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the-californicationist · 2 months

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They Help You Practice

Task Force 141 asks you to be the bait for a secret assignment. So, they make you audition for the role. You end up getting gangbanged by the whole team and loving it!

TW: gangbang, vaginal sex, anal sex, oral sex, gay sex, degradation, explicitly consensual, spit? please check AO3 link at bottom for full tag list

You let yourself into his office, shutting the door behind you, and stood before him at a sharp parade rest, waiting to be informed about your fate.

“Sergeant, thank you for coming. There is no need for formalities. This is just a chat.”

You moved to a more relaxed rest and nodded.

Price continued,

“This is going to be quite the ask. Would you be willing to perform duties which are…outside of your current scope?”

“Yes, sir,” you responded just as you should have, as you were trained to, but Price was hoping you would understand exactly what you would be getting yourself into.

“I need you to go undercover to a Konni restaurant cover in Minsk…as bait. Am I making myself clear?”

A pause. But, to your credit, you didn’t flinch. You did raise an eyebrow and ask a clarifying query,

“What kind of bait, sir?”

“Our next target, Dimitri Sokolov, will be at the Black Pearl bar in Minsk tomorrow, and we won’t get a better chance to lure him away from his bodyguards. He almost never makes public appearances, so he must be making an exception. Sokolov has,” he paused for a moment, trying to find the words, making general, suggestive motions over his own chest, “particular tastes in his women. You just so happen to have the right profile for the job. Again, this is not an order, Sergeant. I need to know if you’re willing to accept.”

“Yes, sir,” you tried to appear fully in control. You knew your breasts were large, but you had never been asked to use them as a weapon. There was a first time for everything, you supposed. You would do anything to help the team.

The captain loved your composure. He knew you would be perfect for the job.

“Good. Let's brief the team.”

Price walked with you down to the meeting room at the end of the hall and found Soap, Ghost, and Gaz sitting in the desk chairs every way except the way they were designed, lounging over the furniture like big cats, melting into the various surfaces they encountered. They fixed themselves when the captain walked in.

“Gentlemen,” Price opened, “this is our bait. Her code name is Rabbit. Rabbit, this is Soap, Ghost, and Gaz.”

You nodded politely and resumed a semi-formal rest position.

The men had noticed you around the base but hadn’t been formally introduced. You were a desk rider, but still, you were hard to miss. The baggy military clothing had almost managed to conceal a bounty of soft curves, but your lush body persisted beneath it, and the outlines of your feminine form made heinous suggestions in the fabric. Unfortunately for them, you didn’t hang around the gym or the common area enough for them to have generated a fully accurate image of your enticing body, but they were certain it was delicious. They watched you like peckish wolves. Waiting hungrily, shifting in their seats in anticipation. For what, you weren’t sure.

“Rabbit is going undercover for us to take down Sokolov, Vladimir Makarov’s new shipping controller. He has a particular penchant for,” Price paused just long enough for anyone to understand his true meaning, “certain types of women. Rabbit fits the mold, so all she needs is the gear and the training.”

Price cut open three large cardboard boxes to reveal slinky dresses and a number of questionable garments.

“I’ll need to try them on,” you offered, “Do you want me to get changed, Captain?”

“Sounds good. Come back in when you’re all set,” he smiled, enjoying the view as you left the room.

Ghost crossed his arms, clearly with quite a mouthful to share and but refusing to. Gaz stared down at the knife he was playing with, bashful. But Soap would not be cowed, and as soon as you left, he said,

“Feeding her to the sharks like bait, Captain? I dinnae ken any of us was so expendable.”

“Soap,” Price warned, “the sergeant is more than capable of handling -”

“I wasnae askin’ about the lassie’s capabilities. Send her in to slit his throat with a knife in her hand, for all I care. But to send her in unguarded, unarmed? No. It’s not right,” Soap crossed his arms.

“He’s got a point, Captain. Why take the risk of losing an operative?” Ghost spoke coldly.

Price furrowed his brow at their short-sightedness,

“And do what, exactly? Have the Russians scurry back underground at the first hint of an assassination attempt? We’ve failed that mission three times, boys. I’ll not have this go south again.”

“I’m sure she is capable, Captain. But, is Rabbit committed to this plan?” Gaz asked.

“Sure,” Price tried to sound reassuring, “we spoke in my office. She agreed to come down here. Besides, she’ll have you three as backup. You won’t let anything happen to her.”

Gaz did not seem convinced. All three soldiers wore a scowl on their faces, and even though Ghost’s was obscured by his mask, his body language communicated his displeasure. Price carefully ashed his cigar to renew the glowing tip, taking a long drag while they waited for you to return.

You were back without too much of a delay, but when you walked in, your colleagues were visibly stunned. They didn’t recognize you at first. A short black dress had replaced your camouflage fatigues, showing off miles and miles of smooth, shining skin. Your thick thighs stretched the silky fabric, and your ass threatened to escape from the edge of the dress with every step you took. Your new heels clacked sharply against the cold concrete, making your legs flex and tense, showing off your well-formed musculature. You did not miss squat day very often, apparently.

But, the assets you were trying to use for this particular mission were the real stars of the show. Your heavy breasts battled against the low dip of the dress, providing a deep display of cleavage, hinting at pink perky nipples hidden just below the line of the black silk. Your tits jiggled as you struck the floor with each careful step, making the room full of men breathe a little heavier at the sight.

Soap’s big mouth betrayed them all,

“Christ in Heaven. There you are, bonnie.”

Ghost backhanded him hard on the shoulder. Price glowered.

You had put on a little more makeup than might be socially acceptable in an office setting, making the suggestive outfit complete. Finally, as you stood at the head of the meeting table, you took out your task force regulation braid and pulled your fingers through your hair, breaking up your long waves as they spilled down your neck and back.

You smiled,

“Well, do I look the part?”

Price coughed, inhaling too much smoke on accident. Gaz hadn’t moved since you walked in the room. He just stood there, dumbfounded, arms held at an odd angle as if frozen in time. Ghost cleared his throat to save them,

“Yes, Rabbit. You clean up very nicely, don’t you?”

“Well,” you sighed, “this is sort of the raunchiest outfit I found in the box. I was going to go with something a bit more casual, but I thought I’d better be noticeable if we’re going to nail this asshole.”

Gaz finally came out of his locked state, aghast,

“Noticeable? Sweetheart, this is more than noticeable. Goddamn.”

“You think it’s too much? I don’t really know what would get his attention,” you shrugged, looking shy as you confessed, “I don’t get asked out very often.”

“You could go out with me, lassie,” Soap edged his way closer to her, slinking around the table, “We’d have a hell of a time, so we would.”

“Don’t listen to Johnny,” Ghost stood in front of him a bit, snaking an arm around your cinched waist, “He thinks takin’ his birds to the dog races is a good date idea.”

“Well, isn’t it?” Soap protested.

Gaz grabbed your hand tenderly, examining your fingers like they were a precious work of art,

“Maybe you could come with me to Berlin next weekend, babes. There’s a killer music festival going on, and we could have a really good time. How does that sound?”

“Boys,” Price interrupted, “I’m sure she has plenty of work to finish here; can’t just be galavanting off with you muppets. In fact, why don’t you stop by my office after this mission, bunny rabbit, and we can work on your projected shipment dates together? You know, I used to be a logistics man, myself.”

Ghost rolled his eyes at the Captain,

“Please, logistics? You drove a truck back and forth on base delivering food to the canteen twenty years ago. I’ve read your file.”

The men all started talking over each other, forgetting your presence in favor of coming out on top of the dog pile. You smiled to yourself, eager to push more of their buttons.

Slipping one skinny strap down your shoulder, you spoke through the din,

“You know, this dress can be strapless. Do you think Sokolov wants it up…” you locked eyes with Captain Price, seeing his throat swallow hard as he watched you in the silence you had created, “or down?”

The other soldiers were stunned, unable to look away as you slipped both straps off of your shoulders and tucked them into your dress. One strap was still partially visible, and Ghost slowly moved one gloved finger up your arm, tracing your skin lightly, and finished tucking it in for you. He lingered, caressing the side of your breast as he removed it.

“You gonna be able to seduce this Russian bastard, Sergeant? Or, do you need some practice?” Price asked with a low, threatening tone.

The whole room held its breath waiting for your answer. The four men towered over your short frame, casting shadows over you like black spells, hoping you would relinquish your control over them. All of their eyes watched as you slowly, achingly lifted a hand and traced it up Gaz’s canvas pant leg, stopping when you discovered the heavy head of his cock, hardening down toward his knee. With the back of your hand, you pet it like a skittish animal, reveling in its smoothness and warmth. Your eyes found his as they fluttered, blood rushing through his body in a panic,

“I think I could use some practice, Captain.”

You felt Gaz’s rod leap at your answer. He bent down to kiss your mouth, slanting his lips fiercely against you.

Soap came up behind you, gripping your ass through the silk of your dress roughly,

“We’ll help you, lass. We’ll help you practice, won’t we, boys? Jesus, you smell so good,” he buried his face in your neck and sucked against your skin.

Ghost found your other hand and held it tightly, using it to steady you from Soap and Gaz’s assault. Price moved Gaz out of the way, earning himself a glare, and peeled the dress off of you in one fell swoop, revealing the expanse of uncovered skin underneath.

“Holy shite,” the captain breathed, whispering his lament, “Sergeant, where are your knickers?”

“I guess I forgot them, Captain,” you blushed, batting your eyes up at him, doing actual damage to his psyche.

He didn’t have much time to savor the moment though because Ghost was shoving him out of the way to pick you up by the thighs to lay you on the table. The giant knelt between your legs, pulling you by the knees until your ass was hanging off of the low wooden planks. He lifted his mask just enough for you to see him lick his lips over sharp, white teeth before feasting on your wet folds, letting the cloth of the balaclava hide most of his efforts.

Ghost created a soothing, yet electrically wet warmth in your core which made you keen loudly, only to be muffled by Price’s smoky kiss. You could taste the burned tobacco on his tongue and your skin was scraped by his thick mustache.

Gaz’s voice got your attention. He had freed his cock from his pants and started to stroke it, standing by your side and playing with your breasts with his free hand as Price savaged your mouth. He tugged on your nipple and told you,

“You know, Rabbit, you’re going to have to really put yourself out there tomorrow. Show him these gorgeous tits of yours. Make him think you’re hungry for his cock,” Gaz rubbed his head, hard and hungry for you, “Can you do that? Let us see how good you can be, princess. We need you to ace this mission”

You felt Ghost dip his hard cock between your pussy lips, distracting you from Price’s tongue in your mouth. You broke the kiss and looked up at Ghost, dazed, into his masked face,

“I promise, sir. I’ll be good,” you looked around at all four of the men, reaching out to grab Soap’s cock that he was stroking for you, “Will you show me how?”

You didn’t give Soap time to answer. The Scot gasped as you devoured him, sucking him down into your throat, making yourself gag as he fucked your throat in and out in long thrusts. He tangled his fingers in your hair. Ghost matched his rhythm below you, pounding his cock into your wet hole. You thought you could feel something on his dick. Was he pierced? You could see your slick gleam on his lips and chin where his mask was still askew.

“Yeah,” Ghost smiled haughtily, “you like those piercings, don’tcha baby?”

You didn’t have a chance to respond. Price pulled your head away from Soap’s dick, kissing your mouth lewdly again before giving you an order,

“Open your mouth wide for me, love.”

You obeyed. Then, he spit onto your tongue, warm and bubbling, before shoving your face down onto his own fat rod. It made your lips burn with its cruel girth, even though it felt relatively soft, and you thought fleetingly that there was no way your poor little cunt was going to be able to take him, Ghost was big enough to be filling, but the captain was carrying around a true weapon.

He pulled your head off of him roughly, watching as the strings of drool connected your tongue to his cockhead, growling in short, lustful breaths.

“Alright, boys. Make sure she’s good and ready for me. You know the drill,” Price barked, and then he was gone.

The drill? You looked for him, confused, and only found Gaz, who was now slapping his long dick on your cheek, knocking for entrance. He let you take his head into your mouth, having a much easier time than you did with your captain. You bobbed your head up and down dutifully, not realizing just how long his cock was until he tried to force it into your throat. He held you down for a moment, moaning shamelessly, before releasing you to let you breathe.

“You alright, babes?” He laughed.

You nodded, moaning. Ghost took himself out of your wetness and pulled you off of the table. Soap hopped up to lay where you were, and you moved to ride him, making sure to get right to the edge with him to let Ghost back in. You’d never taken two men at once, much less four, but there was a first time for anything, and you were a quick learner.

Spearing yourself onto Soap felt like someone had created a warm, custom, living dildo just for you. He was a perfect fit, and you both cried out in pleasure from the sensation. Ghost slapped your ass, hard, and you screamed, clenching around Soap’s cock. Soap moaned darkly.

“Keep suckin’ that big cock, baby. Need to teach you how to multitask,” Ghost threatened as he bent to eat your asshole, wiggling his tongue into the tight rim to gain entrance.

He started to fuck you with it, his long wet muscle moving in and out as Soap thrust himself up into you, hitting your g-spot every single time like magic. You took Gaz back into your mouth and tried your best to take him deeper into your throat. Every time you did, you would gag, and your muscles would involuntarily clench, and the whole room would moan. You started to come, feeling yourself flood around Soap, whose mouth had latched onto one of your nipples, suckling like he was trying to feed from you.

You could see Price out of the corner of your eye. He had lit another cigar and was smoking it, stroking himself, still not at his full capacity. You were scared of him. He looked like some sort of demon, breathing fire, as big around as your forearm. He wasn’t as long as Gaz, nor as delightfully curved as Soap, but he made your legs shake without even touching you. When he did touch you, rising from his chair when he wanted to fondle you, pinching a nipple, pulling your hair, forcing your head down on Gaz, it lit you up like you were kerosene and he was the match.

Suddenly, Ghost’s tongue was gone, only to be replaced by his heavy head. He was going to fuck your ass, and there was nothing you could say to stop him. You’d only done anal once or twice before, and you knew it might hurt. He went so slowly that you could feel each and every piercing as he popped them into you, one by one. Then, as he pulled back out, you felt them pop as each one went through you again, raking himself in and out gently, as careful with you as he could be. When you were more pliant, he began to throw his weight into each thrust, and Soap started to groan below you from the sensation.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, Johnny boy,” Price threatened, his voice full of stern warning.

You weren’t sure what he was warning him about until Soap pulled his cock out of you and came all over your stomach, Ghost’s thrusts making the fluid smear between you two, rubbing your bodies together. Ghost pulled out next, and you felt his hot, thick ropes spray onto your ass cheeks, melting down your thighs.

Gaz abandoned your mouth and took over for Soap, feeding himself inch by inch until he found your end, leaving some of his cock out in the cold. He fucked you faster than the others, not caring to move out of the way as Soap rolled off of the table, whining like a whore the whole time.

Captain Price came around to your face, holding your chin in his hand, looking down at you without pity,

“Garrick’s got a long cock, don’t he, love? You’re being so good for my men, such a good girl. Sweet little slut, hm? You’re going to do so well on this mission. Those areholes won’t know what hit ‘em.”

He grabbed your hair fiercely, hurting your scalp, forcing you to turn and look back at Gaz. Price took a long puff from his cigar, blowing it past your face,

“Baby, he could fuck you for a hundred years. He’s not gonna come until you scream his name.”

You heard Gaz moan louder at Price’s suggestion, so you did. You screamed for him over and over, not caring who might have heard you, begging for him to come in you.

“He’s not allowed to come in you, love,” Price kissed your open panting mouth, “But, don’t worry. It’s about to be my turn, and you’ll be feeling my fuckin’ come drip out of your cunt all night long.”

Price’s voice made your blood run cold with fear. He wasn’t making threats. Those were clearly promises. Predictions of the future. His cock was tucked back into the band of his pants, but it lay in wait there like a serpent, eager to strike.

Your heart pounded in your chest as Gaz pulled his long shaft all the way out of you, his come shooting onto your lips and ass, feeling him use his hand to rub it into your skin, making you sticky. Your captain gave him a warning look, and you realized they had done this sort of thing before. Perhaps many times before. As you watched Soap and Ghost comfort each other, breathing close together, touching themselves, you wondered if they ever fucked each other as well. Picturing the four of them rutting into each other made you hungry, deep in your belly, starving to witness such an act.

Finally, it was your captain’s turn. The look in his eyes made you tremble. You knew he wouldn’t be cruel, not on purpose anyway. He wasn’t a heartless man, but he wasn’t one to hold himself back from what he wanted either. You knew that he would fuck you the way he wanted to, as hard as he wanted to, no matter how much complaining you might do about how his cock would stretch you out - even to the point of pain.

“On your back, love. Legs up. Spread that pussy open for me,” he commanded.

You did as he told you, opening yourself up shamelessly, letting your folds spread wide.

He walked around the table to gaze upon your form, staring at your pink flesh like it was a hot meal, and he was starving. He moaned, rubbing his hand across your sticky mons,

“Mm, that’s my pretty little Rabbit. Now…” he paused for effect, sinking three fingers into your hole roughly but ever so slowly, twisting his arm as he did, corkscrewing his knuckles into you, “...I want you to understand that there’s a reason I’m last in line, love.”

You cried out from the pressure of his huge hand. It felt like you were going to tear. Then, after a few hard thrusts, he released you. The emptiness you felt was heartbreaking. You looked for him, pleading with your eyes for him to return to you. He pulled his cock free from his waistband, unable to connect his finger to his thumb as he wrapped around it. You whined involuntarily, something animal in you recognizing its fate.

“Shh, baby, I know,” he drug out his voice, “I know…”

He positioned the heavy shaft on top of your body, measuring himself from base to tip, reaching your navel. As he slapped it against you, it made a loud thudding noise, slamming into your muscles like a fist. Price was so heavy. You’d never even imagined a man could feel like he was pure, warm, thick marble. Your pussy seemed to understand the panic you were feeling, flooding itself, preparing for the upcoming invasion.

“I’m so fuckin’ eager for you, love,” he slapped you again, quick taps right to your swollen clit.

Then, he put his head inside of you, squeezing himself in. He left it inside of you and started to pump himself with his hand. Between the vibration from his fist and the fact that it felt like you were sitting on the end of a steel bat, you couldn’t hold back your keening, loud and high-pitched.

Price began the steady, slow march forward, swelling harder and harder by the moment, making your walls feel like they might break. It seemed as if all the blood in your body was rushing down your belly and up your legs, hurrying to your core.

Your eye were wild, full of your fear, tears forming at the corners of your eyes,

“I can’t, please! I can’t. It’s too big, fuck…”

Price didn’t stop. He just kept feeding himself in and pulling himself back out, wetting his cock’s skin with your soaking hole.

“You can, and you will, love,” the captain growled, “Now, shut that pretty mouth and take it.”

Your cheeks were wet and your eyes burned, he was so deep within you that it felt like he was thrusting into your throat. You couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, Soap grabbed your hand, kissing your palm, using his tongue to lick your skin,

“It’s alright, bonnie. I’m here, lass. Breathe with me, lass.”

He bent down to kiss you, but he didn’t quite connect, letting his lips graze yours featherlight. Soap breathed in and breathed out in steady, measured beats. You felt yourself begin to relax. It had such an immediate effect that you heard Price groan, able to slip himself a bit deeper than he had done.

It was like a chain reaction, the more relaxed you became, breathing with Soap, feeling him suck and lick your nipples softly, the more Price was able to squeeze himself in.

Finally, you felt his hair at the base of his cock, thick and curled, and as he sighed, he settled inside of you, impossibly pressing against your whole body, making a clear outline of himself in your lower belly. He rubbed it, almost fondly, and you felt every inch of him throb against your walls, his head bullying your womb.

You cried out again from the strain. Ghost and Gaz joined Soap. Gaz began to suckle from your breast on your left side, fondling himself as he did so, getting hard again. Ghost was at your head on the end of the table, and he bent to kiss you, upside down, his tongue running all the way down your throat, long and slippery against your own.

He pulled away, petting your cheek as Price began to grind himself into you,

“You alright, Rabbit? You enjoying your captain’s cock, hm?”

“Mm hm,” you whispered, whimpering through your tears.

Ghost smiled, and his straight, white teeth looked menacing as he did, sharp, wolf-like,

“I know you are, babe. You’re doing so well. Look at him. You can see him inside of your cunt.”

He lifted your head by your hair, showing you the grotesque shadow of Price’s heavy rod as it shoved itself into you. You reached your hands down to it, feeling it through your skin. It was so unique. His size wasn’t like anything you’d ever experienced, and your body was sending confused signals of passion, your orgasms coming in shattered, broken waves. Feeling incomplete. Too powerful, and yet drawn out like the last note of a symphony.

As you touched him from the outside, Price moaned aloud for the first time. It shocked you. You looked up at him, managing to meet his eyes.

“Fuck,” you moaned, “You feel so good inside of me, Captain.”

“Mm, yeah?” He replied, using his hands to press yours down onto his cock, making you gasp, “You like it, baby? I’m gonna make sure you never want anybody else.”

Price reached down and grabbed you by the throat, scaring away Soap and Gaz. He lifted you up, making his dick fit inside of you that much tighter with the change of angle. Then, he began the true performance. He thrust himself in with fast, punishing strokes, slamming himself into you. You were sure you would bruise, and you felt dizzy, almost like you’d pass out.

Soap was at your side again, holding your hair away from your face,

“Look at you, lassie. Such a good girl for your captain. Takin’ that cock so damn well. Can’t wait to be back inside you, girl.”

He kissed your cheek, palm massaging his dick which was back to full mast, eager again.

“Alright, Johnny,” Price grinned, “Since you asked so nicely.”

Without any strain whatsoever, Price lifted you up by your hips and held you in the air as he fucked you, bringing you around the table so that Soap could position himself at your asshole. Ghost’s earlier efforts had made it ready for him, and you could very acutely feel how much he was throbbing to be inside of you, pulsing as he fit against Price.

“Ungh, fuck, lass,” Soap groaned as he began to thrust into you, pistoning with the captain, “He’s got you so tight for me.”

“Yeah? It feels so good. Mmm…” you whimpered, feeling more full than you’d ever been.

Johnny was holding your breasts as Price lifted you up, brutalizing your pussy. Every thrust felt like an electric pulse, making you cock-drunk and mindlessly pliant.

They worked in tandem for what felt like eons, pistoning in and out with each other. Eventually, after he had felt you come, Soap addressed his captain directly,

“Sir, I’m…please, sir, can I?”

“Can you what, soldier?” Price grunted through gritted teeth, testing his sergeant.

“Can I come, sir? Please, Cap…”

“Yeah, Johnny. C’mon, mate. Let her feel it.”

“F-fuck! Fuck…” Soap groaned, pushing himself flush against your asshole, pumping his come into you.

He caught his breath while he was still in you, kissing the nape of your neck, and then he pulled away slowly. He helped Gaz replace him, holding your ass wide apart so his comrade could position himself inside. And just when you thought your poor pussy would have room to breathe, Gaz’s incredibly long shaft was piercing your hole again.

You felt him sigh, his breath against your neck. He took over holding you up, and Price praised him,

“That’s it, Garrick. She’s all yours. Take it.”

Gaz reacted to his words in a way that made you rethink their entire dynamic. Then, you remembered how he had come when you said his name. He seemed to get harder and harder the more Price praised him, and you wanted to give him that same validation.

“Gaz,” you whispered, leaning your head back to rest on his shoulder, “It’s so big, baby. It’s like I can feel you in my throat. Oh, Gaz. Gaz!”

“Mm,” Price put his mouth to your neck, groaning, “That’s it, love. Tell him how much you like that long cock.”

“So much, Gaz. It’s so good,” you added.

Then, Price took his left hand and wrapped it around the back of Gaz’s neck in a moment of surprising intimacy. As Price kissed the front of your throat, Gaz kissed your shoulder and nape. You felt like a peeled fruit being shared between them, a ripped rind, your juicy flesh being split in two; two halves of a ripe orange.

Gaz lasted longer than Soap had when he fucked your ass, but Price’s attention seemed to spur him on. His movements were slippery, and you could feel the remnants of Soap’s come frothing around your entrance, easing his efforts.

“Captain,” Gaz whined, desperate for more of that approval.

“C’mon, Kyle. She’s ready for you. Good lad.”

The use of his first name made Gaz thrust up into you with a feverish pace. He cried out as he came, hard, into you. Feeling him fall back out of you made you imagine the tendrils of a giant kraken, seeming to travel forever just to remove himself from your body, slithering out of you with a terrible squelching noise.

Gaz let Price hold you again, and you turned, expecting Ghost. Price laughed at you, chuckling softly,

“Missing your masked man already?”

You looked at Price, feeling raw and used, waiting for an explanation,

“He’s a little…preoccupied.”

Price laid you back on the table, letting you turn your head to see Ghost, buried in Soap’s asshole up to the hilt, furiously jacking him off, slamming into him a little too roughly for your liking. It was violent, but Soap seemed to be enjoying himself beyond measure.

Your pussy, though, disagreed with your assessment, clenching around Price’s cock while you watched Simon abuse his friend’s hole.

“Mm,” the captain moaned, feeling your muscles react, “You like that, love? You wanna be fucked rough like that?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. Price wrapped your legs beneath his chest in a full mating press and wrecked you, pounding into your body like a giant fist. You felt your bones shudder beneath his behemoth form. Just when you thought you might puke from how overstimulated you were, you felt him pause. Then, your pussy felt like it was leaking, and it was. Price’s come just kept milking its way out of you, his cock pulsing inside, making your walls throb.

When he finished, he kissed you on the mouth, almost lovingly, reverently. He started to slide out of you, being extremely careful, and you’d never felt so empty in your entire life. It was as if you’d never be full again. You found yourself whining, whimpering for Price to return.

“That’s right, pretty girl,” Price smiled, “Never gonna want anybody else, are ya?”

You smiled, shocked and in considerable discomfort. Gaz scooped you up off of the table, cradling you, sitting down with you in his lap in a large chair. He reached down for some water and handed it to you, helping you recover.

Price was standing with his hands on his hips, panting from his exertion. Ghost and Soap were connected like two hounds, locked together, the Scot cock warming his tall lover, groaning on every exhale.

“Well, what do you think, lads? Do we have a winner?” Price asked.

“Yeah, we fucking do, Cap,” Gaz pet your head, moving your sweaty hair out of your eyes.

“Fuck yeah, mate,” Ghost growled, pawing at Johnny again, rabid for him.

“Hear that, bonnie?” Soap managed to ask, still moaning in little breaths as he was being speared by Ghost, “Got yourself a new permanent assignment.”

Price walked over to you, grabbing you by the face and kissing you once more,

“You belong to us now, love. Perfect little slut.”

AO3 Link

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #call of duty #tf 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #task force 141 #tf 141 #141 x reader #call of duty mwii #x female reader #x fem!reader #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #the gang's all here

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yamameta-inc · 4 months

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- US: see here - Canada: see here - Multiple sizes per model. These suppliers are good for bulk ordering. If you aren't sure if something will fit you, check out the sample kits in the next recommendation - Price point: varies from $1-1.3 USD per mask depending on supplier

Breatheteq (US):

- KN95s that come in small, medium, large, or XS (kids) - Offers sample kits so you can test out what your size is - Comes in a few different colours. shoutout to the lavender - Earloop only - Price point: $69.75 USD for a 50-pack (~1.4 USD per mask)

Canadastrong (Canada):

- The Canadian equivalent to Breatheteq, but also carries N95s of other brands such as 3M Aura and Vflex, Vitacore, and Drager X-plore

Vitacore (Canada and US):

- N95 certified, but actually has 99% filtration - Both earloop and head strap versions (warning that the head strap seems to fit considerably smaller) - Regular and small adult sizes offered, also a kid's size - Price point: $33.99 for a 30-pack (~1.1 USD per mask)

Wellbefore (US, ships to Canada):

- N95s, KN95s, and KF94s - Head straps, normal earloops, or adjustable earloops depending on model - Kids/petite size available for certain KN95 models - Wide range of colours (excluding N95s) - Price point: varies per model, from $0.79 USD to $2.09 USD per mask - Also sells Covid tests, over the counter medication, and medical supplies

Masklab (US):

- This is an indulgent option for if you want to go out and look good, while still staying safe. These are masks that are part of your outfit - FFP2 certified, equivalent to KF94s - Standard size and slim fit series - Many beautiful patterns - Price point: $24.44 USD for a 5-pack ($4.88 per mask) for the patterned KF ones, ~$3.4 USD for the plain KF ones, ~$3.3 USD for the slim fit series, including patterns.

ELASTOMERIC MASKS

Flomask (US, ships to Canada):

- Reusable elastomeric mask (with replaceable filters) that meets KN95 standards - Two adult sizes (low/medium nose ridge and medium/high nose ridge) and a kid's size - Adjustable straps - Price point: $122 USD. 50-pack replacement filters: $81.46 (filters to be changed after 20-40 hours of use, depending on filter type)

A humble P100 elastomeric respirator from your local Home Depot or similar store! Magnitudes cheaper than the Flo mask (both the respirator itself and the filters)--however, I can't offer estimates for how often filters should be replaced. May not look pretty, but the most economical option for the highest degree of filtration if you aren't self-conscious.

General advice:

N95 or higher are the most reliable. They normally come with head straps, which offer better protection by making a tighter seal around your face.

But fit and comfort are the most important! Find a mask that fits your face and leaves the least amount of gap possible. KN95s are often more comfortable and breathable--find what's right for you.

You can wear different masks for different situations depending on risk level!

If you're hesitant to buy online, here's advice on how to tell if your respirator is legitimate.

A SIP drinking valve can be installed on any disposable mask to allow you to drink in public with less risk.

If anyone has other recommendations, please feel free to add!

#i'm so sorry non-NA people i don't know enough but i will try to look into it #covid

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moonjxsung · 5 months

Text

Visions of You in Solitude

Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader

W/c: 26.5k

Warnings: erotic painting, mentions of masturbation, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), breast/nipple play, dry humping, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), cum eating, use of pet names, drinking

Synopsis: You were hired to paint him- not fall for him. But intentions quickly shift when Hyunjin finds himself infatuated with you and learns the secrets you harbor.

18+. Mdni!

•

There’s something to be said about the loneliness that comes with being an artist. The repetitive cycle of translating tangibility to canvas or paper in whichever chosen medium. Fleeting muses you draw inspiration from, which quickly become burdensome as you’re faced with them every waking second of your day. Obsession with perfecting your craft, the anxieties that come with criticism of your life’s work and sometimes even succumbing to changing it entirely at the hands of someone else’s advice.

It’s very seldom even your craft at a certain point, only existing to satisfy the visual demands of others and turn a profit when displayed at a show. And it’s certainly not for everyone, not when it’s this lonely and rooted in the discomfort of personal solitude.

From this proximity, the blinding white walls that span the perimeter of the waiting room feel like that of a prison’s- coupled with the glossy laminate flooring and glaring white lights, you feel completely entrapped.

“They’re almost ready for you,” your boss says abruptly as he enters the room and occupies the gray folding chair next to you. “You have everything you need?”

Headcount- your black leather briefcase of oil paints, brushes, charcoal, pencils, paint thinner, old rags and your painting palette.

“The canvas is already set up,” your boss chimes in as if he can read your mind. “And there’s a seat for you. Just relax, and don’t push yourself.”

You take a deep breath, doing your best to follow his advice- but a part of you wants to get up and leave, to run away from all of this. Painting is your passion, it’s your forte and it’s been your life’s work for as long as you can remember. But being commissioned like this, for men much richer than money you’ll ever see, it feels suffocating.

They don’t tell you their names these days, nor the name of whatever organization they’re from. Last month it was an elite group of stock investors, the month before, it was a famous violinist from Japan. And today, it’s a male group, eight members with net worths that look like telephone numbers, or so you’ve been told. And it’s not that you’re intimidated, but you do get self-conscious at the prospect of people watching you while you paint. At some point, it’s like you become the model, their eyes boring into your flesh as you paint long strokes across the canvas and order them to hold still.

“Five minutes,” your boss now says, checking the time on his silver watch and adjusting it so that it sits a little higher up on his wrist.

You wish he wouldn’t count the minutes. You wish he’d stay quiet, allow you to sit with your thoughts and ruminate the day ahead of you. And yet he taps his heel in syncopation with the second hand on the clock above you, the echoing click of both driving you up the wall.

“I need a breather,” you state suddenly, sitting up from your chair and smoothing down your smock. “I need to go outside.”

“Three minutes,” he responds sterly, tapping at the glass lens of his watch and motioning to the door.

You shove your way past the double doors, past the white tiled hallway and just in front of the double doors that lead to freedom again. Two minutes.

It’s like your body is giving out on you involuntarily, your knees buckling as you grip the stair railing and steady your breathing. A quick glance around to ensure no one’s caught you heaving so nervously- and you’re too late. A man saunters down the hallway past you, his hands shoved casually in his pockets as he cocks his head to stare at you, his long black hair falling loosely around his shoulders as he does. He’s tall, and slim, with an elongated torso hugged by an expensive denim coat, his slender legs on display in black slacks and complemented by a sharp pair of boots. You don’t catch a very good look at his face, his figure blurring by as you check your watch, to the second now- you’re supposed to be inside.

You waste no more time jogging down the hallway past the figure and back into the waiting room, where your boss is angrily tapping his heel and scanning the room for you.

“There you are,” he says frustratedly. “No more breaks if you can’t manage your time. They’re waiting for us.”

And with a deep breath, he helps you gather your art supplies, motioning in front of you to the brightly lit room. You take one breath, and then two, as you finally begin into the painting room, eight men already seated and ready for you.

The crowd is nothing like the stock investors, or the violinists you’re used to. They’re rowdy, and loud. They very seldom sit still, cracking jokes amongst themselves and shoving each other off the wooden stools every other minute. You do your best to keep your gaze away from them when you don’t need to look at them, trying to memorize their features in intervals so you can focus on just the canvas in front of you as you paint. But it’s nearly impossible, their melodic voices pressing you for answers and insights into your artist career.

“What’s the hardest painting you’ve ever done?” One asks, his baritone voice sounding almost startling in contrast to his bright appearance.

“There’s lots,” you reply quietly. “I’m not sure I can pick one.”

You give him a small smile, trying to memorize the freckles on his face before turning back to the canvas, hoping you won’t have to glance back over at him for the next minute or so.

“Let’s take five,” your boss says as he enters the room again, two iced coffees balanced in his hands. “Thanks, guys.”

And the men scatter to their break room, where neat trays of food are already set out for them to choose from. As the doors swing closed behind them, you watch them select from a variety of pre-cooked noodles, assorted fruits and vegetables, packs of chips and trays upon trays of desserts. They’re fed as though they’re the ones doing all the painting.

“Coffee,” Q says, setting down a plastic cup in front of you, the straw already conveniently placed for you.

“Thanks, Quinton.”

Your boss, Quinton, or Q, is a brutally honest man when he wants to be, quick to comment on your work and keep you in your place. He runs your calendar like the military, never missing an important appointment and opting you in for every profitable painting session possible. He’s another thing you find suffocating at the worst of times, always somewhere breathing commands down your neck and dragging you to every private event under the sun.

“Let me see,” Q states plainly, gesturing to the canvas with his cup of coffee. You shyly angle the canvas toward him, hoping he won’t scrutinize anything about your pacing- you’re trying to get out of here as quickly as possible, and you silently pray the art doesn’t reflect that sentiment.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t, swiping a few stray eraser shavings off the canvas and giving you a nod.

“Looks good. Remember, we just need the skin tones and facial features. The clothes and all that can be filled in later with our reference pictures.”

You nod in response, taking a generous sip of your coffee, realizing this is probably the worst beverage you could’ve picked to calm your nerves. The caffeine pulsates through you, making your heart flutter even more than it already is, and the bitter taste leaves little to salivate over.

“How much longer, do you think?” You inquire, chewing on the tip of your straw nervously.

“No more than an hour, if you keep up this pace,” Q responds. “I’m going to the bathroom real quick, have everything ready again for when I get back. Don’t make me wait.”

You watch as he gets up from his own wooden stool, placing his cup of coffee where he sits, and exits the room to the corridor once again.

You’re alone in the painting room, the white sheets that line the floors staring back at you with little eyes in the form of paint splotches. From behind the door, you can still hear the eight men shuffling about, laughing loudly and downing their snacks. And you want to leave again, the feeling instilling another sense of foreignness inside of you. Like you don’t belong here, even though you’re the painter. You feel small, cramped, even useless, as you stare down the painted flesh outlines across from you.

A click of the door closing beside you garners your attention, and you look up expecting Q to return and resume the session. But it’s not Q- it’s the same figure from earlier in the hallway, slowly making his way inside and hoisting himself back up on the wooden stool. He keeps his head down as he gets comfortable again, two hands running through his black hair and slicking it back out of his forehead.

And then he looks at you- or stares, rather, two hands resting on the exposed wood in front of him as his legs balance on the wooden beams below. You can feel his eyes burning into your figure, and you do everything in your power to avert his gaze and keep your eyes locked on the canvas in front of you. But he remains like that, staring, for several minutes, until you nervously tilt your head to catch his gaze.

You feel your heart race as you do, catching a glimpse of his flawless features as he furrows his brows in concentration. His silky black hair isn’t the only striking thing about him- he has piercing brown eyes, which narrow with such intensity as he remains seated there, unmoving and confident in his stance. His plump lips contrast beautifully against his chiseled jawline, and his lanky figure makes him look like the contemporary art statues you’re so acquainted with, like he’s formed from wire and positioned to slouch so artistically in his spot.

You say nothing to the man, opting to give him a little nod, before focusing back on the beverage in your hands. And despite his clear fascination with you, he doesn’t reciprocate, instead pulling a cell phone out of his back pocket and preoccupying himself again.

You can’t quite tell if he’s rude, or strange, or even just unaware that his presence is so uncomfortable when he’s choosing to speak through cold stares instead of words. As you watch him through your peripheral vision, you hear the familiar sound of Q’s boots click through the doorway, gesturing rapidly at you and at the canvas.

“Let’s continue,” he orders, clasping his hands together with such purpose. “Where are they?” Q then questions, his eyes darting over the quiet man’s indifferent posture. And the strange man finally gets up from his stool, making his way through the break room door to usher the others inside once again.

They follow like a row of ducks, back to their respective seats, some of them with drinks in hand as they share whispered laughter amongst themselves and make little effort to sit still. You have no trouble picking up right where you left off, the innate talent to mirror figures in front of you coming in handy as you race the clock to complete their flesh-colored outlines.

Most of them converse lightly amongst each other, holding your gaze with a more serious expression when they catch you looking over at them.

Except for the strange man.

He’s relentless in his ways, continuing to stare so impolitely at you, his eyes piercing daggers right through your soul as he cocks his head to the left, and then the right, studying your face as you study all eight of theirs. What his intentions are exactly, you have no clue, simply opting to avert his gaze when you can and keep busy with your painting.

One hour later, the canvas illustrates all eight outlines of flesh and distinctive features, highlighting the beige freckles on one man’s, the toned biceps of another, and all other features that set them apart from each other. True to Q’s reminder, their clothes are traced in outlines, but color is void of their stencils, as you still have to bring the canvas home to complete the finishing touches. When they’re dismissed for the day, the gentlemen are all led by a sculpted man with a big smile who introduces himself as the leader, orchestrating the bows and applause that are held for you.

And as he ushers them out one by one, the strange man who’s been watching you all day is the last to leave, lingering a little bit too long with his hands shoved in his pockets like he wants to say something. He loiters by the canvas for several minutes, but you make no move to angle the painting at him, usually maintaining a certain extent of confidentiality in your work to keep the surprise.

He seems to take the hint, almost nodding indirectly at you and more toward the wall, as he finally saunters out of the room with his hands still in his pockets, his strides painfully slow as he disappears from your sight.

And when you look back to the painting, you cock your head at his outline, trying to gauge whether your art properly captures the sheer sense of unnerve he instills in you with his features alone.

Painting sessions are burdensome. They require a lot of planning ahead of time, stocking up on supplies, scheduling around the hours-long timeframe and of course, the mental preparation of having to be stared at by rich men for several hours.

But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.

Your paintings are typically set in stone after the initial outlines, considering there are usually a few important figures who review your work and give you the go ahead to take it home and finish it.

Yet sometimes, you still have people complaining, pointing out unimportant features like the color of their sneakers which aren’t to their liking. It’s normally Q who fights these battles for you, refusing to allow you to make any changes since the payments are made upfront, too. But sometimes, even he caves, ordering you to pull out your briefcase and mix a darker shade of green or add more volume to the subject’s hair.

It’s the worst with investors, who put their audacity at the same level as their incomes. But with boy groups like this, you’re unsure, having never done a painting for a band prior to this one.

The finished canvas is transported in a nylon zip-up bag, held by yourself and Q as you fit it inside the truck and secure it with metal prongs. While the drive there is just an hour long, it feels much longer than the last time you traveled there, perhaps because you’re much more nervous.

And perhaps also, it’s because of the same strange man as last time, who you already know is going to have a mouthful to say. The way he lingered by your work station a little too long, wouldn’t stop staring and even excused himself from his own break early to resume his insufferable task of making you uncomfortable. You reckon it’ll be a comment about his hair, asking for a longer length or more volume. Maybe something about the stage outfit you were presented with and how it doesn’t make his legs look long enough. Or knowing his douchebag tendencies, maybe he won’t hesitate to ask for a fucking bulge in his pants at this point.

When you arrive, Q calls over the building staff to help transport the collosal work of art, while you wait awkwardly on the side with your hands shoved in your pockets. You take a moment to crane your neck and look up at the building, a tall glass monument with blue-tinted windows and cobalt text that displays the company name. It’s just as intimidating as you remembered it, instilling the same unnerving feeling that a hospital might.

When the building staff are finally making their way inside, you follow reluctantly, making yourself as small as possible behind them while they navigate the long blinding corridors. It’s an unusual feeling to be at the top floor of the building that you were just looking up at from the street below, and as you pass the windows that line the hallways, you can make out the rows of cars and people that now resemble ants from this high up. It’s as though you were never down there to begin with, like the world is different from up here, much more secluded and shut-in.

And seeing the pin boards that line the walls, with photos of successful artists and flyers for company events, it very well might be, this haunting building where dreams either go to flourish or decay.

Into the last door on the right, eight chairs lined up for eight artists who definitely seem to have flourished. The building staff set up the canvas at the front of the room, securing it into its wooden easel, and Q occupies himself setting up a recording camera which points directly at the painting and captures all eight chairs in the frame. It’s common protocol for events like these to be filmed, not always for public consumption, but for the staff to archive important commemorative moments in the artist’s name. Once the camera is rolling, Q gives you a thumbs up, gesturing to the staff to permit their exit as you make your way to the front with him.

“Ready?” He asks, clasping his hands together as he eyes the camera nervously. You say nothing in response, giving him a small nod, before taking your spot on the other side of the canvas and folding your hands behind your back.

For a few moments of complete silence, the two of you keep your gazes fixed on the clock that lives on the wall across you, the hands ticking with the passing seconds as you await the arrival of the band. Q turns to say something, seemingly disregarding it as he turns back to the wall and shifts his eyes to the door every few moments.

You wish he wouldn’t be so… anticipatory. You wish he’d just stand there, like a rock, indicating nothing of importance, so that you could put less weight into this and unveil the painting to them without any reservations.

Here’s the painting, you want to say. It took me forever, so don’t criticize it. You guys are shorter than my usual subjects. Except for the weirdo- and he stares too much.

You smile to yourself at the thought of being so candid with them, before an abrupt push of the door startles you, and you instantly straighten your posture at the sounds of boots clicking along the floor, leading the eight men who live on the canvas behind you.

One by one they take their seats, dressed to the nines this time in black slacks and collared button ups. They even flaunt ties, mirroring the businessmen you’re used to painting, and the fancy attire quickly makes you nervous as they fold their hands in their laps and fail to joke around like they did the last time.

“Welcome,” a booming voice says, as other important looking figures stand around the room and eye the covered canvas. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, and we’re eager to see what you’ve come up with.”

Applause fills the room, inclusive of the members of the band, which you finally allow yourself to look at. They sit properly, hands folded in their laps and serious expressions painted on their chiseled faces.

Except for the strange one, again, whose gaze is locked on yours. He cocks an eyebrow curiously, as though you’re the one doing the staring. And you quickly turn your attention back to Q, hoping that disregarding the men will calm your nerves a little.

“… she’s paid particular attention to detail,” Q continues, and you realize you’ve missed half his speech already.

“And we are so excited to hang her work in this renowned building as a commemorative piece for the members. Without further ado, please let’s unveil the artwork.”

As he finishes, two members of the staff tug on the beige cloth, letting it fall to the tiled floor beneath it and expose the giant portrait.

Their faces light up instantly, little “woah’s” filling the room as they rise from their seats to take a better look. They laugh at their own figures, they point out each other's and most of them even pull out their cellphones to snap photos of your art. It’s always a gratifying feeling, having a crowd admire the fruits of your labor this way, especially when you aren’t immediately met with verbal protest against your creative choices.

You take a few steps back to give some room to them, the staff talking amongst themselves and gesturing to the building where you presume they speak about where the painting will live.

“It’s a hit,” Q says, coming around to tap you lightly on the arm. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Thanks, Quinton,” you respond. “I’m glad everyone enjoys it.”

And the staff applaud you once more, bowing to you and lining up to shake your hand as they begin to file out of the room again.

The members stick around for a good while, unable to take their eyes off the painting as they point out each other's features and admire their own. And as they begin to leave, several of them thank you personally on the way out, giving you a bow and shaking your hand.

“Thank you, really,” the man you remember being the group leader says to you. “We are so honored to have worked on this with you.”

Another clasps your hand in his, bowing several times before speaking. “Seungmin,” he states his name politely. “Thank you, I think you really did our old group leader justice.”

“Hey!” The leader calls, and you can’t help but laugh a little in response.

The others share similar sentiments, bowing and shaking your hand as they exit, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they make their way down the hall for their next schedule.

And when you turn to face Q, you’re met with the last member, who folds his arms in front of him coldly and eyes the painting with raised eyebrows.

Like clockwork. He doesn’t like it, he’s going to request a change be made to it and he’s going to berate you in front of your own boss.

“It’s nice,” he chimes in casually from where he’s standing.

“Thanks,” you reply, Q gathering the cover from the floor and zipping it up again.

“Just one thing,” he says now, turning to face you.

“Oh, we normally don’t make changes after-”

“I have a freckle under my eye,” he finishes. “The left eye. You didn’t catch it.”

Your eyes scan the painting, where his chiseled face and long hair stare back at you, a serious expression in his eyes like he wears in person. And then you glance at him standing in front of you again, a small brown mole under his left eye, just like he speaks of.

“Go ahead and add it,” Q says, as he zips up the cover. “That should be on there already.”

And you nod your head at both of them, unzipping your briefcase again to retrieve your paints. He’s watching you like a hawk again, towering over your bent figure as you pull out a thin tube of brown paint and squeeze just a miniscule dollop onto the back of your hand. You retrieve your thinnest paint brush, dipping it into the paint and swiping it across your skin to rid the excess from the fine hairs.

It feels as though you have to paint it with his permission, as you bring the brush to his face and glance over at him for instruction. He gestures to his eye, motioning for you to start, as you bring the brush to his canvas flesh and tap on a tiny, single dot.

He stares at it for a moment, cocking his head as though a brown dot somehow won’t be to his liking. And even Q holds his breath while he waits for a comment from the man. You begin to say something, your lips parting silently, stuck on what to remark as you await his feedback. And then with bated breath, he finally speaks, giving a small nod as he does.

“Good,” he says simply. “It’s me now.”

Q nods at him, nods at you, and then gathers your belongings as you cap the loose tube of paint.

“Do you have a card?” The man asks suddenly, and Q pauses his shuffling about to retrieve one from his coat pocket.

“Here’s her card,” he says, against your silent protests. “She’s available for commission any time. Payments are up front and scheduling is through me only.”

The man nods, thumbing the gold foil cardstock in his slender fingers, and then shoves it into the pocket of his slacks.

“Hyunjin,” he says curtly, reaching his hand out to yours. “I’m the main dancer.”

And you just nod, placing your hand in his reluctantly as you shake once.

“Y/n.”

His hands are cold to the touch, the metal of his rings feeling like blocks of ice in your grasp. He holds it there for a moment, his narrowed eyes shooting daggers into yours, before he finally pulls away and pivots to leave with the rest of the band.

And you can only catch a glimpse of the back of his head when he’s halfway out, before Q turns to speak to you.

“Looks like we may be back very soon,” he remarks, latching your briefcase once more. “I’d hold on to that brown paint if I were you.”

Exactly four days pass before you hear from Hyunjin again. In fact, you’ve all but forgotten about the little run-in, until Q barges into your studio while you add the finishing touches to another client’s piece.

“I have a proposal for you,” Q voices, setting an iced coffee on the table beside you while you dip your paintbrush in a muddy cup of water.

“What is it?”

“Well financially, a massive opportunity. Career-wise, much of the same thing you’re already doing.”

“Businessmen?” You question, working your paintbrush in thin strokes to add hair to the figure on the canvas.

“Band,” he replies simply. “The same band you did last week. Just one member, though.”

And you know instantly who he speaks of, your face contorting into an expression of disgust as you wash your paint in the cup of water once more.

“Hyunjin?” You query.

“That’s him,” he says, snapping his fingers as the name comes back to him. “He’s offering double what we paid last, and just for an individual piece. That’s a massive markup from what we usually charge.”

“I don’t know,” you reply hesitantly. “I’m pretty busy with this, and we-”

“I already said yes,” he states simply.

“You did? What- I thought this was a proposal.”

“Yeah,” he says with a scoff. “A proposal to get your stuff ready. We start tomorrow. And he wants you to bring every color you’ve got.”

“Tomorrow? Don’t we already have a prior commitment?”

“Already moved them out,” Q says, sitting on the chair across from you.

“Look,” he begins, sighing deeply. “I know you’re hesitant about these things. But this is the best move you can do, career-wise. Painting these famous figures is a gold mine for us. One day you could be commissioned to paint royalty, and then we’ll be reaping three times our salary.”

And you sigh, too, knowing very well that he’s right. Being a painter who gets commissioned to commemorate important characters, you know the best thing you can do for yourself is say yes to every opportunity. You’re very seldom able to, which is why you have Q in the first place. But the prospect of spending another day with Hyunjin scares you, and you’re not sure Q would consider it a legitimate concern if you brought it up to him.

“I’ll be there, too,” Q interrupts, almost as though he can read your mind. “It’s just him. One day, max, and then you can pick up your other projects.”

It doesn’t seem like there will be a way out of this one, no matter how much you pray that things will fall through eventually.

“One day,” you echo. “And then I’m tunnel vision on the rest of my projects.”

You can tell Hyunjin’s thought about this very carefully, judging by the way he saunters into the room with purposeful strides and slings a bag off his shoulder.

He’s dressed a little more casually today in a denim jacket and jeans, with layered silver jewelry that contrasts nicely against his jet black hair.

“Like a model headshot, but painted,” he describes his vision to you, gesturing with his hands as he speaks.

“I want it to look really serious. And maybe a cool-toned color palette.”

He’s meticulous with his requests, and you wonder briefly if he dabbles in art, himself.

“Sure, we can do that,” Q responds, jotting down a few points in a small notepad.

You say nothing, letting Q do all the talking, but Hyunjin’s eyes glance over at you briefly like he wants you to acknowledge the request. So you just nod graciously, giving him a thin-lipped smile, and begin to undo your briefcase.

Hyunjin assumes his same spot on one of the wooden stools, dragging it closer to you by its leg and propping it within eye-view of your big canvas. And then he sits on it, or rather slouches, adjusting his gaze to look straight at you and maintain a cold, serious expression.

It’s just as unnerving as you’d remembered it, having this model-looking figure pierce daggers through your soul while you mix your paints- cool-toned ones, at his request, and prepare for the hour-long trek of capturing his essence.

At least you won’t have to talk to him- or so you’d assumed from the last session you completed with him.

“What’s your process like?” He asks, his sultry voice perfectly matching his features.

“Oh,” you remark, mixing a set of paints to mirror his even skin tone. “I don’t know, I just paint what I see.”

He nods, satisfied with your less-than-wordy answer, and then he begins to prod you with more questions.

“What are your favorite art supplies?”

You cock an eyebrow at this, well aware that you have a long list you can indulge him in, but not wanting to share your secrets with this complete stranger.

“I dunno,” you reply softly. “Oil paints, and graphite pencils really.”

Hyunjin nods again, and then he glances at Q, who gives him a thin-lipped smile much like yours, trying his hardest to remain polite with Hyunjin. You know Q is likely frustrated with you for not entertaining this conversation in a more lively manner, especially considering what he paid for this session, but you’re not going to indulge him in anything except painting him- and only for this one session, like you promised Q.

And the rest of the session is uneventful, Hyunjin poking you with questions about your personal favorite paintings or inquiring about a time you messed up on an important piece. All questions which are answered with brief “I don’t know’s” or “there are so many, I can’t choose.”

And although you are trying hard to keep Hyunjin at a distance, nothing seems to faze him, his head nods and little hums serving as indicators of his satisfaction with all of your answers. He doesn’t get pushy, like your other clients often do, and he even presses Q for a few answers as he makes sense of your work.

At just past 5, the session draws to a close, as Hyunjin rises from his stool and announces he has to tend to his evening dance practice.

“It’s nice seeing you again,” Hyunjin says as he approaches you, giving a small bow as Q waits off to the side.

“Thank you,” you voice back, glancing at Q for a push to leave.

And Hyunjin extends a single hand, gesturing for you to place yours in his, as he towers over you with a curious expression.

You reluctantly place your palm in his, letting the cool metal of his rings graze your skin as he clasps his thumbs over your fingers and rubs them in gentle back and forth motions. He doesn’t bring it up for a cordial peck, he doesn’t shake it- he simply caresses your artist hands tenderly, before letting go again and turning to give Q a small bow as well.

“Take care,” Hyunjin says, pivoting to exit the room into the corridor.

And as Q pesters you with orders to clean up your workstation, you examine your own hands, rotating your own fingers around, like they might somehow be changed by his touch.

ON HOLD- The notes under your projects on the big calendar in Q’s office read, written in dark red pen and underlined twice across the pages.

You furrow your brows in confusion, setting your bag down as you enter for the day and ready your art supplies.

“What’s going on?” You ask Q, who’s busy sorting through a stack of invoices.

“Have a seat,” he replies plainly, gesturing to one of the leather chairs that accompany his grand wooden desk. And you do, sitting on the very edge of the chair as you await further instruction from him.

“A gift came for you,” Q says, slinging a large box on the desk in front of you.

You stand up once again, peering inside at the myriad of oil paints, sharpened charcoal pencils, new smocks, palettes and even books about artists and their works. You dig through the supplies, heart racing at the expensive choices, feeling undeserving of all the presents the box contains.

“This is all for me?” You question, baffled at the prospect that anybody could care enough about your career to indulge you in such a fine assortment of goods.

“Read the card,” Q then says, his arms folded in front of him as he nods toward the top of the cardboard box, where a simple yellow envelope is taped to the cover, cursive text scribbled on the front. Hyunjin, it reads.

You undo the seal, pulling out the small card inside, which only contains a short, cold sentence, in contrast to the warm gift.

“For the next few”, it says, not so much as a sign off or even a simple “thanks”.

“Next few?” You repeat, meeting Q’s gaze with a confused expression.

Q sighs, sitting across from you, folding his hands out on the wooden surface where you can see them.

“His manager called this morning,” he begins. “And commissioned us for another one. Except this one has a long set of rules. He wants you to use these supplies, he wants to visit your studio instead of occupy the company building. And he specifically asked me not to accompany you.”

“What?” You exclaim, angered at the sheer audacity he has, and knowing very well that you only agreed to one painting.

“That’s completely against our rules,” you continue. “Did you tell him no?”

And Q gives you a sheepish grin, gesturing to the stack of papers he flipped through earlier. “They’re offering quadruple the pay,” he says sternly. “He’s obsessed with your work.”

“So what?” You argue. “I have a ton of other projects to finish. And I’m not throwing all of that away because some guy wants time alone with the artist.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting alone time with an artist,” Q emphasizes.

“This is a huge sacrifice, Quinton. I wish you would’ve run this by me earlier.”

Your eyes meet the calendar above his desk again, counting the number of projects with a big ON HOLD scribbled below them. Q sighs, evidently feeling a little guilty for his own actions, and then pinches his wireframe glasses between his fingers, pulling them off his face and tucking them into the pocket of his blazer.

“I’m willing to give you 10% more than what you already make from these.”

Your gaze snaps to his, a bewildered expression on your face as you process his words.

“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”

“His company’s loaded” he says with a shrug. “The guy is so much bigger than I thought he was. People love him.”

And your gaze flickers between the calendar and the big red text, Quinton’s hopeful stare and at the box of new art supplies you’ll be required to work with.

Q doesn’t need to press you for verbal confirmation, knowing that the caress of your fingers over Hyunjin’s name on the envelope serves as answer enough.

Your studio is particularly messy on Wednesdays, housing all of the project paraphernalia from the days prior. Today is no exception, canvases that sit on easels lining the walls and cans of paint thinner spread out on the tarps. You make your best attempt at shoving everything against the wall, creating a clear pathway for Hyunjin to stride into the way he always does. And you set up your canvas prior to his arrival, getting all of your necessary supplies in place to avoid the awkward few moments of setting up while he watches you so intently.

He’s a punctual idol if you’ve ever met one, arriving at 5pm on the dot, expensive-looking sunglasses shielding his eyes from the barely visible sunlight outside, and a black beanie pulled over his head. He looks like he could be a security guard of his own, the all-black attire even more unsettling as he makes his way inside.

There’s a reason you never house clients in your own studio- the reason being it’s small. It’s office-sized, large glass windows on one side of the wall that overlook a sea of greenery that’s now overgrown with all the recent rains. The floor is gray concrete, stained just about everywhere with swatches of paint and charcoal pieces. And the two tabled surfaces that are available are covered in art supplies, the color of the furniture now indistinguishable as they house tubes of paint, brushes and cans of thinner.

“You can put your bag on the chair there,” you say as he walks in, his hands still shoved in his pockets.

He does as told, setting a designer crossbody on the folding chair by one of the tables, and then he stands confidently, observing the room as he awaits further instruction.

He takes long strides around the perimeter of the room, leaning closely into the existing canvases to study your techniques. But he says nothing, remaining much quieter than last time, the only sound coming from his heeled boots as he moves elegantly around the studio.

“I’m ready,” you say, and Hyunjin turns around to face you. He cocks his head slightly, and then he brings one hand up to pull the beanie off his head, letting his brown tresses fall loosely around his handsome face, not requiring much adjustment as they seem to fall in disarray so perfectly. He pulls his sunglasses off as well, folding them between his plump lips before tucking them into the pocket of his jeans as he finally stops to look at you.

He looks as handsome as he always does, his unreal features looking as though he was modeled by a painting and not the other way around. You feel small in front of him, and unimportant, as he approaches you and stops just in front of your much smaller figure.

“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks, cuffing up the sleeves of his black knit sweater.

“It’s up to you,” you reply to him, giving a small shrug as you speak.

“This one’s your call,” Hyunjin retorts. “I want it from the artist’s vision.”

And you can’t help the blush that creeps up on your cheeks, feeling embarrassingly flustered at the idea of someone caring even slightly about your vision. Everything’s from your client’s vision- the outfits, the poses, even the adjustments they request following the painting’s unveiling. It’s very seldom that you’re able to provide any directions to the standard of your vision, and though it’s unexpected, it’s a little endearing.

“My vision?” You echo, tapping your fingers on your chin.

You glance around the room at the supplies you have on hand, nothing special, but definitely materials you can work with.

Without replying to him, you pull forward one of the folding chairs, setting it down in front of your easel and gesturing to it.

“Could you sit on the top part? Like, on the back of the chair?”

Hyunjin nods, climbing up onto the chair and balancing as he takes a seat on the back part. It’s a little unstable looking, but Hyunjin seems to manage just fine, spreading his legs casually and running his hands through his hair.

“Your hands,” you chime in, taking note of the silver watch he flaunts on his left wrist. “Could you rest them on your knees?”

“Like this?” Hyunjin questions, sprawling his palms out over his kneecaps.

“Not quite,” you reply. “A little more like…”

And then without warning, you take both his hands in yours, positioning his elbows to rest atop his kneecaps so that his hands hang loosely in front of him. He cocks his face up to meet your gaze, the same intense expression he always houses, and you take a step back to admire the position.

“Exactly like that,” you say to him. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable and we’ll take a break.”

Hyunjin shoots a small smile, perhaps more of a smirk at you, as he sits still and watches you begin to paint in long strokes along the canvas. Your movements are fluid and impetuous, but every stroke proves itself more robust than the last, painting a clear outline of Hyunjin’s seated figure as he keeps his eyes on you. And maybe it’s because you’ve chosen his pose this time, or because it’s your third time doing this with Hyunjin, but you don’t feel nearly as uncomfortable anymore, keeping your attention on the painting and disregarding any implications that might derive from his cold stare.

“I wasn’t sure which brand of oil paints you preferred,” Hyunjin says suddenly. “So I bought you three kinds.”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply softly. “Thank you for the gifts. You really didn’t have to.”

“You have a talent,” Hyunjin voices. “I hung the last one up in my own studio.”

“You have a studio?” You question, remembering Q had previously mentioned something about him being an artist.

“I do,” Hyunjin answers. “It’s nothing like this one, just some canvases in the shared dorm we have. But I paint in all my free time. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be painting.”

“That’s interesting,” you reply. “I’d love to see your work someday.

And Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate to pull his phone out, navigating to his camera roll to show you some of his pieces. He flashes you a painting of a bouquet of roses, placed in a glass case atop a table. Another showcases a city street, scribbled cars and people that line the pavement. And a whole gallery of them depict people- couples, in particular, in all sorts of romantic poses. Kissing, hugging, embracing with such passion and force, almost consuming each other with their visible desperation for one another.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, in awe at the technique of his art. You weren’t expecting him to be so good, for someone who doesn’t paint as a full-time career.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin replies, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve learned so much from you.”

“Me?” You retort with a small chuckle. “I highly doubt that, your stuff is very unique. But I’m flattered that you’d say that. Thank you.”

Hyunjin keeps his gaze on yours for a moment, cocking his head to the side as though he’s observing your features. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes narrowing and widening again as he takes in the sight of you dabbing a little more olive paint into his complexion. And then he straightens his back, steadying himself on the chair with two hands gripping the sides.

“When was the last time you left this studio?” He inquires with a smug expression. He sounds a little more serious now, and his tone of voice makes your heartbeat race.

“I don’t live here,” you reply plainly. “I leave every day.”

“When was the last time you escaped?” He then clarifies. “When was the last time you weren’t confined here for the purposes of work?”

You furrow your brows, trying your best to keep busy with your task and avert his gaze.

“This is my job,” you say sternly. “I don’t want to escape.”

“I’m a dancer,” Hyunjin states matter-of-factly. “I don’t live in the studio at the building. Sure, the bright lights and the walls of mirrors help with the choreography. But sometimes I dance in my dorm. And sometimes I dance in a big grass field when nobody’s watching.”

You pause your brushstrokes for a moment, finally meeting his gaze as he stares down at you. He raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer, which you fail to provide him with as he leans forward once again and clasps his hands together.

“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”

And suddenly his words infuriate you, the sheer audacity of him to walk into your studio demanding all these rules from you, like your boundaries can be overlooked if they’re bought. And who is he to pry into your life like this, knowing next to nothing about you except that you’re a painter? It’s blasphemous- offensive, even.

“I’m not trapped,” you say, standing from your stool and backing away from him a little. “I love my job. I can quit whenever I want to, and this is my passion.”

“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?” Hyunjin inquires, and your eyebrows contort into a much angrier frown.

“Who are you to imply any of this, anyway? You’re an idol. You’re the one who’s trapped in the confines of a million rules- are you even allowed to be here right now? Who are you when you’re not putting on the mask of a completely different persona?”

You exhale frustratedly as you finish, taking a moment to catch your breath, and trying your best to avoid his gaze. But when you meet his piercing eyes again, he’s smiling, a wicked expression on his face like he’s amused at your lashing.

“I’m glad you asked ,” he says simply.

“What?”

“I’d assumed it was part of your vision, to maybe scratch below the surface of the flesh outlines you paint. I know there’s more than meets the eye to your work. You have this passion about you.”

“Passion?” You reply nervously, now fiddling with the brush still in your grasp.

“Mhm,” Hyunjin responds casually. “Like you want to lash out. Go on, get it off your chest. I won’t mind.”

And you say nothing again, shrinking back into the confines of your wooden stool as you swirl the brush around in the same mug of water and dip it back into a dollop of paint.

“I’m sorry,” you voice to him. “I don’t treat my clients like this. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Hyunjin’s shoulders sag a little, as though he was waiting for you to keep the chaos alive in this little studio. He just nods, and then he assumes the same position as earlier, his knees spread in front of him and his hands resting comfortably on his knee caps as he slouches forward.

You resume the task of shading in his skin tone, adding highlights to the elevated portions of his face and glancing over at him in intervals to confirm where the light hits him.

“I’ve learned so much from you,” Hyunjin says for the second time tonight, and you’re still unsure what he means by it. “I think we could learn a lot about each other.”

And the studio falls silent for the remainder of the session, as he allows his eyes to bore into your soul while you translate his being onto the canvas in front of you. Or at least the parts that are able to be translated.

Your calendar is blocked off for the remainder of the week for other clients, Hyunjin rescheduling his sessions as he prepares for a performance overseas.

Your heart sinks a little when Q announces the schedule change to you, secretly praying you haven’t completely ruined your artist/client relationship with Hyunjin. He’s definitely a little odd, and he can be pushy when he wants to be. But he’s undeniably more intriguing than the investors you’re used to housing at the studio, telling you stories of his dancing and inquiring about all your favorite techniques every chance he gets.

He’s the first client who’s ever uttered the word “vision” when it came to yours, and not his, and you can’t let go of the value it added to your last session with him. You had yelled at him, ordered him to stop projecting his thoughts onto yours and asking personal questions. But it was the first time you felt alive, somewhat visible to a client as you painted them. His eyes pierce through your soul, every tangible inch of it, and not just the empty shell of who you are when you’re not existing so loudly. And Hyunjin seems like the only catalyst that allows you to exist loudly these days, even Q walking all over you like you’re an extension of his tedious ways.

Although your last conversation didn’t go quite as smoothly as you’d hoped it would, Hyunjin’s words continue to circle your mind relentlessly, your heart trying to make sense of them no matter how hard you try.

“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?”

It’s a fair question, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be a discourteous one, either. Maybe he’s genuinely curious about the woman you are when you’re not following Q’s orders. But where has Hyunjin pulled the implication from that you’re anyone except for the person assigned to produce these portraits? You’ve given him no reason to think anything of you besides the well-mannered, focused painter you are. And to imply anything else would also, by extension, imply he knows something about you.

“I’ve learned so much about you,” he had also said to you, twice in the same session. And can one really learn from two, three sessions of watching an artist paint? Sure, if he was more focused on your technique and your mannerisms rather than staring at you so intensely. But he hadn’t seemed to be interested in much else, simply keeping his gaze on yours and asking base-level questions about your artist career.

If anything, you could learn a lot about Hyunjin, who has the whole world at his disposal and walks around this place like he owns it. He speaks of you like he’s trying to study you. He wants to learn from you, despite being the one wielding much more knowledge and wisdom than you could even begin to fathom. True, you don’t escape this studio- and you don’t utilize it without the intention to work. In fact, your work consumes you most days, your personal life just a microscopic dot in the grand scheme of this arrangement.

But Hyunjin seems to think otherwise, his generous gifts and his fascination with returning seeming to imply something else. Like he wants to learn from you, or like he’s convinced he already has.

In apprehension, like he knows you.

“Where are we going?” You query when Hyunjin arrives next, quickly ordering you to gather your supplies and ushering you to the door.

“We’re not painting here today,” he says plainly.

“What? No, Hyunjin I don’t paint anywhere except for-”

“The studio or a company,” he finishes. “That’s the issue. I want to take you somewhere more lively.”

“I can’t be around people,” you respond. “I don’t… it’ll just mess up the whole process.”

“Do you trust me?” Hyunjin asks suddenly, his hand extending out to yours for the briefcase you grasp.

What a simplified question- absolutely not. You don’t trust him, that’s the issue with leaving the studio. You’re still not sure of his career as a whole, you’re not sure why he’s so adamant about breaking all sorts of rules and you don’t know anything beyond his name.

“No,” you reply. “I don’t think I trust you at all, actually.”

And Hyunjin just smiles, stepping forward to take the briefcase from you.

“Good,” he replies, the same amused smile plastered on his face. “That means there’s still a lot I can teach you.”

He watches you slip on your coat, undeniably confused, but in a trance-like state obeying his commands, like your heart won’t let you hear your brain’s protests.

Hyunjin doesn’t drive. He doesn’t need to, having his own personal chauffeur at his beck and call, able to go just about anywhere in the evening during his allotted hours of free time. Ones he normally spends in the studio, watching you paint.

You sit quietly on one side of the fancy black car, your hands folded neatly in your lap and staring at the passing blur of city lights out the window. Hyunjin occupies the other, one of his slender hands resting atop the briefcase in an attempt to steady it whilst the driver makes sharp turns and brakes a little too harshly.

You watch as the city roads turn to one long paved road, surrounded by tall grass and trees. And this path goes on for a while, maybe 20 or 30 minutes, as you remain in comfortable silence. The driver seems to be acquainted with the road, turning every way he needs to, no form of navigation telling where to go, simply having memorized the route. And Hyunjin doesn’t seem tense in the slightest, humming softly to himself as he taps his fingers along the leather surface of the briefcase.

The fork at the end of the road signals the stopping point for the driver, who hits the brakes, but doesn’t turn the car off. The keys remain in the ignition as he comes around to open your door, guiding you out with one hand and bowing graciously to the both of you.

“One hour,” Hyunjin says to him, sliding him a generously folded bill.

The driver nods, occupying his spot in the driver’s seat, and you watch him make a U-turn before driving off down the path again.

The environment is quiet, much quieter than any spot back in the city. It’s nothing except for trees and tall grass that sway with the gentle evening breeze, the sky swallowing up a now orange sun as nighttime begins to over both of you. If you squint, you can even see the mountains from here, some of them lined with little yellow lights, probably vacant buildings or farm workers. And the birds sing their last songs of the day, mellow tunes that harmonize with the growing chirps of crickets.

“It’s pretty here,” you remark to Hyunjin, who stands looking out at the view with his hands tucked in his coat pockets.

He doesn’t reply for a moment, his long hair swaying with the breeze. And then he tilts his head in the direction of the briefcase, nodding once.

“Paint what you see,” he orders.

You nod reluctantly, scrambling to open the briefcase and set up your supplies.

“Do you want to stand there? Or… do you prefer something else?”

He smiles, a little amused at your rushed state, and then he shakes his head.

“Not me,” he clarifies. “The view. Paint what you see.”

You swallow a lump in your throat, stopping your movements and pondering the words for a moment. You haven’t painted a view in god knows how long. Your skills are rusty, your techniques are skewed and the whole concept of it makes you shudder.

“The view?” You question back. You take a moment to look at the view again- there are possibilities everywhere. Green grasses that resemble paint strokes themselves, a deepening blue sky with strokes of blues and blacks, stars like paint splatters and trees with sponge-painted bushels. The art is everywhere, the possibilities are vast and endless with a view like this one.

“The view,” Hyunjin echoes. “Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t some company's order to paint me. I just want to see the world through your eyes.”

And you nod, once, Hyunjin helping you latch your sketch pad to the easel as you mix a myriad of blues and greens together on your wooden palette.

He flips through your sketch pad for a little while before stepping away, nodding at the pages upon pages of art unlike any of your portraits. When you think he’s going to move, he doesn’t, remaining in the same spot and nodding his head at the works. And you feel a little shy, a little confused at why he’s taken so much interest in the work you complete on the side, work completely unrelated to any of your portraits. When he reaches a blank page, he meets your gaze with a small smile, nodding his head once at you as he finally moves out of the way.

And then you finally begin, hesitantly, as Hyunjin finds a spot in an undisturbed part of the grass, sprawling his long legs out in front of him and pulling out a sketch pad from his own bag. He angles it away from you, beginning to make long, generous lines with his charcoal pencil, peering over at the trees every now and then to gauge their shape. And you remain there, a comfortable silence among both of you, as you both capture the view in your respective visions.

The technique comes back to you instantly, like motion memory, quickly sponging leaves into the trees and pulling the dark sky from its draped position over you to plaster it onto the canvas you work on. Blues, greens, glittering whites for the night stars and fantastic shades of chartreuse and viridian find their homes on the canvas, so carefully placed and mirroring the view you overlook. You emulate the shadows, the waning glints of light, even the sounds seem to live on the picturesque view where time stands still in the confines of four walls.

Hyunjin doesn’t disturb your work flow- in fact, for most of the time you remain there, you cease to remember he’s even working on a sketch of his own, his delicate figure disappearing among the trees as your peripherals shut him out and bring nature to the forefront.

It’s only an hour you’re there, like Hyunjin had promised, before he’s returning to your spot and standing behind you to look over your shoulder.

“Beautiful,” Hyunjin states dramatically. “Beautiful, and spectacular, and shining.”

You chuckle lightly, wiping the brush on your smock and tucking it away in one of the front pockets.

“Will you sign it?” Hyunjin asks, cocking his head a little to try to find where your signature currently sits, but finding nothing.

“Oh, yeah,” you respond, bringing a charcoal pencil to the bottom right and scribbling a quick signature.

He scans the painting once more, tracing a finger over the corner where you’ve added your signature, and then he gives a small nod before meeting your gaze.

“This one’s my favorite,” Hyunjin tells you. “Because it’s entirely your vision.”

“The ones I make of you are my vision, too,” you explain, and Hyunjin shakes his head with a small smile.

“I like how you see the world. Not how you see me. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

And you find yourself blushing again, unsure if his intention is to fluster you with his poetic words, but well aware that he’s having the effect on you regardless.

“Thank you,” you echo politely. “I like this one, too.”

Your gazes remain fixed on each other for a brief moment, the grass now standing still as the night falls over you, stars glittering in the black sky and the crickets singing their nocturnal songs.

For the first time since meeting him, Hyunjin looks less cold at this proximity to you, his entire demeanor exuding softness and comfort as he smiles at you. Maybe it’s the black puffer coat he wears, the collar pulled up to his chin to keep warm from the frigid winter night around you. He wears his glasses, too, these ones a thicker black frame, pushed high up on his face and a little dorky, admittedly. But it’s also because he seems kinder, more warm and welcoming. There’s no existing rush to capture him any which way- in fact, there’s no pressure to capture him at all. And maybe when you’re not translating his model-like appearance onto canvas, you’re able to step back and admire that he’s soft under his hard exterior, he’s so gentle and human.

At first, you debate telling him, a sudden urge inside of you to apologize for your presumptions of him and admit that he’s slowly become your favorite client to be around. Maybe he’s right- maybe you do have a lot you can teach each other. He lives a life of lavishness, entertaining varying aspects of his idol career and serving a role of great importance to those who know him. And he is certainly of importance to your career, being your highest-paying customer and the one you’ve painted the most now. But he plays a role in other parts of your life too, allowing you to try new techniques, entertain your vision, circling your mind with his poetic words and his strategic motions. All lessons which allow you to grow outside the confines of your studio, too.

But you settle on silence, not wanting Hyunjin to think too boldly of you. Maybe he’s like this with everybody he crosses paths with. Choreographers, vocal coaches and painters alike. Maybe he’s simply as fascinating as he looks.

As you study him again, the sound of a car engine interrupts you, and you turn around to find Hyunjin’s driver has returned as promised. You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the bright headlights that illuminate the whole field, as Hyunjin helps you gather your supplies again, securing the canvas in its case and transporting it into the backseat of the car with the driver’s help.

Hyunjin holds the door for you this time, ushering you inside, and then he comes around to slide into the backseat next to you.

“I think it’s going to rain,” the driver says as he puts the car in reverse.

You crane your neck to look at the sky through the tinted windows, dark blue clouds that loom overhead and seem to make the night even colder.

“I have one more place we need to stop at,” Hyunjin says suddenly, sitting forward to make eye contact with the driver through the mirror.

The driver nods in response, as if the last location is a secret kept between them, as he begins down the dirt path again in silence.

“Ever been here?” Hyunjin questions, as he holds out a hand to guide you up the stairs. The steep concrete stairs lead to a grand crested marble doorway, a bronze statue out in front and dimly lit lamp posts that illuminate the sign overhead.

Museum of Modern Art.

“Once, a long, long time ago,” you respond. “I think I usually steer clear from galleries since I don’t show my work at them.”

Hyunjin chuckles softly, stopping at the front door and meeting the gaze of a security guard, who promptly strides over and opens the door just an inch.

Hyunjin pulls out an ID, and a folded paper of some sort, and you watch as the security examines it briefly before nodding. It’s only then that you realize the museum is closed for the evening, the only person around behind the night security, but of course that rule doesn’t apply to Hyunjin, who can get in just about anywhere with the flash of a smile.

“It’s the only way to visit with no one else around,” Hyunjin says, confirming your theory. “They let me stay as long as I want. Sometimes I draw here.”

You nod at his words, giving a small smile as the security eyes you intensely, and then he opens the door to guide both of you inside. Hyunjin removes his coat, slinging it over a nearby coat hanger, and he flaunts a white knit sweater with his dark jeans, looking cozy in contrast to the dark winter night outside. He holds your sketch pad tucked under one arm, and then he skips excitedly to a room behind a curtain.

“This one’s my favorite!” He exclaims, giggling softly like a child might. “Do you know they’re all made out of recycled materials?”

And you brush the curtain aside, being met with the sculptures he speaks of, neutral-toned figurines that appear to be made of paper mache, all resembling people. Their forms hold each other, mimic ballroom dancing, and even embrace each other in a tender kiss as they stand tall in the center of the room.

You watch as Hyunjin snaps a few photos with his cellphone, craning his neck to view them at a better angle, and then he turns to face you.

“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.

“They’re beautiful,” you reply. “They kind of remind me of your drawings.”

He shoots you a flustered smile in response, touched that you’ve even remembered what his drawings look like. And then he graciously bows as he ushers to another room.

“I think you’ll like the next one.”

The next room behind another dark curtain is a gallery of paintings, all of them abstract forms of art that experiment with different colors and mediums. You take a while in this room, sauntering down the row of canvases and observing how each one captures something completely different from the others. Some include only cool-toned shades, their strokes much smaller and overall more somber. Some play with warm tones, long generous strokes that capture passion and heat. And some mix both, two stories dancing in harmony on one canvas, contrasting light with shadow and love with regret.

As you cock your head slightly, observing the way the colors are so evocative from this proximity, Hyunjin comes to stand next to you, cocking his head in a similar fashion and taking in the same details that you do. And if someone were to stand behind you, maybe both of you would mirror the painting, too, two hues of life and recluse working in perfect harmony alongside each other.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Hyunjin asks, and you hum in response.

“Yeah. I love these colors.”

Hyunjin nods, giving the painting a last once-over before nodding in the direction of another curtain.

“Come on, I want to show you this last one.”

The last room houses a little bench, where Hyunjin occupies the left side and pats the spot next to him. You take a seat, your hands folded neatly in your lap, as you observe the colossal painting in front of you.

It’s a watercolor painting, one amorphous shape at a far distance, yet at this proximity, the tangible outline of a figure, sat with legs pulled to the chest and crouched in a position evoking such sadness.

The cold blue hues highlight the shadows which define body parts among the pile of limbs, the curve of a breast, the almost indistinguishable outline of a leg, aspects you have to really squint hard to make out. But the colors complement each other so artistically, and the figure in the painting looks so melancholy, so longing for something more than the confines of the canvas she lives on.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hyunjin voices, and you nod, swallowing as you remain quiet.

He pauses for a moment, his voice hitching in the back of his throat, before speaking again.

“The artist was a child prodigy,” he begins. “Apparently they painted all their life and then became a sort of recluse into adulthood. No one’s seen a painting from them since. This was their last big project.”

“Interesting,” you remark quietly.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin replies. “And their art is always titled around themes of loneliness and solitude. Every painting kind of feels like a puzzle piece leading up to their disappearance from the art world.”

Hyunjin says nothing as your eyes dart around the room, swallowing nervously as you ponder what to say. And nothing comes to mind, nothing that won’t make you seem crazy, or irate.

And then before you can protest his actions, he flips open your sketch pad he’s kept tucked under his arm all this time, flipping through a few pages until he’s nearly at the end. He stops at one of your paintings, cool aqua hues filling the paper in the same manner as the one hung on the wall.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Hyunjin finally says, and you realize he’s turned to face you now.

You stand up at this point, smoothing down your blouse and turning away from his gaze.

“Sorry, I have to go-”

You search for an exit, unable to locate one amidst the dark curtains and the dimly lit room. And the only thing you can think to do is walk back the way you entered, beginning back through the abstract painting gallery as Hyunjin follows behind you.

“They’re amazing,” Hyunjin says. “You have a talent. Your paintings were always my favorite-”

“Please, stop,” you interrupt, your heart beating erratically as you make your way past the paper mache sculptures.

“Why did you stop making them?” He asks, now standing still in the entrance, the security guard on high alert as he watches Hyunjin’s stressed demeanor.

“Sorry,” you voice to the security guard, bowing to him. “I have to go, thank you so much.”

And without turning to look at Hyunjin, you push the doors open, making your way out of the museum and onto the concrete steps. It’s raining now, hard, like the driver had predicted, and you march right past his parked car to one of the taxis parked by the curb.

The cab driver takes an address from you, punching it into his navigation system as he begins to drive down the street, and you pray he can’t hear the quiet sniffles coming from you in the backseat.

As he pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window at the museum, where Hyunjin’s now shoving past the door and standing still, his hands dropped at his sides and a hurt expression on his face.

His hair falls damp around his face as he lets the sheets of rain wash over him, his driver exiting the vehicle in a rush to get Hyunjin back into the safety of the car.

But he remains there, unmoving, his hurt gaze fixed on yours, as you turn a corner and fall out of his sight.

And just like the sessions were uneventful before Hyunjin, they’re much more uneventful after him, too.

Putting the sessions on hold for Hyunjin is nothing, his life full of vibrancy and color when he’s not spending an hour or two with you in the evening posing for a painting. It’s time he fills with extra dance practice, vocal training, spending time with his members and even doing art of his own.

But for you, it means returning to a life of mediocrity, requesting stock brokers to angle their big heads in a more appealing manner so you can capture every one of their unsightly features. You’re ogled at by salesmen, disrespected by accountants and not a single one of them could give a shit about your vision.

A part of you wants to call Hyunjin and apologize, to explain that he was out of line in his approach to identify you and catch you so off-guard. But you’re mostly angry at him, for having ruined something so beautiful you took pride in every week. Now he’s gone, the sessions put on pause until further notice and your life forever changed by Hyunjin, though he’ll keep living his life of lavishness despite being the source of all your pain.

“Now that we don’t have Hyunjin on the books after this week, I need you to resume the work on Mr. Lee’s painting. Let’s not lose sight of the ones we started prior to his pieces,” Q says, as he flips through a clipboard of printed schedules.

“This week?” You echo in question. “I thought sessions with Hyunjin were put on hold until further notice.”

“They were,” he responds. “After your last session this week. He’ll be here tomorrow evening. He’s your last client of the day.”

“Tomorrow?” You repeat, pausing your brush strokes as you turn to look at him. “He requested to come in tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Q replies with furrowed brows. “Why, is there a problem? I already told him yes.”

“No, that’s fine,” you reply, rotating the brush around in your fingers as you think over his words. “Tomorrow works fine.”

Despite the sessions being put on hold, you’ll still have a moment to explain yourself to Hyunjin and make amends. It might not get you exactly where you were before all of this, but the thought of letting Hyunjin part ways thinking you despise him makes your stomach turn. You’ll still get a moment alone with him to rekindle the state of your friendship.

… Or so you thought. When you arrive at the studio the next day for your last session, Q is still there, organizing papers at one of the tables and still dressed in a fancy blazer and tie like he never left from this morning’s session.

“Quinton?” You call, setting your purse down and toying with the hem of your shirt.

“Yes?” He responds, not looking up at you.

“Are you… don’t you normally sit these sessions out?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says casually. “I’ll be sitting in on this last one. I know they were put on hold pretty abruptly, and I wanted to be around for your last one.”

You give him a small nod, protesting his actions mentally. You won’t get a minute alone with Hyunjin after all- not with Q watching you like a hawk. You want to scream at him, to tell him he has to leave and that he’ll be permanently disrupting the client-artist relationship you’ve developed with your highest-paying customer if he stays and taints the room with his overwhelming presence. But he largely determines the success of your career, whether you like it or not. And requesting Q’s absence will most certainly point to something more going on between you and Hyunjin.

“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”

You wish Quinton wouldn’t be so… mechanical. You wish he could trust that you’ll get the job done, despite any existing tensions between you and Hyunjin. You wish he wouldn’t pretend to care about being present, when in reality you know he just wants to make sure it wasn’t you who screwed something up. And you wish he would leave you alone with Hyunjin to make amends the way you know you need to before you part ways with him.

When the door opens once again, you both turn your heads to look at Hyunjin, who strolls in with casual strides, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze falls on Q, and he furrows his brows together, finally looking at you, with a confused expression on his face.

“Welcome!” Q says obnoxiously. “I’ll be sitting in for this session, I hope you don’t mind.”

Hyunjin shoots him a thin-lipped smile, giving a subtle nod as he slings his bag off.

“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”

He assumes his spot on the same wooden stool, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, and then he turns to meet your gaze.

“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks. He sounds more somber than the other times he’d asked the same question, his voice trailing off a little as he waits for a reply.

“This is good,” you say, taking your own seat and beginning to work light strokes across the canvas. You start with his jawline, the same chiseled jawline you’ve gotten so used to painting, working a robust angle where the crook of his neck meets his cheeks. Then his eyes, the piercing intensity of them, narrowing involuntarily as he poses with such skill, the same eyes which have graced the covers of magazines and album covers. His lips, plump and rosy, forming a small pout as he remains silent. And the outline of his luscious brown tresses, which fall beautifully around his face and soften the rest of his features.

He looks so enchanting this evening, like he’s straight out of one of the paintings at the museum. And your anger feels almost completely dissipated once he’s in front of you like this, just a pressing urge to be alone with him so you can communicate properly.

“Looking good,” Q says as he comes up behind you, his hands folded behind his back.

Hyunjin’s eyes dart over at Q’s standing figure, glancing over at you again while you paint. You attempt to shoot him an apologetic expression, wanting to tell him it wasn’t your idea to have Q here watching your every move. But you can’t properly convey your emotions to him with Q practically breathing down your neck.

“Beautiful work”, Q chimes in, nodding as you add the color to Hyunjin’s hair.

You can feel yourself getting frustrated with him, wishing so badly you could at least ask him to wait on the other side of the room like he normally does. But he remains there, crowding around you as you work and filling the room with his awkward presence.

“I’ll drag up a chair,” Q says with a small chuckle. “So I don’t have to stand.”

And both you and Hyunjin watch as he pulls up a folding chair, dragging it along the floor in one painfully slow motion, the sound of the legs screeching against the concrete floor as he places it next to you and takes a seat.

Hyunjin’s eyes meet yours again, cocking his head slightly as though he’s asking why you’ve allowed Q to be so overbearing today. But none of this is according to your plans, either.

“Go on,” Q urges. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

You hadn’t even realized you’ve stopped painting, grasping your brush between your fingers as you watch Q adjust in his seat and gesture to the painting.

“I think we should take a break,” Hyunjin says finally. “My leg is cramping a little.”

“Of course,” Q echoes back. “We can take five. There’s a vending machine out by the front door. And the bathrooms are on the right, by the-”

Q can’t even finish his sentence before Hyunjin’s shoving his way past the door, taking long strides away from the studio and waiting outside. He pinches the bridge of his nose in deep annoyance, letting out a deep sigh as he ponders the evening’s events so far.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” you tell Q, setting your brush down and following Hyunjin. “I’ll be right back.”

And you follow his footsteps, pushing on the door to meet him outside, where he stands with one hand on his hip, the other massaging his temples frustratedly.

He looks angry, as you predict he would be, but you approach him anyway, fiddling with your thumbs as he stays quiet for a moment.

“I organized this last session to speak with you,” Hyunjin says in an annoyed tone. “I should’ve known you’d invite him.”

“I didn’t invite him,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know he’d be here, I swear. He just stayed, and he was insistent on sitting in.”

Hyunjin finally drops his hand at his side, meeting your gaze, a softening expression on his face.

“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he finally says. “I overstepped my boundaries. I’m just here to pay you for art. Not prod into your personal life.”

“I know,” you say back. “I wanted to explain to you, but…” your voice trails off, remembering this is technically your last session with him. And judging by the way everyone speaks of him, it’ll be near impossible to contact him again after this.

“It seems like I missed my chance,” you finish, referencing Q’s persistence.

Hyunjin glances around for a moment at the overgrown plants that line the studio windows, still damp from the evening rain. It looks like a jungle out here, the plants providing no clear view through the windows and instilling such a peaceful sense of privacy.

“Could you stay a little longer?” Hyunjin questions. “After he leaves. I just want to talk to you before I go.”

You think over his proposal for a moment- Quinton is punctual at leaving right past the hour mark. He never stays longer for hours than he needs to, but he’s no stranger to you utilizing the studio to finish up some of your work after hours.

“Sure,” you say finally. “Just pretend you’ve left after the session and I’ll tell him I need to stay longer. Don’t wait near the parking lot or he’ll see you.”

A somber smile grows on Hyunjin’s face as he nods in response.

“I’m going to call my driver and tell him I’ll be longer than the original session. Meet you back inside.”

And you make your way back into the studio, where Q is busy shuffling through papers at the table.

“Ready?” He asks, already taking strides back to his stool, positioned far too close to your canvas and Hyunjin’s seat.

“Yeah,” you reply, sighing a little as he occupies the seat next to you and glances around the room for Hyunjin.

“He’s taking a phone call,” you explain to Q. “Just give him a minute.”

And Q pushes his glasses further up his nose, humming in response as he observes your painting again.

“You’ve really mastered his features,” he comments, scanning over Hyunjin’s painted outline. “Even his eye mole is already there.”

And you scan the painting too, at the little mole painted just below Hyunjin’s left eye as he requested.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”

You wouldn’t forget it, because everything about him occupies your mind, much like his figure lives on your canvases.

It’s just half an hour more before you’re finished with Hyunjin’s painting. It’s still lacking some detail, like the contours along his face and the buttons of his cardigan. But they’re all details you give yourself time to finish later, before you wrap up your final piece and gift it to Hyunjin.

Q is relentless in his micromanaging for the remainder of the session, making useless comments about your techniques and asking Hyunjin about his own work. Hyunjin’s answers are all short and echo his clear annoyance, desperate to finish the session in order to speak with you privately. But you both remain collected in your manners, graciously conversing with Q and reaching the end of the session.

Q reviews his invoice documents as Hyunjin slings his bag on once more, standing by the door as though he’s ready to leave.

“Payment was finalized today, and your sessions are on hold until your tour is completed.”

“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, bowing graciously. “It was a pleasure to work with both of you. I’ll be back when we’re done overseas.”

“Don’t hesitate to reach out!” Q calls, as Hyunjin makes his way past the door. He waves Q off with a small smile and then turns the corner until he’s out of sight.

“Well, there goes your best-paying client,” Q remarks with a deep sigh. “We have a lot more to pick back up on. I know Mr. Lee’s paintings are still in progress-”

“Thank you, Quinton,” you voice to him. “We’ll talk scheduling tomorrow. Please just get home safely.”

“You’re not leaving yet?” He queries, already pulling on his canvas bag and hanging his clipboard from a thumbtack on the wall.

“I’m going to finish the details while I still remember them. I’ll only be an hour longer.”

Q shrugs, making his way pivoting on his white canvas sneakers and giving you a small wave.

“Call if you need anything,” he says plainly. “Make sure to lock up.”

“I will,” you echo, craning your neck as you watch him finally exit past the door and jog down the stairs. You can’t see Hyunjin anywhere, but Q doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s still around, starting his car and speeding out of the parking lot.

And not even a full minute passes before Hyunjin makes his way back inside, shaking water off his hands.

“I stood under one of the gutters,” he says in a disgusted tone. His hair is stringy wet with rain water, and he chuckles when you meet his gaze with an amused smile.

“You’ll have to let me paint it like that, someday,” you respond, and he laughs lightly.

You take a seat on the folding chair previously occupied by Q, and Hyunjin assumes his same spot on the wooden stool. For a moment he says nothing, observing your face as you tap your fingers along the metal of the chair below you. There’s not a sound in the room between the two of you, with the exception of a small creak coming from the wooden stool as Hyunjin adjusts his long legs. He runs his hands through his hair nervously, and then he licks his dry lips with his tongue before speaking.

“I have something for you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, his voice echoing around the empty room.

He stands up to pull his bag off the floor, and then he digs around in it for a moment before pulling out his sketchbook. You watch as his slender fingers open the spiral-bound cover, flipping past pages upon pages of sketches and paintings. He flips close to the end, and then he stops, bookmarking the page with his index finger before turning the book to face you.

“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” he says, keeping the book shut in anticipation. “It’s just something I drew.”

And then with bated breath, he opens the book out to you, adjusting the page in your view to give you a clear sight of its contents. It’s a carefully drawn sketch, of you, standing in front of an easel with a brush in your hand. Painting, like you always do. You recognize the scenery around you as the spot he took you to the other day, the long charcoal streaks perfectly capturing the grass that surrounded you and the tall trees that overlooked the hills. Although it’s a sight familiar to you, it also feels so foreign, seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. It feels peculiar to remember people also perceive you while you paint. It makes you feel less unimportant, a little more visible.

“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”

“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.

“It’s so lovely. Really. I feel like I don’t deserve this.”

“You do,” he’s quick to respond. “You’ve drawn countless ones of me. And of so many other people. I wanted to gift you one of your own.”

You run your fingers along the thick paper, watching as Hyunjin tears it along its perforation and hands it to you.

“Please, keep it,” he urges.

And you bow once in response, turning to set the drawing along with your bag so you won’t forget it.

“Thank you,” you finally say. “I love it. I’m going to hang it with all my favorite art.”

Hyunjin smiles in response, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets again, leaning against the wooden stool as a silence falls over you both.

For a moment, you ponder what to say to him, wanting to explain the events from the other evening, but unable to verbalize anything amidst your nervousness. Any way you think about it, you fear Hyunjin is going to get mad, especially considering you’d just walked away from him in the face of confrontation. But you also couldn’t help it, his accusation coming so suddenly and so boldly, regardless of it being based on any sliver of truth.

“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin breaks the silence. “I don’t know if I was right or not. But it wasn’t my place to ask you.”

You nod at him, initially planning to divert the topic. But you can’t any further, a growing urge inside of your chest to unveil the truth to him, knowing he’s already pieced this much of it together.

“It is my painting,” you say finally, your voice shaking a little. “I specialized in those ones before portraits. They kind of gained traction when they were first unveiled, and a lot of galleries picked them up. But they drew a lot of criticism, and it became so draining to be the topic of people’s judgment. I think being perceived so heavily just kind of… scared me off. So I shifted to portraits instead, and I no longer do public showings or galleries.”

Hyunjin doesn’t react in a shocked manner, nor does he press you for questions immediately. He just nods, taking in your words, and then he meets your gaze with a concerned expression.

“I learned so much from you,” he explains. “When your paintings were unveiled at the annual art show across the city, I was so mesmerized. They’re why I started painting, too.”

You chuckle lightly, shrugging at him as you slouch back in your seat.

“Yeah, well, I don’t do them anymore.”

You think over your response for a moment, and then you stand up from your seat, too, furrowing your brows together.

“How did you… know it was me?” You question, cocking your head slightly.

“I had a hunch when I first saw your painting techniques. But I also knew it the moment I saw your other paintings in your sketchbook,” he explains. “My favorite painting of the series is printed out and taped to my locker in our dance studio. It just felt like you. I paid attention to your art for years. I was bound to know it when I saw it.”

You nod for the umpteeth time tonight, making sense of his words as you think back to the signature you drew in front of him back in the field.

“I’m sorry I figured it out,” Hyunjin says finally. “I know this was an elaborate plan to remain anonymous and shift your focus to a new form of your work. And your portraits are amazing. But you have a real talent for those older ones. And the whole series just… it changed me.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you tell Hyunjin, looking up to meet his gaze at last. “If anyone was going to find out, I’m glad it was you.”

“You are?” Hyunjin questions, and you hum in response.

“As a client, you have this really interesting way of making me feel seen. When I’m around you, It feels a lot more comfortable from the businessmen I’m used to. It’s like…” your voice trails off as you struggle to finish your sentence. “I feel like I did when I was painting my old stuff. I can see the world beyond just portraits for a little bit.”

Hyunjin says nothing, his eyes flickering down to your lips and back at your eyes once more, which are wide with curiosity and passion as you speak. It’s such a sight to see you talk about your art with this level of devotion again, color in your face once more as you attest to your life’s work.

“Tell me,” Hyunjin begins. “Why are all your paintings so lonely?”

You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.

“I am lonely,” you say simply.

“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.

And your expression turns serious again, your eyes not leaving his intense gaze as he flickers over your parted lips and takes one step closer to you. He’s towering over you at this point, a strand of hair falling into his face as he lets himself lean into you a little more, just barely grazing his lips over yours.

“Can I please kiss you?” Hyunjin asks so politely, his voice coming out in a whisper as he stops himself from pressing his lips to yours while he waits for an answer.

“Yeah” you finally reply in a whisper of your own, almost on your tippy toes to match his towering height.

And then without another second to waste, Hyunjin closes the gap between both of you, leaning down to press his plump lips to yours and embrace you in a tender, desperate kiss.

He tastes like mint, his lips working against yours with no particular rush, yet his mind still running rampant with thoughts of having you as close as possible. It feels so wrong kissing him here, in the studio you strictly use for the purposes of completing your work-related tasks and nothing more. But with Hyunjin’s lips on yours and his slender hands snaking around the small of your back to pull you closer, it also feels so thrilling, instilling a sense of desire deep within you that can only be fulfilled through acting upon the emotions rooted in your innate fascination with Hyunjin’s entire being.

And you feel visible right now, so tangible when Hyunjin’s nimble hands are running down the sides of your waist and sprawling his delicate fingers along your flesh. It’s you kissing him here, not some shell of who you are when you’re capturing the essences of millionaires on canvas. You’re not the scribbled outlines in Hyunjin’s sketches of couples consuming each other with such passion, though you mirror them. It’s you, child prodigy artist turned portrait specialist, and Hyunjin, in all his fame and splendor, who chooses to spend his free time with you in this studio teaching you about yourself the way you learn from him, too.

Hyunjin’s hands move to tug off the fabric of your cardigan, slouching it off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, where it piles in disarray among the white tarp that houses loose paints. You’re pretty sure there may still be wet paint on its surface, but you don’t care, your body desperately arching into Hyunjin’s tall frame as his hands cup your cheeks to kiss you even deeper.

You can barely reach him while his frame looms over you, only able to reciprocate his kisses on the tips of your toes as he takes full control of you with his mouth. And Hyunjin seems to take notice of this, intertwining his hands in yours and pulling you down with him as he sits among the tarp and sprawls his legs out in front of him. You bestride his lean figure, balancing yourself on his lap as he adjusts himself on the concrete floor, and you both laugh when you take note of the admittedly uncomfortable positioning. It’s not meant for lovers, this dinky studio and its cold, concrete flooring. But it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked when his lips are back on yours, kissing you breathlessly and tucking strands of hair behind your ears. You can feel him smiling into the kiss, an indication by Hyunjin’s definition that he’s wanted this so badly. And he knew it from the moment you walked into the company building the first time, nervously preparing yourself out in the hallway like you weren’t going to be an absolute pro at your craft the way he now knows you are. He also knew it every time he observed your paintings, both your old ones and the newer ones that capture Hyunjin with such ease, every minute detail that builds up his intense stare only to break him down and soften him, translating this multifaceted version of him only you seem to visualize. And he gains confirmation of it when he’s finally acting upon his urges, your hands snaking around the back of his neck and moving in tandem with his hungry kisses against yours, grasping at his flesh like you’re trying to prove to yourself he’s real, too.

His sweater is the second article of clothing to go, your bodies only separating from one another briefly as you guide the knit fabric off over him and discard it beside you in the tarp. Your hands find his torso reluctantly, running your fingers along his flesh as though asking for his permission. And Hyunjin smiles when you do, placing his hands over yours and pressing down a little firmer for you, so that you can feel every inch of his toned body. He wields the body of a dancer, delicate curves that run along his sculpted obliques and highlight the years of intense training he’s done. His body feels strong underneath you, but he still feels soft, his touches exuding the gentle fondness he possesses for you.

And you’re kissing him again, all while his hands find your tank top and he separates to undress you, pulling it off over your head and tossing it aside. His hands are quick to find your breasts, splaying them over the mounds of your chest and massaging gently as his kisses turn hungrier. You can feel him getting hard underneath you, and you can hear his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he struggles to contain his growing bulge while you straddle him. But you indulge him even further, undoing the clasp of your bra with your own hand as you continue kissing him. Hyunjin doesn’t notice until your hand reaches out to toss your bra aside, a gentle rustle emitting from beside you as it joins the pile of discarded articles of clothing. And he separates to take in the sight of you, raised goosebumps along your bare skin and your nipples aroused for him, the cold air grazing over your chest as you wait for him to resume his touches. Hyunjin gasps a little, leaning forward to take one in his mouth, and then he begins to suck harshly as his tongue swirls around your bud generously and trails saliva along your skin. You moan at the sensation, Hyunjin digging his fingernails into the small of your back and leaving little crescent marks as his sucking resumes harshly, soft moans bubbling from the back of his throat, too, as he stays latched to you. And then he pulls away to give attention to the other one, his teeth grazing the tip of your nipple before sucking again, his eyes shutting as he relishes in the taste of your skin in his mouth. Hyunjin’s hips rock gently against you as he does, chasing the friction of your legs around his crotch as he grows even harder beneath you, desperate for some release. And then he pulls away finally, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with lust and a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You bring a thumb to his forehead, swiping the bead off his blushed skin, before cupping your hands around his cheeks and bringing him in for a kiss.

“Please let me fuck you,” Hyunjin says sheepishly against your lips, groaning lightly when he feels you squeeze your thighs once against his crotch.

“You want to?” You ask teasingly, massaging your hands up and down the sides of his neck as he nods eagerly.

“I really, really want to,” Hyunjin responds, shutting his eyes as you squeeze your legs again and pepper his face in kisses, trailing from his forehead, to his cheeks and down his neck. Hyunjin leans back on the palms of his hands in a state of pure bliss, taking in the sensation he’s only dreamt of until now. And when you nibble down on his neck, beginning to suck a small bruise into his skin, he sits up suddenly, his hands finding yours and pushing you away gently.

“Wait,” Hyunjin says. “I can’t… do hickeys. Company’s orders,” he admits, a little defeated, and you nod your head quickly.

“I’m sorry,” you remark. “I totally forgot.”

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin almost cuts you off with a kiss, leaning forward and sitting up on his knees. He guides you down onto the tarp, hoisting himself up over you so that his figure is now hovering over yours, and then his hands find your pants.

“You can do hickeys though,” Hyunjin says in an amused tone, trailing kisses down your neck the same way you did him, and latching his teeth onto your flesh to suck a line of purple bruises. You chuckle underneath him, the sensation tickling a little, but still adding to the generous pool already formed between your legs. And as Hyunjin presses into you with his kisses, you can feel his erection graze your upper thigh, once more seeking the friction of your body for some sense of relief as he longs to feel you around his hardened cock.

“Hyunjin,” you voice as he kisses you, and he hums quietly in response.

“You’re hard,” you remark, your eyes flickering to the tent pitched underneath his jeans.

“Sorry,” he replies, pulling away with a worried expression in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure. “I just want to take care of it for you.”

And your hands find your own jeans, pulling them off your legs and tossing them aside. Hyunjin’s eyes skim over your lace panties, the trim almost see through with delicate feminine patterns, and he begins to undo the button of his jeans, too.

He kisses you as he snakes off his own pants, not wanting to separate from you any more as his eagerness grows to be as close to you as possible. And when he’s finally letting his hard cock rub against the fabric of your panties, moaning softly at the sensation, he knows he won’t be able to take it much longer if he doesn’t make love to you right here in the studio.

So his hands work to pull off his boxers, finally freeing his erection against his abdomen and gasping with the cool air grazes the tip of his cock. You slide off your own panties as well, tossing them aside and letting his cock rest against your bare flesh now, his precum painting your clit with his preemptive arousal as he ruts against you. Your flesh is slick with his arousal and yours, the existing lube between both of you allowing your skin to glide upon one another so effortlessly, the same way your lips work against each other. And he continues to push his hardened length against you until he’s halfway inside of you, your cunt taking him with no struggle as he thrusts inside of you now. You adjust to his thick girth easily, his length seemingly never ending as he pushes deeper and deeper into you. And then he gives one particularly hard thrust, bottoming out inside of you and coaxing a fervent moan out of you.

“Is it okay?” Hyunjin asks, wincing at the sensation of your walls hugging his erection.

“So good,” you whine, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Feels so good.”

And he begins to move in and out of you at a slow pace, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s already close to reaching as he fucks you, filling your cunt entirely with his long cock and bottoming out every time he thrusts himself back in.

And he tries to kiss you, but he can’t, his mouth simply looming over yours in its parted position as he echoes his moans into you and lets his saliva-coated lips graze over you. He looks like the subject of an erotic painting himself, eyebrows arched up so artistically with every thrust, melting into your touch as you run your hands through his hair. His initial dominance over you is quickly shifted to that of submission to your mind and your body, little whines leaving his lips as he lets you consume him whole and mold him between in your touch, like he’s made of clay and you’re the sculptor. His lanky body seems to extend as he sways his hips into yours, little dips from the pads of your fingers embedding into his pale skin. He folds effortlessly above you, the points of his elbows jutting out as he steadies his body over you, like he’s made of wire and positioned to balance over you so perfectly, not very sturdy, and yet bent and snapped just right so that he can remain glued to you. And if you were to climb out of your body and paint this exact moment, all you would see are an indistinguishable, amorphous set of limbs that seem to dissolve into each other like hues of paint on a palette. Two colors swirling around to make one, the two of you like primary colors that create endless possibilities when mixed together like this, offspring of a hundred different shades, painting the darkened studio around you with your yearning for one another.

And as Hyunjin brings a hand to stroke your cheek gently, a smile grows on his breathless lips as he realizes he’s brushed a thick stroke of wet paint along your skin. The indigo stripe contrasts coldly against your flesh, still glistening in its freshness like he’s just begun on a blank canvas.

“It’s paint,” Hyunjin says as you gasp at the cold sensation, smiling too, when he swipes it again with his thumb and flashes it down at you.

And you chuckle lightly below him, taking note of the bright orange streak that lines his neck, just below his adam’s apple. You’re not sure when it got there, or whether it was from you or him, but you run a finger through it too, bringing it to his cheek to rub your thumb lovingly across his face and paint it there, too. And in one swift motion, Hyunjin swipes the palm of his hand along the tarp, coating it in hues of indigo and deep violet and gray, cupping a hand around your breast to coat it in the same wet substance. And you do the same, your hand dipping generously into the myriad of reds and fuchsia paints that live below you, running a hand down his chest and painting a long stripe along his toned torso.

You both laugh, as he picks up his pace again, pushing himself to the hilt inside of you, the paints melting together with your sweat as he fucks you rhythmically again. And like two blank canvases finally being put to use, new colors blossom between the two of your longing bodies, shades of magenta and blue-gray making themselves known across your breasts and his torso. The colors are vibrant and robust, transferring life from the dull tarp of the studio floor onto blank slates of skin. You wish you could step out of your body and capture the colors forever, mix paints together into little jars and name every shade after every feeling Hyunjin’s ever given you. Longing, lust, fear, fascination, infatuation, obsession.

“I think I’m obsessed with you,” Hyunjin breathes into your mouth so desperately. “It’s indescribable, the things you do to me.”

He lets his hands intertwine with yours again, giving them a small squeeze as he fucks you a little faster now and lets his groans shift into small whimpers that escape his lips.

“Please let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin begs, his cock slipping against your cervix with ease as wettened noises of his arousal pooling against yours fill the room. “Please, please, I promise to take care of you, baby. I feel like I belong here.”

He’s a whimpering mess for you now, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he fucks you and lets his hands explore every inch of your body. You want to cry, too, at the realization again that this all feels so tangible, that he makes you feel so seen when he’s hovering over you, placing open-mouthed kisses onto yours and letting his melodic moans fill your ears. The paint between you serving as proof that he’s touched you so desperately and wholly, creating art together in the confined space of your otherwise dull studio. And you want to feel him cum inside you, too, as a final reminder that you’re visible to him, that you’re no longer a fleeting, anonymous artist when you’re with Hyunjin. That he sees you for exactly you are, he knows your deepest secrets, and yet still he holds you, whispering words of permanence in your ear and letting you mold him like art. He’s an artist on his own, and he’s art at the hands of you, both of which draw you to him in ways you can’t begin to fathom, unlike anything you’ve felt before. And he teaches you that you’re an artist on your own, and art at the hands of a lover, both of which you hadn’t considered before Hyunjin, deeming yourself invisible in your comfortable solitude to the vast world around you. But the two coincide to echo the same sentiment that he teaches you exactly the way he also learns from you.

“Cum inside me,” you breathe desperately, grasping his hands a little tighter as he fucks you at a faster pace now.

“Yeah?” Hyunjin confirms, still staving off his orgasm until your verbal consent is heard.

“Yes,” you respond, wrapping your legs around his waist and making your best attempt to kiss him through his release. And you do, your lips moving against his in labored breaths, as he finally twitches inside of you and paints the inside of your listless body, hues of glazed white arousal filling your aching cunt as he whimpers through his orgasm.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin, breathes, giving a few more thrusts as he slows, his arousal dripping onto the tarp below you as he pulls out. And he rolls over to lie beside you, a mess of paint streaks sprawled out along his skin as his chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. The two of you say nothing for a moment, your eyes glued to a blank canvas housed on an easel in front of you.

It’s an almost blinding shade of white, begging for an ounce of color like the shades that now live on your skin. And through your heavy breaths, you picture the endless possibilities that can fill in the empty spaces above you. Grasslands, trees, oceans, clear waters and a vast, endless blue sky…

There is no overseas schedule Hyunjin has to tend to. You’re already aware of this, Hyunjin explaining to you that he made it up to put the sessions on hold and to keep Q from pressing him with questions.

But he resumes the sessions after a few weeks of putting them on pause, because he can’t seem to stay away from you any longer.

Hyunjin reckons he has a couple dozen of your paintings in his room now, all similar portraits of his face, portraits you capture in your signature formal essence, his face staring straight ahead or off in the distance, complete with the fine details of his long dark hair and the mole under his eye.

Only now that Hyunjin is back, Q is present at nearly every appointment. You’re not sure why things changed, and Q maintains a new stance to Hyunjin that the guidelines are based on adjusted company policies. But Hyunjin will do just about anything to be close to you- even if it means putting up with your obnoxious boss breathing down your neck every minute while you paint him.

The sessions are somehow even more unnerving than they used to be, Hyunjin still making every valiant effort to convey his obsession with you through intense stares and little gestures only the two of you can read. Q is obstinate in his ways, his gaze constantly flickering between you and your paintings to ensure everything is going swimmingly. But Hyunjin wishes so badly he could spend the entirety of these sessions alone with you, getting to break down your walls and see you for the person he knows you are when you’re not doing portraits under Q’s all-seeing eye.

With every passing day, and every passing session, Hyunjin grows a deep hatred for Q, despising the way he watches you work and chimes in to converse with the two of you. And he knows he shouldn’t, aware that Q is just your boss and nothing more. Something you’ve reiterated to him time and time again, but he can’t help it, desperate to have you all to himself every second of the day, a deep-seated longing to protect you from the hurt you’ve been dealt and wanting so badly for you to break free from the monotonous cycle you’ve confined yourself to of painting for anyone except yourself.

You can tell Hyunjin hates Q, judging by the way he doesn’t so much look in his direction when he arrives for his sessions. But you can’t convey the slightest bit of reaction in front of either of them, too scared of the prospect of what would happen to your career if anyone were to find out you’re fucking a client.

You maintain a professional composure around Hyunjin, despite the knowing stares he gives you and the sketches you catch him slipping into your purse when Q isn’t looking. At times he’s not around, you complete your daily tasks, well-mannered and organized to the clients who hire you, shooting them kind smiles and complimenting their black business attire when they show up for the evening. When the days draw to a close, Q is punctual as always, leaving just minutes past your last appointment and taking his work home with him.

And when his sleek black car turns out of the corner of the parking lot, Hyunjin slips inside like a mere shadow on the wall, quick to seduce you all over again and gift you with all of his recent sketches. Some of them are portraits of you, smiling or focused on your work. Some of them are erotic nude shots of you, lying on the tarp of the studio or touching yourself the way he pictures you do when you’re all alone. And some of them include both of you, your bodies tangled desperately into each other and drowning in your yearning and love. Sometimes nude, his hands on yours and fucking you mercilessly. Sometimes fully clothed, his lips on yours and bundled up in winter clothes. But always together, always desperate in your touches and always so tangible. You reckon he’s persuaded you into being fucked you on every surface of the dingy studio by now- against the canvases, on the tarp- several times, on the table Q typically occupies and just about every stool available to the two of you. And while Q is oblivious about why you stay a little longer every night, Hyunjin is both calculated and persuasive in returning so you two can get some time alone, time that always ends with his seed dripping out of your still-aching cunt, bodies entangled somewhere within the studio and covered in fresh swatches of paint.

He may have somewhat of an obsession with you, but life is teeming around the studio when Hyunjin is near, the colors and shapes of your work much more robust and vibrant when he’s striding around the space commenting on all his favorite pieces of yours. And you relish in stories of his days, typically spent at fan events or at dance practices. Having him return feels like having your physical figure return home to you, the world in complete equilibrium when he’s near, much less lonely than the one you’re used to.

“I could watch you do this forever,” Hyunjin remarks, watching you glide a brush along your canvas, filling in the shadows of a figure on the canvas in front of you.

And this one’s not a portrait- it’s a watercolor figure, much like the ones you used to paint back then, the technique coming back to you with ease as you highlight the convexes of a body mirroring yours and add varying hues as highlights.

Per Hyunjin’s request, you paint the figures occasionally, only because he’s repeatedly expressed his fascination at watching you complete the process in a live session. The paintings reminiscent of your old work aren’t for sale, nor are they critiqued by anyone except for yourself. And they’re certainly not done with the knowledge of Q, who would turn irate at you utilizing the studio’s supplies for anything but portraits.

They’re just for his viewing pleasure, a little exchange you indulge him in as he continues to gift you with sketches of his own.

Hyunjin’s arms snake around your waist as you paint, his head resting on your shoulder as he watches you dip your brush into a mug of water and dilute the caramel shade that taints the bristles.

“Will you add a second one?” Hyunjin asks in a curious whisper, his lips grazing your ear as you paint.

“A second one?” You echo.

“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, working a trail of kisses down the shell of your ear. “This one’s you. Will you add me?”

You chuckle lightly, dipping your brush into a warmer shade of brown and swirling it around to gather the color on the fine hairs.

“So they can resemble us,” Hyunjin says, his kisses traveling even lower. “Paint me fucking you the way you like it.”

You chuckle softly again, not missing the way Hyunjin’s hands travel to your skirt, flipping it up to graze his hands along the mound of your upper thigh.

“Hyunjin, I-” you begin to say. But you can’t answer him, shutting your eyes in pleasure as you hear him unzip his jeans behind you and position himself.

“Keep painting,” he says in a sultry whisper, pumping himself lightly behind you as he pulls your panties down.

And you try, bringing your brush to the canvas to add a second figure like he’s requested. But you can hardly make it past the first few strokes before Hyunjin’s sliding into your dripping cunt, letting his hands grip your waist to steady himself as he begins to move.

“Go on,” Hyunjin encourages, as his hips thrust in and away from your trembling figure, your hands trying their very best to keep hold of the little wooden paint brush and fill in his form.

You manage to add a subtle few streaks, beginning the amorphous outline of Hyunjin’s hair, his tall lanky figure towering over yours and taking you with such desperation.

But you don’t get very far before Hyunjin is angling your face to kiss your drooly lips, his hands now finding purchase on your breasts as he continues to fuck you. And all of this is wrong, you know very well. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with a client like this, much less one this powerful, this rich and who wields so much he can hold against you. One slip up and Hyunjin can go tell the world about how you’re the artist who disappeared to sell yourself out to rich men for all their selfish needs. And any option you have to defend yourself would never hold up against his wealthy corporation and all its investors.

But you also can’t help but give into his urges when he’s around, his lips so tantalizing on yours and his cock filling you so fully and completely when he has his way with you.

Maybe it’s not even just about the sex for you- maybe it also has something to do with his stories you live through vicariously, listening to tales of the outside world while you’re trapped in this studio or at the businesses of wealthy men. It’s also the drawings he makes for you, ones you find yourself staring at for hours after he leaves, like proof that he was here and he touched you. The drawings are you in your most tangible form, his hands on yours and his lips on the curves of your neck. It’s like a glimpse into a version of yourself that ceases to exist when he’s absent. And it’s the late hours of the night he spends asking so politely to watch you paint your older work, always so fascinated with the way your mind conjures up varying lonely figures crafted from watercolors and a nylon bristle brush. Older work you hadn’t realized you missed so dearly until you began producing it for Hyunjin again.

But you know that to Hyunjin this is just a exhilarating idea for him, to view your art the same way he carves out a couple hours each week for a museum tour or to sketch in one of his books. He probably finds it more convenient to fuck you here where nobody’s around than to stroke himself in a dorm he shares with three other men. And you can feel it in the way he so desperately pleads you to paint for him or cum for him- that his obsession with you is less about you, and more about the thought of you.

Maybe this is just the result of Hyunjin uncovering a secret nobody else paid close enough attention to connect you to. Or the thrill of you being his favorite artist for years, and realizing you’re finally tangible in front of him, real, and not disappeared like he previously took you for. You reckon it must be the same phenomenon other girls feel toward him, getting intimate with somebody they idolize, desperately cupping his face like it might dissipate if they don’t grasp hard enough. But just the thought of somebody doesn’t imply love. It doesn’t imply a mutual understanding, and it certainly doesn’t imply permanence for either party involved. When he’s gone again, you’ll cease to be real like you already are when he’s not around. And then every vision you have will be rooted in unfaltering solitude once more, your anonymous life resuming again.

“Will you cum for me?” Hyunjin asks, and you snap back to the feeling of his cock twitching in your dripping cunt as he grips your waist. “God, you don’t understand what you do to me.”

You can’t give him an answer before you feel him reaching his release inside of you, shooting thick white ropes of his cum into you and slowing his pace again as he moves your hair away from your face.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Hyunjin says sheepishly as he pulls out. “Sit down for me,” he orders between kisses to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, grazing his hands along your waist and groaning against you.

And he’s already guiding you back to one of the stools, kneeling between your legs and spreading you for him, your glistening cunt on full display for him to taste.

“Want you to cum for me,” Hyunjin whispers, before positioning one of your legs on the wooden dowels of the stool. You can’t verbalize anything to him before his tongue is darting into your entrance, lapping his own release out of you and trailing up to give attention to your swollen clit. He works you in such desperate motions, tongue working your core like a starved animal and eagerly trying to coax an orgasm out of your trembling body. When his arousal is effectively brought out of your tight cunt and painting the tip of his tongue white, he coats your clit in it, giving kitten licks to your bundle of nerves as he hums against your flesh and whispers little pleas for you to let go.

And between your pussy still clenching down around the sheer memory of his cock inside of you mere minutes ago, and his plump lips kissing all over your wettened core, you do let go for him, dribbling cum down the edge of the wooden stool and threading your fingers through his hair as he trails kisses down to your thighs in encouragement.

“So good,” Hyunjin murmurs as he comes up for air, intertwining his fingers in yours as you get cleaned up. You shoot him a little “thank you”, and Hyunjin presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand as he nods, getting dressed once more and tucking his softened cock back into his boxers.

“Come here,” he states. “I want to ask you something.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.

He guides you to his same wooden stool, where he climbs upon the seat and then takes your hands in his again as you stand in front of him, pressing a small kiss to your palm before speaking.

“You know I care about you, right?” He begins, his eyebrows raised curiously.

“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.

“And you know I love your art.”

“So you’ve told me,” you say, and Hyunjin brings your hand up to press another kiss to your palm.

“I have a proposal for you,” he then says. “And I just want you to hear me out.”

Your heart sinks at his words, already fearing the worst as you wait for him to elaborate. You pray he hasn’t done anything to reveal your identity, or to make these secret erotic sessions public, knowing you’d both never live a normal life again at either of the instances occurring.

“What is it?” You ask Hyunjin, heart racing in your chest.

He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand soothingly, trying to calm you down before he speaks.

“I privately sponsor the art gallery every year,” he begins. “I put some funding toward a painting of my choice and it allows those artists to have their pieces displayed for the winter show and make connections,” he continues.

“Okay…”

“And I want to sponsor you this year,” Hyunjin finishes, giving your hands a little squeeze.

“Hyunjin, there can't be an installment of your face at the art museum. People will get suspicious.”

“Not my face,” he says reassuringly. “Your art. Like the ones you used to do.”

And you feel your throat dry up at his words, the exact thing you’d feared coming to fruition.

“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t do those paintings anymore. I can paint you, or another person or whoever. But I can’t do one of my old ones.”

“But your old ones are beautiful,” Hyunjin says. “It doesn’t have to be your old series. You can start a new one. Do something entirely different.”

“I don’t want to do something entirely different, Hyunjin. It’s a chapter of my life that’s been closed already. You know I don’t do those anymore.”

Hyunjin maintains his collected composure, his eyes softening as he speaks to you.

“You’re not happy doing portraits. I know you. You have a spark in you when you’re painting for yourself, and people love them. You deserve to be doing what you love.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, letting go of Hyunjin’s grasp and shaking your head. “I’m so grateful for the offer, but I can’t put myself back out there again.”

“You can still be anonymous,” Hyunjin offers. “Some artists I’ve sponsored choose to remain anonymous and only reveal to serious patrons of their art. I can make sure they don’t find out who you are.”

“It’s me and my art I don’t want to be seen,” you emphasize.

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything now, rising from the wooden stool and reaching for the iced coffee he’s placed on the table beside you.

“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”

He swirls the cup of ice around in his hand, and then he hangs his head in defeat.

“Hyunjin, seriously. Thank you for the offer. It’s sweet of you to consider it. But I’m not ready yet.”

He shoves a hand in his pocket and cocks his head slightly.

“Is this because of Quinton?”

“What? Hyunjin, I already told you our relationship is strictly professional-”

“Not romantically,” Hyunjin continues. “You’re like a slave to him. You do everything he tells you to do. He probably doesn’t let you leave this studio.

You’re quiet again, not answering him immediately. No, you don’t stay here at Q’s behest. But it just feels safer to follow his advice. He was just a client when you met him, but he took you under his wing to get you where you are now. He runs all your schedules, he books your appointments for you, he even gives his say on most of your work. He’s the only part of your old life that’s remained the same, despite your transition to portraits, and cutting him off would be stepping into a world completely unbeknownst to you.

“No,” you say finally, but you don’t expand further upon your stance.

“You’re so lonely here,” Hyunjin responds frustratedly. “And yet you follow orders from the same person whose job it is to keep you invisible.”

“Why should I follow your orders?” You retort.

“Because I love you.”

“You don’t love me, Hyunjin,” you reply frustratedly, finally feeling the anger overtake you as you continue your angered speech. “You love the idea of me. You love the idea of escaping your crazy rich life to try and resolve the tortured artist you’re so infatuated with. You love the idea of fulfilling somebody’s life with your presence because it’s all you do for a career. I’m not the person I was when I was doing those paintings- I do portraits now, and I work under somebody who knows what’s best for me. And you’re just a client I’m sleeping with.”

Hyunjin purses his lips, amused you would stoop that low for the purposes of declining his offer. And then he shakes his head as he speaks again.

“You’re right,” he finally says. “I’m just some client you’re sleeping with. I never tried to push you out of this line of work you hate so much, or drew you on every page of my sketch book or made love to you in every square inch of this goddamn studio. I’m not proposing this because I care about you and I want you to do what you love, it’s because I’m just a client you’re sleeping with.”

And he pivots on his heel to exit the studio, taking rushed steps toward the door as tears brim the corners of your eyes.

“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.

“I see you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, turning around to face you. “I see all of you. Your work didn’t just materialize by some anonymous form. You’re a painter, a really talented one, and I don’t want you to feel this all-consuming solitude anymore. I say that because I love you, not just because I’m sleeping with you. If you want to remain invisible to everybody except Quinton, then be my guest. Just know that I tried.”

And without another word, the studio is empty again, the tip of your brush still dripping with the remnants of the warm brown color and every intention to add a second figure to your painting.

You don’t speak with Hyunjin any more that evening. Or the next day. Or perhaps for a whole week following the conversation, for that matter. The reality is that you want to partake in his offer, the thought of it candidly piquing your interest to paint something other than another rich man. And it would be nice to watch your art be displayed for people to see just once, rather than to live on the walls of a company where only people within a certain tax bracket will ever grace your work. But what you reiterated to Hyunjin still stands- you’re scared to venture out into the competitive world of art galleries again. Your old series was a hit, sure, but it was also torn down relentlessly by those who didn’t understand it and those who simplified it down to its medium. And it was a much harder endeavor to make people understand your watercolor forms, unlike the portraits Q advises you continue producing.

But you can’t seem to stop thinking of Hyunjin’s proposal as a whole, understanding very well that his offer is one of the kindest things he could propose to you at this place in your life. He sees you- all of you, and subsequently he knows that you’re unhappy in this monotonous abyss of adding new features to the same faces every day. The way a change for you is determined only by a shift in a client’s pose or even just an addition of their pet- it’s all so repetitive, exactly what art isn’t supposed to be.

Maybe you’re just scared of getting rejected again, or perhaps it’s that you’re scared of finally being seen again, anonymous or not, putting yourself on the map again and being perceived.

“I want a painting,” Hyunjin says as he saunters into the studio one evening, throwing off his bag and dragging a stool to the middle of the room.

“Oh- Hyunjin, pleased to see you again,” Q remarks, bowing and giving you a nervous look.

Hyunjin doesn’t even acknowledge him, keeping a stern gaze locked on yours as if he’s challenging you.

“We have the evening booked today,” Q begins. “But I’m sure we can accommodate something for next week-”

“I need it now,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m willing to pay five times your asking price.”

And you narrow your eyes at Hyunjin, knowing he’s making his best attempt to provoke you and disrupt the work you’re completing per Q’s orders.

“How do you want it?” Q then asks, not hesitating to put aside your entire evening for Hyunjin’s offer.

“I want to be in a suit. And I want to be holding a wad of cash. I want to look like an investor.”

“Interesting,” Q says, his gaze flickering to yours. “She can do it though.”

Q turns to face you, giving you a knowing look as he raises his eyebrows. “I’ll clear your calendar for today and we can stay and work on this piece.”

And Hyunjin looks to you, too, waiting for you to protest, to say something along the lines of a refusal to partake in the outlandish task. But you avert both of their gazes, readying your paint palette and gesturing to one of the stools in front of you.

“Have a seat,” you say plainly, void of any emotion or desire to fulfill the task. And by the way Q hovers over you, void of autonomy, too, Hyunjin concludes.

“How are things at the company?” Q asks Hyunjin, leaning in a little too close to you as you begin painting long strokes on the canvas.

“Fine,” Hyunjin says, not taking his gaze off yours. His eyes are narrowed like he’s challenging you, yet you don’t give him the reaction he searches for.

“You must be busy,” Q remarks, his hands folded behind his back. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you here.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re running her schedule like the fucking military,” Hyunjin retorts, cocking an eyebrow at him. Q takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t argue, doing his best to keep in line at your highest-paying client.

“She’s pretty busy,” Q replies reluctantly. “But it’s nothing she can’t handle.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, again waiting for you to chime in, but you still don’t, working on adding details to Hyunjin’s tresses on the canvas.

“This will be my final session,” Hyunjin then says, and your head snaps to meet his gaze.

“Is that so?” Q questions. “Going overseas again?”

“Indefinitely,” Hyunjin replies. “Not overseas, I’ve just no need for the paintings anymore.”

Your lips part as though to ask if he’s serious, but you can’t, not with Q here alongside you.

“I have so many of them now,” Hyunjin remarks, not taking his eyes off you. “It’s been a lovely time with the two of you, but I won’t be returning after this evening. I hope you understand.”

“Please don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything we can provide you with,” Q voices. “I hope we’ll remain connected with the peers at your company.”

“Oh, you will,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m sure the investors and the senior managers will love portraits of their own. She’ll have a lifetime of portraits to complete when I’m gone.”

You can feel a pit forming in your stomach, queasy at the thought of carrying on this task of capturing rich businessmen and ceasing your sessions with Hyunjin. He’s unmoving in his attempts to make you revisit your old art. But his begging has also been eye-opening, making you realize just how much you hate this line of work and having Q breathe down your neck.

Hyunjin has a point, you’re unhappy doing portraits. You love the watercolor figures you paint, you love your time with Hyunjin and the feeling of unending curiosity he instills in you. There’s no solitude when he’s around, filling every aspect of your life with such color and vibrancy like the figures you paint. And you learn from him just as much as he learns from you.

But the fear remains, the feeling of hopelessness remains, the perception that Hyunjin is only obsessed with an idea of you and that your career is far gone from the watercolor figures you painted so long ago.

And of course, that you require Q’s uncompromising presence in your life to be even close to successful. He’s the one who transitioned you to a successful career of portraits after your previous line of work fell through. And you’re not sure you can shift to a new focus without him to guide you.

“Hyunjin,” you say suddenly, garnering the attention of both he and Q.

“What is it?” Q replies, as though you’re referring to him. And you wish he wouldn’t be so… disruptive, making you lose your train of thought as Hyunjin waits for your words with bated breath.

“I’ve completed the initial outline,” you settle on saying. “It should be sent over to you in a couple days.”

And he nods, a somber, thin-lipped expression on his face as he understands you’re never going to divert from this path of fear you walk, one you’re forcing yourself to stick to.

“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, getting up to leave again. “I’ll see you around.”

Private events are seldom actually private for Hyunjin. The interior of the gallery is organized accordingly so that patrons can mingle with their respective artists and all of the prestigious guests invited.

But the exterior is only private up the crowd control stanchions, where beyond it live hordes of people wielding all sorts of fancy cameras and cell phones, snapping photo after photo and analyzing every one of Hyunjin’s movements.

Hyunjin’s attending an art gallery today, the crowds murmur amongst each other, the message echoing all over the city and overshadowing the art itself, which hasn’t even been unveiled yet.

His departure from the black limousine he arrives in is met instantly with deafening screams, the repetitive click of camera shutters and commands for him to angle his face every which way. The people stop to stare at his fitted black suit, the long black hair he sports styled slick out of his face and expensive jewelry he flaunts as a clear indicator that he’s a sponsor of the evening’s show, alongside a long list of other wealthy individuals.

His hands remain tucked in the pockets of his black slacks, giving a gracious bow to the fans before making his way inside to the main event.

And the gallery is significantly more packed than he’s used to, people crowding every square inch of the marbled floors and admiring the intricate pieces of art. The curtains are pulled back neatly so that guests can roam freely among the halls, easels set up in neat rows and canvases mounted on walls to display all the sponsored works of art.

Hyunjin is quick to gravitate to the long white table pushed against the wall by the entrance, set up with generous servings of hors d’oeuvres. And in a bout of nervousness, he’s sampling the cheese platters and the varying flavors of wine, sighing as he swirls a glass of cherry merlot between his slender fingers.

He was supposed to be here sponsoring you tonight, unveiling your paintings for the world to appreciate once again, and so that he’d finally put forth the notion that you’re more than the halls of law offices your portraits exist in.

But that was three weeks ago now- three weeks in which Hyunjin failed to visit you like he’d warned he would. And three weeks in which neither of you reconnected, letting the temporary affair between you dissipate like the sketches he stopped producing of you, like the portraits he finished collecting from you. And like the hope he held onto that maybe you’d come around and entertain a life in which you aren’t so comfortable being invisible and inhibited at the hands of your Q. But that never came around, and although Hyunjin is frustrated with you, he misses you just as much, knowing very well he could spend a lifetime learning from you if only you let him. Now in the gallery he once dragged you to, where he admitted to having learned the secret you hid, he can only pray you know that he sees you for who you are, and not some invisible producer of your static portraits. That a life lived in complete solitude doesn’t have to be the answer to succumbing to your fears, even if it feels more comfortable than the perception and the critiques of others. And that although the idea of you was a lovely one indeed, he loves every part of you, not just the concept of you- and pushing you to grow was his way of making it known.

The gallery hosts are quick to introduce the paintings and their respective sponsors, a variety of them being under anonymous titles and names as they choose to remain hidden, too. But Hyunjin doesn’t wait around to listen to much of it, examining the paintings on his own in between nervous trips to the snack table, where he gets tipsy off a little too much cherry wine. It’s his first time not being a sponsor to a specific painting, instead having opted to donate a large sum to the gallery in his company’s name. But after you declined his invitation to be sponsored, Hyunjin didn’t see it fit to highlight the work of any other painting. It’s you he wants to see up there, proudly showing off your work and making a name for yourself in the industry again the way he knows you secretly want to. And he so badly wishes he could stop by your studio one last time to tell you that he’s not sure he can ever sponsor another painting again if it’s not one of yours. Your art circles his mind relentlessly, as do your words, your heart, your body and your real, tangible presence.

“Nice, isn’t it?” A voice says from beside Hyunjin. He almost jumps, the wine making him a little tired at this point in the evening, not having socialized with many people while he stands in the corner of the room and takes in the sight.

“Quinton?” Hyunjin voices plainly, scowling at his uptight demeanor as he leans against the table beside Hyunjin and crosses his legs.

“So nice to see our former highest-painting client,” Q responds. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve never seen you at one of these,” Hyunjin chimes in. He then looks around the room frantically, thinking maybe you’d accompanied him to the event tonight.

“Don’t bother,” Q says, as he takes a sip of wine. “I’m alone. Just scoping out the competition.”

He’s quiet for a moment, swirling his glass of wine around in his hand before speaking again.

“She never had a portrait at one of these gallery shows. Said they felt too commercial. Of course her old stuff was shown just about everywhere. I think she was just scared.”

“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.

“Of course I knew. I led her career’s entire rebranding. Of course she didn’t love the portraits, but the money came to us like you wouldn’t believe. And coupled with her fear of these gallery walks and important figures, we had no choice but to compromise. I got her the opportunity to paint people like you. And she did all the work.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply shaking his head and crossing his legs, too.

“She had a lot of people who believed in her art.”

Q shrugs. “She was free to walk whenever she wanted. Her fear kept her controlled, not me. I’m just another businessman for all she cares.”

And Hyunjin gives a small nod, finishing the last of his wine.

“Look, I can’t help but feel like I owe you an apology,” Hyunjin says finally. “I was just a little jealous whenever you were around. Not that there was anything going on, I just mean-”

“You think you’re the first client to have taken a liking to her?” Q interrupts. “I’ve seen it a million times. People want to take advantage and they get obsessed, and they start pulling crazy shit like offering five times the pay for a simple portrait.”

Q looks down to examine his leather shoes, adjusting the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose. And then he sighs frustratedly before speaking again.

“I would know,” Q then says, doing his best to avert Hyunjin’s gaze. “She’s a tough one to crack. She loves her paintings, and being alone and I don’t think she’d ever give the time of day to a good man. Not even if he followed her to her next endeavor.”

Hyunjin nods at the marbled floor, and then his head snaps in the direction of Q’s somber gaze.

The way he speaks of you, the way he gets a little too close to you for Hyunjin’s liking- Hyunjin finally thinks he understands. It’s not just the fear of being perceived that keeps you from picking up your old life again. It’s the fear of abandoning Q, who so arrogantly feels like he’s owed something for helping get you back on your feet after you shifted your work’s focus.

He’s the only other person who knows your secret, and he holds it over you like it makes him more important than anyone else in your life. He reduces you to a lifetime of following his orders, likely because he’s bitter that he was never the solution to your loneliness. A wealthy businessman himself, it was Q who kept returning for paintings once not long ago, accumulating piles of your work and making every last effort to pursue you. But when he wasn’t successful, he convinced you that you were right about your fears, that it was your best move to take his advice and he’d keep you turning a generous profit as long as you stuck by him. Q was so hopelessly devoted to an idea of you, and when he couldn’t help you overcome your fears, he became the catalyst for your fears, instead.

“You and I are a lot of the same,” Q voices. “Two rich men with dreams just out of our reach. It seems money can’t buy you everything, after all.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, swallowing nervously and looking at Q. And then Q shakes his head as he sets his glass of wine down on the table.

“Only I’ve never seen her willingly paint the same client so many times the way she does with you,” he finishes. “I guess she really liked being seen, after all.”

Q adjusts his glasses once more, and Hyunjin feels his heart sink at Q’s words, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly guilty for not having contacted you again.

“Could you tell her I stopped by?” Hyunjin inquires.

“Me? Oh no,” Q begins. “I can’t get in contact with her. No one can.”

“You- what? What do you mean?”

“Exactly that,” Q responds. “She told me she was done, and she walked out on me with a single watercolor palette and a notepad. She didn’t say anything else.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Hyunjin interrupts to ask, and Q shakes his head.

“She just left, and it’s been almost a month and she’s still MIA. Maybe she’ll come crawling back when she needs another rebranding.”

Hyunjin can feel his heart sinking deeper and deeper with every passing word that leaves Q’s lips.

He’s tried your cell phone- twice since leaving, and you never answered. But he assumed it to be a fleeting argument that would eventually make amends in due time when he could stomach visiting the studio again- not you running away from all of this for good.

“I have to go,” Hyunjin says frantically, chugging the rest of his wine and slamming his glass on the table.

“It was me who found her the first time,” Q says, not taking his eyes off the art across the room.

“What?”

“It was me who chased after her. After she disappeared. Don’t be surprised if she shuts you out when you finally do find her- I think I’ve already scarred her enough with my relentless attempts at persuasion.”

Hyunjin nods nervously, watching as Q cocks his head at the art, still averting Hyunjin’s gaze. And when he finally does turn to look at him, his eyes are glossy with tears, guilt painting every feature on his face.

“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”

Hyunjin nods, though he makes no verbal promise to relay the message to you.

“Don’t do what I did,” Q emphasizes. “I think you’re the one person who makes her feel like art, herself. Don’t ruin this.”

“I forgot my ID today,” Hyunjin remarks to the security guard in the late hours of the evening. He’s met with a gracious bow, the same security guard opening the door and ushering him inside anyway.

“Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need.”

The security guards all know Hyunjin very well now, taking note of the way his visits increased tenfold following your departure from the city.

At first he felt as though maybe he was searching for you when he’d come out here, any ounce of proof that you had indeed existed the way he remembered, and hopeful for the confirmation that you moved on to something new.

But as paintings cycled through their respective artists, and exhibits cycled through varying themes, it was a confirmation he never received, never finding a hint of you among the gallery. Thus, Hyunjin drew the hopeful conclusion that you’d escaped to a nicer city, worked on your old paintings again and made a new life for yourself, independently instead of under the overbearing presence of any other man. It’s what he wishes, at least, feeling disheartened every time he remembers you’ve very seldom lived any part of your professional career for yourself only.

The gallery is quiet at this hour, akin to the silent gray evening beyond its walls, and Hyunjin’s shoes squeak along the floors as he makes his way over to the curtains that veil the artwork.

New sculptures, by the same artist who had formed the paper mache ones. These ones are formed from wire and clay, the figures once again embracing each other in tender touches and dances. Hyunjin studies every careful bend and arch, making a mental note to sketch some of them when he gets a chance.

Another room houses a similar spread of modern art from before, these ones all coinciding with the warm lighting that hangs overhead, strokes along the canvases all housing similar warm-toned hues. He knows you’d love this installment and its careful attention to making use of color.

And the last room, the same little room behind a curtain, a small bench in front of a colossal canvas and just barely lit for his eyes to make out the scene.

Hyunjin’s seated before he can even examine the artwork, squinting carefully at the painting to get a better look. He even makes a conscious decision to put on his black frame glasses, making every attempt to get a proper look at the artwork in front of him.

Diluted hues of paint and water dance along the canvas, figured outlines he’s very familiar with, and the essence of solitude radiating from every brush stroke. Only this one isn’t one figure- it’s two, a warm-toned figure and a cool-toned outline holding each other in a tender embrace, their faces indistinguishable, true to the mystery of your work.

And between them, bright hues of paint, yellows, blues, magentas, fantastic mixtures of chartreuse and vermillion, all painted like brush strokes along their yearning bodies and illustrating a profound sense of togetherness, much more robust than the ever-present solitude.

“Visions of you in solitude,” reads the small bronze beneath the canvas.

As he cocks his head to make sense of the painting, he feels the leather of the bench dip beside him, indicating the presence of another patron. And at this hour, he doesn’t need to turn his head to understand who it is.

“There’s two,” Hyunjin says with a small smile, not averting his gaze from the painting.

“It felt incomplete without one.”

“Is that…”

“You?” You question quietly.

He nods in response, eyes scanning the swatches of paint between their bodies. It has to be me, he thinks. It has to be us.

“Maybe it is,” you reply. “I don’t disclose my processes to just about anyone. But you’re welcome to make your assumptions how you see fit.”

Hyunjin gives a breathy chuckle, finally turning to meet your gaze.

You look lighter- happier, as though you have the weight of your fears and reservations off your shoulders for once. Hyunjin can’t help but lean a little closer into you before stopping himself, knowing he can’t come in here to mirror the same thing Q once did long ago.

“You’re doing galleries,” he settles on saying.

“And they scare the hell out of me,” you respond, huffing a little at the end of your sentence. “But, it is nice to be seen again.”

He gives a little nod, and then his mind goes back to Q, who had asked to relay his version of an apology to you. But Hyunjin hesitates to speak of him, not wanting to taint your new art with the mentions of the old businessmen who took advantage of you.

“I’d have kept my distance if I knew how this went down the first time,” Hyunjin explains, hoping you’ll get what he implies. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to shift your focus. I just wanted you to be happy.”

You sigh for a moment, scanning the painting across from you, too, before turning to speak to him once more.

“Of all the clients I’ve painted, you were the first to ask about my vision. I think you do see me. And I think it was easier to say you loved an idea of me, because I couldn’t understand why you’d love any other part.”

Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.

“I learn from you the same way you learned from me,” you continue. “And you make me feel so seen. But I’m learning how to do that without needing you, too. Getting comfortable with my loneliness, I don’t think it’s something I was able to practice very much. At least not with…”

Hyunjin nods, not needing to hear Q’s name to know who you speak of.

“I understand,” Hyunjin voices. “And I want you to take all the time that you need. What matters is that you feel fulfilled, and that you’re not being pushed at the hands of somebody else. That’s more than enough for me to love you at a distance.”

And you nod at him, your heart swelling at his words as he turns to look back at the painting once more. The two of you stay there like that for several minutes, observing the way you’ve so carefully captured the togetherness you feel when you’re beside him. Swatches of paints that echo the color he brings into your life, and yet rooted in the solitude you’re still learning to be comfortable with. Visions of him in your own solitude, also creating a version of yourself that will continue to learn from him as much as he learns from you. And still art at the hands of him, both when you’re loving him wholly, and at this comfortable distance from each other.

And by the summer months, he’ll love you at a close proximity when you’re ready again, exchanging passionate embraces behind the curtains at galleries and making love to you in your shared apartment. He’ll continue to draw for you, and remain the biggest fan of the two-piece figures you illustrate with watercolors, capturing the same sense of togetherness and yet unwavering solitude that comes with breaking yourself down to the world around you. And the love will be reciprocated unconditionally by you, who finally feels seen at the hands of somebody who perceives you beyond just a concept.

But for now, he’ll remain right here, at this comfortable distance, allowing himself to learn from you as much as you learn from him. And the love will be undemanding, but it will be real, tangible.

[ ᴛᴀɢs: @drhsthl , @straykeedz-recs , @caitlyn98s , @moonlinos , @cottonsthings , @jaykyo , @write143 , @pinkcinnamon444 , @maximumkillshot , @auraleeknow , @skzms @coastalmaine , @venomracha , @lmhcats , @felinows , @maexc , @kang-min-joo , @liinoracha , @sealovesbts , @hanniessleepyeyes , @hyunjinsamdl , @chans1aptop , @yomomma104 , @sheraall , @kbbok , @silentreadersthings , @beomkgyu , @diorrxluvskz , @dancerachaslut , @jeannie-beannie , @heeseungshim , @weareapackofstrays , @bethanysnow , @inlovewithmusician , @kite-lee , @heartheartisa , @katsukis1wife , @minhosbitterriver , @y-ur--i , @seung-mine , @sskzlover , @bomi-ja , @crisle19 , @binniesbang , @leritzreyw , @lixiesundrop , @chopchopslide-juggalo , @vsereniasstuff , @morethancupcake , @fun-fanfics , @awillowbent , @unstiqn , @lixiesfairygf ]

add yourself to the tag list here.

#stray kids #skz #skz smut #stray kids hard hours #Hyunjin smut #hyunjin skz #request #skz hyunjin #hwang hyunjin smut #hwang Hyunjin #skz scenarios #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you #stray kids hyunjin #Hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x you #Spotify

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writingwithcolor · 5 months

Text

Naming International POC Characters: Do Your Research.

This post is part of a double feature for the same ask. First check out Mod Colette's answer to OP's original question at: A Careful Balance: Portraying a Black Character's Relationship with their Hair. Below are notes on character naming from Mod Rina.

~ ~ ~

@writingraccoon said:

My character is black in a dungeons and dragons-like fantasy world. His name is Kazuki Haile (pronounced hay-lee), and his mother is this world's equivalent of Japanese, which is where his first name is from, while his father is this world's equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from. He looks much more like his father, and has hair type 4a. [...]

Hold on a sec.

Haile (pronounced hay-lee), [...] [H]is father is this world’s equivalent of Ethiopian, which is where his last name is from.

OP, where did you get this name? Behindthename.com, perhaps?

Note how it says, “Submitted names are contributed by users of this website. Check marks indicate the level to which a name has been verified.” Do you see any check marks, OP?

What language is this, by the way? If we only count official languages, Ethiopia has 5: Afar, Amharic, Oromo, Somali, & Tigrinya. If we count everything native to that region? Over 90 languages. And I haven't even mentioned the dormant/extinct ones. Do you know which language this name comes from? Have you determined Kazuki’s father’s ethnic group, religion, and language(s)? Do you know just how ethnically diverse Ethiopia is?

~ ~ ~

To All Looking for Character Names on the Internet:

Skip the name aggregators and baby name lists. They often do not cite their sources, even if they’re pulling from credible ones, and often copy each other.

If you still wish to use a name website, find a second source that isn’t a name website.

Find at least one real life individual, living or dead, who has this given name or surname. Try Wikipedia’s lists of notable individuals under "List of [ethnicity] people." You can even try searching Facebook! Pay attention to when these people were born for chronological accuracy/believability.

Make sure you know the language the name comes from, and the ethnicity/culture/religion it’s associated with.

Make sure you understand the naming practices of that culture—how many names, where they come from, name order, and other conventions.

Make sure you have the correct pronunciation of the name. Don’t always trust Wikipedia or American pronunciation guides on Youtube. Try to find a native speaker or language lesson source, or review the phonology & orthography and parse out the string one phoneme at a time.

Suggestions for web sources:

Wikipedia! Look for: “List of [language] [masculine/feminine] given names,” “List of most common [language] family names,” “List of most common surnames in [continent],” and "List of [ethnicity] people."

Census data! Harder to find due to language barriers & what governments make public, but these can really nail period accuracy. This may sound obvious, but look at the year of the character's birth, not the year your story takes place.

Forums and Reddit. No really. Multicultural couples and expats will often ask around for what to name their children. There’s also r/namenerds, where so many folks have shared names in their language that they now have “International Name Threads.” These are all great first-hand sources for name connotations—what’s trendy vs. old-fashioned, preppy vs. nerdy, or classic vs. overused vs. obscure.

~ ~ ~

Luckily for OP, I got very curious and did some research. More on Ethiopian & Eritrean naming, plus mixed/intercultural naming and my recommendations for this character, under the cut. It's really interesting, I promise!

Ethiopian and Eritrean Naming Practices

Haile (IPA: /həjlə/ roughly “hy-luh.” Both a & e are /ə/, a central “uh” sound) is a phrase meaning “power of” in Ge’ez, sometimes known as Classical Ethiopic, which is an extinct/dormant Semitic language that is now used as a liturgical language in Ethiopian churches (think of how Latin & Sanskrit are used today). So it's a religious name, and was likely popularized by the regnal name of the last emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie (“Power of the Trinity”). Ironically, for these reasons it is about as nationalistically “Ethiopian” as a name can get.

Haile is one of the most common “surnames” ever in Ethiopia and Eritrea. Why was that in quotes? Because Ethiopians and Eritreans don’t have surnames. Historically, when they needed to distinguish themselves from others with the same given name, they affixed their father’s given name, and then sometimes their grandfather’s. In modern Ethiopia and Eritrea, their given name is followed by a parent’s (usually father’s) name. First-generation diaspora abroad may solidify this name into a legal “surname” which is then consistently passed down to subsequent generations.

Intercultural Marriages and Naming

This means that Kazuki’s parents will have to figure out if there will be a “surname” going forward, and who it applies to. Your easiest and most likely option is that Kazuki’s dad would have chosen to make his second name (Kazuki’s grandpa’s name) the legal “surname.” The mom would have taken this name upon marriage, and Kazuki would inherit it also. Either moving abroad or the circumstances of the intercultural marriage would have motivated this. Thus “Haile” would be grandpa’s name, and Kazuki wouldn’t be taking his “surname” from his dad. This prevents the mom & Kazuki from having different “surnames.” But you will have to understand and explain where the names came from and the decisions dad made to get there. Otherwise, this will ring culturally hollow and indicate a lack of research.

Typically intercultural parents try to

come up with a first name that is pronounceable in both languages,

go with a name that is the dominant language of where they live, or

compromise and pick one parent’s language, depending on the circumstances.

Option 1 and possibly 3 requires figuring out which language is the father’s first language. Unfortunately, because of the aforementioned national ubiquity of Haile, you will have to start from scratch here and figure out his ethnic group, religion (most are Ethiopian Orthodox and some Sunni Muslim), and language(s).

But then again, writing these characters knowledgeably and respectfully also requires figuring out that information anyway.

~ ~ ~

Names and naming practices are so, so diverse. Do research into the culture and language before picking a name, and never go with only one source.

~ Mod Rina

#asks #language #languages #linguistics #east africa #african #immigration #ethiopian #names #naming #research #resources #writeblr #character names #character name ideas #rina says read under the cut. read it

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aeyumicore · 1 month

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☾ .⭒˚ heart within reach ♡ zayne x afab reader

⋆.˚ ☾ pairing: zayne x afab!reader (very fem!reader)

☾ .⭒˚ genre: smut, porn with some plot

⋆.˚ ☾ word count: 5.6k

☾ .⭒˚ content warning: mdni, car sex, road head, fingering, messyyyy cum smearing, slight degradation (just one line), finger sucking, somewhat public/voyeurism?

⋆.˚ ☾ video link: not necessary to watch in order to read and enjoy, but i highly recommend watching the memory for context and a visual for the fic! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hUtBlb2fjQ

☾ .⭒˚ a/n: HELLO FRIENDS i am back with my twist on the new ‘heart within reach’ memory with zayne :)

i’ll likely be releasing fics at a FAR slower pace now, as i find myself lacking motivation lately and wanting to do other things instead of write. i don’t plan on quitting at all! just will be slower <3 but i’m always checking tumblr and twitter (@/aeyumicore) if you want to interact with me!

please enjoy!

⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚ minors dni ⋆.˚ ☾ 18+ only ☾ .⭒˚

you hummed to the low volume of the music thrumming in zayne’s car, the two of you sitting in his audi in front of your apartment building. you didn’t want this perfect day with zayne to end, a day spent together with no emergent surgeries, no threat of wanderers, just you and zayne enjoying the fair and the sunset.

“thank you for hanging out with me today,” you smile softly at him, unwilling to get out of the car just yet.

“you’re welcome,” his hand still rests on the steering wheel as he peers at your apartment through the front dash, “let me know when you’re inside.”

you sigh internally, not at all surprised at zayne’s dismissive words. “okay, ” is all you say as you turn to open the passenger door. but before you do, you decide to glance at him again. he doesn’t make a single sound as his head hangs low, his hand still gripping the steering wheel.

you sigh, trying your best to bury your neediness. you didn’t want the night to end yet; it was rare zayne got full days like today off…or nights. nights where zayne would literally make you forget your own name, only knowing how to chant his name over and over.

“don’t forget mr. seal,” zayne murmurs, snapping you out of your desperate and filthy thoughts of him.

“you don’t want to keep him?”

“he won’t like my house. it’s too monochrome and…simple.” he twists his body to reach for the seal plushie he’d won for you at the fair. you suppress a giggle when instead of grabbing the toy, he speaks to it.

“hello.” you want to tease him for his stoicness even when speaking to an adorable plushie.

“you’re scaring him, dr. zayne!” you burst out laughing, and zayne joins in, the sound of his deep chuckle burrowing deep into your brain and making your heart flutter. it wasn’t often zayne smiled or laughed, he preferred to smile with his eyes. but when he did laugh, it was the most precious sound you’d ever heard.

“i have nothing else to say.” you can’t tell if he means nothing to say to the plushie or to you.

“yeah…see you later?” you say softly. you want to kick yourself for your own unyielding stubbornness, wanting him to show you that he might want to spend more time with you too, that he might want to spend the night with you. it would be much easier if you could just swallow your pride and ask him to come in.

but zayne speaks again before you can even move. his voice is exceptionally low, so much so that your breath hitches, “i was wondering…if i had forgotten something. and if you were upset because of it.” you grin a little, your disappointment fading little by little, knowing he’s teasing you now. knowing he’s fully aware of what you want from him, and that he wants to give it to you. but he wants to make you work a little for it.

“do you remember what you’ve forgotten?” you quip, unwilling to be the one to give in.

“i’m not sure…” his voice is throaty with what you hope is desire, but you stay steadfast in your resolve, unwilling to be the one to admit that you don’t want to leave yet. so you lean in, close enough that zayne can feel your warm breath fan across his face. he does his best to hide the way his breath catches in his throat at just how close you were.

“look zayne,” you say brightly, doing your best to keep your voice from wavering at your proximity to the man you adored with your entire heart.

“what?” comes his curt response, but you can see the way his eyes sparkle with amusement.

“me!”

zayne chuckles, his smile reaching his green eyes, “i know what you look like.” he reaches to stroke your face, playing with the strands of hair that fall into your eyes. you force yourself to keep your eyes on his, and to not let them fall to his lips, that you want on yours so badly. he speaks again, this time his low voice is almost sad and reminiscent, “after this i wont be able to see you for quite some time.”

his hand grabs your chin this time, tilting it upwards so that you’re more level with him. you so desperately want him to pull your face to his, capturing your lips that he does so knee buckling well, “since we’re both very busy we should meet up whenever we can.” he’s very careful with his words, but you can feel the longing in his tone. he will miss you as much, if not more, than how much you will miss him.

“what are you thinking about? you’re smiling.” his fingers still grip your chin, gently but demandingly, not letting you look anywhere but at him. you don’t answer, but your smile widens as you look at his amused deep eyes. you have a feeling he knows exactly what you’re thinking of.

“well…i think i might be very close to the answer,” he murmurs, eyes flitting downward to your lips. your heart skips a beat as you catch him staring at your mouth, wanting nothing more than for him to kiss you. you steel yourself, trying to calm your pounding heartbeat, intent on dishing back all of zayne’s feigned cluelessness.

you poke his cheek and your voice comes out playfully, “will you dream of me tonight zayne?”

he chuckles, his hand darting up to touch where your finger grazed, hoping you don’t notice the way his cheeks flush at the slightest touch, “…we did visit a lot of places and i am tired. however it seems unlikely.”

you roll your eyes at the game the two of you were playing and you refused to be the one to give in. you poke his cheek again, pouting, “then i won't dream either.”

zayne catches your hand, still trying to poke his cheek, clenching it softly in his hand and bringing your joined palms down to rest on the center console of his luxurious car. his fingers are cold around yours, but you feel them slowly warm up as they hug onto yours.

when he doesn’t release you from his hold, you peer at him curiously and cocking your head to the side, “why are you still holding my hand, dr. zayne?”

he smirks, thumb rubbing circles onto your wrist, “i’ve only confiscated it. i’ll return it when you decide to behave.” you bite back a shiver at his words, your resolve dissolving little by little. you clench your thighs at the look he gives you, your body always reacting readily to his double meaning laced words and heated expressions of desire.

he leans in, bringing his free hand up to your cheek, cupping it gently. his other hand still holds yours, “alright, it's getting late. you should go home.” despite his words, you can sense the hesitation in his voice. but still, you turn to leave.

“...yeah, bye,” you murmur. but zayne’s grasp on your wrist tightens, pulling you back.

“when would we be able to meet up again?” his voice is hopeful, adorably so. zayne brings his phone to his face, the screen lighting up his face in the dim darkness of his car, twinkling like the lights outside.

“let me guess, your schedule is packed?”

zayne ignores your quip, “next week, sunday.” it’s not a question, he’s telling you. the charge in his voice, the demand, the demand to see you. it makes your skin crawl with anticipation.

“if we’re seeing each other sunday, then ill start getting ready on saturday,” you beam at him, already giddy with excitement. zayne lowers his phone to stare at you.

“anyway…” you lean in to touch his face but pull away just as your fingers are about to caress his cheek, “good night.” you’re about to whip your head around to get out of his car but zayne captures your chin and leans into you. your incessant teasing has backfired, as you find yourself caught like a prey in zayne’s hungry stare. you gulp as his eyes flutter to your lips, and yours to his.

“if i’m able to see you sunday, i'll start getting excited thursday,” zayne’s voice is deep and husky, and he leans in to take your lips into his. you can’t suppress the moan that escapes your mouth as his soft and cold lips press into you. he smiles against you, sensually caressing every part of you against his tongue and pulling you impossibly closer with his fingers on your chin.

he kisses you deliberately, taking it impossibly slow. you can vaguely hear him chuckle into you through the pounding in your ears as your tongue begs him for entry into his mouth. he grants it willingly, and your tongues clash deliciously, leaving you whimpering as your panties dampen at just the feel of his mouth on yours.

you whine when zayne pulls away, to which he chuckles, fingers stroking your chin soothingly.

you speak up and glance at him, his lips alone dissolving all of your stubborn determination, “wh-why should we wait until sunday? i…i don’t want to go yet.”

the content smirk that graces his face makes you blush, “where do you suppose we go?”

“why don’t we take mr. seal to your place? i want you to keep him. so he can see his new home, and we can all watch a movie!” zayne smiles warmly at your giddiness, absolutely in love with the way you light up at the thought of spending more time with him.

“are you sure?” he murmurs softly, almost having to force himself to say the words and fight how much he would love to bring you back to his place and spend every second with you. “you’re not too tired?”

you bite your lip, trying to tamp down your blinding grin and furious blush, “take me to your place zayne.”

zayne wastes no time in peeling out of the street, but leaves his hand on your thigh as he drives with just his left hand. you peek at him through the corner of your eye, admiring how his sharp and defined jaw connects to his bobbing neck, the muscles so defined under the faint night lights. his fingers slowly inch their way under your skirt, rubbing circles into your bare thighs. you pray zayne doesn’t notice the way your thighs press closer together at his touch.

his grip on the fat of your thighs only tighten, using his fingernails to torturously graze inexplicable shapes into your tingling skin. through the edges of your vision, you can briefly make out his satisfied smile.

of course he’s purposely trying to torture you. well two can definitely play that game.

you lean over the center console, looping your arms around his free arm, laying your head into his bicep and intertwining your fingers with his. you can feel his muscles stiffen for a second before they relax under your embrace, his fingers tightening with yours.

“is it okay that i’m coming over?” you murmur into his clothed muscular arm, kissing against the smooth fabric up to his shoulder.

his voice comes out in a grunt, one that makes you smile to yourself as you squeeze his taut muscles. he clears his throat, “yes. why wouldn’t it be?”

your hand moves to rest against his thigh, “you don’t invite me over very often.”

“do you want to come over more often?”

your fingers dig into his thigh, just barely but enough that his thick quad muscles tense up under your touch. despite being the one in control, you can’t stop your voice from coming out as a mere whisper, “of course. i want to see where the amazing dr. zayne lives. where he eats, where he reads his medical journals, where he…goes to sleep at night.” you relish in the way his breath catches ever so slightly at the mention of his bedroom.

when those words leave your mouth, your hand reaches to graze his crotch. you bite your lip in surprise when you’re met with his hard length. filled with renewed confidence, you grasp his erection through his pants.

“y/n…” his voice is a feral warning, “behave.”

but his words only spur you on further. you find yourself replaying every single time zayne has driven you to blinding, world shattering orgasms. his hands on your throat, lips on every inch of your skin, manhood buried deep inside. your thighs clench as your slick continues to dampen your panties, and you decide you don’t want to wait or behave.

your fingers move to undo his belt but zayne’s hand releases yours to grip your hand that’s trying to undress him, “i’m driving.”

his hold is tight and refuses to let you venture further into where you want to go, “you’re a surgeon…i know you can multitask.” you shimmy your fingers from his grasp, but he only grips you tighter. his jaw is clenched and his adam’s apple bobs as he speaks, voice a raspy plea for mercy.

“this can’t wait until we get to my place?”

but you only pout at him, even if his eyes are locked on the road ahead, “please zayne?” you know how he loves when you beg, using it to your advantage. “i’ll be such a good girl for you.”

your pleas make him briefly snap his eyes to yours, off of the road, as his cock threatens to rip through his slacks, wanting nothing more than to be released and seek your touch. in his brief moment of weakness, you deftly free your fingers and undo his belt in one fell swoop. zayne hisses as your hands reach in to grasp his massive erection in your palm, still not used to his more than impressive size no matter how many times he’d molded your cunt into its shape.

“you will actually be the death of me, y/n.” you giggle at his words as your hands find their way to his bare manhood and bring it out into the tepid air of the car, marveling at the way it twitches at every tiny graze across your fingers. you lean over as much as you can against the restraint of your seatbelt, so you can earnestly jerk him up and down in your soft palm.

zayne’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, his knuckles turning deathly white as he groans unabashedly at your ministrations. the sound of his moans hits your ears, fueling your confidence and the burning desire in your gut.

zayne thrusts ever so slightly up into your grip, chasing the feeling only your body can bring him, “jesus i’m not gonna last long like this.”

before your confidence has a chance to dissipate, you unlatch your seatbelt and lean you torso over the center console. zayne’s eyes bulge but remain on the road, his hands still holding the steering wheel with a deathly grip. you can tell he’s about to scold you, the worry evident in the way his every muscle tenses under your touch. but before he can reprimand you, you let your tongue swipe the underside of his cock, all the way up to his thickly swollen head.

zayne’s words die on his lips as a strangled growl rips out instead, his hips bucking into you as you take his head fully into your warm mouth. you purposely suckle just his engorged tip, desperate to make him lose complete control because of you.

“ffucking hell y/n,” he moans, squirming under you and raising his hips just slightly, still trying to maintain a tight grip on his self-control. you hum into him, letting the tip of your tongue flick continuously over his leaking slit. the taste of him is sweet on your tongue and so damn addicting. zayne’s breath is so heavy, you can practically feel his body heave up and down with his deep breaths.

finally, you sink lower, taking as much of him as you can before he hits the back of your throat. you gag around him, throat constricting around his thick length as he keeps the car shockingly steady and straight on the road. you feel one of zayne’s hand leave the steering wheel to gently thread itself into the hair on the back of your head, rubbing soothing circles into your scalp as you bob up and down.

“throat’s so damn tight,” zayne grunts out, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him.

with how tall zayne is, his seat is far enough back where you can rest your head on his lap, between him and the steering wheel, without endangering your lives. so you rest the side of your head on his lap, lips attaching to the base of his manhood, looking up at him through the blurry tears on your eyelashes. you teasingly lick at him, eyes trained on his flushed face. his eyes occasionally flit down to stare at you in lust-crazed awe before darting back to the road.

“make sure you keep your eyes on the road zayne,” you sing, licking his length like a popsicle, refusing to take him back into your mouth just yet.

“i will, just be a good girl and keep sucking for me baby.”

your chest lurches at his words, absolutely loving his subtle pleas for you. his voice is so urgent with demand and need.

your body aches from your awkward position over the center of his car, but you want to give him more. you bring yourself back up to take him back fully into your lips. starting slow, your pace gradually picks up until you’re full on fucking your throat onto him and the sounds of your gags and moans, his throaty praises, and the obscene squelches of your lips on his soaked cock fill the car.

“shit, i’m gonna cum soon love,” zayne grunts, his hand in your hair a bit more forceful now, pushing you down onto his cock while still maintaining flawless control of the car. you’re unable to contain your deep moans of satisfaction as he grips your head, forcing you to take more. you love the way he’s coming undone for you, evident in the way his hands grab at you fervently and the uncontrollable stream of lust-filled moans leaving his lips.

his length inside your mouth twitches as you diligently suck him off, savoring the taste and feel of him in you. your moans vibrate all around his throbbing length, helping to push him into releasing his load into you. his hips thrust gently into your mouth as his hands push you down, letting his cock fuck into your mouth with the most torturously delicious rhythm. the way your tongue works around him makes him shiver as he alternates between watching the road and you with dilated eyes. you can barely register the effortless turns he makes with his single hand, or when the car grinds to a smooth stop.

“fuuck – my girl is doing so damn good for me,” he breathes out, the lightest whine in his throat which strokes your ego. your heart flutters when he calls you his, and your throat tightens as you continue to bob.

zayne’s grip in your hair tightens, “gonna cum, you’re gonna take it all right?”

you hum in approval. the vibrations resonate in every inch of zayne’s leaking erection as he explodes into your mouth and down your throat, his load so thick and heavy that it threatens to make you choke.

“jesus fuck – hah – fuck,” he swears as he shoots out endless ropes into your throat, his release never ending as your lips and tongue work in tandem to prolong his pleasure.

zayne strokes your hair as he languidly thrusts up into your mouth, riding out the last waves of his intense orgasm. you do your best to swallow every drop, but stray rivulets of his spend drip down your chin as you release his cock with a pop.

as you sit up, zayne watches you in awe and adoration, reeling from what just happened, what you just did for him. he grabs your chin once again, “open, let me see.”

you giggle, wincing slightly at the sore aches in your throat as you stick your tongue out for him to inspect. he uses his thumb to catch the cum falling down your chin, scooping it back up to your mouth. you take him into your mouth eagerly, always desperate to please him.

his eyes darken as he watches you lick his digit clean, so shadowed they reflect the night sky outside. it’s then you notice that zayne’s car is parked, and not in front of his home. you look out the tinted windows and see you’re back at the bridge overlooking the linkon river, only it’s completely empty and dark now that the sun has set.

“why are we–” but yours words are cut off as zayne unlatches his seatbelt and swiftly exits the car and opens the back door, leaving you confused. you’re about to get out too but zayne is on your side in an instant, opening your door and yanking you out. you yelp as he hooks his arms under your knees and easily carries you out like a princess.

“zayne!” you squeal, “what are you doing?!”

he doesn’t answer, instead leaning down to press his lips into yours, kissing you with a bruising passion that makes you lose your breath. you feel him lower you into his backseat, still hunched over with his lips firmly attached to yours. he quickly pulls mr. seal out from under you and places the plushie on the rear window shelf. you almost want to giggle at his actions, finding it adorable how he cares about the plushie enough to not just knock it over onto the car floor.

you pull away reluctantly as your back hits the cool leather, “zayne? what are we doing here? what’s going on?”

zayne climbs in between your legs, shutting the door behind him, and loosening his tie. you squeak when your skirt rides up and his knee pushes firmly against your cunt. you bite your lip as you watch him undo his tie, pulling it off completely before bending back down until he’s inches from your breath. his palm cups your sex under your skirt, pulling a surprised squeal from your lips.

“since you want to be such a desperate little cock hungry girl,” he murmurs, fingers moving your panties to the side and sliding his slender fingers into your dripping slit, “i’m gonna treat you like one.”

you moan as his finger breaches you, back arching off the backseat, grinding further into his finger.

“look at you,” he grins, “so needy for me. can’t even wait until i take you back to my place, huh?”

your response dies on your tongue as he inserts another finger, stretching you around him, “so fucking eager to have my cock in your mouth.”

you whine at the welcomed intrusion, fluttering around his lengthy fingers and doing your best to speak, “nnng, m’sorry zayne just needed to taste you so so bad.”

the content look of satisfaction lights up his handsome features, “what about this pussy baby? does she need me too?” your eyes roll into the back of your skull as he curls his fingers inside of you, your fingers seeking to clutch something, anything, to ground you amidst the pleasure. you try to answer his filthy words, but his fingers stroking your spongy g spot render you a blubbering mess.

“look at her,” he coos, “perfect little pussy was made just for me.” his fingers make you see stars. “you want to be filled so badly huh? can’t even wait until we get home?”

with his free hand, zayne reaches to bring his cock out, still painfully hard despite the unbelievable amount of cum he’d unloaded into your mouth.

against all odds, your brain clears for a brief second to let you think logically while your eyes dart around, “w-wait, what if some-someone sees?” the excitement builds in your core at the thought of zayne, who normally was so averse to any kind of pda, wanting you so badly he’d pulled over so he could take you in the backseat of his car in the parking lot of a public park.

but even at this angle you can tell zayne’s windows are so tinted, coupled with the darkness outside there’s no way anyone could see unless they had their noses pressed up against the glass.

zayne slips your panties down and off your legs, pocketing them before lining his leaking cock with your quivering hole. he rubs his tip up and down, brushing it against your swollen clit. your body arches towards him, begging to be used by him as your lewd moans ring in his ear.

“so?” he murmurs, ghosting along your hole but refusing to put it in just yet. “i would love for someone to see how this perfect little cunt takes me.” he inserts his tip in, just that alone knocking the wind out of your lungs.

“how it was made just for me to fuck,” he grunts, easing himself into you. one of your legs hangs off the car seat as the other rests on his shoulder. with one hand he holds your thigh and the other grips the door rest for support as he hunches over you. his words make your tummy stir, your cunt clenching around him. as he bottoms out, your hand clutches at the driver seat headrest, needing to ground yourself as he stretches you to the max.

“zaaayne,” you slur, “s-so big. feel soo good, please.” your hands reach to clutch at his perfect face, admiring the tiniest twinges in his muscles as he burrows as deeply as possible in your pussy that hugs him so perfectly. his hand releases its grip on the door handle to squeeze your hips, pulling and dragging you against his hard pelvis with every thrust.

the sound of your bare ass repeatedly pounding against his body rings in the small constraint of the back seat, the air thick with sex and arousal. you can vaguely feel your slick dripping down the plush of your ass, onto the leather as zayne fucks into you like he’s trying to find your esophagus with his cock.

through your hooded eyes you can see how fogged up the windows have become, ensuring that virtually nobody could see into the car. but if anyone did see the steamy glass it would be absolutely no secret what the occupants inside were doing. the thought of that excited you beyond comprehension.

zayne throws his head back as he continues his incessant rolls into your core, gasping out a deep and guttural cry, “heaven. you are heaven.”

his words have you whining, using your nails to clutch at his shoulders, clawing desperately at his muscles.

“ngh, z-zayne,” you pant, stray dribbles of drool dripping down your chin, your breasts bouncing with the force at which he spears you onto his body.

“look at you, soaking the damn seats,” zayne chuckles, eyeing the shiny slick on the expensive leather seats, “do you like it when i take you in the back of my car? like a needy little cock whore?”

you gasp at his words, unbelievably aroused at the utter filth that comes out of his mouth as he ruts as deep as he can into your velvet warmth.

zayne groans, “did you just get tighter?” his eyes sparkle as he gazes at you with adoration and reverence. “god, you like it when i talk to you like that huh?” you nod vigorously, fighting the blush on your cheeks and squeezing your eyes shut as you feel yourself succumbing to an incoming orgasm.

“so perfect, so fucking perfect,” he moans, cock quivering in your folds, “thought about this all fucking day.”

“i walked around that fair all day when i just wanted to be in here,” he places his fingers on the mound of your cunt and massages gently, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his cock ramming inside your sensitive walls. “could fucking live in you.”

you whimper as his thumb shifts to your clit, forcing you to face your impending orgasm head on.

“zaaayne, i’m-im gonna cum,” you wail, hands finding purchase on his thick pulsing neck, nails digging into his nape, sure to leave marks. he hisses at the sting that only feeds the intensity of the pleasure he derives from pounding into your perfect walls.

zayne grabs your chin roughly, bringing your thrown back head back up to meet his heated and hungry eyes and then pulling your chin down, “watch. watch me fuck my load inside you.” you're instantly hypnotized at the sight of his slick and shiny length rutting in and out of you, the veins glistening and throbbing with need.

“good fucking girl,” he grunts, pounding into you with a new vigor as he reaches his undoing alongside you. your leg is bent in a muscle screaming angle while he roughly grabs the side of your neck, bringing your foreheads together as he makes his final thrusts.

keeping your eyes on where your bodies are joined, you cry out, “nnngh zayne, m’cumming. please, please, don’t stop.” zayne harshly groans at your pleas, the sounds of your unhinged begging forever ingrained in his mind. your climax causes you to squeeze unbelievably tight around him, sending him toppling over his own orgasm.

the sounds of your combined moans fill the air as zayne spurts rope after rope of thick and hot cum into your quivering hole. you whimper as he suddenly pulls out of you, eyes widening as you watch even more cum erupt from his massive length, the warm milky cum painting the outside of your cunt, leaking between your lips, into your rear, and onto his luxurious leather seats.

zayne is panting, clutching onto your thigh still thrown over his shoulder, “so fucking messy.” he uses his length, somehow still erect, to smear his cum all over the outside of your cunt, practically fucking into your lips. your entire body shakes as he brushes against your overstimulated clit.

“no-no more,” you whimper, scooting backwards into the side door and sitting up.

zayne smirks, “what happened to my impatient girl? you were so eager when i was driving.” he uses his index and middle finger to swipe down your slit, coating his digits in your combined spend.

bringing it up to your parted lips, his satisfied grin deepens, “since my girl is so eager for my cum, don’t want you missing the taste.” you roll your eyes, but take him into your mouth instinctively. your body always has a mind of its own, willing to do everything and anything to please the unbelievably handsome doctor before you.

zayne presses down onto your tongue as he watches you devour his fingers, biting back the groan of arousal. he pulls away, kneeling up to redo his pants. you sit up, trying to smooth out your clothing but there’s absolutely nothing you can do about the absolute puddle between your thighs.

“zaaayne,” you whine as he climbs off of you, feeling exposed as the warm sex-filled draft of the car brushes against your bare cunt, “where are my panties?”

his eyes glimmer with mischief while his fingers lovingly smooth out your wild thoroughly sexed up hair.

“i’ve confiscated them. you’ll get them back when we get back to my home.”

you pout at him, but don’t argue, knowing you will absolutely not get your way this time.

zayne throws his arm around your shoulder and you melt into his strong arm, feeling utterly exhausted and content. zayne leans over to kiss the top of your head, breathing in the smell of your pheromones and the arousal laced air. you watch the steam on the windows slowly dissipate to reveal how the night lights glitter against the calm river.

his voice is gruff, deep with satisfaction and tiredness, when he finally breaks the comfortable silence, “will you stay with me tonight?” his tone is calm and controlled but you can distinctly make out the faintest traces of desperation, which makes your heart flutter.

“i thought you’d never ask.” you don’t notice zayne’s faint sigh of relief as his arms grip you tighter against him, finding solace in the rhythmic way your body heaves and your heartbeat steadies.

eventually zayne, despite your cries of protest, carries you back to the passenger front door, placing you gently into the seat and buckling you in before getting back into the driver seat and starting the car. you squirm as the slick between your legs continues to drip, shifting so your skirt blocks the leather from your bare skin.

“will you dream about me if i’m sleeping next to you?” you tease, bringing up your conversation from earlier. you can’t help but admire the handsome features of his side profile as he focuses on the road.

though he doesn’t turn to you, you can see the quirk in the corner of his lips, “in order to dream, you need to sleep.” his hand leaves the steering wheel to stroke your knee, making you shiver at his possessive touch. “and since i plan to stay up all night devouring you…i won’t have time to dream.”

tag list: @queenashen @kttriangle @lyssa-211 @jeikeun @achicilove

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andypantsx3 · 23 days

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𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 : 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑖 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑜 𝑥 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 : 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: In order to placate your anxious mother, you agree to return to your hometown to participate in a mating run—knowing full well that betas rarely get chased, never mind betas nearly old enough to age out of the practice. You’ve decided to treat it like a vacation, a chance to visit with your childhood friends, the mating run itself a nice relaxing hike. All in all it’s a solid plan—until alpha Todoroki Shouto, your best friend's little brother, steps in and blows it all to pieces. 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡: omegaverse, no quirks au, alpha!shouto, beta!reader, mating rituals, age gap, best friend’s little brother, older reader, afab reader, some class differences, aged up characters, semi-public sex, slight small town romance vibes, background implied dabihawks for some reason, smut, 18+; mdni! 𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑡ℎ: 5.7k | chapter 1 of 4

Then

It was a freezing day in spring the first time you set foot in the Todoroki house.

You had shared a class with Touya for years now, and in that time you’d become something of his best friend. You’d bonded early over a mutual hatred of fish and your status as the two best tree climbers on the playground—two integral friendship quality bars if ever you’d met them—and your entente had strengthened over the following months.

After enough time together Touya had even seemed to like you, seeking out your opinion, deploying you like a shield between himself and the other kids. He wanted to be paired with you for group projects constantly, as he seemed to disdain the ability of the other kids in your class.

He eventually acquiesced to two other friends—Rumi and Keigo—as Keigo was a really fast runner, and Rumi could kick a kid almost clear across a playground. But the two of you remained particularly close, and a few years in, Touya had seemed to want to check the final box of your friendship.

That was the day he’d haughtily informed you that you were coming home with him.

You’d phoned your mother from the school office to obtain permission, and then pulled your jacket on to follow Touya out into the cold, his skinny legs beating a quick path through the streets.

You’d half-expected that Touya lived in a box behind a shop, with the way he descended ravenously on his lunches (as well as yours, and Rumi’s, when he could occasionally get them—though notably not Keigo’s, something that had only retroactively made sense to you as an adult). But the house Touya steered you to was enormous—easily the biggest house you’d ever seen—a stately pile at the end of a fancy neighborhood.

You’d later learn this was because his father was the mayor, and the Todorokis were neck-deep in generational wealth. At the time you’d been mildly annoyed, because what had you let him eat part of your lunches for if he lived in a house like this?

“I’m home,” Touya had called into the echoey foyer, grand but strangely barren. He’d kicked off his coat and shoes, discarding them carelessly—perhaps purposefully—on the floor, then gestured for you to follow him into the kitchen as a warm voice called out to him. “Welcome home, Touya.”

“I brought Y/N,” he announced grandly as he prowled into the room. To you he said, “This is my mother, Rei.”

The voice you’d heard resolved itself into a woman, tall, with beautiful long white hair and a small, but unmistakably fond smile on her mouth. You startled, immediately floored by her beauty. She looked just like Touya, the same delicate prettiness to her mouth, the shape of her eyes—but even lovelier. She looked simultaneously like she belonged on the cover of a magazine, and would be embarrassed by one saying so.

She also smelled like an omega—sweet, but a little wilder than you were used to. Like spring flowers blooming on a cold day.

“Hello Y/N,” she said warmly, turning to you. You gave a shy wave back, suddenly nervous in front of her.

As she turned you finally noticed the child on her hip—a small, round, pudgy little thing with half red and half white hair, and two mismatched grey and blue eyes that pinned on you immediately. It was wearing a horrendous polkadot onesie, and you felt your eyebrows raise without your permission.

“That’s Shouto,” Touya informed you, and the pieces slotted together in your brain. Ah, so that was the face to the name.

Shouto was the little brother Touya complained about incessantly—the one that was his father’s favorite, the one that stared too much and wanted to play with all of Touya’s toys even though he was too little for them, the one Touya was saddled with babysitting constantly. He’d made Shouto out to be this sort of tiny harbinger of evil—but Shouto did not look very evil, perched there on his mother’s hip.

He blinked at you, a flutter of surprisingly long eyelashes, for a baby. You had the thought that actually he was kind of cute. Most probably not a harbinger of evil, and actually very sweet-looking, if weirdly round.

“I need to be excused from Shouto duty,” Touya said, the question posed more like a statement.

Rei shook her head, a somber little smile playing about her mouth. “I have to make dinner before Fuyumi and Natsuo get back from their playdates and your father gets home. Why don’t you take Shouto to play with you and Y/N?”

Touya rolled his eyes in the long-suffering manner of a man who’d endured it all. Shouto didn’t seem to notice, however, his mismatched gaze barely detaching from your face. You noticed Shouto’s left eye was the exact vivid blue of Touya’s, and his other eye the same silver as his mother’s.

“He’s staring like a weirdo,” Touya complained, but collected Shouto from Rei anyway. Shouto let himself be passed over as placidly as a bag of potatoes, still watching you.

“Y/N is a new face for him, he’s just curious, Touya,” Rei said, smoothing Shouto’s hair down as Touya hefted him in his arms. Shouto reached out a hand towards you, fat fingers flexing.

“What, you think I’m some taxi service who’s gonna bring you wherever you want to go?” Touya demanded. Shouto ignored him, his little chubby arm wavering.

Strangely, something compelled you to step closer, reaching out a hand in return. Shouto seized it in his pudgy little fist, staring up at you with solemn eyes. His other hand reached out to you, too, twisting in Touya’s grip, and Touya let out an annoyed scoff.

“Y/N didn’t come here to hang out with you,” he said. But Shouto ignored him, his little hand fisting in your tee shirt. He seemed to be trying to lever himself up out of Touya’s arms and into yours.

You were startled, never having held a baby before, and Shouto was kind of a big one. But Touya showed you how to hold him under his butt and across his back, and you heard the rustle of his diaper as he was handed off to you.

“Hi Shouto,” you said, watching him watch you.

His eyebrows raised, some small happiness lighting up his expression, and he gave a little kick that wiggled his whole body in your arms.

“He likes you,” Rei said over the counter top, as she settled a cutting board and a pile of vegetables across it.

You looked back at Shouto, feeling weirdly pleased. Maybe babies weren’t that bad.

Touya made an annoyed sort of grunt, stomping past you. “We’re going to play in the living room,” he announced imperiously. You glanced at Rei to make sure that was okay, then followed Touya, Shouto heavy in your arms.

By the time you arrived, Shouto had settled a hand on either of your cheeks and seemed to be trying to stare directly into your soul, and Touya patted him firmly on the back, clucking. “Stop being such a little freak.”

“He’s fine,” you said, bemused. No one had told you really little kids were this intense and weird. But Shouto’s little round face was kind of sweet, and it was hard to be annoyed at a baby staring up at you, that clearly enamored.

“Actually he’s being way nicer to me than you,” you told Touya.

Touya rolled his eyes and busied himself pulling out a horde of action figures, legos, puzzles, and games, as well as a turtle with multi-colored blocks set into it that appeared to be for Shouto.

“Oi, it’s turtle time, weirdo,” he told Shouto.

That seemed to break the baby’s singular focus on you, and he peered around, lighting up nearly the same way when he saw his blocks as he had when he’d seen you. You laughed, and helped him settle on the floor next to you, watching his clumsy, chubby grip fumble on the blocks as he carefully removed them one-by-one from the plastic turtle.

Touya set up the legos around you, an older parallel of his brother, though you thought he would kill you for saying so.

A block appeared in your lap, carefully and deliberately placed by a fat-fingered hand. You smiled down at Shouto, picking it up and gesturing grandly. “For me?”

A grey-and-blue gaze attached itself solemnly to your face, as if awaiting your judgment, and an instant fondness swept over you. Who knew babies could be this cute—when they weren’t screaming and crying and generally being small and annoying near you. Touya had massively undersold his little brother, who was the sweetest baby you’d ever encountered.

You bowed your head, clutching your gifted block close to you. “Thank you, Shouto. It’s very nice.”

Shouto stared up at you, smiling a shy little almost-smile, clearly pleased. You couldn’t help but reach up and ruffle that distinct tuft of hair, taken with him already. Yep, definitely a good little kid.

And you decided then and there that you liked Todoroki Shouto—though for now he was a child—you both were children—and he could only mean so much to you.

You wouldn’t realize how much he’d actually come to mean to you, until many, many years later.

Now

Touya’s white mess of hair was the first thing you spotted as you stumbled into the restaurant.

Outside it was unseasonably cold, an icy wind tearing through you as you’d rushed all the way from your mother’s house. The inside of the restaurant was blessedly warm, and slightly smoky from the meat and vegetables grilling away on each table top. Touya was on the far side, and you could see Rumi’s white hair beyond him, Keigo’s blonde riot of waves peeking over the top of the booth next to him.

Rumi faced the door so she spotted you first, a mouth-splitting grin overtaking her face as she waved you down.

You hurried your way over, letting out a surprised hrrk! when Rumi drew you down into a rib-crushing hug, her alpha strength barely contained. You fell into the seat at an awkward angle, your joints screaming.

“Well look what the cat dragged in! You don’t look a bit changed, you little beta cuck,” she crowed, making you choke on a laugh as you almost inhaled a mouthful of her hair.

“Rumi—!” you sputtered, half-pleased and half-scandalized that she clearly hadn’t changed in the years since you’d seen her last. She crushed you to her harder, and you could feel your eyeballs all but bulging like a rubber doll.

“If you plan to crush her to death you could at least wait until I clear the scene,” came Touya’s disaffected drawl from the other side of the table. “The last thing I need is police on my case again.”

That was so typical of him, too, after all this time.

“Good to see you too, Touya,” you said, even though you couldn’t get a look at him through Rumi’s hair. She ground her knuckles into the top of your head for good measure before releasing you, and you came up for air gratefully, watching the two men on the other side of the table grin at you.

Keigo looked exactly as you’d left him, a little bit more filled out than the skinny teen he’d been, the same wiry facial scruff growing in, those golden eyes alight with typical playfulness. Touya looked like he’d aged the most, his scars—fresher when you’d graduated—now deepened to the color of dark bruises. His features were still achingly familiar under them, however, the fine-boned prettiness of his mother shining through, his father’s blazing cerulean eyes the only nod to the other half of his parentage.

“So you really obeyed mommy dearest huh,” Touya said, pinning you with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes at him. As your closest childhood friend, he still knew all your weak spots, your mother the biggest of them. Growing up she’d been lonely and overworked, and you’d tried to care for her and please her the best you could. You still called her several times a week and sent back your wages to help pay for the house, and pay down the pile of debt your father had left her in when he’d died.

The concession of returning home for a few days to attend the annual mating run, as pointless as it was going to be, was the least you could do for her.

“You know as well as I do that no one is going to run down a beta,” you said, settling yourself in next to Rumi and shedding your coat and hat. “Especially not now that I’m well past newly-presented. It’ll be like a vacation.”

“You never know,” Keigo said, raising his fluffy eyebrows at you, his grin wicked. You flung the pile of your things across the table at him, but he intercepted easily, all alpha reflex. He stuffed your jacket down next to him, laughing at you.

“I do know,” you said emphatically. “And I’m not fussed about it. I don’t know who she thinks is going to pay her bills if I’m off getting dicked down by some knothead idiot.”

Touya made a dismissive noise and you looked around the table for something to fling at him too. He’d never had to worry about money, his future shored up with the Todoroki family fortune, built over generations and then basically quadrupled by his father. Since coming out of the correctional facility for a string of petty crimes, Touya had been skating by on family generosity, and you knew he wasn’t about to stop.

“Just burn her house down like mine,” he said, an unholy grin overtaking his face as he leaned forward. There was a light behind his eyes like he wasn’t entirely kidding. No one had ever been able to determine if the Todoroki family fire had been an accident or not, although Touya claimed it had been.

But you’d known Touya your whole life and you had your suspicions. Touya had hated his father for nearly all of your living memory—and the Todoroki men had an almost disturbing single-mindedness about them. You had long wondered if Touya’s fixation on his break with Enji had ever played into the fire that ravaged their house during your middle school years.

The one exception to the Todoroki single-mindedness was sweet little Shouto, who you’d last seen at your high school graduation. He was several years younger than you and had still been round-faced and chubby-cheeked then, all wide solemn eyes and pouty little mouth, just like when he was a baby.

You hadn’t seen him since, but couldn’t imagine Shouto turning out anything like Touya.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” you said to Touya, not liking how his grin widened.

Purportedly he’d come out of the correctional facility for good behavior, his record squeaky clean.

Purportedly.

“So why even agree to the run?” Rumi asked. “If you’re not looking to actually take anyone home?”

You helped yourself to the water that had been laid out before answering. “It’s just easier to appease my mother. She gets what she wants—some indication I’m open to my life mate-–and I get what I want, which is to be able to use this as an excuse next year.”

“Aww you won’t come back to see little old us?” Keigo asked. His tone was wheedling but his eyes tracked your expression carefully, always observing.

You smiled at him. You did miss your old friends, and you liked how easy it felt to sink right back into them after so many years away. You wanted to see them outside of the confines of a group chat or the rare facetime.

And you missed a lot about the town you’d grown up in. You liked the tiny storefronts of the downtown shops and the easy access to the coast and miles of hiking trails. You’d had a dream of opening up a little bookstore in one of the lovely brick buildings downtown when you were younger—but that was back before the staggering number of dollar signs on your mother’s bills had made themselves known to you and the romance of your daydream had begun to seem more like foolishness.

The bigger cities offered the bigger jobs, the bigger wages to send home. Even if it meant you could only see your friends every few years and mostly kept in touch via group chat.

“How about you guys come to me?” you asked. “There’s a chicken place I think Keigo will want to make the trip for.”

Keigo’s grin widened and he leaned in, interested. “Say no more,” he drawled.

On the table top, Touya’s phone vibrated. He peered at it, dismissing the notification with a swipe. “Rei wants to see you,” he reported, the usual blend of disrespect and unwilling fondness for his own mother layered in his voice. “She says you should come by the house.”

You smiled, pleased to be remembered. “I’d love that. Who’s living there now?”

Touya stretched, his back brushing the booth. “I do. And she does. Enji visits sometimes—” his tone was pointedly colorless “—and Fuyumi and Natsuo come by a couple times a week. Shouto is there almost daily for dinner when he’s not on shift, because his own cooking is absolute shit.”

You blinked, struggling to reconcile the idea of sweet-faced little Shouto with an adult who lived on his own now. “On shift?” you asked.

“He’s a fireman,” Touya rolled his eyes. “Little fucking do gooder. Ever since the house fire he’s wanted to.”

Your eyelashes fluttered again, your brain floating with the images of skinny, round-faced Shouto struggling to haul people out of a burning building. You struggled not to voice this disbelief.

“Wow, good for him,” you said.

“Not for me,” Touya complained. “Ever since he’s presented he’s been eating us out of house and home. Can’t find a fucking thing in the cabinets after he’s been through—”

And that shocked you, too, the idea that Shouto was already grown enough to have presented.

Objectively you knew he had to be into his early twenties at this point, but hearing the changes life had wrought on him was almost too much to contemplate. You wondered what he had presented as, and whether he’d be subject to the run this week as well. You’d always sort of suspected he’d be an omega, with that wide-eyed, beautiful face—almost a carbon copy of his mother’s, the same delicate prettiness in it as Touya.

And he’d been so sweet, too. When you’d been much, much younger—before Touya had become too cool and too emo for it—you remembered playing house together, remembered how often you’d dragged Shouto in to play the part of your son. He’d always sat there, a chubby-faced toddler, smashing blocks together and staring up at you with big eyes as you and Touya made plastic food and Touya unrolled a days-old newspaper collected from his father, bossing you around from his armchair.

Even when Shouto had gotten older and started to get as fresh with Touya as Touya was with him, he’d always been nice to you, always watched you with those same wide, mismatched eyes.

Yeah. He was most probably an omega.

“Well I’d love to see Rei, and Natsuo and Fuyumi and Shouto,” you said.

Touya stretched in the booth, not minding Keigo and thumping him right across the chest. Keigo squawked in annoyance.

“I’ll tell Rei you’re coming for dinner,” Touya said.

You smiled, pleased. You knew what a huge deal it was for both Touya and Rei to be in the same house again—both in recovery, both sharing the same space again.

When you’d left, Rei had been hospitalized and Touya had already been knee deep in petty crimes and utterly disinterested in any sort of overtures of help. For them to both be together again, getting regular help, with Enji out of the house and a rotating string of their family members checking in on them—you were happy to see them healing.

The buoyant feeling lasted all the way through lunch and too many drinks, until Touya shepherded you out of the restaurant, blazing a familiar path towards his family home. You followed, gratified when you saw that the Todoroki house was just as you remembered it, even the rebuilt pieces nostalgic.

Its grandness had been a shock to you as a child—not only in comparison to the tiny, squashed little two bed you’d grown up in—but that Touya had grown up there, in so vast and elegant a space. Touya who you dug in the dirt with. Touya who picked bugs out of the mud and put them on you. Touya who turned his nose up at dolls and ate things right out of your lunch box without asking, like he was a starving child without any access to food.

The house said otherwise.

Touya treated the Todoroki mansion with the same pointed lack of care he had as a teenager, kicking in the door as he led you inside, throwing his things in a pile in the entry. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, fondly nostalgic over his shithead behavior.

“You missed a spot—I think there’s a bare patch of floor over there,” you said.

Touya gave you a narrow-eyed gaze over his shoulder as he uttered a string of objects you might suck.

You raised your eyebrows at him, smiling and unbothered. He’d always said it was your beta nature that left you unfussed with his various attitudes, taking everything in stride. You didn’t know if that was true—you’d always sort of suspected it was the strange, inherent connection you felt to him, and to the Todoroki family at large that kept you fond of him, even as he descended into teenage fury.

You didn’t know what it was, as you’d not ever felt it with your other friends’ families who you’d spent nearly as much time with. But if it netted you a lifelong friend, you weren’t about to question it.

Rei was in the kitchen like she had been that first day Touya brought you home, an enormous expanse of marble counter and vaulted ceiling that made her look unfathomably small. Her snow white hair had been cropped short into a page boy cut and made her look younger than her years, especially when she glanced up at you with the very same smile she had when you were a child.

“Welcome back, Y/N,” she said. You bowed respectfully, Touya scoffing and grabbing the back of the collar to haul you up.

“She’s not the fucking prime minister,” he grunted.

“And you’re not the boss of me,” you sniped, the drinks you’d both shared at lunch making you a little looser tongued in front of Rei than you’d have liked.

“Shouto will be by in just a few minutes as well, and he’ll be so happy to see you,” Rei said, smiling gently.

“Shouto lives on his own?” you asked, curious. Aside from picturing him as the skinny preteen you’d last seen him as, you also had trouble imagining kind, sweet little Shouto leaving his mother on her own—and with Touya definitely counted as on her own, for all the help he was. Shouto seemed devoted, familial.

“He’s wanted his own space since he presented,” Rei said lightly, clearly unbothered.

It was rare for omegas to peel off from their family units before finding a mate, and the strangeness of striking out on his own struck you even further. Maybe he wanted a nest to bring someone back to, after finding the right person?

You wondered if he was going to be participating in this year’s mating run, and made a mental note to try and find out if he wanted help avoiding any undesirable alphas. If he was an omega, your beta scent would help disguise some of his tracks, you’d just have to follow in his footsteps far enough away from the main track that a ranging alpha wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it.

That thought was cut short, however, by the sound of the door creaking open in the foyer you’d just come in from. There was the sound of rustling fabric, like someone shedding their coat, and then footsteps padded through the hall. A hint of a scent met your nose, slightly sweet and smoky, with an undercurrent of something fresh—like a campfire burning on a cold, clear day. Your brow furrowed, the frostiness an almost-familiar dimension, like Rei's cold widlflower scent. Who was—?

Then a tall, unfamiliar alpha poked his head through the door, fluffy red and white strands of hair tangling across his forehead. He was an arresting sight—easily the most beautiful person you had ever seen, every single one of his features so perfectly and evenly placed, like he'd been put together deliberately. He looked startlingly like Rei, if Rei were a man, except for the fiery blue of his left eye, the shock of scarlet hair above it.

You stared at this new interloper, confused, until you were seized with a sudden memory of that scar, that same mop of hair bent over a turtle-shaped block puzzle.

No. No fucking way.

Rei smiled, opening her arms, and you gaped after him as Todoroki Shouto prowled across the kitchen to her, enveloping her in a hug. Where Touya was taller than his mother, his baby brother almost dwarfed her, easily clearing six feet, his shoulders broad and his frame packed with dense muscle. He'd always had the same elegant, sweetly beautiful set to his features that his mother and Touya did, but there was something sharper about them now, a slightly more alpha edge to him.

An enormous bicep shifted against the sleeve of his t-shirt as Shouto held Rei, and suddenly it was very clear how Shouto had managed to become a firefighter.

Something pinched your arm, hard, and you whipped around to stare at Touya accusingly. “Ouch!”

He smirked. “Don’t fucking stare like he does.”

You scowled at him, and opened your mouth to say something unsavory, until two mismatched eyes turned on you, pinning you in place.

“Y/N,” Shouto said. His voice was deep as midnight—so much lower than you had remembered—careful and smooth. The sound of it slithered up your spine like a shiver.

“Shouto?” you answered, stepping closer. “You’re Shouto? Are you sure?”

Shouto released his mother, only the tiniest corner of his mouth twitching. And that was confirmation enough. Shouto had always been a little serious, watching you carefully and intently. He was most like his mother that way—withdrawn, a little bit solemn.

“As far as I am aware,” he said. His tone was flat but you heard the tease in it, regardless. And that was so like him too, couching his inner little shit under the most serious tone, under those earnest heterochromatic eyes.

“Wish he wasn’t,” Touya muttered.

“Oh my god, Shouto. You’ve grown up so much,” you said, a strange thrill zinging up your spine as he stepped closer. That scent like campfire on a cold day washed over you, making you a little dizzy.

Shouto’s eyes got a little bit round at the edges, and something pulled at the corner of his mouth again, an expression you didn’t recognize. His tone was soft as he observed, “You are exactly the same as I remember.”

You could tell he meant it kindly, so you chose not to be offended with his obvious tact. You were well aware you were not a fresh-faced high school graduate anymore.

“I’m definitely older than you remember,” you said, resisting the urge to poke him in the chest. Your hand felt magnetized toward it for some reason. “Don’t be surprised if you hear my bones creaking all the way from the preserve during the run.”

Something sudden and strange passed over Shouto’s face, those mismatched eyes narrowing in on you.

“You’re running,” he said, his tone suddenly flat. “This year.”

“Yeah I’m back in town for it,” you said, ignoring Touya’s scoff at your side. “Gotta appease my mother. She doesn’t get that betas aren’t the target crowd for this, nevermind ancient ones. That, and I plan to disappear up a tree if someone so much as sniffs in my direction.”

“Up a tree,” Shouto repeated, sounding contemplative.

You wondered if he was internalizing how weird you were. He probably wouldn’t have remembered you being weird, considering how younger kids never thought to question their older peers. Maybe he’d even thought you cool when you were growing up together—you’d quickly disabuse him of that notion.

You nodded. “I’ve only been followed by alphas twice and both times I lost them up that big willow overlooking the bay, if you take the seaside path out two miles?”

Shouto’s eyes tracked you closely, like he was committing every word to memory. “I know it.”

You smiled. “The sea breeze is just enough to hide a beta’s scent, once you’re out of sight up there. I hope the city life hasn’t gotten me too out of shape to get up the trunk. Though to be frank I’m not too worried about it this year. Are you running?”

“Yes,” Shouto said, so quickly that it looked like he’d startled himself.

Touya’s head whipped around to stare at him, and Rei’s eyelashes fluttered momentarily, a weird stillness overcoming her—until a sort of look of understanding came over her features. You thought you caught a hint of a smile as she ducked her head to return to her dinner preparations.

“Thought you said you weren’t interested,” Touya said, his tone accusing. “You’ve never run before.”

Shouto looked deeply unfussed by his older brother’s sudden consternation. “Perhaps I have changed my mind.”

“The hell you did,” Touya said snottily. “You said you knew you wouldn’t find your life mate there.”

“Perhaps that has changed too,” Shouto said, his tone so dry that you could tell he was purposefully needling Touya. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Brothers.

Touya’s scoff overlaid the thump of Rei’s knife as she returned to chopping, and you realized how rude it looked for the three of you to be standing there arguing while she was working.

You hurriedly stepped around Touya and Shouto, peering over Rei’s shoulder. For some reason you were hyperaware of Shouto as you passed him, a thought you shoved right back out of your mind as you approached Rei. “Is there anything I can help with? I feel like I have years of free dinners to pay you back for.”

“I am almost done, but thank you, Y/N,” Rei said, as Touya said something in a haughty tone of voice, and Shouto’s low baritone answered. Rei’s mouth quirked softly at this—and you realized it was the same way Shouto smiled, small and private.

“—Not bringing home some weird fucking omega,” Touya was saying when you turned back to the boys. You startled when you realized Shouto had shifted to face you instead of his brother, and his body language looked like he was mostly ignoring him.

You channeled your sudden laugh into a fake cough. Touya eyed you sourly, long used to your tricks.

“Well if you want any help on the run, let me know,” you told Shouto, cutting into their argument with the practice of a beta used to diffusing things, especially between Touya and others. Shouto’s mouth twitched again like he knew what you were doing, and you watched his eyes pick over you speculatively.

You marveled at how far back you had to tilt your head if you wanted to look him directly in the eye now. He was so big, and so unexpectedly handsome—he really had grown up well. Some omega was going to be very, very pleased at the end of this week, provided he really did go after someone.

“If it’s your first you probably won’t know all the best hiding spots,” you told him.

Not that they were really hiding spots, considering most omegas wanted to be found. And there was no one on this earth who wouldn’t want to be found by an alpha who looked like Shouto did now. But he’d probably want to make sure he got to his intended first, before any other alpha found them.

Shouto nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I will take you up on that,” his tone was low, intimate.

You smiled up at him, though something weird twinged in your chest. “Lunch sometime this week then? I’ll walk you through everything.”

Touya made a noise of disgust, and you shushed him. Shouto’s smile pulled into a quarter-moon sliver, sweet and beautiful. “I would like that.”

A strange little thrill zinged down your spine. You very pointedly did not think about it, instead shooting Shouto a thumbs up. And then, seized by a sudden need to get away, you marched forward to grab Touya by his collar, dragging him out into the dining room.

“Do you have to make your mother do everything? Let’s set the table,” you ordered him, shoving him at the cabinets. Touya swore at you, trying to twist his lanky body out of your hands, spitting like a wet cat.

But your mind was already elsewhere, occupied by this strange new turn of events. It really had been a long time away from your hometown, and much more had changed than you realized. You’d missed seeing Touya start to recover his life, you’d missed Rei returning to herself, you’d missed Shouto growing up into a man—and an alpha. You were suddenly overcome by the feeling that you did not want to miss any more, did not want to leave again—though of course that was foolishness.

The run was less than a week away, and you had train tickets back into the city just after.

And you had your mom to provide for, much as she wanted you to settle down with the first rando who got handsy with you in the woods. An alpha would have to bring more than an interest in you to your coupling in order to win you—and that was not going to happen, especially not to a beta, and especially not to you.

You laid the dishes out, resolving yourself. You’d enjoy this week, but never lose sight of the fact that you’d still have to leave at the end of it.

After all, it wasn’t like some miraculous twist of fate was lurking just around the corner of the Todoroki kitchen, ready to change your life.

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