#why am i picking both fluorescent green and orange

[fortheloveofaussiegrit]

Friday — Bahrain 2024

[q-gorgeous]

The Unworld

fanfiction

ao3

HI THIS IS A REPOST jnbhgv i originally posted this march 15th, 2018 on ffn but im gonna start going through the painstaking process of posting all my fics on ao3 so were just gonna go in order starting with the first one

idk if i ever posted this on my main blog so

I’ve been drifting around this place for what feels like millenniums. I can’t remember how I ended up here, just that one day I found myself unfortunate enough to be taken here. There’s no light, no ghastly glows from any other creatures. I’ve been here so long I can no longer even tell if I’m still blinking. 

This place has no real feeling to it. Just vast emptiness. It doesn’t really feel like it goes on forever, and it’s not a heavy, overwhelming type of emptiness either. The temperature feels as if it’s at a comfortable point, but I begin to wonder if I’ve just grown used to the climate of this strange place after being here for centuries. My fingertips are still cold though. That’s one thing I remember from my life all that time ago. I could never conquer the cold, no matter how bundled up I was. 

I’ve also begun to notice that my form is no longer the same as when I first arrived here. I feel lighter now than I did then. Sometimes I also feel as if my legs turn into a tail as I float here. I’m not sure why that is, I’ve just come to see it as evolving to my surroundings, becoming my surroundings. I think that might be what happens to other beings who get stuck here. They get eaten and picked at by this place. Because I can’t be the only one who’s had the unfortunate luck to get stuck here, can I?

I also believe that beings trapped here get devoured because I can feel myself becoming wispy, like I’m made out of a flickery material similar to fire. Bits by bits of myself flake off in the flowing rhythm my body has taken on. 

As my train of thought goes in circles on it’s tracks with no end, I realize something that I haven’t tried to do for a long time. 

Move. 

Walk. 

Get around. 

It must’ve been quite a few centuries since I’ve tried to look for a way to escape this dark place. I was still more corporeal then, still knew how to work my limbs. Would I even be able to make it a few steps before growing weary and succumbing to this place once again?

As I think and think and think, I come to the conclusion that nothing would hurt whether I did it or not. I began by trying to take a step forward in front of me but I’m not standing on anything to take a step from. As I lose my balance and begin to wobble, my legs turn into a flickering tail once again and I balance out. I begin to float forward more steadily now, as if my tail is helping to propel me. 

I go on for what could be minutes, hours, or even years until I come across something that feels so alien but oh so familiar at the same time. 

Gravity. 

There’s a weight pulling me towards what I assume is down. At first I just quietly observe what’s happening. But then I hear something that isn’t the ever so slowly shallower and shallower breaths I’ve been taking for centuries. It’s loud and it isn’t something I’ve ever heard before. And then…

I can see. 

There’s a fluorescent green glowing above me. I look at my arms, wispy and shadow like, reflecting the green light. 

My escape is above me. The opposite way that I’m floating.

I begin to propel myself upwards, trying to fight the ever increasing feeling of gravity as it pushes harder and harder against me. Soon I’m clawing myself up, fingers gripping a wall, it bends against my fingers and it’s the most wonderful thing I can ever remember feeling. Something beneath my fingers. 

As I make my way up I begin to wonder how I know this is an escape. Who knows whether or not this place is controlled by some other powerful being, or if this is just the last stage before my existence is finally wiped away. I just know that I need to pull myself over this wall and into this light. 

Pulling myself over the wall is excruciatingly painful and tiring. I haven’t used my muscles for anything except breathing in centuries. At one point, I lost my hold and almost fell from the wall but I managed to keep my grip and keep climbing up. 

As I finally pull myself up over the wall, I look at the green light, triumphant, but I notice that it’s getting smaller and smaller. Disappearing, my last chance. 

Panicking, I dive into the portal, crashing into a solid floor on the other side. 

My senses are immediately overwhelmed. I can feel gravity and the floor crowding in from all around me. I can smell different scents that I can’t recognize, this place smells burnt, caustic, and slightly of a sweet smell that makes my mouth begin to water. The most overwhelming though is sound. So much is happening. I can hear sets of shouts, but I can also hear whirring. The sound of electricity mixes with the sound of someone screaming and through my panicked state on the floor I begin wondering what’s happening around me in this new world I fell into. 

I drag myself up into a sitting position, and gap at the sight before me. A young being falls out of the glowing, fluorescent light that I made my escape through. Had there been someone else in there with me this whole time? Had I not realized it? The screaming has stopped now that the figure with snow white hair exited the portal and collapsed. 

This being does not appear to be human. 

Am I even human anymore?

I begin to creep forward to ask them a question when two teenagers rush past me and collapse next to the second being to escape from the portal. 

Confused, I begin to pull myself towards the creature on the ground. Why couldn’t his friends see me? Am I not visible?

The boy opens his glowing green eyes and looks at the two humans above him.

“Sam? Tucker?” He asks.

I’m flabbergasted. How could he know their names? It is nearly impossible to escape from that place. How could he happen to know these two humans?

They three have a few more exchanges before the boy is standing. He looks around and finds a reflective fixture hanging on the wall. What’s the word for it again? It’s been so long…

As the boy takes a look at his appearance, he begins to shake. He shakes his head back and forth, clearly in a state of panic. 

“N-no, guys how can this be happening? Why do I look like this? Why do I feel so strange? Why-.”

Suddenly he stops speaking, looking at the ground he turns around to face his friends. He looks up, with a shocked expression on his face before he quietly whispers.

“Am I dead?” 

The three look around at each other, at a loss for words in their fear. Soon enough a big rumbling comes from above and the three teens look up. Panic falls across all of their faces. 

A worried voice comes from the entryway to the room.

“Danny, kids, are you okay?”

The one I presume to be Danny, begins to breathe more heavily as his eyes widen. 

“They can’t see me like this. What would I tell them? ‘Your invention works but it killed me’?”

The two try to calm him down but a sudden burst of white light emits around him and engulfs him from his head to his toes. Once it dies down a human boy can be seen standing in his place, with raven black hair and baby blue eyes. 

At that moment his parents rush downstairs and begin coddling him, making sure he’s okay when they see the portal behind him. They wear a shocked expression, but quickly shake their heads and rush their son upstairs. Soon a door can be heard slamming shut and something speeds away. 

My mind is reeling at everything I just witnessed. More than anything I have witnessed in the last few centuries. But that boy didn’t come from inside the portal like I did. 

He’s the reason it turned on. 

I float towards the portal, peering at it but not daring to go inside, lest I get trapped in that dark nothingness once again. 

This changed something about that boy, this isn’t something that should have happened. I’m sure of it. 

I turn to look in the… Mirror! It’s called a mirror. At first I can’t see myself but then I flicker into existence and I can see what I look like for the first time in as long as I can remember. 

It’s not what I was expecting. I appear translucent and wispy, my eyes also a glowing green. I look as if I were a fire so cold it were a shadow. 

I once again look around the room, feeling lost and alone. I’m unsure what to do with my new found freedom, knowing I can’t pick up where I left off. I don’t even know when I left off. 

I make my way up the...stairs. 

I see a burst of orange light coming from outside the house and look through the window. The sun is closing in on the horizon. I try to turn the doorknob but find that my hand passes straight through it instead. Looking at it in shock, I just float straight through the door. 

I sit down on the grass outside, relishing in the cool feeling of it as I wait for the boy to come home. 

I’m unsure on what I should do now, but one thing I think I need to do is stay here and help this boy however I’m meant to. 

Because why else would I have escaped the Unworld? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. 

My memories begin to resurface now that I can interact with anything that isn’t a numbing darkness. I can feel the memories of my capture welling up. 

This...halfa… escaped the wrath of the Unworld and death. 

This halfa got the chance that I did not. I got sucked in by a portal whose calculations were off by a point and while I believe the same being changing experience happened to us both, he got the chance of them being right this time. 

I look back at the house that I’m sitting in front of. As my memories return I realize that I hadn’t actually been in that place for centuries. 

It looks like it hasn’t even been a year. 

Two portal accidents in the time frame of a year. 

I always knew that their sick obsession with ghosts would eventually end up hurting one of us. 

But you’d think that after accidentally letting your only daughter walk right in the middle of an experiment, that they would learn their lesson. Especially after learning she disappeared from it’s effects. 

But now, her little brother was now a victim of their twisted obsession too. 

As I sit in our small patch of grass in front of the house, something happens. A ring of white light spreads up and around me. Holding my hands up, I see that they are my hands. Peachy, solid hands.

I look up to see my family gaping at me from the RV. Tears spring to my eyes and they exit the vehicle and run towards me. 

I’m not sure what happened to Danny and I, but I know that, together, we’ll conquer this challenge.

[writing-in-april]

Ghost Story

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader

Mood board is mine pictures were taken from Pinterest- Message me for credit.

This come from the wonderful @imagining-in-the-margins​ prompt list- go check her out she’s the best!

Warnings: One swear word- and if you’re super scared of ghost stories don’t read.

A/N: I’m really proud of this one! The ghost story is called whispers and I found it on the huffington post, it’s originally about Christmas but I changed it to fit Halloween (Even though it’s August- I’m just really ready for Halloween)

Masterlist

italics are the ghost story

——

“This is a story I do not often tell. I promise, sincerely, that this has scarred me for life and although I have looked into psychological explanations for what I heard and natural explanations for what occurred, they remain unsatisfactory.” Spencer’s voice cut through the air in a whisper. The pine green walls of our softly lit apartment gave me a sense of security that Spencer was actively trying to break as he relayed his ghost story.

It was nearly Halloween, the 28th of October to be exact, also known as Spencer’s birthday. Honestly it was the only reason I indulged in his request of reading a scary story, any other day of the year I would have flat out refused. So there I was perched on our leather sofa,  staring a hole into a slice of pumpkin pie that I had made for his special day trying to take my mind off of the story.

“When I was a child, I was scared of the dark. I swore to my mother I heard voices in it. They were not evil, but they were not familiar and so they scared me. It was not uncommon in the middle of the night for me to wake up and hear “whispers” as I would call them when asking my mom. She figured they were just “bumps in the night” and typical kids nightmare material. I tried often to explain to her that it was more than that; that they sounded different from one another the way people’s voices do. On some nights I would get so scared from these “whispers” that I would sleep in my mom’s bed with her.” I now understood why he was so eager to share a ghost story with me tonight, the story paralleled his own journey with his fear of the dark. We both had a shared sentiment of fear surrounding dark corners, but Spencer was far braver than I when it came to the dark, after all he saw the worst of humanity everyday at work.

“I should add at this point that when walking out into the hall to go to the bathroom, you looked directly down the stairs that would lead you into my living room on the first floor (as my mom’s bedroom was on the second floor). On one such night, around Halloween, I awoke and felt the need to go to the bathroom. I walked out from the door and distinctly heard the phrase “Look!” and to my astonishment, an orange light, almost like a spotlight, was cast upon the wall at the very bottom of the stairs. The light had no other source, it was by itself, and I was transfixed by it.” The inflection that he had adopted to tell the story chilled my bones, making me feel as if I was a skeleton in the dead of winter.

The pumpkin pie was no longer enough to stare at so my gaze wandered to the knickknacks that adorned the apartment. The spotlight in the story eerily mirrored the decorations we had strung up, the string of pumpkin lights basked us in an orange glow aiding in the creepy persona Spencer had taken up. Puppets in white shrouds, freshly carved jack o'lanterns, and handmade black construction paper bats also furnished our home to give the appropriate mood for Halloween. Spencer and I had spent a whole weekend that he had off from work decorating our apartment to the nines. I detested the horrifying aspects of Halloween, but that didn’t mean I hated the holiday. I reveled in the fact that for one day a year I could be someone else, letting my imagination take the reigns of my life even though it was only for a night.

“Being a little kid, and it only being a few days from Halloween, I KNEW what this light was. IT WAS JACK SKELLINGTON!!!My parents had just let me watch a Nightmare before Christmas, he must be visiting! I was so excited I began walking down the stairs to greet him, picking up my pace after the second step as it began to creep off the wall and fade into the darkness in my living room.” My heart felt stuck in my throat as I sat at the edge of the couch, anxiously awaiting the dreaded jump scare that I could feel creeping up around me. No matter how formulaic ghost stories tended to be I was still tricked every time getting sent into a state of fright, my body always getting a stab of panic and a jolt of terror.

“That’s when I heard him. A very strong, masculine voice. Different from the first. Not at all like my father’s (not to say he isn’t masculine, it was just distinctly different). It said, “Stop! Right now. Go back up those stairs.” I listened, turned around, and what happened next I am not sure I would believe if someone had told me this same story. After reaching the top of the stairs, I heard a very loud CRASH”  As If on cue from Spencer’s voice a loud clap of thunder shattered through our curtained windows, the sudden sound sent me cowering under my burgundy plush throw which swaddled me like a scared baby. My shaking form didn’t even notice that the story had stopped or that Spencer had retreated into the darkness. My eyes peeked out from under the blanket, the apartment was full of blackness- the power must’ve gone out. All I could see was the pale moonlight creeping through the drapery as my eyes darted trying to locate Spencer.

“Spencer?” I murmured into the shadows- no one answered back from the depths.

“Boo!” Spencer suddenly popped up behind the couch causing me to nearly jump out of my skin.

“Fuck! Spencer Walter Reid!” I picked up one of our pillows, chucking it in the direction where I believed him to be hiding. His shriek permeated the apartment as he shielded himself from my wrath with what appeared to be candles. He must’ve retreated to find candles we had stashed in our bathroom when the power shut off.

“Most power outages will be over almost as soon as they begin, but some can last much longer – up to days or even weeks. Power outages are often caused by freezing rain, sleet storms and/or high winds which damage power lines and equipment.” He spouted off at me to try and quell my anger while setting down candles on the coffee table preparing them to be lit. From out of his pocket Spencer produced a disposable lighter- I always let him handle them because my fingers often got burned on them. Stroking the wheel, the lighter sparked to life lighting the apartment once more, soothing my frazzled state.

“I guess that’s kind of comforting…”

“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?” The soft gleam of the candle flickered on my skin, illuminating the cringe that made its way onto my face.

“No thanks Spencer- I’d rather cuddle.” He flashed me a little stupid grin that I adored and joined me back on the couch. Spencer swathed the blanket around us settling into his position as the big spoon, the combined feeling of  my boyfriend and the velvet like blanket made me feel impervious to the outside world. I nuzzled against his neck sinking deeper into the sofa, letting the soft edges of sleep overtake me, Spencer had a way with cuddles that almost always immediately lulled me to sleep. Sometime later when our pumpkin pie had been long forgotten the lights flicked back on, the fluorescent bulbs combined with the still glowing candles lit our sleeping figures.

[deanstop13billyjoeltraxx]

Superposition

a deancas college roommate-AU 

Chapter 7 is up on AO3! Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here. 

The Gift of Memory’s an Awful Curse

Dean woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. He didn’t even bother to check the caller ID before answering with a groggy “Hello?”

“Dean.” It was Bobby’s voice on the other line. “How you feelin’?”

“Fan-friggin’-tastic.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Bobby chastised. “The guy who drove you to the hospital came by the shop yesterday, told me what the doctor said.” Dean groaned. “You’re not comin’ back in until Thursday, you hear?” 

“Come on, Bobby,” Dean protested, rubbing his eyes with a free hand. “Honestly, I’m already feelin’ loads better.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Bobby deadpanned. “No, you stay at home and get some rest. I can hold the fort for a week.” 

“Whatever you say, old man. Hey, have you looked at Ca- at the guy’s car?” 

“Barely. But, seein’ as it’s an old Honda, my best guess is valves are bent.” Bobby was quiet for a moment, then, “Dean, the guy told me his name was Cas Novak.” 

Dean closed his eyes, silently begging the powers that be to grant him strength. “Weird name.” 

Bobby snorted. “So you’re tellin’ me that’s not the same Cas Novak you met at WSU? The same one you brought home for Christmas? Well, that’s mighty strange, considerin’ he looks exactly like —”

“All right, all right,” Dean said. “Yes, it’s him. Why are we talking about this, anyway?” 

“Just wonderin’.”

“Is Ellen still comin’ down for Christmas?” Dean asked, hoping to steer the conversation away from Castiel. 

“She called this mornin’, said she and Jo’d be here on the 23rd.” 

Ellen and Jo were family, mutual friends of John and Bobby. Since Dean could remember, John had been sending him and Sam back home to Lawrence to spend Christmas with Bobby. He didn’t realize until he was older that it was less “go have fun with your Uncle Bobby,” and more “I can’t stand the holidays and would like to be unconscious for most of them.” A few years before his dad died, when Dean was maybe fifteen, the Harvelle’s started joining them. It became a tradition, the Harvelle-Singer-Winchester Christmas affair. 

“I can’t wait to see ‘em,” Dean said, smiling up at the ceiling. 

“Yeah, well. When’s Sam gettin’ in?”

“Tonight,” Dean replied. He looked at his watch. Was it really already noon? “‘Round eight, I think.”

“Damn, am I excited to see that boy,” Bobby said. “Well, you two head down here when he’s done gettin’ settled. He’s finally old enough to have a few beers.” 

Dean rubbed his mouth for a moment. “Bobby,” he said, “he’s not even gonna be here. Well, he is, but he’s hangin’ out with some girl in friggin’ Kansas City after Christmas.” 

“Good for him. ‘Bout damn time, too, he hasn’t even mentioned a girl since that Ruby broke his heart when he was sixteen.” 

Dean thought he was going to explode. Was he the only one who saw how cosmically wrong this whole thing was? 

“Right,” he grumbled. “Well, I gotta go to the store, get some actual food in the house.” Dean pretty much lived off of ham sandwiches and the occasional fast food burger. “I’ll see you later.” 

Dean stood up, testing the waters of movement. He didn’t immediately feel like vomiting, and the room didn’t start spinning, both good signs. Turning on the light in the kitchen, he noticed he still had a mild light-sensitivity, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Satisfied, he grabbed his keys and the sunglasses Cas had given him, and headed out the door. 

As he drove to the Wal-Mart at the edge of town, he wondered idly if he would see Cas again. Dean supposed, at the very least, he might see Cas when he and Bobby had his car fixed. Unless Bobby fixed it before Dean got back to work. He snorted at the thought. That was unlikely. 

Thinking about Cas led Dean to thinking about his final days in Wichita, as it always did. He didn’t remember most of that May, or the rest of the year, for that matter. He’d spent the nights drunk and the days endlessly hungover. Dean couldn’t remember going to a single class after his father died in January.

What Dean could remember, what he always remembered, was Cas. Cas waiting for him to return from whatever dorm party he had found, Cas forcing him to drink water, Cas taking his vomit-stained clothes to the laundromat. Cas bandaging his hand after he punched the brick wall of their dorm room one too many times. Cas holding him as he cried.

A honk startled Dean from his thoughts, and he realized he was sitting at a light that had obviously been green for far too long. He sped forward. Maybe he wasn’t okay to drive. 

Dean groaned as he pulled into the parking lot. It was packed. He wasn’t sure what he expected — Christmas was little more than a week away. Shit. He had been so busy in the shop that he had forgotten to buy a single gift. Bobby was easy — a fifth of Maker’s Mark and new trucker cap would be enough to bring tears to his eyes. Sam was more difficult; he lived in a different world. Dean thought he remembered that Sam liked Lord of the Rings in high school… 

The year before, Dean had written him a check for ten thousand dollars, with “college” written in the memo. Sam had tried to give it back after realizing that was essentially Dean’s entire savings account, built up from working at Singer Auto Repair during the day and bartending the college joints at night. Two years straight. When Dean refused to take it back, saying, “You go and you get a damn degree, all right?”, Sam hugged him until he couldn’t breathe. Dean smiled at the memory. No way he was outdoing himself this year. 

Dean picked up the basics from Wal-Mart — eggs, milk, some salad kits for Sam, a couple bags of coffee, some orange juice. He felt like a douchebag, wearing the sunglasses inside, but the fluorescents were unbearable. He grabbed two six-packs of beer to bring to Bobby’s, then surreptitiously added a pack of hard seltzers for his apartment, because, hey, he liked to switch it up. 

Dean paid for his groceries and headed to the liquor store to pick up the whiskey for Bobby. Upon seeing a case of boozy eggnog, he couldn’t help remembering his first and only Thanksgiving in Wichita. They downed two pints of the stuff while watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Dean teased that maybe Cas, with his angelic namesake, was his Clarence. Then he fashioned a halo out of toilet paper and they laughed until their ribs hurt.  

Dean grabbed a pint at the last second. For good measure. 

Sam arrived at Dean’s apartment just after eight, and, Kansas City be damned, Dean was beyond happy to see him. Sam coughed out a laugh as Dean whacked him on the back in the midst of a hug. 

“‘S good to see you, Sammy,” Dean said, radiating warmth. “Let’s go, Bobby’s itchin’ to give you a beer.” 

Dean let Sam drive the Impala to Bobby’s, peppering him with questions about UT the whole time. Sam gushed about his pre-law classes, which Dean tolerated only because he had just gotten home. 

“How’s your head?” Sam asked when he had finished nerding out.

“Fine,” Dean replied. “Fluorescents still make it hurt like a bitch, but honestly, I’m fine.” 

Sam turned into the shop parking lot, the windows of Bobby’s apartment above providing the only light against the dark. “Hey, you never really answered my question yesterday.”

“What question?”

“That guy, who drove you to the hospital,” Sam said, carefully. “Was it Cas?”

Dean shut his eyes, willing himself against getting out and slamming the door behind him. He was not looking forward to this conversation. “Yeah. It was Cas.” 

“He’s back?” 

“No. I don’t know, man, he’s on his way to Kansas City for some big boy job.”

“Did you guys… You know…” 

Dean gave him an incredulous look. “What, did we kiss and make up like some Hallmark movie?”

“Dean —”

“Sam, just leave it,” he growled. “Come on. Bobby’s waitin’.” The kid had been home for thirty minutes, and he was already giving Dean a headache. 

Bobby greeted them with the biggest smile Dean had ever seen him wear. He pulled Sam into a tearful hug and clapped Dean on the shoulder. The three made their way to the kitchen.

Dean was driving, and still concussed, so he contented himself with a diet Coke and a few slices of the pizza Bobby had ordered while Bobby got beers for Sam and himself. Sam asked how the shop was going, earning about ten minutes of Bobby begrudgingly praising Dean for all his hard work. Dean fidgeted in his seat, face flamed from the compliments, doing his best to insist that it was a team effort, really. Sam beamed at him. 

Dean changed the subject, prompting Sam to tell them both about college, despite having already heard the spiel on the drive over. Dean let his mind wander while Sam talked.

Bobby had been the one to call when Dean’s father had died. Dean remembered, it was the Monday after his nineteenth birthday, a snowy January morning. Classes had been cancelled, so he and Cas were watching Dead Poets Society in their room to celebrate. 

“Wait, pause it, I gotta take this. Hey, Bobby! How’s it goin’?”

“Dean, I hate to be the one to tell you this. John…” 

“Dad? What’s wrong?”

“He’s dead, son. I’m sorry.”

Dean had dropped his cell phone on the floor. It shattered. 

Dean remembered emptying his school backpack and filling it with clothes, his toothbrush, some shampoo. He walked straight to the Impala, his hands shaking, tears clouding his vision. 

“Dean. Dean! What happened?”

“I gotta go, Cas. I’ll explain everything later.”

“Dean, the roads — we have class!”

“Screw the roads and screw class. Family emergency.”

He’d made it to Lawrence in record time.

He hadn’t even told Bobby he was coming, but he was waiting for Dean anyway. He found out that John had had one too many at the bar that night, but insisted on driving home, anyway. He ran into a tree going sixty, died on impact. Sam had been spending the night with a friend. Bobby drove him down to Amarillo, where John had been working one of his odd-jobs that was sure to dead-end when he started leaving beer bottles on site. Dean didn’t speak the whole way there, not until they picked Sammy up. Sam was crying. Dean wished he could cry, too. He felt like he was going to fracture into a million pieces. But he’d felt that before. Not this bad, never this bad, but broken all the same. He did what he always did. He hugged Sammy tight and told him it was going to be okay, everything is going to be okay. 

The next thirty-six hours were spotty. A small funeral, just the three of them. Dean telling Bobby he wasn’t going back to school, he had to take care of Sam. Bobby staring daggers. He’d take care of Sam, Dean would finish that degree if it was the last thing he did. An argument, the only time Bobby had ever yelled at him. Dean and Sam sitting on the couch, sharing headphones and listening to Black Sabbath. Bobby pushing him out the door. Driving back to Wichita, numb.

The painful memory was interrupted when Bobby said his name. 

“...We’d love to meet her, right Dean?” 

Dean shook his head and blinked. “What?”

“Sam’s girl,” Bobby supplied. Sam blushed, looking at Dean. 

“What about her?” Dean grumbled. 

“I was gonna bring her around,” Sam said. 

Dean wanted to be righteously angry with Sam for not telling him sooner, and for dipping out on him at the first sight of something better. But the kid just looked so damn hopeful.

He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’d love to meet her.” 

They stayed at Bobby’s until midnight, reminiscing about past Christmases, the years Sam and Dean spent under Bobby’s roof. Eventually, Bobby whined about being too old to stay up so late, and that was their cue. Sam was properly tipsy, and Dean was exhausted. They bade each other good night, and Dean and Sam headed home. 

Dean didn’t bother putting on music for the fifteen-minute drive. The Impala was silent as Dean drove, watching the yellow streetlights pass.

“Dean,” Sam said, “What’s up with you today?” 

He was talking with the level of verve only achievable through alcohol. Dean gripped the steering wheel a little harder. Drunk people always asked too many questions. 

“Nothing.”

“No, no, no, man.” Sam waved his hand for emphasis. “You’re messed up. You’ve been messed up. You know what —” he shifted upright in his seat “—you gotta talk to Cas.” 

“I’m not gonna do that,” Dean said shortly. 

“Why not?” Sam demanded. 

“I’m just not, okay? Jesus. You need to go to sleep.” 

“Not true,” Sam argued. “Listen, I know that he left or whatever, but I’m sure he had a good reason, you know, and you loved him, Dean —”

Dean slammed on the brakes. The Impala screeched to a halt as the light in front of them turned red. 

“What?” He asked in a low voice. “What did you say?”

Sam scoffed at him. “I mean, you weren’t trying to hide it or anything.” 

“Sam,” Dean warned. “Stop talking. I mean it.” 

“I’m just saying, the way you talked about him, the way you two were at Christmas, I’m pretty sure nothing he could have done —”

Dean punched the steering wheel. The Impala’s horn sounded. Sam looked at him in shock. The light was green. Dean took a deep breath and hit the gas, both hands gripping the wheel for dear life, now. 

“We’re done talking about this,” Dean said. 

He felt like he was having deja vu. After Cas left school, just after spring break, Bobby had called Dean to see how he was getting on. He’d put Sam on the phone. Sam was only fourteen, but already smart as hell, sometimes able to see through Dean’s bullshit. 

“How’s Cas?” 

“He’s a shithead, that’s how he is.”

“Dean, what? I thought —”

“Yeah, well, stop thinking. Fucker is gone. Guess he found someplace better to be.” 

“What happened?”

“Fuck if I know. But this is the last time I’m talking about that son of a bitch.” 

Dean pulled up to his apartment, anger and regret swirling in his head. He shouldn’t have yelled at Sam. He knew that. But Sam — well, sober Sam — knew better than to bring up Cas in any capacity. 

Sam exited the Impala silently. Dean’s outburst must have been enough to shatter the alcoholic haze. Dean locked the doors and led Sam up to his door. 

“What’s that?” Sam asked. 

Dean looked up from fumbling with his keys. There was a brown paper bag taped to his door, his name written on the front in clean, capital letters. 

“No clue,” Dean replied, ripping the bag off the door. He unlocked the door and headed straight for the bedroom. 

“Dean, come on,” Sam started, but Dean interrupted him. 

“We can talk about it in the morning. Get some rest,” he grumbled. 

Dean closed the bedroom door and set the bag down on his bed. He took off his jacket. Shed his t-shirt. Unlaced his boots. Splashed some water on his face. Brushed his teeth. Traded his jeans for sweatpants. 

Finally, when he could avoid it no longer, he opened the bag. 

Inside was… the Tombstone DVD. Dean picked it up, brow furrowed. He opened it, and the disk was there, along with a Starbucks napkin, tucked into the left side. This, too, had his name in that same, clean script. He unfolded the napkin, and read:

DEAN—

I WAS IN THE AREA THIS EVENING, SO I STOPPED BY TO SEE HOW YOU WERE FEELING, BUT YOU WERE OUT. YOU GAVE THIS TO ME IN COLLEGE. IT’S ABOUT TIME I RETURNED IT TO YOU.

IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, FEEL FREE TO CALL.

—CAS

Cas had written his phone number below the note. Dean frowned as he looked at the DVD once more. That dumbass. Dean had given it to him, it had been a gift. If this was some sort of peace offering, it was crap. He grabbed his phone and punched in the number. 

DW (12:52 am)

movie was a gift, u keep those

DW (12:53 am)

but i guess u don’t want shit from me anymore

He knew he was being a dick, but, well, Cas had been a dick first. And it was late, anyway. Cas was probably already asleep. He didn’t expect a response tonight. Actually, he didn’t expect any response, at any time. He threw his phone on the pillow and got up to turn out the lights. 

Dean flopped into bed, but was surprised to feel his phone buzz.

CN (12:55 am)

Apologies. I did not intend to upset you.

Dean squinted in consternation. Why was Cas even awake — wasn’t he some capital-A-adult, now? He was an accountant, with a job at an honest-to-god accounting firm. Shouldn’t he eat his BLT for dinner and be in bed by eight p.m.? Dean snorted at his own mental image. 

He didn’t bother to respond, finding nothing more to say. He laid back down in bed, but his thoughts were too loud for sleep. He stared at the ceiling fan. It offered no advice. 

Dean sighed. He was pissed. At Sam, at Cas, at himself. Still at his dad, always at his dad. So he did what he always did when he had nowhere to direct the anger. 

“You motherfucker,” he whispered to the fan. “You waltz in here, with your college degree and your cushy office job. You drive me to the hospital and pretend you care. Well, guess what, you’re not allowed to care. You left, okay? We were friends, we were… We were family. I needed you, but you didn’t care then. So you can’t care now. You don’t get to come back here and remind me of everything I almost had. Fuck you. In every possible language, fuck you, man.” 

The pressure behind his eyes lessened. The anger was still there, still burning beneath the surface, but this was enough for now. A temporary catharsis. A way to keep his sanity. He didn’t believe in God — couldn’t, really, after everything  — but this was the closest thing he had to a prayer. He’d started after John died, after he’d realized that burying the guilt and the sadness in alcohol was killing him. When Sam got the scholarship to UT, he’d done it again, voicing the jealousy and fear that he’d never allow himself in the daylight. He didn’t know if it was healthy, but he also didn’t care. It kept him going. He could walk into work every day with a smirk on his face, call Sammy and crack jokes, flirt with female customers after he changed their oil. Screaming into the void kept the “passed-out drunk” nights to a minimum. It kept him from becoming his father.

His only lifeline. He was not, would never be, John Winchester.

-----

tagging @nguyenxtrang :)))

[lonelypond]

Nico Attacks: A Campfire Tale, Ch. 1

Love Live, NicoMaki, 1.8K, 1/4

Ayase Eli, Sonoda Umi, and Nishikino Maki are making their way through the woods around the Nishikino mountain camp during the annual Muse Autumn camping trip. Will they be tripped up? How afraid of the dark is Eli? What will happen next?

Chapter One

The sun had set. Late September warm light was done and October chill had crept in. Soldier Game, braving the night, had set out, backpacks and thermoses, to track the trail left...Eli’s jaw throbbed. The shivers would start there. Tighter grip on the flashlight, speed up to be closer to Umi and Maki. Too close, Umi screamed and jumped back, batting at the air over her head.

“What happened?” Eli screeched.

“Nico.” Maki hissed, as she pulled at something, her voice grim, her flashlight shining on the thing in her palm.  She held a small doll, dark blue black hair, empty eyes.

“Of course, Nico. She never forgets anything” Umi groaned. “This isn’t going to be fun, is it.”

“Not for us.” Maki sighed, as music, a slightly out of tune piano playing Bach, started to filter through the trees.

“I need a drink.” Eli sat, grabbing the thermos, pouring out dark liquid with a shaky hand, but screaming and spitting it out as it touched her lips. “That’s not hot chocolate.”

Maki took the mug with a smile, “That’s because my wife packed the food, not yours. And I love cider.”

“Stay alert.” Umi ordered, her eyes still on the forest. She’d switched her flashlight to the red bulb, “We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

Eli rifled through her backpack, finally finding a chocolate bar, “Just give me a minute.”

“C’mon, Umi. This is a joke. We don’t have to worry. Eli gets a little scared…”

“Hey!” Eli grumped through a mouthful of chocolate.

Maki continued, pouring herself more cider. “We find where they’ve camped, have a laugh, kiss and make up, see what our children have carved into their pumpkins.”

Umi was creeping ahead, testing out the path cautiously. “Nico’s taunts and texts seemed more...devious than other years.”

Eli swallowed her chocolate, “What did you do, Maki?”

“Everything is fine between me and Nico-chan.” Maki sounded shrill.

A howling wind noise started intensifying and the music picked up a chorus of howls.

“Sure it is.” Eli zipped up her jacket. “Hey, Umi, are you liquid proofed?”

“Why?”

“Just a feeling.”

“This is ridiculous.” Maki bulled ahead, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, strides confident until she tripped her way through a pile of leaves, twisting as she stumbled down the path. Suddenly orange flickering eyes lit in the gaps between the trees, so many Maki couldn’t immediately count them. She’d barely registered that they were carved pumpkins when they started to foam, fluorescent green fizzing as it seeped out and spread from both sides. Then there was a rustle a few steps ahead, and a huge pop, Eli screamed, and Maki heard things speeding through the air. And before she could figure out what was happening, Umi had tackled her from behind, and Maki was face down in a fluffy pile of sticky sweet soda foam.

Umi held them both down until she was sure there was not going to be another explosion.

“I think she left.” Umi whispered.

“She?”

“Someone had to dump the Mentos.” Umi had managed to avoid a facefull of the foam Maki was scraping off her cheeks. “What did you do to annoy Nico this time?”

###

“Mom!!! Wait!!!” 8 year old Dia was rushing as fast as she could, while trying to be quiet and keep up with Nico, who was nearly hopping with glee, giggling, as fellow 8 year old Tora danced along next to Nico, having inherited some of her mother, Hoshizora Rin’s speed.

“Don’t drop the camera, bun.” Nico stage whispered.

“I won’t.” Dia’s indignant tone carried.

Nico figured they’d gotten far enough away from the trail that they could slow down. She didn’t want to be near Umi’s deadly aim when there were pumpkin guts close at hand. She crouched down, pulling Tora in and waiting for Dia.

“That was so cool.” Tora spun, arms in the air, “Let’s do some more. Auntie Maki looked so silly.” Tora dove at the ground like Maki falling into the pumpkin foam.

Nico glanced at her watch, “I promised your moms I’d get you back to camp. It’s time for roasted sweet potatoes.”

“Those are Ruby’s favorite.” Dia announced as she pulled Tora up.

“Nico knows.”

“I can lead us back. It’s that way.” Dia flung out an arm, in a direction Nico realized was the opposite of the camp thanks to trail signs she’d left. Dia wasn’t the best with directions. She’d gotten lost in Tokyo’s train station recently.

“C’mon this way, Dia.”

“What about Mama? Won’t she be lost?”

“Nico has a few more tricks. But we need to get you back to camp.”

“I’ll take them.” A low growly voice boomed out of the trees near Dia and Tora, as hands grabbed their shoulders, Tora jumped and grabbed Nico, Dia running behind her mother.

Nico squeaked and jumped, “NOZOMI!!”

Nozomi laughed, hugging Tora, while Nico turned to embrace a shaking Dia. “Can’t let you have all the fun this camping trip, Nico-chi.”

“Just get them back to camp, okay.” Nico knelt next to her daughter, taking the camera, “Give Ruby a kiss for me, bun.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Nico loves you.” A hug and Nico watched two little miracles follow Nozomi back to where the rest of 𝝁’s was having a more fireside adventure.

###

Maki had gotten most of the pumpkin off. Umi was searching for traps and Eli was searching for a reason.

“So, you don’t remember, Nico, your wife, a walking neon sign of emotions, being annoyed at you. Spent any nights on the couch recently?”

In this light, it was hard to read Maki’s face for a blush.

“Maki?”

“Not recently, all right,” Maki kicked through pumpkins, further soaking her boots. “For some reason, Nico got upset a couple of months ago when I mentioned Ruby was growing up and we were slowing down. I thought we were past that.”

“What EXACTLY did you say?” Eli knew part of why Nico was a walking neon sign was that Maki was sometimes impervious to hints or clues.

Maki rubbed the back of her neck. “Nico was maturing. And being a mother was a good look on her.”

“You said Nico was maturing?”

“An obvious lie.” Umi deadpanned as she returned to the group.

“It was romantic.”

Eli shook her head.

“It was supposed to be.”

“Okay, the trail seems clear ahead.” Umi prompted, as the conversation lulled, “We let Maki take the lead…”

“Why?” Maki whined.

Eli and Umi glared in response.

Maki sighed, “Right.”

“And we proceed as if we have everything under control, no matter what happens.” Umi decided. The rest of Soldier Game nodded their agreement.

Three flashlights, three friends, three sets of boots stepping bravely forward. The illusion of confidence lasted until Eli’s flashlight flickered out, followed by Umi’s, then Maki’s. There was almost solid darkness blanketing everything, wind creaking whistling warnings, and Eli suddenly had Umi in a bear hug from behind.

“I am not carrying you.” Umi grunted.

“Or holding your hand.” Maki snarled.

“NOZOMI!”

###

Tora was back. Hanayo relaxed. Nozomi had brought her back to the campsite, along with Dia, who was stacking a s’more, sitting next to a sleepy Ruby. The Kurosawa née Yazawa-Nishikino family had been camping over much of the world, and the American camp staple, s’mores, was one of the girls’ favorite treats. Now, Hanayo only had to worry about Rin, who had just taken Eli and Nozomi's oldest twin, 10 year old Vik, into the woods to meet Nico for some more mischief.

“It was so cool, Mom.” Tora was bouncing, too revved up, but Nico-time was a shot of adrenaline, “We dropped the Mentos, there was fizzing and WHOOOSH.” Tora spun, “Goop everywhere, Auntie Maki looked so silly, sliding” Tora went to leap, but Hanayo caught her, reflexes honed from decades of keeping up with Rin.

“Auntie Hanayo.” Dia was in front of Hanayo, frowning.

“Yes, Dia-chan?”

“When are my parents coming back? Ruby’s tired.”

Ah, Hanayo had planned for this. “You both are going to sleep with Tora and Rin and me, tonight.”

“Oh cool! PILLOWFIGHT!” Tora grabbed a stick and some marshmallows, “Make me a s’more first, Dia-bolical.”

Dia hesitated, staring at Hanayo. “Ruby might get scared.”

“We’ll make sure she doesn’t, right Dia-chan.” Hanayo soothed, “I know some good stories.”

“Ruby likes stories.”

A worried Teddy threw open the tent flap where she and Kaito and Kotori were playing Animal Crossing. “Mommy, Aunt Nico’s new video message is about Mom’s flashlight dying. She sounds mean”

Nozomi growled and grabbed her phone, texting, “NICO-CHI? No flashlight?”

A quick answer.

N: Have a plan. Stand down. Don’t text me.

Kotori, her hand on her 5 year old son Kaito’s shoulder, followed Teddy out. “Is there a problem?”

“Just Nico.”

Kotori giggled, “Good. Umi needs some inspiration.”

Smiling, Hanayo shook her head, surprised by how even now, surrounded by their children, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods, sometimes, just sometimes, it still felt like those sunny afternoons in the Idol Research Club.

###

Screw it, Maki thought, once she was near the main house, it was going to be a bath. A long, hot bath. Alone. Soda mixed with pumpkin guts was --no surprise - disgustingly sticky and if Nico, the person responsible for this, thought Maki was planning to get anywhere near her any time soon, she could think some more. Maki was going to be alone, in a flannel bathrobe, watching cartoons, eating leftover lasagna as soon as she could.

“Maki.” Umi hissed in her ear.

“What?” Maki snapped.

“This is your property. What’s the quickest way to camp?  Staying on the trail is only making us targets.”

Maki was pretty sure there was a small clearing coming up, one they’d often used to camp when it was only family. From there, it would be easy to plot a path to the house.

Light flickered ahead. Eli suddenly sped up, pushing between Umi and Maki. Umi grabbed for her and missed, hissing, “It’s a trap.”

“Don’t care.” was Eli’s reply as she rushed by.

Umi grunted, “We need to be more careful.”

“Yeah, Nico-chan’s tricky.”

Umi snorted, “Devious, diabolical, duplicitous. These are all more precise choices.”

Maki ignored Umi, grabbing a stick to prod the ground in front of them.

“HE…” Eli started to shout and then there was no voice.

Umi and Maki glanced at each other, hearing dragging noises, watching the light flicker ahead of them, shadows of movement obvious as the path narrowed, trees leaning in with a prickly tease, before they stepped in to the clearing.

In the middle of the clearing, on a slight hill, stood a tilting scarecrow, leering face carved out of a pale gourd, spotlight illuminating Eli’s coat draped over its shoulders.

A/N: Thanks to the IdolFanfic Heaven Discord server for an October full of prompts. I'll be posting these in 5-7 days chunks so enjoy. If you want to check out the server, here's a link: https://discord.gg/SGfJm6

The children are the same as in my Idol Protection Program AU, although Eli and Nozomi's twins are only two years older, not five.

[caiuscassiuss]

Muse | Painter AU! Taeyong (M)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notations:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[notgoingtohappen]

Revenge, Interrupted (Part 19)

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14  15  16  17  18

Caroline looked out of the aeroplane window, watching as they descended, clouds dissolving as millions of pinpricks of light came into view. The city, her new home. Somewhere among the multicoloured glitter were Elena, Bonnie, Damon, Enzo... and Stefan.

Her fake boyfriend. Who she liked.

Who she was going to try her absolute best to get over.

For the hundredth time, she wondered angrily how she could be dumb enough to fall for him and put herself in this situation. Now she had to face the boy she liked and try and act nonchalant in front of him but in love in front of their friends, and somehow move on from someone who for all intents and purposes acted like her he liked her back most of the time. 

Separating all of it was going to be hell.

Great going, Caroline.

Shouldn't be too hard. The relationship wasn't real. They were just friends.

She just had to keep telling herself that.

~*~

Under the fluorescent white lights of the airport, Caroline made her way to the exit, dragging her suitcase behind her.

She stopped as her phone buzzed in her purse. Fishing it out, she found herself staring at a text from Stefan Salvatore. Of course.

‘Look up’

She did, only to see him standing a few feet away, flowers in hand, smiling.

"Stefan! What are you doing here?" she exclaimed as her heart did strange things in her chest. 

Why was he like this?

"Picking you up, of course." he handed her the daisies and took the suitcase from her.

"They're beautiful, thank you." 

The guy even got her her favourite flowers. He really didn't make it hard for one to develop feelings. "And you know you didn't have to, right?"

"I wanted to! Just being a good fake boyfriend" he replied.

Right.

She reached up to hug him and pulled away as the moment she felt his arm around her, setting off those damn butterflies.

She struggled to think straight and act normal. "I got you something too," she remembered suddenly, reaching into her purse. She handed him a small brown package.

Stefan pulled out a snow globe key chain of Mystic Falls, and looked at her with a surprised smile.

"I saw it at the gift shop at the airport. Reminded me of you. I know you love the town."

"Thank you." he said warmly, looking into her eyes. She couldn't tell what was going on behind the forest green and looked away quickly.

"Let's go home." she said.

~*~

Caroline got home as dawn was breaking across the sky, took one look at the bed she realised she rarely got to sleep in and crashed.

When she woke up, the apartment was empty. Stuck to her mirror was a post-it that read ‘Glad you're back, see you in the evening xoxo’ in Elena's handwriting. 

After eating an apple and some pudding from the fridge, Caroline decided to go to the library for a few hours and surf the internet on her laptop, maybe waste some time on social media. Or even read. She realised she could just ask Stefan for some books but she didn't want to be around him or his damn room any more than necessary. She just had to hope that distance did not make the heart fonder.

After spending a few hours (that had flown by far too quickly) curled up on a bean bag in a corner of the comfortingly quiet library, she gathered her things and left the building. Looking wistfully at the setting sun and dreading seeing Stefan once more, she suddenly remembered that there had been no cereal in the kitchen that morning. She walked to the nearest supermarket and then idled some more over there, buying things she did absolutely not need (a Minnie Mouse mug, pepper flavoured gum, blood orange lip gloss, and some fresh lettuce.)

After going as far as to impulse buy a gossip magazine at the checkout counter, she trudged her way back to the loft. She wasn't even past the front door before she was tackled by Bonnie and Elena.

"Care! You're back!"

"We missed you!"

"We love you!"

"We're so happy everything is okay!" the girls gushed.

"Thanks you guys, I love you too" Caroline laughed, her spirits soaring as she felt a surge of affection for her best friends.

"How was being back home? How is everyone? How's Sheriff?" Bonnie asked.

"Great, she's good."

"What do you wanna do? Eat junk food? Rom-com marathon? Apartment cleaning session?" Elena asked.

Before Caroline could pick one of those amazing options, the door burst open, Salvatore brothers standing in the doorway.

"Heard all the squealing. Welcome back, Care-bear!" Damon exclaimed, flashing his crooked smile at her.

"Thanks, Damon" she replied.

"Did Steffy or the girls tell you how we're going to celebrate?" he asked, glancing around the room, looking delighted.

"Uh, no?" Caroline looked at them curiously before her gaze landed on Stefan.

"We are... going to a rave" he said, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

"Oh my god, that sounds so much fun! When? Oh, I went to this one in college–"

"That was the best party ever and even had glow sticks, we know" Elena interrupted. "It's tomorrow. Liam's friend is throwing it."

"Perfect! One last hurrah before work starts, I guess."

"No, not you too, Blondie." Damon muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"You're starting work and so is Enzo... don't leave me alone with Stefan all day."

"I'm the one who will have to be around you all day," Stefan shot back. "I'm going to practically live at the gym till the day I begin."

"Just not my gym, please."

"Why don't you start actually looking for work?"

"I'm taking a break, dear brother. I've spent my life studying, I deserve it. Plus, Dad pays our bills." he smirked.

"Your life has been the same as that of every normal student in the country, Damon–"

"My work hours aren't that long right now, I'm just one of the three assistants..." Caroline interrupted their bickering.

"Oh good, hear that Stefan–" Damon began, only to be cut short by Elena.

"That's so great! I wish I didn't work at a hospital, the hours are crazy. And you get to spend more time with your boyfriend, lucky!"

"Yeah, I would have missed you." Stefan turned to Caroline with a smile in his eyes. Despite herself, a foolish part of her thought it was genuine. Damn it, why was he such a good actor?

She smiled back, before quickly changing the subject. "Okay, I am starving. I was so busy at the library, I forgot to eat lunch. What's for dinner?"

The girls looked at each other blankly.

"Worry not ladies, chef Stefan here will whip something up."

"I'm not going to cook three meals a day, Damon, stop being so lazy–"

"Oh my god, I'm ordering pizza." Bonnie groaned and put her phone to her ear and walked into her room.

Damon plopped onto the couch with a beer in hand, talking softly to Elena about something that reduced her to peals of laughter.

Stefan and Caroline sat down on the other couch.

"So, the plan's going on track..." he started.

Other than me falling for you.

"Yeah, totally. I mean, we go on dates, kiss, sleep in one room, what's left?"

"A declaration of love?"

Caroline swallowed. "Yep."

"Maybe a grand gesture?"

"You handle that one" she muttered.

"Okay" he replied simply.

She bit her lip, willing herself to look at ease.

"You okay?" Stefan's forehead creased as he looked at her as if trying to gauge her thoughts.

"I'm fine. Yeah, I think it's going well. We just stick to it for a while, keep up a routine when I have work too, lull them into thinking it's all peachy, and then–"

"Crash and burn."

"Throw them into a panic." She added.

"Worst breakup in history, remember?"

The last time they'd discussed the breakup, they were both laughing, imagining the guilt their friends would feel, filled with glee at the prospect of pranking them so cleverly, tricking them at their own game.

Now, there wasn't a smile in sight.

She didn't want it to end. It hurt to remember that it would.

And then she mentally chastised herself. It was sad that she was enjoying a fake relationship this much.

"What... what reason do we give them for the breakup?" He asked, looking away, but not before she'd caught his expression grow even more serious.

Why did he look serious? Was this getting to be too much for him?

"What's wrong?" She asked carefully.

He smiled at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing, I'm just tired. We'll still be friends, right?"

The hope she felt at his words just made the despair that followed worse. She felt like a small goblin was punching her heart again and again.

"Of course! You were my first close friend in town, you know."

The corners of his mouth turned up a little. "You too. This was actually fun, hanging out with you."

The goblin really hated her. She mustered up a smile and replied. "We just can't be seen together while we're fighting, and when we reveal it was a prank, we go back to spending time together. But normally, as friends."

"Good plan... so why do we break up again?" He asked again

"Uh..." Caroline started to think. "You decide you're tired of me?"

"Caroline! That couldn't happen, you're actually my friend! And that makes me sound like a douchebag."

"Okay, okay." Caroline wished there was a button she could hit when talking to Stefan that would turn her feelings off so she didn't feel hope, anxiety, anguish, heartache, and anger at herself for feeling all of the above in a constant loop.

"How about you're not ready for a relationship?"

"They'll never buy it. I haven't been in one for over a year, plus I was lamenting about being tired of being single for days before I moved here."

"Really?" He smirked. "And you were never tempted to call Klaus?"

She narrowed her eyes in mock offence and smacked his arm. "Ha ha, very funny. I'll date Damon before I date him. I say you cheat on me with Rayna."

Stefan's mouth fell open. "Damon would never buy it! He knows I would never. How about you cheat on me with one of your exes when they arrive here?"

"Yeah, no, Tyler has a girlfriend who I love and after how things ended with Matt, no thank you. Besides, the girls wouldn't buy it. I've never cheated on anyone, it's one of the worst things you could ever do, it's cowardly and–"

"And cruel and wrong to betray someone's trust like that. How anyone can even live with themselves after that is beyond me."

Caroline looked at him approvingly. "You really are Prince Charming, you know? All noble and righteous."

"So are you. Noble and moral and kind, I mean."

Did the guy seriously jump out of a Hallmark movie? Was his life's mission to prevent her from getting over him?

"Great. So we're too perfect to break up." She flopped back against the couch with a loud sigh of frustration.

Damon and Elena looked at them curiously. "Lover's quarrel?" Damon asked.

"No way" Stefan said, leaning in close to kiss Caroline. Her eyes fluttered shut and she reached up to grip his shirt and pull him closer, her annoyance dissolving into longing when she felt his hands brush against her side.

"We cross that bridge when we come to it," he whispered as he pulled away, shifting so his arm was around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder, playing with his fingers on an unconscious impulse as she thought about what he'd said. How long would it be exactly, until a logical reason to break up cropped up?

She looked up to see Elena still looking at her curiously, and turned to Stefan. He was watching their hands as if it was the most natural thing in the world. To her, that's what it felt like. And to the others, it looked like a regular couple sitting together and being cute.

Well played, Stefan, she thought as Elena smiled softly at her and went back to talking to Damon.

"You know, a few weeks of dating is fine too if we find a reason by then. Who says it needs to be months?" She blurted out.

Stefan's expression was guarded. "Okay."

And then she kicked herself. Because even though she'd suggested it, and it was a pretend relationship, and they'd just been analyzing their future breakup in great detail, him agreeing with breaking up early so easily made her feel uneasy.

And that was why it was better in the long run, as much as she hated it (and then hated herself for hating it–really, what the fuck.)

The sooner this charade ended, the sooner would her conflicted feelings and stupid crush go away, and her mind would be a far more tranquil place.

20

[familyfriendlyfilm]

Throughway - PJO

Hey! This is my first fanfic that I’ve posted here ever. I used the prompt of Liminal Spaces from a different post for a brainstorm and I found myself writing Percy and Annabeth, so I hope you enjoy!

Third person POV, Annabeth focus though. Some fluff but nothing too mature. 

Saturated orange light flickered as it filtered through the dirty window above the booth. The fluorescents overhead buzzed and filled the air with electricity, as if anticipating the coming storm. In the booth, sat a young woman, maybe 20 or 21, head in her hands, trying to find a way to control the sobs that racked her body. Her phone screen lit up and quietly dinged every few seconds, but she attempted to ignore all that.

She found herself, in a phone booth, at a rest stop outside of her city for one reason only: the betrayal of a loved one. Not 3 hours earlier, she had walked in on her boyfriend Nico and her best friend Will, shirts off and lips locked on her couch. All she could do at the time was stand in the doorway, mouth agape as they both scrambled to get off each other and stuttered out worthless excuses and apologies.

As she relieved that moment in her head, she let out a sad and frustrated groan, the buzzing and ringing and flickering driving her to a moment of insanity where she picked up the cell and through it out of the curtain that separated her from the rest of the world.

“OW! What the hell?”

Shit. She didn’t expect anyone to be out there, especially not at this hour. The woman peeked around the curtain to find a man with messy black hair in a blue hoodie rubbing his neck and reaching down for the now slightly cracked phone. He paused momentarily as the screen lit up again, giving it a scrunched look of confusion. Grabbing the phone, he stood straight and looked over in the direction of the booth.

The woman’s heart stopped as she quickly went to hide behind the curtain again. Those eyes. Large and green and almost glowing. She recognized those eyes instantly; of course, it was him. Quickly, she grabbed a crumpled tissue from her pocket and tried to wipe away some of her tears, taking small calming breaths as she did so. She barely had time to do so before she heard quiet knocks on the side of the booth,

“Um, do you want to explain why I was the target of this flying iPhone?”

The blonde woman took a second to compose herself and pull her curls into a haphazard bun before pulling open the curtain to face the man,

“I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t have thrown that.”

It took him a moment to register who he was talking to, he could feel a slight blush creeping into his cheeks and he cleared his throat with a chuckle, holding the phone out for her to grab,

“Uh, you’re probably right but it’s all good. I may have read a few of those texts on accident, and considering the circumstances, I think I can forgive you.”

The girl gave a week smile and grabbed the phone, quickly turning it off as she threw it in her purse,

“Oh…you read some of that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a cheeky smile,

“I wouldn’t have needed to. I think getting hit in the head by a phone is enough to know someone is upset. I’m -ah- I’m Percy by the way.”

She blinked in surprise and frowned a little, so he didn’t remember her. Why would he? Every time we’ve met it’s been half drunk and not a lot of talk. Guess I should just do this like we don’t know each other.

“Annabeth,”

she responded flatly, not really looking him in the eyes.

“So, what brings you to my domain?”

Percy smiled a little, a feeble attempt at lightening the mood while also trying to find out why this girl, one he had a complicated history with, found herself outside of town and at a shitty rest stop.

Annabeth could tell he was trying to be polite and just shrugged,

“I just needed to get away from the city. I just kinda drove until I couldn’t anymore, so I stopped here,”

she could feel her eyes beginning to water again so she pushed past Percy toward the parking lot,

“I’m sorry, I should leave now.”

His arm flashed out in an instant, grabbing her by the elbow and pulled her back gently,

“Woah, you’re in no condition to be driving right now. Why don’t you come inside to the café? I just close up shop but I can fix you up something to help you gather your thoughts a little.”

Annabeth nodded and let Percy guide her to the small corner café of the old rest stop. It was well worn and in obvious need of repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but it smelled of sweets and coffee, and that was enough for her not to protest when he sat her down at a stood with a little fluff sticking out of it.

Percy disappeared into the back, calling behind him,

“You don’t remember me do you?”

Annabeth bit her lip to stop herself from responding right away and took a moment to think how she would word what followed,

“You seem familiar…did we meet in passing?”

Upon hearing that response and knowing he was out of eyesight, Percy silently cursed as he prepared the drink and tried to trigger some memory in Annabeth,

“You’re Annabeth Chase right? Your dad is a history professor at the college?”

So, he knew more than he let on, Annabeth pondered to herself, rubbing her puffy, tired eyes,

“That’s me. ‘Professor Chase’s daughter’.”

Percy chuckled and peeked around the corner of the doorway,

“Oh come on, give yourself more credit than that. I’ve seen some of your writing in the paper too, some of the stuff on the new buildings on campus, it’s super good,”

she blushed at that,

“But I’m in your dad’s American Industrialization and War class. I enrolled sort of late so I had a lot of catch up to do.  I had one-on-one study sessions in his office a lot. I remember you’d always bring him coffee at 4:15 on the dot. He introduced us the first time I was there.”

By the time he’d finished, he’d brought out a mug of thick, rich smelling liquid and a glass of water. He leaned on the counter with a rag in hand, looking at Annabeth expectantly.

She gave a small smile and offered,

“Oh, uh, I guess I never got that great of a look at you? It’s Percy…Johnson?”

At that, Percy grimaced and threw the towel over his shoulder, turning around as he did so,

“You have no idea how often people get my name wrong. ‘Johnson’ ‘Jason’ ‘Jacobson’. You’d be shocked how creative some people can be. It’s Jackson. Percy Jackson.”

Annabeth couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, and hearing that, Percy smiled within himself. She stuck out her hand and said,

“Well, nice to officially meet you Percy Jackson.”

He turned back around grinning and heartily grabbed her hand and shook it,

“Gee thanks, nice to meet you too Annabeth Chase. Officially.”

For a moment, everything slowed down and Percy eyed Annabeth cautiously. Shivers ran down her spine as his eyes met hers again and for a moment, she forgot where she was, loosing herself in the mesmerizing greens. At the same time, all that ran through Percy’s head was how easily it would be for Annabeth to send someone running with her stormy gray eyes. Every moment it looked like clouds shifted in her eyes. He started leaning in, almost involuntarily. Almost.

YO I’LL TELL YOU WHAT I WANT, WHAT I REALLY, REALLY WANT!

The Spice Girls blasted from Percy’s hoodie pocket and he fumbled around for the phone, cheeks beet red as Annabeth stifled her laughter.

“Hello?...oh hey. Yeah. No, I’m still at work,”

Percy glanced back at Annabeth, who was grinning ear to ear, face red from laughter and tears in the corner of her eyes, this time happy ones. He’d never seen anything more beautiful,

“Um...probably late?...oh shit! I’m sorry I completely spaced…it’s a bit of a friend emergency…come on you know I wouldn’t do this on-hey! That’s not fair!”

The sudden change in his tone made Annabeth jump and Percy noticed. Running a hand through his messy black hair, he sighed,

“Listen Thals, I gotta go. We’ll talk about this later, deal?...and, uh, could you let Nico know Annabeth is safe?...Yeah she’s here…alright thanks. Bye.”

Annabeth’s smile had disappeared when she heard mention of Nico, her boyfriend. She turned away from Percy who quickly found his way around the counter and blocked the door,

“Now before you go throwing phones again, let me explain.”

“What’s there to explain? You know Nico. He probably sent you to find me. You’re just doing him a favor. I get it.”

Percy shook his head,

“That is not what I’m doing. Sit down and let me explain. Please?”

Annabeth hesitated a moment then went to sit down again while mumbling,

“The Spice Girls, really?”

She found her seat and played with the mug in her hands.

“You better drink that Sludge before it gets cold.”

“It’s called what now?”

“Sludge…come on try it before you judge, it’s good. A Percy Jackson special, only for the best customers.”

With a distasteful frown and a glare at Percy, she raised the glass to her lips. It tasted like blueberry pancakes fresh off the griddle and warm vanilla milk all at once. It warmed almost every inch of her body and woke her tired eyes up. She felt rejuvenated and instantly more forgiving of guy in front of her.

“Good right?”

She gave a shrug, not willing to succumb to his cheekiness. So, Percy sat down next to her at the counter and took a breath,

“The person who called me was my cousin, Thalia. I was supposed to join her on a double date tonight but I completely spaced so I had to cancel on her. She wasn’t happy but whatever, she can take her brother Jason if she wants to go so badly.”

“But you and Thalia know Nico my boyf-…ex-boyfriend.”

She grabbed the water, quickly taking a sib as she felt another fit of emotions surfacing.

“Uh yeah. He’s our cousin also. I saw him on your phone screen earlier and I put two and two together. I don’t talk to him a ton, I knew he had a girlfriend but I had no idea that it was you. It kinda surprised me, I thought Nico was into guys and even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t have pinned you as his type.”

Ouch, that was a low blow. So now not only am I the one cheated on by my  apparently gay boyfriend, I’m not even worthy to be dating Nico in the first place?, Annabeth thought to herself with a frown. Percy realized his mistake from her quiet response and sighed,

“Listen that’s not what I meant. I just think he’s kinda dark for you. I expected you to go for the more…I don’t know, humorous type…”

He trailed off when he saw Annabeth’s face scrunch up. She placed the water down carefully and crossed her arms. This close together, Percy noticed the goosebumps on her skin and said hesitantly,

“I’m such an idiot, I left the AC on. Are you cold?”

She shrugged and glanced past him to the window, seeing the beginnings of a late summer storm,

“Nothing a little Sludge won’t fix.”

Percy grinned, and despite her protests, shouldered off the hoodie and wrapped it around Annabeth. His hands rested on her shoulders and she couldn’t help but close her eyes at the warmth of his touch, a touch she was finding herself craving, despite the fresh betrayal of Nico. She mumbled a thank you and he grabbed the seat next to her again. He had this look about him that she wouldn’t be able to place into words until later as protective.

He watched her quietly as she sipped on the sludge then grabbed my cup of water and sipped on it. Then, he began to make patterns on the counter with some of the condensation that had fallen down the side of the glass into a ring on the surface below.

There was something so beautiful about it, and it caught Annabeth in a sort of trance that she almost didn’t hear him say,

“So, you want to talk about it?”

She let out a sigh,

“Percy I hardly know you.”

Percy deflated a little at that, but then a thought came to his head and he perked up a little,

“Well then, let’s get to know each other. We seem to already have a lot in common, at least in our social circle. I think we’ve crossed paths before,”

More than just crossed paths, Annabeth thought to herself,

“So let’s make up for a little lost time and it’ll be a great distraction.”

He is cute, Annabeth gave him that, and eventually she decided maybe a distraction wasn’t so bad,

“Fine.”

He flashed her another cheeky grin and nodded,

“Awesome. Okay, what is your dream job?”

“Architect.”

Percy was taken aback a little,

“That was quick, why architect?”

Annabeth took a sip, finishing off the Sludge and told Percy what she’d repeated her whole life:

“I just love architecture. It’s mathematical and beautiful all at once.”

She hesitated a moment, contemplating whether to share the next bit with him, sure he was going to laugh,

“Plus…I want to build something permanent. Like the Greeks and the Romans did but also something that everyone will know my name from.”

She waited for the laugh, but instead heard an impressed whistle,

“Dang, that’s a pretty way of thinking about it. At least you’re passionate about something.”

Annabeth gave him a funny look,

“Are you not passionate about your future?”

He bit his lip in thought, which she found herself blushing over a little, then simply shrugged,

“I guess I still have a lot to figure out. I’m undeclared still. I was going to be a marine biology major but I hate traditional schooling. Honestly I’m considering just doing some sort of main stream degree like psychology and then just learning what I actually want to do by doing it.”

“That’s always an option. I think you’ve just have to find what gives you that drive and really let that feeling take you over and above all love what you’re doing.”

Percy snickered,

“Thanks for the advice, Wise Girl.”

She just rolled her eyes and said,

“Okay my turn. What’s your favorite color?”

He laughed at that one,

“Jeez, that’s the best you could come up with? It’s blue. My mom and I have a thing for blue food because my ex-step dad said blue food didn’t exist. So, we’d give him the finger by finding all the blue food we could and made a point to eat it in front of him. My turn wh-“

“Hey, I think you asked two questions last time?”

He put his hands up in defense,

“You caught me Wise Girl.  Now, while you think of a good, soul-searching question for me, I’m gonna through this mug into the sink and grab us another Percy Jackson special.”

He got up to head to the back and she called after him,

“Is Wise Girl really the best you’ve got, Seaweed Brain?”

He turned his head to wink and said dramatically before vanishing,

“I kinda like that. An ode to my passion.”

When Percy reached the backroom, he let out a sigh so heavy, it was almost like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He dropped the mug into the sink and gave himself a little pep talk,

“Alright Jackson, she doesn’t remember you. That’s okay. You can do this. She’s just Annabeth. You’ve gone through this stuff before. You got this.”

All the while, Annabeth leaned her arm on the counter, propping up her head and recalled a memory:

Freshman year of college, Annabeth attended a ‘disorientation’ party at her friend Selina’s house. She kept to the outskirts of the warm, sweaty and drunken bodies, holding a blue solo cup in her hands, swaying to the beat of the music quietly. She’d never felt more insecure in her life, so she made a point to slowly make her way toward the exit.

At some point, she realized she had a sort of shadow following her, and she felt like someone was watching her. Glancing around, her eyes eventually rested on a cute, lanky looking guy with messy black hair in a flannel. When her gaze met his, he smiled and looked away in embarrassment. She decided in an instant she didn’t have anything to lose so she walked across the room over to him and said,

“Hey, I’m Annabeth. Do you want to dance?”

When his eyes met hers, her heart stopped a beat. They were so green. Like brand new spring leaves. He gave a sheepish smile and yelled over the music,

“Percy. And, I’d love to!”

The whole rest of the night, they were glued at the hip. They took shots together, they made a mad beer pong team together, and they danced the whole night away.

Every time their hands would brush, they’d awkwardly glance at each other. Percy offered to walk her and her friends back to their dorm but Annabeth just laughed and said,

“What good would you do? You can’t even walk straight!”

So, Percy, in a moment of wild, drunken courage grabbed Annabeth by the waisted and pulled her closely, his lips colliding with hers. She immediately reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, smiling into that kiss. Annabeth swore that kiss stopped time until they broke to breathe. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek before reaching for her purse and grabbing a pen. Clicking it and grabbing his hand she said,

“Call me. I don’t want this to be the last time we see each other.”

She then gave him a pen and pulled him in close again, this time for a hug before her friends dragged her off back to the campus.

She didn’t hear or see him again until that one day her father introduced them in the middle of junior year.

“Um Annabeth?”

She snapped out of her daydream instantly. Standing before her was that some cute boy from the memory, though now he was taller and muscular and had some stubble on his chin. But the smile, the hair, the eyes, those remained the same.

“Hey, yeah, sorry I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

She grinned,

“The soul-searching question I have for you, of course.”

Percy gave a warm dopey smile back and then pulled out a bottle full of blue liquid from behind his back,

“Well if we’re going to be getting to the good stuff, then I present to you. Blue booze, a moonshine made by yours truly, patent pending.”

He popped off the lid and took a long swig before handing it over to Annabeth,

“There’s a room connected to the café from when it was 24 hours. It’s got a bed and a couch. I’ll take the couch, but no driving for us because this shit is strong. I just thought we could both use a drink.”

In response, Annabeth stood up, muttered a fuck it, grabbed the bottle from him and took two long swigs of the bitter liquid, just to show him up,

“Nobody tells Annabeth Chase she can’t hold her liquor. Especially not someone who I know can’t hold his.”

Percy looked at her, mouth slightly agape and face flushed, and not just from the booze,

“Wait so you do remember me?”

She wagged his finger at him and set the bottle on the counter, gesturing to the seat next to her for him to sit down,

“Ah, ah. I do believe it’s my turn still.”

Without a word, he grabbed a seat next to her and took another small swig of the blue liquid, awaiting her question just so he could ask his again. He had to know if she remembered.

“Soul-searching questions are more truthfully answered while under the influence anyways. So, my question is why work here? At a rest stop café? You could probably work anywhere on campus or off. You’re charismatic and attractive enough. God knows that’s all they look for now days. “

Percy blushed at that and grabbed another drink of the blue booze before answering quietly,

“Have you ever heard of liminal spaces?

“No clue.”

Annabeth grabbed the bottle from him and took another drink, set the bottle down then grabbed a drink of the water that still sat on the counter. She could feel here face beginning to heat up from the liquor.

“Well, liminal spaces are both physical and psychological places. The physical is basically a throughway. Places you are just passing through as you go from one place to the next. Like rest stops, grocery stores, mini marts. You feel weird when you’re in them too long and start to think about the concept of it all. The psychological side of it is similar. If feels like you’re floating in nothing, anxiously waiting for the next part of your life to begin.

I work here because I see people just ignoring this vastly important part of their life. They come then they go without a thought about where they are. They won’t remember this place because there are so many like it. I like to embrace that weird feeling you get from here because no one else will. I want to give it the recognition that it deserves. The space physically and mentally. I think that if I can achieve comfort in a liminal space for long periods of time, I can be so much more adaptable to life. It’s almost like a therapy too; working in a coffee shop and embracing the weirdness of it all.

Plus, I get to meet people in various stages of their life. Like you for example, you were just passing through and it was like the universe wanted us to meet again.”

He really stressed that word. Again. He knew she knew and she smiled as he spoke. This voice was beautiful and his words thoughtful. When he was finished, he considered her stormy eyes, they were long recovered from the tears that haunted them earlier in the night, and a relaxed smile was fixed on her flushed face,

“I know that was cheesy, I’m such a stupid romantic.”

She instantly grabbed his hand and entwined their fingers,

“Percy, that is one of the most beautiful things that I’ve ever heard. And it’s literally just the explanation of why you work at a roadside café. That wasn’t stupid at all. Being a romantic is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

Percy glanced at their hands and then smiled a little,

“Thanks, I like to think I’m passionate about the little stuff.”

She gave a little laugh, the liquor beginning to take its hold on her mood,

“Well at least you’re passionate about something!”

Percy laughed, something loud and joyous, also likely do to some inebriation, but it was like music to her ears and said,

“Two points to Wise Girl.”

“Oh, shut up Seaweed Brain.”

But at this point, neither of them could stop the fits of giggles from turning into something resounding and obnoxious and freeing for the two, both were doubled over on their stools trying to catch their breath. When they were finally able to regain their composure, Percy took on a slightly serious face and said,

“Annabeth, how are you doing, really?”

The mood of the room shifted instantly and in that moment, Annabeth realized how close in proximity the two had become, their knees almost touching, and their hands had somehow found each other again after their laughing fit, fingers interlocked. She could feel his pulse in this thumb, and swore it was going a million miles an hour. All this, she took in, in an instant before responding,

“I could live here, in this moment forever. I don’t want to go back and face what’s coming. I was so angry and upset with Nico and Will but even more with myself for not seeing either of them truly, that all I wanted to do was leave town and start over again. I’ve been so engrossed in these unimportant things that I forgot to stop and be with the people I love. But now? That all feels like a distant dream and all I want to do is keep talking to you and answering these silly questions and drinking this lighter fluid and start over with everything. It feels like the end of a lot right now.”

Percy was attentive as she spoke, and at some point his thumb had started rubbing circles on the top of her hand. He was quiet for a few moments after she finished, drinking in the words she had spoken and considering his options before saying,

“You know, it may be the end of those things, but I think this is just the start of something absolutely permanent.”

Annabeth turned her stood toward him and he placed his free hand on the outside of her thigh, all the while glancing at her lips. The sudden contact to her leg made Annabeth’s breath hitch and when his eyes met hers once more, as if asking permission, she parted her lips slightly and closed what little space there was left between them.

For the second time in her life, Annabeth felt like time had stopped and Percy, well Percy was just happy to be kissing her again, like he’d always hoped. Her lips tasted sweet and milky, probably from the Sludge, and to her, Percy’s lips tasted like the ocean, fresh and salty. They were in love with the taste of each other’s lips in one kiss. Her hand released his and both found their way to his messy black locks, and as she ran her fingers through his hair, she could feel him smile into the kiss. Meanwhile, he found his way to her thighs and explored upwards to her hips and eventually his fingers made contact with the bare skin of her waist under her shirt, sending electricity through both their bodies.

Literally. The electricity in the air from the thunder storm, in full force outside, caused Percy to shock her. They pulled apart quickly, resting their foreheads together and started laughing loudly. They were giddy and warm and neither of them had felt safer than just then. Annabeth could feel Percy’s hot breath on her face as he spoke quietly,

“So, I’ll take it you remember me, for real this time?”

She smiled and twirled one of his locks I in her fingers and said,

“God, Percy, how could I forget? That night was the best of my life. I thought you forgot about me because you never reached out.”

Percy pulled her closer, almost to the edge of the stool and said in a gruff voice,

“I could never forget you. Your writing was completely illegible. I tried forever to find you, but the school is just so big, I never did. It’s part of the reason I took your dad’s class. I was hoping I might run into you that way.”

Annabeth let out a small giggle,

“Well you’ve found me now, what are you gonna do about it?”

Percy paused, as if in contemplation then he started kissing her jawline delicately,

“One day, I’m going to worship you like the goddess you are…”

He reached her collar bone and then slowly started making his way up the other side of her neck and below her ear lobe.  She shuttered, every kiss sending a jolt of energy though her veins.

“But now isn’t right.”

He pulled away, planting a light kiss on her lips before retreating, then took a deep breath,

“I want to take this slow Wise Girl.”

She pouted at him for a moment before grabbing his hands in hers and smiled,

“I know. I need to figure things out before I dive headfirst into…whatever this may be. I think…I think it’s time we go to bed.”

Percy frowned but he knew it was for the best. He stood and she followed in suit. He led her by the hand to the back room, opening an old creaky door to reveal a homey looking bedroom, with fresh sheets and pillows. She closed the door behind her and the two of them quietly began to make themselves comfortable.

Annabeth slipped off Percy’s hoodie, her jean shorts and blouse, Percy politely looking the other way as he prepared the couch for himself. She threw the hoodie back on and zipped it up, the oversized thing reaching to her midthigh. She turned around to say goodnight to Percy only to find him already crashed on the couch, eyes closed and a small smile playing upon his lips.

She tip-toed over to him and affectionately moved the hair out of his eyes a little before placing a kiss on his forehead and whispering to him,

“Thank you for being my hero, Seaweed Brain.”

She then crawled into bed and turned off the nightstand light, burying herself into the blankets and sheets.

Percy opened one green eye and sat up slightly to look at the outline of the girl that graced his bed and was beside himself with joy and recalled what he said to the girl that had already become his passion; this is just the start of something absolutely permanent.

And it absolutely was.

[wingskribes-blog]

Last Place on Earth

It was getting late and I still hadn’t slept. The night had been given to drinking—and later, fighting with my boyfriend. Who could say who started it. Or why. The arguments seem to blend together these days. I can’t remember the last weekend that didn’t end with us spearing away at each other. I had begun to think moving here with him was a mistake.

Maybe I wasn’t meant for Japan.

Maybe we weren’t meant for one another.

This thought, more than my burgeoning hangover, soured my stomach as I sat cross-legged on the empty station floor. Shoulders to the cold bricks behind me, I pondered it—as far as I could ponder anything at that moment—growling every so often in my head.

What a dick, I wrung silently up at the fluorescents. What a nefarious donkey turd! We saw so, so little of each other—David worked in the daytime and I taught at night—and now when we finally had an evening out, what does he do? Piss off in a snit with a random troupe of douchebags!

Asshole!

I could have been nicer, I admitted. Grudgingly. …But whatever, so could he. Not that it mattered anymore. We both some of stuff. Things you can’t unsay…

A rhythm of screeching trains, bound between obsequious Japanese announcements, marked time’s passage. Blind to my sniffling, the world paced forward around me, and through a dazzle of unshed tears, I watched the station’s slow resurrection. Morning’s first commuters trickled in to stir the air and batter the floor tiles with their shoes. Salary-men mostly, unlucky ones with jobs whole prefectures from home, riding hours every morning and night between competing obligations. So did I see vacationers, suitcases dragging behind them, alongside litters of children too tired to wine or cry. And of course there were the others, the still-up. Crawling like insects from izakayas and karaoke lounges, these exhausted ex-revelers swayed visibly on the platforms, anxious for home and the sweet, fleeting death of unconsciousness.

I watched as they passed, the drowsy and the drunk, the youthful and the weathered alike, different from each other but molded into an amalgamate sameness. Dissimilar faces appeared identical in the faceless expressions they wore. I couldn’t help wondering if they saw this look on my face too. No one was really awake yet. None of us was truly quite alive.

A glance at my watch showed four-fifty-three am. Might as well get moving.

I bought a ticket and fed it into the automated gate. Still pretty drunk—and still angry—I made my way to the platform. Clenching my jaw, clawing my hair back, I paced the concrete floor, reliving events of the past few hours. My mind circled one way as the world spun sharply in the other, and I found myself in a tangle of meaningless half-formed thoughts.

This country had been a sequence of stark disappointments—David not the least of them. I came to get away from all the drama and bullshit I’d accumulated back home, to escape a crappy job that paid next to nothing, and doing the same things with the same three people every single weekend. Yet here I was, doing all of this. Only the backdrop had changed. It was too much; I needed to get away. The fight with David only clinched it. I had no idea where I was going or what I’d do when I got there; at that moment, I only knew I had to go.

A woman’s voice, punctuated by a low two-note chime, announced in Japanese, the train’s approach. Other ghosts shifted on the platform as a crackling rumble rose in the distance. Lights cut the darkness, growing wider and brighter as they approached, before taking shape into a rushing wall of metal and glass. The train slowed, then it stopped. After a moment’s grace, the doors slid open.

Commuters flowed in, slipping past me onto hard-backed seats. I just stood though, swaying in my drunken reticence. What was I doing, I asked myself. Where could this possibly end? The double doors yawned wide, wafting hot orange light that curdled my intestines. I stared blankly through, feeling smaller than I had all night. The train, it … wanted me to board. Feeling its thirst, I shivered with an apprehension my mind couldn’t begin to dissect.

It’s not a good train, a voice whispered in my head. But I quickly stamped it down. That was stupid. I closed my eyes then opened them again. No, not a good train; not a bad train either. Just a train. And so it was, no different than a thousand others I’d ridden. Ducking in, I heard a low cackle as the engines came on, and I’ll admit I started at the sound. But I didn’t break stride; trains were made to be ridden, doors crossed. And seats, I silently asserted, lowering myself onto the molded fabric, sat in.

Resting my head on the window, I closed my eyelids. Tired, I thought, allowing my brain to slowly melt. I could sleep all the way to … to wherever we’re going. I still had no idea where that could be. Tired… I’m tired of working nights. And fighting with David … so often. I’m tired of disappointment. Of feeling alone all the time. I’m just tired of being … here.

Somehow, here was where I always seemed to end up though.

                It was on this thought that I felt myself slipping away. In a moment more, I was gone.

  o             o             o             o             o

                  The next few hours slid by in a haze. The morning concourse grew around me. Suits, dresses and school uniforms crowded the train, swaying with every sharp turn, shaking together as the wheels snickered on their tracks. I registered the crush of strangers, the clamber of their voices, but it was like in a dream. I slept. I woke. I drifted, claustrophobic between states. Formless visions enveloped me. I stared into David’s grey eyes, pitched and angry like dull headlights flying rolling up in my direction … I saw the crack and flutter of a long strip of cloth—some kind of a banner, or maybe a scarf—tethered against storming typhoon winds, fighting not to blow away … I heard a chorus of wild, laughter, rising and falling like waves. I saw waves. I dreamed I was on a plane.

I dreamed I was in space.

By no measure was I the only sleeper. Passengers drowsed all around me, leaning on windows or walls, slumped forward in their seats, even standing. Nearby, an ancient obaachan—‘grandmother’, in Japanese—sat, hugging a paper bag near as big as she was. (Packaged snacks no doubt, edible souvenirs to be offered to family and friends.) She slumbered in her seat with a furvour I would almost have called aggressive, stirring not once since I laid eyes on her. An aged statue, clutching that bag to her chest like she thought it was going to make a break for it. The instant we got to her station, I knew though, she would be out of her seat and shuffling out the door to deliver her goodies. Sleeping on trains is an art form this country, a proud Japanese tradition.

As and the tracks pulled us deeper through the morning hours, the crowd, like the buzz in my skull, slowly began to disperse. Spaces around me quieted even as my brain throbbed against its casing. My head lolled a little. Then it lolled a lot. I could feel sleep, true sleep, like a lightless fog, settle over me. The last thing I saw was a fat, dusty pigeon hopping onto the seat across the aisle from me. It puffed its feathers, picking and prodding at a tear in the cloth. Then, along with everything else, it was gone.

When I awoke the world was different.

A flutter and a bang. My eyes opened and a gasp ejected through my lips. What was that? I blinked and tried to shake the daze from my skull. I had been dreaming. About … about.

Flutter, flutter BANG!

What the hell was that? Peaking over the seats, I surveyed my surroundings. The train was brightly lit. Bars of hot, gold-green light cut steep lines through the windows. Hours had passed, I guessed. The car was empty except for me and the comatose obaachan, still hugging her bag of sweets. And of course, for a clay-coloured pigeon at the far end. This was had been was making all the noise.

The creature was in hysterics. It flapped erratically about, heedlessly flinging itself into chair-backs, windows and walls. “How’d you get in here?” I wondered aloud, curiously watching its struggle. I considered getting up to help it, opening a window and trying to shoo it through. But what if it panicked and attacked me? I pictured the animal, streaking at my face, wings beating wild to a chorus of shrill birdy squawks. And I sunk back into my seat.

The obaachan slept on undisturbed.

My drunk had burned away with the morning and I was left feeling worn and distant. My throat was dry and my head seemed to possess a joint in it somewhere that had been dislocated. I rose and stumbled to the toilet to pee. After washing my hands and drinking from the sink, I took a side-long seat so I could stretch my legs. My clothes were disgusting, I realized then. It looked like I’d spent the night rolling in a ditch. No one was going to see me though, and there was nothing I could do regardless. I stared out the window and tried not to think about it.

The view from the train offered little in the way of diversion. Brown fields stretched in all directions, only occasionally broken by groves of stunted trees and collars of dead scraggly brush. Shapeless clouds painted the sky into an endless plane of slate, pressing down over a knot of mountains, barely visible against the horizon. This bleak landscape suited my mood perfectly. My eyes gazed out at it, exploring without actually seeing anything. My mind set itself adrift.

                Beneath the clack and shudder of the train I could still hear the pigeon stirring. It had settled down, but continued to flap its wings somewhere out of sight. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and listened. For a very long time.

                My eyes slowly opened.

                Why haven’t we stopped? The train rolled on, same as ever. I’d been awake for a while now—an hour maybe—and we hadn’t come to a single station. A local train like this might cross half the country in a day but it rarely went longer than five or ten minutes between stops. Where are we going? I turned my head and surveyed the same empty car, the same sterile landscape out the window, the same obaachan across the aisle from me, still frozen in sleep. Still frozen…

My heart skipped a beat.

In all this time she hadn’t so much as shifted.

                “Sumimasen,” I said—‘excuse me,’ in Japanese—sliding into the seat across, I eyed her closely. Was she breathing? “Excuse me,” I repeated a little louder. “Are you alright? Are you sleeping?” The woman made no answer; she didn’t move. “Are you … alive?”

Nothing…

Holy shit.

                I hesitated. The skin between my fingers itched, and I found myself tugging at the fabric of my skirt. Coaxing one hand open, I raised it to the woman’s neck. For a moment, I held it out, just shy of touching her, afraid to close that gap. Finally, I pressed into the greyish wattle just below her chin. Her skin was candle wax, cold and stiff. I snapped my arm snapped away, squeaking at the half-moon imprint left on her neck. “Eeuuuaaghh!” I mewled, wiping my finger on my hip. I couldn’t pull my eyes from the dead woman. On she slept—eternally—undisturbed by the audible skitter of my flesh.

Dead. Confirmation of what I’m now sure I’d already known. It set a shudder into my aching skeleton. I scanned the walls for an emergency callbox but saw nothing. The pigeon continued its frustrated struggle further down the aisle and I did my best to ignore it. No box. No button. Get the conductor, I thought, bang on his cabin; tell him in person. He can radio ahead. I tried the door to the next car. It slid a centimeter, an inch. Then it squealed to a stop and refused to budge any further.

This is unbelievable!

Trains like these usually have someone working at either end, so I made my way to the back instead. Scurrying nervously past the agitated bird, I tried the rear door, somehow not at all surprised to find it jammed as well. I pushed and pried for several minutes, before finally giving up. Stuck on a train with a pigeon and a dead woman, I thought, dropping unhappily into the nearest seat. My eyes followed the shock of feathers further up the car. And nothing to do but wait.

  o             o             o             o             o

                  And that was exactly what I did. Time passed slowly. In fact, I believe it stopped. My phone was dead. When I checked my watch, it read nine-fifteen am. That can’t be right, I thought. It had to be at least Two or Three O’clock by now. “Bi-i-i-itch,” I exhaled, falling back into my seat.

And there I sat. While the train kept rolling. Every so often, the pigeon roused itself into a frenzy, flying up and banging off the walls, swooping down the length of the aisle to vanish again in a row of seats. I watched warily but didn’t move away when it fluttered close; I’d resolved to stay as far as I could from the dead obaachan.

And the hours crawled by.

If the sun moved in the sky, or inched at all along the treaded floor, my eyes weren’t near good enough to see it. I felt the increasing weight of every minute though, every second that passed. What the hell, I thought, impatience giving way to confusion, then on to fear and anger. My ass went numb from sitting, yet I grew more anxious with each metallic shudder that shook it. Click-click—click-clack. Click-clack—click-clack. And on and on we went, endless down the line.

We still hadn’t stopped.

My eyelids grew heavy and my head slipped forward onto my chest. I slept. I woke again and sat for a while.

And then I slept some more.

             o             o             o             o             o

  When I woke again, I was crying.

I didn’t know why, and couldn’t stop; trying only made it worse. I couldn’t seem to hold any thought longer than a few seconds. My mind waltzed circles over the spilled fragment of my life. Heavy with sweat, my clothes clung to my skin. How is it so hot in here, I wondered, quickly noting the windows weren’t the sort that you could opened. My neck was cramping. My muscles ached from sitting too long in place. And somehow, I was still on this goddamn train. Bad as all this was though, it was the smallest part of what I felt then. At that moment, I was miserable, miserable for the situation I found myself in, miserable for the world I couldn’t seem to escape; I had been miserable, I realized. I hated my job. I hated the one-room closet we called an apartment. I hated being so far from home. Most of all, I hated what was happening to David and me. I loved him. I did! Why did I hate having him around? And there I sat, desperately uncomfortable, sinking in a pool of my own poison and heartache, sure of one thing only—I want off this train.

There was no sign we’d be stopping anytime soon, though. The same brown landscape scrolled by out the windows on either side. Shouldn’t we be in the mountains by now, I thought. Or passing through a town or a city? What part of Japan was this? The sun hung, fixed on its mat of clouds, glowing grey sentinel just visible behind a thick sheet of fog. It should have set long ago. Hours. I started to understand that we were stuck in time, frozen while moving, on a track that went on and on going nowhere. And we were never going to stop.

Lost in my thoughts and tears, it took some while before I recognized that I was hungry. The hollow in my belly was insistent though. Eventually, it was too much to ignore. I hadn’t eaten since the night before, maybe twenty-four hours ago—I didn’t care if the sun said different—and a deep pang squeezed my stomach like a too-tight fist. I’d resolved to buy something to eat the moment we pulled into a station but was starting to wonder if that was ever going to happen. Then I remembered … the obaachan. Her snacks! A bag of primly packaged sweets sat waiting for me at the front of the car.

In the arms of a dead woman.

The reality of this, neatly severed any excitement I might have had at the prospect. I’m not that hungry, I decided. And I wasn’t … not yet. With nothing to eat and nowhere to go though, it didn’t take long. In a few hours my stomach was a black hole, and dead woman or no, I had to eat. I’ll get some water first, I thought, recognizing a dryness creeping back into my throat, splash my face and arrange myself. Get focused. To pillage food from a dead body. Ugh.

                Leaving my seat, I hurried past the old woman, careful not to look at her. I slurped some water from the bathroom tap then fixed my face and hair as best I could. Looking hard in the mirror, I pictured what I was about to do. “No problem,” I said, pushing the lie through teeth gritted stubbornly against it. “Just grab the bag and walk.” As I stepped out again, I repeated these words, assuring myself I was up to this particularly distasteful task. For a second, I almost believed it, too. My resolve evaporated however, with what I saw. It was all I could do not to puke.

She was still there, just as I left her, feet together, bag pressed to the plastic-pearl buttons of her coat, but her head had … transformed. Where her face had been, an enormous blossom sprouted from the woman’s neck. It was hideous, a living, moving flower with pointed grey petals that churned and thrashed in violent palpitations, opening and closing faster than my eyes could register. I screamed and tripped backward to the floor, but couldn’t free my eyes from the sight. The grotesque flower tensed and flared open, then shuddered and settled into place.

With nauseating clarity, I realized what I was looking at.

Clinging by its little birdie claws—almost upside-down—to the obaachan’s lip, hung the pigeon, casually pecking at her eyes and jaw.

That was when I did puke. Barely more than a hiccup—and mostly water—but enough to burn my esophagus. I sat paralyzed for a long moment before shaking myself out of it.

“Hey!” I heard my own voice shrill at the bird, “Get off her! Get away!” I staggered up and waved my arms. The pigeon did a little hop at the sight of me. Then it dove up the car and vanished behind a row of seats. I glared after it, shuddering … then almost threw up again.

A quick, cringing glance showed the woman’s face little worse for its ordeal. Her left eyelid was puckered somewhat and a tiny pock mark had appeared on her cheek. Otherwise she seemed all right.

“Christ,” I sighed, lowering myself into the seat across from her. “Sorry that happened.” The old woman kept her silence. “Do pigeons even eat meat?”

Why hadn’t the creature gone for the goodies, I wondered, eyeing the bag reproachfully. My stomach muttered an impassioned gurgle. I must really be hungry, I thought. Even after that horror show, I wasn’t turned from of my appetite. Biting my lip and shooting the woman a wary look, I leaned in and eased the bag from her arms. Every second, I expected her head to snap up and accusing eyes to flutter open. They never did.

I carried the food a few seats down the car and settled in. Wherever the pigeon had gone, he didn’t care to be spotted now and that was just fine. I didn’t want that feathered monster coming anywhere near me. Peeling the first wrapper, I stuffed a round green cake into my mouth. It greeted me with a mild, almost salty tingle and a sweet acorn paste that made me cry out in delight. I ate another, and another. In minutes I’d finished a quarter of the bag. Bursting at the seams, I finally had to stop. My hunger was gone, and despite everything, I sat back, satisfied.

After that, it was so much more of the same.

I didn’t leave the front of the car again. I wanted to be there to shoo the bird if he came back to finish his meal. But he never did. Maybe he’d found his own secret way off the train. Lucky devil. I couldn’t say how long I rode like that. Days, I think. It felt like months. The sun never moved. When my eyelids grew heavy I slept; when hunger gnawed my guts, I ate, carefully rationing the remaining cakes. I went to the bathroom when I had to. And every so often I curled up in a seat and I cried. It wasn’t long before I started talking to the obaachan, pouring my problems into her fixed and frozen lap. All the while, I puzzled over what could possibly be happening. What had occurred in the world—or in me—to set me on this strange, endless ride?

And as I began to wonder if I’d ever stand on solid unmoving earth again, just as I began to doubt, the tempo of clicks and clacks started to fall. I didn’t notice at first. Lost in my own stark reverie, I’d long since stopped hearing it. But a voice crackled on the speaker, causing me to jump and slip out of my seat. “Momentarily,” it said in toneless Japanese, “We will be stopping at Rasuto Ichi. Please stand clear as the doors open.”

My heart began to race.

We’re coming to a station? Is it really true?

The train slowed. On the left, grass and weeds gave way to a long cement landing, level with the floor of the car. We fell to walking speed, then crawling. And then with a swollen chug and a final, long deep cackle, we stopped.

Elation took me. I jumped from my seat laughing—I’m actually getting off this train!—and ran to the door, ready to dive through the moment it opened. Then my breath caught. What about the obaachan?

She was still up at the front—I’d moved a few rows back as she started to ripen—still frozen in death. Alone. I hadn’t known the woman in life, but she was my only companion through this ordeal, my last friend in this world. I couldn’t just leave her. The pigeon might still be lurking. Maybe, I thought. Maybe I could run and tell the conductor before he took off again…

Do you really believe someone’s operating this train?

The question came unbidden, inspiring a quickly suppressed shudder. “Why not!?” There was more than a little anger in my voice. “Of course there is!”

So why didn’t I believe that?

Then I heard a sound—eewwwwiiaamn—a braying yowl, drawn-out, like a dog wining for dinner. My head swung around and my mouth fell open. The obaachan was awake, yawning loudly, stretching her arms. Just in time for her stop.

Proud. Japanese. Tradition.

I gaped as the woman’s body slowly unfolded from its seat. She wiped her eyes and touched the beak-shaped hole in her face, though with seeming little concern. She looked around for her bag, finding it mostly empty in a nest of discarded packaging. In my excitement, I’d left it behind, there on the floor. I heard her muttering angrily, too fast and garbled to understand as she tottered over to snatch it up.

The door opened but I stood frozen, eyes stapled to the dead woman. She shuffled closer, then passed me without a glance. In measured steps she made her way to a bench on the far side of the platform and plopped down onto it. I could hardly believe it.

Yet there she was.

“Excuse me,” I called in Japanese, after a moment’s pause. “Excuse me. What station is this, please?” The dead woman offered no reply—took no notice of me at all. “Excuse me! Where are we?”

The station—if you could call it that—consisted of a single concrete slab jutting up from the ground. And nothing else. There were no shelters or walls, no signs to indicate where we were. There was no platform on the other side, or second set of tracks for trains going the other way. Just flat brown fields, empty and unused, spread out in every direction. And a solitary bench where sat the obaachan, hugging her bag once again. As far as I could see, there weren’t even any roads or paths leading up to it. Where the hell were we?

The sun had shifted dramatically, I realized. Like it was playing catch-up. It had settled on the horizon and was burning a rosy hole into the distant mountains. A muted peach halo lay across everything, warm and cool at once, rosy sweet and somehow … a little sour.

I wanted off. Desperately. But here? This place where dead women came to sit? And wait … for what? Even so, my foot edged closer to the door and my mind screamed me forward. Get off! Get off! Get off! Get off! Get off!

I raised my voice to the obaachan once more. “Hello-o-o? Can you hear me? …What is this place?”

Silence.

Another step, I thought, and I would be free. Then what? Wait with the obaachan? Maybe forever? Or board her connecting line and go wherever she was headed? Did I really want to see what waited at the end of that track? Or I could stay and ride. …Maybe forever. I heard a flutter of wings behind me and a chill tickled my spine. I just want this to be over, I despaired. That’s all!

Then, staring out the train door into that feral sunset glow, staring at the dead woman as she waited patiently on the station’s only bench, I suddenly understood. There’s no track going the other way. The words hit me like—well, like a train. No direct line to where I want to go. I could have gotten off here or at the next stop, or as often and much as I liked, but there was only one set of tracks, only one direction to go. No matter what I decided, I would have to ride this train. Eventually. There was no running away from it. Yet I had to make a choice.

I stepped back and watched the door close in front of me. No getting off now. The engines grumbled to life and we were moving again. I dropped hard into the closest seat.

                A moment later, the same flat voice came on the speaker. “This is the Nagai Henkan line,” it announced, “Destined for, Yokohama.”

A smile cracked open on my face. Tears flooded out and I fell back in my chair, practically melting with relief. Yokohama Station, I thought. That’s only forty minutes from home! I was going back.

             o             o             o             o             o

  So here I am, riding the Nagai Henkan Local. It’s night now and the pigeon has returned to keep me company. Oddly, I’m not sorry to see him. I don’t know if the return trip will be anywhere as long or strange as the ride out. I don’t know what awaits me down the line. Whatever it is though, I will meet it, and if I can, find my way home. Maybe moving here was a mistake. Maybe, David and me weren’t meant for each other. Probably we weren’t. But I’m done running from that … and from everything else. I can say—I think, for the first time—I’m ready to find out.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Inflameo

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers + YouTube - Dan Howell/danisnotonfire & Phil Lester/AmazingPhil, feat. Steve Rogers/Captain America

Rating: PG

Original Idea: ... Just my head.

Notes: (Masterlist)(About Me) This is just a fun Avengers!AU.

^^^^^

Dan and I were lying on our stomachs on Dan’s bed in the Tower, not trusting the relative silence. How was something not happening? Something was always happening. I glanced over at him. His brown fringe had been slightly dyed red where it fell in a diagonal line towards his left ear over his high forehead. His eyes were once just plain dark brown—back when I first met him before either of us got our powers—but now they seemed to shift like an ember. The brown occasionally glowing with a dull, sunset orange or muted yellow or dark red. His skin was still as pale as it had been when I met him, but emitted a low shimmer in the relative darkness we were sitting in—and not just from his phone screen casting its light on his face.

I looked back to my own phone before he could catch me staring. I didn’t mean to stare, but sometimes it just hit me how much Dan had changed since he got his powers. Physically anyway. He was still the same intelligent but dorky guy, that I'd met that day so long ago on a blustery London day, on the inside.

There came a frantic knock on the door. “Come in!” Dan called.

Phil pushed the door open, blue-green eyes a bit wide and pale skin flushed pink. He looked a bit frazzled and panicked. “We’ve been called out!” he panted. His black hair had a slightly bluish tint to it in the fluorescent lighting of Dan’s room.

Dan and I glanced at each other before jumping off of his bed, leaving our phones behind.

Through the Tower, through the locker rooms, into our suits, into the hangar, and onto the Quinjet. Steve was already in the pilot’s seat, getting ready to take off.

“What’s happening?” I asked the captain curiously, readjusting my suit where it was rubbing uncomfortably between my arm and my side. Dan helped me by yanking the sturdy, nearly-bulletproof fabric into place. Phil was doing something similar around his waist where his suit had twisted. His mask was hanging with loose straps off one ear. I glanced over at Dan to thank him for helping me. His ever-changing eyes seemed to intensely look right through me. “Thanks,” I mumbled quietly. He nodded.

“We got a distress call from a friend of ours in Edinburgh, asking for help. That was a half hour ago. It’s a long flight but we might make it in time. She said nothing has happened yet but she thinks something’s gonna happen. And over the years I've learned to trust her instinct for danger without question because she’s almost always right,” Steve explained.

“Natasha?” Dan wondered.

“Yeah,” Steve answered.

“Mind if we ask what she’s doing in Scotland?” Phil asked, British accent getting noticeably more Northern—the way it did when he was distressed. Dan’s accent got thicker too in situations like this.

“She’s making some new covers since she still hasn’t built up as many as she had before she blew the whistle on HYDRA and SHIELD a couple years ago,” Steve informed us. I nodded understandingly and glanced at Dan again before looking at the knees of my suit. The reinforced green fabric was designed to keep me from getting hurt but not hinder me and my powers. Dan’s black-and-red suit looked better than mine, but mine was more functional than his. Phil’s was almost useless by way of protection but that didn’t matter—he was clumsy but his skin was nearly indestructible.

Dan set his hand on my knee. I could feel how incredibly warm his skin was through the layers of my suit and I looked over at him. I supposed the heat was a side effect of his fire powers, but it was still exceptionally strange to me.

Instead of focusing on the heat, I concentrated on how long his fingers were—particularly in comparison to my stubby ones.

Dan leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Did I ever tell you that I don’t like this job?”

I gave him a disbelieving expression. “No,” I whispered back. “Why don’t you like being a hero?”

“Because I never asked for this life. I wanted to browse Twitter on my phone and go for ice cream with my friends and date a nice girl. Sure I would dream about grand things but I don’t like the responsibility on my shoulders to save lives. I've never been good enough for something like that—never been responsible enough. I don’t even think I'm mature enough to be a hero!” he ranted, keeping his voice down so Steve wouldn’t hear—though the super soldier probably could anyway.

I crossed my legs. “You can still date a nice girl,” I remarked flirtatiously.

Phil snorted with amusement where he was sitting on my other side and Dan cracked a smile.

“What, you?” he retorted. I shrugged.

“Not necessarily. But yeah. I'm nice.” I was teasing and he could tell.

Dan rolled his eyes. “Okay then. Tell you what. We survive this mission and neither of us end up in the infirmary for more than… a week, and I’ll take you out to dinner. We’ll see from there if there’s a second date. Or a third. How’s that?” He was humoring me but I could sense he was serious.

I smirked. “That… sounds like the best plan you’ve ever come up with,” I commented, winking.

“It actually is,” Captain America called from the cockpit.

All three of us in the cargo hold started laughing.

“Look,” Dan started defensively, “I'm known for my power—not my foresight. She’s the strategist!” He pointed at me. I gave the back of Steve’s head a “True that” glance. The captain was laughing at us. We all knew it. We were all younger than him—Phil by less than Dan and I—and he felt like an older brother to all of us.

“Fair point,” Captain America conceded. “But, honestly, Inflameo, the fact that you took this long to pick up on Silver Star flirting with you is astounding. Tony, Wanda, Clint, and I have been waiting for you to ask her out for months.” I watched Dan as Dan watched Steve. His pale face turned darker and darker pink as the Avengers leader kept talking. He shot me a look and I gave him one of my cheekiest smiles. He scrunched his eyebrows.

“Have you really be flirting with me for that long?”

I shrugged. “It’s part of who I am—meaning it’s a literal side-effect of my powers.”

“Alright. We both survive this mission, we’re going on a date,” Dan told me decisively.

I winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[toffeetaffy]

Beast at My Side [6]

An Unfinished Sky

Alice. I imagine her as a paper crane. Unblemished wings folded with a peerless precision, a delicate shell to house the heart of the sweetest songbird. She was once a Cullen, I am told. Once, a lot of things. Edward's sister, Bella's friend, Jasper's wife. Now they call her Volturi. That word so small and insignificant to me saturates the room with a rage that is both dark and tempting. My heart gives an irregular, sloppy thump and their eyes all turn to mine. For the first time I am truly experiencing the fear—the thrill—of being here without the numbness of my loss. Wherever this discussion now leads it is not for my ears. I gather my wits and my jacket, then make for the door.

Dark mud and thin fog are canopied by leaves of green. The woods are damp and warm, rich with colour and sound. Breath slow. Eyes closed. I feel a calm in these trees that I can find nowhere else. Too soon it is broken by the snapping of twigs, the dragging of feet. I hear her only because she lets me. Each sound a deliberate warning of her approach.

"That was a whole new level of tension, huh?" Even here in the bowels of the forest, knee-deep in weeds Bella is beautiful. Too beautiful.

I nod in response. There is no tactful way to enquire about Alice, to slake the burn of my curiosity. All I can do is arrange my face into a look that urges and implores.

She takes pity on me then. She tells me the story of Alice: a broken girl left to wither in darkness, turned cold by a stranger and preyed upon by a demon, saved from her torment by a vision of the future. A future with Jasper. "And they fixed each other," Bella continues, "they loved each other until they were whole again." She wears a smile that would once have seemed dopey. On her immaculate, snowy mask it looks only serene.

"Then why did she leave?"

"To make a new future."

Two creatures whose hearts would beat forever, stitched together by the threads of fate - suddenly undone. That even her kind were not guaranteed love eternal must have been a sobering revelation for Bella. I ask how she feels about it all and her smile takes an enigmatic curve. It's better this way, she tells me. Better for whom, I do not know.

___

The Cullen house is filled with open spaces, dusted with creamy carpet, and spotted with golden sunlight. Patterned china and priceless works of art line the white walls but nothing under its roof is quite as stunning as Rosalie Hale. Startled by her invitation I hover near the door. My hands sweat. Sitting at a vanity, her reflection greets me with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. She looks breathtaking. I look awful.

"You look awful," she says.

I laugh and she counters with a rueful smile. Creatures as lovely as her say what they please. She extends her arm in a placid appeal and I drift to her side without further thought.

"What must you think of me?" Her tone implies an inquiry but questions such as these are rarely answered to satisfaction, and I would be loathe to dissatisfy her. "Perhaps you think me cold," she hums, "cruel? Many do, Bella among them. I'm not... adept at first impressions, or so I am told."

"Guarded," I say, "not cruel. To protect a family like this I imagine I would be too."

A quirk of the mouth, a pinch in the cheek. Rosalie Hale wears her affection with a practised subtlety. She beckons me closer, pats my hair like a child. There is something in her touch that is almost warm, almost maternal. But it is only an echo, a shadowy remnant of a woman who no longer exists. Much of her seems this way. Glossy varnish coating the muddled brush strokes of an unfinished sky.

When I enquire as to why she has summoned me, she looks at my hands, my throat. Anywhere but my eyes. Profound sadness, she says, is something she knows and knows well. First, she speaks of the ephemeral nature of joy; likens human elation to the slapping of waves, the changing of tides. To know utter devastation, she explains, one must first have known complete and total exaltation.

"And did you?"

Her response is no more than an unschooled expression but it answers my question without the burden of words. Yes. For all her poise and power, Rosalie hid something inside herself that was soft and scarred. It was not damaged from a darkness that had taken over, but from a bliss that had been snatched away. I understand now that she holds a sadness so deep that I may never comprehend it.

"But that's not why you're here," she says, "give me your keys."

Outside, she appraises the Kombi with a tsk and a tut. She circles it slowly, grimaces at the paint, the upholstery, the mats on the floor. "It's a Type Two," she runs a neatly manicured hand across the blistered orange door, "popular in the sixties and seventies." For a moment she appears lost in one of her perfectly preserved memories. "The seventies were exciting," she sighs. "Not the fashion, mind you, or the music. But there was something. Something that made even creatures like us feel... alive." She smiles with all the warmth of a stolen sunbeam. "But the most memorable thing? Carlisle's wavy perm!"

When she laughs the sound is as deep and rich as the bell of a church. Stunning. Hopeful. Real. She is more striking now—parted lips, crinkled eyes—than I have ever known her to be.

Inside the van, she turns the keys and the thing roars to life, lurches forward at her command. We drive to the garage—so much larger than it first appeared—and park inside. The dark walls are spotted with cars, all new and polished, spectacular even under the rows of fluorescent lights. One corner is filled with metal chests and lined with lockers painted cobalt blue, in another sits a pair of motorcycles, a pile of rags, and an assortment of dented tins.

She wastes no time in talking. Instead, Rosalie sheds her creamy woven sweater before plunging her arms under the engine lid. For close to an hour she guts the machine: picking, pulling, and plucking at its gizzards with little effort or exertion. She speaks only to instruct, praise, or direct my hand as she sees fit. Another hour passes as I watcher her work, mesmerised by the vibrancy of her eyes and the dexterity of her fingers. At her request I hold a piece in place. The metal is round, heavy, and slick with grease but she fastens and fixes before it has time to slip away. Her dead hands work at twice the speed of any living, and her eyes see in to even the darkest recesses. Scotopia, she tells me, gives them something akin to night vision.

"Like a cat?" I ask.

"Like a cat," she replies.

With her work complete, Rosalie starts up the van. For a time she sits with her eyes closed and her lips pursed, listening for something beyond my divination. Eventually her face slackens with satisfaction and she silences the motor once more. I am caught in the act of replicating her faraway smile.

"You're rudderless," she says, "and you're sad. And you're starting to wonder if there's any point at all."

I do not question or deny. She allows me only time enough to scrunch up my nose, to wrinkle my brow, before she speaks again.

"The sad truth is: there is no point. There never was to begin with. Beyond the acts of living and loving, of sharing and dying, a single human life is of little consequence or significance. You'll spend your meagre years accumulating knowledge, friends—perhaps even wealth and status—but one day soon your body too will rest beneath the earth." She wipes down her hands and arms, picks her nails clean. "But find comfort in this: I would trade every single decade of my deathless existence for even one more day of real human pain, of real human life. Embrace it. Awful, dark, and terrifying as it is, because there will be a day when you will know incomparable joy. And that day will make these worth their bitter taste."

My arms hang at my sides, weighed down by grease, grime, and the burden of her words.

In her sister, Bella sees only mist and frost. But I can see something else. Something more. Pink and warm and resilient. A blushing rose caught in a drift of snow.

"Thank you, Rosalie."

She tilts her head in an increasingly recognisable gesture. "We're wanted inside."

A soft whistle and sharp gust of air are the only signals of her departure. I make a small attempt at ridding my arms and knees of the filth that cover them before starting towards the house at a dismally human speed. By the time I arrive the entire Cullen family is waiting, arranged around the living room like a row of teeth.

"Hey, what's up?"

Bella huffs and shrugs in a poorly practised attempt at exasperation. "I could really use a favour," she says, "Ren's going to stay at Charlie's for a while and I was hoping you could drive her there. We've got a few things that need finishing up around here."

"Sure."

My response sounds sceptical at best but Bella forges on. She stores the address in my phone, tells me Charlie is expecting me. Edward fixes his daughters backpack in place and ushers her forward with a kiss on the head and a quiet warning to behave.

"So... you have some super secret family business to take care of and you'd like it if I could myself scarce for a while?"

My assumption must be correct. The matriarch and the behemoth both laugh out loud while Edward's shoulders shake in silent mirth. Bella's face is stuck oscillating between a grimace and a pout. She appears unlikely to respond with either.

Edward produces from his pocket a ring containing a single key and fob. "Please, take my car." His saccharine smile does little to hide his intent. Impervious to harm though she may be, Edward's daughter is cargo too precious to travel in a car like mine. I'm too intrigued to be offended.

I load her in to the back seat. She's small and smiling and it somehow doesn't look right. Yesterday she was smaller. Five days ago, smaller still. A month from now she may be full grown. I worry for her. A child trapped in a woman's body. Ren reaches out and touches my cheek; her gift shows me a wisdom and strength that surpasses her frail form. She asks why that makes me sad. I tell her that I do not know.

"Tempting." He says it with a sigh. Propped against the wall of the garage, Jasper paints a long, lean shadow. Green, blue, black.

A curious combination of fear and attraction heats my skin. It crawls up my neck, pinches at my ears, renders me dumb. I remember all too well his lips on mine. Cold and smooth. Sour and delicious. I can think of little else while I stare at his well-formed mouth.

"Honestly," he says, "I am sorely tempted to just get in the car and let you drive away with me."

Ren giggles from the back seat, shaking me from my stupor. I ask him if he would like to join us. A question he seems oddly troubled by. He makes an approach—soundless and slow—his eyes always on mine.

"Never offer me something you don't truly mean to give."

Though more riddle than response, I can see his statement for what it truly is: a warning. Of what precisely, I am not sure. But I nod my head sharply. I turn away on unsteady legs.

With a little direction from Ren, and one or two lucky guesses, I find the home of Charlie Swan. It's small and white with uneven windows and a smudge of front yard. A short drive of muddy brick winds up the side, drowning in lashes of decaying summer leaves. The porch steps creak. I take them one a time and the sound makes my chest grow large, my heart feel warm. Every single thing about this house screams home. An unfamiliar feeling. I knock on the door in a short staccato, brittle chips of paint loosening at my touch.

When he answers the door I am immediately struck by how little he has changed. A few more greys in his mop of curly hair, his moustache a little more severe. But he is Charlie Swan. A plaid shirt, dusty jeans, and demure smile worn like a uniform. Perfect as a second skin.

"Hi, Mister Swan. Bella said you'd be expecting me."

Ren darts forward and offers her grandfather a brief hug before disappearing over the darkened threshold. A woman's startled laughter rings in the distance.

"Lena King." The offered greeting is little more than a mumble. "Been a long time." His arm waves lazily in a gesture that seems to beckon. I follow him inside.

He leads me in to a kitchen with stark white walls, cabinets that beam a cheery yellow in the afternoon sun. A quaint invitation. The little table we sit at is a solid slab—oaken, brown—rimmed with mismatched chairs and scored with shallow cuts. He makes tea from cheap bags. It's strong, hot, and prepared by hesitant hands. The chief of police offers me his condolences with a practised ease and I am furious to think that such a thing should ever become so simple, so straightforward. He talks in to his mug. The kitsch thing—chipped and lightly stained—is so much easier to look at than my bloodshot eyes, or my quivering lip when he asks about my future. I tell him I have no plans beyond the very next breath I'll take. No design greater than to simply survive the coming days.

"But I can do that here," I say, "with Bella. Plot a course for my future, finally figure out what it is I want to do with my life."

"Wish Bells had spent a little more time doin' that."

"Don't worry Mister Swan, we're still young. Bella's got plenty of time to figure out who she is."

His eyes meet mine. They urge, implore, they burrow away until my throat feels dry, my shoulders feel heavy. "She was just so young." And though he could be talking about her marriage, her child, her retreat into a whole new family that he is not a part of - I know that he speaks of her death. We both understand that this Bella is not his Bella.

There is little to say after that. I leave with an odd sense of foreboding.

I drive until the trees close in on me. They tower and twitch, they blot out the sky, they cover my darkness with their own. Then I see it. The thing. It's black and oily, and streaks across my vision like a shadow made flesh. I gasp without thought. The car lurches then halts. Tight against the wheel my fingers fold and flex, my knuckles pale and pop. The car fills with a sound like a rasping wheeze. It scratches at my ears. It claws and scrapes until I crush my hands to my head to dampen the din. But the noise is inside me. It is me. My own terrified breath struggling out of my mouth, burning my lungs. When I finally think I have regained my composure there is a rap on the window—short, sharp—that starts my panic anew.

The girl is pale and narrow. Her cloak hides all but her face: thin and grey with a broad, toothy smile. Such a haunting vision. She leans forward to tap the window again. It would be quite a pretty picture were it not for her eyes: brilliant and vibrant, stained the colour of mulled wine. I know what she is, what to expect, but my end does not come. Instead, she motions with her hand, one bloodless finger twirling in place. Lower the window. But even as I'm thinking no my hand obeys, the partition falls.

"Hello Lena." This smile is small, close-lipped, and barely dimples her sallow face. "Looking for a little direction?"

___

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