#i can put up with the dark drab they constantly put these poor people in but i draw the line at the hair. please make a law abt it

[ryukyuan-sunflower]

Romance in Samurai Champloo: The Mirror Reflection of Jin and Shino and Mugen and Fuu

Upon re-watching Episode 11, I was utterly shocked by how many parallels exist between Mugen and Jin as characters, in regards to their relationship with the most important women of their journey. The interactions and concepts are near identical. These specific themes and interactions were only exhibited with two specific women, and no other characters in the series.

In episode 11, Jin falls in love with Shino: a courtesan who was forced into prostitution due to her lousy, abusive husband's gambling debt. Jin later saves Shino from this brothel, and helps her escape to a divorce temple.

Canonically, it was stated in the Samurai Champloo Roman Album by Shino’s character designer that Jin does indeed "fall for" her, so it was not simply chivalry that led him to help her. This echoes his actual dialogue in episode 11:

Fuu: I understand why you pity her but-

Jin: It’s not pity.

It is not pity, because it is love.

So, here is the INSANE number of ways Jin's confirmed romantic dynamic with Shino is an uncanny mirror to Mugen's subtle romantic dynamic with Fuu.

Warning: There is a LOT of comparisons. I was honestly so surprised and have a whole new level of respect for this anime now, and specifically Episode 11.

Enjoy the read!

The First Meeting: Saving the Girl and Reading Her Mind

Both Mugen and Jin save a woman’s life at their first encounter. Both also know the girl is in trouble without ever being told.

Both Fuu and Shino reject the notion that they need help. But it is revealed later that they do.

Jin meets Shino on a bridge and saves her life. She confesses much later, that she had been contemplating suicide, but because he stopped to talk with her, she did not go through with it. 

Never did Shino ever show any indication she wanted to drown herself, other than looking at the canal. Jin just knew the moment he walked by.

Mugen meets Fuu in the tea house and saves her life. The magistrate's son was going to have her mutilated and killed. But because Mugen talked with her, she was able to strike a deal of killing them for 100 dumplings.

Never did Fuu tell Mugen that the guys were giving her trouble. Mugen just knew the moment he walked in.

In addition to this first meeting, Jin also stops Shino’s husband from beating her. Mugen also stops Umanousuke from beating Fuu in Episode 25.

Thinking in the Rain: Love Interest Trapped in a Brothel

Previously, in Episodes 3+4, Fuu was thrown into a brothel, just like Shino's predicament in episode 11.

After Mugen skips town and ditches the Yakuza, the thought of Fuu stuck in the brothel invades his mind, and compels him to turn back.

Note: Jin never thinks about Fuu stuck in the brothel.

After being unable to afford Shino, Jin is beaten by bouncers and trudges away, thinking about how Shino is sleeping with another man.

Both of these incidences occur during heavy rain. 

Both think about their love interests trapped in the brothel which leads them to return to save them.

The Brothel Escape.

Both Mugen and Jin attempt to break their love interests out of a brothel.

On the second night they spend together, Jin concocts a plan to sneak Shino out of the brothel.

Never one to be discrete, Mugen’s plan to save Fuu involves breaking into the brothel, kicking open the cage doors, and pulling her out. However, to keep the MugenxFuu romance subtle and to have shippers rip their hair out Fuu escapes alone, and she never finds out about Mugen’s wild attempt to get her back. So, we never get the obviously romantic scene of him grabbing her arm and whisking her away. We just know that poor Mugen tried.

There is evident blood on his sword. He killed a person or multiple people to get back to her.

Mugen could have taken and freed any of these lovely ladies. But no.

Note: Jin is seen putting no effort into saving Fuu at all. When Jin initially sneaks into the brothel of Episode 3+4 disguised as a woman, he had no idea Fuu was there at the time. He was just helping the boy Sousuke save Osuzu. Later, even when he sees Fuu there, Jin never is shown putting in any effort to rescue her, nor thinking about it. If we assume he intended to, with his roundabout way of being involved with the Kawara gang, (who he was already helping anyway), Fuu would have already been bought by a client, because she was. (luckily the client did not have sex with her). 

If this isn't enough of a mirror, Fuu and Shino escape the brothel in the exact same way: tying a series of clothes to the porch and sliding out the window.

Giving Up One’s Sword For a Woman

Shown in both episodes 6 and 8, Jin is extremely protective of his katana, saying that his swords are the equivalent of his soul as a samurai. 

He adamantly refuses to part with them for any reason. He is also shown in episodes 14, 16 and 20 diligently polishing them.

On a different note, Mugen is not shown taking care of his swords as meticulously as Jin, nor as protectively. He is willing to pawn them off if it means being able to eat: shown in episode 6 and episode 8.

But his sword is no less important to Mugen, as he is shown carrying the same sai handled tsurugi in his flashbacks in the Ryukyuan Islands, implying he had carried it for a long time. For Mugen, the sword has nothing to do with some code of bushido, or philosophy. It serves the fundamental purpose of keeping him alive, which is something Mugen constantly struggles with.

In a brothel, swords are not allowed, as it is unsafe for the courtesans if there happened to be a violent client. 

In Episode 25, Umanousuke is about to kill Fuu when Mugen arrives.

To spend time with Shino and free her, Jin willingly gives up his swords.

To save Fuu’s life and free her, Mugen gives up his sword in Episode 25.

Note: The only other example we have of Jin “giving up his swords” is comedy when Mugen and Fuu confiscates his swords against his will, so they can enter an eating contest in Episode 6.

Interestingly, the two men gave up their swords under reversed circumstances, yet with the same intentions.

Jin, who has always cherished his katana, ends up giving them up in a moment that he logically "shouldn't". He does what could be considered a frivolous activity of spending time with a prostitute, which completely goes against his personal code as a samurai.

Mugen, who had always been willing to give up his sword for the sake of survival, finally needs to keep his sword, or he will be brutally tortured and killed by Umanousuke. But instead, he gives it up anyway in this extremely critical moment, to save Fuu's life.

In the end, both men resorted to giving up their swords for one simple reason: love.

Red and Pink Color Composition

This one was very surprising for me, and the reason I ended up writing this entire post. The other examples until now are more obvious. But this? Mugen and Fuu's main colors are obviously red and pink. But...Jin and Shino?

Shino’s kimono color is light green, with a dark green collar. Jin’s color is dark blue.

However, when Shino is put in the brothel and takes on the name “Kohana”, she is seen throughout the majority of the episode wearing pink, with a burgundy collar. This is exactly Fuu’s kimono colors, and no other character in the series wears these colors that I can recall.

More interesting, is Shino’s brothel name becomes “Kohana”. 

Kohana means “Flower Child”. 

Fuu is the child of the “Sunflower Samurai”. 

For the first time, I was suddenly faced with a serious question of "Was this name choice and kimono color put as a symbolism of Jin choosing to buy a woman that resembled Fuu?" And in turn, would this be one solid way to disprove so much that I've always thought and written about Jin being the father figure to Fuu?

But, then I noticed something else.

Shino only wears this pink and burgundy kimono in the brothel. It is not her true outfit. 

And it is not only her who gets a "change" in appearance. Jin does too, in a sense. He gets an addition to his ensemble, only for this particular episode.

Every time Jin visits Shino in pink, he carries a bright red umbrella. Whenever she is in green, he does not have the umbrella. He visits her on four separate occasions when she’s a courtesan, always with the umbrella in tow.

The red umbrella is visually striking, as the atmosphere of this episode is particularly drab due to the rainfall.

The red umbrella becomes the connection between Jin and Shino during her stay in the brothel. It is significant, because it was initially hers, and was a gift to him since she had no use for it in the brothel anymore.

One can argue, “It’s raining and he just needed an umbrella.” But during his depressing walk, he carries it, but doesn't even use it, and we don’t even get to see it or its striking red color. (Which I will explain my interpretation as to why shortly).

We only know he’s holding it, because he continues to have it afterwards.

It is far more a symbol of his connection to her, than for practical use. Watching the episode, everyone else has drab brown and gray umbrellas. Even in Episode 4, Jin donned a drab brown umbrella.

In Japanese culture, red is famously the color that represents the “main character”. This is extremely common in many anime and video games, and particularly shown in the Super Sentai genre, in which every season since 1975 to present, the main character always dons red.

In the case of Samurai Champloo as well, Mugen is confirmed to be the “main character”, first developed by Shinichiro Watanabe, with Jin created later as his foil so the story did not become “one dimensional”, as he said. This is why most episodes focus on Mugen. 

Episode 11 is the very first episode that focuses on Jin. Up until this point, Jin was never a rescuer. (He doesn’t even rescue Fuu until Episode 26).

With Shino, he finally fulfills the "noble hero saving the maiden" role.

More interesting, is the scene where the brothel bouncers attack Jin, who intentionally decides not to fight back. Jin loses his grip on the umbrella. This is my personal interpretation, but I think this could be a representation that Jin could not protect Shino, as she is forced to have sex moments later.

If it were Mugen being attacked, he would kill the men, repercussions or not, just as he did to the Yakuza in Episode 4. Mugen will always embody the “passionate red” that he wears.

But it does not suit Jin. He has chosen the lawful path, unlike Mugen’s chaotic nature of killing whoever stands in his way. Jin does not kill these men, since he has no reasonable cause, and does not risk the repercussions. It is his own fault, not theirs, that he can’t purchase or protect Shino.

In this scene, he not only drops the red umbrella, but Shino also drops her pink robes when she is undressed. They are not red and pink: they are not Mugen and Fuu. They are back to the cruel reality of being a different, more tragic tale of love in which he can’t protect her.

One of the attackers even picks up the umbrella, and throws it at him, as if to add more injury to insult in his failure.

In the ending of the episode, Shino no longer wears pink and burgundy, and is back in her original green kimono. Interestingly, Jin stops using this red umbrella at the exact same point she is back in green. 

Since Shino is no longer a “maiden in distress in pink”, Jin no longer needs to be the “hero in red”. They no longer have to play this role. Their episode is at its close. The anime will return to Mugen and Fuu carrying out the dynamic of “hero and maiden”. 

Jin will once again, play the role as the cool and collected “rival in blue” that foils the main protagonist.

One could still argue these color choices of red and pink were random and thoughtless. They very well could be. But, this is a Watanabe work, and colors often hold surprising symbolism in the anime he directs.

As a more solid example of color symbolism: here is a link to a fascinating video that reveals just how intentional the color palette is in Samurai Champloo's Episode 14. The choice of Mukuro's yellow versus Mugen's red and the episode ending on Koza in gray was all deliberate and was repeatedly shown in the episode's composition through various means, to subtly convey the story.

Flashing the Coin and “Buying”a Woman

Jin is shown to be the character who makes/finds money for the group the most. Even in this episode, he was working for the eel stand. Mugen meanwhile, makes money and spends it selfishly. But in this episode, it is Mugen making the money and Jin demanding it for a selfish purpose, reversing their roles once again. Jin is the main character now, and Mugen the foil.

Mugen flaunts the coin he made to impress Fuu, demanding her validation by tapping her head.

Jin flaunts the same exact coin (Mugen gave it to him), in a very similar way, to show he’s buying Shino.

Both men, in essence, are "buying time with a woman".

While Jin is, in a literal sense, using the money to purchase a prostitute, Mugen's is more figurative.

Mugen gives the money to Jin, causing him to go away, and leaving him and Fuu alone. Once Jin is back, they will once again be a trio, and the “pairing dynamic” between them will be shattered. But for that brief night, Mugen got time with Fuu.

Mugen, despite acting like he detests Fuu's company, does some very strange and completely uncharacteristic things in this episode. For one...he is the one to bring Fuu to the beetle wrestling match. Her dialogue implies she didn't want to go and Mugen dragged her along.

Then, despite being all stingy about the money with Fuu, he willingly gives the money to Jin to send him away to go to a brothel. For a man Mugen claims to despise, this is a remarkably thoughtful act. Especially when he said he was going to use the money to buy seeds to make more in beetle wrestling. Strangest of all, Mugen doesn't use the money himself for a prostitute. He chooses to stay at an inn, alone with Fuu, rather than the prospect of going to the brothel in town, even when he’s repeatedly shown being a womanizer.

I think this act shows both his selfish desire to spend time with Fuu alone, but also his selfless care for Jin as a friend. He killed two birds with one stone. In both cases, these are things Mugen would never admit to his companions.

With the exchange of that on koban coin between them, both Mugen and Jin have "bought time" with their respective love interests.

Helping to Save Each Other's Love Interest.

In every episode Fuu gets into trouble, Mugen is the one who saves Fuu, if she isn’t saving herself. Jin does not. But there is one exception to this: Episode 26. Jin saves Fuu for the first time, in the one moment Mugen can't, while also simultaneously avenging his father figure Mariya Enshirou.

In episode 11, Jin does not have his swords on him. But Mugen and Fuu arrive. Mugen cuts down many men to help them escape. And in addition, he knocks down a man right in front of Shino that Jin failed to incapacitate, before telling Jin “You’re pathetic!”

The Windowsill and the Mirror in the Same Room

This one is a very, VERY minor comparison, so don’t take this one seriously. I just thought the imagery was similar.

In Episode 18, where Mugen attempts to win Fuu in a tagging contest (yes, that was actually the plot: Here's a Post About It), Mugen and Fuu spend a small moment in the inn room alone.

In this inn room, Fuu is looking at herself in the mirror, when Mugen appears behind her. 

Their faces are wonderful.

In the brothel room, Shino also looks in the mirror, when Jin is shown behind her.

Alone with their love interests, they sit on windowsills. 

Again, very, very minor and I highly doubt it was intentional. But there is no other moment of window sill sitting that I can recall.

There is one other gazing into a mirror though: the end credits of Fuu and her mother. This relates her mother to Shino, aside from the fact that they have the same exact hair and wear green kimonos, and who are in love with a poor samurai who ends up wearing gray.

Parting Ways

In the defining moment of Jin and Shino parting, there is a distance of water separating them. But Jin must let her go to the temple to be free of the marriage: her final goal.

In the defining moment of Mugen and Fuu parting, a distance of the Church with Umanousuke is in the way, separating them. But Mugen tells her to go see her Sunflower Samurai: her final goal.

Neither Jin and Shino or Mugen and Fuu are allowed to touch or to embrace before this forced goodbye.

Jin is the one to push the boat away, even when Shino tries to reach out to him.

Mugen is the one who urges Fuu to run, even when Fuu hesitates and wants to stay.

Both Shino and Fuu are reluctant to leave Jin and Mugen behind.

Mugen and Jin remain stoic, even when their emotions must be running wild.

Fuu and Shino’s eyes well up, until they are unable to hold in the tears.

“The Love Triangle” Dilemma: A Lousy Gambler, A Noble Samurai and a Pure Maiden

Now, I am not saying that Mugen, Fuu and Jin is an actual love triangle. I firmly believe it isn't, as I have shown the evidence of the two romances above.

But I believe in Mugen's mind, there is a love triangle, and he’s the odd one out.

Yes, there is a sense that Fuu has insecurity about Jin's abandonment and is jealous of his attention to Shino. Personally though, I think this is in more relation to her father's abandonment, as Jin and Shino strikingly resemble Fuu's father and mother. Jin even gets Fuu’s father’s kimono in Episode 26, and likely his katana too, as his were broken.

But that aside, the relationship dynamics going on in Episode 11 are painfully satirical.

Shino, her husband, and Jin are an ugly representation of Fuu, Mugen, and Jin.

Jin is interfering with both of these "couples".

Shino's husband is an avid gambler, who fell into debt, causing her to be thrown into prostitution. It is no coincidence that Mugen is avidly gambling throughout this episode, and being chastised by Fuu. 

Fuu’s words to Mugen are Shino’s words to her husband.

Mugen is being portrayed as the "lesser man", lacking in morals, while Jin takes on the mantle of the “gallant knight”. This again relates to the earlier concept that Jin has for the first time assumed the position as the “main character”.

This is likely why they chose “Gamblers and Gallantry” as the English title for Episode 11. Note that Gamblers is plural. (Also, the original Japanese title is Fallen Angel).

Fuu’s “jealousy” in this episode is used in the narrative to make Mugen believe she loves Jin, and not him. We see this again, in Episode 20. The one and only time Fuu cries for Jin is comical, compared to her over five emotional times for Mugen, still causes Mugen to stomp off with jealousy and annoyance.

Our first indicator of Mugen harboring jealousy of Jin stems from Episode 11 and piles up more as the show goes on.

There is three separate implied occasions in this specific episode 11.

1. Mugen states that Fuu is jealous that Jin is seeing Shino. But when he says this, it is him to roll over away from her. It is almost a blatant indicator that he is sulking. Then, he feigns sleeping and snoring.

We know his sleeping is fake because upon closer inspection....

His eyes are open and his eyebrows are furled angrily. This “faking sleep” is a trick he repeats three times total in the anime, always concerning Jin and Fuu.

2. When Fuu gets upset at Jin about leaving the group for good, Mugen pretends to sleep yet again, but was listening to the whole thing.

His facial expression is almost sad looking here. Very uncharacteristic indeed.

Note: The very last time Mugen pretends to sleep, is Episode 24, when Fuu hugs Jin on the riverbank. It appears here, that Mugen didn't hear or understand what they were talking quietly about. The dialogue is hard to interpret but it seems Fuu rejected Jin’s dutiful offer to stay with her after the journey close. She seems to confide her feelings for Mugen to Jin in this extremely subtle scene, by mentioning him out of the blue, crying, and then apologizing to Jin for it. Rather than embrace Fuu romantically, Jin comforts her with a hand upon her shoulder, in an understanding that is, by my interpretation, very fatherly.

3. Back to Episode 11, when Fuu decides to help Jin, despite being angry at him for abandoning them, Mugen says some telling dialogue. This scene, Mugen and Fuu are running through town together, just as Jin and Shino are.

If Mugen only stuck around solely to kill Jin, then this exchange makes one question why is he still hanging around Fuu. We also know Mugen was listening the whole time when Jin states "If I don’t return, I want you two to continue your journey without me." It is as if he's trying to convince Fuu to be "over" with Jin.

But this isn't the only time Mugen is fine with taking Fuu to find the sunflower samurai alone. Mugen also agrees to travel with Fuu in ep 21 alone, when they think Jin is leaving for good with Sara, and makes no indication of leaving her to do battle with Jin.

Despite all the jealousy of Jin, and all the intentional comparison that Mugen bears with Shino's husband, we know Mugen is not actually like Shino's husband at all. 

On the surface, perhaps, he seemed like an irresponsible, lawless lecher who frivolously wastes money. But in actuality, he is honorable and deeply cares about Fuu, saving her and worrying about her in every single episode something bad befalls her.. Mugen does more noble deeds for Fuu than Jin ever does. 

While “Gamblers” apply to Mugen and Shino’s husband, the “Gallantry” applies to Mugen and Jin just as much. 

That is why, unlike Shino’s husband, Mugen wins in gambling. And that is why, despite making money gambling, he generously gave it all to Jin.

The secretly gallant character of this episode was Mugen. Had he not given/borrowed this money to Jin, Jin would have never been able to save Shino at all.

How the Relationships Differ

While these comparisons highlight that Jin and Shino is equivalent to Mugen and Fuu, there are some directly opposite characteristics as well. Just as Mugen and Jin are opposite.

Jin and Shino are calm and quiet.  Mugen and Fuu are passionate and loud.

Jin and Shino wear cold colors of green and blue, while Mugen and Fuu don warm colors of red and pink.

Shino is older than Jin. Fuu is younger than Mugen.

While Shino is forced to give herself to men and Jin can’t save her, Fuu is saved from this fate many times by Mugen.

Mugen and Fuu spend an entire, long journey together. Jin and Shino’s time together is fleeting. Mugen and Fuu appear together every episode. Jin and Shino only get one.

Ironically, Jin and Shino consummate their love in this short time, while Mugen and Fuu do not.

The relationships are remarkably the same story but from opposite ends of a spectrum.

Conclusion 

Mugen and Jin may be opposites, but they are also like Yin and Yang. Both characters are a duality of one another, possessing opposite traits in their appearances and attitudes, and yet bearing similar beliefs and morals. In the love department, it turns out that they are also two sides of the very same coin.

After discovering the parallels between these two romances, I was utterly blown away. This concept of duality is the entire point of Mugen and Jin’s dynamic in every other sense.

The love they bore for Fuu and Shino highlighted this concept in another new, astonishing way.

Mugen and Jin both bear something else in common. Even though Jin and Shino is far more an obvious romance due to the sexual consummation of the coupling, Jin and Mugen still relate in one way: they never directly express their love for Shino or Fuu words.

Jin comes off as “old fashioned” with his “I hope that the rain will never stop so I can stay here forever.”, Mugen comes off as “unromantic” by never saying kind and romantic words to Fuu. Their love was wholly expressed through action. Words are unneeded.

Finally, even though Jin and Shino part ways, and even though Mugen and Fuu (and Jin) part in the finale, hope still exists that they will meet again someday. 

Both tales of love do not have tragic endings, but neither does either obtain closure. Their hopeful future is left up to you, the viewer, to determine.

Perhaps, their reunions with their loved one, will be a mirror too.

#samurai champloo #fuugen #jin samurai champloo #mugen samurai champloo #fuu samurai champloo

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Sweet As Sin (Part Two)

Summary: After losing your job and having to spend all of your savings, you find yourself completely broke as you desperately search for a job. On a whim, you join a website for sugar babies and sugar daddies can meet, and you’re surprised when you immediately make a connection with Captain America, of all people. But as you grow closer to Steve, you start to realize that there may be a dark side to America’s golden boy.

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Steve Rogers x Reader, with eventual Dark!Steve Rogers

Read part one here!

Read part three here!

You stared at the man in front of you, your eyes narrowed and your hands planted firmly on your hips. Your mouth had been opened for a few seconds now, but no words had come out of it, and you eventually let it snap shut without uttering a word.

“…I can understand if you’re upset,” Steve started. “I really do. I wanted to tell you, it’s just-“

“You,” you interrupted. “…are Captain America, correct?”

“Um…” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… Yes? But I don’t, you know… I don’t want you to see me like that. I’ve liked being just ‘Steve’ to you.”

You nodded your head.

“I… I’m not mad,” you assured him, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I just… I’m a little shocked, I suppose.”

“That’s completely understandable,” he assured you. He set his hand on your shoulder, leaning down a bit as he looked into your eyes. “How about we get some breakfast and just…talk for a little bit?”

You gave him a small smile, still reeling from the surprise, and nodded. He flashed you a small grin before leading you to the counter, keeping his hand on your shoulder the entire time. You felt your cheeks heat up, and you didn’t even notice that you were leaning into his touch.

Steve let you order first, and you got a blueberry-cinnamon bagel with your favorite warm drink. Afterwards, Steve ordered an everything bagel with a coffee for himself and paid, not even giving you an opportunity to take out your wallet.

“I could’ve-“

“Doll,” he interrupted. “I take care of you.”

Afterwards, the two of you went back to his table, and you sank down into the seat across from his. For a moment, the two of you just looked at one another, and after a beat you both looked away and chuckled.

“I… This is a very strange experience for me,” you giggled. Steve nodded and fiddled with a packet of Splenda that had been laying on the table.

“I can imagine,” he murmured. “But… I want you to know that I’m really glad you came to meet me; you’re even prettier in person.”

You shook your head and looked away.

“I…can’t believe that America’s heartthrob just called me pretty,” you joked.

“I really wouldn’t consider myself a heartthrob.”

“How about a dreamboat?”

“Ah, no.”

“…Sex symbol?”

Steve’s cheeks were bright red within seconds, and his head tilted back as he laughed.

“I mean… I wouldn’t mind if you considered me to be all of those things,” he chuckled. “But I’m still not really used to all the…fame. I guess. That sounds really self-absorbed now that I put it that way-“

“No, I don’t think so,” you assured him. “I mean, I just saw you on the news last night. Any time someone’s on the news I think they’re at least some level of famous. …It also doesn’t hurt that you have your own action figure.”

He laughed again, trying to rein in his chuckles when the waitress came back with your breakfasts. You were slowly feeling more comfortable with him – as you watched him devour at least a fourth of his bagel in one huge bite, he was becoming less and less of a world-famous hero and more and more the Steve you’d been talking to online. Down-to-earth, polite, funny. Old fashioned, of course, but now that you knew who he was and what decade he was born in, it seemed to be expected.

“So,” you said between bites, “how was Moscow? I imagine that it was hard to enjoy the culture what with the uh…bombs. And all.”

Steve smiled and sipped his coffee (black, you noticed, with no sugar) before answering.

“From what I saw, it was beautiful,” he remarked. “I’d like to go back there sometime on vacation. Whenever I’m able to snag one, at least. And the food was really good; spicier than what I’m used to, but good.”

“Do you have a favorite kind of food?” you asked, leaning your chin on your palm as you listened to him.

“Uh…” He thought for a minute. “Lasagna is pretty good. I grew up in the Depression, so I only got to eat it on special occasions. My mom used to make it for me on my birthday.”

You smiled.

“I would love to make it for you sometime.”

“If you did that, doll,” he grinned, “you’ll never get rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

He blinked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“You mean… You still wanna continue this, uh…thing we have going on? You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you who I really am?”

You took a bite of your bagel, turning over his words.

“Well, I can see where you were coming from,” you assured him. “Although… Just a tip for you, next time you meet a girl online, don’t wait to spring your real identity on her at the first date.”

“Hopefully, I won’t meet another girl online, but that’s only if the one I’ve already found sticks around.”

You grinned and sipped your drink.

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere any time soon.”

_________

You yelped as you felt hot tomato sauce hit your tongue, and you hurried to take a sip of water to soothe the burn. You blew on the spoon and tried again, and a smile stretched across your face from the taste; it was delicious.

With a grunt, you pulled the heavy lasagna out of the oven, and you smiled at the sight of the gooey mozzarella baked overtop of it. You’d been nervous about cooking for Steve at first, but now you were feeling more confident in what you’d made.

You’d spent hours at the bagel shop, just talking and laughing with one another. Before you knew it, he’d been getting a call from Tony Stark (the Tony Stark), and through the shouting on the other line you’d gathered that Steve was late for some kind of Avengers meeting.

“I’m sorry, doll,” Steve had apologized. “I didn’t even realize the time; I have to head in for a debriefing. I’m so sorry to cut this short-“

“Don’t be,” you’d interrupted. “I had…an amazing time with you, Steve. This might just be the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Steve had smiled so softly, so genuinely, at you, and you’d had to look away before you melted into a puddle at his feet.

“You really mean that, doll?” When you nodded, he’d reached across the table and let his hand rest over yours. “Then I’ll have a tough act to follow next time, won’t I?”

“We’ll have to wait and see. When can we do this again?”

That had been two days ago; Steve had informed you that he would be busy with “business” for a while, but the two of you had been texting almost constantly during the day. At night, he would call you and talk until your eyelids felt like they weighed a ton each. But you didn’t mind; the best way to fall asleep was to the sound of his voice.

Today, though, he’d called you in the morning, and when you’d picked up the phone you’d been afraid of him telling you that he’d been called out on another mission. To your elation, however, he only wanted to ask if you were free that evening.

And so now, you were standing in your kitchen in your best dress, checking once more over the food you’d prepared. A salad and some garlic bread were already resting on the table, and by the time he arrived, your lasagna would be cooled down enough to eat. Your hands fluttered up to your hair, making sure it was still pulled into the neat style you’d wrangled it into, and you fought the urge to run back into your bathroom to check yourself in the mirror again.

You felt your heartrate spike when you heard a knock at your door, and you forced yourself to take a deep, calming breath before walking over to open it.

Roses were the first thing you saw on its other side; the deep red blossoms were tied together in a beautiful bouquet, and if the sight of them wasn’t enough to make your toe curl, then the man who was holding them certainly was.

Steve’s hair was brushed into its signature neat look, and he was wearing a soft blue button up with a charcoal grey tie. His muscles bulged against the fabric, hugging him tightly as he straightened up and smiled down at you.

“Hey, doll. You look beautiful.”

Your cheeks were on fire as you ushered him into your apartment, and you took the bouquet of flowers into your arms when he held them out for you.

“Steve, these… They’re beautiful,” you gushed. “Thank you so much. God, I hope I have a vase for them…”

You scurried into the kitchen, searching through your cupboards and cabinets until you were able to locate a vessel to put the flowers in. All you had was a large pitcher that you hadn’t used since the previous summer to make lemonade in, but it was the only thing big enough to hold the huge bundle of roses.

“You have a, uh…real nice place, sweetheart.”

After placing the flowers in some water and setting them on the table, you turned to see Steve standing with his hands in his pockets, looking around at your space. It really wasn’t an impressive apartment, and you’d never deluded yourself into thinking it was, but it seemed even more drab and small with Steve standing in the middle of it.

His eyes were trailing along the ceiling, and you looked up to the various water stains dotted across it. You bit your lip and followed his gaze as it flitted over the old futon that served as your sofa, into your matchbox kitchen, and then further past the doorway to your bedroom. Your full-sized mattress took up most of the space, and you carefully positioned yourself in front of him so he couldn’t see any more of your poor furnishings.

“It’s not much,” you admitted. “But it’s enough. I’ve never been one of those people who feel like they need a big, nice house to be happy. I’m perfectly fine here.”

Steve smiled fondly and nodded, leaning down to peck your cheek.

“I know, doll. That’s one of the things that I like about you.”

You grinned and looked away bashfully, still able to feel his soft lips against your skin. You wondered what they would feel like against your own, and for a brief moment the image of Steve kissing you flooded your imagination.

“U-um… I made your favorite!” you hurried to say. “Lasagna. I hope you like it; if you don’t, we can always order pizza. Or there’s a Chinese place just-“

“Doll?” he interrupted. You paused in your ramblings and looked up to see one of his eyebrows raised in amusement. “I’m gonna like whatever you cook, ok? I’m sure its fantastic.”

You felt a fluttering in your chest, and for a moment all you could do was look into his kind eyes. He was so sweet; how had you gotten lucky enough to have someone like him interested in you?

“Well… Go ahead and have a seat,” you told him. “I thought we could start with some salad?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Steve folded his tall, broad frame into one of the two dining chairs you owned, and you reached over him to grab the empty glass resting next to his plate.

“Would you like some wine?”

“I’ll have some if you’re having it.”

You smiled and walked into the kitchen, pouring each of you a glass before coming back to him. As you leaned down to put his glass back on the table, you saw him glance at your cleavage out of the corner of your eye, and you had to bite back a satisfied grin. The neckline of your dress had been one of the reasons you’d chosen to wear it – it wasn’t deep enough to be obscene, but it gave off a classy, subtle hint of what lay beneath.

Steve’s eyes popped back up to yours sheepishly as you sat down at the chair across from him.

“See something you like, Captain?” you teased. You were just joking around, but your pulse jumped when you saw the dark look that appeared on Steve’s face.

“Maybe I do, doll,” he purred, leaning one of his elbows across the table. It swayed with the movement, and his sultry look was quickly replaced with one of surprise.

“Oh, sorry,” you chuckled, pouring dressing over your salad. “It does that. One of its legs is all wobbly, so just be careful with it.”

“I could try and fix it for you,” Steve offered. “I used to fix stuff for my mom all the time growing up. Or I could just buy a new one for you.”

“You don’t have to do that! Honestly. I make do with what I have just fine.”

“But I don’t want you to just ‘make do’, doll. I want you to be well taken care of.”

“I promise it’s fine, Steve,” you smiled. “But you’re sweet to offer. Now tell me about how work has been over the past few days. I know they’ve been keeping you pretty busy at the compound.”

After that, Steve and you talked about his job, if being an Avenger could even be called that. From what you gathered, Tony had been teasing Steve incessantly about texting you all the time; Steve had even found him trying to unlock his phone so he could see who he was talking to.

“He’s not gonna leave me alone until he meets you,” he chuckled. “Tony keeps trying to get me to introduce you to the team.”

“I mean, I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to that. I don’t think anyone would pass up an opportunity to meet the Avengers.”

“Well, you say that now, but just wait until you have to spend an evening listening to Bucky and Sam fight like an old married couple.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Doll, name a topic, any topic, and they’ll find a way to have a disagreement about it.”

You were nervous when it came time to serve him his lasagna. You scooped out a slice at least twice as big as your own for him, and you were on pins and needles as you watched him bite into it. But you really had no need to feel worried; the moan he let out upon tasting it was borderline pornographic.

“Doll, this is… amazing.”

“You mean it? You don’t have to just say what I want to hear.”

“Baby, this might be the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted; stop doubting yourself.”

You’d been too flustered from hearing him call you ‘baby’ to say anything else for a few minutes, but you found that, when the two of you were done eating, you didn’t want him to go just yet.

“Hey, Steve?” you asked hesitantly. “Would you like to stay and watch a movie with me or something?”

He’d smiled and placed his hand over yours on the table.

“I’d love that, doll. But first let me help you clean up.”

He stood up, taking his plate into the kitchen, and you hurried to do the same.

“Oh, no! Steve, you don’t have to do that! Just leave it in the sink and I’ll take care of it later.”

He’d arched an eyebrow at you, taking your plate from your hands and setting it with his in the sink. He ignored your protests and turned the faucet on, reaching for the dish soap after rolling his shirt sleeves up.

“You were kind enough to cook for me; it’s only fair that I help clean up. How about I wash and you dry?”

You did as he said, an almost goofy smile on your face as you dried the dishes before putting them away. He was so polite; you were almost convinced that he’d been created in a computer.

“What’s that look for, doll?” he asked, handing the last glass to you.

“You’re just… I really like you, Steve.” You put the glass away and turned to him with a smile, drying your hands off on your towel. “Thank you for coming over tonight.”

He took the towel from you and dried his own hands before setting them on your hips.

“Sweetheart, there’s nowhere I would rather be,” he murmured. He leaned down, his nose almost brushing yours, and you were sure he could hear how fast your heart was beating. “I know it might be a little soon, but…can I kiss you?”

You laughed, taking hold of his tie and pulling him down, closing the gap between your lips. He kissed you gently with a smile to match your own. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your chest against his as his hands slid up your back. When his tongue darted out, seeking entry into your mouth, you gladly parted your lips for him, not able to hold back the tiny moan you made as you felt his tongue brush against yours languidly.

Both of you were breathing heavily when you pulled away, and you gasped when you felt your leg brush against his hard cock. You bit your lip as your fingers played with his hair, dragging your nails softly against his scalp.

“I… I know that it’s impolite to ask on a second date,” he murmured, “And if you don’t want to, then its completely fine. But could we-“

“Steve?” You leaned up, pressing your lips against his ear. “Please make love to me.”

You let out a squeak when you felt him pick you up, and you clung to him for dear life as he carried you into your bedroom. He was gentle when he set you down onto your feet though, and he had an almost reverent look on his face as he reached down to grab the skirt of your dress.

“Can I take this off of you?” You nodded, lifting your arms up to help him get it off. You were wearing your nicest set of lingerie, and even though you’d got it from the bargain bin at Victoria’s Secret, you felt stunning as Steve’s gaze raked over your body.

His fingertips traced the hemline of your panties, toying with the sky-blue lace before making a path up to your bra. You bit your lip as he cupped your breasts, rolling them in his palms. Meanwhile, you were undoing his tie, sliding it out of his collar and letting it fall to the floor beside your dress. As he reached behind you to unclasp your bra, you popped open his buttons, one by one, until both of your chests were bare.

“Sheesh, doll,” he breathed. “You’re so gorgeous.”

“You’re not too bad yourself, Captain.”

That same dark look from before crept into his eyes, and suddenly you were in his arms again, clinging to him as he lifted you onto the bed. Your head hit the pillow, your hair splaying out wildly as he kneeled in front of you. An impressive tent had formed in his trousers, and it took all of your concentration not to lick your lips as he started pulling them off.

When the both of you were back to just your underwear, he leaned down to kiss you again, resting his weight on his forearms on either side of your head. This time, his kiss was insistent, rough, and it sent waves of anticipation down to your core. Your lips were slick as he pulled away, a string of saliva connecting them to his until he looked down. His large hands cupped your ass, kneading the flesh before gripping the lace of your panties, and you gasped as you felt the fabric being torn away from your body. You were about to complain, but before you could, Steve leaned down, his beard tickling the insides of your thighs as he pressed a kiss to the top of your mound.

“I’ll buy you another pair just like them,” he promised, tossing the useless lace behind him.

Any words you might have spoken died on your tongue when you felt his finger brush against your slit, running up and down your entrance.

“You’re so wet, doll,” Steve sighed. “Tell me how bad you want me.”

Your fingers gripped his hair as he leaned down, tongue gently brushing against your clit. You keened, spreading your legs as wide as you could for him as his thick finger penetrated you, curling against your walls as he licked slow, delicate circles around your bud.

“I-I want you so bad, Steve,” you moaned. “Want you to make me cum…”

“I will, sweetheart. Don’t worry.” You gasped as he added another finger, hissing a bit at the sudden stretch, but his tongue once more lapped at your clit, soothing the ache in your core. “Told you I’d always take care of you, didn’t I?”

You closed your eyes, relishing the sensation of his tongue lapping at your bud. Your hips were moving of their own accord, rising and falling in time with the thrusts of his fingers. They kept brushing at that spot deep inside of you, turning all of your thoughts into white noise. The noise of the traffic outside faded away, as did the sensation of your sheets rustling against your body. There was only Steve; all you could hear were your moans and the lewd sounds of his tongue gliding against your flesh. Your pussy was clenching around his fingers, trying desperately to draw them in deeper, and you were so wet for him that there was no pain when he added a third. You just knew that you wanted more; you were so close to your peak, so desperately close.

“Steve-!” You panted, pulling his hair as your hips rolled upwards. “Captain, please, please-“

He groaned, flicking his tongue one last time over your clit, and you were gone, your back arching painfully as you found your release. You were barely aware of your own broken moans as you rode out your climax, your body slowly turning into putty as his tongue gently worked you through it. You lay limply against your mattress, only moving when your pussy became too sensitive to his touch. You tried to pull away from him, to close your legs, but he held you firmly in place, ducking down to lap at the cum leaking out of your entrance.

“Fuck, baby, I could spend an eternity between your legs,” he mumbled. “Taste so fucking good. You’re just sweet inside and out, aren’t you?”

You hummed, smiling lazily up at him as he crawled up your body. His beard and lips were slick with your juices, and you could taste yourself on his tongue as he kissed you. His hands slid up your thighs, gripping and kneading at the flesh of them.

“I’ve thought about this since our first phone call, you know,” he whispered, tracing a path with his lips down the column of your throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve like this about a dame.”

“I feel it, too, Steve.” You smiled, tightening your legs around his waist and flipping him onto his back. “It’s like we’re…”

You paused, reaching down to lace your fingers through his.

“Connected.”

He smiled, lowering his lips back to your neck, and you let out a moan as he started to suck a hickey into it. You rocked your hips, grinding your pussy against the bulge in his boxers, eliciting a choked-off moan from him.

“Please, doll,” he whispered. “I’m so hard for you – please…”

You rose up on your knees, gripping his boxers, and his hips lifted to help you tug them down. Your eyes widened at the sight of his cock – you’d never taken anything that big before, not even when you got adventurous with your toys. You gulped, looking back up to Steve, who held a small smirk on his lips.

“It’s ok, sweetheart,” he assured you. “We can go slow.”

You nodded, rising up on your knees again, gripping him in one hand and guiding him towards your entrance. You bit your lip, looking up at him one more time. He was watching you, tenderness glittering in his eyes. You took his hands, placing them on your hips, before slowly sinking down onto him.

“O-oh, my god-!” You whimpered at the feeling of him stretching you, letting your forehead rest against his. You took a deep breath, sliding down further until you felt him brush against your cervix.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured. “Just like that. Knew you would feel perfect.”

You moved your hips, wincing at the sensation, but the look on Steve’s face was enough to keep you moving. His moans sent shocks of electricity straight to your pussy, and you felt the pain start to blend beautifully with the pleasure he was bringing you.

“Steve…”

You sighed, starting to roll your hips in a fluid rhythm, bucking against him. His hands came up to cup your breasts, teasing your nipples with his thumbs.

“O-oh, baby,” he grunted, starting to rock his hips up. “Yes, fuck-“

You whimpered, moving your hands to the headboard behind him. Your arms bracketed his head as you used the leverage to keep thrusting your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock until the bed was shaking beneath you.

Suddenly, though, his hands wrapped around your hips and flipped you over, pounding into you as you yelped in surprise.

“Sorry, doll, it’s just-“ He grunted, gritting his teeth together. “Fuck, I just can’t help myself.”

You nodded, hands coming up to grip his hair. You pulled it roughly, arching your back up until his chest was pressed to yours. His thrusts were hard enough to knock the breath out of you, and the springs in the mattress screamed in protest.

After a particularly brutal thrust, you felt something underneath you give way, and you gasped as the bed slouched on one side, sliding the both of you to the left. You caught yourself against the bedsheets, looking over Steve’s shoulder; the man had broken one of the legs of your bedframe.

“I… Shit, doll, I’m sorry-“

You broke out into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both of your hands as you laughed.

“Oh my god, Steve, it’s ok. Please, don’t stop fucking me.”

He grinned, chuckling under his breath before starting to move his hips again. Your laughs soon turned into moans as he once more started hitting that spot inside of you, and you let your eyes close as you felt your pleasure starting to crest once again.

“Steve, fuck, I’m gonna cum-“

“That’s right, baby,” he groaned. “Cum for your Captain.”

You gasped, clawing down his back as you bucked against him, chasing your release desperately.

“Captain! Captain, oh my god-!”

Your lips parted in a silent wail as you came, your pussy spasming against him. You felt his breath, hot on your neck, your name falling out of his lips over and over again as he grew closer to his release.

“Come on, Captain Rogers,” you moaned, biting your lip. “Cum inside of me.”

He needed no further convincing; within a few seconds, you felt him spill his hot seed within you. His eyebrows were pinched together, his hips stuttering in their rhythm, lips parted in a long, low groan.

He was beautiful.

The two of you lay there, catching your breaths, for a long moment. Your sweaty skin stuck together, and you felt his cum leaking out of you around his cock. When he finally did pull out of you, you both let out a hiss of sensitivity.

Steve rolled over onto his back, pulling you against him with an arm around your waist. You looked up, sharing a smile with him, before you shifted your focus down to the dip in your bed.

“You…you really did break my bed, didn’t you?”

He laughed, and you could see a faint, red stain grow over his cheeks.

“Yeah… Yeah, I guess I did,” he sighed. He pressed a kiss to your temple, squeezing your hip. “I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow, I promise. And a new dining table.”

“Steve, no, I don’t need a new table.”

He looked down at you, cupping your chin and tilting it upwards to him.

“Hey, listen to me doll,” he murmured. His voice was warm, but it had an underlying stern edge that made your eyes widen. “I wanna take care of you, and you’re gonna let me, ok? Let me spoil you; even if you don’t technically need it. Understand?”

You gulped and nodded, and a pleased smile spread over his face.

“Yes, Steve.”

“Good girl.”

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #sugar daddy!steve #sugar daddy!steve Rogers #captain america #captain america x reader

[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.

#nct x reader #taeyong x reader #nct smut #taeyong smut #nct angst #kpop imagine #kpop smut #nct imagines #nct scenarious #johnny #taeil #taeyong #yuta #doyoung #ten #kun #jaehyn #winwin #hendery #xiaojun #yukhei

[foxofthedesert]

RQ OUaT FF | OGA: Ch. 7

Chapter 7 – The Evening Song

Drained of energy yet buzzing with barely suppressed rage, Regina stalks through the cluttered hallways of the Dark Palace, skirts swirling and servants scattering in the wake of her fury.

In the immediate aftermath of the disembodied encounter with the witch who murdered so many of her people, including one of her closest friends, she accompanied Rodrigo on his inspection of the ruins of Tamerlon. To their horror, at the tail end of the looping canvass they discovered a densely packed pile of bodies, perhaps forty or fifty individuals, still smoldering in the ashes of what used to be a twelve hundred fifty square foot octagonal chapel to the goddess Ēostre, the matron deity of fertility and renewal. No lengthy investigation was required to deduce that these were civilians unable to evacuate and thus trapped inside the fort when the assault began. No doubt Robin, the garrison commander, ordered the noncombatants there for their safety, not anticipating he would be unable to defend the stronghold against a single sorceress. That error in judgment, however reasonable it would have seemed in the heat of the moment, cost so many innocents their lives.

Regina offered no comment as Rodrigo poked and prodded around the often brittle remains on the outer rim and top of the pile, in a futile search for any surviving identification. As he gingerly, and respectfully as possible, dug through the charred corpses he began verbalizing the conclusion she had already arrived at as to how these poor souls met such a grisly demise. Instead of offering her thoughts on the matter as she probably should have, all Regina could do was stand there staring, transfixed by the grotesque scene, impotent rage and indescribable grief becoming more and more unbearable by the second. Only when Rodrigo reached the inner ring amongst the slain and started uncovering the children, the first of them barely a toddler, did she manage to wrench her eyes away. Unable to tolerate anymore of the unspeakable tragedy, she fled as fast as her legs could carry her and scurried outside to where no one could see her just so she could vomit what little remained undigested of the lunch she and Red were served during a break at court. As she wiped her mouth of the sick with a handkerchief she then promptly discarded, she silently vowed justice for the atrocity perpetrated on the residents of Tamerlon, soldier and innocent civilian alike.

That abominable bitch is going to pay if it's the last thing I do, Regina thinks, the olfactory memory of ash and roasted flesh along with the sight of burnt women and children fresh in her mind as she thunders through a clogged tee intersection. She shoulders her way past a throng of bodies milling across and then emerges into the less busy Royal Wing of the castle. When at last she reaches her bedchambers, she bursts through the doors without bothering to knock and announce herself, having forgotten in her hyper-agitated state that she had left Red asleep less than three hours ago. Fortunately for Regina, Red is already awake, relieving her of any guilt at her raucous entry.

Seated upon the cushioned bench under the grand bay window that overlooks the forest stretching as far as they eye can see beyond the citadel, Red's posture telegraphs an exceedingly gloomy state of mind. She is scrunched up as tightly as possible for her lanky limbs, legs folded up against her torso, arms draped over them holding them in place, her head resting upon them with her cheek against her knees so that she can stare morosely out the window. She is no longer in the dress she wore to court, having exchanged the formal garment for a drab gray cotton shift that spills off her starkly pale shoulders and swallows up her svelte frame. Her long bangs are tied back behind her head by a butterfly clasp she borrowed from Regina's collection. With every breath she takes, her chest shivers and the muscles in her forearms constantly twitch as she incessantly worries her hands together.

Regina doesn't need to hear the mournful sniffle that disturbs the silence to have known what was going on. Red had not even flinched in acknowledgement of her dramatic arrival, which never happens because Red can hear her heartbeat from several yards away. There is practically no sneaking up on her, which means she had heard Regina coming and made a conscious choice not to greet her. That alone is cause for alarm, though Regina tempers any fretful reaction by reminding herself that Red is hurting right now and that, self-sacrificial, beautiful, wonderful idiot that she is, she probably did not want her crying to be the first thing Regina saw upon coming home.

Approaching with respectful caution, Regina steps up beside Red at the bench and risks passing her fingers through her wife's silky locks. She runs them through from temple all the way down to its end at her lower back in one long, languid stroke. Red shudders at the contact, her breath hitching over a choked sob. Rather than speak or act in any way that might pressure Red to engage with her before she's ready, Regina forces herself to remain as she is, just slowly and tenderly sifting her fingers through Red's hair as she cries without making any noise other than a few plaintive whimpers and a lot more sniffles. Eventually the tears and the shaking cease, and only when that happens does Red lift her head from her knees and crane her face up to brave looking at Regina. Bloodshot green eyes lock with hers, such indescribable sadness staining them Regina feels her own eyes well up with moisture. Tear tracks have eroded a wavy, irregular path through mascara lightly applied to Red's cheeks, which are visibly ruddy from her overwrought emotional state. Her chin trembles and creases as she gazes up, silently imploring Regina to make the hurt stop.

"Oh, sweetheart," Regina says, nearly breathless due the suddenly pervasive ache in her chest. With the same gentility she might support a newborn baby's head, she cradles Red's cheek and brushes the tears away with her thumb. "What can I do? Anything at all. Name it and I'll do it without question."

A plump lower lip disappears between pearly white teeth, Red appearing more uncertain and shy and frail than she has in years. Still, she is so distraught and needy, she scrounges up the courage to speak her desire.

"Would you hold me for a little while?"

Rather than chastise Red for doubting for even a second she would accommodate such a reasonable and welcome request, Regina gives her a gentle smile followed by a soft brush of her fingers down the length of an elegant jawline.

"Of course I will," she says, then gestures at Red. "Scoot forward a bit so I can slide in behind you."

Once Red obeys, Regina snaps her fingers to change out of her dress into a pair of tan cotton breeches she likes to garden in and a plain white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the top three buttons left undone. Feet left bare and now much more comfortable, she clambers up onto the bench behind Red, arranges herself against the back wall with her outstretched legs open and propped up slightly leaving an acute inverse chevron beneath her elevated knees, then pats her lap a couple times in invitation. Red does not hesitate to slide back into Regina's waiting arms, which wind low around her waist as she settles her back against Regina's front, her head resting against Regina's collar, cheeks pressed together, warmth to warmth. Regina tilts her face so she can nuzzle her nose into Red's cheek a few times, then presses a series of kisses to Red's temple before returning to their original alignment.

She chuckles when Red heaves a deep sigh of contentment and covers Regina's arms with her own, their hands automatically weaving together almost of their own accord.

"Is this okay?" she asks, starting to sway them gently side to side like a doting mother would when rocking her troubled child back to sleep after a bad dream.

Red hums confirmation, then adds with a pleading inflection, "Know what would make it even better? Das Abendlied."

Regina groans, stilling their movement. Just her luck Red would request a traditional like that, knowing she would want it sung in the seldom used tongue of her kin.

Like Regina and most nobles whose houses are expected to regularly entertain foreign dignitaries, Red is multilingual – another aspect that makes her a rarity among the class into which she was born. Although hailing from a poor backwater village to a line of peasant stock stretching back as far as her family history kept records, Red was raised speaking her native language alongside the common one used throughout the Enchanted Forest. Most of her peers spoke only the common, their kin having relinquished the old ways for the sake of gradually encroaching modernity, which not only included eschewing local linguistic flavor but religious fervor as well – worship of the many colorful deities native to that region has nearly been eradicated. Despite this prevailing abandonment of regional heritage, and a profound aversion to all religion, Red's grandmother was unwilling to cast aside five hundred years of tradition and wished to keep alive their deeply burrowed roots within their indigenous soil. Even if most of Red's generation could barely put together a sentence in their ancestral tongue, Red was made to learn it first before being introduced to common in time for her to grasp it before beginning what little schooling was afforded children of her station.

Out of respect for Regina's heritage, Red also learned the language of her father-in-law's people, so the least Regina could do was return the favor. Red proved a patient teacher, and a good one, able to confer the meaning of words phrases in a simple way that improved memory imprinting. Such was Red's knack for linguistic instruction that Regina recommended she formally teach any palace-dwellers who wished to add another language to their portfolio – Red has since hosted three such classes and has seventy new speakers of Saxon to boast of.

Admittedly, Regina has grown quite fond of Saxon. So much so that she enjoys speaking it every bit as much as her native Andalusian, if not more, as the language has a certain bite to it, a sort of intrinsic fury that rides knuckle tight upon every harsh syllable. When she gets really upset and does not want to cause too much of a scene in public, she will often resort to unleashing a string of unutterable expletives in Saxon upon her unwitting and confused victim. Strangely enough, though, Red feels the same about Andalusian, preferring it to her mother tongue, especially when they are locked in an intimate embrace. Says it is energetic and romantic and gets her tongue good and loose. Regina does not protest very much because for one she sort of agrees about Andalusian being energetic and romantic, and two she's not a moron. Naked Red can get away with saying a lot things without being contradicted, especially when she's referring to the use of her tongue. Funny thing how that works...

In any case, the problem isn't having to sing the lullaby in Saxon so much as it is having to sing at all. Regina has never considered her singing voice to be anything special. While she can carry a tune just fine, it is sounds rather plain to her if not a little huskier than most women. By no means is her voice as extraordinary as Red makes it out to be. If Red is to be believed, it is a rival to that of the angels, as if she the idea she has ever heard such a sound is not absolutely ridiculous. And when Regina tells Red she's just biased, that her voice is really not so great, Red either ignores her altogether to continue insisting otherwise or suggests she might need to pay a visit to Victor and get her ears checked out. The sassy little minx. How Red gets away with all she does is a puzzle Regina has yet to solve, nor is particularly keen to since she is either the primary beneficiary of those shenanigans or is far too amused by them to be upset.

"Please? Pretty please? With sugar on top?"

Glancing over, Regina finds Red staring at her with those huge soulful puppy eyes, lips pursed in an exaggerated pout there is no arguing against. Resistance would only be a waste of time and energy when both of them know she is going to concede no matter how much she does not want to sing right now. Looking at her that way, Red could ask her to belch the alphabet and she would probably give it a try.

"Bah. Fine." She rolls her eyes for show, then narrows them at her suddenly much perkier wife. "Just don't blame me when all the dogs start howling."

Red makes an offended noise that is more genuine than it is for the sake of obstinance, reminding Regina that she really does believe the words that follow. "Shut up. Your voice is gorgeous, and I'm not the only one who thinks that. Iris has told me more than once she agrees with me about that."

"Iris is merely concerned about her job security, as she should be," Regina points out half-heartedly. Their handmaid is a woman of intelligence who understands one never bites the hand that feeds them. That said, Red is handily winning the argument, although habit dictates Regina never give in easily. "If she were allowed the luxury of honesty, I'm sure her opinion would be very different."

"Oh, stop it," Red says with a dramatic eye roll of her own, clearly getting a little upset. "You're being ridiculous right now. Can't you do this one thing for me without making a frustrating production out of it?"

Regina tuts, then squeezes her arms around Red's waist. "No need to get snippy, even if you're right."

Deflating more quickly than an air bladder just popped, Red sighs wearily. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's alright, mi amada." Regina rubs Red's arms, accepting the apology. "You're under a lot of stress and reeling from a loss no one could have anticipated. A little moodiness is to be expected."

"Doesn't mean I shouldn't apologize for being an ass."

"Fair enough. In that case, I accept. But only if you accept my apology for being just as much of an ass as you were." That earns Regina a smile, muted as it is.

"I can live with that compromise," Red says.

"Good." A sharp nod precedes clearing her throat and a redirect back on track. "With that settled, do you still want to hear The Evening Song?"

Red perks up instantly, eyes dancing with barely restrained excitement as she bounces up and down, her butt slamming into Regina's pelvis like a one hundred fifteen pound bony hammer. "Yes, please, please, please, pretty pleeeeease!"

"Alright, calm down before you knock us both off," Regina chuckles at Red's antics, then laughs outright when Red starts wiggling like an unruly worm just to be stubbornly amusing. She tightens her grip in response, wrestling the squirming monster until she is subdued. "Now then," she says when Red goes limp then huffs in mock surrender, "why don't you close your eyes and try to relax. And if you start to fall asleep don't fight it. When I get uncomfortable I'll use magic to get us both in bed. Deal?"

To her credit, Red does not act up again, merely yawns and nods listlessly. "'Kay. Sounds good." Her eyes slip closed for just a second before popping back open, her neck craning to catch Regina's eyes as she calls out her name. When Regina answers, she sweetly adds, "Thank you for doing this. I know it's an imposition, but I really am grateful. And I love you."

That does the trick. Regina melts, her insides turning into so much goo. The power this woman has over me ought to be illegal. And yet she loves it far more than it is bothersome.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," she replies from the bottom of her rapidly warming heart. "I love you, too. Go on now and close your eyes. I've got you." To emphasize the point, she snugs up her hold and presses another kiss to Red's temple before resting their cheeks together one last time. Then she starts humming the tune to the requested song and waits for the opportune moment.

When Red finally stills, her breathing settling in a relaxed cadence, Regina takes her cue. With a preparatory breath, she begins to sing the familiar Saxon lyrics she learned just for Red.

"Der Mond ist aufgegangen,

(The moon is risen, beaming,)

Die goldnen Sternlein prangen

(The golden stars are gleaming)

Am Himmel hell und klar;

(So brightly in the skies;)

Der Wald steht schwarz und schweiget,

(The hushed, black woods are dreaming,)

Und aus den Wiesen steiget

(The mists, like phantoms seeming,)

Der weiße Nebel wunderbar.

(From meadows magically rise.)

Wie ist die Welt so stille,

(How still the world reposes,)

Und in der Dämmrung Hülle,

(While twilight round it closes,)

So traulich und so hold!

(So peaceful and so fair!)

Als eine stille Kammer,

(A quiet room for sleeping,)

Wo ihr des Tages Jammer

(Into oblivion steeping)

Verschlafen und vergessen sollt.

(The day's distress and sober care.)"

As the stirring melody drifts through the room, Regina swaying their tangled bodies to the gently flowing rhythm, she feels a sense of serenity wash over her that she was in desperate need of. The horrors of the day fade away with every line of the beautiful lullaby. Robin's twisted, agonized face is no longer visible; the mounds of smoldering corpses and skeletal buildings of Tamerlon disappear into the shadows; and the sorrow she shares with Red over their mutual losses gradually secedes to the realization that they are still together and that tomorrow will bring a new day. No matter what may come, they will face the trials ahead and emerge on the other side stronger for them. Because together they can withstand any assault. Together they can weather any storm. Together they will rise from the molten ashes of grief, a mated pair of phoenixes the fires of pain and death and despair can never destroy.

Swelling with hope, she pours her heart and soul into the song, allowing it to carry her away on the wings of love for the woman in her arms.

Seht ihr den Mond dort stehen? –

(Look at the moon so lonely!)

Er ist nur halb zu sehen,

(One half is shining only)

Und ist doch rund und schön!

(Yet she is round and bright;)

So sind wohl manche Sachen,

(Thus oft we laugh unknowing)

Die wir getrost belachen,

(At things that are not showing,)

Weil unsre Augen sie nicht sehn.

(That still are hidden from our sight.)

Wir stolze Menschenkinder

(We, with our proud endeavor,)

Sind eitel arme Sünder

(Are poor vain sinners ever,)

Und wissen gar nicht viel;

(There's little that we know.)

Wir spinnen Luftgespinste,

(Frail cobwebs we are spinning,)

Und suchen viele Künste,

(Our goal we are not winning,)

Und kommen weiter von dem Ziel.

(But straying farther as we go.)

Götter, lassen uns deine Herrlichkeit sehen

(Gods let us see thine glory)

Auf nichts Vergänglichs trauen,

(Distrust things transitory,)

Nicht Eitelkeit uns freun!

(Delight in nothing vain!)

Herren uns einfältig werden,

(Lords, here on earth stand by us,)

Und vor dir hier auf Erden

(To make us glad and pious,)

Wie Kinder fromm und fröhlich sein.

(And artless children once again!)

Wollst endlich sonder Grämen

(Grant that, without much grieving,)

Aus dieser Welt uns nehmen

(This world we may be leaving )

Durch einen sanften Tod!

(In gentle death at last.)

Und, wenn du uns genommen,

(And then do not forsake us)

Lass uns in Himmel kommen,

(But into heaven take us,)

Oh Götter, bitte halte uns fest!

(O Gods, please hold us fast!)

So legt euch denn, ihr Brüder,

(So lie down, my friends,)

im Vertrauen hier auf der Erde

(In trust down here on Earth.)

Kalt ist der Abendhauch.

(How cold the night-wind blew!)

Verschon uns, Gottes! Mit Strafen,

(Oh Gods, Thine anger keeping,)

Und lass uns ruhig schlafen!

(Now grant us peaceful sleeping,)

Und unsern kranken Nachbarn auch!"

(And our sick neighbor too.)

When the last words have passed through her lips, Regina pulls back enough to chance a glance at Red. Dead still, breathing even, eyelids closed yet relaxed, lips slightly parted, she appears more a slumbering deity than a sleeping woman, like an Olympian wreathed in flesh, Artemis fair and lithe and powerful become mortal just so Regina can know the incomparable gift of her love and be given the extraordinary privilege of returning it. And that she does with an intensity that burns brighter than a thousand furnaces heated to seven times capacity until the end of time.

Nothing will ever change the way she feels about Red. There is no erasing or interrupting or dimming a love so great there are moments she can hardly contain it within her body due to the intense pressure, as if her chest is so full of love that it is going to rupture at any moment and spill out of her along with the rest of her vital organs. Nor is there any force on earth capable of sundering them forever. They are of one heart and soul, geistgebunden, as the elders of Red's people say. Soul bound. Even death will be only a temporary parting for them. Eternity is where their love will live on when this mortal coil has faded from view, and there it shall thrive in youthful vitality forevermore.

Unwilling to move or let go of Red for even one second, Regina tightens her arms around her sleeping wife, readjusts her shoulders, and settles in. Soon, her eyes also begin to grow so heavy she can no longer hold them open, as if her lids have been touched by some mercury-infused Midas. Her last thought is that if the woman who mercilessly killed Robin had a Red in her life, perhaps none of this would be happening.

The sky above Misthaven is a startling blue on the day Robin of Locksley is buried. A week and two days have come and gone since his death and with it news of Tamerlon's destruction. The blanket of sadness that rolled over the citadel as news of these events circulated has yet to dissipate. To Regina the gorgeous weather seems especially cruel in light of the bleakness that has rested over those who knew and loved Robin like a misty cloud comprised of a sticky uncertainty and a guttural anguish. It feels almost purposeful, as if nature is conspiring with their enemy to mock the grief of so many.

A sizable crowd has gathered in the courtyard before the Dark Palace for the dolorous event. Robin was almost universally admired. He was a man's man who was not above being sensitive when called for, ruggedly handsome whose enormous smile matched his generosity and amiability with kind eyes and the ferocious heart of a lion. Children flocked to him for rides upon his broad shoulders. Women, and a number of men, married and single alike swooned when he passed by them. The soldiers he lead into battle nearly worshiped him as much for his fair and considerate treatment of them as for the unerring sense of discipline he instilled within each and every one of them, all of whom he knew by name as did he the names of their spouses and children.

As to be expected, the people closest to him were the hardest hit by his sudden passing. His Merry Men left all they had ever known to follow him with blind trust into Misthaven after the Sheriff of Nottingham finally rooted them out of Sherwood Forest. That they were offered sanctuary in Misthaven would not have mattered if Robin had been in the mood to decline; it was only because he accepted that so too did they. He was more than just a leader to them but a friend and a brother who was as happy to shed his blood for them as he was to make merry amongst them. Now what once was a rowdy bunch of hard-nosed fighters, passionate lovers, and shameless revelers have been reduced to a lethargic group of discordant, drifting compatriots at the brink of utter fragmentation. Whether they survive this tragedy intact or splinter to the four winds remains to be seen. Robin was the glue that held their disparate and often at-odds personalities together; without him Regina cannot image the band surviving in any recognizable form. That said, there is no doubt in her mind that Little John will stay close to Marian and Roland, which means he is unlikely to leave any time soon since Marian has already expressed to Regina and Red her intent to stay in Misthaven rather than return to Tamerlon where the made their home while Robin was in command of the garrison there – 'Roland was born here in the citadel,' she had told them, 'it is his home, so it is mine also, therefore we shall stay.' John was set to fetch the Locksley's belongings from Tamerlon a fortnight from now. Of all the Merry Men, it is Will Scarlett, Robin's half-sibling, who is least likely to remain, his heart already being split between family and love. He stayed only out of loyalty to and affection for his older brother, but now Regina wonders whether or not he will soon disappear in search of his beloved, the long lost Red Queen Anastasia.

The many other friends Robin made during his years in Misthaven, such as Red and Victor, are faring somewhat better, though all are visibly submersed within one of the various stages of grief. In all things, Red wears her emotions on her sleeve, and wraps her grief about her like a terribly depressing shawl. She cries often and otherwise constantly appears on the verge of weeping yet again, as if inside her lies an infinite sea of tears. Regina comforts her wife as best she can, though her efforts produce only meager results. Red's normally buoyant demeanor remains subdued and her rare, hesitant smiles never come close to reaching her eyes. Meanwhile Victor is typically stoic, though when Regina glances at him there is a glimmer in his eyes that suspiciously resembles tears, which is surprising – Victor is not one to let people close. It was no small feat that Robin managed to get past the iron door erected around Doctor Frankenstein's coldly rational heart. But that's just how Robin was, every bit as stealthy with his friendship as he was in the woods, able to sneak up on a person without them hearing a sound before springing the trap, and suddenly he was there inside the walls, close to the heart, a friend whose humor, loyalty, and affection can only truly appreciated now that he's gone. Regina knows this because he snuck up on her the exact same way. Red, however, was a different story. With Red, Robin was the one who got ambushed. Turns out he'd never been drunk under the table by a girl before, or beaten fair and square at an archery contest, or lost five times in a row at a high-stakes version of hide-and-go-seek in Sherwood Forest of all places. Most men would have hated Red for showing them up that way, but not Robin. To Robin, she was to be toasted and given a rousing welcome to his happy band of misfits, the first Merry Woman amongst the Merry Men. One other female would follow in Red's footsteps to join Robin's informal crew, which turns Regina's mind to those absent due to prior engagements or the inescapable call of duty.

As the final well wishers and payers of respect filter by the stately coffin she paid for out of the Crown's coffers, she wonders how Graham and Mulan will take the news. Other than Red they were the closest to Robin outside of his family and the founding members of his Merry Men.

Speaking of Robin's family, Marian is doing her best to stay strong for little Roland, who vacillates wildly between inconsolable confusion over his Papa's disappearance, awful realization that Papa will stay gone forever, and that enviable childlike tendency to let such burdensome emotional tolls slide off their shoulders as if the loss is a mere inconvenience. He is only six years old. Far too young to be burying a parent. It pains Regina more than she can express to see him struggling so tremendously. His dimpled smile is one of her very favorites, and few other children enjoy the rare privileges within the Citadel he does simply because both of his Queens are wrapped around his little pinky finger. She makes a mental note to keep a close eye on the lad for the foreseeable future, as well as on his brave-faced mother, who is barely holding on to her composure as the bald, pudgy, lush of a friar affectionately called Tuck begins to officiate the solemn ceremony.

Marian is, without a doubt, one of the strongest women Regina has ever met. There is nothing at all about the woman she does not like or at the very least respect. While she and Marian were never as close as she was with Robin, they have enough common interests to have formed a solid camaraderie, not the least of which was their shared love of spouses who would just as soon be traipsing through in the woods on a month long camping trip, and that for leisure, as to enjoy their evenings in a house with all the furnishings one could ever wish for. Even if Regina had hated Marian, she would not envy what the woman is going to have to endure over the next several days, weeks, and months. Being a young widow in a world like theirs is a precarious situation, even for those with support systems as wide and deep as Marian's. Many reprobates and schemers lacking even a modicum of compassion or a miniscule regard for social decorum will try to take advantage of her grief. No doubt a line of heartless scoundrels a mile long will be vying to replace her dead husband in her bed within the week's end. Marian's financial stability has been shaken to the core, for while she is an industrious woman who is now sole owner and operator of one of the three taverns within the citadel, an establishment Little John has been tending since the family moved to Tamerlon due to Robin's assignment, the loss of Robin's sizable income from the army will mean she will need to make some difficult decisions – and very soon if they were beholden to any debtors. There is every possibility that barring intervention she will have to move out of their modest home near the inner ring of the citadel and into one of the rooms above the tavern's beer hall, all of which are inadequate for the mother of a rambunctious, adventurous, and impressionable little boy. An establishment where people are routinely getting insensibly inebriated and randomly break out into fisticuffs is no place to be raising any child.

Perhaps she will accept some aid from Red and I, Regina thinks. That is, if she can stow her pride long enough to see the logic in accepting it. And there isn't much chance of that.

However much Regina wants to force Marian to take the help she and Red can more than afford to give, she knows better than to try. Especially since that would make her a hypocrite. If she were in Marian's shoes, there is no way she would accept a handout. She would rather scrape by, starving so long as her baby was fed and his needs met, than to extend her hand palm up to take the monetary pity being offered by some condescending aristocrat. Pride has ever been her crowning character deficit, and it is one she has in common with Marian. Nevertheless, she determines to find a way to help the family currently under so much undue duress, even if she has to resort to underhanded tricks to do so.

Maybe a convenient tax refund? Or a heretofore undiscovered relative dying who bequeathed her a sizable inheritance? Regina shakes her head, clearing away her potential machinations as Tuck delves into what a good father and husband Robin was. The impassioned speech evokes the first visible cracks in Marian's previously resilient composure. There will be time to scheme later when a heartbroken wife isn't saying goodbye to her beloved husband. So for now, Regina focuses all of her attention upon paying respects as much to her fallen friend as to the family he left behind.

When the service is over and Robin's coffin is being carted away to his final resting place within the military sector of the Royal cemetery, Regina joins Red, both clad in black as the rest of the mourners, in escorting Marian and Roland along behind the ornate horse-drawn bier. At Regina and Red's insistence, the grief-stricken family are allowed for this somber affair the distinction, though they probably do not see it as such, of walking between the royal couple. The wide cobbled road exiting the courtyard cuts a lazily curved path through the rest of the citadel, the side streets and pavements are all lined with citizens standing outside their shopfronts or observing the passage of the procession with friends and family, all with straight backs and dour faces. Robin was not just a husband, father, friend, and beloved commander, but a hero to the people. His reputation cultivated during his days as an outlaw elevated him to somewhat mythical stature amongst Misthaven's common folk. Robin Hood, as they call him even here, will be sorely missed as one of the most outspoken champions of the disenfranchised.

Holding Roland's hand, who clings to his mother's, who is in turn clutching Red's with a white-knuckled grip, Regina strolls with a dignified pace several yards abaft of the honor carriage bearing Robin's body beneath the colors of his house. The golden lion atop an olive green background was restored to him along with his title by edict of the Queens, an order no one, however adamantly opposed, was prepared to rebel against. Behind them an impressive stream of mourners stretches beyond the curve of the main thoroughfare, a sea of people whose hearts have been stirred and whose wrath has been kindled against the enemy who so callously deprived the nation of one her very best. The witch has made more than one enemy by this deplorable act, and scores more by the destruction of the garrison at Tamerlon. There will be a reckoning, only the when, the where, and the how have yet to be decided.

At the thought of the heartless wench that has been wreaking havoc upon two realms, Regina's heart swells with defiant, acridly bitter loathing. The more she dwells on what has happened, the loftier her hatred grows until she is gritting her teeth against the urge to kill something or someone, anyone really, who has committed an evil worthy of death. How easy it would be, and how fun, to visit the dungeons afterward and carve out her acrimony upon some wretchedly filthy criminal, preferably a rapist or a murderer, to flay them head to toe and bathe in the glorious noises of flesh being shaved away from muscle and the screams of agony erupting from her hapless victims. Perhaps after she has accrued a pungent coating of blood she will feel more composed and less likely to allow the inner beast, now ranting and raving from the dark fringes of her psyche, to slip her suddenly rusty leash.

The dark turn of mood only breaks when Roland fortuitously peers up at her and sniffles loudly. His precious little face is streaked with tears, eyes enormous pools of despair, chin quivering, lips trembling, clearly on the verge of a hysterical, infantile fit of misery. With great effort, she stamps down violently upon her clamoring rage, cowing it and stuffing it back into the warped black box whose surface weeps liquid animus, the malevolent throne room wherein the Evil Queen rules upon a dais of wicked thorns and gaudy spikes of bloody iron. The door barring entrance to that place devoid of all warmth and light and goodness can never be opened again.

Taking a deep breath to master herself, she meets the young boy's eyes straight on. "Courage, Roland," she says, commending herself internally for this latest victory against her murderous, tyrannical, megalomaniac of an alter ego. Roland holds her gaze with a maturity that inconsistent with his age. "We must give your father the honor he has earned," she goes on, "and show him the respect he deserves. He was a hero and must be treated as such if we are to remain a civilized people. Later, there will be plenty of time to scream out our anguish and frustration to the seemingly disinterested heavens. Later, we can stop pretending we're not about to crumble into a million pieces. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes, ma – ma'am. I t-think so," he says, hiccuping around the words.

Not wanting to be overly harsh, she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Good boy. When you are a man in your own right, you will look back on this day and be proud of how you conducted yourself in honoring your father. But for now, I can promise you that it won't hurt like this forever."

His eyes widen as if he has heard something astonishing. "You lost your Papa, t-too?"

"No. My mother," she says with practiced patience. Roland knows very well that her father is alive, having just went fishing with him little more than a moon ago. The poor thing is simply too discombobulated by emotional turmoil to recall that right now. Their arms swinging lightly between them, Regina offers him a soft smile meant to encourage rather than belittle. "Though she was not half so good a parent as your Papa, I loved her." She pauses then, brows furrowing before she continues, "My heart was sad for a very long time after she died. I missed her every single day. I wished I could talk to her again, tell her I loved her one more time, but I couldn't. All I could do was remember the good times," and there were good times, just not very many, though she does not mention that to Roland, "and try to remind myself that she did the best she could." Glancing down at the precocious little boy, she tries to impart any measure of comfort she can to him, even if it proves insignificant in the grand scheme of things. "You must do the same whenever possible. Try as best you can to remember the good times when the pain gets so bad you can't stand it anymore. Try to focus on how much your Papa loved you – and he did so very much, so more than you will ever know! Don't ever forget the things your Papa taught you. Hold on to them like they're gold. No, like they're more than gold, because there is no value that can be put on those things. And promise me that if you need me, at any time day or night, you will come to me. My door will always be open for you, Lord Roland of Locksley, and not only for your father's sake. I care deeply about you and that will not change just because this bad thing happened."

For a moment, Roland just stares up at her in awe, his tears ceased, now merely dried tracks on ruddy cheeks. There is a rapidly renewing strength in his eyes, an unquenchable fire of hope that reminds Regina so much of his father that she wants to cry, partially for sorrow but mostly for joy. Robin has not been wholly taken from them after all. Some portion of him remains in the person of his son, who Regina can already tell will grow up to be a young man of such indomitable character as to make his father beam with a pride that cannot be put into words.

"I promise. Thank you, my Queen," Roland says after a bit, blushing at having broken etiquette so badly. It is unbecoming for anyone to stare so long at a Queen without expressed invitation.

"You are most welcome, my sweet boy," Regina replies, giving his hand another squeeze as they share a smile that bodes well for the future.

Somehow, that impromptu little speech breaks the pall hanging over the day. When she looks up, Red and Marian are staring at her much like Roland was, though for differing reasons – Marian out of gratitude and Red out of that infinite fountain of love that flows from deep within her soul. The rest of the journey to the cemetery is accomplished in silence, though there is no more sniffling to be heard amongst the crowd. Marian and Roland's spirits unfurl like a banner held up into a brisk breeze, and the effect is contagious, passing from row to row, column to column, until the entire procession is a line of valiant faces are ready to pay tribute to the man whose acts of kindness and compassion have unified them all toward that one noble purpose.

The remaining portion of the ceremony at the graveside, while melancholy, is underpinned by that same surge of positive energy. In unison, they bask in the remembrance of man who would want his life to be celebrated with foaming ale and boisterous laughter, not mourned with endless tears. A man who would wish those he loved to testify to the indelible impact his life made by doing as he did: living life to the fullest, not taking a moment for granted, smiling and laughing whenever possible, and by surrounding themselves with family and friends and love – whose combined warmth can ward off the most unforgiving winter chill. So that is what they do. By unspoken agreement, not a single tear is shed save for the joyous ones that spring up while sharing stories about Robin and his many amazing adventures.

When all is said and done and Robin has at last been laid to rest, Regina and Red stay with Marian and Roland until they retire to their home with the Merry Men to feast and get rip roaring drunk in Robin's memory. Sadly, with many duties ahead on the morrow, Regina and Red must return to the palace, but not before wresting an oath from a reluctant Marian to come at once if she has any need of them whatsoever.

The next several hours are spent attending to duties that were neglected in lieu of the funeral. Regina spends several interminable hours nose deep in a quarterly report regarding the citadel's emergency supplies and once finished with that breaks open the seal of Mulan's first report from the border with Drakkenhall. The General's succinct information does nothing to improve her mood, which has waned precipitously since parting from Marian and Roland, and Red, who had kissed her farewell upon arriving at the palace so she could oversee repairs to a breach in the western wall incurred by runoff water erosion of the foundations. According to Mulan, the situation in Drakkenhall is more dire than previously suggested. Two more villages have been torched right on the other side of the border, making it clear to Regina that the witch is moving freely between the realms with zero regard for the danger such bold maneuvering poses. Only a deranged individual would do such a thing, or one absolutely confident they will not be stopped, even by force. Neither option is agreeable to Regina.

Only long after the sun has dipped down below the rim of the world is she finally free to retire from her duties. Expecting to be greeted by Red, she instead finds their chambers unoccupied. Worry niggles at the back of her brain for a while, though she dismisses it knowing Red's attention is probably still being hogged by a very serious issue. The western wall is the one most vulnerable to siege and therefore repairs must be completely not only swiftly but precisely and utilizing only the best materials and workers available. Work is ongoing around the clock, and up til now neither of them have had time to make a personal inspection. Red is no structural engineer, but she has a keener eye for detail than any human and has an eerie knack for spotting weaknesses in defenses, an ability that served her – and Snow – well while she was not in Regina's good graces. Which is why she was sent in Regina's place.

Surely, Regina reasons with herself, she is simply caught up in ensuring the work is being done correctly. That or she's pitched in herself, which isn't out of the question. It is the strangest thing how Red sometimes bemoans the lack of manual labor she gets to do since being crowned, as if she almost longs for days of an endless string of backbreaking tasks her grandmother used to assign her.

Knowing Red is likely to be late if that is the case, Regina changes into a light satin dress, ties a warm robe around it, and then settles beneath the bay window to read the book Red lent her a couple days before. She picks up where she left off in the oddly rousing and romantic tale of a snooty noblewoman who was abducted on her wedding day by a roguish do-gooder who plans to ransom her back to her husband-to-be for enough coin to feed the small community inhabited by fellow outcasts and tenderhearted miscreants. Lo and behold, the woman finds out her captor is not a man but a woman who was orphaned young, grew up poor and fell in love only to lose her lover to the violent tendencies of the husband-to-be, who it is revealed is the evil minion of an oppressive ruler whose excesses have nearly bankrupt the realm. The tale is rather trite and full of mawkish sentimentality, but there are elements that ring true and are familiar enough to make the yarn mostly enjoyable. Especially how the obtuse noblewoman slowly becomes aware of the suffering of the common people around her as she falls in love with a woman who is as afraid of loving the noblewoman back as she is angry at the world for the innumerable tragedies that have befallen her.

She is just about to the part she has been anticipating for several chapters now, where the hopelessly in love women in pointless denial are about to kiss for the first time, when Red finally slogs through the door. Coated from head to toe in a thick layer of sweat and grime, her wife is the picture of happy bone-deep fatigue. Regina sighs affectionately at Red, who shrugs and gives her a sheepish smile.

"I couldn't just stand there and watch them work," she says, and wisely does not protest when Regina promptly orders her to the shower posthaste, her nose wrinkling at the smells wafting from Red's direction.

About half an hour later, Red pads back out of the bathroom wrapped in a downy robe with her hair tied up in a fluffy towel. She ambles straight over to the bay window and sits down next to Regina, then wordlessly takes her left hand between both of her own. Idly, deep in thought, she rubs at Regina's wedding band, eyes cast down toward her lap. When she lifts them a minute or so later, there is more than just exhaustion there.

"I can't believe he's actually gone," she says, eyelids lined with the shimmering silver of tears she refuses to let fall.

"Me either," Regina says after a deep exhale. It seems surreal that one week and three days ago Robin was laughing with them about Roland's latest stunt climbing trees while chasing after the elusive – and hideously ugly – black cat the Merry Men dubbed Prince John. Now he's nothing but a cold husk, his soul having departed for lands unknown, rotting beneath six feet of earth that now seals him away from the open skies and thick grass and tall trees he so loved. "It's going to take time to get over it. For all of us. He left a gaping hole behind."

"Yeah." Red glances up at her, pensive. "I'm worried about Marian, too. Roland is tough and young, so he'll adapt. But she's just so, so sad. And vulnerable."

Regina nods in agreement. "I know. I've already had a talk with Little John. He's going to keep an eye on her. Chase off any potential unwanted suitors. Protect her interests at the tavern. Babysit whenever he can. I told him we would help however we could."

"Thanks." Red squeezes Regina's hand between her long, elegant fingers. "That was nice."

Regina shrugs as if the praise was unwarranted, which it is. Common decency needs no reward in her estimation.

"She would do the same for me were our roles reversed."

"Still," Red says, cracking a soft smile, "you didn't have to offer. I'm sure if the nobles found out they would criticize you for making yourself accessible to those, and I quote, beneath the charity of the Crown."

Most of the nobles never accepted their decision to restore Robin's title and grant him an estate in addition to his holdings within the citadel. They still hold a grudge to this day for his activities in Sherwood, some of them having been his beleaguered victims. Marian originating from humble farming stock did not aid their opinion of the Locksley's, nor did her skin color. Racists and elitists, the lot of them.

"Fuck them," Regina growls, then winces when Red's brow arches. "Pardon my language, but I really don't care what those arrogant bigots think. Marian is a friend. I'll do what I can to help her. If they object, well, then they can kiss my royal ass."

Grinning, Red bumps her shoulder and gives her a wink. "They can kiss your ring maybe. Nobody gets to kiss your tushy but me."

Feeling grateful for the reprieve from the gloomy direction of the conversation, Regina chuckles and returns the shoulder bump with one of her own. "Touché. And you're so good at it. A professional ass kisser if ever there was one."

After a mock bow, which is awkward due to her sitting down, Red chirps, "Happy to be of service at any time, milady."

Eyes catching, they both allow a quiet moment of good humor and mutual adoration to descend over them, enveloping them with the familiar incandescent glow of their love. As with all good things, however, it comes to an end when Red clears her throat.

"So," she says, fiddling with Regina's wedding ring again, a sign of nervousness if ever there was one, "any ideas how to deal with the person responsible for all of this death and destruction? I'd like to be able to tell Marian and Roland and all of those poor families in Tamerlon that we got them some much deserved justice."

Eyes sliding shut, Regina shakes her head and breathes out through her nostrils. "Sadly there isn't much we can do. I have Mulan at the border. Chances are she'll encounter the witch before anyone else. If so, I've no doubt she'll put an end to this with her typical efficiency. That said, I have a feeling in my gut that things are going to get worse before they get better."

"What do you mean?" Red asks, not bothering to hide her rising fear.

"I can't explain it aside from saying that this woman, whoever she is, is not a threat to be taken lightly. She is smart, she is ruthless, and she is powerful. If it weren't for the fact I hate her, I'd admire her. In fact, her tactics remind me a great deal of how I used operate in the Dark Days."

A shiver works through Red's slim frame. "That bad, huh?"

"I'm afraid so." Drawing her strength, Regina pats Red's hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, though, mi luna y estrellas, mein Herz und meine Seele. No matter what happens, no matter what that egotistical, pompous, brain-addled bitch has planned, I will protect you. I swear it. If I have to stand between you and all of the legions of hell, I will protect you."

"Oh, Regina, you don't understand," Red whispers, a solitary tear finally breaking free. It tracks a sinuous path down her cheek only to drip mournfully upon their joined hands. "I heard what she said through Robin that day. I know what she wants. And I know who she's really after. I love you for wanting to keep me safe, but it's not me I'm afraid for. It's you."

If only Regina had known then what she would in the near future, she would refused to allow those words to dissuade her from enacting the outrageous security measures she had been planning to institute around Red twenty-four hours a day. If only she had listened to her gut and let her paranoia do the work it was designed for, namely to safeguard the most important thing in all the world to her. If only she had not let Red's sweet kisses and tender caresses distract her from her most important job as a wife. If only she hadn't been such a damned fool.

If only...

#once upon a time fanfiction #red queen #regina x ruby #Regina is a good wife #And a good friend #And has a soft spot for Dimples Hood #And is not an enemy one wants to make #Watch out Zelena!

[casualarsonist]

Monster Hunter World review (PS4)

My first interaction with the Monster Hunter series was way back in 2000-and-something as I watched a mate of mine play Monster Hunter Tri briefly on his Nintendo Wii. I’m not going to lie - I wasn’t that impressed. Not that I watched for long enough to get more than the most brief impression about the game, as his girlfriend turned it off on him before he managed to save because there were ‘guests’, and the entire room uttered a collective gasp of disgust. In any case, while I didn’t feel motivated to buy, I was intrigued by the series’ rather unique premise, and was always tangentially aware of its existence and the zeitgeist surrounding it. So along came Monster Hunter World this year, and along with it came lashings of praise from every angle. Having no experience with the series, I had no context for the compliments it was getting, but I knew more or less immediately that at some point I was going to play this entry, and given the post-release hype, I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to enjoy it. And then I bought it on PS4...

The first thing that struck me as odd when I started the game was the ad for PSN membership that popped up when it tried to log me in online. After having subscribed for a month in order to play Titanfall 2, and then being robbed by sneaky recurring payments that I wasn’t being notified about for another 6 months after that, I refused to buy a PSN subscription ever again. So loading up a brand new game, and having it immediately stop itself to advertise Playstation subscriptions to me felt grotesque. Next came the first cutscene, which I enjoyed right up until the characters started talking and I realised that the lipsyncing hadn’t been localised, meaning that the game looked like a poorly-dubbed Japanese film. Then came the loading screens, and as I sat in front of my console for two minutes and thirty seconds waiting for the first level to load, the incredulity in me rose. And then I entered the opening hub level. And the game ran somewhere around 25 frames per second. And at that point I tried to get a refund, but it turns out that you can’t refund PS4 games after you’ve downloaded them, meaning they could be broken as shit and you’re stuck with the product anyway because fuck you. And I genuinely thought Monster Hunter World on the PS4 was broken, because it ran almost as bad as Mass Effect Andromeda - one of the worst game I’ve ever played. So, barely 10 minutes into my first time playing, I turned off the console in disgust and walked away. So after I researched Sony’s refund policy and discovered that it was utter dogshit, I realised that I was stuck with the game and I sat back down and gave it another go. And...well, it’s okay. Just okay. 

I fully accept that this is my first foray into an established series with established mechanics. I hate it when games I enjoy dumb themselves down for a mainstream audience (*cough* Fallout *cough*), so I don’t criticise the game for taking some time to get used to. However, there are some real quality of life issues here that simply shouldn’t exist in this day and age.

First of all - it looks like shit. Not it terms of its design, but in terms of the quality of the visuals. Poor frame-rate aside, the graphics are heavily washed-out, which is a big disappointment given the lush forests and crystal clear waters of the first area. I don’t know whether the colour palette could be balanced better on PC, but there’s a flatness to everything on the PS4 that leaves the beautiful, evocative locales feeling drab and lifeless. This is purely a stylistic choice, and I cannot understand why they would go the trouble of crafting such a vivid landscape, only to broadcast it through what feels like a white filter. Turning the brightness all the way down helps, but there’s no reason why this should be a problem in the first place.

Secondly, Dark Souls and Bloodborn exist, and a number of copycat games like Nioh have proven that there’s no excuse for a game to be clunky in order to be difficult. Difficulty should exist in the gameplay balance, not in dated control systems, and this is a big stumbling block for Monster Hunter World. The larger monsters all have certain weak points that can be broken or severed in order to weaken them. The problem is that attacking these weakpoints is easier said than done when the lock-on system barely works, and the directional controls feel like the nine-point directional system of a PS1 game. Attacks cannot be stopped once they’ve started, meaning that you need to master your timing in order to be an effective combatant, but they also cannot be rotated once you’ve initiated them in a particular direction, so if pointing your character in the right direction is a chore, your attacks will often fall slightly to the left or right of where you intend for them to go. Coupled with the fact that the creatures move at speed, this means that finesse goes out the window and much of your initial combat experiences will involve getting as close to the target as possible simply so you can’t miss. Now don’t get me wrong - there is a sense of skill-building and personal improvement once you start to get used to this system, but it does feel extremely dated in a way that doesn’t inspire nostalgia. If a retro first-person-shooter had no mouse look, you’d be up in arms. So too does this feel like less of a design choice and more of a glaring failure to adapt to modern conveniences.

The last big issue is that the game isn’t marketed as a multiplayer game, instead being sold as a single player drop-in-drop-out experience. Which is true, to a point, yet every time you load it up it freezes to connect to the Playstation Network, and then advertises a PSN membership to you if you don’t already have one. Once you’re playing, the game will constantly remind you that other people are playing online, even going so far as to tell you who is joining your ‘session’ - a session that you aren’t in if you don’t have a PSN subscription. And to top it all off, you can’t simply select a mission and then expect it to start straight away: instead you have to wait while the game ‘prepares’ the mission as if you were in multiplayer lobby, even if you’re playing offline. This can take up to a minute or more, and makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. So even if the game detects that you have no PSN account it will still connect to the internet, then force you into either hosting or loading an online game, then tell you all of the people who are joining a session that you’re not playing in, and then put you in a mission lobby when you’re not waiting for anyone to join. It’s the cherry atop a cake baked ten years ago and marketed as a 2018 release. It's absurd. It’s as if the game was created by people who couldn’t fathom a world in which players wouldn’t play alone, and yet the game is, largely, played and sold as a single-player experience - just like all its predecessors. The greatest effect of having other people join in is that your experience bonus is split between you all instead of going solely to you, and that’s not a bonus, but a deficit. 

These issues make me wonder how the game has come to be critically acclaimed at all, at least in terms of this particular version. I hear the PS4 Pro version can run at 1080p60, and I assume the PC version can as well, although I’ve heard there are some connectivity issues with the PC servers, but my immediate impressions of the standard PS4 version are near appalling. Spiderman runs flawlessly as you swing across the entire city of New York - I didn’t see a single frame drop in my entire playthrough, and yet the detailed but limited-scope environs of Monster Hunter World bring the console to its knees. This, more than anything, speaks to the decline of the console’s relevance as modern graphics capabilities increase. One of the important selling points of the consoles was the fact that you could count on them to run stably, even if their games were technologically inferior to their PC counterparts. If they look worse AND play worse, then what’s the point of owning a console at all? If you have to upgrade to a mid-generation PS Pro now every few years just to be able to ensure your games are going to work, then why not just buy a new graphics card for your PC for the same price, not have to subscribe to the fucking scam that is the Playstation Network, AND have a better quality experience while you do it? Aside from the exclusives, the Playstation 4 is redundant, in my opinion. I can’t think of a single reason to invest in the next console generation, because you know that whatever machine you buy is just going to be obsolete in a few years’ time anyway. 

I’m sure that, all the gameplay quibbles aside, Monster Hunter World is perfectly fine to play on a more powerful machine, but I still cannot see why it has garnered such praise. It’s still a niche game, and it’s okay for what it is, but it’s not at all the force to be reckoned with the reviews make it sound like. It’s stuck in the past mechanically, and has the bare minimum of localisation, and while it is fun after you pass a certain teething point, I find that the ultimate experience is defined not what it is, but what it is not. My rating here is for the PS4 version, so take that as you will, but as it is, the PS Store really needs a proper refund policy.

6/10

#monster hunter world #ps4 #capcom #video game #review #nintendo #action #rpg #fighting

[mjbanaag-blog]

The Cause, the Curse, the Cure of a Critical Spirit

What Is the Curse and Consequence of a Critical Spirit?

 Criticism is “an act of criticizing; to judge as a critic; to find fault; to blame or condemn.” Romans 14:10-13 tells us not to tear down fellow believers through criticism or judgment, because this can pose a stumbling block and cause serious damage to their faith. Among God’s warnings in Scripture, there are none more serious than the Matthew 18:6 warning to not become a stumbling block to His followers.

Have you ever noticed: We tend to judge others by their actions and ourselves by our intentions? The truth is, we can’t rightly judge anyone else, because we don’t have a heart x-ray machine. That is to say, we don’t know the motivations of their heart. We should be content to judge only ourselves and seek to bring our own lives in alignment with God’s Word (1 Cor. 11:31).

What is a critical spirit? A “critical spirit,” is an obsessive attitude of criticism and fault-finding, which seeks to tear down others rather than build up. Destructive criticism is different from constructive feedback. The only criticism that is ever constructive is that which speaks the truth in love, to build up or edify another person for his or her good and for God’s glory.

What are some characteristics of constructive or healthy feedback?

1.       It is descriptive rather than evaluative, reducing the need for others to react defensively.

2.       It is specific rather than general; as a rule, the more specific we are, the more helpful we are.

3.       It is directed toward behavior that the receiver can control or do something about.

4.       It is well timed. Trust needs to be established, but generally the sooner the better.

5.       It is solicited rather than imposed. Feedback is most appreciated when it is requested.

6.       It is checked with the receiver in order to insure clear, factual or accurate communication.

7.       It takes into account the needs of the giver and receiver of the feedback – truth spoken in love.

8.       It is always expressed face-to-face and never as gossip behind another person’s back.

A critical spirit dwells on the negative, looks for flaws rather than positive qualities in others. They are constantly complaining or criticizing and usually upset with something or somebody. They often have little control over their tongue, their temper and have tendencies for gossip, slander, strife and malice. These are some of the sins spoken of by Paul in Romans 1:29-32.

 Do you know anyone who has a critical spirit? I’m sure we all do. But the question that we really need to consider is: Do you have a critical spirit, and if so, how would you know? If you have a critical or judgmental spirit, you would probably refer to it euphemistically? You would probably refer to this poisonous character quality by saying something like: “I’m just being discerning,” or “I’m just being honest,” or “Get real, I’m just telling it like it is.” Do you ruminate on your negative feelings, thinking about how bad or wrong something or someone was? Do you say things like: “I can’t believe he was such a bad listener; man, is he full of himself. “Or: “She is so vain.” Or: “Look at her clothes! I wonder how much money she spends on her wardrobe.” Sometimes the negativity of our hearts finds its way to the tongue, and other times it just stays in our hearts. Either way, the root sin of a critical spirit is the same.

A critical spirit can be very detrimental and damaging to a person’s personal faith or to the health and vitality of a local congregation. Over time, if left unchecked, it prevents us from seeing, appreciating and enjoying all that’s truly good in the world – all that God is actively doing. It is the exact opposite of wearing “rose-colored glasses.” A critical spirit is like putting on sunglasses when the day is full of clouds: everything in life begins to take on a dark, drab hue. The critical person comes to expect, even to hope, that everything will have something wrong with it. Taken to the extreme, a critical person can assume the role of the “devil’s advocate.” One’s very identity can be marked by this “need” for negativity. But critical people aren’t just hurting themselves; they are also negatively affecting others as well.

What Are the Causes of a Critical Spirit?

(These factors aren’t mutually exclusive and the more factors present, the worse the problem.)

Let’s briefly consider some important factors (causes) contributing to cultivating a critical spirit:

1.       Our Sinful or Selfish nature is referred to in the Bible as “the flesh.” A critical person is walking in the flesh, not the Spirit. Rather than drawing on God for strength and perspective, the critical person relies upon his own resources. Cynicism inhibits faith and quenches the Spirit of God, causing us to live based on negative feelings, not faith. Godly people will always be optimistic and full of hope because they know, love and serve a good, great and gracious God. On the other hand, the outlook of the sinful nature or “the flesh” will be one of despair. Why? Because apart from Christ, we have no realistic basis for hope (Jn. 15:5; Phil. 4:13; 1 Cor. 15:58)

2.       Poor Self-Concept: It’s been said, “Hurting people hurt people.” This is demonstrably true. When you meet people who are constantly critical, you can be pretty sure that they’re suffering from a poor self-concept which is a works-based self-concept. They see themselves as unattractive, failing, or in some manner unworthy, perhaps they even condemn themselves. Finding faults keeps us from seeing, feeling and dealing with our own pain and shortcomings.

3.       Little or no Grace: A critical person has experienced little or no grace from God. It’s far easier to see others’ sins than our own. Judgmental people rarely get in touch with God’s perspective on their own ugly failures, or with God’s incredible gift of forgiveness. We’re all Pharisees at heart. Have we honestly faced our sin and experienced God’s grace? Have you ever wept over your sins? When you see the sins of others, are you aware that you are just as capable of the very things they do, were God to withdraw His grace from you?

4.       Pessimism or Negativity: A negative emotional focus, a bad attitude or a negative, cynical, secular view of life. A negative person may have unconfessed sin in his life (Romans 2:1). There are some individuals who are so negative they assume the role as the devil’s advocate. It seems that no matter what opinion you have, they’ll take the opposite and argue with you. The devil gives us enough problems, we don’t need to have anyone advocate for him!

5.       Insecurity: Criticism is often a conscious or subconscious means to “elevate one’s own self-esteem or self-image.” By putting others down, they’re inwardly trying to build themselves us by feeling more important or appearing more knowledgeable. Envy of the good fortune of others is often the cause of a critical attitude and/or action. Ministers can be guilty of this as well. We need to learn to rejoice with those who rejoice and be happy for the good fortune of others.

6.       Immaturity: Christians must always keep their faith focused upon Christ and His Word, not on others who will invariably disappoint (Heb. 12:2). Immature believers haven’t progressed very far in their faith and are perhaps too dependent upon the faith of other Christians. Unfortunately, when they begin to notice the flaws or shortcomings in others, this becomes a subconscious threat to their own faith and walk. Criticism becomes a reaction of disappointment, because their unrealistic expectations in others have been crushed.

7.       An Unrenewed Mind: Put-downs, making fun of, criticism, sarcasm are the world’s ways of reacting to the faults of others. However, as Christians we shouldn’t behave this way. Paul says that our thinking and attitude should be regularly renewed by God’s Word, which teaches us to bear the infirmities of the weak, to love, show compassion and offer encouragement (Rom. 12:2).

8.       A Root of Bitterness develops when we fail to obtain the grace of God to forgive. When we fail to forgive others we become angry, bitter and resentful, not better. Hebrews 12:15: “Look after each other so that not one of you will fail to find God’s best blessings. Watch out that no bitterness takes root among you, for as it springs up it causes deep trouble, hurting many in their spiritual lives.” Such people develop a negative emotional focus by harboring bitterness or resentment toward one who has offended them. Our ability to live healthy, happy, harmonious lives is largely related to our willingness and ability to consistently forgive and ask forgiveness.

9.       Bad Company: The reality is, for better or worse, we become like those with whom we associate. Paul says in 1 Corinthians 15: 33, we should not be deceived, bad company ruins good morals or corrupts good character. If you are basically a positive person and you associate with a lot of negative people, and you are not having a positive influence on them, over time, they can have an adverse influence on you and pull you down into their negativity.

10.    The Devil specializes in influencing negative, obsessive, sinful attitudes and behavior. He may use any of these factors or other techniques, to influence a complaining or critical attitude and to stir up turmoil and strife within the body of Christ (Eph. 6:12). We must be on guard so we won’t be used as a tool of the Devil to discourage or tear down others through criticism. In Ephesians 4:27, Paul warns us not to give the Devil an opportunity to be used by him. Satan is called “the accuser of the brethren” (Rev. 12:10). Don’t allow Satan to use you!

 III. What Do We Need in Order to Overcome a Critical Spirit?

 One thing is for sure: we don’t need to go from one extreme to the other. That is to say, the solution is not to exchange “our dull gray sunglasses” for a pair of “rose-tinted glasses.” Following Christ doesn’t make someone a naive person with a Pollyanna attitude. Fake smiles, repressed anger and a lot of superficial “praise-the-Lords” do not build the Kingdom of God. Sin needs to first be confronted and defeated in ourselves. Jesus said that we need to first take the log out of our own eye before we can see clearly enough to take the splinter of another’s eye. Critical people may be misusing the gift of discernment. If you have that gift, be grateful to God, but don’t misused/abuse it by judging, condemning or constantly finding fault with others.

 What Are Some Crucial Changes a Critical Person Needs to Consider Making?

Here are just a few:

 1.       We need to have our spiritual eyes opened to see two complementary spiritual truths: a) The depth of our own sin, and b) the greater depth of God’s grace toward us in Christ. Spiritual sight here isn’t something we can “will.” God must give it, but we can ask Him for it: Pray, “God, would you help me to see myself more clearly and know your love more intimately?” We all need to experience the depth of our own sin, and the abundance of God’s grace. James 4:9-10: “Let there be tears for the wrong things you have done. Let there be sorrow and sincere grief. Let there be sadness instead of laughter and gloom instead of joy. Then when you realize your worthlessness before the Lord, he will lift you up, encourage and help you.” When King David’s blind eyes were finally opened to his sin with Bathsheba and Uriah, he didn’t merely acknowledge it in some academic, emotionally removed way; he fell on his face, wailed and fasted for three full days! The more we experience God’s grace, the more grateful we are and the more we’re motivated to extend grace to others by being gracious and forgiving!

2.       We must be deeply convinced that only God can accurately discern the motives of the heart. Since we can never know with certainty one’s true motives, we must not assume for ourselves the role and the responsibility of judge that belongs to God alone. James 4:11-12 says: “Don’t criticize and speak evil about each other… If you do, you’ll be fighting against God’s law of loving one another, declaring it’s wrong. But your job is not to decide whether this law is right or wrong, but to obey it. Only he who made the law can rightly judge among us. He alone decides to save us or destroy. So what right do you have to judge or criticize others?” There are so many factors, beyond our knowledge, that go into another’s actions. Only God sees the heart and only His judgment will be 100% accurate and fair (Jer. 17:9-10). Some of you may hear this admonition, yet still secretly think, “Well, yes, but you see, I really do know why Person X does what she does.” Yes, sometimes you’re right; but you may very well be wrong as well. “What right do you have to judge or criticize others?” (Jas. 4:12b).

3.       We need to learn what to do when we’re bothered by bad behavior of a Christian brother. We must pray for both the person and our response to them instantly and fervently! What would happen if we channeled all our critical energy into an honest dialog with God? It’s always better to talk to God about another than to talk to another about what they should do. It’s just plain wrong for us to have a double standard, one for us and one for others, isn’t it? Instead of judging others, we should, like the Psalmist, ask God to search and examine us. Psalm 139:23-24: “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.” If we don’t first take the log out of our own eye, we’re not in a position to restore a fallen brother or sister.

4.       We must learn to engage in clear, direct, face to face communication with other people. No fake smiles where we try to call darkness “light.” No repression of true feelings, but clear, caring, constructive communication. The goal isn’t to tear down by revealing hidden character flaws; it’s: repentance, reconciliation and restoration of broken relationships. And remember: there’s no guarantee people are going to respond the way God wants them to.

5.       We need to be encouragers; genuinely up-building others and helping them become all that they can become and all that God longs for them to become. Get excited about building people up, not tearing them down! Be an encourager like Barnabas was to Paul and trust God to provide encouragement for you as well. A timely word of genuine affirmation may mean more than you know. Encouragement empowers; it is oxygen for the soul. Instead of seeing only the downside of those around us, let’s pray for the ability to see what God is doing in others’ lives and then make our own small contribution in furthering along God’s good work in the lives of others.

What Are the Cures For Conquering the Causes of a Critical Spirit?

Since many causes contributing to a critical spirit, the cures must be related to particular causes:

 1.       If the cause of a critical spirit is a life style based on living by our sinful selfish nature, we need to cultivate our new nature and learn to be controlled by the Holy Spirit. Galatians 5:16: “…obey only the Holy Spirit’s instructions. He will tell you where to go and what to do, and then you won’t always be doing the wrong things your evil nature wants you to.” Ephesians 5:18b: “be filled instead with the Holy Spirit and controlled by him.”

2.       If the cause of a critical spirit is a poor self-concept based of our works, we need to cultivate a healthy self-concept based upon God’s grace, not our works. First Corinthians 15:10: “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect. No, I worked harder than all of them—yet not I, but the grace of God that was with me.”

3.       If the cause of a critical spirit is that we have experienced little or no grace from God, we need to humble ourselves before God, confess, repent of our sins and ask His forgiveness. James 4:6b: “God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.”

4.       If the cause of a critical spirit is our insecurity due in large measure to lack of self-acceptance, we need to learn to accept God’s acceptance of us and find true security in God’s love for us. Romans 8 says that nothing can separate us from the love of God found in Jesus Christ our Lord.

5.       If the cause of a critical spirit is a negative emotional focus or negative worldview, we need to learn to see God’s view of Jesus and not from a worldly secular point of view. Second Corinthians 5:16: “Though we once regarded Christ from a worldly point of view, we do so no longer.” Philippians 4:8: “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.”

6.       If the cause of a critical spirit is immaturity resulting from an improper faith focus, we need to learn to focus our faith on the atoning sacrifice of Christ and God’s promises to us. Hebrews 12:2-3: “Keep your eyes on Jesus, our leader and instructor. He was willing to die a shameful death on the cross because of the joy he knew would be his afterwards; and now he sits in the place of honor by the throne of God. If you want to keep from becoming fainthearted and weary, think about his patience as sinful men did such terrible things to him.”

7.       If the cause of a critical spirit is an un-renewed mind based on the world’s ways of reacting, we need to submit ourselves to God and be daily transformed by the renewing of our minds. Romans 12:1-2:“I urge you, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.”

8.       If the cause of a critical spirit is a root of bitterness due to a lack of forgiveness on our part, we need to appropriate God’s grace by forgiving others as God for Christ’s sake forgave us. Ephesians 4:32: “Be kind/compassionate to one another, forgiving just as in Christ God forgave you.”

9.       If the cause of a critical spirit is the result of our associations with an unhealthy peer group, we need to associate with those who have godly values and a positive mental attitude. First Corinthians 15:33: “Don’t let anyone deceive you. Associating with bad people will ruin decent people.”

10.    If the cause of a critical spirit is the result of the devil negatively impacting your life, we need to learn to resist Satan so that we would not be used by him to discourage/hurt others. James 4:7-8a: “Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

 How Can One Offer Godly Constructive Feedback?

Seven Characteristics:

1.       Directly (face to face), not indirectly (through intermediaries).

2.       Soberly (seriously), not flippantly (in a lighthearted way).

3.       Importantly (major offenses), not inconsequentially (minor offenses).

4.       Privately (alone together), not publically (in the presence of others).

5.       Lovingly (concern for other’s best interest), not malevolently (returning evil for evil).

6.       Accurately (factually), not based on gossip (incomplete or inaccurate information).

7.       Timely (sooner rather than later), not conveniently (whenever we get around to it).

Conclusion

Hebrews 10:24-25: “Let’s see how inventive we can be in encouraging love and helping out, not avoiding worshiping together as some do but spurring each other on.” The reason we come together as a church isn’t to criticize, but to “encourage” one another. “Cursing the darkness” won’t change anything; instead we must learn to “light a candle.” Ephesians 4:15 says we are to “speak the truth in love;” in so doing, others will change for the better. Loving encouragement is a “motivational force.” If we ever hope to help others, we need to learn to encourage them. Just as sugar attracts more flies than honey, so encouragement helps others more than a critical spirit or a judgmental attitude.

Let’s use our tongues to build up not tear down: “Let no foul or polluting language, nor evil word, nor unwholesome or worthless talk (ever) come out of your mouth; but only such speech as is good and beneficial to the spiritual progress of others, as is fitting to the need and the occasion, that it may be a blessing and give grace to those who hear it” (Eph. 4:29, Amplified Bible)

Here is a “Prescription for a Healthy Mind” by psychiatrist Dr. David H. Fink:

Several years ago, a psychiatrist wrote a magazine article, “Release from Nervous Tension.” In his article, he outlined his research into the causes of mental and emotional disturbances. From over 10,000 case studies, he discovered that there was a common trait with all his patients who suffered from severe tension. They were habitual fault-finders, constant critics of people and things around them. Those free from tension were the least critical. The conclusion of this study is that fault-finding is a prelude or mark of the nervous or mentally unbalanced person. What’s the bottom line? Those who wish to retain good emotional, mental and spiritual health should learn to free themselves from a negative, critical, judgmental attitude!

Isn’t this what Paul says in Philippians 4:8-9? “Summing it all up, friends, I’d say you’ll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious—the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse. Put into practice what you learned from me, what you heard and saw and realized. Do that, and God, who makes everything work together, [for good] will work you into his most excellent harmonies.”

Remember: the Bible doesn’t promise peace to those who dwell on the faults of others! It says, “[The Lord] will keep them in perfect peace, whose minds are stayed on [Him]! (Isa. 26:3).

By: John Ankerberg Show

#Cause #Curse #Cure #CriticalSpirit #ChristianWalk #Lifestyle #Faith