#stretched watercolor canvas

[thewynnershop]

Gouache painting, I'm gonna make it into a print soon! 😃 as a challenge, I only used the brush pictured (1/2 bester wash creative mark).

I really like it! 👍

[buddyfunnyspendtime]

is there any like break up songs in enstars Like ones with lyrics of a heartbroken break up I think that should be a theme for a shuffle unit it would genuinely be so interesting

I think something with the sound of if you do by got7 would be fascinating tbh because enstars doesn't really do love songs that are romantic that often so i'd like to see how they'd dig at the more depressing cruel unhealthy (possibly toxic) side of love

I don't think enstars would ever go down a route of having a song that's about a manipulative toxic relationship like whatevers going on in if you do But. enstars music has a lot of potential for whatever and anything I want to hear enstars' sound and it's limits

[thewickedjazzy]

“Stay with me, milaya”

➵Pairing: fyodor x afab! reader

➵Summary: fyodor searches for you across countless lifetimes, witnessing you die in his arms again and again. Yet, fate continuously brings you both back together with each of your rebirths.

➵Tags and word count: 5.3k words. sfw, angst to comfort, slight fluff, hallucinations, vivid memories, delusions, shifting scenes, mental health struggles, dissociation.

➵want to read more of fyodor ?

"There is a cruel irony in the fact that you are bound to return to this world, only to be torn away from it time and again. Seven lifetimes, each one a fleeting moment in the endless passage of time. But even as you are reborn, your fate is always the same—a life cut short, a soul never allowed to rest."

The sky is a deep, unforgiving gray, the snow falling gently around him. He stands alone in the desolate landscape, a faint figure against the blanket of white. His breath is visible in the frigid air as he stares down at the burnt-out edges of an old photograph clutched between his slender fingers. The image, though charred, still reveals traces of a face—your face, the one he’s sought in every life.

"Milaya... even now, your features begin to fade from memory, like everything else in this world. But I will not allow time to erase you completely—not when I am so close to finding you again."

His whispers drift on the wind, barely audible but there is an unwavering resolve in his eyes. He carefully traces the faint outlines of your face with his thumb, trying to capture every detail, every curve, every hint of the life that once was. Yet, he knows the futility of it—each reincarnation is a shift in memory, altering your essence just enough to make you a stranger once more.

"This time, my dear," he murmurs to himself, "I will not let you slip through my fingers. I have searched for you across centuries, manipulated the lives of others, all to find you. I will not be denied, not by destiny, not by anything."

Fyodor tucks the burnt photograph back into his coat, his expression stoic as he surveys the snow-covered ground. He is nonchalant, almost detached, but beneath the surface lies a storm—a desperation that he cannot fully suppress.

He begins to walk, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he heads toward the place where he knows you must be. His heart, though often cold, beats a little faster at the thought of seeing you again, of hearing your voice, even if you do not remember him. But he is nothing if not persistent. He will make you remember, one way or another.

Yet there you are, gazing at the sky above you as it transforms into a canvas of burnt orange and fading blue, cinnabar streaks bleeding through the clouds like a watercolor painting. Your thoughts drifted back to a time you thought you'd forgotten—a memory of the day you first met him. It felt distant now, yet the details were so vivid.

He had been unlike anyone you'd ever known. some how he stood out in ways most people didn’t. His features were strikingly beautiful, but it wasn’t just his looks that caught your attention—it was the quiet mystery that followed him wherever he went. His pale skin, almost alabaster, contrasted sharply with his dark clothing, and his eyes—those glowing, enigmatic violet eyes—held depths you couldn’t quite reach. There was often a flicker of pain in them, so subtle it disappeared as soon as it surfaced, leaving you to wonder if you had imagined it.

Which makes total sense. His father 'Mikhail Dostoevsky' was well-known for his austere and viciousness—well after he was granted a nobleman's rank of course— contrariwise, Fyodor was something of a benevolent despot.

The gardens of the palace stretched out before you, a haven full of flowering fragrances, nooks, and crannies of sheer delight.

You caught sight of him standing beneath the glow of the moon, his posture composed as he conversed with his elder sibling. The moonlight cast a soft halo around his figure, making him appear almost ethereal. He seemed unbothered by the festivities around him, his attention focused solely on the conversation. Even in this elegant setting, he exuded a calm detachment, as though the world itself was just an intricate game he was patiently observing.

The path before you was lined with gravel, your footsteps muted by the soft crunch beneath your heels as you made your way through the evening’s parade of guests.

Delicate fairy lights hung in the trees, casting vibrant hues that danced across the faces of those gathered. There was laughter, the clink of glasses, and the hum of casual conversation, but your attention never wavered from him.

As if sensing your gaze, Fyodor glanced your way. His eyes met yours across the distance, and for a moment, everything else fell away—the lights, the music, the crowd. There was something paranormal in the way he looked at you. His lips curved ever so slightly into a familiar smile, one that seemed to say he had already anticipated your approach long before you had made up your mind.

Without thinking, you moved toward him. The space between you disappeared as you stepped into his world, where time seemed to slow. He turned to face you fully, his elder sibling excusing themselves from the conversation as you approached.

“Good evening,” his voice was smooth, a touch of amusement hidden in the depths. “I was wondering when you’d come.”

You hesitated, momentarily taken aback. “You knew?”

“Of course,” he replied, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’ve been watching me for some time now.”

His words made your heart skip, but you steadied yourself. There was always something about him that made you feel as though you were always a step behind, as though he had already calculated every move before you even realized it.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” you said, finding your voice again. “You stand out, even in a crowd like this.”

His smile widened, but it never quite reached his eyes. “Perhaps, but it’s not the crowd I’m interested in.”

There it was again—that flicker of something deeper, something unreadable. You could sense the burden he carried, a burden of his past, his family’s legacy, and the expectations placed upon him. But beneath all of that, there was something else, something that drew you in even as it warned you to stay away.

“Shall we walk?” he offered, extending his arm toward the gardens.

You nodded, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm as you both began to stroll along the moonlit path. The evening air was cool, and the soft glow of the fairy lights seemed to follow your every step.

“What do you think of all this?” you asked, gesturing to the grand event taking place around you, the celebration, the laughter, the excess.

He looked thoughtful for a moment before answering. “It’s fleeting. Moments like these… they’re beautiful, yes. But they fade, just like everything else.”

“But not everything fades,” you ventured softly.

He stopped, turning to face you fully once more. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, reading your thoughts before you could speak them. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but the way he just stood there gazing at you said everything.

“Perhaps,” he finally murmurs, his voice low, “but that’s what makes it dangerous, am I right?”

You weren’t sure if he was talking about the night, about the fleeting beauty of the moment, or about something else entirely. But in that instant, you realized that with Fyodor, nothing was ever simple. He was a puzzle, a mystery, one that you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to solve, but one that you found yourself wanting to.

As you walked beside him, the moonlit scenery unfolding before you, his appreciation for beauty became evident. He had always been drawn to those who possessed a rare allure, and tonight, it was clear that you were his focal point. You were a vision of rare beauty, a one-of-a-kind presence in a world of fleeting appearances.

The scene before you blurs, in an instant, it felt as though time had slowed, and a piercing ringing filled your ears, making you gasp, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of memories.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” he murmured as he tilted your chin to meet his gaze.

Wait.. when did you get here? Where do these memories come from, and why do they haunt you so persistently?

“I’m just following orders,” you replied slowly, bringing your eyebrows together in a slight frown.

“Stay away from this,” he imploded, sighing. “Please, lyubov.” He places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But fedya...why now? We’re on the brink of ending your father’s relentless corruption,” you argued. “Why give up now?”

But you knew... you know he wants to protect you from the malignant influences of his father’s world. Yet, the very opportunity to dismantle the chains binding him to this sinister system was slipping away. His father’s grip was a malignancy that threatened to stifle all hope.

“Close but no cigar,” he murmured, his chin resting on your head as he inhales your fresh scent.

But he was right. You should've stayed away from those morons ages ago. You made a mistake and paid dearly for it.

In that moment, the same familiar searing ringing in your ears swept across you, pulling you from the depths of your reverie.. it's happening again.

"Fuck, I am such an imbecile." blood spilled from your abdomen, splattering across your trembling hands as you pulled the dagger free. Your back pressed against the cold, damp wall, every inch of movement sending sharp, jagged pain rippling through your body. And slowly but surely, all you can see is the orange sky getting fuzzier and fuzzier as the pain intensifies.

You reached out with a shaking hand, desperately trying to anchor yourself to something, anything, but your limbs refused to obey. Instead of crying out for help, all that escaped your lips is the metallic taste of blood.

“Ah...fuck, not now…” you gasped, the light behind the man standing in the distance, widened with each passing moment. Is this it? Is this how it all ends for you?

You blink, once, twice, trying to focus as everything around you darkens, and just as quickly as you are pulled into this chain of nightmares, you find yourself back in the present as the persistent ringing stops.

Gasping, you sit at your desk, drenched in cold sweat. Your fingers instinctively press against your abdomen, but there’s no blood. No wound. The dagger, the pain, it’s all gone, as if it never existed.

You press harder against your stomach, feeling for any injury, but your skin remains unscathed.

"I need a mirror," you mutter, voice trembling as you push away from the desk and hurry toward the mirror in the entrance. Your reflection stares back at you, eyes wide with panic, face pale, but undeniably yours.

“It’s me,” you whisper in relief, leaning closer, bracing yourself against the cool surface. You reach for the pill bottle on the nearby shelf, your fingers fumbling with the cap as you swallow a dose, desperate to calm the storm inside your mind.

You sit back at your desk again, hands still shaking as you breathe deeply. "It’s fine. I'm okay. It’s all delusions," you whisper, trying to convince yourself.

But you somehow memorise all of these memories like the back of my hand. You call them memories, despite knowing you never actually lived through them, yet they always feel so incredibly real.

They never really leave, do they?

Even now, the phantom ache in your abdomen remains, a cruel reminder of something you’ve never lived through but can feel so vividly. The sky outside your window returns to its soft twilight hues, but you can’t shake the feeling that reality itself unravels around you. Each time you are pulled into those visions, it becomes harder to tell what is real and what is imagined.

While you're sitting there, managing to steady your breath, you wonder—how much longer can you hold on to what’s real when your mind keeps dragging you into a world that feels just as tangible?

You exhale a long, relieved sigh finally calming down as you try to regain your focus. What were you doing again? Ah, yes... finishing your new book.

You type the final words of the epilogue, fingers hovering above the keyboard for just a second longer. The ending comes together, but still, something doesn’t sit right with you... the title. The book is finished, but how can it be complete without the right name? You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head, eyes scanning the screen with tired satisfaction.

You aren’t just any writer, though. Hidden behind your pen name, you’ve become a literary sensation, with fans desperate for even a glimpse of who you really are. But anonymity suits you; fame has never been the goal. The words are the only thing that matter, and the world you’ve built between the pages feels more real than anything else—maybe too real?

Despite finishing the epilogue, something feels unresolved. Titles usually come easily to you, but this one, this book demands something special. Inspiration eludes you. You need a change of scenery... somewhere that can kickstart the creative process again.

With a resigned sigh, you dress quickly, grab your notebook, and head to one of the few places that has become your sanctuary when ideas won’t come: your favourite café.

The café sits nestled on a quiet street, its warm glow inviting you in like your old home. There’s something about the atmosphere, the soft hum of conversation usuallybetween elder people, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, the soft clink of cups against saucers—that always seems to loosen the knots in your mind. You order your usual, find a quiet table in the corner, and set your notebook down, flipping it open to a fresh page.

"The War of Sakura," you scribble, only to strike it out immediately. "No, no, that’s terrible!! Ugh," you mutter to yourself, tapping the pen against your lips in frustration.

You take a sip of your coffee, leaning back in your seat as you stare out the window, hoping for some stroke of genius. Come on, Kurasu Café, work your magic. But the more you stare at the page, the more the words seem to evade you.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t notice someone sitting down across from you until you catch movement in your peripheral vision. Startled, you blink and look up, eyes widening as they land on the man before you.

It’s him.

For a moment, you’re convinced your mind is playing tricks on you again. The man in front of you has the same striking features, the same quiet mystery, the same piercing gaze that seems to see right through you.

The same man from your memories—the one you’re certain is nothing more than a figment of your imagination, or perhaps a character you’ve written into being.

But no. He’s here, in the flesh, sitting across from you in Kurasu Café.

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly blink, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes, as though he can read every thought running through your mind.

“Excuse me…?”

He tilts his head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You looked like you could use some company,” he says with the same silky smooth voice."You seemed… preoccupied."

You stare at him, dumbfounded, still trying to reconcile the fact that he’s real. The man in front of you is every bit as captivating as the one from your memories, as though he’s stepped right out of the story you’ve been crafting in your mind.

“I—uh,” you stammer, your fingers tightening around your pen as though it can somehow anchor you to reality. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

His smile deepens the same one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he says simply,“but I know you.”

Your heart stops beating for a second. You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. How can he know you? And why does it feel like he’s not just referring to surface-level details of your life, but something deeper, something far more intimate?

You glance at your notebook, half-expecting to see the story you’ve just finished reflected back at you, as though it’s somehow come to life.

He leans forward slightly, folding his hands on the table between you. “You’re searching for something, right?”

You narrow your eyes, “And what makes you think that?”

He shrugs, a graceful gesture that seems too perfect, too practiced. “I can always read your eyes, my dear” he replies. “You’re chasing after a truth that eludes you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. There’s something about the way he speaks, the way he seems to know things about you that you haven’t even told yourself. You should feel unnerved, but instead, you feel drawn to him—just like in those memories, you can’t escape.

“Who are you?” you finally ask, hoping it's not one of your delusions playing tricks on you.

His smile softens, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze, it's the same flicker of pain that's so fleeting you almost miss it. He stands smoothly as he places a card on the table.

“Call me when you’re ready to stop running from your life,” he says, turning to leave.

You watch him go, your mind racing as you stare at the card he’s left behind. No name. No details. Just a single word, embossed in gold.

"Remember."

The café around you blurs, the noise fading into the background as you stare at the word on the card, your mind spinning with questions you can’t answer.

And in that moment, you know—this isn’t over. The story isn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

It's now 1:25 am as you sit at your desk, the dim light of the lamp doing little to coax you into sleep. Your eyes fixate on the card that lies on the desk, the single word "Remember" still taunting you. It feels surreal, like the whole encounter earlier today had slipped from reality into something else entirely. Your fingers brush over the card, tracing the embossed letters, as your mind races to make sense of what happened.

Should you call him?

You hesitate, holding the card between your fingers. Who was he? Could he really know you, or was he just one of your creepy fans, trying to unnerve you by dressing up like the protagonist of your story? You’ve heard of fanatics going to great lengths to mimic characters, but this felt different. Something about the encounter stayed with you, gnawing at the back of your mind.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss it. Maybe it was just an elaborate prank, you think. Maybe he was just trying to scare you. Or worse, trying to manipulate you into thinking your own creations are coming to life.

But even as you try to convince yourself, it doesn’t sit right. No fan, no matter how obsessed, could have pulled off what you experienced earlier. The way he looked at you, as if he had known you forever, made your skin prickle. His words had hit too close to home, and the feeling that he understood something about you—something you barely understood yourself—makes it impossible to shake off the encounter.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart as you finally make up your mind. Your fingers hover over your phone, the screen glowing faintly in the dark room. You type in the number from the card, each digit sending a shiver of doubt through your body.

Placing the phone to your ear, you close your eyes as the ringing begins. Once. Twice. Your heart pounds in your chest, every nerve alive with anticipation. What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

What if he answers? What if he doesn’t?

Just as the ringing starts to stretch into a third tone, there’s a faint click. You hold your breath.

“Hello?”

His voice is calm, like the same smooth, familiar tone from the café.

You pause, unsure of what to say, gripping the phone tighter. “It’s me,” you finally manage to say.

He chuckles softly, as though he expected your call all along. “Ahh my dear...I was wondering when you’d call,” he says, his voice oh god his voice is so soft. “Did you figure it out yet?”

Your heart races. “Figure what out? What’s going on?” you ask confused. “Who are you?”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice low and steady. “You already know who I am,” he says. “You’ve always known, milaya.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The room seems to close in around you, the silence pressing down as you try to piece together the meaning behind his words. You want to argue, to demand answers, but something stops you. It’s as though the truth is right there, just beyond your reach, but you’re too afraid to grasp it.

He continues, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “There are no coincidences. I didn’t come to you by chance. I came to you because we both have known each other for way too long.”

Your head spins. What does that even mean? You glance at your manuscript, the story that had felt so real, so vivid—too vivid. The lines between fiction and reality begin to blur, and the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to separate the two.

“What do you mean we know each other?” You whisper, voice trembling.

On the other end, he chuckles softly, a sound that’s too familiar, as if you've heard it a thousand times before in some forgotten dream. The sound pulls you out of your racing thoughts and back into the moment, grounding you in an unsettling way.

"You’ll understand soon," his voice is calm, though it does nothing to ease the knot forming in your chest.

Before you can protest or demand more answers, he continues, "I’ll come to your place, darling. We can talk then."

Panic flares inside you. Your eyes widen as you shoot up from your chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “What? How do you—” you begin to ask, but before you can finish, his voice cuts through.

“I know where you live,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “What… are you a stalker or something?” The question tumbles out, half-accusation, half-fear.

But his response is immediate, eerily calm, “No,” he says. “I’m no stalker. I know because no matter how many things change, no matter how the world twists and turns… the place you live, it always remains the same.”

Your heart races, your mind scrambling to process his words. The place you live… always the same? How could he know that? Why does it feel like he’s speaking of something far deeper than just the physical space around you?

“Please, my dear don’t worry about the details right now,” he interrupts your thoughts. “Just know that I’ll be there soon. And when I arrive, we can talk more about what’s really going on.”

The line goes dead before you can respond. You stare at the phone in disbelief the world around you seems to tilt on its axis, and the comforting normalcy of your room suddenly feels alien. You sit in silence, the unanswered questions swirling in your mind as you hear a soft knock on your door.

You rise from your chair with trembling hands, each step towards the door feeling heavier than the last. When you open it, he stands there—just as enigmatic as before, with that same stoic, detached expression.

He smiles when he sees you, and the smile feels almost out of place with his otherwise stoic demeanor. In his hand, he holds a bouquet of red roses. “Good evening, Malyshka,” he says smoothly. “I thought these might brighten your night.”

Confusion knots in your stomach, but you take the bouquet from him, stepping aside to let him in. The roses are fresh, their scent a heady mix of sweetness and subtle spice. “Thank you,” you manage to say, “Please, come in.”

He moves past you slowly, navigating the living room with the familiarity of someone who’s been there more than a few times.

“I didn’t expect you to show up so soon,” you say, trying to steady your voice. “How did you find my place so quickly?”

He turns to face you, his eyes meeting yours with that familiar look. “As I mentioned earlier, some things remain constant, no matter how much else changes. I’ve always known where to find you.”

“And what exactly do you want from me?” you ask, struggling to keep your voice steady.

He sits on your couch, smiling softly “I want to help you understand the connection we've always shared,” he says. “There’s much to discuss, and I believe it’s time we begin.”

You nod, slightly anxious of what he's about to reveal, “Alright. I’m listening.”

He relaxes his posture, his eyes never leaving yours. “Let’s start with the basics,” he begins. “You’ve been searching for answers, and I’m here to provide them. But first, you need to accept that the boundaries between a life and another are not as rigid as they seem.”

With a deep breath, you take a seat across from him silently waiting for him to continue.

“This is probably the sixth time I’ve been through this,” he continues. “my dear...you have an ability—one that makes you reincarnate. It happens every seven lifetimes, and this one is the seventh and final life.”

You stare at him, your mind struggling to grasp the enormity of his words. “Reincarnation?” you echo, incredulous.

He nods, “Yes. I’ve witnessed you die in my arms time and again. Each time, you lose your memories, and I find you again. No matter how many lifetimes pass, I have always been there. In every life, I have been your one and only—your husband.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he speaks. “But… but how? I’ve been experiencing delusions lately, slowly disconnecting from reality. I- I even went to a therapist, thinking I was going insane, but…”

“But what?” he prompts gently.

“But now I’m starting to think those memories were real,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I thought maybe the writing affected me, that I was imagining things. But if what you’re saying is true… I’ve been recalling memories from past lives?”

He nods, his gaze compassionate yet firm. “Those fragments were memories from your past lives. The feelings of detachment, the disconnection from reality—it’s all part of your ability’s process. Each lifetime, you’ve struggled with this, but you’ve always managed to find your way back to me.”

You sit back, feeling overwhelmed. “So, all this time, I’ve been recalling memories from past lives? And that’s why I felt so disconnected and unsettled?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “It’s why you’ve felt like something was missing, even when everything else seemed to be in place. Your soul remembers our connection, but the details slip away with each new life.”

Your eyes search his face, trying to find the truth in his words. “Are..are you immortal?”

He sighs softly, a look of resignation crossing his face. “Something like that,” he admits. “I’m not exactly immortal, but I endure through each lifetime. It’s not without its own pain.”

He stands and moves closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His touch so tender making your heart flatter subconsciously leaning into it, his eyes filled with profound...it's heartbreaking. “You have no idea how much I miss you, milaya,” he says quietly. “How much it hurts me to see you slip away from my arms each time. Every time, you’re taken from me by an ability user. The first time, it was my cruel father who killed you. The second time, it was an assassin with an ability. And so it went, one after another.”

His voice cracks slightly as he continues, “But this time? I will never let you go, moya lyubov. I won’t let anything take you from me again.”

Slowly, he leans in, and you find yourself lost in his half-lidded amethyst gaze, the slight glance of pain in his eyes is now gone. You brush a strand of his slightly long hair behind his ear, your knuckles grazing his cheekbones.

"Milaya," he whispers, closing the distance between you, his cold lips gently brush against yours, The moment your lips touch, a warm, relaxing spark ignites deep within you, spreading a soothing glow through your entire body. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home, like finding the missing piece of your heart.

Your body reacts instinctively. You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He lifts you gently, your feet barely touching the ground, as he holds you close. His hands rest on your waist, massaging circles onto your skin under your shirt as his kisses start to get sloppier with a sweet, heartfelt heat. It’s as if he’s trying to savor every moment, every touch, to make up for all the years apart.

He gently pulls away, his breath mingling with yours as he murmurs, “You should get some rest, darling,” His words are a tender reminder, and his touch lingers as he softly caresses your cheeks, jaw and chin.

You keep your arms wrapped around his neck, “Please don't leave.”

The Russian man, ever devoted, cannot bear the thought of leaving your side now that you are once again in his arms. With a serene nod and a tender, otherworldly smile, he whispers,

"I will forever be by your side, moya milaya."

A/N: I know this isn’t my best work—I've been dealing with writer’s block lately, especially after spending the last few days working on Kinktober fics. Apologies if any part feels rushed. I also made sure to use past tense for the memories and present tense for the current events, in case you noticed that. Anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this!

[revelboo]

No pressure but are you planning on continuing the sunny and sides stories? It can be hard to find someone who writes for them. I love all your works though and are always excited to see what you've written!

I am, I just have… quite a few ongoing storylines at this point

Can’t Finish What you Started Pt 8

Sunstreaker x Reader, Sideswipe x Reader

• Stretched out on your belly, you yelp when a heavy box is dropped about a foot from your face, neck craning to glare up at Sunstreaker as he just stares right back, completely indifferent to your annoyance. Pushing up onto your knees to look into the box, your lips part. Because the big, yellow jerk has brought you art supplies. Charcoal sticks, canvases, pens, watercolor palettes, acrylic paints, and paper. “Did you rob a Hobby Lobby?” You ask, digging through the pile.

• Stiffening with a low growl, he hooks a servo inside the box to tug it away. “If you don’t want it,” he begins before you’re seizing the box with both hands and pulling it back toward you, expression almost afraid and he relents. “I didn’t steal anything. I used a holomatter avatar to retrieve the items and convinced the console funds were exchanged.”

• Convinced the console. Biting into the inside of your cheek to keep from blurting out the fact that he definitely stole it, because with his temper he will take it all away just to be petty. Mostly you’re surprised that he’d cared to begin with. That he’d been listening when you’d told Wheeljack you were an artist. “Thank you for this.”

• “Just don’t make a mess,” he growls, uncomfortable warmth spreading through his spark as you smile up at him before turning your attention back to the box. Surprised that he does want to see what you create even as it spills bitterly through him. Reminding him that he’d wanted to be an artist once before the harsh reality of living on the streets of Kaon had crushed those idealistic dreams. Part of him wanting to linger, to do more than watch you create, wanting to add his own touches to a piece. Instead, he walks away to leave you to your excitement.

• Sitting crosslegged, bent over a canvas, you dip your finger in a puddle of paint and use it to mix colors. There wasn’t a mixing palette so you’d stripped into a pair of shorts to use your thigh and you’re shivering as you paint with a finger like a kid because there were no brushes either. But you don’t mind as you use a pinky to feather on highlights. The desk around you littered with quick charcoal sketches, working in almost a feverish state like you need to get it all out. Get it down. So focused you don’t even notice you’re not alone until the shadow falls across you. “Sunny is going to lose it,” Sideswipe groans and you startle, looking up. And he’s laughing at you, making you realize you’ve got paint all over your hands, your thighs, probably on your face. And charcoal smudges everywhere there’s not paint. Just don’t make a mess. Oops.

• Flicking his servos at you to shoo you toward your tiny curtained off wash rack area, he studies what you’ve done. Sees himself and Sunny from different angles. Alone, together. Arguing and relaxed. He hadn’t realized you’d been watching them both so closely. Or that Sunny would have cared enough to give you art supplies just because you’d said you were an artist and they might make you happy. Neither one of them able to say the things they want to say out loud, it’s always been that way. Awkward silences and false starts. Maybe you’re the same way, unable to say what you need to. But studying the art of him and Sunny leaves him oddly warm inside, because it’s your own way of telling them that you like them, like being here despite the unfairness of having no choice at all.

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[aphroditeinthesea]

I’ll combust if we don’t get a part 2 for that Percy fic 💔💔

“ i don’t like a gold rush ” (the sequel)

percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite!reader 🌊 | pt.1

a/n a lot of rambling idk what i was even saying

tw makeout insinuation, travis stoll x reader, hurt/mild comfort, not proofread

𓆝 𓆟 ౨ৎ 𓆝 𓆟

Getting over the youngest son of Poseidon was a task easier said than done. Especially seeing him with the spirit that was Annabeth Chase. The two had been attached at the hip since they were twelve.

Alas, y/n decided to turn her attention to another pretty boy. The elder of the Stoll brothers. You could say she had a type. He was in a strange sense, similar to Percy.

The dark wavy hair, light eyes. He was cute enough.

Unfortunately when your mother is the goddess of love, you don’t really get to be normal about your crushes. Especially when you have your sister breathing down your neck about “Aphrodite’s Rite of Passage.” No matter what Y/N knew that was something she could never complete. She was a hopeless romantic not a maneater like many believed Aphrodite’s children to be.

When she gathered herself and decided it was time to talk to the son of Hermes, she found herself strolling to cabin 3. She knocked on the door. She heard swearing and things falling before the door opened.

“Hey, y/n,” he sighed. The boy’s hair was messed and he was without a shirt.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Kinda.”

She peered over his shoulder seeing the blonde on his bed, awkwardly playing with the hem of the oversized shirt she was wearing, “I get it.”

“Sorry,” he breathed, “did you need something?”

“I was just gonna ask you something,” she shrugged, “talk to you later though.”

“Bye,” he sheepishly spoke as he closed the door.

She embarrassedly made her way back to her cabin. All while ignoring the pit in her stomach as she told herself she didn't care. She didn't care. She had bigger fish to fry.

Bad analogy.

As slow hours passed she laid in her bed staring at the ceiling. Sure, she had things to do. Training, cleaning, chores. But for now, the ceiling was where her mind wanted to stay. The ceiling was the blank canvas she had spent so much of her painting with visions of Percy Jackson. She imagined if they’d dated what they would do together. The romantic dates, the sneaking into his cabin the way Annabeth does. Her head ached when she tried to picture the new acrylic, when she was so used to watercolor.

She imagined kissing the boy. Test one. She wasn't cringing the way she would have expected to, but as the image of muscular arms that belonged to the wrong came into her mind, she sat up. She finally stretched her legs, trying to clear her mind of all things Poseidon. When she heard the cabin door creak open, she failed her challenge as the boy walked in.

“Y/N,” he grinned as he caught her eyes.

“Hi, hey, hi,” she smiled in return, “what’s up?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” he retorted, tilting his head, which reminded her of a puppy in a way. Which trailed her thoughts into picturing him as a husky with bright blue-green eyes. And then she realized that was kinda a weird thought?

She looked down, picking at her cuticles, “sorry, yeah, right, uhm,” she looked back up at him. She tried to focus as she looked into his eyes that were framed by his thick eyelashes that made him almost look like he was wearing mascara. “Remember how I helped you with Annabeth?”

“Yeah,” he lovesickenly smiled as his brain thought of the girl. If Y/N weren't a daughter of love itself, she would be hurling.

She shook her head, “anyway, I was kinda hoping you could repay the favor?”

He raised an eyebrow as he sat on one of her sister’s beds, being the only two people in the cabin. “Me? why?”

“You owe me,” she said, “remember?”

He leaned back, “yeah,” he recollected the memory, not expecting it to be held up, “just, what do I know about love?”

“I see you with,” she took a deep breath, “her. You're a romantic, whether you know it or not.” She sat across from him on another bed, “plus, you know boys.”

“I know boys?”

“You are one, aren't you?”

He laughed, “I think so.” He shifted closer to her, he lowered his voice, “what boy are we talking about?”

“Travis Stoll.”

He cringed, “Travis? Really?”

“What?” she softly mentioned, “he’s cute.”

Before he could speak, the door opened, the pair turned to look at it. A girl with an orange shirt and pink shorts stood with her arms crossed, “what is the fish boy doing on my bed?”

ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི

“He’s not the smartest guy, y/n,” Percy said as he stood beside y/n, borderline stalking Travis alongside his brother from afar. The sons of Hermes built something possibly illegal in 48 states as they sat together.

She looked at him for a second, “and you are?”

“I’m no Stoll,” he smiled, turning to the girl, “you're gonna have to be straight forward. He wont pick up on any hints.”

She held up her hand, sticking up her thumb and pinky to imitate a phone, “hey, kettle, you're black.”

“Huh?”

She smirked, “you just proved my point, thank you very much.”

He rolled his eyes, “you wanted someone who knows guys, who got one.”

She nudged his shoulder, “thanks, Perce.”

“I owe you.”

“You do.”

Silence fell over the two until a loud “hey!” was called from the direction of the brothers.

“We’ve blown our cover,” she muttered before grabbing Percy’s arm tightly. They ran away with laughter overhead as the other two chased after them. They both came to a stop, clutching their stomachs to catch their breaths.

“What were you guys doing?” Travis stood tall.

She bit her lip, “sorry, we were just,” she looked at Percy for a quick glance, “we weren't doing anything.”

“Yeah, we were just on a walk, you guys are the suspicious ones,” Percy added.

The daughter of Aphrodite moved some hair that had gotten stuck on her lip gloss, “Travis, actually, I kinda wanted to talk to you.”

He raised an eyebrow, “why?”

“Come on,” she grinned, beckoning him to follow her to a secluded area. When they stopped, she finally just took a deep breath and spilled her guts to the boy. As she realized just how easy it was, she wondered why she couldn't have just done all this before? It sure would have saved her the pain she had put herself through, time and time again.

“You like me?” He repeated back to her.

She looked a away, “thats pretty much the gist of things, yep.”

“Oh,” he responded.

“I needed to tell you, that’s all.”

“Hey, wait, I,” he sighed, “I like you, too.”

She smiled, “really?”

“Totally.”

So, that night, as she sat by the campfire hand in hand with Travis Stoll, she watched Percy and Annabeth connected at the hip nearby. She looked back at the boy next to her, letting a smile come across her face. But she wondered why she still felt that stabbing pain in her heart.

[queenangella74]

Queen Angella and baby Glimmer in watercolor painted on a stretch canvas primed with watercolor ground.

[rrxnjun]

portrait of a blank slate. huang renjun

pairing: huang renjun x fem! reader genre: college au. fluff, smut, and the tiniest bit of angst. warnings: swearing, alcohol, angry man renjun, very bad dialogue, this is the most un-renjun fic i've ever written, dry humping, a heavy makeout session, unfinished blowjob word count: 5.8k playlist: no specific one this time but i listened to a lot of keshi while writing this, so have this playlist of mine to fit the vibes a/n: inspired by that one tweet describing how someone's art professor met his wife the same exact way, lost the screenshot and also the og post im so sorry!

turns out all it takes to save a life is a bad, bad college party, a few shots and a weird, magical coincidence back in a girl's dorm room.

It’s hard to believe that Huang Renjun is currently finishing up the art portfolio he needs for his summer internship program after procrastinating and angrily stomping at every single bad stroke of his paintbrush for the last few months.

Because he’s not.

He’s looking at the canvas with stern eyes, the smudges on the white linen so messy he could cry just by looking at them, and the more he tries to save the disgrace currently scribbled in front of him, the worse it gets and makes the levels of frustration in him turn into rage and fury, because let’s be honest– what is Renjun’s primary emotion if not anger. 

And he tries hard to fix it again, he really does– he sighs heavily while doing so as he takes a smaller brush and tries to paint on a few hairstrokes to the portrait of Frida Kahlo he wants to execute– and in honest reality, it doesn’t even look half as bad as it does in the poor boy’s eyes when he takes a step back after holding in his breath and carefully piercing together the artwork. Maybe if there was someone else in the room– everyone but his annoying roommate Donghyuck, because that fucker always manages to make things even worse– they could talk him out of it, offer some words of consolidation, even, hype him up and tell him that with outsider’s eyes, the canvas looks beautiful and very well put together. But the truth is that there’s no one present right now, not a single soul in what feels like the whole campus right now, that could ease Huang Renjun’s frustration from what seems to be art block, when he throws the paintbrush to the wall (he’ll worry about the stain of acrylic paint later, when he gains consciousness) and puts a fist through the middle of the painting.

If he was a character in a comic book, his hand would go through the canvas and create a quite satisfying hole. He’s a real person, though– a weak one as well, to be quite honest– and his fist is stopped by the stretched-out fabric, making his hand bounce back, but now stained with all shades of brown and tan, which somehow only makes him even more mad and turns him into a furious animal roaming around free and causing uttermost chaos in his all true sense.

Nothing can stop Huang Renjun when he opens the drawer he keeps all his artwork in, taking out all the graphite sketches and colored pencil drawings, and then the next one containing the watercolor paintings and various other acrylic paintings done on expensive sheets of paper, stacking all of those onto one pile in the middle of the table. Not one thing is safe– except from the digital artworks he keeps in his iPad and his big A4 sketchbook he forgot about in the heat of the moment, since he keeps it on his nightstand– when he takes the big, heavy stack of art and runs, chimes towards the entrance of his and Donghyuck’s miniature dorm room, luck only standing by his side once in this whole evening when his said roommate opens the door and clears the way for him, looking at the poor boy with mouth agape in a slight shock.

“What the fuck are you doing right n–”

Donghyuck doesn’t get an answer. When he asks stupid questions, Renjun doesn’t tend to pay him much mind, settling on not engaging with the discourse if it doesn’t make much sense, so Hyuck should be used to the ignorance– he thinks this was a very valid question to ask at this moment, though. If he was curious enough, he’d even follow his roommate down the hall and watch him in his endeavors only to find out what’s the intention behind his angry stomping and the fierce look on his face. The truth is, though, he doesn’t care all that much.

That doesn’t stop Huang Renjun, though, as he chimes down the hall of the boy’s dormitory, kicks the glass door open (thankfully not the actual glass part, because that would for sure be expensive) and practically runs the rest of the way towards the bins at the end of the street, dumping the papers into the bin (forgive him for not recycling in his current state of mind) before he angrily kicks the poor object twice for good measure and turns on his heel, slowly, but still as angrily making his way back to his dorm room by stomping all the way up until the entrance.

The dorm guard doesn’t even ask for his dorm ID like he usually does– Renjun must have been quite memorable as he ran out of the building with 5kg of artwork of various sizes in his arms– but the truth is, the man isn’t as old and he saw the boy going out just a few minutes ago, so he doesn’t think it’s necessary. Renjun would appreciate the memo, although, when he remembers that the man always asks for the dorm ID, especially on the nights out when he comes back slightly intoxicated and too disoriented to look for the little slip of paper in his pockets, and on the nights when he forgets his dorm ID as well– the man was set on letting him sleep on the front porch of the dormitory once and it took Renjun 15 calls to get ahold of a sleeping Donghyuck and another 15 of him walking down the hall in slippers and pajama bottoms with his roommate’s dorm ID in hand before he could warm his bones from the cold slowly seeping into his bones on the January night– and that whole thing makes Renjun somehow even more angry at the whole situation.

And so when he comes into his room again, Donghyuck now sitting on his bed still in his outside clothes (something Renjun hates and would murder for), and his eyes land on the damaged canvas still waiting for him in the corner of the room, he wastes no time in opening his window and throwing it down from the second floor, not really caring where it ends up or if he’s gonna get a fine for violating one of the dormitory rules– to never throw stuff out of the windows..

“Dude, what is–”

“Don’t ask.” Renjun huffs as he closes the door and peels his clothes off, taking a towel that’s still hanging from the top bunk of their bed and aims towards the bathroom door. A true tantrum can only end in a cold shower, and that’s what Renjun’s gonna do as he washes his dreams down the drain and ends up silently crying himself to sleep tonight in agony.

It’s hard to believe Huang Renjun is currently at the best college party since the days of ‘megaparties’ of Johnny Suh, the senior that’s slowly halting his party performance due to stilling in life. Renjun was dragged to Lee Jeno’s party by his roommate Donghyuck after he mourned in his bed for approximately two days before it got too much for the poor gemini, promising and honestly thinking that alcohol is truly the best solution for the poor boy’s misery. Again, it’s hard to believe Huang Renjun is currently at the best college party of the year when he listens to the loud EDM music piercing through his eardrums and he swears he catches a glimpse of a couple dry humping on the couch.

Because he’s not.

He’s at a college party, sure. He’s also getting some alcohol into his system– because why not, am I right? He’s not the one paying, and that’s always enough of a reason to drink. Is it the best college party he’s ever experienced, though? Absolutely not.

It’s quite literally the worst party he’s ever been to. The music is too loud and the whole house smells of cheap vodka, people are pushing each other around and with the amount of alcohol in his system, the whole room feels like he’s on a boat, his stomach weak and his eyes hazy. Renjun must admit Hyuck’s therapy skills are kind of paying off– because at least now he’s not thinking about the wasted opportunity of a summer scholarship and is instead looking into the eyes of his cute classmate from History class across the room– but at the same time, he’s not thinking much of anything in this moment, and the glint of your eyes is the only thing he can focus on when you get closer.

That might be a good or a bad thing– depends on how the encounter goes. There’s a fine line between the amount of alcohol that’s just perfect for Huang Renjun to get rid of his usual shyness and speak to other, much more attractive human species, and the amount of alcohol that’s just perfect for Huang Renjun to black out and puke on the floor, efficiently making it impossible for him to chat up the cute classmate he’s been eyeing the whole semester and ruining his chances of ever being seen in a good light in front of the said person ever again. He prays intensely that he hasn’t crossed the line yet when you open your mouth and speak to him in the crowded kitchen.

“Renjun!”

“Y/N!” he tries to mimic your tone, a flashy grin settling onto his face when you approach him first. You two aren’t strangers, after all– you’ve sat together in class during various exams and also accidentally bumped into each other in the cafeteria, but what were your courageous attempts in making conversation with him and efficiently trying to make him more interested in you didn’t lead to your desired goal of getting invited out by him, instead leading him to think you’re just that friendly to everyone and not just him, making the chances of him taking the next step that much slimmer. Not tonight, though– he really must have had too much to drink.

“How are you?” you ask, clearing your throat as you bump into someone and decide to shift closer to Renjun, making the boy’s breathing hitch in his throat.

“Wonderful,” he gasps, and for some reason, the response laced in irony makes an excited laugh escape your throat, and the more he listens to your bubbly giggle, the more he wishes he did music instead of fine arts, because maybe if he was competent enough, he could mimic the sound in one of his songs and replay it over and over even when you’re not around. 

“That sounds very genuine,” you note, which makes the boy laugh in return, making him wonder if maybe he could have the same effect on you– if you’re smiling wider now because of the sound of his laughter, or if you’re just amused at something completely else. 

It’s pathetic, really– the gloomy boy that was trailing to this party behind his roommate Donghyuck is nowhere to be seen now, instead replaced by the cheap imitation of a ray of sunshine that you brought out of him only with the magic of a few words and the few drops of alcohol on his tongue.

“Oh, trust me, it was genuine,” he teases, and you only nod to his attempt at masking his obviously saddened composure from before.

“Having a rough week?” you ask, and you sound truly interested– something Renjun hasn’t found in the tone of his roommate when he insisted on dragging him here– and maybe that’s the reason why he just shrugs and decides to come clean and be honest with you. You seem like that kind of person that wouldn’t make fun of his troubles, the kind of person that would genuinely want to help– although he’s not seeking counseling tonight, he figures he can talk a bit about his shitty mood if it means that it gets the conversation flowing.

“A rough life, actually,” he snickers before he sees you eye him with a concerned look, “just joking,” he adds before he retracks back and fixes his initial answer. “Some things didn’t work out the way I wanted them to, so I’m kind of moping around for a bit.”

You seem to feel empathetic towards the boy, nodding and pouting at his confession. “Well, I hope things get fixed for you, Jun,” you mumble, tone of voice encouraging– and maybe he could dwell at the caring nature of you a little longer, only if it wasn’t for your use of a nickname for him that just oh so sweetly rolls of your tongue and Renjun wishes he could legally change his name to the nickname so he could listen to the way it sounds forever– scratch that, to the way it sounds from your mouth forever, which means he won’t change it, just so it’s reserved for you and only you to say.

“What about you, though?” he finds himself asking in the midst of his inner screeching.

“Me? I’m great, totally fine, having the time of my life,” you emphasize, the over-the-top expression on your face making the boy burst into laughter as you wave your arms around as if to show him your surroundings. “I am a party person for sure, you know, so this is perfect,” you joke, and Renjun seems to get the memo. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure he’s ever seen you at a party before– not that he goes to many himself, which might honestly be the reason, actually– you could just be at different parties in different times that hadn’t overlaid, but by the way you’re currently tensely sipping at the alcohol in your hand, he figures you’re not too familiar with the scene of college partying.

“Who forced you to go? Was it your roommate?” Renjun remembers the girl from another one of his classes– you two were always walking around together and often got to class at the same time. Figuring out that you two lived together wasn’t as difficult, and she surely seems to be the more extroverted one.

“No, actually,” you say, eyes glimmering when he seems to remember the girl you share a room with, “to my surprise, honestly. It was another one of my friends– Na Jaemin, not sure if you know him– but the moment we got here, he disappeared and left me alone to deal with my thoughts,” you click your tongue and Renjun finds himself totally mesmerized with you– amazed with everything about you; the way you talk, the way you lean on the counter and watch him with stars in your eyes (which might just be the reflections of the kitchen lights, but don’t tell him that), the way you slightly lean into him when he cracks a joke and earns a laugh out of you…

“They always do that,” Renjun scowls, “they drag the introvert in and then force them to survive on their own…” he shakes his head in disappointment, clearly distraught over the situation. 

“Exactly! But if you ask them to come with you to a picnic, or to the library, they decline the offer. So much for being good friends,” you roll your eyes. Renjun finds himself smiling, and although he must admit that as every other college student, he himself would decline an invitation to a library if anyone asked, he’s like 99% certain that if it was you uttering out the question, he wouldn’t miss a heartbeat before joyfully jogging there with you. 

“Ask me next time,” he blurts out, a poor attempt at flirting, “I wouldn’t say no.”

And it seems like tonight is the night where you suddenly get the last kick of courage needed when you talk to Renjun– maybe fueled by his coy smile when he said the previous comment, maybe just acting out on pure hormones– tonight's the night where he breathlessly takes your offer, still not thinking much of it, but igniting a curious spark in his own heart nonetheless, when you scratch the back of your neck in the last residue of anxiety, scrunching your nose at him and mumbling under your nose, barely heard above the loud music resonating through the living room. “Do you wanna sneak into my dorm room, then?” 

Renjun almost chokes at your question– visitors in the dormitory are only allowed until midnight and as far as he’s aware, the clock is well after 2 AM right now, and he’s a male visitor, which is even more off the bounds in the eyes of the fierce woman guarding the entrance of the girl’s dormitory building. The more he stares at you, the more you seem to translate his silence into disagreement, which you panically try to undo with even more rambling. “I- I mean, since we both kind of hate this party and I think that if I drink more, I’m going to puke all over myself, so… My room is on the ground floor, so you can just climb in, if you wanted to. My roommate went home for the weekend, so there’s no one there, and we could– I mean, we don’t have to, honestly, but it’s kinda cold out and I thought we could both use a place more silent, ‘cause I really wanna head back now, but I don’t want to stop talking to you, y’know, and I don’t know if–”

“Okay, I’m down,” Renjun nods, efficiently shutting up your rambling, and when there’s a very apparent relief flashing over your face, he finds himself smiling in endearance at your antics, going as far as ruffling a hand through your hair in whatever kick the alcohol mixed with adrenaline gave him before you have him dragging his feet out of the house, both of your feet shuffling towards the campus.

The walk isn’t long, but he finds himself enjoying it. The condensation coming out of your mouths at the chilly weather serves more to the atmosphere when the both of you giggle out at absurd jokes and gossip, your voice breaking into soft hums when you sing a song under your breath in moments of silence that somehow feel both kind of awkward, but also kind of pleasant. He drags you by your hand to the other side of the sidewalk when a car passes by and you jump in surprise, eyes wide and glossy, mouth a little agape in an open-mouthed grin when his fingers stay intertwined with yours and you adjust your purse on your other shoulder, clearing your throat before you try to nonchalantly continue on with the conversation.

“I’ll go inside now,” you announce when you get to the girl’s dormitory building, breaking apart from the eager boy and coming closer to him when you confide the secret, “I’ll turn the light on in my room when I get there, so make sure to look out for the window. I’ll help you in, don’t worry,” you smile at him, and before he has a chance to reply, you disappear behind the glass door with a pep in your step. 

Renjun finds himself sighing– now is the moment when he should realistically get relief, the moment when he’s supposed to relax for at least a second and prepare himself for whatever might happen in your dorm room– but when he slowly walks over to the left wing of the building and squints at the dark squares of windows, he wonders how in the hell he’s gonna climb in. Escaping out will be an easy task– the windows aren’t that high up– but coming in will be the problem. He guesses it’s the same with the whole situation– he bets the easiest part of the whole evening will be jumping out and running to his own room– how to survive the night in your presence and not go completely insane, he doesn’t know and wishes he had a manual to before he agreed to do this in the first place.

When the light goes on in one of the rooms and you wave at him from the inside, he finds himself involuntarily jogging towards the window, gears in his brain turning faster than the speed of light when he reaches the wall and you grin at him, opening the window and offering him your hand. 

“If you grip the edge of the window and give me your hand, you can get in easily,” you say, watching as the boy cautiously looks around himself and scratches the back of his neck, mentally calculating his next movements.

“Have you done this before?”

“No,” you bashfully shake your head, “but my roommate did it twice, so I don’t think it’s that hard,” you note and nod at him, waiting for him to finally take action. 

Renjun finds himself doing what he’s been told– and even though he huffs and almost falls over to his back (which would kill him, he thinks, since his physique is very close to a turtle’s), victory fills his veins when one of his legs finally ends up in your window, his body stumbling forward and almost toppling you over when the warmth of your room welcomes him as he lands on top of your desk. 

“Welcome,” you laugh at him when he shakes his head in disbelief and takes off his coat, dropping it on top of the wooden table and watching you close the window behind him, so the cold doesn’t get in. 

“That’s one way of inviting guests over, I guess,” he teases you, watching as you roll your eyes at him and go over to one of the beds. Renjun notices the room is different to the one he shares with Donghyuck– you and your roommate have two beds instead of a bunk one, the table is right under the window and you get a little more space over-all. You turn on the little lamp kept on your bedside table, and the boy watches you with interest as you cautiously walk around your own room as if it’s your first time seeing it, reminding him a little of a deer in the headlights, clueless and suddenly out of ideas.

Renjun finds himself laughing at your behavior– he finds himself endeared by it, the way you play with your fingers in nerves and try to think of anything to do in the intimacy that suddenly envelopes you when you invite someone over to your dorm room in the middle of the night– and when you aimlessly end up standing in front of him, your big eyes even bigger and glossier than before, he snickers at the state of you and shakes his head.

“Okay, so I know I was the one who invited you over, but now I’m kind of helpless in what we should actually do and all…” you giggle, a little embarrassed when you bear your eyes into his, your body subconsciously slotted in between his legs, his position leaning on the edge of the table allowing you and inviting you to do so. 

“You’re cute,” he laughs at you, and before you have a chance to question him about the compliment, he has you silenced abruptly by his next actions.

“What do you–”

His hand is gripping your jaw and he leans into you, the newly found courage and affection towards you having him drunk on more than the alcohol, but also your whole presence– the way your hair smells when he’s this close to you, the way you pull the sleeves of your sweater further down when you don’t know what to do with your hands, the shyness in your gaze now that you have him in your cage– and his lips act on themselves when they press themselves against yours, soft but firm, tasting the strawberry juice mixed with vodka off your mouth, a surprised gasp against his lips more than enough to invite him even further in.

He feels your fingers tugging at his shirt and your skin growing hot under his touch, leaning back from you a little and finding you looking at him with a thousand different galaxies in your eyes, enough of a confirmation to him, but he’s a man– he still needs it vocally, when he grins lazily at you. “Was this one of the things you thought about when you invited me over?”

“Maybe…” you tug at your bottom lip with your teeth, a clearly battled grin trying to settle its way onto your lips.

“You should’ve just said so, then,” he smiles when he leans into you again, a little more confidently this time and kisses you again, again and again.

You stay under the window for a while, lips pressed hard against each other as you try to learn the curves of each other’s mouths by memory, lazy hands threaded into his hair and an arm around your waist now, steadying you in place. Foreheads pressed against each other when you break away for air, giggles resonating through the room when his lips make their way towards your neck and the softness of his hair tickles your skin, fingers threaded when you tug him towards your bed and you watch him kick his shoes off before you follow him onto the soft mattress.

His head falls into your pillow and you straddle his lap, your hair falling into your face when you look down at him from your position, the newly found dominance in your position charging you with unexplainable energy, and Renjun can’t help but smile at you sweetly when your eyes meet and you eagerly lean down towards him, fingers once again intertwined with his, hands laying next to his head. Your breath fans his swollen lips that you once again find yourself attacking, the contact overwhelming you and making it hard to breathe. Who knows how long the both of you have wanted to do this but never had the courage to– it’s a miracle that it’s even happening tonight.

And with the built-up desire, you act instinctively– hands breaking away from his when you grip his cheeks and give him one last peck, lips now traveling down his jaw and neck instead, having the boy shivering under the contact, your actions slowly but surely driving him crazy when you find his sweet spot and you get a satisfied gasp from him, a reward for your tonight’s efforts.

His hand grips your hip, and something about the burn of his fingers even through the fabric of your jeans makes you move on instinct, earning yourself a sharper hiss this time that doesn’t make you stop, however– quite the opposite, actually– as you break into a wide grin at the very evident effect you have on him, your movements slow and painful, but still having him harden under you.

Goosebumps appear all over your skin when his cold fingers capture the skin of your stomach when he aimlessly tries to find a place in your body to ground yourself, but the more he answers to your movements, the more encouraged you get. He tugs you back down so you’re facing him, which does nothing to halt your painful pace as he drags out yet another kiss from you. 

“If we don’t stop now, it’s gonna be really hard for me to do so later,” Renjun huffs into your ear, which only gets you more excited.

“Who said I want to stop?” you ask him, fingers trailing up his side over his shirt, yet still making him fire up and flush in his cheeks. “Do you want to stop?”

“Do I look like I wanna stop?” he snickers, shaking his head in utter disbelief, hand traveling dangerously close to the cup of your breast.

“Let’s continue, then,” you muse, peeling yourself off him only the slightest amount, hands dragging themselves down his body until you reach the waistband of his pants, gently dragging the fabric down until he’s left in front of you only with a tent in his underwear, big eyes curiously and breathlessly watching you in your actions. He could be a gentleman and tell you you don’t have to, tell you to stop and come back up and that he will pleasure you first, but the more he watches you as you palm him over the thin fabric of his boxer briefs with the dangerous doe eyes of yours, the less he wants to do just that. In all reality– who is he to deny a blowjob from you? Or anyone, for that matter?

His whole body shudders under your touch, actions careful, but so painfully satisfying. Renjun watches your face with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, the reality of it all sobering him up and making him aware of each shift of your body, each centimeter your fingertip travels against his skin, each motion that slowly makes a bundle of nerves appear in his stomach. It only gets too much for him when you lean on your elbows, nails gently pricking the skin of his thighs as your mouth hesitantly greets his dick, and he feels like a virgin again when his eyes peel off you just in case he finishes just by watching you blowing him off like a highschooler at his first blowjob, forcing himself to watch the ceiling instead.

Eyes traveling all over your room– the closed window opposite of him, the bed on the other side of the room, the walls above your bed– he gets lost in the galaxy drawn on a piece of paper that’s plastered right above your pillowcase, and another graphite sketch of eyes bearing right into your soul, as if they were watching him in the act, and another one, of a deer that looks through the shade of the trees, before it hits him.

“Oh my god what the fuck–” he gasps, and his tone must have sounded too different to the satisfied moans that have been spilling out of his mouth up until now, because you abruptly stop your movements and your gazes lock, your eyes completely mortified.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

“Oh– Oh god no, fuck, you’re doing amazing, trust me,” apologies spill off his tongue at your distressed state, “it’s just– where… where did you get these?” he asks, pointing towards all the drawings taped all over your walls that he failed to notice in the heat of the moment before.

“Oh,” you cluelessly hum, eyebrows furrowed, “I found them spilling out of a trashcan close to the boy’s dorms when I was walking to class one morning, and they were so pretty I had to take them.”

“I– you like these?” Renjun asks, full of strange surprise and genuine curiosity. You’re now sitting back on your heels and looking at the boy with big eyes, still slightly clueless and very much in a weird state of distress– because why would a man ask you about the random artwork on your wall in the middle of a mindblowing blowjob?– before you nod with a slight pout, agreeing.

“Well, I wouldn’t have decorated my room with them if I didn’t like them, y’know… Why are you… why are you asking?”

“Oh,” Renjun repeats again, a dumbfounded look taking over his soft features before he sits up on the bed and scoots closer to you, a weird sense of euphoria spilling out every vein of his body when the held-back dopamine is released into his system. A wide grin appears on his lips before he stares into your eyes with a milky way mirroring behind his eyeballs, glittering orbs haphazardly gliding over your face before he reaches your lips again, pecking them one, two, three times before you break away and look at him with furrowed eyebrows, a slight crease right in between them.

“What are you–”

“I think I’m gonna literally cum just at hearing those words, Y/N,” he blurbs out before he kisses the tip of your nose again, completely endeared and close to a happy boy under the Christmas tree, and while you may enjoy that look on him, you’re still slightly confused. Huang Renjun sighs almost a little too dreamingly and smooths the wrinkle between your eyebrows with a careful swipe of his thumb, still not giving you any explanation.

“Renjun, I’m afraid I’m not quite following why this is so important to you right now,” you mumble, having your partner laugh airly– just as if all his worries escaped through the window and you fixed his life with a few drawings plastered on your wall.

“Those, dear Y/N,” he points towards the papers stuck to your walls, eyeing the specific one he worked for 3 hours on and kind of mourned the morning after he realized he threw it away, months of practice and art that maybe wasn’t even that bad in the first place ending up in the trash because of a fit of rage, “are all mine. Mine as in, I drew them… And then threw them out in the middle of a slight mental breakdown.”

You look at him for a few heartbeats, eye contact never breaking before you avert your gaze towards the artwork on the walls– it takes you a few seconds before it hits you– and you gasp, hurriedly looking back at the artist in front of you, stars glimmering in your eyes now as well, matching his excitement. “Oh my god, are you for real?”

“Yeah.”

“You drew all of these?”

“Yeah,” he nods again, breathless.

“This is an insane coincidence,” you snicker, and Renjun didn’t know he had it in him– maybe it’s still the effect of alcohol that slips off his tongue when he speaks– but he cages you in his arms as he kisses you again, a whole new world appearing in front of him when the cheesiness meets the comfort of your walls.

“You’d call this a coincidence?” he hums. “Maybe it was fate.”

Earning himself a sharp laugh, almost mocking him as you swat his shoulder, you fall back with him towards the mattress, and while the heated moment might be gone, you don’t mind at all. Renjun looks at you with a certain softness in his eyes, a pride swelling in his chest, and for a moment, it’s true and you truly did open up a new reality for him and changed his life forever, fixed all of his problems, if you will, because the appreciation it takes for a girl to tape up at least 20 of his messy artworks onto her wall after finding the stash in the trashcan on her way to class might just be the encouragement he needed to keep going with the craft. 

It’s hard to believe that this shitty party actually brought him somewhere– not only to your bed, but also to your life, to a beginning of something new and a restart in something he thought he’d forever be giving up on.

“So… Do you need those back? Because I kinda like them here,” you giggle, and the crinkle of his eyes is enough of an answer to you.

“You can keep them. I’ll just draw new ones you can look at,” he muses, stealing another kiss from you and squeezing your hip, having you squeal against his mouth.

“Now, to get back to what we were doing before–”

[lifeofpriya]

Romance in The Hamptons - Alexis Lafrenière imagine

[gif credit goes to @alexislafreniere]

author's note: this is my submission for @wyattjohnston's summer 2k24 fic exchange, and i had the amazing pleasure of writing for @wildrangers! a quick shoutout to @2manytabsopen for helping me with Laf's characterization -- love you, bestie 🫶🏼. but yeah, i hope y'all enjoy the fic!

summary: summertime in The Hamptons leads to a budding romance...

wc: 3,028 words

"I still can't believe you managed to find us such a swanky rental," you giggled at your friend, Jamie, as you stepped into the luxury house that was nestled away in The Hamptons. The walls were painted in a cool, beachy white, and the smell of freshly cut grass and lemon cleaner filled the space. The floorboards groaned slightly underfoot, echoing the promise of lazy days and wild nights ahead.

Jamie shot you a knowing smile. "What can I say? Sometimes, being a travel agent has its perks." The house was indeed a steal for the season, boasting an expansive backyard that led directly to the beach, a hot tub that was already bubbling invitingly, and a fully stocked kitchen that made you want to throw a dinner party every night.

You set down your bags and took a moment to appreciate the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. The sun was setting over the ocean, casting a warm, golden glow across the waves. The horizon looked like a canvas painted with a watercolor wash of pinks and oranges. You felt a gentle breeze waft in, carrying the salty scent of the sea. It was the perfect escape from the stifling city heat.

"Let's grab some drinks and hit the beach," Jamie suggested, tossing you a beach towel. You nodded eagerly, feeling the excitement of the vacation bubble up inside you. The two of you walked out the back door and down the short wooden staircase to the sand. The grains felt warm and soft underfoot as you laid your towel on the sand and pulled out a novel you'd been dying to read. The waves rolled in, a rhythmic soundtrack to the quiet evening that was quickly filling with the distant laughter of other vacationers.

As you settled in, you could hear the faint sounds of laughter and a beach ball bouncing in the distance. You glanced over to see a group of people playing beach volleyball, their shadows stretching long across the sand.

Shrugging your shoulders, you diverted your attention back to your novel, eager to dive into the story between the pages. Well, all was going well until you heard someone yell out, "Heads up!"

You looked up just in time to see a beach ball flying towards you. Instinctively, you reached out and caught it, feeling the rough texture and coolness against your palms.

You turned to see who had thrown it, and that's when you saw him: Alexis Lafreniere. He was jogging over, a sheepish grin on his face, with a group of friends in tow. "Sorry about that," he said, his French-Canadian accent making your heart skip a beat. "Are you okay?”

You felt your cheeks flush as you nodded, holding onto the beach ball. "Yeah, I'm fine," you replied, trying to sound calmer than you felt.

Alexis looked relieved and chuckled. "Good catch," he said, closing the distance between you. His eyes were a warm brown, and his brown hair was a wild mess from the wind. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Alexis.”

You took his hand, feeling the firm grip and the warmth that radiated from his skin. "Nice to meet you," you said, your voice a tad shakier than you'd have liked. "I'm…" But before you could say your name, one of his friends called out, "Laf, come on! We need you back!”

With an apologetic look, Alexis took the beach ball from you. "I'd love to chat more, but we're in the middle of a game. Maybe I'll catch you around?" He didn't wait for your response before he turned and sprinted back to the volleyball match.

You watched him go, his athletic build moving with ease across the sand. As the game resumed, you couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that he didn't ask for your name. You shrugged it off, telling yourself it was probably for the best.

The days in the Hamptons passed in a blur of sunscreen, salt water, and late-night bonfires. You and Jamie had made a pact to enjoy every moment, and you both stuck to it. The group playing beach volleyball every evening grew familiar, their laughter a comforting background to your own adventures. But Alexis remained elusive, always disappearing before you had the chance to approach him again.

\\\

One sun-kissed afternoon, you found yourself at the local ice cream shop, the bell jingling as you stepped inside. The walls were adorned with vintage posters of surfers and sailboats, and the smell of fresh waffle cones filled the air. You scanned the flavors, feeling the anticipation of choosing the perfect one to cool off with. That's when you heard it again - that accent. You turned around to see Alexis standing behind you, a sheepish look on his face as he realized you'd caught him.

"Hey," he said, running a hand through his hair. "It's you. From the beach. With the good catch." His smile was as warm as the day outside, and you felt your heart do a little flip. "I've been hoping to run into you again.”

You couldn't help but return the smile. "Well, you found me," you said, trying to play it cool. "What brings you here?”

Alexis shrugged. "Just needed a break from the heat. You know, the usual." His eyes searched yours, looking for something unspoken. "I've seen you around the beach, but I never got the chance to talk. I've been wanting to apologize for that. I'm usually not so… abrupt.”

You laughed it off, feeling a flutter in your chest. "It's fine. I've been pretty busy enjoying the sun and the waves." You paused, then took a risk. "So, are you staying in the area for long?"

Alexis nodded. "Yeah, l've got a place here for the summer. I try to get out of the city as much as I can." His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you felt a spark of curiosity. He was famous, but here, he was just a guy trying to escape the heat with an ice cream cone.

"What about you?" he asked, breaking the silence. "What brings you to the Hamptons?" You leaned against the counter, feeling the coolness of the marble seep through your shirt.

"Just a summer vacation with my bestie," you replied, gesturing towards Jamie, who was chatting with the cashier. "We wanted to get out of the city and enjoy some beach time.”

Alexis nodded, his gaze lingering on you before looking away. "It's a great place for that," he said, his eyes scanning the ice cream flavors. "So, what's your go-to?”

You pointed to the mint chocolate chip. "Can't go wrong with that," you said with a grin.

Alexis nodded thoughtfully. "Good choice. I'l have the same," he told the cashier, then turned back to you. "Would you like to sit outside?" He gestured to the small patio with a few tables scattered under an umbrella.

You felt a rush of excitement. "Sure," you said, trying to keep your cool. As you stepped outside, the warm sun kissed your skin, and you found yourself hoping it wasn't about to turn into a sweaty mess. Alexis pulled out a chair for you, and you sat down, watching as he did the same.

You both licked at your mint chocolate chip cones, the sweetness a stark contrast to the salty ocean air.

"So, are you guys here for the whole summer?" Alexis asked, breaking the ice between you.

You took a bite of your ice cream, the mint and chocolate a delightful blend on your tongue.

"We're here for a couple of weeks," you replied, hoping you didn't sound too eager. "It's our annual escape from reality.”

Alexis laughed, a deep, rich sound that made you want to lean closer. "I get that," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "It's nice to just… be, you know?”

You nodded, feeling the beginnings of a connection. "Yeah, I do," you said, your voice a little softer than you intended.

Alexis's eyes searched yours, and for a moment, it was as if the rest of the world had disappeared. "You guys should come to our beach party tonight," he said, his voice low and inviting. "It's nothing crazy, just some friends and a bonfire.”

Your heart raced, and you felt a jolt of excitement. "That sounds amazing," you replied, trying to keep the eagerness from your voice. "What time?”

Alexis leaned back in his chair, his eyes still locked on yours. "It starts around eight. Just follow the sound of the music and the smell of the bonfire. It's not hard to miss." He took a bite of his ice cream, the chocolate chips glinting in the sun.

You couldn't believe your luck. "We'll definitely be there," you said, trying to keep the excitement from spilling over.

Alexis nodded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Great," he said. "I'l make sure to save you a spot by the fire.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of excitement and preparation. You and Jamie spent hours picking out the perfect outfits and getting ready for the night ahead. The anticipation was palpable, a mix of nerves and excitement that had you checking the time on your phone every few minutes.

\\\

Finally, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a tapestry of oranges and purples. You and Jamie made your way down to the beach, the sound of the waves and distant laughter growing louder with each step. As you approached the bonfire, you could see the flickering flames and the silhouettes of people dancing around it. The smell of roasting marshmallows and woodsmoke filled the air, making your stomach rumble.

Alexis spotted you before you saw him, waving from the edge of the light. He was dressed casually in board shorts and a white t-shirt, his feet buried in the sand. You felt a flutter in your chest as he made his way over, his smile growing wider as he approached. "You came," he said, his eyes lighting up.

You nodded, feeling the heat from the bonfire warming your face. "We couldn't miss it," you replied, trying to sound casual.

Alexis took your hand, leading you through the crowd to a spot he'd reserved. "I'm so happy you're here," he said, his voice sincere. The warmth of his hand sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn't help but squeeze his fingers gently in return.

The party was in full swing, with music playing from a portable speaker and people of all ages mingling around the fire. You recognized some of the faces from the beach volleyball games, but there were plenty of new faces too. The atmosphere was relaxed and friendly, the kind of gathering that made you feel like you'd been coming here for years.

Alexis introduced you to his friends, who were all welcoming and curious about the newcomer. You chatted and laughed, sharing stories of past summers and the thrill of escaping the city. The fire crackled and popped, casting a warm glow over everyone's faces. As the night grew darker, the stars began to appear, twinkling like diamonds scattered across a velvet sky.

You watched as Alexis interacted with his friends, his ease and charm evident in every gesture and word. When he turned to you, his eyes held a warmth that made you feel seen and appreciated. You found yourself sharing stories of your childhood and hopes for the future more than you usually would with a stranger. His questions were thoughtful, and his laugh was genuine.

The party began to wind down as the night grew later, and the group around the bonfire grew smaller. The stars grew brighter, and the crackling fire painted shadows on the sand. Alexis leaned closer, the heat from his body a comforting warmth against the cooling night air. "Would you like to take a walk?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper that sent a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, unable to hide the smile that had been playing on your lips all evening.

\\\

Hand in hand, you strolled along the beach, the waves whispering secrets as they kissed the shore. The moon was a silver crescent, casting a soft glow that danced on the water's surface. The sound of the party grew faint behind you, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of the ocean.

"This is incredible," you murmured, feeling the cool sand between your toes.

Alexis nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's one of my favorite things about being out here. The quiet moments when you can just listen to the ocean.”

You let the sound of the waves wash over you, the saltwater breeze playing with your hair. The stars above twinkled with a clarity that was impossible to find in the city, and the darkness of the night wrapped around you like a comforting blanket. The tension between you was palpable, a delicate dance of attraction that neither of you wanted to acknowledge outright.

As you strolled further down the beach, the moonlight reflected off the waves, creating a path of shimmering light that led you to a secluded cove. Alexis stopped, turning to face you, his hand still holding yours. "It's beautiful here," he said, his eyes searching yours.

You nodded, feeling the butterflies in your stomach. "It really is," you replied, your voice barely audible over the whispers of the tide.

Alexis took a step closer, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. The air was thick with unspoken words, and the scent of the bonfire lingered on his skin. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might lean in for a kiss. Instead, he tugged on your hand, leading you closer to the water's edge.

The waves lapped gently at your feet, the cool water a stark contrast to the warm sand. You watched as the moon's reflection danced in the ripples, creating a dazzling pattern that stretched out to the horizon. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with the steady rhythm of the ocean and the occasional call of a night bird. You felt a sense of peace that was rare in the bustling city life you were used to.

Alexis released your hand and took a seat on a piece of driftwood, patting the spot next to him. You sat down, feeling the wood's smoothness against your legs, the salt and sea-worn edges digging in slightly. The warmth of his body was a comforting presence beside you, and you couldn't help but lean in slightly, feeling the electricity in the air.

For a moment, you both just sat there, watching the waves play in the moonlight. The silence stretched out, filled with the sound of the ocean's whispers and the distant laughter from the party. It was as if the universe had paused just for you two, the rest of the world fading away into the background.

Alexis turned to you, his eyes searching yours. "You know," he began, his voice low and earnest, "I've been thinking about you a lot since that first day on the beach.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, unsure of how to respond. "I've… I've thought about you too," you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Alexis's smile grew, reaching his eyes. "I'm really glad to hear that," he said, his voice warm and sincere. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch sending a shiver down your neck. "You know, I don't usually do this sort of thing," he began, his gaze dropping to your lips.

You felt your breath hitch, the anticipation building in your chest. "What sort of thing?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Alexis leaned in, his gaze never leaving yours. "This," he murmured, before his lips met yours in a soft, gentle kiss. The taste of mint chocolate lingered on his mouth, mingling with the salty tang of the sea air. Your heart raced as you melted into the moment, the feel of his hands on your arms anchoring you to the present. It was a kiss filled with promise and hope, a whisper of what could be.

When you pulled back, the world felt different somehow. The stars seemed closer, the ocean's whispers more intimate. You searched his eyes for reassurance and a sign that this was real. Alexis's gaze was steady, his smile warm and inviting. "I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw you," he admitted, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, your heart racing in your chest. "I've wanted it too," you murmured, your voice barely above the sound of the waves. The air was charged with a tension that was both thrilling and terrifying. You didn't know where this was going but didn't want it to end.

Alexis leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, tender kiss that made your toes curl. His hands moved to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, feeling the heat of his body against yours. It was as if the universe had conspired to bring you to this moment, under the stars with the sound of the ocean as your soundtrack.

When the kiss ended, you both sat there for a moment, the only sound the gentle whoosh of the waves. Alexis's hand remained on the small of your back, his thumb tracing small circles that sent delightful shivers down your spine. You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of the sea and the faint hint of his cologne.

"Thank you for walking with me," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. You felt a strange mix of excitement and fear, knowing that this could be the start of something beautiful or just a fleeting summer fling.

[feebisart]

The Door You Don't Knock On (4/4)

(( Trigger Warning: Unreality, Body Horror, Disturbing Noises, Psychological Horror, Dissociation, Themes of Loss and Helplessness, Mild Violence, Mild Language, Sudden Loud Noises, and Implied Death/Destruction ))

A/N: Please, mind the trigger warnings. Thank you.

Nothing.

The Absence of Everything,

even pitch darkness,

is White.

A fraction—a second of night.

A blink.

The white stretched endlessly, a canvas untouched by shadow or substance. Billy’s watercolor fingers rippled faintly, his outlines shimmering like ink bleeding through paper.

A single faded yellow door stood amidst the snow-white area.

A sob shocked Billy out of his daze. It was painful to listen to.

Like hearing someone profoundly hurt and in pain beyond the capacity anyone should ever face.

It was heart-rending to hear.

Billy rushed towards the door, his instincts as a hero barreling him towards it. His lines were frazzled, alert, and aimed at one purpose.

Suddenly, a pain twisted in his abdomen that made him hesitate; his hands were an inch from the doorknob.

His hand hovered above the doorknob, trembling as though gravity had thickened, pulling him back. A sharp ache twisted in his chest—a warning, a scream in his bones to stop.

The moaning and gurgling noises terrified the boy.

He sunk to his knees with trembling shakes as the short, gasping breaths beyond the door punctured through.

The boy clutched his head as he rested his forehead on his knees.

He couldn't open it.

It wanted him to open the Door.

And... and he couldn't.

Can't.

Whatever was happening beyond the door had happened.

Opening it won't rescue whoever was behind it. It would only doom Billy to a similar fate.

.

At least, that's what his gut told him.

.

.

.

But, he could do one thing.

Winching, Billy curled his fingers slightly and knocked on the wood with spiral grain. A low hum vibrated throughout the door as his hand met it.

The sobbing stopped as if listening. The breaths were still shallow and gasping.

"Hello?" Billy's voice was crisp, like the transatlantic accent, clear and static, like the people on the radio. There was a slip of his tone as the boy tried to keep his emotions in.

Quiet sobbing answered.

"W-what's your name?" Billy asked softly, stuttering slightly despite himself.

The voice beyond the door rasped as if dragging itself up from a pit. "Mi-chael," it whispered, the sound raw, broken, and so fragile it might shatter. The was a quiet, discordant note—a lilt at the end of his name.

"I'm Billy," he said softly, his voice cracking but steady. "It's nice to meet you." He smiled—sunlight piercing through dark gray cumulonimbus clouds, stray droplets beaded up in the corner of his eyes left by a rainstorm.

It responded with the sound of heavy, constricted breathing.

"I found you," Billy stated.

"W-what?" The person could only manage the words as they returned to tender wheezing and groaning. There was a fragile vulnerability in the tone, disbelief laced with an unsettling spiral of unease. “W-why?” The word broke into a sob, jagged and uneven. “You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t have…”

The small boy knew the struggles of being a hero: sometimes, he couldn't save everyone.

Billy’s chest tightened, his breath hitching. He wiped at his face, leaving smudges of red watercolor across his cheeks. The silence hung heavy, his words the only thing anchoring him now. Finally, he spoke—soft but confident:

“Because everyone deserves to be found.”

.

Shocked silence.

.

.

.

A reflective hitch in the breathing of both beings.

"I-I don't d-de-"

A scream ripped through the air—a jagged, crushing sound tearing out of the being behind the Door, leaving no room for rest or reprieve.

The wail swirled into an intense and dizzying Merry-Go-Round, oscillating between a few centimeters from the door to a considerable distance, as tethered to a sling swung in a wild circle. A nauseating lurch accompanied each shift in pitch and proximity; the sound whipped through the air like an emergency siren.

Billy ground his teeth, his hands clutching at his ears as the noise crashed into him like waves. It was awful. Underneath the chaos, he swore he could hear the clink of chains, the squeal of metal, and the wet thwack of flesh.

The ear-splitting howl of anguish and confusion reached a crescendo. The spirals on the Door began to spin, fractals spilling outward in a kaleidoscope of jagged patterns.

Billy’s heart thrashed violently in his chest. He scrambled back from the Door, his feet slipping as the air seemed to twist. A sharp sting seared through his arm—a paper cut.

He froze, feeling the sting again—this time on his shoulder. A needle-sharp hand pressed against him, and when he turned, he saw it.

The Distortion loomed behind him, its form a shifting, impossible nightmare. Its hand hovered just above his skin, the edges of its fingers unraveling into threads that pierced and stitched into his watercolor frame.

"HOW?" it roared, its voice tearing through the fabric of the space around them—collapsing inward and outward, a star consuming itself from inside. "HOW DID A SPECK OF WORTHLESS EXISTENCE FIND WHERE I AM NOT?"

The boy's form shimmered, rippling like wet paint. A faint glimpse of his true face emerged—flushed cheeks, a mess of black curls, bright blue eyes that sparkled with something annoyingly defiant, and a dimple cutting into his left cheek.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN DIGESTED," The Distortion shrieked, crushing a symphony of glass and bleeding ink. "YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME."

Its fingers clenched, puncturing Billy’s flat form, leaving small, threadlike holes where the needle-like tips had pierced through.

For a moment, the black dots of Billy’s painted eyes met the Distortion’s gaze, utterly incomprehensible.

And then, a faint twitch of his lip.

"I'm built different."

.

.

A beat.

.

.

Suddenly, the Distortion fractured.

Pieces of material and broken cracks proliferated throughout the entity. Separating them into individual glinting and ever-fluctuating surfaces.

The clink and shattering of glass scattered onto a porcelain floor, except there was Nothing around them.

The makeshift spiral of fractals, paper, and shattered glass twisted into a vortex, an unstoppable force boring through the fabric of nothingness. The sound bloomed—thunder emanating from the ripping paper, the fractured clinking glass, and the high-pitched howl of the wind.

And then—

DOOR SLAM.

The noise stopped, swallowed in an instant as the tornado collapsed. In this single point of silence, only the remnants of a faint, ringing echo remained.

A pirouette of papers, books, statements, and a particularly small boy stumbling backward as he was flung into somewhere else.

He landed hard on his bottom on a cold, hard floor. The chaos and malice of the Spiral were replaced with the callous, clinical nature of an office.

"Okay, rude," Billy stated as he blew at an exceptionally stubborn lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes.

Then, he stood up and took in his surroundings. Desks had their paperwork and folders in tatters. Pens, pencils, and even staplers were scattered in a disarray of office supplies.

Light skewed and flickered near the furniture. Desk lamps were knocked over, shelves had books fallen on the floor, and the scent of mildew crept around the cabinets. The low hum of electricity echoed softly in the back of the room.

A man with an unkept bun with a couple of stray hairs, a sweater vest with a sizable old tea stain, and cloudy glasses that needed a wipe blinked up at the boy from behind a desk. He was holding a notebook, but where was his pen?

His mouth was open in shock, and it took a few moments to collect himself.

"...What."

Billy squinted, brushing off the leftover...dust from the Spiral. "Uh...is this a library?"

"This is the Archives of the Magnus Institute. How did you get in here?" The man frowned and gestured with his other hand as if still holding his pen. He then noticed that it was gone and pointed at the child.

"Would you believe me if I said a yellow door shoved me out?" Billy asked with a tilt of his head, wondering exactly how old the tea stain was.

The Archivist stared, and then he shut his eyes slowly before pinching the bridge of his nose. A few moments later, he fumbled for a tape recorder in the drawers of his desk before clicking it on and pressing record.

"Statement of a young boy, regarding his trip through a yellow door..."

︵‿︵‿୨𖦹୧‿︵‿︵

Prev

[kirby-the-gorb]

kirb2k auction - painting

this auction is for an original mixed-media painting (watercolor, acrylic, and glitter on stretched canvas) measuring 12 inches by 16 inches.

bidding will be open from now until noon pst on december 17th 2023. highest bidder will be dmed for their email, then invoiced via paypal. failure to respond within 24 hours will forfeit to the next-highest.

how to bid: reply or dm with your offer. this post will be updated regularly with the current high bid. (this auction is crossposted to twitter but there is only one painting and there will only be one winning bid)

starting bid: $45 USD

current bid: $69

shipping: free to USA. +$20 intl, worldwide.

[becauseimanicequeen]

Could you explain the contrasting colors more cuz that stuff goes right above my head. lol. Thanks.

Hi, Anon.

To explain complementary/contrasting colors, I need to get into some basic color theory.

So, let me stretch my fingers and dig into this nerdy shit I love.

I'm pretty sure you've already seen something like this before:

This is a photo I took of a color-wheel illustration in Betty Edwards' book "Color".

This is a traditional color wheel with 3 primary colors, 3 secondary colors, and 6 tertiary colors.

(I'm putting their numbers in the parentheses below so you'll know which color I'm referring to on the color wheel.)

The primary colors can't be created by mixing other colors/pigments. These are the basic colors you need to create the other colors on the color wheel. The primaries are:

Yellow (12)

Red (4)

Blue (8)

The secondary colors are those you get by mixing two of the primaries together. They are:

Orange (2) (yellow + red)

Purple (6) (red + blue)

Green (10) (blue + yellow)

The tertiary colors are those you get by mixing a primary color with a secondary color that's right next to it. Those are:

Yellow-Orange (1)

Red-Orange (3)

Red-Purple (5)

Blue-Purple (7)

Blue-Green (9)

Yellow-Green (11)

The tertiary colors usually have different names in everyday language (like turquoise or indigo). But I'm coming from a painter's perspective when naming the tertiary colors because this was how I learned how to identify hues and mix them properly (and, as you can see, the primary color is always mentioned first).

Anyway...

Since you asked me about contrasting colors, let's dive into that.

Contrasting colors are also called complementary colors. These colors sit on the opposite sides of the color wheel (I'll get more into this in a moment).

They're called contrasting colors because they contrast each other. They can contrast each other in value (as in how much/little light they reflect) and they can contrast each other in temperature (at least in the traditional sense of temperature where every color from purple up to yellow-green is cool while every color from yellow to red-purple is warm).

(The latter statement is made with some reservations as all colors on the color wheel can have both cool and warm temperatures, which is important to know when painting with natural pigments (like oils and watercolor). However, since this is not about painting, I'm keeping it simple here.)

The reason they're called complementary colors is because they also complement each other. When put close to each other (or, as in my profession, somewhere within the confines of the same canvas), it creates high impact and contrast. The colors pop.

The contrasting/complementary colors of the colors wheel are:

Yellow (12) + purple (6)

Yellow-orange (1) + blue-purple (7)

Orange (2) + blue (8)

Red-orange (3) + blue-green (9)

Red (4) + green (10)

Red-purple (5) + yellow-green (11)

Note how all of these combinations have all three primary colors in them in one way or another, which shows how important the primaries are:

Yellow + purple (red + blue)

Yellow-orange (yellow + red) + blue-purple (blue + red)

Orange (yellow + red) + blue

Red-orange (red + yellow) + blue-green (blue + yellow)

Red + green (blue + yellow)

Red-purple (red + blue) + yellow-green (yellow + blue)

Let's look at some examples of these contrasting colors (I'll just do the primaries and their contrasts because those are the easiest to find):

This is what yellow and purple can look like together:

Wandee Goodday.

This is what orange and blue can look like together:

Living With Him.

This is what red and green can look like together:

KinnPorsche.

The interesting thing about contrasting colors is that while they complement each other well, they cancel each other out when mixed (which creates gray/black).

So, whether you mix yellow + purple, red + green, blue + orange, or any of the other contrasting colors together, you'll get gray/black.

That's why I lost my shit a bit in this post about Wandee Goodday, which I think you based your ask on.

This is as far as I'll take it in this post. I hope you found these basics interesting and useful.

Thank you for your ask.

[daebakinc]

Dirty, Dirty Dancing Pt 8 (M)

A Dirty Dancing AU

Pairing: Yunho X Female Reader X Hyunjin (polyamorous relationship)

Word Count: 4.3K

Synopsis: The college campus where boyfriend, Yunho, is a visiting dance instructor seems like every other university you’ve visited until a secret party reveals it’s anything but. After a drunken mishap, promising dance student, Hyunjin, is left without a dance partner. Enlisted in helping him before a big audition, you begin to catch feelings for him. Can you help him and maintain a relationship with your boyfriend?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

~Admin V

           Hyunjin tried to blink away his shock as you removed your shirt and asked him to paint you. The chorus of the music seemed to bring him back to focus. He walked to the large canvas and turned it to the backside, then placed it on the floor. Quickly, he expertly removed the staples from the wooden frame so it was just the cloth of the canvas.

           Seeing what he was doing, you helped to clear space on the floor, so the canvas would be able to lie flat.

           When he had it off the wooden frame, Hyunjin flipped it over again, then taped each corner to the floor with masking tape.

           He exhaled as his eyes landed on you again. At his workstation, he grabbed a thin wooden box labeled “water colors.” He grabbed a tube of blue colored paint, and squeezed a large portion of it on a plastic square.

           “Why watercolor? Why not oil based?” You weren’t very familiar with art or painting, but you knew oil showed deeper, richer colors.

           “Watercolor will wash off. If I use oil based, we’d need turpentine to get the paint off your skin.”

           “Ah.” You watched as he spread the blob of paint until it was bigger.

           Hyunjin combed through a cup filled with paint brushes until he found a large, wide one that looked like what was used to paint walls in houses. Once he was all set up he looked toward you. “Can you remove your pants?”

           Nodding, you did as asked, then walked over toward him and the supplies.

           At the audition, you’d seen him look nervous, but this was a different kind of energy as he scanned over your body. Exhaling slowly, he prepared his paintbrush with a large dollop of blue, then got on his knees. He began painting the front of your thighs. He painted them from just above your knee to your panties, careful not to touch the fabric.

           When they were thoroughly covered, he stretched up to paint your tummy. Again, he was careful not to touch your underwear, and painted your skin until he was at your ribs. He got up from his knees and stared at your chest then looked in your eyes. “I think it would be best if you took off your bra.”

           “Okay.” You didn’t feel nervous like when you were trying on the dress with Wooyoung there. There was excitement as you reached behind your back to unclasp the garment, and you felt yourself tremble a bit.

           His eyes never left your chest as he watched you. A blush filled his cheeks when the bra was removed and you tossed it by the t-shirt.

           Breathing slowly, he dipped his brush in more paint and started covering your ribs until he was under your breasts.

           His breath was shaky, and his voice was a whisper as he asked, “Can I touch you?”

           “Yes.”

           He carefully lifted each breast to ensure the paint fully covered beneath them. He then painted over your nipples. “When Yves did this, he taped the canvas on the wall and pushed the women into it.” His voice was at regular volume now as he concentrated on your upper breasts. “I thought it might be easier to do it on the floor and let gravity do some of the work. But I’m not really sure how your . . . uh . . . chest will lay.” The blush was back in his cheeks.

           After painting your collarbone he asked you to hold your hands up, coloring them as well as your forearms. Then you were ready.

           He led you to the edge of the canvas and helped you kneel down. “Think of it like you’re going to do a push up, but it’s when you’re tired and let your body down to rest.”

           “Okay,” you nodded, understanding. The thing was, you were afraid to touch the canvas. You didn’t want to mess it up.

           Hyunjin realized your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s alright if it smudges.”

           Nodding again, you let yourself breathe, then fell onto your hands. As instructed, you lowered yourself onto the canvas.

           “I’m going to press on you a little.”

           “Sure.” You stayed perfectly still.

           Starting with your legs, Hyunjin pressed both hands on your right thigh, then left. He then moved his attention to your lower back, mid back, then upper back and shoulders. He also pressed against your arms and hands.

           “Can you lift yourself up?”

           A worry filled your mind. “Will the canvas stick to me?”

           “No. I taped it to the floor.”

           “Ah, right.” Without further hesitation, you pushed yourself up. With Hyunjin’s aid, he helped you to your knees, then to stand.

           Both of you looked at the canvas. There was a tiny triangle where your underwear was, but it wasn’t very noticeable with your thighs and belly taking up space.

           “Don’t worry, I have an idea for that?”

           You looked to him, and he had sheepish grin.

           “The trend of removing pubic hair was only just starting in the 60s, when Yves Klein did his paintings of women, so they still had their hair.” His cheeks turned a new shade of red. “I don’t know your situation, but I figured you wouldn’t want paint there, so.” He lifted a round sponge.

           “Nice.”

           “Thank you.”

           “Before you do that, I have an idea.”

           His eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Oh?”

           “What if I paint you, in a different color, like red, and we press your body into the canvas, too. But your hands could rest at the hips, like you were holding the other figure.”

           Both of his eyebrows were raised as he looked over the art and thought about what you said. “I like it, let’s do it.” He was blushing again. “Do you maybe want to clean up so you can get dressed?”

           “Okay.” It was adorable how shy he was. You’d never have guessed it the way he danced, especially with the routine he danced with you.

           Back on his knees, he used water-tissue to wipe off the paint. You were able to get most the paint off your tummy and chest, but had trouble seeing your collarbone and needed his help.

           As you watched him wipe away the paint at your clavicle, you could see he was holding his breath.

           “What’s wrong?” Your voice was quiet.

           His eyes looked bigger as he stopped cleaning paint from your skin and stared at you. “I was just thinking of what you said earlier.”

           “Oh.” It was your turn to feel shy. You’d done everything to distract him from your words in fear of rejection. But now he could confront them.

           “You feel for me.” He wasn’t asking a question, but you nodded your head to confirm anyway. “But you still feel for Yunho?”

           “Yes.” Here it was, the rejection you knew was coming.

           “That makes you poly.”

           You weren’t expecting that response and straightened your back and shoulders. How did he already understand polyamory when neither you nor Yunho did? Then again, he was friends with Yeji, and she introduced you to it. “I’m not really sure. It’s new. I’m just trying to figure it all out.”

           His head bobbed up and down in understanding, but his eyes kept gazing back and forth from yours, to your lips. “I . . . I’m not sure if I’m poly, but I’m open to anything if it means I could kiss you.”

           A shiver ran down your spine. “You want to kiss me?”

           “Wasn’t it obvious when we got back to campus after the audition?”

           Looking at his lips, your mouth parted. Gods did you want it, too. “What’s stopping you?”

           He didn’t hesitate. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, his fingers grabbing your hair. His other hand cupped your cheek as he closed the distance between you and pressed his clothed body against your naked one.

           You were shaking as you looked him in the eyes, and could feel him quivering, too.

           The time it took for him to press his lips on yours felt like it was happening at the slowest pace possible, and in an instant.

           He was delicate when his lips touched yours; soft, taking his time.

           His scent quickly filled your nose, and your arms wrapped around him, with one hand grasping between his shoulder blades and the other deep in his hair.

           As you pressed him closer against you, his kiss became less delicate and more hungry. His lips felt stronger against yours, and he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, causing you to moan.

           Hyunjin’s strength as he leaned on you caused you to back up into his work table.

           When you squeaked in surprise, Hyunjin backed off. “Are you alright?”

           Nodding quickly to indicate you didn’t want to stop, you lifted yourself to sit on the table.

           Any shyness you’d seen on Hyunjin was now gone, his eyes full-blown with need. Parting your legs, he stood between them to hold you as close as he could as he kissed you again.

           Your hands went back into position on his back and in his hair. Feeling breathless, you opened your mouth wider, allowing Hyunjin to slide his tongue in. You both groaned as you tasted each other. You could live in his taste. Needing him closer, you hugged him harder to you, teasing him as you pulled away from the kiss, then licked his lips, then tongue, but not wholly giving him a full kiss. He whined when you bit his lip.

           Hearing him in pleasure aided your arousal. Your nipples were hard, and you were very aware of them as they brushed the fabric of his shirt. “You’re wearing too much.”

           “I’ll take it off if you stop playing.”

           Before you could answer, his lips were back on yours, making you whimper in turn. Your hands reached down for the hem of the shirt, then pulled it up until he backed away to lift it off.

           You bit your lip as you took in his muscled torso. He had a bit more definition than Yunho, especially in his arms. You wondered if that was because of pole dancing. Your eyes dropped to his pants. “Those, too.”

           He shook his head as he smirked. “You’re naughty.”

           “Nu uh! I just want you in the same amount of clothing as me!”

           “Uh huh, sure.” But he complied and removed them as well, standing in front of you in black boxer-briefs. Moving back so you were touching chest to chest, he spoke with his mouth only inches from yours. “You’re gonna kiss me now?”

           Gasping, feeling the heat of his chest against yours, you answered by grabbing his hair and pushing his lips to yours. With your mouth already parted, he slid his tongue in, rubbing it against yours, moaning with you to the sensation. As the kiss got more involved and he leaned against you, you felt his hardness press into you.

           Inhaling suddenly, you broke the kiss.

           “I’m sorry,” he backed off.

           “No, no.” You didn’t want him to be sorry. You were lost in his taste, touch, and scent, and you were feeling dizzy and not forming the words you needed. “I don’t want to stop.”

           “No?”

           You shook your head.

           Moving back to where he was, he grabbed at your thigh, opening your legs more, then gyrated so his hardon grinded against you.

           A cry of pleasure left your lips.

           “You want this?”

           “Yes.”

           Hyunjin rolled his hips again, and you could feel him press against you from core to clit, making you cry out louder. With his free hand, he lifted your chin so you’d look at him. “You don’t want me to stop?”

           “I want you to keep going, please.”

           With his music still playing in the studio, Hyunjin moved his hips in rhythm with it, dry humping you to the beat.

           You held onto his shoulders, needing to feel as much of him as you could.

           He looked in your eyes each upward stroke. For the most part he was doing a good job to stay quiet.

           Not you. The friction of the fabric with each push he made, you couldn’t help but let him know how good this made you feel. You needed more. “Please kiss me again.”

           With a sly smile, instead of kissing your lips, he kissed your cheek several times, then his lips found your earlobe. As he continued thrusting, his lips found their way to your neck.

A particularly loud cry escaped you, which made Hyunjin giggle as he kissed down to your shoulder.

           “Who’s playing now?”

           Chuckling, he stopped kissing your shoulder and brought his attention back to your mouth. He teased you the same way you’d done to him, licking your lips, then licking your tongue, before he fully pressed against you for a kiss, stroking his shaft between your legs in time.

           You could feel the white heat of orgasm building, and groaned into his mouth.

           His pace quickened as he humped you, making your legs shake and cries of pleasure sound from both of you. “You gonna cum for me?”

           Clutching his back, you nodded quickly. “Just don’t stop.”

           Pulling your lower back closer to him, he thrusted more forcefully against you, making him grunt and you moan loudly. As your sounds of rapture filled the room, he rolled his hips until you were quaking in ecstasy. His motions slowed as you were coming down from your climax. Finally stopping, he pressed his forehead against yours. “Feel good?”

           Eyes closed, you focused on your breathing as you nodded. You felt the beads of sweat drip from your body. Squeezing his hair in your hand, you could feel it dripping from him, too.

           Hyunjin pecked at your lips a few times.

           Letting your hands fall to his waist, you looked at him. “You didn’t finish.”

           A sheepish grin appeared on his face. “I uh . . . may have taken care of myself earlier. So, I’m not quite as sensitive.”

           “Oh?” you smiled back. “Anyone in mind during that?”

           His grin grew wider. “Not kissing you earlier really did a number on me.” 

           “Well, I don’t mind if you wanna keep going. If you want to do more.”It was your turn for your cheeks to redden.

           “Really? You’re not too tired?”

           “I have experience with the stamina of dancers.”

           He smiled, but still didn’t look convinced. “You want to go all the way with me? Have sex?”

           Just the idea of it sent butterflies to your tummy. “Yes, Hyunjin. I want you. All of you.”

            “Good.” He kissed you, then backed away to look inside his supply cabinets. “Lucky for you, I have condoms in here, somewhere.”

           “Oh, so I’m not the only girl you’ve fooled around with in here, then.”

           “It’s not like that,” he peered inside one cabinet, then moved to the next. “Condoms make very useful art tools.”

           “Sure they do. Likely excuse.”

           “They do!” he whined. Reaching behind supplies, he grabbed a box and lifted it. “Found ‘em!”

           Laughing at how cute he was, you pivoted around on the table to wiggle out of your undergarments while he removed his own and prepared the condom.

           As he walked back towards you, you couldn’t help but stare at his full girth and length and sucked in some air.

           His laugh was shy. “Nervous?”

           Finding confidence, you shook your head. “I’m ready."

           He gestured to your legs as if to move them. “Can I?"

           “Yeah, of course."

           Lifting your leg, Hyunjin placed your left foot on the table and hooked his arm around your thigh. He looked in your eyes. “You’re sure?”

           You rested your hands on his shoulders. “Yes, Hyunjin. I want . . .” you had more to say, but he’d placed his tip at your entrance and guided himself into your heat, and you forgot whatever else there was to say.

           Snaking his other arm around your back, Hyunjin’s face was close to yours as he groaned. “You feel so good.

           “Yeah,” you blinked quickly, mind still in a haze, “You do, too.”

           Pulling away slowly until just his tip was in you, he then pushed in roughly, making you both cry out loudly.

           “Shit, Hyunjin.”

           “Yeah,” he nodded. He was shaking a bit.

           His music changed again, and whatever the song was made him laugh.

           “What is it?”

           He almost pulled out as before and thrusted into you again, causing the room to echo in more moans. “This is a sex song.”

           “A sex song?” you smiled.

           “Well according to Felix.”

           “Oh really? So, you’re thinking of him in this moment?”

           He pumped into you harder, practically making you scream to prove he was only thinking of you. “I’ll show you.”

           The music gradually started to speed up, and so did Hyunjin, matching his hips to the rhythm. It was a wonder either of you could even hear the music with all the commotion coming from your mouths. As you felt yourself on the precipice of another orgasm, the music started slowing down, and so did Hyunjin.

           When the music started to speed up again, you grabbed at Hyunjin’s skin, now slick with sweat. His loud groans fed your arousal, and the position he had you in stimulated your clit with each gyration.

           The friction from the speed had your legs shaking. “Hyunjin,” you whined. Your nails scratched down his back as you came for the second time.

           Not stopping, he continued to move with the music, slowing back down until the song ended.

           “Hyunjin,” you breathed again.

           He paused his ministrations.

           “I want to change positions.”

           “Okay,” he breathed. Sweat was dripping from his hair.

           Scanning the room, you noticed a small, beat-up love seat in the corner. You tilted your head toward it. “How about there?”

           Glancing at it, then back to you, he smiled. “Sure. But,” he looked shy again. “My legs are a little wobbly from this round. I don’t think I can carry you.”

           “That’s okay.”

           His grin became mischievous, and he brought his lips close to yours. “It would be okay, but after your last orgasm, your walls are still pretty tight around me. And now that we’re not moving, pulling out might be uncomfortable for you.”

           Blushing, you hadn’t realized you were squeezing him so much. “S-sorry.”

           Hyunjin quickly pecked your lips. “You don’t have to be sorry. Just relax.” He moved to whisper in your ear. “I’ll be back inside you in no time, making you scream my name.”

           Your eyes fluttered shut as you took in a breath. “This isn’t exactly helping me to relax.”

           He stroked the delicate skin of your left thigh with one hand, and your back with the other. As he slid his tongue against yours, you focused on his taste, thinking of what he said, and allowed yourself to let go.

           Slowly, he pulled out, causing you both to whine from the loss of heat. Breaking the kiss, he leaned his forehead against yours. “I just need a second.”

           “Yeah,” you agreed.

           After a moment of catching your breaths, Hyunjin looked down, and the mischievous grin was back. “I should change the condom before we go again.” He kissed you, then whispered. “You came so much for me.”

           “It’s my plan to cum even more, but I want to make you cum with me.”

           Moaning in your mouth as he kissed you once more, he licked at your lips before looking in your eyes. “Deal.”

           Once Hyunjin helped you off the worktable, you wobbled over towards the couch while he put on a fresh condom. You stood with your back to him, waiting by the arm of the sofa.

           His arms wrapped around your waist and he breathed in your ear. “Why are we standing?” His fingers brushed over the front of your body, making goosebumps appear on your skin as you inhaled.

           You turned your head towards him. “I want to be on top.”

           Chuckling in your ear, he pulled you against him in a hug. “So you want to be in control this time?”

           Moving so you were now facing him, you wound your arms around his neck and smiled sweetly. “No, you’re still in charge. I just want to ride you.”

           His mouth twitched at your words and his eyes darkened. Licking his lips, he nodded then made himself comfortable sitting on the couch. He then extended his hands to help you hover above him. With your legs on either side of him you felt secure. He let go of your hands, opting to have one on your hip, the other on himself.

           He looked to you, and when you nodded you were ready, he placed his tip at your entrance again.

           You then sank down on his length until he was fully immersed in you, both of you gasping to the sensation.

           The new position allowed for deeper penetration, which took the two of you a moment to adjust.

           Trembling a little, you leaned forward so you could tangle a hand in his hair, and grab his chest.

 Hyunjin said your name with concern. “Are you okay?”

           “You just make me so full.” You moaned as you shifted a little. “I love feeling all of you in me.”

           He smirked. “I’m still in charge you say?”

           Biting your lip, you nodded.

           “Ride me.” With both hands on your hips now, he guided you a little until you were in a nice rhythm of pumping against him. As you rolled your hips, you were able to rub your clit against his skin.  You kept your rotation consistent in speed, and Hyunjin groaned with each pass into him. 

           When you yourself were becoming more vocal, Hyunjin lifted your hips up, then slammed you back down against him, making you both cry out.

           “Fuck,” he mumbled. He lifted you again, this time also thrusting as he brought you down. Both of you made echoes from your sounds of pleasure. Hyunjin was becoming much louder this round, and way louder than Yunho usually was.

           He continued to aid in the pleasure by pulling your hips down on him or lifting his up to meet you.

           You could only focus on how thick he felt inside of you, how warm his chest was as you gyrated closer to him, how he cried out your name as you were finally bringing him closer to release.

           Panting, your hand tightened in his hair as he pushed into you, hard. You moaned his name.

           “Say it again.” He thrusted up.

           “Hyunjin.” You rolled your hips.

           “Again,” his voice was louder as he pulled you down.

           “Fuck, Hyunjin.”

           The movements were getting hurried and messy. You didn’t have much control anymore, and Hyunjin didn’t seem to have a firm grasp on it, either. Willing yourself to jerk your hips forwards once more, Hyunjin began shaking under you. Holding you down against him, you felt him cum. He cried out so loudly it brought you to your own orgasm, making you clutch his chest as you rode him out.

           When you stopped rolling your hips, your heart pounding in your chest made your skin vibrate.

           Still coming down from his climax, Hyunjin looked at you, then reached behind your neck to pull you in for a sloppy, but chaste kiss.

           He wasn’t hard anymore, and helped you off him to sit on the couch.

           He laced his hand with yours, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “Holy shit,” he mumbled against your knuckles.

           “Yeah,” you gave him a weak smile, still catching your breath. Everything that just happened was incredible. It was easily one of the best nights of your life. But fear crept into your mind.

           Hyunjin saw it, and reached for your chin so you’d look at him. “Tell me what you’re thinking?”

           You felt embarrassed and tried to look away, but his fingers on your chin were strong.

           “Please tell me.”

           “I might have lost Yunho tonight. And you got your kiss and sex from me. But you’re a senior, about to move onto the dance company of his dreams. So, I feel like I had you, only to lose you, too.”

           Furrowing his eyebrows, he got up from the sofa to lean on his knees in front of you, holding your face to look at him.

           “When are you going to realize, I’m not going to let you fall?”

           Not prepared for his answer, your mouth opened and closed as you tried to find the words, or even the thoughts.

           Stroking your cheek with his thumb, he made sure you were looking in his eyes. “This wasn’t a one night thing for me. You weren’t a prize I was trying to win. I wanted to kiss you after the audition because I have feelings for you, too. I feel for you like you feel for me. I know I didn’t say it earlier, but it’s because I’m scared, too. I know you love Yunho, and I respect that because I respect you and I respect him. But what’s to say you won’t choose him over me?”

           His sudden confession was making you feel emotional, bringing tears to your eyes. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

           “But that doesn’t stop me from thinking it.” Hyunjin wiped your tears with his thumbs. “I don’t know where things stand with Yunho, but you aren’t losing me. This was more than just sex to me. I was giving more than just my body to you.”

           You weren’t sure of what to say. He was giving you his heart?

           Before you could think too long on his words, his lips pressed softly on yours. They weren’t hungry, but restrained. When he inhaled the kiss deepened and you kissed him back.

           Breaking the kiss, you searched in his eyes. You knew he was being sincere. Whatever this was, he was yours.

           Wrapping your arms around him, you hugged him. He climbed back onto the couch and held you. He kissed the top of your head and hugged you in his arms until you fell asleep.

[jajatoc]

humbly asking for your traditional art tips (and more specifically if you have any advice for how to make details look as good as possible) 🙏🙏

Hii hello!!!!! I apologize for the time it took to answer this ask but I feel the concept of time is slowly but inexorably slipping away from me!!!!!!!! Your question is really interesting because I rarely feel comfortable posting my traditional art at all.. and the little advice I have comes from a place of great insecurity!! But I'm incredibly thankful for your ask as always friend..

I go to an art school so I've had the chance and luck to experiment with quite a lot of techniques.. but I haven't really managed to "master" much of any! Aside perhaps from the good old graphite.

My humble advice is to stick to whatever makes you more comfortable. I know everyone always says positive change comes from leaving your comfort zone but sometimes.. especially when it comes to art.. which has to be expressive and liberating for you first of all.. it's not wrong to find Your Spot. The physical medium you actually damn like to hold! To get in touch with! To improve and strive for the interpretation of it that satisfies you! I have never been a tactile person, I am not delicate nor careful when I work. If erasing and starting over is not an option, then the work is not for me. Mechanical pencils (2b to 4b) and sheets of paper (preferably easy to transport) will undeniably just be the mediums I prefer! But I've found watercolors and acrylics to also be very comfortable with time. It's important to find your niche, I believe!

The way you work and the time you put into it is also very important! Working with physical mediums is objectively more physically taxing than digital ones! A graphic tablet and a screen don't require you to organise your space much, nor to be much spatially aware at all.. but any other technique does. You have to find yourself a comfortable space to work, to fit your materials, a good enough lighting setup etc etc.. never forget your body has needs and It always works better when they are nurtured..

And speaking about time. It is crucial to. Look away. Walk away from your projects Often as hell. Especially because you don't have an undo button. They WILL look weird if you spend an entire day staring at it without looking away eventually. Stretch. Eat. Watch something else. I found taking breaks to write helps a lot!!!

And about details........ if you are working with a reference image. I cannot explain how useful the grid method is. It's the oldest trick in the book. The literal Egyptians used it. Divide the canvas in As Many Shapes as you like (no shame in making them small. You can do whatever the hell you want) as long as the image you're referencing is divided in the exact same way. After having laid down the general shapes work bit by bit. SLOWLY!!!!! DON'T RUSH YOURSELF!!!! And I swear you'll touch the heavens. It's so satisfying genuinely.

If you're just drawing something without reference...... which is the best feeling in the world Don't get me wrong. But you feel it's in need of details. Don't police yourself get the references. It enriches your visual library of a TON after a while. You absorbe the shapes and then you'll just know how to draw them!! Look at the references now and you'll have them engrained in your mind with time! (Any of this is true But not for shoes. Never have I managed to draw a shoe without a reference in my life. Shapes entirely beyond my comprehension!)

My curriculum (photos taken rn sorry for the horrible lighting.)!! They are not good nor inspired (it was. School work) But I was thinking of the times I made these when giving advice! So I think it would be useful to know what I was talking about <3 It's just B or 2B graphite:

[mybudgetart]

Watercolor Streaks Wall Art (Paintings Of Houses)

Watercolor streaks, brush strokes, blots, smudges, minimalist abstract canvas painting prints boho style pic for online sale, choose rolled canvas prints or ready to hang framed art / stretched canvas gallery wrapped panel prints artwork.

[freetobeeyouandme]

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

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Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

Previous Prompt < View Collection on Ao3 > Next Prompt

written for @bylerween2023

[lifeofpriya]

pls could you do one based on staying over at Jack’s for the first time 🥹🫶

omg, of course i will!!! 🥺🫶🏼 i may have gone a little steamy with it, but oh well, i don't regret one bit heheh 🤭

Night of Love

wc: 3.63k

"The rain isn't letting up," Jack says, peering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his London apartment. His eyes follow the rivulets snaking down the glass, blurring the city lights into a watercolor canvas of yellows and reds. His voice is a comforting bass, the kind that resonates in the quiet spaces between heartbeats.

You nod, watching him from the plush armchair, a cup of tea cradled in your hands. The warmth seeps into your skin, a stark contrast to the cold outside. The apartment is a testament to Jack's minimalist taste, with clean lines and a muted color palette. Yet, there's a coziness to it, a homely embrace that makes you feel welcomed. You've seen it in photos, of course, but being here, surrounded by his life, is different. More real.

Jack turns away from the window, a soft smile playing on his lips. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and joggers, his athletic frame relaxed but still hinting at the strength beneath. His dark brown hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. He's barefoot, and you notice the calluses on his feet, a map of his dedication to the sport.

You set your hot beverage aside and stand, stretching out your legs. The fabric of your jeans whispers against your skin, the denim a stark contrast to the luxurious carpet beneath your feet. "I didn't pack an umbrella," you admit, half joking.

Jack frowned briefly, his eyebrows knitting together in a moment of concern, "wait, you're not planning on leaving in this weather, are you?" He took a step closer, the air between you thick with unspoken invitations.

You smile shyly, nodding your head, "Yeah, I guess I didn't think it through."

Jack chuckles, a warm sound that fills the room. He steps closer to you, his eyes searching yours. "Why don't you stay the night?" He asks, the question hanging in the air like the scent of rain.

You hesitate, your heart racing. This is new territory, uncharted waters in your relationship. You've been seeing each other for a couple of months, but this is the first time you've been invited to spend the night in his personal space. His apartment reflects his life—structured yet comfortable, a place of rest after the chaos of the tennis courts that he shared with his best friend, Paul, and his older brother/agent, Ben.

Jack's gaze holds yours, his eyes a warm caramel that seems to melt the tension in the air. He's tall, with broad shoulders that speak of hours honed on the practice courts. His t-shirt clings to him in a way that's not at all ostentatious but still highlights the muscles earned from years of dedication. The room feels smaller with him so close, his presence a gentle force that makes you want to lean in.

"Stay," he says again, his voice softer this time, a whisper of a promise. You can see the hope in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability that you haven't noticed before. It's endearing, and it makes your decision easier. "Please?"

You bite your bottom lip, feeling the weight of the moment. You've been careful not to rush things, not to assume. But here, in the sanctity of his apartment, you feel like you're standing at the edge of a cliff, and all you need is a gentle push to leap into the unknown. "Okay," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur.

Jack's smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling with relief and happiness. "Great," he says, reaching out to squeeze your hand. His touch is firm but gentle, a silent reassurance that you're not alone in this.

You look around the apartment, taking in the details that you missed before. The framed photographs of Jack with his family, the well-worn tennis rackets standing like sentinels in the corner, the books stacked neatly on the shelves—a mix of biographies, strategy guides, and a few novels that hint at his diverse interests. There's a guitar in the corner, a dusty reminder of a hobby he picked up and hasn't had much time to revisit.

Jack notices your gaze and nods towards the instrument. "My attempt at being a rock star," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "It's not my strongest suit, but it's a good way to unwind."

You laugh, feeling the warmth of the moment expand in your chest. "Maybe I can convince you to play something?"

Jack's eyes light up. "Yeah?" He says, his voice hopeful. "I'd love that."

He leads you over to the guitar, and you take a seat on the floor in front of him as he settles onto the plush sofa. The rain outside is now a backdrop to the intimate moment, a soothing rhythm that seems to echo the beating of your hearts. He strums a few chords, his fingers moving with surprising grace over the strings.

You immediately recognize the tune being that of Wonderwall, his favorite Oasis song, which he had mentioned in passing once during a lazy afternoon at the park. The melody fills the room, and you can't help but feel a flutter in your stomach. It's as if the universe has conspired to make this moment as perfect as it could possibly be.

Jack's eyes never leave yours as he sings, his voice a bit raspy but earnest. You listen intently, watching his fingers dance over the strings, creating a symphony of emotions that resonates within you. His words aren't just a cover of a classic song; they're a declaration of his feelings, a serenade to the quiet moments you've shared and the potential of those to come.

You lean in closer, the warmth from his body radiating towards you, mixing with the scent of the rain outside and the faint aroma of his aftershave. It's a heady combination that makes you feel alive, as if the air around you is charged with something electric.

Jack's fingers still the guitar strings as the last note of "Wonderwall" fades into the patter of the rain. He sets the instrument aside and looks at you, his eyes searching yours. "I meant every word," he says, his voice low and earnest.

Your heart skips a beat, the words resonating within you like the lingering vibrations of the song. You lean in, closing the space between you, and press your lips to his in a soft kiss. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, and for a moment, the world outside the apartment ceases to exist.

The rain's rhythm becomes the soundtrack to your newfound intimacy as you explore each other, the gentle caress of Jack's hands leaving trails of warmth across your back. His scent, a blend of rain and something uniquely his, fills your nose. You deepen the kiss, feeling the roughness of his stubble against your skin.

Jack's apartment, usually a bastion of order, now holds a chaotic beauty—the cushions askew from your earlier sit, the half-empty mugs of tea forgotten on the coffee table. It's a mess that feels like a declaration of human presence, a reminder that even in a space so meticulously curated, life can be spontaneous and unplanned.

As the rain drums on, Jack reaches for your hand, leading you down the hallway. You follow, the plush carpet a soft whisper underfoot. His bedroom is a sanctuary of dark woods and navy blues, a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment. The bed, a king-sized retreat with crisp white sheets, sits in the center, beckoning you both.

Jack pulls you closer, his eyes searching yours for permission. You nod, the anticipation palpable. His room feels like a secret garden, a place where you can shed the layers of the outside world and just be. He turns off the lights, leaving only the glow of the city outside to cast a soft, flickering light through the gap in the curtains.

The bed is cool and inviting as you both lay down, the rain now a lullaby that sings you into a place of peace. You tuck your legs into his, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours. He's gentle, his hands tracing patterns on your skin that tell a story without words.

Jack whispers something in your ear, but the words are lost in the symphony of the rain. You don't need to hear them, though; the sentiment is clear. His eyes hold yours, and you realize that this is what it's like to be seen, truly seen. You're not just the person he's dating; you're the person who's sharing this moment with him.

The bed is like a cloud, enveloping you both in its softness. The city lights outside play tag with the shadows on the ceiling, painting a silent, ever-changing picture of the night. His hands are tentative but sure, a dance of curiosity and care. You melt into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body seep into your very soul.

Jack whispers your name—no, not your name, a word that's just for him, a secret between the two of you—and you smile into the darkness. He's always had a way with words, a gentle poetry that seemed to flow from his fingertips as he played tennis. It's as if he's learned to weave the same magic with his touch, making you feel seen and cherished.

You lean in, the fabric of your shirt cool against your skin as his hands explore the contours of your body. The rain outside is now a cacophony, a crescendo of sound that seems to crescendo with your heartbeat. Each drop hits the window like a drumbeat, setting the rhythm for the dance unfolding in the dim light.

Jack's fingers trace the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his. His kiss is tender, a silent promise that whispers of a future filled with moments like this. You're acutely aware of every sensation: the way your breath mingles with his, the softness of the pillows beneath your head, the steady beat of the rain outside.

"I've wanted this for so long," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a gentle rumble. His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. "But I didn't want to rush things."

You nod, understanding his caution. After all, your relationship has been a dance of respect and patience, a delicate tango around the edges of intimacy. But here, in the warm embrace of his bed, it feels as natural as breathing.

Jack pulls away, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a gentle rumble.

You nod, the word "yes" a whisper that barely leaves your lips. The anticipation is a tangible force in the air, a silent symphony that crescendos with the sound of the rain. He kisses you again, his hands moving with newfound confidence. The fabric of your shirt is a barrier that seems to melt away as his fingertips graze your skin.

The room is a cocoon of warmth, the coolness of the rain outside forgotten. Jack's touch is a story in itself, a narrative of yearning and care that you've felt in every moment of your time together. His hands explore your body, each caress a verse that leaves you breathless.

You reciprocate, your own hands learning the landscape of his skin. Each curve and muscle tells a tale of his discipline and passion. You trace the lines of his arms, the sinew and strength that propel him across the tennis courts, and feel a surge of admiration for the man he's become.

Jack pulls you closer, his chest a warm shelter from the storm outside. His heartbeat is a steady bass to the rain's rhythm, a reminder that you're both flesh and bone, both equally affected by the tempest of emotions swirling around you.

You feel the heat of his breath as he whispers sweet nothings that mean everything, words that resonate deep within you like the first chords of a favorite song. His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, a silent reassurance that he's here, that you're both in this together.

The rain outside is a serenade to the intimacy growing between you, a crescendo of droplets that mirrors the racing of your heart. The sound of the city is a distant lullaby, muffled by the walls of the apartment. It's just you and Jack, the rain, and the rhythm of your intertwined hearts.

Jack's hands are warm, a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. He's careful, reading the subtle cues of your body, making sure that every touch is a step in the right direction. You can feel his passion, his desire, but it's not rushed. It's a gentle exploration, a silent conversation of skin and breath.

As the rain crescendos outside, so does the intensity of your connection. Your hands wander up his back, feeling the contours of his muscles, tracing the lines that speak of countless hours on the tennis court. His skin is smooth, a testament to the care he takes in maintaining his physique. You press closer, feeling the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his heart matching the pulse of the rain.

Jack's eyes, those greenish hazel pools that could melt the toughest of hearts, searched yours for any sign of doubt or hesitation. He found none. The rain outside had turned into a soothing lullaby, and the warmth of his apartment was a stark contrast to the cold, wet world beyond the windows. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of rain and the faint aroma of his aftershave swirling around you.

You reached up, your hand brushing against the scruff on his cheek, feeling the roughness that was so at odds with the tenderness of his kisses. His hand slid up the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. The world outside the apartment faded away as you became lost in the dance of your limbs, the gentle give and take of your kisses.

Jack's apartment was a fortress against the storm, but the rain was a persistent drummer, setting the tempo for the crescendo of your feelings. His room, usually so orderly, reflected the tumultuous beauty of the moment, clothes scattered and the scent of rain mingling with the faint musk of arousal.

Jack's eyes searched yours, questioning, as his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips grazing your waist. You nodded, a silent yes that seemed to echo through the room, resonating with the pitter-patter outside. His touch was like a secret promise, a gentle caress that whispered of things to come.

He pulled away for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face as if memorizing every detail.

Jack's hands were warm and calloused as they traced the lines of your body, a stark contrast to the smoothness of your skin. His touch was a story in itself, a narrative of longing and care that you felt in every moment of your shared intimacy. Each stroke, each caress, was a verse that left you breathless.

You felt the rain's rhythm pulsing through the room, setting the pace for the passion building between you. The city lights played tag with the shadows on the ceiling, casting a soft, flickering glow that painted the room in a palette of midnight blues. It was a silent conversation, one of skin against skin, of breath mingling with whispers of love.

Jack's hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray strand of hair. His eyes searched yours, a question lingering in the air. You leaned into his touch, your heart racing as his fingertips traced the line of your collarbone, the fabric of your shirt giving way to the warmth of his skin. His eyes were pools of molten emotion, and you felt yourself drowning in them, a willing participant in this silent ballet of desire.

The rain outside had become a backdrop to the symphony of your breaths, each inhale and exhale a crescendo of passion. The room was a cocoon of warmth, a sanctuary from the cold embrace of the London night. The scent of rain mixed with the musk of your bodies, creating a heady perfume that seemed to thicken the air.

Jack's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the space between you. You nodded, the word "yes" a silent agreement that echoed through the room. The rain's rhythm grew softer as he gently tugged your shirt over your head, revealing the softness of your skin. The fabric whispered against your body, a sweet goodbye as it fell to the floor.

You sat before him, a canvas of desire, your breathing shallow and quick. He took in the sight of you, his eyes roaming every curve, every inch. His gaze was a warm caress, a silent promise that you were the most beautiful person he'd ever laid eyes on. The room was bathed in the flickering glow of the city lights, the shadows playing across your skin like lovers' hands.

Jack leaned in, his breath a warm whisper across your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His hands, those capable, strong hands that had sent countless tennis balls flying across the courts, were now tender, exploring the landscape of your body with a gentle reverence.

You felt the rain's rhythm pulsing through the room, a living, breathing entity that mirrored the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Each drop hit the window like a heartbeat, a reminder that outside this haven of warmth and passion, the world continued, unknowing of the transformation occurring within these four walls.

Jack's eyes searched yours, and in that moment, you realized how much you'd come to trust him. He wasn't just the charming, talented tennis player; he was your confidant, your partner in navigating the tumultuous seas of life. You nodded, the word "yes" a silent agreement that seemed to echo through the apartment, resonating with the rain's melody.

He leaned in, his breath a warm caress against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. His fingertips traced the contours of your body with a gentle reverence, a silent declaration of his intentions. The rain outside was a serenade to your burgeoning love, each drop a note in a symphony that sang of desire and vulnerability.

You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, feeling the roughness of his scruff. Your eyes searched his, looking for any sign of doubt, any reason to hold back. But all you found was the same yearning that mirrored your own, the same need to be closer.

Jack leaned in, his breath warm against your skin as he kissed you, the gentle pressure of his lips telling you that he felt the same way. The rain outside had turned into a symphony, a crescendo that seemed to pulse in time with your heart.

You reached up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingers, feeling the scruff that had grown over the day. His skin was hot, and you could feel his pulse racing under the pad of your thumb. You kissed him back, eagerly, and with every passing second, the barriers between you seemed to dissolve. The rain outside had become a gentle lullaby, the perfect score to the tender dance you were engaged in.

Jack's touch grew bolder, his hands exploring the softness of your skin as if he were learning the strings of a new guitar. Your heart raced with every brush of his fingertips, the rain outside a gentle crescendo that seemed to encourage your intimacy. The room was alive with the sound of your breaths, the whisper of fabric, and the sweet nothings you exchanged in the candlelit darkness.

"You're so beautiful," Jack murmured against your neck, his breath hot and tantalizing.

You felt your cheeks flush at the compliment, a smile playing on your lips. "And you're not so bad yourself," you teased, running your fingers through his damp hair. The rain outside had turned into a gentle patter, a soft serenade to the unfolding passion.

Jack chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He leaned back, taking you with him so that you were straddling his lap. His hands slid up your back, pressing you closer, as if trying to meld your bodies into one. The heat between you was palpable, a force that seemed to charge the very air.

You felt the rain's rhythm in your bones, a pulsing beat that matched the throb of desire. Your breath hitched as Jack's hands slid up your back, the fabric of his shirt a whisper of resistance against your skin. He kissed you again, his lips parting, and you felt yourself falling into him, a willing participant in this dance of love.

Jack's bedroom was a sanctuary of warmth, the rain outside a gentle serenade to the intimate moments you shared. His hands were sure, yet tender, as they traced the contours of your body, each touch a declaration of his affection. You felt the coolness of the rain-kissed air as he slid his shirt over his head, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, a testament to his athletic prowess.

The room was alive with the sound of the rain and the symphony of your intertwined breaths. The scent of rain and desire filled the air, a potent blend that made your heart race. His eyes searched yours, asking for permission, for reassurance that this was what you both wanted.

You nodded, a silent confirmation that sent a rush of excitement through his veins. His hands, so adept at wielding a tennis racket, now moved with a different kind of finesse as they traced the lines of your body. Each touch was a promise, a whisper of things to come.