I want to know what special holidays the Jedi have that are unique to them, I want to know what special rites they have around their kyber crystals, given that they become extensions of the Jedi's soul. I want to know how the Force influences their art--there's statues and Force-sculpting and murals all over the place in the Jedi Temple, but the Force is more than just lifting clay or paint, at its heart is that it's your emotions that are your connection to the Force. Mace was a theatre nerd, how did the Jedi's psychic abilities work with that, did the actors project the emotions of the characters out into their Jedi audience? I want to know how emotions soaking into the walls affects the Jedi's way of doing things--when Anakin and Ahsoka get back to the Temple and can still hear the screams of the bomb that went off days ago, because it's echoing all around the space for them, how do the Jedi approach that? How do they try to mitigate leaving behind sorrow and pain and horror, especially in a hospital area where people are often sick and wounded? I want to know exactly what kind of games the Jedi babies play in the creche, especially since they would be teaching games, as the Jedi are a teaching-centric culture. I think one of the games mentioned in a book somewhere was a Jedi version of hide-and-seek, but what about cute little treasure hunt puzzles for developing psychometric skills? They have to pick up clues from the stuffed bantha toy to tell them where to find the next stuffed nexu toy, etc. each of the toys soaked through with warm, soft, comforting feelings by the creche masters to make it fun for the babies. There's so much that's under-explored (for my tastes, I've certainly cobbled a lot together to get a general idea of some things!) specifically through how the Jedi interact with the Force and to expand outside of just Obi-Wan or Anakin's time as an apprentice that I go a little gremlin-like just thinking about all I want to see explored!

[leejenowrld]

hey saw you’re doing an “ask the characters” for the new jeno fic so i thought i’d ask jeno and yn some questions.

to jeno, what’s your favourite thing about y/n? do you still feel sorry about ghosting her during your exams? what’s your favourite thing to do with her when having sex? has yn met your parents? what did they think of her?

yes! i am, i know a lot of people loved it for mfal so i thought i’d open it up for this :)

jeno — how confident and self assured she is but how her kindness and open mindedness doesn’t come in expense of that. i also adore how talented and committed she is to the things and people she loves, she cares a lot, she’s taught me a lot about what true love should look like and the art of dedication

jeno — of course i do, at the time i didn’t realise how upset it truly made her and i’m annoyed at myself for being so careless with her emotions. so from now on when i’m busy i always try to make time for her and prioritise her, it’s what she deserves, and she does the same for me. i don’t ever want her to feel forgotten again.

jeno — mmmh i love everything about sex with her but i just love when she’s under my complete control, when i’ve got her hands tied or i just tell her not to move her hands or arms and she listens to me because she’s my good girl, when her body is spread out and open just for me, when she squirms beneath me and shouts ‘daddy’ and fuck, the way she looks at me, her eyes wide, her chest heaving, especially right before I tighten my grip around her throat. when i pull her close, spit into her mouth, watch her swallow it down and beg for more. just when she lets me do anything i want to her

jeno — she has! i arranged a dinner pretty early on in mine and yn’s relationship because i was serious about her and wanted to show her that. she was incredibly nervous and shy, it was so cute, she got them the nicest gifts ever and really stressed about what to wear/say/do and how to act but i just reassured her that they’d love her. y/n was super shy at first, just like she always is when meeting new people and in environments where she’s not used to, she’ll always cling to me and it’s cute, she’s cute but seeing her get comfortable after time? breaking out of her shell, becoming more at ease… god, it reminds me of why i fell in love with her. my parents love her, they see how happy she makes me and how blessed i am to have her love and it’s so heart warming to see her get along with my parents. i’m surprised because there’s times y/n will send me a photo and she’s with my mum and my older sister and they’re just doing girl stuff and it’s ??? wow. she is fr the love of my life. the first night i introduced y/n to my family, my mum and dad pulled me aside and told me “you have to marry her.”

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Memento Mori - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: Do not forget that you will surely die someday, and as such, that is the more reason to live now. Fyodor returns to St. Petersburg, where a compassionate ballet teacher’s acceptance of life and mortality quietly transforms his jaded soul.

Warnings: heavy themes of existential dread, mortality and religion, some russian words used, spoiler to Fyodor's ability (even though everyone and their mom is probably up to date with the manga)

A/N: I always found it weird for an immortal being to be religious, so I wanted to imagine a reason for Fyodor's faith. Anyway, this was a good outlet for all my existential thoughts, and I hope I did the character justice

Words: 3,900

Our existence is quite fascinating: we are born from death and return to death once we are finished stealing breaths from the world. Our existence has two parts—the physical and the bodiless. The first represents your autonomy, your biology, while the latter represents the mind, the consciousness. 

19th century, Russian Empire

It was not uncommon for Fyodor to return home every five to ten years. Not out of homesickness, but there was something about the cold climate that always brought him back to St. Petersburg. He often found himself revisiting the same cathedrals and dark alleyways.  

Over the decades, places had changed, yet he remained the same. And circling around him were the same filthy, grotesque people—sinners with empty human souls, their hearts filled with religion and vodka. Religion to keep them fearful, and vodka to keep them compliant.  

Religion, in his mind, was a coping mechanism to manage the fear of death. And it was necessary because it thrived on fear. And what, he would ask, is the most primitive emotion in our brain? Fear. Fear is indeed primordial, clinging to us since the moment we are born.  

As humans, when we take our first breath, our first instinct is to cry and cling to our birth-giver. Why? Because we feel fear.  

The pavement was wet with snow that had fallen a few days prior and still plagued the stones. The sound of distant bells tolled in the background, marking the passage of time, but to Fyodor, time seemed irrelevant, like a vague murmur beneath the weight of his thoughts. The cold seeped into his bones, but it barely registered—his ushanka perched comfortably on his head, his coat keeping him mostly warm. Besides, he had a specific place he wanted to visit this time around. He had always enjoyed the fine arts, and ballet was no different. 

So there he stood, in front of the Mariinsky Theatre—a grand green-washed building. The architecture, coupled with the color of the opera house, reminded Fyodor of mildew. He entered and had someone take his dark coat, doffing his beloved hat politely before walking to his seat in the mezzanine. The seat loomed over the ground floor, giving him a perfect view of the performance as well as the people attending. 

He took a moment to observe and take in everything. The paintings on the ceiling were slightly more discolored than the last time he’d visited, and the people were the same cookie-cutter elites he saw every time. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they, too, didn’t age and that the same people came to the opera house each time. Everything was quite boring and dull, and he was tired of it all, but he still wanted to see the show. Giselle was one piece he had seen before but kept returning to. Why? 

It was probably the tragic story that began with Giselle’s all-consuming love that lead her to madness and death. Her transformation—from grief and heartbreak to forgiveness and redemption as she forgives Albrecht—it all leads Giselle to spiritual liberation, demonstrating the healing power of selfless love and the importance of moving beyond bitterness. 

He didn’t understand that. 

Giselle, in his eyes, was a naïve fool. The man didn’t deserve her forgiveness or pity. If a woman’s heart is moved to pity, it becomes more dangerous than anything. She is bound to want to save him, to bring him to his senses, to lift him up and draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and usefulness. And yet, such dreams were futile. Fyodor knew all too well how far that kind of idealism could lead.  

As the orchestra swelled, the soft, lively melody of the second act began, pulling him from his thoughts. The dancers took their positions, and he settled back into his seat, his gaze fixed on the stage. The performance resumed, the air thick with the delicate balance of art and emotion.  

He remembered everything that was supposed to happen, from the slight movements of each ballerina to the clicking of the wooden pointe shoes on stage. So it struck him when the lead—a fairly average-looking woman—came out in the second act with a violin. His usual disinterested gaze followed the ballerina. 

There was nothing particularly remarkable about her; she moved with the same elegance as any other ballerina, wore the same costume he’d memorized. But the fact that she decided to depart from tradition and bring an instrument on stage while also dancing made him almost reevaluate his opinion of her. On one hand, it was a pleasant surprise to see something different, opposed to the harsh rules of Russian ballet; on the other, why would she feel the need to defy tradition? 

With a few simple inquiries, he soon found out that the woman was a teacher at the Vaganova Academy of Russian Ballet. It was expected—being the only relevant ballet school in St. Petersburg, many ballerinas who graduated from this academy went on to perform at the opera house. 

The academy had the same sickly yellow walls he had grown accustomed to; almost everything in this city was like this. From the faces of the people walking the streets to the wood holding up and supporting the buildings, the color of decay that seemed to seep into every corner of St. Petersburg. 

The woman’s name was (Y/N) Agafonov. As stated, she was a teacher at this academy. 

The porter let him in without fuss, seeing the polite, respectable man as someone who belonged there, and he oh-so-politely nudged him toward the room where you held your dance lessons. The door was open, almost inviting him to glance inside. 

You stood in the middle of the grand dance room, your eyes soft yet stern, needing to focus on the girls before you to help and correct them. Yet you didn’t notice the eyes that were on you the whole time. He quietly observed everything, from the way you stood and walked to the way you spoke to the young women. So gently, as if afraid to break their hearts and confidence. 

As Fyodor observed the class, a peculiar thought flitted through his mind. How can such a gentle creature, such as herself, be stuck in such an unclean, unrighteous world? His gaze lingered on her soft yet commanding presence as she spoke to the young dancers. There was a part of him that expected her to break—to succumb to the world’s nature or fall in line like everyone else. But there was something in the way she held herself, something almost fragile but resolute. He couldn’t look away. And so he stayed—silent, watching, unable to understand why someone like her seemed immune to the harshness of her surroundings. 

Not long after, the class ended, and you let the girls stretch and leave. What caught your eye was the stranger standing outside the doorway. He could have been mistaken for a statue, as he presented so still and stoic. You took a step forward and gestured for him to come in. Without hesitation, he approached, his steps quiet, like a cat’s. When he stood at arm’s length, you offered him your hand. He stared at it for a few moments, contemplating before slowly, and surprisingly gently, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a kiss on your knuckles before releasing it. 

What he saw surprised him further—the subtle or not-so-subtle marks around your nail beds. Probably signs of stress and overthinking. He pondered the question: How can I relate to this woman? He believed he was nothing like you; you held a strange humanity about you, while he hadn’t felt human in a long time. He couldn’t relate to your gentle nature or soft gaze. Of course, he wouldn’t voice any of this. 

“Privyetstvuyu, miss Agafonov, my name is Fyodor Dostoevsky, apologies for intruding during your lesson,” he spoke, his voice low and almost quiet, as if sharing a secret. 

“Dobroye den, Mister Dostoevsky. It is quite all right; my lesson wasn’t disturbed, so there’s no need to worry. May I ask what business you have?” you said, your voice quiet and warm, as if still speaking to the girls. It filled the room in a soft echo. A quiet part of Fyodor admired your bluntness and need to get to the point, but this forwardness clashed with your way of speech. Your honeyed voice was calming, while your words were stern. It was obvious that you had a sharp mind, but your quiet, almost lamb-like demeanor contrasted with it. 

Fyodor cleared his throat softly before speaking again. “I had the pleasure of being at your last performance, so if you have time, I’d appreciate it if you would answer some questions about it.” 

You observed him for a moment, unsure of his intentions. Checking the ticking clock on the wall, you saw that it was late—past noon, with no more classes to teach. Perhaps you would indulge his curiosity. 

“I happen to have the time. Yes, we may speak in my office.” 

Fyodor hummed in acknowledgment before quietly following you. You entered the room and gestured for him to sit. After he took a seat, you soon followed, facing him. “May I offer you some tea?” 

“No, thank you,” he replied, his tone polite but detached. 

There was a moment of pause between you two. The man you came to know as Fyodor struck you as rather odd. His thin frame made him look as if he were swimming in his long black coat. His eyes, often described as windows to the soul, betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling at that moment. He looked pale and almost sick, faint bruises under his eyes likely from lack of sleep. He had an overwhelming air of fatigue, and yet he still looked elegant and put together. 

“You came to speak to me about my last performance, da?” you asked. 

“Da,” he replied slowly, his voice calm and measured, taking one more moment to choose his words carefully. His dark eyes held an intensity that could make any stone wall crumble. “I haven’t seen anyone perform Giselle’s part in the second act as you did.” 

For a moment, the thought flashed through your mind: Was he a critic here to berate me for choosing to go against the traditional interpretation? No—perhaps you were jumping to conclusions. He would speak, and you would discover his intentions. “Ah, you mean where Giselle enters the world of Wilis, where I played the violin?” 

“Da.” That was all he said, though something about his tone invited you to continue. 

“I took some creative liberty with that part, as it was my last performance,” you explained, pausing to consider whether you should delve deeper. “It may sound silly, but I often think about death—not because I wish to die, but because I know we are temporary. My small act of rebellion was a way for me to exercise the free will given to me by our Lord.” 

She remembered the first time she had stepped into ballet shoes. Twenty years have passed, she mused, in the way twenty years do—imperceptibly, until they are gone. We are often so focused on the cell that is our immediate future that we forget our fragility. Her body was now giving out on her; she felt herself slipping from the person she once was, her physical form no longer sustaining the life of a ballerina. Broken by the industry as she grew, her body had been molded like gum, her mind torn to shreds, yet she found strength in the weakness she had felt. The anxious little girl she once was had faded, replaced by a kind-hearted woman who saw that same frightened child in others and wanted to help them. 

This intrigued Fyodor. The woman before him hadn’t made her choice for attention or acclaim. It was more humble and personal, a way to come to terms with her mortality. This was a new perspective to him. As a man who had lived many lifetimes, he had grown desensitized to death and the fleeting nature of those around him. 

“That is an interesting perspective,” he finally said, though his tone didn’t convey approval. “You think about your own fragility and thus want to escape it by exercising your free will?” 

“You are partially correct, sir. I don’t wish to escape it; I want to come to terms with it. I know my death will come at one point, and I am not afraid of it. But perhaps…" there was a short pause, eyebrows furrowing, trying to find the right words "...perhaps, I don’t wish for my consciousness to be erased, to lose who I once was.” 

Sometimes, Fyodor wished his consciousness could be erased. The weight of his own memories—the unrelenting flood of time—pressed down on him, crushing his bones. He envied those who lived in blissful ignorance, their minds free of the burden of awareness. But perhaps that was the nature of existence, he mused. We all find our peace with it in different ways.  

Quiet eyes flickered as she watched him, her gaze momentarily distant. She, too, had once wished for a simpler life, one where she could close her eyes and not feel the weight of the years pressing in on her. Her body had once moved with the grace of a child, unburdened. But now, as time wore on, she saw her own fragility—her inevitable decline. 

He offered a small, contemplative nod. It was not in his nature to find kinship with another person, yet this woman stirred a faint echo of familiarity—a kindred desire for understanding amidst the ephemerality of existence. 

"So, you wish to accept death, but not to be forgotten?” Fyodor asked, his voice carrying a tone both curious and heavy—perhaps judgment, perhaps something else, something deeper, impossible to name. “You believe we can make peace with it, despite knowing it will come?”  

The woman paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered his question. A quiet hum of approval escaped her lips before she replied, her tone calm yet resolute. "Da, death is something unchanging, constant. Something that will come either way. And a part of me finds comfort in the fact that something is predestined to happen in this chaotic world.”  

As they spoke, there was a moment when their eyes met, and in that fleeting instant, neither spoke, yet something passed between them, an unspoken recognition—neither pity nor empathy, but an understanding that was both intimate and alien. Two souls, caught in the same current, yet separated by different shores. Before either could name it, the moment was gone, leaving only the quiet air between them.  

After a few more quiet inquiries about religion and philosophy, they parted ways—but not for long. Fyodor was left perplexed, he sensed that this woman was something rare, something he hadn’t encountered before.  

--- 

“You cannot age,” she murmured quietly, breaking the peaceful silence that had settled between them. 

Fyodor had anticipated this moment. He’d chosen to stay by her side through the years, knowing that eventually, she would notice—the ageless stranger who never changed while she did. He placed his teacup gently on the table, meeting her gaze as he prepared to respond. 

“That is correct. I wondered when you would bring it up.” 

The silence returned, heavier now, pressing down on them. She stared down, her hands fidgeting under the table, unconsciously picking at the skin around her nails, almost trembling. Her mind seemed to whirl with questions—how many years, how many lifetimes had he endured? Decades, centuries, millennia? She could only imagine the pain he must have felt, watching the world around him age and fade while he remained unchanged. After a moment, she looked up, her gaze softer, almost pained. 

“Fyodor,” she whispered, “aren’t you tired?” 

Another pause, this one stretching unbearably. Fyodor could feel her empathy radiating across the table—a kindness he had never allowed himself to indulge. He’d always regarded empathy as a weakness, an opening that could be easily exploited. And yet, something about her simple, compassionate question stirred something long-buried within him, something vulnerable he instinctively wanted to bury again.  

“Da, ya ustal,” he admitted softly, letting the words slip out like an exhale, as though he were surrendering a truth to the night. 

At this, a single tear slipped down her cheek, glistening in the low light. Her sorrow made him shift uncomfortably; he’d always hated tears, a visible testament to human frailty. But this time, he hated it for a different reason. This tear was for him. It unsettled him because she was weeping for him. It made him feel bare, more vulnerable. He almost wanted to pull away, to get up and leave, and never speak another word to her again, but he didn’t. 

“Please,” he murmured, his voice suddenly low and tense, “there’s no need for that.” His hand almost rose, hovering just above the small round table, as if he might wipe the tear away. But he stopped, uncertain. She raised her head, meeting his gaze again, her kind eyes searching his. 

“Pozhaluysta,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “I want to know. I need to understand.” 

And that he did. He spoke more words about himself at that table than he had in all his years of living. His silver tongue felt rusted, each word pulled up with effort, forcing him to pause often as he searched for the right ones. It was uncharacteristic of him, and yet it made the woman somehow happy that he was willing to share the burden. 

Speaking of burdens: his gift, he explained, had been a cruel joke. He remembered the first time he’d been killed—how young he was, how his lips coughed out their last breath, how cold his body felt when his soul was leaving. And yet, moments later, he was drawn back again, but into a different form, his chest still throbbing from the wound that should have ended him. He had gasped for air like a newborn, his body wracked with pain and confusion, holding his own lifeless body in his hands as he shivered and wept. He’d only been a child. 

Her face remained soft, solemn, though quiet tears slipped down her cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. Her cold tea sat forgotten on the table as she listened, her heart aching. Only a child, she thought. He was only a child. Children, the purest part of humanity—the ones who needed to be protected and cherished. How could anyone harm a child? 

When he finished, another silence fell over them, but this one felt different—lighter, calmer, as if a weight had lifted from his heart. She felt an urge to comfort him but knew he wouldn’t accept words or gestures. Instead, she rose quietly from the table and crossed to a narrow yellow wood cabinet. She opened it and drew out a silver cross necklace, holding it close to her heart before she returned to sit across from him, holding it out for him to take. 

“I know you don’t accept faith, but perhaps... wear this as a reminder. If you can, bring fortune to the world Fyodor, maybe even a blessing for the children who will follow.” 

But he did not accept, he politely declined the cross from her. “Perhaps there is a Devine being out there, something out of this world that we cannot see. But faith left me long ago, so I cannot accept this” he had said, what soon followed was a quiet apology for his heresy, a glance away as he spoke. She did not blame him and hadn’t pressed him further, only nodded as though she’d expected it, though a glimmer of sadness flickered in her eyes.  

--- 

What he thought would be a short visit to his homeland stretched from a few days to a few weeks, then to a few months, until it bloomed into decades. At first, he assumed this was a fleeting curiosity, one that would fade in a matter of days. But as years passed and he still couldn’t get his fill of her company, he began to wonder: Perhaps I misjudged the situation. Perhaps I was crass and too quick to dismiss her.  

He had found someone who brought him a rare peace and understanding, despite their clashing mentalities—a connection he never grew tired of. Every time they met, they found some new topic to discuss, and each time he left feeling more alive.  

As we have come to realize, life is fleeting, and time is a cruel mistress who waits for no one. Each second slips away, unnoticed and irretrievable, like sand through open fingers. We may comfort ourselves with the thought that existence after death is peaceful—just as existence before life was peaceful—as though one could simply slip away into sleep. And as all things, good and beautiful, must come to an end, so too did your life. 

--- 

She had held the cross out to him once before, fingers delicate, her gaze full of quiet insistence. Now, in the emptiness she had left behind, he found himself holding the small cross in his palm, its edges warm from her touch alone. He slipped the chain over his head, feeling its slight weight rest against his chest. He didn’t know if he could fully embrace her faith, but he wanted to feel a part of her presence linger. And maybe, in this quiet act, he was allowing her wish to come true, as her memory lived on in him.  

Fyodor stood in the dimly lit church, his eyes resting on the flickering candles. He had never understood this before—the way the simple act of remembering someone could tether them to the world long after they were gone. But now, as his thoughts drifted to her, he realized that this woman—her soft gaze, her gentle words—had become the anchor to his humanity. The strange pull he had felt toward religion, the gradual acceptance of mortality, it was all for her. Her belief, her grace in the face of death, had become his guide. He wasn’t just remembering her now; she had become a part of him. And in some way, by carrying her memory, he was keeping her alive.   

Rising slowly from his seat, Fyodor moved toward the coffin, his steps heavy. His cold, detached gaze softened at the sight of her, lying there in stillness, her expression almost peaceful. Was that the shadow of a smile on her lips? Reaching out, he clasped her hand—soft, motionless, yet warmer, somehow, than his own.  

He lingered in silence, his breath catching. How strange, he thought, that even here, in death, she still has the power to warm me. A sharp ache bloomed in his chest. For years he had watched her, a steady presence that grew unexpectedly precious, but had he ever told her? Had she known? The question hung there, unanswered, filling the quiet with the weight of all he’d never said.  

The cold silver lay heavy on his heart, like a whisper. ‘Remember me,’ it seemed to say, and in his silent acceptance, in the quiet solitude he vowed that he would. Fyodor closed his eyes.  

You wanted to be remembered, he thought. 

And I will remember you, dearest. But more than that, I will live by the lessons you taught me.