#so now i’m just trying to finish my unfinished artworks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ahundredtimesover · 1 year

Text

Untitled | KNJ

Pairing: Namjoon x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: idolverse (no explicit mentions of BTS), strangers au; angst, smut

Warnings: foul language, inexplicit smut (making out, non-descriptive penetrative sex) (18+)

Word count: 16k

Summary: For years as a sculptor, you felt detached from your own work - unable to title them, describe them, name the most basic emotions that artists should be in tune with. A chance encounter with a man one winter night finds you in a journey of finding your own meaning. And as you slowly discover what it means to create and to feel, you find out that this might also be what pulls both of you far apart.

A/N1: It’s been tough being on a writing slump and not being able to come up with something new, but then Indigo happened. I’ve been so into Closer and been wanting to write something that would encapsulate the song’s emotions, but the more I listened to NJ talk about his album (especially Yun), the more I got to reflect on so many other things. So here we are. This was a quick write (and an experiment, too!) filled with my own ramblings and questions that only one Kim Namjoon would prompt me to have. Please enjoy.

A/N2: I’m not an artist, but I’m fascinated by them and what they create (Van Gogh’s Digital Art Exhibition in the LUME, Melbourne from last September just blew my away). In another life, I probably would’ve been a collector. But the essence of humanity in my professional work links to my own appreciation of art in that sense. All the things that I wonder about life and the essence of being human are reflected here. I’ve taken from Namjoon’s reflections and insights as well, and once again, I was reminded of his brilliance and his heart.

2020, early winter

A little boy with a bucket painting stars in the sky.

That’s what this season’s artwork on the side of the building is. Just this fall, it was a girl raising a paper airplane on this exact spot; in the summer, it was another kid on a swing, and in spring, it was a child with an opened suitcase, their toys falling out and drifting into a stream.

Lost childhood, perhaps. That’s what happens when the world stands still, Namjoon thinks. He’d written a song about it - the things we lost during the time when time froze, and maybe just like these paintings, life continued to go on. The yearning remains, though, and he can see it on the piece that he’s been looking at for minutes now.

Maybe the artist is young, mourning their own youth that slipped from their fingers. Maybe it’s someone a little older, mourning it for others. Maybe it’s just a person who’s trying to understand the situation through a child’s eyes - with innocence, confusion, trust. Maybe it’s—

The sound of footsteps disrupts Namjoon’s thoughts. It’s 2AM and he’s a little surprised that someone is in the area at this time. It’s a busy street during the day and the crowd falls away early. It’s completely deserted by this hour; it’s why he likes taking this route from the office to his apartment. He’s always liked walking home regardless of the distance, but it’s at night when he feels most free, and it’s become something he looks forward to everyday.

He’s about to turn away when he notices a figure run up to the small building where the painting he was just admiring is. The individual lays their bag on the floor and retrieves a paintbrush and a pail, seemingly about to continue their work that Namjoon didn’t even realize was still unfinished.

“Fuck,” the voice curses out. “Fuck fuck fucking shit. Why do I always forget my hot packs!”

The person removes their mask and blows into their cupped hands, rubbing them after in hopes of sustaining the heat from the friction.

“Just a bit more,” they continue, gloved hand now pointing ripples by the boy’s legs as he stands in a body of water. “Just a bit more.”

As chattering teeth and the blowing of air on hands continue, Namjoon decides to make himself known. The stranger is clearly trying to finish their work - and he’s curious to see this all unfold, finding amusement in watching an artist in action - but the cold air is quite uncomfortable.

“Hey,” he says, as the figure stops their movements. “I’m not a creep, I promise. I was just looking at your work but you’re freezing and I… I’ve got some extra hot packs with me.”

You slowly turn around with furrowed brows. This is the first time you’ve come across another person during the early mornings you paint on this specific building. You’ve gotten used to the emptiness of this street at this time, but somehow, hearing this man’s deep, rough voice is giving you comfort. Especially since he’s offering something you need.

“Sure, that would be great,” you say, blowing into your hands again.

He slowly walks forward - clad in a thick hoodie and beanie, his mask covering half of his face. He looks familiar, but you don’t have much time to place where you know him from. You take the hot packs he offers, squeeze one with your free hand while the other continues on with the piece that you want to finish tonight.

“Will it take much longer?” He asks, his voice kind. “I didn’t know it was unfinished and it’s quite interesting to see an artist complete their work. So, uh, can I watch?”

You turn towards him. On a normal day, you’d turn him away. You’re not too keen on anyone on your ass while you finish something, but he doesn’t seem like a creep and he was kind enough to give you hot packs at a time like this, so you nod.

It doesn’t take long. It’s just some ripples and a few strokes left anyway; you were freezing too much last night so you put off the final details for tonight. And then the last bit. You sign your name on the bottom corner, and a gasp leaves the stranger’s mouth.

“Wait, you’re Blue…” he says, the realization dawning on him. “

“Surprise,” you reply, standing up from your squatting position.

“I mean, I figured since you’ve been painting children and their lost youth this past year but… the man in the rain, the distorted face on the mirror, the hand on the neck… those were you, too.”

Namjoon can’t believe he’s finally face-to-face with the artist whose work has been haunting him since he first came across one on an electric post 3 years ago.

They were in other parts of the city. He remembers seeing them on walls and buildings during his walks home or when he was in the car, and then some weeks later, they were gone, either replaced with a new piece of work or just painted over, as if it never existed. He’d seen the signature a few times, and seeing it again reminded him that it was you, too. The one who’d created those masterpieces that got him thinking, feeling, wondering.

“You have a good memory,” you simply smile at him, realizing at this point that you’ve left your mask off. You put it back on and take in his domineering form. “Those were years ago; I’ve almost forgotten about them.”

“I haven’t. I mean, sort of.”

“Good. That was the point,” you reply. “I mean, sort of.”

“The point being? That I find something that speaks to me and then the next minute, they’re gone?” He says, quite defensive. It bothered him for a time that he never got to see those pieces again.

“What did they make you feel?”

“Desolate? Alone? Confused? Desperate?”

“Then you forgot about them, didn’t you?”

“The paintings, sort of. Not the feeling, though,” he frowns. “I still think about them but… I think I’ve forgotten exactly what they look like. Is that what you wanted?”

“Pretty much,” you hum, starting to pack your things. “The stuff I leave on for a few weeks are mostly sad, and I paint over them because I don’t want people to dwell on them. I want people… to forget, to move on.”

“But they don’t, not really. I’m sure they’ve taken photos if it spoke to them so much. At least I did, but then I deleted them because…”

“Because you got over the sadness,” you smirk, knowing that somehow, he proved your point, and he lets out a chuckle at the realization. “It may be on their phones but it’s not the real thing. The image may be distorted, the colors different, the strokes a lot smoother. It’s not the same.”

“They should be preserved,” he voices out. “It’s art. Those things are meant to be immortalized, no matter how they make people feel.”

“Not always,” you counter. “At least for me, I make those to forget. The feelings fade once the art does. I created them that way.”

“Hmm,” Namjoon hums, taking this time to observe you, as you’d rendered him speechless.

There’s this softness in your eyes that contrasts the words you say. He doesn’t want to imagine what you might’ve gone through to create hauntingly beautiful pieces inspired by feelings you want to forget.

Whatever those are, he truly does wish you’ve let those go. He knows he has. But he still disagrees - he doesn’t think art ever fades. Perhaps feelings do, but he’s come to learn that visual art is eternal.

“So how long will you keep this up?” He asks, wondering when he’d see you again; the allure and intrigue from your words makes him want to know more.

“Until the next season,” you say, picking up your bag now. “It’s been a tough year and I hope the spring brings more hope.”

“But you also don’t want them to dwell on this… the loss of childhood, of youth,” he continues. “You want them to move on from this, focus on what’s to be gained after losing something important.”

“You’re a fast learner,” you wink, and Namjoon surprises himself by the way his heart jumps at the sight. “You must be a genius or something. Or an artist yourself.”

“Neither,” he lies. “I mean, I’m barely anything, really.”

“I doubt it. A guy like you being affected by all this means you’re something, whatever it is.”

There’s something validating about your words, and he smiles behind his mask, something you see, as you smile back.

It’s odd, feeling a sense of connection with a stranger like this, something he’s never really experienced, most times because he’s always wary of who he meets, especially at this time of the night. But you don’t seem to know who he is. And if you do, you don’t seem to mind or want to make a deal out of it, something that he appreciates.

There’s comfort in your smile, and he wants to discover what other things cause it. There’s a dearth of experience in your words, and he wants to know more. There’s a tenderness in your eyes that he wants to mirror; he wishes he can give comfort to someone just by looking at them.

Maybe it’s the cold breeze. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the end of the year and he’s spending it alone again. Maybe it’s spending an entire day cooped up in his studio only to go home to an empty apartment. Maybe it’s knowing what a year it was and what’s about to come. He didn’t think that a stranger in a yellow puff jacket who cursed so crisply would be the one to make his walk back home not feel so lonely. That the woman who’d casually painted some ripples and splashes on the wall was the one who’d make him feel a little less alone.

“So, uh, do you usually paint at the start or end of the season?” He wonders.

“Are you trying to ask when you’re gonna see me again?” You look at him with an arched brow.

“Maybe,” Namjoon chuckles. He’s also just trying to delay your departure, seeing as you seem to be ready to leave.

He doesn’t want to ask your name, not ready himself to share who he is. But perhaps the next meeting won’t be as serendipitous as this.

“It depends,” you tease. “But maybe I’ll see you again, either here, or elsewhere.”

“I hope it’s soon,” he confesses. He’s being bold, but his eyes light up when you reply.

“I hope so, too.”

Namjoon walks the opposite direction of where you are headed, turning back once to look at you, and catching your eyes when he does.

Winter passes. His busy schedule doesn’t permit him to take this route for a while, and it’s mid-spring when he sees a new painting that’s been completed - a young girl looking through a glass window to a world outside, her fingers holding onto the latch as she readies to open it. A small smile forms on his face; he at least sees something of you, even if it isn’t you.

The next time he’s able to pass by, it’s the end of summer, and all he sees is a gray wall - empty, undisturbed, as if there was nothing there to begin with.

2021, autumn

The bell rings as Namjoon enters the building, an art gallery that he’s been frequenting the past few months. There are new pieces, he’s been told, and one of the curators that he’s become friends with informed him that some of the artists are in town.

He nods in greeting at familiar faces - employees, artists, casual visitors. He walks around, taking in the new paintings and sculptures displayed. As he turns towards one of the smaller rooms, a piece catches his eye.

It’s something he’d seen before, a piece of ceramic sculpted in such a way that it looks like a flower in one angle, a seashell in another. And, dare he say, a vulva from a little farther away.

He reads the label. Untitled 56, Samantha Lee.

Namjoon goes through the photos on his phone, knowing it was a trip to LA over 2 years ago where he’d encountered something similar.

And there it is. Untitled 48, Samantha Lee.

He took the photo from an angle that looked like flowers, thinking about the simplicity and beauty, the choice of colors, and how they hung on the wall as part of the installation. It was one of many pieces he documented, but was the only one he didn’t get much story from. There was no description, no background. He wasn’t quite sure what to feel.

“Find something that interests you?”

Mr. Hong is one of the founders of this gallery, and he spends much of his time getting to know the regular visitors and the artists. He’s definitely someone who knows when something strikes Namjoon, like right now.

“Samantha Lee,” Namjoon responds. “Are they a local artist? I think I saw their work in LA some time ago.”

“Ah, yes Ms., uh, Ms. Lee. She’s a local and has her pieces displayed in several galleries. She’s here, actually,” Mr. Hong excitedly shares, noting how important it is for the Kim Namjoon to meet one of the artists. “She was supposed to come yesterday but decided to drop by today instead. Would you like to meet her?”

“Ah, that would be great,” Namjoon smiles back. “If she is fine with that, of course.”

Mr. Hong is never sure if the said artist is, but Namjoon is a special guest, he thinks, so the older man nods. “I’ll lead you to her.”

Namjoon is led up a small flight of stairs and out to a patio with more installations displayed. He spots several people outside, and he tries to determine which one of them is the artist he wants to meet, perhaps ask why she’d untitled all her pieces, and why there’s nothing of her at all that she chooses to share.

He stops in front of two women as instructed by Mr. Hong.

“He’s a fucking asshole, that’s what he is,” a familiar voice spits out. “The next time he harasses you, I’m going to impale his dick with my heels and—”

“Ehem,” Mr. Hong clears his throat, prompting both women to look at him. “Ms. Lee, one of our patrons would like to meet you.”

He shares a look with the woman before she nods and smiles. She turns to Namjoon where he’s met with familiar tender eyes, eyes he’s been yearning to see since that cold winter night.

“Blue?” He asks, surprised.

“My favorite color, yes. How did you know?”

You look at the man in front of you, tall and broad with caramel skin and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. You’ve seen this smile before. Even behind a mask, you could tell it’s him, the man who’d saved your ass that one cold winter night with his extra hot packs and his calming voice.

You thought you’d see him again, seeing as he seemed to want to, but he never came that spring. You even left a small, ridiculous note at the corner where your signature usually is, asking when he’d come, thinking he’d communicate with you there. But the response never came.

The universe is tricky sometimes. You passed up on coming to the gallery yesterday because you felt dizzy when you woke up. And of all days that your winter night man visits, it’s the one where you’re here.

“I just figured,” Namjoon smiles, picking up your hints. “It’s one of mine, too.”

“Perhaps we should talk about the complexities of the color, then,” you smile back, nodding towards one of the sections in the large patio.

You lead him there, leaving Mr. Hong and his warning gaze and your assistant, whose smirk and teasing laughter makes you glare at her.

“I’m guessing they don’t know about you being Blue?” Namjoon asks, feeling a little jittery standing next to you again and being able to see your face much more clearly, your hair tied loosely in a bun and your clothes a nice fit for the cool weather.

“Minji does. She helps me find materials,” you respond. “Mr. Hong doesn’t. He’s not much of a fan of street art.”

“That’s a bummer, especially since one of the artists creates amazing pieces on buildings and posts and then signs them, then abandons them, and leaves spectators like me to wonder where they’d gone,” Namjoon replies, hoping you don’t find offense with his tiny jab.

Your chuckle tells him you don’t. “You never came.”

“I didn’t know when to,” he defends. “Well, more like, I stopped having the time. That place is so far from where I live and I only walk from my office because I like that time alone and I haven’t had that, but then I came back in the summer but you—”

“You don’t have to explain,” you assure him. “That was a chance meeting and I didn’t really expect I’d see you again in the same spot weeks later.”

“Did you expect to see me this time?”

“Oh, not at all,” you shake your head. “Why are you even here?”

“Why are people ever in art galleries?” He counters. “To check out the art. Maybe chance upon the artists if they’re here.”

“I guess,” you shrug, turning a corner to a small maze of an installation. “You wouldn’t have known it was me, though.”

“I didn’t. I was staring at Untitled 56 and realized I took a photo of Untitled 48,” he reveals, earning him a shocked look from you. “It was in LACMA. I saw it a while back. The name rang a bell because I don’t know anything about you. You leave so much to the imagination, Ms. Lee. There’s nothing about y—”

“It’s Han,” you correct him, feeling comfortable now. “I mean, Han ___. Samantha Lee is another pseudonym. Or like a stage name. You know, like you?”

You bite your lip at the slip-up, not wanting him to be uncomfortable at the thought that you clearly know who he is. But he just nods, affirming that he now knows that you know who he is, but he smiles right after, his eyes turning into the smallest, prettiest crescents and his dimples framing his strong-featured face that makes him even more handsome.

“I suppose you’re right,” he hums. “But why blue? And why Samantha Lee?”

“It’s the simpler version of my favorite color. Aegean blue is too complicated to sign every time,” you chuckle. “And Samantha Lee… Well, she was my roommate back in college and she once told me she wanted to be famous and the only way that could happen is if I used her name as a pseudonym. I had a crush on her so I agreed.”

There’s a long pause before Namjoon realizes that you’re not joking, and he comments that it’s interesting but he doesn’t ask again.

“I’m Kim Namjoon, by the way,” he reaches out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you say, internally melting at the feel of his warm and large hand. “So why did you take a photo of Untitled 48?”

“It looked like a clam.”

At this, you burst into laughter.

“I don’t mean it in a bad way, just to be clear!” He insists. “It was beautifully made. It was of a neutral color but it somehow stood out the most to me in that section. And it was the 48th; I wondered why they didn't have titles. And your 56th, which looks like—”

“A vulva,” you snort.

“Yes,” he chuckles, “and a flower, yeah - something I’ve been into lately. And well, it was interesting. And seeing your piece here reminded me of that,” he goes on. “And I just wanted to know… why.”

“Why what?” You furrow your brows at him.

“Why those pieces? Why are they untitled? What prompted you to create them that way?”

“We’d probably have to tour the gallery 4 more times if you want to know,” you chuckle.

“I have time.”

“Do you?” You ask, eyeing the phone in his pocket that's been vibrating for the last 5 minutes.

He smiles shyly and excuses himself. When he returns, he has a disappointed look on his face. “Turns out, I don’t have time. But I want to. I… uh, will you be here again anytime this week?”

“I will. I’m just not sure when.”

There’s something alluring with these coincidental meetups. Somehow you want more of those, perhaps to let the universe tell you that you’re meant to constantly meet this man whose time you know you’ll never have enough of, even if he makes it for you.

“Let me see you again?”

“You will.”

You catch his eyes when he turns back as he walks away. There’s a sparkle in them, and you’re afraid to want to see it once more.

The walk to the site of the lost youth is a long one, but not knowing when you’d see the tall man with the prettiest smile again, you head there.

Your last piece was of a child at the brink of freedom, about to take the step outside the cage she’d been in for the past year and a half. You painted over it once autumn started; maybe the next time you’d paint over a building, you’re no longer yearning for lost things. Maybe you’d paint something about finding something new.

“I’m gonna start believing in a higher power if we continue meeting like this.”

The raspy voice is familiar, and you turn around to see Namjoon, clad in a hoodie and a baseball cap, leaning against one of the streetlights across the empty wall of the building you’d been staring at. It’s been 2 days since you saw him at the gallery, about 7 months since the first time you’d encountered him here. You’re unsure what this all means.

“Maybe you should,” you head towards him. “I missed the last bus so I decided to walk home. I’m still far away but this is on the way. Why are you here?”

“Stayed up at the studio,” he replies. “I’m incredibly exhausted but I don’t know, I got the energy for the long walk. Then there you were.”

“There I was, appearing so suddenly again, yeah?” You chuckle, leaning on the opposite side of the pole.

Namjoon merely hums before he nods towards the direction of his apartment. “I’m heading there.”

“Me, too.”

With his hands in his hoodie pockets and yours crossed against your chest, you try to match his long strides.

“Painting came first,” you say, as if answering the question that he’s been thinking of asking. “Painting was everything. We had so many pieces in our home, and it’s as if they spoke to me. I mean, in a not creepy way, it felt like all of my parents’ own pieces spoke to me. And they always told me I wasn’t good enough.”

Namjoon turns to look at you with empathy in his eyes. He lets you speak, and he finds out that both your parents are the artists he’d been researching lately. Your father is a classical painter, and your mother does contemporary. He can’t imagine living in gigantic shadows like that.

“When I was 15, my parents pulled strings to get some of my pieces displayed with theirs,” you sigh, recalling the mixed emotions then. “It was exciting at first, but the patrons wouldn’t mention my name unless they mentioned my parents’. And then one of my favorite pieces that I made was sold to a man who wanted it as a decoration in his summer home’s living room.”

Namjoon slows his walk and you match his pace. You meet his comforting eyes, and there’s that warmth you feel from, technically, a stranger that you didn’t expect.

“I made that piece at a time when I was frustrated living in my parents’ shadows,” you continue. “Someone once told me that art is meant to be shared, that there’s humanity in the community we create when it’s shared, that the meaning deepens when others make their own. That piece had so much of me in there; I felt like the meaning of that piece was stripped away from me the moment that stranger took home that canvas for a select few to look at. It wasn’t mine anymore, it was his; it was theirs. I stopped painting after that.”

There’s a certain kind of pain in giving up something that matters deeply to you, in losing meaning in the thing that’s given your life meaning for most of your life. Namjoon knows a bit about that pain. Many times, he’d found himself questioning all that he does, what he stands for, and what the world expects him to be.

He sees that pain in your eyes, of losing a part of you as the art stopped meaning what you wanted it to. But he doesn’t think that all is lost.

“But your street art,” he reminds you. “That’s still you. That still has meaning. And that’s something that you share.”

“That’s Blue, though,” you manage a smile. “She’s just a part of me.”

“She’s still you,” he insists. “Can you tell me about her?”

And so you tell him - how you argued with your parents about quitting painting, how you were going to turn down the scholarship in a prestigious art university to take up sociology instead, so they shipped you to a foreign country to fend for yourself, and that’s when you learned what loneliness felt like. But that’s also when you learned about people in their rawest sense, what it meant to struggle to survive, what it meant to lose something that mattered, because you studied them - you studied how humans grieved and how they persisted. You studied how they lived and how they died.

“Blue wants meaning, and she still struggles in finding it,” you explain.

“Does she?” Namjoon questions. “I’m in my late 20s but your lost youth series resonated with me. All those paintings of the man in the rain, the distorted face… they’ve inspired me in ways I can’t explain. That’s meaning, ___. That matters.”

No one outside of Minji knows all these versions of you. Except Namjoon, the brightest star you never thought you’d ever meet. Hearing him speak about your work this way makes you feel something - a first in a long time.

“Thanks, I guess,” you say shyly.

“It’s a shame they’re not displayed in galleries and museums, though.”

“I don’t want them to,” you say, surprising him. “People intend to go to museums, but they pass these streets out of necessity. I want them to stop and look, to feel, to think for a few seconds before they go back to their routinary walk. And then I remove them, so they can forget what pain and sadness feel like.”

“Looks like you found your meaning, then,” Namjoon smiles, comforted by the fact that someone as talented as you had found purpose again, something he relates with at a deeper level than he imagined.

“The painter in me did,” you reply. “The sculptor, not so much. “

“Untitled,” he hums.

“Yeah. I don’t think I can name something I understand, or at least, feel,” you say.

“That’s a lot of untitled works for you to not understand what you do,” he chuckles.

“I’m prolific because there’s not much of me I lose when I create them,” you explain. “I just sit in my stool, craft something, then call it a day. Not to brag or anything, but it comes easy. They’re shallow pieces, Namjoon. They don’t even deserve to be in galleries but Mr. Hong insists they do for some reason. I wish this version of me, Samantha Lee, understood why it matters, why someone like him would believe in my pieces, why a Kim Namjoon would think that 48 stood out to him enough to keep a photo.”

Namjoon processes your words. As an artist himself, he believes in the meaning of the pieces that he creates, whether it’s a song or a poem or an album or a concert. There’s effort put into them even if it’s something created in 30 minutes. Your pieces are beautiful, and he wants to explore more - you and your meaning, you and your value.

“Then why do you keep making them? What about it makes you keep sculpting?”

“The feel of the clay on my skin, the way my fingers get to mold and create the details,” you explain. “I get to touch it. I don’t get to do that with painting, you know? It’s the paintbrush and the canvas I feel but with sculpting, I get to mix the materials, I get to shape it, hold it.”

“There’s that intimacy,” he offers.

“Yeah. And it’s addictive because it’s closeness I’ve never felt before.” You turn to him before speaking the next words. “It's an intimacy I’ve never experienced before with anyone or anything.”

“Isn’t that your meaning, then?” He questions. “The piece itself might not have a story on its own but all these untitled works, the process of creating, of it being easy because you can’t get enough of the intimacy you get from creating… that’s meaning. That desire for closeness, for meaning… that’s meaning.”

No one’s ever put it that way for you, probably because you’ve never let yourself be this honest with someone about your art. All your friends aren’t artists because you wanted that world separate, you didn’t want to have to talk about it feeling as insecure and lost as you are.

But Namjoon - he’s one of your generation’s greatest artists. He weaves words and sounds so beautifully to create masterpieces that people consume and hold so closely. He understands.

“I’ve made songs that took me 30 minutes,” he shares. “But I’ve also made songs that took me to dark places, that broke me as I wrote them. But once they came out, once I’ve shared them to others who’ve shared what it meant to them… slowly, I started becoming whole again. Isn’t that an artist’s burden? To break to create, to feel whole after that, and then to break all over again?”

“You are truly one of a kind, Kim Namjoon,” you tell him. “I’ve lived with artists my whole life and they never let me understand art in that way.”

“I’m still figuring it all out,” he shrugs. “I still feel lost sometimes, but I think it’s natural to feel that way, to be unsure or confused. I guess what matters is that we’re still walking on some road to somewhere, even if we don’t know where we’re heading.”

“Is that where you are right now?” You wonder. “On a road to somewhere you don’t quite know yet?”

More than you know, he wants to say. He’s in this period of experimentation, of figuring out his signature style, of figuring out who he is and what he means to his teammates, to the industry, to the world.

“Sort of,” he shrugs. “It’s hard sometimes. Walks like this give me a reprieve. Consuming other people’s art lets me understand things a bit more.”

“Yeah, I get it. I mean, conversing with strangers gives me time to breathe, too.”

“Ooh, so I’m still a stranger, huh?” He chuckles, shyly looking at you. “Our third unplanned meeting, an hour of walking home… and I’m still a stranger.”

“What would you want to be, then?” You turn to him, a little teasing smile on your face.

“A friend, for starters.”

“My nighttime friend?”

“Not just,” he shakes his head. “I would like to see you again, actually. And I don’t want to put this up to chance this time. Like, something planned or—”

“And how exactly would that work?”

“I, uh…” he thinks. “I’d invite you to my apartment. And you can invite me to yours?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get to know you more, if that’s okay.”

“Are you always this bold?” You giggle, not missing the way your cheeks start to feel warm at the mention of visiting each other’s homes and him wanting to get to know you.

He’s obviously handsome - you’ve known of him since his band made it to your TV screens, being young men who were around your age, singing songs that resonate so deeply with you. But he’s more than that, as you’re learning. There’s this passion for creating that's refreshing, something you seem to lack.

“Not always,” he looks away, the dips in his cheeks something you’re sure you won’t get enough of.

“You should be. It makes a girl flustered but it makes it so difficult for her to say no,” you smirk. Sometimes, you also don’t know where your own boldness comes from.

“You? Flustered? That’s quite hard to believe,” he teases.

“That’s true. But it happens, believe it or not, when a gorgeous, brilliant man asks me over.”

Your heart stops for what feels like a minute, but his sweet, child-like laughter melts away your worry.

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” You ask.

“Surprisingly, no,” he replies. “I appreciate your honesty. About everything. I hope we can give that to each other.”

“Okay then, your turn,” you challenge.

“Hearing you curse was kinda hot.”

You try to hold off your laughter, your defense to your true reaction, which is to smile like an idiot and feel like floating.

“That’s interesting. I would’ve thought it’s something to do with my looks or my talent, you know?” You arch an eyebrow teasingly.

“It is. I think you’re beautiful. And I’m usually a forgetful person but I haven’t forgotten your sweet smile since I first saw it last winter,” he says, catching you off guard. “And your talent… there’s a reason why I have 48 saved on my phone, and why I sought out your street art these past years. I want to know what intimacy in art is like for you. I guess I’ve sort of lost that in creating my own.”

“Intimacy,” you repeat. “I think we both lack it in certain ways.”

“Maybe we’ll find it,” he says more confidently now, holding your gaze as your eyes trace his face.

“Maybe we will,” you respond, feeling your whole body warm with embers of fire.

He insists on taking you home, another 20-minute walk away from his. But you claim to enjoy that time on your own, assuring him that you do this all the time and the streets are safe.

“Let me know when you get home safely?” He asks, and you give him your phone for him to input his number.

“I will.”

It’s 30 minutes later when you do. It’s 1AM, but you and Namjoon spend the next 2 hours talking some more - about his songs and your pieces, about his plants and your collection of wind chimes.

You didn’t expect to make him laugh as much as you did, and he said he didn’t expect you to think his ramblings are adorable and amusing. You most definitely didn’t expect your heart to beat as fast as it did when he told you, in his deep, raspy voice, that he’s glad he took that long walk that winter, that he visited the art gallery when he did, that the hopeless romantic in him pushed him to go to the place you first met.

“I think I’m crazy but somehow I feel like I’ve known you for so long,” he muses.

“I feel the same way,” you assure him, as you hug your pillow and slowly surrender to sleep.

“Good,” he hums. “That’s all I wanted to know. Good night, ___. And I’ll see you soon.”

2021, winter

There’s a warmth in Namjoon’s home that’s hard to replicate. Filled with his favorite art pieces of all forms, he said he curated it to reflect his emotions just as much as his tastes. It’s clean and well-organized, with books on shelves and stacks on the floor, and an entire area full of liquor - his new interest, he’d said.

He’s had you over several times already; the first one, barely a week after that long walk home. You both spent hours that day talking about his favorite artists, and it wasn’t enough, as he asked you back the next day.

You often talk about your childhood, one that you weren’t always comfortable sharing, but being with him makes it easy.

It’s easy when he looks into your eyes when you speak, as if he’s telling you that he knows you say more than words. It’s easy when he’s got his own stories to share - stories of vulnerability and honesty, of fear and confusion. It’s easy when he still stutters over words sometimes and then gets lost in his own ramblings, then he chuckles when he realizes he’s talked so much, and you tell him that it’s okay because his voice is calming and his thoughts are a breath of fresh air.

It’s easy when his presence is comforting, when his anecdotes about his friends and family make you laugh until your insides hurt. It’s easy when he makes you feel like you can question everything about your art and your purpose and your abilities but he never makes you feel like a failure. It’s easy when he smiles and laughs nervously, when he’s funny without meaning to, and when he makes sure you’re comfortable by always having your preferred tea and biscuits next to the wine you once said is your favorite.

The only time it gets hard is when he stands a little too close as you look up at a painting or a book on a shelf. You could feel the heat from his body; a slight movement and you’d be touching, mere cloths in between you. It’s hard when his arm brushes the slightest bit against yours. It’s hard when he gazes at you when there’s silence, and it’s like he’s studying your face before you call him out and he apologizes because he “can’t stop looking at pretty things.”

It’s hard when he hugs you goodbye and he wishes you a safe ride home. It’s hard when he sends you a message right after, saying he wishes you both had more time.

Being attracted to Namjoon is hard; being attached to him is torture.

“You’re looking for him again,” Minji states the obvious as you walk around the gallery, your eyes darting to the door every time the bell rings.

“No I’m not,” you deny. “He just got back from his trip abroad and he’s tired. He won’t be coming here.”

“Doesn’t mean you wish he would,” she smirks. “But why rendezvous here? You guys go to each other’s houses. And no one goes to your house… aside from me.”

“We can’t exactly see each other in public, you know?” You glare at her. “But… I don’t know, it’s nice to see him look around and talk about what he sees. I feel like I learn more from him. And that’s weird, isn’t it? This is my field. The arts have been my entire life, but I’m learning more about it from him.”

“What is it about him?” She wonders.

She doesn’t say that she’s noticed more life in your eyes since he came into your life. She doesn’t say that she’s noted that you take more time creating pieces, seemingly savoring the process unlike the way you used to. She doesn’t mention the smile that she hasn’t seen in all the years that she’s known you.

“Passion is sexy, you know?” You giggle. “He has so much of it, it’s inspiring.”

“Is that all?” Minji smirks.

“He’s also fucking gorgeous. I try not to ogle him but I think he’s noticed. Fuck me.”

“Maybe he wants to.”

“Shut up. Don’t make me hope.”

“You do that to yourself,” she laughs. “Keep denying that you don’t want to see him or want anything more with him and let’s see how you do.”

The truth is, you know. You know that you’d fall hard if you let yourself go like that, but it’s human to know danger and then still want it, isn’t it?

The vibration from your phone ringing surprises you.

“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice booms on the other end.

“Hey,” you reply. “How was your trip?”

“Good. I just got home. We had to stop by the office for a bit. My place is a mess and we have something again in the afternoon,” he huffs, sounding incredibly tired. “Can I come over tonight?”

You almost drop the flute of champagne you’re holding. He’s been to your house twice, but this is the first time he’s specifically asked to come over, especially considering that he just arrived from a trip abroad.

“Of course,” you hum. “Any dinner preferences?”

“Your cooking,” he says simply. “But wait for me, okay? I’ll let you know when I’m on the way.”

“Okay,” you say, before dropping the call, unable to hide the wide smile that forms on your face, to your assistant’s amusement.

“Why don’t you try to let go this time?” She advises. “Maybe you’ll find the intimacy you’ve been longing for.”

Namjoon overestimates your cooking abilities. Truly, all you know to do is prepare ramyun and fry anything. But, compared to him, he’s said you’re chef level. “The guys” don’t even want him near the kitchen, he tells you all the time.

But instant noodles and pork belly seem enough for him, as he eats with his mouth closed and hums in satisfaction. You take the time to savor the way he looks. A few weeks without him has started to feel like months.

“It was overwhelming,” he finally says.

He knew the moment he landed that he wanted to see you. There’s comfort in your presence that he’s begun to accept, and being with you allows him to be honest, to feel real, to feel human.

“It was great to be able to perform again, to hear the cheers and the sounds and everything. It was also terrifying,” he continues. “I was nervous and excited, I was scared and elated. I felt so fulfilled and satisfied but I also felt like it wasn’t enough.”

“That’s a lot of conflicting emotions,” you hum.

“Are they? Conflicting, I mean.”

“It depends, I guess. They seem up and down to me. Does it bother you?”

“That I felt all that, all at once?”

You nod in response.

“It used to,” he admits. “At the start of all this, I thought, I can’t be scared. Six other guys and an entire company are looking to me to succeed. I have to be strong and confident. And then, an industry is waiting for me to fail. And then, my own country is letting me - us - represent an entire generation, it’s asking me to carry on this cultural wave. It never ends. And I used to think I couldn’t be scared, that not wanting all this anymore means I’m ungrateful.”

“But you aren’t,” you try to assure him. You can’t imagine the burden he feels, leading a group that feels all kinds of pressure. “I’ve heard you talk about your art and your poetry and your brothers and your fans. You’re easily the most passionate, hardworking, and appreciative person I know. I don’t think you’ll ever run out of things to give.”

“It’s tiring,” he sighs.

“I’m sure. But you’re honest about it. You’ve always been. Doesn’t honesty unburden you, even just a little bit? Doesn’t it leave you space to feel more, to be more?”

Namjoon hums. For someone who claims to not know much about feeling, you seem to know what to say to make him stop and think, to remind him of why he does what he does. And why ultimately, he’s always going to love it.

“It does,” he finally says, sitting up straight to take a better look at you in your linen pants and soft sweater. “Do you do that, then? Unburden yourself by being honest?”

“I’m not good at doing that,” you chuckle. “If you don’t know by now, I say a lot of seemingly profound things that I don’t necessarily live by.”

“Why not?”

“Honesty scares me. Being vulnerable scares me. I don’t know how to return it.”

“Has anybody ever been all that to you?” He wonders, feeling the tension build a little.

“Once” you say, standing from the dining table and heading to the large window that overlooks your garden. “And I ran away.”

“Is that why you sculpt, then?” Namjoon asks, walking towards you. “Because you don’t know what to do with intimacy so you do it with your art? You want to hold and touch what you walk away from? You don’t give it a name because you don’t want to define it? Because you’re scared that if you do, you’ll realize that you actually want it - the closeness, the warm body, the rawness that you can only get from being with someone else.”

You look up at him, towering over you. He came from a short filming, donned in a white, buttoned polo with his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You can see the darkness of his hazelnut eyes and the stubble on his chin. You spot the beauty mark on his neck and the smoothness of his skin, especially on his chest, as he leaves 2 buttons undone.

“Reading me now, Kim Namjoon?” You cock an eyebrow, trying to break the tension that’s built up in the last few minutes.

“I’m trying, because I want to get to know you more, find out what you’re afraid of and ease it somehow,” he admits. “Because I feel the same way. I’m honest but I’m scared, yet with you, I’m honest but I’m brave. I feel like I’m brave. I don’t know what it is, but ever since I met you, I just wanted…” he glances at your lips then meets your eyes again. “I just wanted to know more, to feel more. To understand what it’s like to be intimate with someone who doesn’t know much about it like me. I want to figure it out. With you.”

“How?”

One word is all you get to verbalize, as you feel him come closer, the heat of his body intensifying with every second. You’re backed up against the window, the distance between you and him decreasing and decreasing.

His eyes are boring into you, and you bravely gaze at him back. You mirror his desire, as you lick your lips when he glances at them again. Your chest is heaving as is his, and your heart races even more when he breathes out your name.

You palm his chest, and for a brief moment of uncertainty in his eyes at the thought of you stopping him, you instead grip the cloth that covers him, and you slowly pull him in.

His lips are soft. And the way he gently presses against you is tender, comforting, like he wants to savor it and go slow. He angles his head the same time his hand reaches for your waist, and you feel the slightest wetness from his tongue.

You grant him entrance, and the second you do, he takes control, tightening his hold on your body as he cages you, his one arm now propped up against the window. You moan into each other as tongues and teeth clash, and you can’t help your hand that travels to pull on the ends of his hair, brushing your fingers against the nape of his neck right after.

It’s a little sloppy, needy, but there’s still gentleness in there. It’s in the way he cups your cheek, caressing it with his large fingers and letting it slide down your chest, back to your waist. It’s in the way he smiles into the kiss when you moan your pleasure; you can almost feel his dimples as he does. It’s in the way that he asks for more, not with dominance but with care, with understanding, with caution.

You both pull away to catch some air, lips swollen and wet, but your smiles say you enjoyed it. The way your bodies haven’t completely detached from each other shows that.

“Would you let me stay the night?” He asks softly, as if it’s a request he’s afraid to ask.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Be with me tonight.”

Underneath the covers of your bed, you lay in his arm while your fingers trace patterns on his taut chest. You can hear his heartbeat still drumming, and you can feel the care in the way he caresses your cheek, your arm, your waist.

“I don’t know what I can give you, Namjoon,” you admit. “I don’t know how to be as honest and vulnerable as you. I don’t know how to share parts of me that I don’t understand. I don’t know what I can do to ease all your worries and concerns. I—”

“Just give me moments,” he interjects. “Nights like this, days at our homes, afternoons at the galleries, hours on the phone… I just want to feel something that I can actually touch, that I can savor. And I want it to be you, the one I get to hold and taste and kiss.”

He leans forward again, and you capture his mouth in yours. There’s no need to do more - much as you’re wet and he’s definitely hard, but neither one of you is rushing, neither one wants to scare the other.

He’s hot, the kind that burns. That’s how it is with people as passionate as he is - their touch can light a fire on your skin, and you won’t be able to stop it.

“I can give you moments,” you whisper. “Just tell me.”

2022, spring

You can count the moments with 2 hands.

Namjoon stayed with his parents over the holidays but he videocalled you everyday. You both went to a few galleries outside the capital but did so separately, spending hours after that talking about the pieces over the phone.

You’ve come to appreciate your world much more deeply with his commentaries and reflections, and with you, he said he’d gotten to breathe a little longer, laugh a little louder, and feel a little more human.

He stayed over your place 4 more times; you stayed over at his thrice. You debated over movies and recommended each other books. It was common to spend the day wrapped up in each other on the couch while you both read separately. He made you listen to a few songs he’s been working on - some of which were inspired by your many conversations and your own musings, and you’d showed him sketches of your upcoming planned series on sculpted landscapes.

It’s freeing, being able to share about your world with someone else like this, and being part of someone else’s, too. Whatever it is you both have is freeing - kisses included, which never went beyond what you first did. Despite the obvious desire to do more, neither of you ever tried, perhaps knowing what it would entail. There’s distance between you and him but there also isn’t. There’s enough comfort and intimacy that you’ve only scratched the surface of, but this seems to be just enough.

“I have the weekend off,” he pants over the phone. It’s 11PM and they’ve just finished rehearsals for an upcoming series of concerts abroad. “Do you want to do something?”

“A trip to my parents’ summer home?” You wonder out loud. The spring air has come and you love going to the lake at this time. “It’s by the mountains and it’s really private. The estate is like their personal art museum with their works and others’. I visit every year. But if—”

“Yes, a hundred times yes,” he huffs. “That’s fucking amazing.”

“I know I got you at the art museum bit,” you laugh.

“You got me at the really private bit, actually,” he says seriously, causing your heart to race. “And the art of course. And you. Always you.”

“Alright, Casanova,” you tease. “Just make sure I don’t get in trouble for taking you somewhere weeks before you leave.”

“We’re alright,” he responds. “I can’t wait.”

It’s a 3-hour drive to the estate by the mountains. In the far future, your parents want to open it up for private viewing, and so you want to make sure that your art lover more-than-but-not-really-friend gets a first peek.

You spend the entire ride talking about a hundred topics, going off tangent when he rambles again, and you’re the one who circles him back to the original discussion. You hum tunes while he sings songs, and when you find private spots, you take the risk and take photos.

You make it to the estate in the late morning, and as you expected, Namjoon’s jaw drops.

The fountain at the front is an art piece itself. The front door was shipped from Indonesia, and the furniture are a beautiful curation of pieces from all over the world that were gifted to or bought by your parents.

You watch him gently trace the carvings and the details. You’re in awe as he absorbs the sculptures and paintings as you tour him around. And you melt every time he turns to you with the biggest smile on his face, like he’s discovering a secret that only both of you know. It’s breathtaking and absolutely precious.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he says, as he catches you marvel at him. “I like it when you look at me like you want me.”

“Don’t fluster me,” you say, turning away.

“You’re not denying it,” he counters, walking closer to you.

“I would be a liar if I did.”

“That’s good to know,” he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know I only asked for moments but can this weekend be filled with that?”

He looks nervous, like you’d turn him down.

“I… it’s been tough, dealing with a lot of things,” he continues. He’s mentioned some difficulties lately, and you know there’s not much you can do about it. Except, maybe this. “I just want something to hold onto, like being here with you, experiencing all these art pieces, being close…”

He cups your cheek and gives you that look that you’ve become familiar with, his request for intimacy that you both continue to explore.

“Okay,” you respond, taking his hand and kissing it. “Okay.”

You eat lunch, explore the east wing of the property, and at mid-afternoon, you convince him to swim on the lake with you.

“Isn’t it freezing?” He asks worriedly.

“That’s the fun part of it,” you insist. “There’s a hot tub we can stay at after.”

Namjoon gives in. It’s easy to, with a smile like yours that makes his heart race every time. Especially when you come out in your blue swimsuit, shaping your curves and all other parts of your body that makes his own react. He can’t help but marvel at you, even as you tease.

“Hey, big guy, eyes up,” you smirk.

He blushes when you giggle, but he does tease back, removing his shirt to reveal his body that he’s been working so hard on. He does flex a little to give you a taste of your own medicine, and it works.

“Hey, eyes up,” he chuckles.

You feel a shiver when his finger tilts your chin up, and you do the childish thing and bite it before you run to the lake and dive in. Namjoon follows, canonballing and then swimming over to chase you.

You haven’t swam here in years. You merely used to watch the sun rise and then gaze at the sky and imagined doing all this with someone else. You didn’t really think you’d end up here with Kim Namjoon, but here you are.

Namjoon pulls you to him as you swim close, and you both float in the water with your arms around his chest and his arms around your waist. You’re obviously both drenched, and that just leaves so little to the imagination, especially with the cold water a little more overwhelming than you expected.

His hair is swept back, with beads of water lining his face and sliding down his neck and his chest. He’s broad and incredibly built. It’s unfair that his body looks as amazing as his face.

“Does Minji know you’re here with me?” He asks.

“Yes, teased me nonstop until I picked you up. What about the guys?”

“They do. They insist we are a couple.”

“And?”

“And I said that we aren’t,” he says cautiously. “We’re friends who spend a lot of time together and cuddle, and uh, sometimes do a little more.”

“What a complicated way to say we’re friends with benefits,” you laugh.

“I don’t see it that way, though,” he furrows his brows. “I don’t want to reduce what we are to each other to just benefits or something sexual or shallow. Do you see it that way?”

“No,” you say. “I… I’ve come to understand art a lot more because of you. I’ve come to appreciate what I do. That’s not just some benefit.”

“And I… can’t even explain all that you do for me,” he says. “We’re more than that. Less than lovers, but more than friends. And our moments shape this, whatever name we call it.”

“Untitled,” you wonder out loud. “Sometimes artists name their pieces as such when they can’t find a better descriptor.”

“So 58 sculptures in, and you still can’t find a better descriptor?” He teases.

“Shut up,” you smack his hard chest. “I titled them that way because I didn’t have a meaning for them. I just created them. But then I met this man, tall and built with a sexy brain, and he made me realize that the meaning is in the creation, too. So 58 works, 58 times I experienced intimacy, the only times I do.”

“Ah, so what about us?” He nudges you with his nose. “Aren’t we intimate?”

“It’s a different kind, I guess,” you say. You’re not my creation and you’re not mine, you choose not to say. “You don’t break. You’re the one that breaks other things.”

You pass it off as a joke, and he buys it. You don’t want to think much about what you and Namjoon aren’t; you just want to think about what you both are - something that may or may not be fleeting, but something beautiful nonetheless.

The sun shines a little too bright, and you take the chance to get out of the water and into the dock to soak up its heat. Namjoon follows and you both lay that way, just next to each other, catching your breaths.

“Are you feeling a little better?” You ask, wondering if he still carried over all his concerns here.

“Yes. It’s exhilarating,” he responds. “It’s nice to feel this way for a change.”

“I’m sure you’ve felt this way before, too.”

“Not this way,” he turns to you. “It’s different, I guess. It makes me think of all the other emotions I have yet to feel, the ones I’ve felt only briefly before, and the ones that I’ll never feel. I think life’s too short for a person to experience all kinds of emotions. I was it wasn’t.”

“Are humans built for that?” You question. “To feel every possible thing out there? To feel every variation of pain and sadness and joy and elation and pleasure and desire?”

Namjoon thinks. Surely, being able to have emotions and to truly feel is what makes us humans and what makes us different from animals. It’s what marks our humanity, regardless of what emotion that may be. But are humans really capable of feeling everything without breaking? Without it being too much?

“Maybe not,” he finally responds.

You think, too. You’ve often wondered why you were so scared to be vulnerable, to take risks, to love. You thought once that feeling things is overwhelming - what do you do with them? How do you handle them when they get too much? When you become too happy or too sad or too scared or too excited?

You think maybe because like all things in this world, you can never have emotions. You feel them, but you can’t own them, they can’t be yours. Like your art. You can create them but they stop being yours once you share them. Like music, as Namjoon has told you, it stops being his the moment he releases it for others to consume. And it’s scary to not have that permanence; it’s scary to not have that assurance that you’ll always have that joy or that excitement or that elation. And in some way, it’s also scary to know that you won’t always have that pain or that sadness.

“Maybe humans are only built to try to feel everything,” Namjoon states, having thought about your question and his years-long quest of figuring himself out. “But we aren’t meant to achieve it. Maybe our life is about just feeling bits and pieces of it, sometimes longer than others, but we can’t feel it all, and definitely not all at once. It’s like truth; we spend our life seeking and trying to live it, but we might never be able to. Still, we have to keep trying.”

“Hmm,” is all you manage to say. “Do couples have deep conversations like this?” You laugh this time, needing his thoughts to linger a little longer.

“They should,” he laughs. “But it’s enough for me that I have someone like you to make me question things. It reminds me that I have more to discover, to feel.”

To feel.

Sometimes Namjoon makes it seem so easy to just do that. He’s able to name what he feels, unlike you. You wish it was easy, like saying that the cold water on your skin is refreshing, like the sun’s heat is comforting, like the clouds in the sky are soft.

You don’t notice your hand reaching up, wanting to just touch them because you want something concrete, something more real than what your imagination says that clouds feel like. But instead, you feel rough, warm fingers interlocking with yours.

“If you want to feel something concrete, I’m here, you know?” Namjoon says, thumbing your hand to let him know he’s right next to you. Somehow he just knew what you were doing, what you were wishing for.

“But this is what couples do,” you tease, yet tightening your hold nonetheless.

“Friends hold hands,” he smirks.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. They kiss, too,” he hums, lifting himself up only to hover over you, catching you by surprise, but your desire trumps that, as the view of him - damp and natural-looking - makes your insides twist in circles.

“Hmm, like this?” You peck his lips, then his nose, teasing him.

“Sometimes. Other times it’s deeper. You know, like this.”

He dives in, and you welcome him immediately, your mouth already slightly open for your tongue to entangle with his. It’s long and deep, as how your kisses always are, and you feel him shift above you, fixing his position with his arms caging your head for support. He angles his mouth so he can have more of you and control how far he goes, how hard, and how fast.

Your fingers, whose spaces were filled by his just minutes ago, ghost over his neck. They trail down to his chest, gingerly passing by his pecs and his abs, the tips now resting on his hips.

“Fuck,” he moans in your mouth, and you immediately know why he does, feeling his length getting harder by the second.

It prompts him to grind on you, and you meet him halfway.

“Fuck, Joon,” you whine once his lips detach from yours, only to meet your neck when he sucks then licks over the sting. “Fuck.”

He hums in satisfaction at the sounds you make, going south now as he teases by giving tender kisses on the exposed part of your breasts before biting your nipple over your suit.The obscene sound you make turns him on, especially when you pull his hips harder against yours.

“Oh fuck, baby, yeah,” he groans in your ear now, and you might as well have just come from the way he said those words.

And then you remember where you are - in the outdoors, in your parents’ summer home. Private as it may be, you’re still exposed, and you remind him of the fact before he slows down and agrees that you can’t be doing this out here.

“I’m sorry I got carried away,” he says shyly now, as if he didn’t just devour you with his skillful mouth.

“Yeah, this is totally your fault,” you tease.

He chases you back to the house where you both spend another hour in the hot tub, just talking like normal friends, as if you didn’t almost just cross a line. But it’s like that with Namjoon, you’ve come to realize. Everything is easy, everything is natural, like you can just forget that he isn’t him and you aren’t you.

You spend the rest of the day looking at all the pieces on the first floor, with you sharing as much about them that you can remember. You both sleep that night with his head on your chest and his arms around you.

He sleeps soundly, snoring even. And as you comb his hair, you think of how close you were to wanting so much more in the lake earlier. You think of how much you wanted his lips on your mouth, all over your body, and you wanted it everyday. With the way he held you close and breathed desperately on your skin, you had a feeling that so did he.

Living in this dream-like state with him feels surreal, several months in. Because that’s what he is - a dream. Here’s a man grounded by his principles despite the fame that seems to shackle him, yet constantly propels him to new heights; a man whose search for truth and humanity shows you that he just wants to be a good person, and a person who does good.

Beyond his unmatched talent and gift with words, beyond his strikingly stunning looks, is a man who cares deeply, who feels deeply, who submits himself to what he commits to, whether it’s his music, his brothers, his plants, or his interest in art and nature and even whiskey. You have a feeling he’d do the same to whoever he plans to be with. You don’t know if it’s you, and the more you find yourself wanting him, the more you wish it isn’t you.

Namjoon is a dream, and you know at one point, you’re going to have to wake up.

The gallery is buzzing, as it always is when there’s a new exhibition. You’re excited for this, too, as the featured artist is one you admire.

Namjoon admires her as well, which is why he’s here, dressed in a black long-sleeved buttoned top, looking immaculate as per usual. He has a busy schedule but he made time, knowing how special this event is.

The room holds its breath when he enters; as a well-known lover of art, everyone has come to expect him to be a guest in exhibitions and various art shows. He bows at the other patrons and artists present, and they fawn over him, being the famous man that he is.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to this side of him. You’re used to him rambling, making jokes he doesn’t realize are funny, and being lost in his own thoughts. You’re used to him in his natural environment - in his home full of books and paintings, and in his studio, which you’ve seen dozens of times through your phone screen. He fits right in here, though - he can easily follow on with the conversations, whether it’s about business or culture or literature. He can charm anyone with his smile and his good looks, and too many times, guests awe at his presence, finding out that he’s much more commanding and handsome off the screen.

You hide a smile as he glances in your direction. You’ve agreed not to talk much today; there are too many people around and any kind of interaction might be grounds for rumors that neither of you are ready to face, at least that’s what you think. You and Namjoon don’t really discuss those things. You always see him in your periphery, though, and perhaps just like you, he just wants to be where you are, even if no pleasantries or conversations are shared.

But Mr. Hong pulls him aside to introduce to Ms. Suh, and you can see from afar how Namjoon is fanboying over the artist whose work he’s very interested in.

It’s nice to see him in his element like this, too. Here, though still a celebrity in the eyes of everyone else, he’s a spectator. He’s told you several times how his trips to these places have made him think about the kind of legacy he wants to leave with his music, with his poetry. And how pieces in museums and galleries are timeless, permanent; they live on regardless, and each person is free to make their own meanings. You know he wanted to comfort you then.

You become involved in your own conversations until someone barrels inside the gallery and makes a scene, of all days. The slightly inebriated man is familiar; perhaps a patron you’ve seen before, but he comes in and starts yelling at the staff, going on about something you can’t understand.

Not wanting to be part of the scene and be involved in something you don’t know how to handle, you slowly step away, that is, until you see him storm towards the room where your art pieces are. He seems to be targeting someone as he looks around, but the security gets to him first and he flails his arms around, eventually knocking over Untitled 56, and the cracking sound rings in the entire building.

“You knocked over a precious piece, you bastard!” You hear Mr. Hong yelling.

You start walking slowly to where you see the shards of ceramic have fallen on the floor, and you’re unsure what you feel. Is it loss? It doesn’t seem like it. Is it anger? Perhaps not.

“It’s just some useless flower anyway,” the raucous man answers.

Shame. You think that’s it, maybe that’s the feeling. Insecurity, sadness. It’s all of that yet nothing at all.

You stand there over your broken piece, the one you created while the rain was pouring and you’d just finished a bottle of wine by yourself because you could. Everyone seems to be as shocked as you, especially with the man finally contained and led out the building. You look up to take your eyes away from the scene, but you see Namjoon’s instead - anger filling his, sympathy, care, all at once.

You shake your head once, instructing him not to say or do anything. And he follows, loosening his clenched fist and stepping away to the back of the crowd. You instruct the staff to sweep the broken piece away, not wanting to see how fragile and temporary your creation is. All that had been reduced to shards and pitiful looks of the crowd.

You don’t really want to be here.

You’re filled with emotions you can’t name. You’re afraid to feel them all, so you cower on your couch and cry to yourself.

It’s just a piece of useless flower. It’s the 56th of untitled works that you couldn’t name yourself because you didn’t know what they meant, what they symbolized, yet it hurts you this much that it’s gone. Hurt. Is that it? You’re still not sure.

The banging of your front door startles you. It’s 9PM and it’s been 4 hours since the incident. Minji offered to tell you the whole story but you didn’t really mind. You wonder if it’s her this time, wanting to know how you’re doing.

But it’s Namjoon, panting on your doorway when you open it. And the first thing you think to do is bury yourself in his arms.

It’s immediate, the catharsis of being in his hold. It’s like you’re enveloped in a warm, protective blanket that you don’t want to get out of. He embraces you tightly, letting you cry on his chest as you try to make sense of what you’re feeling.

“I’ve got you,” he says in your ear so that the words don’t get lost in the sound of your sobs. “I’ve got you. Don’t tear yourself. I’m here with you.”

You don’t know for how long you both stand there, but it’s long enough for the tears to stop falling. When you’ve calmed down, Namjoon tilts your chin up to face him.

“Hey,” he greets with a soft smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t follow you right away. I wanted so badly to punch that man.”

The shift of emotions is immediate, as you see his furrowed brows.

“He didn’t have a right to be there and to ruin what you worked hard for. I asked Mr. Hong to look into him and I’m so sorry, ___. That piece… that piece is–”

“A useless flower,” you shake your head.

“Please don’t listen to him. Listen to me,” Namjoon insists. “You know what I feel about it. That piece led me to you.”

“And now it’s gone.”

The thought hits you hard. That piece led you to each other, and temporary as it is, it’s now broken. Maybe art isn’t timeless, you think. It can burn, it can break, just like all things. Just like emotions. Just like what you and Namjoon have.

“It may be but look what it did for us,” he challenges your thoughts. “A broken piece won’t change us, it won’t erase us.”

Tonight, this is what you want to hear. And with his fingers tracing your cheek, you think that tonight, he is what you want to feel.

You pull him close and crash your mouth onto his. It’s fervent, desperate, wanting. There’s this need in you, this animalistic desire that has you wanting him to prove you wrong again - that some things can be touched and felt and that they’ll stay and won't break, that emotions can be just as real and tangible, that they matter and that it’s worth it. You want him to prove it to you with his mouth, his words, his touch, his body.

He answers back, inhaling you completely, his tongue working on yours right away, doing that dance you’ve both memorized by now. Your moans are loud and needy. You want all of him, all over you, and with the way he groans your name and curses as you grind against him, you think he feels the same.

You’re in a haze, falling into hypnosis as you feel his hands all over you. You guide them to your clothed breasts, down your waist where he sneaks underneath. His touch burns so deliciously, and it’s what prompts you to unbutton his clothes, to feel him bare and naked, his skin against yours - raw, vulnerable, honest.

Things you don’t know how to be.

You pull away, feeling as if you’ve been snapped out of the spell.

And then you’re crying, as you look at Namjoon with his top undone, looking at you curiously before he’s walking towards you in concern.

“No,” you almost scream. “I’m sorry, I– I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t supposed to. We’re not supposed to do this. We’re just… we’re just something that’s temporary and–”

“No,” he replies, surprising you. “Don’t be sorry, please. I wanted it, I still do. I want you. Fuck what we said about being just friends. I want more. I–”

“You don’t mean that,” you insist, not wanting to hear his words.

It should comfort you, shouldn’t it? You’ve known long ago that you’ve fallen for him, but you made yourself believe that all things are temporary, and this one time you wanted something permanent with him, you got scared out of your mind.

“I do,” he counters. “Fuck it, all I wanted to do earlier was hold you in my arms. Fuck the other people around who’d see. I just wanted to be with you. Is that what friends do? Is that what they feel? I have to be honest, right? We said we’d be that to each other. I want you, ___. I want to be with you.”

“I can’t, Joon. I can’t,” you sob.

“Be honest with me this once. Do you want me?”

“Yes, so fucking much.”

“Then why can’t you be with me? Why are you making it so hard for yourself, for us?” He yells.

“I–” you start, but you don’t know how to continue. You cover your face with your hands and fall onto the floor.

You don’t think you’ve ever cried this hard, and you’re unsure exactly what you’re crying over.

“Hey,” Namjoon softens, leaning down next to you as he tries to free your face. “I’m not mad, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t even… I can’t even say what I want to say because I don’t know. I don’t–” you sniff. “I don’t know what I feel, what I want. I–”

“It’s okay,” he says, taking you in his arms again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it tomorrow. Just get some rest.”

He calms you down again and leads you to your room. He waits as you wash up and then he tucks you in bed.

“I’ll come over in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. You watch him eye your lips, and then he looks away.

Namjoon comes over the next day with a basket of pastries and coffee. He knows enough that you won’t have energy to prepare anything to eat.

You can’t imagine losing all this, but that’s what’s about to happen.

You’d been so close to giving in to him, so close to letting yourself be vulnerable to him, but doing so in flesh isn’t all there is to it. You can make love to him, bare your body to him that way but you wouldn’t be able to do it with your soul or your heart.

What does being raw and honest mean? You don’t know. He deserves someone who knows.

“I still don’t know what I can give you,” you tell him as you both sit across from each other in the seating area in your garden. “Months later, I should know but I don’t. Even just moments, I… can’t. They make me want you more and I can’t. I don’t know exactly what I want - with myself, with my art, with you. I don’t know what to give.”

“You act like you’re the only one unsure,” he says softly. “I don’t know if what I can give you is enough. I mean, with what I do? It’s tough, and I don’t know if it would be fair. But I want you. I don’t know how the arrangements would be but I want you.”

“At least you know what you can give, even as you shine as bright as you do, you know yourself and what you can give me, what you can give us. I don’t.”

“But what if we try?”

“That’s unfair to you, Joon,” you insist. “You put your all into everything, and this - us - won’t be any different. But that just means that falling short would break you, and I can’t have that. And then there’s me who can’t give much of herself to anything - not my craft, not my friends, not myself. And you matter too much to only get the barest parts of me. I don’t want to be with you that way.”

Namjoon sighs. It’s not an easy thing to accept. It’s something he understands - all he’s ever known to do was to give his all to everything he wants to keep. If that’s not something you’re ready to do yourself, he can’t fault you for it.

It hurts so fucking much, though. He’s learned in the course of these months of knowing you that you’re another one of those he wants to keep, that he wants more of, that he wants to learn inside and out - you’re also the first person to ever be that for him. For you to slip away like this is a kind of pain that he doesn’t know how to get over.

“Continue to be raw and honest in everything that you do, okay? Live,” you say, and he nods in reply. “Don’t stop yourself from seeing other people, from finding someone else,” you add.

You can’t even be honest with this. You hope he’ll always want you, but you don’t let yourself be selfish with him, not this time.

“I won't” is what he answers.

It breaks your heart all over again and you let it. You deserve it. Who walks away from someone they want, especially when they want you back? Someone afraid like you, someone who doesn’t trust herself enough like you, someone who wants permanence so bad that she lets slip away the one person who’s made her feel it.

You give a half smile and he smiles back.

Namjoon gets up from his seat. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s a month later when one of the museums you frequent launches a new installation. A tall man catches your attention. He looks at you and smiles, his hazelnut eyes gazing at you the way they used to.

He nods in acknowledgement and so do you.

And that’s the last time you see him in a long time.

2022, winter

You stare at the package in your hands - white, with words of comfort. He’s finally completed it, you think. A piece of himself he’s been working the last 4 years on, and it looks just like how he described it to you all those months ago.

You don’t know if you’ll listen to it. You haven’t heard his voice in so long. You’re afraid you’ll break if you do.

Perhaps just one time, to get it off your system. That might be enough.

You open it, unsure when you’ll unpack this obviously beautifully curated work of art. But the note at the top leaves you no room to ignore it.

Nothing’s changed for me. Let’s find ourselves. And then let’s find each other. I’ll just be here. But please, stay where you are.

Namjoon

You let one tear fall and then leave the package on the top shelf of your closet.

Your bedroom door opens.

“Are you all packed?” Minji asks.

“Yes, I’m all good,” you smile.

She helps you with your luggage, down the stairs and into the van waiting for you.

“That’s a lot of stuff,” she hums, holding back her tears. “How long will you be away for?”

“Until I find myself.”

“That might be a long time.”

“It will.”

2025, winter

Namjoon has been to several galleries in New York, but this particular one is a place he’s never been to. It overlooks Central Park, towering at the 30th floor like the other buildings in the city. But it’s 3 floors and he thinks it’s stunning. It’s not overly grand, but it’s also not as simple and natural like the others he’s been to.

He may say it’s not entirely his vibe, but there’s a reason why he’s here.

Some patrons recognize him and greet him. He bows in response, engaging in small talk when he needs to, but stepping away to get to the exhibition he flew here to see.

It’s nothing like what he expected, although years later, he doesn’t know what to expect anymore.

The first thing is, well, it’s titled. There’s a year and a description, too.

2023, swing in the summer home

The piece is beautiful, made in clay and metal. It’s familiar, too. He’s seen this on a lake house by the mountains, over 3 years ago.

2023, the piece that lost its meaning

It’s a painting, but one placed atop a sculpted frame hanging on a wall in what seems like a living room. This scene feels familiar as well.

2024, lost youth

A group of children look up at a plane, with opened suitcases and toys on the floor. The nostalgia hits him.

The rest of the sculptures are new to him. There’s one about a lady in red, one of a neighbor, one of a woman with an umbrella and clouds, aptly titled, what am i hiding from? Further down the room, the emotions become more pointed, straightforward, and a lot more focused.

2023, coward

2024, i truly was sorry

2025, is this what regret feels like?

2025, i hope you knew i lied

2025, maybe someday

Someone from the outside who knows nothing about the artist might think that the pieces are a little over the place, although one can tell from the titles that they tell a story. The sculptures are made from the same materials - clay and metal, all free standing and in similar sizes. Each caption holds a narration, and all Namjoon can read are words describing emotions, of states of being - innocence, anger, confusion, fear, loss, regret, loneliness, pain, hope, and few more.

There’s not much about joy or intimacy, though, and the thought saddens him. He had hoped that by this time, you already knew how those felt.

“So, what do you think?”

Namjoon didn’t think he’d ever hear that voice again. He’d cry if he could, especially as he turns to his side and finds you, dressed in a classy, aegean blue satin dress. Your smile is one he’s missed so much, and he wishes he could frame this moment, just so he doesn’t forget. He almost did, and he hated himself when he took so long to remember how you sounded like, how you looked like.

“Nothing like I imagined,” Namjoon replies. “In a good way.”

“I scrapped previous works and experimented with these ones. It took me years to complete,” you explain. “I almost stopped at one point, wondering if anybody would ever get it but then I figured, it didn’t matter. It’s a good thing that lifestyle magazine reached out for a feature. I think that was Mr. Hong pulling some strings. At least I got to say that for years, I didn’t know what I was doing, who I was, but now I do.”

“That’s how I knew about it, actually,” Namjoon hums. “It was in the art gallery because he was giving it away for free. It said your exhibition was here, so I flew in.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “I thought you had a show or filming.”

“Nah,” Namjoon sighs. “I came here for you. Otherwise I wouldn’t know where to find you, or how else to see you. You stopped… you stopped showing up. You just disappeared.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

It’s all you can say, really. You didn’t expect to see him here, but when you saw a familiar face enter through the doors, your heart stopped. You had a feeling Mr. Hong had told Namjoon about your exhibition - your first in 4 years. But nothing would have prepared you for this - seeing him again after you walked away from the one good thing you found in your life. You watched him from afar as he went through each of your pieces, perhaps savoring them, remembering them.

“Have you been well?” He asks, the concern still overpowering everything.

“I have.”

“You seem to have lost someone,” he says, nodding towards one of the pieces. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“She was my neighbor when I spent 8 months in Sweden,” you share. “She took care of me but then she passed away due to an accident. It was hard for a while.”

“I–” Namjoon reaches out his hand - for comfort, perhaps - but he brings it down. “I wish I knew.”

“It’s okay. And I’m okay. It’s been a year, but I wouldn’t have finished all this without her.”

You’d forgotten how silence sounded like with Namjoon, and you want to remember what it was like. You remember a lot of things, actually, like his laughter, his voice, his smile, the feel of his lips on yours, and many others.

“How long are you here for?” You finally ask, as you both walk side-by-side past the rest of the artworks inside, with a bit of distance between you.

“I’m here for 3 more days.”

“I stay at the hotel next to the building,” you say, being bold. “I leave here in 2 hours.”

You fumble for your room key and discreetly hand it over to him. “3802, if you want to. I have more to say, and I– uh, shit. If you’re seeing someone, forget what I said.”

“I’m not,” he answers. “I’ll be there.”

Namjoon watches the city from your full-wall window, wondering when you’d decide to finally speak beyond a greeting. It’s been 10 minutes since he arrived at your suite with the key you gave him, and you haven’t said anything since then.

“The buildings aren’t the same here,” you finally say. “I’ve been here for 3 months and the sounds of the cars are too loud, there’s too much smoke, people don’t smile… I don’t have anyone here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I decided to finish some of my pieces in the city. I’ve been staying at one of my parents’ apartments not far from here.”

“And where were you before that?”

“Puerto Rico, Greece, Sweden,” you answer.

“When I said to find ourselves, I didn’t think you’d actually leave, and then not tell me about it,” he laments. “I knew it was stupid to wish you’d stay close. You weren’t in any of the places where I used to see you, where we used to go. I… I asked around but they said you haven’t visited in so long.”

“I couldn’t stay,” you try to explain. “I couldn’t because it just meant waiting for you to come even if I was the one who walked away. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to find myself in a place where I’d always be looking for you, and so I had to go. I’m so sorry, Joon. I–”

You drop the hand that reaches out to him, unsure if your touch would still be welcome. You clench your fist to stop yourself from doing it again, but he notices. He notices and takes your hand, uncurls it so he can hold it properly.

“How was it being away?”

“It was good. Hard. Terrifying,” you share. “I experienced a lot of new, fun things. I learned a lot. Made a lot of mistakes, too. I met so many people. I–”

“Were you with anyone?” he asks, turning away briefly.

“No, I… I couldn’t bring myself to,” you answer nervously. “And you?”

“No one since you. There was a reason why I asked you to stay right there, so that I knew where to find you.”

“You still found me, 3 years later, on the other side of the world.”

“I had to know if anything’s changed for you. I had to know if you made it, if you found what you were looking for. I had to know if you were happy. But you didn’t create it. There was no piece for it.”

“I found what I was looking for,” you say, looking into his eyes, glancing at his fingers that are softly exploring yours. “I realized that I could only gain whatever permanence I was looking for if I learned to let them go. Because if they come back, they stay. I walked away from you then, and I had to lose myself to all the emotions that I was so scared to feel. And I felt a lot of them, Joon. I felt a lot of things. I was going to go back home after this. But you came to me first. You’re the one always finding me. That hasn’t changed.”

“I suppose it hasn’t,” he cracks a smile. “Did I take too long?”

“You were right on time,” you say. “I would’ve come for you in a few days though. But I’m glad you’re here so that I can tell you that I can finally have this. I can finally give you everything without being scared, without it breaking me, without it ruining the ones I love.”

“Is that what you feel for me?”

“Yes. I guess I did then. I still do now.”’

There’s uncertainty in your voice, perhaps due to the fear of him no longer returning what you feel.

“I found myself, too,” he says. “I figured out what I wanted to do for myself, what more I can give, what more I desired. And I guess you’re right. That permanence can come from losing something and then having them back. And then having them stay. So many times then I regretted that I wasn’t more honest. That I was denying what I felt for you because I was scared of losing what little of a normal life I was afforded. I wished I told you much earlier, but I guess things happen when they do, right?”

“Right, but you can also say them again now.”

“That I want you close, holding my hand, tracing my skin, kissing me? That I want all that everyday?” He smiles, as he pulls you towards him and places your hand on his chest. “That I want everything from you? That I haven’t stopped thinking of you, wishing for you?”

“Yes,” you say, sighing into the kiss you’ve missed too much.

There’s that tenderness you expected, but the desire is unlike the times before. There’s more confidence now, more security in the way his mouth moves against yours. It’s as if he knows that he’ll always have this. That this time, he’s loving you in more than words, and that you’ve come back, and that you’ll stay.

Namjoon presses you against the wall, lets his lips trace down your neck and your chest. He undresses you, remarks that he’s starting to believe in a higher being who created a body like yours, and then proceeds to mouth more praises down your thighs and in between them.

He takes you slowly, amorously. He watches your face contort in pure pleasure, and you mention needing to add a piece for this, too. The way he goes in and out of you is out of this world, and you never want it to end.

You’d think it’s the intimacy you didn’t know how to feel. But it’s more than that. In fact, you find that in being with Namjoon, the intimacy is in everything - the way he holds your hand, the way he wraps his arm around you, the way he lets you bite his arm and tickle him just for fun. It’s in the way he kisses your forehead before he kisses your lips.

It’s in your bike rides together and watching the river whenever you catch a glimpse of it. It’s in your moments of calm - reading books, writing songs, sketching.

It’s in the deep, tender way that he says he loves you.

You don’t have a piece for this yet. Perhaps it’s another series altogether. Perhaps it’ll require an installation.

Or maybe, this is the one emotion you don’t need to put into art, the one that you’ll keep for yourself to hold onto because no clay and metal mixture, no tangible piece, could ever describe what this love and intimacy feels like.

Permanent Taglist: @sherlynxx @di0rgguk @thequeen-kat @fan-ati–c @cravingforhotchocolate @adoraminie @helenazbmrskai @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @preciouschimine @gukssunshine @nch327 @kookxin @petuliii @yoursthv @libra04 @fancycollectormoon @twixxxpie @ignoretheskies @ohmydarlin-g @bids97 @minyoongiboongi @main-bangtansmauyeondan @bora-bae7 @investedreader @petalsofink

#namjoon fic #namjoon angst #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #idol au #idol namjoon #namjoon fanfic #jim namjoon #namjoon x you #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon oneshot #untitled

526 notes · View notes

gaberfaber · 4 months

Text

Artwork I’m not gonna finish. It was inspired by My Chemical Romance’s Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge album cover (that was drawn by Gerard Way). ALSO IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT

If any of you have read my fic The Life of a Horrid Boy, you were probably wondering about the next update. The thing is.

I’ve lost all motivation to keep working on it.

Good thing to remember is that I’m not abandoning it. At least I’m going to try not to. The problem I have with it is that I no longer like the story that the fic is about. I have a completely new writing style then what I did 2-3 years ago. The story is old, and yes it’s almost completed, just a few chapters left, but I fell out of love with the story. I have other fics I would love to act on, but I feel like I can’t because of TLoaHB is unfinished. There’s also so many writing issues in it, that I just can’t fix unless I rewrite the entire thing. I have other Horrid Henry, and other fandom fics I would love to write for, so I think I’m just going to continue on those, before I find motivation to keep working on TLoaHB. I felt so overwhelmed with amount of popularity it had, I’m glad people like it, it’s honestly what I want, but since it’s so old, I just don’t want to finish it. I might will, but idk. My next Horrid Henry fic idea is called ‘Mamma Mia’ I don’t want to spoil it, but it is pretty different from TLoaHB, but also still High School Romance. I just want to branch out into these characters issues more than what I did in TLoaHB. In TLoaHB is pretty messy, I want something cleaner. Something easy to understand. There was so much for the romance in TLoaHB, and I still want that, but I really want to dig into these characters issues. Sorry for making you guys wait until now to know this. I might make an update explaining what I did here but on Wattpad, but I also don’t want to make a new chapter just to explain that I’m not discontinuing but I’m having a break. So I want to let myself be free and do what I want to do. Thank you for reading TLoaHB if you did. It might get updated. The next chapter is unifinished, might or might not post it. Thank you, your comments meant the world to me. Best 2-3 years of writing I’ve ever lived. ❤️❤️❤️

#henry x ralph #horrid henry #horrid henry x rude ralph #rude ralph #henralph #ralphenry #rude ralph x horrid henry #horrid henry fanart #gay #ruderalphfanart

33 notes · View notes

dragynkeep · 2 years

Note

Hey, so I'm writing this ask assuming that you two haven't read "Berserk". So if you have, please feel free to clown on me in your answer. Anyways, throughout time the word "Masterpiece" has been attributed to many pieces of literature. From Homer's "Iliad" and "Odyssey". To works like "Journey to the West". Even in modern times there are works like, "Dune" and of course, "The Lord of the Rings". And I firmly believe that "Berserk" deserves to be placed in the same category as these pieces of literature. First off the art style. Kentaro Miura, the mangaka of "Berserk", truly pushed the medium to the limit with nearly every panel. He managed to get every thing from the softer scenes between two friends, down to the truly Lovecraftian horror scenes with his artwork. Now I could rant for days about the many anecdotes about Miura and his art, from stories of him editing the drawings, pixel by pixel. To him being declared a master of the craft by titans in the industry at a young age. But there are many others whom have talked about that at length. So next, I will talk about the story. Without going into spoilers, I will say that the content of the story is truly a work of art. You get to see a person that the world has cast out as garbage, slowly claw their way out. Only to lose it all. Then rebuild it again. This is another thing, whilst the fight/action scenes are amazing. I think that is mostly due to the art style previously mentioned. I think where the story truly shines is in the moments after the storm has passed. You get these fragile, quiet moments where characters are left to asses the damage and try to pick up the pieces. It is truly a humbling sight. And lastly we have the characters. The characters, specifically the women characters, are all deep and layered in such unique ways. From Casca, the warrior, to Farnese the religious zealot. We get to see how the world affects these characters. Most of all is Guts, the main character, someone who truly is a monster in his own right, hellbent on revenge. Only to slowly start to let go of that anger and grief and slowly move on. Now I must say after talking up "Berserk" so much, I do need to make one small addendum to my previous statement about "Berserk" being a masterpiece. It is a masterpiece, but will be a masterpiece with an asterisks attached to it's name. for one glaring reason. "Berserk" will never have an ending. Due to the tragic passing of Kentaro Miura in 2021 we will never get to see the end of this journey. Now on a final note I'm going to talk about one last thing. The fact that a lot of "Berserk" was written before trigger warnings were a thing. And I don't mean this in a cringy anti-SJW way. I mean it in the way that "Berserk" deals with a lot of very heavy topics with no warning. So be aware that there might be scenes that are a little much. anyways I hope you give it a read. Don't watch any of the anime, just find the manga and read it. Trust me.

oh god that’s a big paragraph wheeze.

it’s sad to hear that the creator passed, & that the manga will remain unfinished. i don’t know whether it would be best to leave it as is or maybe have someone finish it, whether it’s worth that or not; i wouldn’t be able to say as i was never part of the fandom. that would probably be a differing opinion based on the fan you ask wheeze. however i had heard of the material berserk handles & maybe when i’m in a better place i’ll give it a shot but as is, it holds a lot of triggers for me.

however just because it’s not for me at this moment doesn’t mean it’s not for someone else & i’m glad that you felt such a connection & pull with a piece of media.

#berserk #ais.txt #answered #q

5 notes · View notes

lightningblade1994-blog · 11 months

Text

Advice to Young Cartoonists ^^

When you’re a pesky young whippersnapper, sometimes you find yourself being forced to listen to some guzzled old geezer prattle on and on and on about something of no importance to you. There’s no escape. You just gotta sit there patiently and try to look awake, because the old duffer is obviously starting to lose it, and you don’t want to hurt his senile feelings. Plus the old fossil looks kinda cranky, and maybe he’ll smack you with his cane just ‘cause he gets it in his feeble brain that you’re some kinda smart@$$. You think, OK, maybe this old dude just forgot what it was like to be a kid with more important things to do. Or more likely, maybe this old codger does remember what it was like being young, but he figures, hey, when I was a kid, I had to listen to my elders, so now that I’m an old poop myself, by gum, them kids’re gonna listen to me! It’s my turn, dagnabbit!

That’s sorta how your ol’ Uncle Matt feels right now. So just imagine me leaning back in my big office chair, with my thumbs under my suspenders, clearing my throat disgustingly, and offering the following pearls of wisdom about cartooning:

#1) Don’t draw with cheap felt-tip pens. The ink in drawings made with felt-tip pens will fade in a few years, and all you’ll be left with is a bunch of ghostly images, then nothing at all. And these drawings fade even faster when exposed to sunlight. So wise up and use pens with permanent ink, and try to draw on paper that’s not going to get yellow and fall apart. (I’ve learned that the hard way.)

#2) Finish your work! Drawing complete stories is really hard, especially when you’re a kid, but there’s nothing is having a finished story--with beginning, middle & end--to amuse yourself and your friends. Unfinished work just doesn’t cut it.

#3) Save your stuff! Often, as your drawing and writing skills develop, or you get older and star having other, more “Mature” interests, your earlier cartoon work starts looking lame and clumsy. The usual urge is to toss it--but resist that urge! I guarantee that later in life you’ll be glad you held onto your cartoons. no matter the artstyle.

#4) Don’t let your mom throw your cartoons out! Moms have a tendency to do this. You go off for a weekend visit to Aunt Glady’s, or you get shipped off to summer camp, or you turn your back for a second, and *Poof* There go your toys, your comic books, and your brilliant artwork. And no amount of squealing is going to bring that stuff back. So take care of your treasures--keep them out of the way of anyone who has some weird hatred of “Clutter”--and make sure that everyone in your family knows you’re extremely possessive of your prized possessions. If you make your stand early, before permanent damage is done to your goodies, they may learn not to mess with your stuff.

#5) it’s OK to copy other cartoons, but it’s easy to get obsessed with a particular style that you can never master. I spent a solid year trying to draw Batman when I was eleven, and have nothing to show for it but bunch of crummy-looking, vaguely Batmannish ghosts (See Item#1). So my advice to you is to copy from a whole bunch of different sources--eventually you’ll figure out a style that suits you.

#6) Get a sketchbook. Do lots and lots of drawings. Fill up the sketchbook. Repeat.

#7) Most how-to-cartoon books don’t always help, so don’t get discouraged by their lousy advice. Remember, if the people who put together how-to-cartoon books knew what they were doing, they probably wouldn’t be doing how-to-cartoon books.

#8) Check out the original artwork of cartoonists you admire. You may be in for a surprise. It doesn’t look as slick as the printed stuff, does it? It’s full of smudges, pencil marks, erased lines, and covered-up mistakes. Most young, would-be cartoonists end up getting totally bummed out because their stuff doesn’t look as slick and perfect as the stuff they see in print. But the original work by the pros themselves usually doesn’t look that good, either. So it’s ok for your original artwork to look a little smudgy, too.

#9) It’s not as bad to be a crummy drawer. There’s room for all sorts of styles in the world. All I can draw are people with big eyeballs and no chins, and I can’t even do that too well--but look at me. Ig get to blab about how to cartoon, and you get to listen to me.

#10) And finally: Be original. It’s ok to copy the cartoons you love, if you must. But please: Eventually edge towards your own ideas and stories.

-Matt Groening

#writing advice #editiorial

1 note · View note

alkcomics · 3 years

Photo

Here’s some process inks for a new Limiter drawing.

Expand below for images and blabbing about the steps so far.

I usually delete sketch layers as I go, but I wanted to keep a record of each step in my current process. Looking back through older art for F-ST pitch materials made me realize how much my digital illustration style has evolved since then.

1. Thumbnail - I’ll do bunches of these until I can nail down the concept. Done small (but at the correct dimensions) so I can move quick and focus on composition shapes.

2. Roughs - Refined sketches for the lines, blacks, and colors. Basically a proof of concept. Also the stage where I’ll pull in references. I shot photos of my hands for this. The idea is to get all the hard problem solving out of the way as early as possible in the process so when I’m inking the lineart I can just flow. Every problem gets harder to fix the more refined the artwork gets. My sketch here was pretty clean, but that’s not always the case.

More of my illustrations get abandoned at this phase than any other, because my vision for lighting/environment exceeds my actual coloring abilities right now. Might not always be the case so I wanted to mention it. I have so many roughs for Limiter illustrations I hope I’ll be able to finish someday. I’ve shared these before, but here’s a snapshot of the view of unfinished illustrations I’m met with when I open my Limiter folder:

3. Lineart - I up the dpi of the canvas, merge all my sketch layers together, and ink lines on top of them. This doesn’t have much shading in the colors, so only inked over the black and white sketches, but that depends on the demands of the piece.

4. Filling blacks - Just paint-bucketing in all the blacks. Here I’m using a lighter color to see the outlines and make sure I’m getting everything, since there are a lot of abstract areas. Usually I do this directly on my lineart. I had some ambition to do some color effects in the black areas for this piece, so I set my lineart to a Reference Layer (in Clip Studio) and filled them separately.

5. Final blacks - Matched the color to the lineart. Didn’t do much editing here, but this is another ‘proof of concept’ stage where I’ll often go back and tweak things that aren’t working in the composition.

6. Flats - Laying in the flat colors. Because of some color effects I’ll be doing on top, I have one layer for the figures and one for the background. For more simple illustrations I’ll just flat on one layer. My coloring style is simple and generally flat, so layers don’t do much other than increase my file size.

And that brings us to here! Sometimes I ink my sparkle effects in the lineart (like with my traditional comic work), sometimes I lay them on top (seemed easier for this piece). I converted the whole thing to black and white to try and problem solve why the sparkles weren’t doing it for me. Sometimes just focusing on values can really help -- both because it focuses only on the effect the elements have on the overall composition and because it feels less intimidating to make a change without having to tweak all the colors.

Seeing it like this made me realize it was the textured, radial lines that are throwing me. I want the light to be emanating out from Mars’ head, not coming in at the edges like that.

Time to go back and finish this! Thanks for reading.

#Limiter #Mars #xitlalic #process #words words words

56 notes · View notes

splendentgoddess · 2 years

Text

Strangest thing just happened

So I had a private message from an Inuyasha fanart account I don’t follow, asking me (politely enough) to DELETE a reblog I did of their post, with no further information.

I sent a slew of replies none of which got a response probably because they just aren’t online right now, so I was more or less talking to myself in the DM box as I asked them what the post was and said how that was a strange request but I would try to honor it, as I proceeded to look for the post when I had no idea what I was looking for.

Because my brainpower isn’t the best I initially went about it the stupid way, LOL, and just started scrolling through my own blog looking for their user name, which I didn’t immediately see even after going back three days, when I had assumed my reblog was probably just from last night, or ya know, more recent given they had just messaged me either last night or this morning.

Well long story long (ha) I finally got smart and looked at their blog page, in the hopes of finding the artwork in question (thank goodness I always also like the artwork I reblog, and so I knew I just needed to quick-scroll looking for a red heart) and then it turned out they didn’t have many posts at all and so it was easy for me to find. It was six days old, but I scrolled down to it in my own blog and deleted my reblog as requested.

This is the kicker, though. THEY USED A FUCK-TON OF TAGS. Like “Inuyasha fanart”, “Kagome Higurashi”, etc. (It was a rough sketch of Kagome.) I was trying to figure out how I’d even seen their post in the first place if I wasn’t following them and I directly reblogged them and so not a reblog of a reblog by somebody I follow. I had assumed it must’ve been that “Based on your likes” thing, only because I had assumed well surely if this person doesn’t want their artwork seen by strangers they won’t have used TAGS...but that assumption was incorrect.

Also too, their profile headers says DO NOT REBLOG OR REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION. But like...we don’t see profile headers when posts just appear on our dash? Unless we scroll over the user name, but I’m not checking everyone’s profiles prior to reblogging to make sure their profile header doesn’t say NO REBLOGS, hahaha. I mean, WTF?! No reposts, sure yes, duh, because that removes the OP, but this is my first real life encounter in the wild of that phenomenon where newbies apparently think reblogs are reposts. People (rightly) make fun of Twitter migrants for not getting how Tumblr works, and I was one of them...for like a day, but honestly, Tumblr is not that hard to figure out! And even I could understand that reblogs were like retweets and thus you’re just sharing somebody else’s original post, and everyone can see who the OP is. That’s obviously not the same thing as stealing artwork to repost it yourself. And if it’s just a silly unfinished WIP you only want to show your few followers, who know not to reblog it, uh...don’t use tags?

So anyway, I won’t name names because I don’t want to drag the user, but just a heads-up, if you happen to come across a rough B&W computer sketch WIP of Kagome in various stages of doneness, that admits it’s a rough sketch and is not finished yet, DO NOT reblog it.

13 notes · View notes

exquisitley-obsessed · 4 years

Text

The Dinosaur and the Vampire Part Two (carlisle cullen x reader)

Request: hi can you do a one shot for Twilight where the reader is best friends with Bella and is there at the car crash in the first movie, they go to hospital and that’s where the reader meets Carlisle, really fluffy, thanks

Word Count: Long

Pairings: Carlisle Cullen x Reader

Warnings: nothing

A/N: This is part two of this request because it was so highly requested!! Thank you so much for the love and support!! I’m back re-reading the twilight series so if you have any requests just send them my way<3

MASTLERLIST

“I’ll see if we can sort this thing out.”

It was the last thing he had said to her with a small and yet reassuring smile before he turned and walked through those pale doors and apparently, y/n’s life. She hadn’t seen Dr Cullen since the day of the accident. Hell, she had barely seen his adopted children. Spring was warming into summer, the sun glittering down through the immense greenery and the Cullens were never around when it was sunny.

Bella and Edward were getting closer with every passing day. He had taken over their morning ride together, stopping by in his silver Volvo to pick Bella up, every so often flashing a smile at y/n as she climbed into her own less flashy car. Edward was kind enough to leave Bella to y/n after school, considering they both finished with gym. It was precious time for the pair as they recounted their day and filled each other in on gossip, none of it proving to be that interesting. Well, apart from the budding romance between Bella and Edward.

Despite y/n’s secret complaints every time Bella disappeared from a study session or cancelled a trip to Port Angeles, she knew her prejudice came from no genuine malice toward Edward. After all, he was lovely. Since the day of the accident his attitude towards y/n had done a 180, before he had never so much as spared her a glance and now he smiled at her in the corridor, even sat next to her in English, the only class they shared together. He made little conversation, most of it was inquiring after Bella but it was nice to have made a new friend.

It just seemed unfair. They way he had spoken in the hospital made it seem as if something would happen, perhaps an apology gift or an invitation to their mansion up in the woods. Something. Edward’s cordial behaviour was pleasant but in no way satisfactory. Y/n wished in every spare moment to see the doctor again, and when she wasn’t wishing to see him she was imagining what it would be like to see him. Maybe he’d pick the Cullen’s up after school or maybe there would be some big event in town which everyone went to. It was a silly thought since the Cullens were rarely grouped with ‘everyone’. So her mind of drifted to the idea of herself being injured, dragged into hospital only to have his face, angelic and flushed in light hovering above her.

“Stupid.” She muttered under her breath, dismissing the thought instantly. Bella threw her a glance, “Forgot to carry the one.” Y/n lied as she smiled and looked back down at her barely touched maths homework. All this pining and obsessive thinking made her feel so little and insignificant. She felt like a student with a crush on their teacher, and in many ways she was. Every time his name or ivory face rolled into her mind a small voice in her head protested.

She hated that voice. It was the one that reminded her she was only a junior in high school. The one that mocked her, told her that he was an adult with a job, a medical job that must have demanded a couple of years of study pushing him into his late twenties. What doctor has time for a high school student with a crush. A crush that was so overt she couldn’t even talk to Bella about it. Bella who had quickly grown into becoming her best friend, Bella who was dating Carlisle’s adopted son, Bella who was currently packing her things into her bag with haste.

“Where are you going?” Y/n hated the small whine in her voice and tried to play it off with a smile. She wanted to be happy for Bella and Edward and deep down she was, they were just a reminder that she was getting nowhere with her own crush and, most likely, never would.

“I’m running up to Edward’s to pick up his Bio questions. I forgot about them and he offered to help.” She smiled, oblivious to y/n’s anguish.

They were camped out in Bella’s room, a strange sounding CD playing in the background as they finished off their schoolwork. It had become a bit of a ritual to spend time with each other doing insignificant things. Bella was nice like that, never desperate to go anywhere or really do anything, happy to stay inside. Plus Charlie liked having y/n in the house, he was always asking her questions about her parents, grateful Bella was able to make such a good friend so soon.

“M’kay.” Y/n followed in suit, shoving her unfinished problems into her bag. This was her cue to leave. “How is Edward by the way?”

“He’s...fine?” Bella smiled wryly through her lashes, “Why are you asking?”

“Oh, it’s just, you always fill me in on your gossip but never actually tell me how he is.” Y/n smiled back as they both padded down the stairs.

“He’s fine. I think. His family’s a bit nervous about us actually.”

“Oh.” Y/n tried to make her voice sound as inconspicuous as possible, hiding her feral craving for more information on the Cullens.

“Well...it’s mostly just Rosaline, you know the blonde one.”

“The gorgeous one.”

“They’re all gorgeous.” Bella sighed.

“You got that right.” Y/n muttered under her breath. Pale hair melting into pale skin - the human equivalent of snow.

“Anyways,” Bella sighed not hearing her, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yup!” Y/n called over her shoulder as she hopped the fence between their two houses, pulling the keys out of her pocket.

A loud engine revved distantly followed by the squealing of car tires as a silver blur flashed down the street before halting in front of them. Edward. He was out of the car quickly, a broad grin stretched across his cheeks. He was smiling at Bella, of course. Y/n was happy for them, smiling to herself as she pushed her keys into the door.

“Hey y/n!” His voice was both silken and broad.

“Hey!” Y/n spun around shooting him a grin, “How are you, I haven’t seen you for a while.” It was nice now that she was able to actually carry a conversation with him, that they weren’t just strangers.

“Yeah weather’s been nice, Carlisle took us up this trail in the mountains. It was beautiful.” Edward said his name so casually and yet the word stunned her for a minute. It had been so long since she had actually heard it said aloud.

“Oh,” She murmured, her breath somewhat stuck in her throat. His eyes were careful, assessing her despite his broad welcoming smile. “Well you owe me,” Y/n relaxed back into the conversation, “I’ve been taking over Bella runs to school.” His laugh was loud and rare.

“Hey!” Bella half-protested tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, “I didn’t realise I was such a burden to you guys.”

“Aw, it’s okay.” Y/n smiled, her keys feeling slippery in her fingers, “You make up for it with good conversation.” Y/n turned back to the door, mentally preparing for her night of microwaved meals and algebra.

“Y/n,” Edward’s voice surprisingly called out, “I’m running Bella up to mine for some biology questions but I wouldn’t mind if you came. I’ve got that first edition Hardy I was telling you about in English.”

The offer was most shocking to Bella who turned, utterly stunned, to gawk at her boyfriend. Y/n felt as though she had just been slapped as her heart lurched, sure her and Edward were chatty but the fact he was now inviting her to his house - the Cullens house. She did a quick mental calculation. On one hand she was invading Bella’s privacy with Edward but it was him who offered the invitation, on the other hand, well she might just see him. If it were anyone else y/n would have politely declined and been happy with soggy potatoes and Pythagoras, but she felt completely and utterly compelled to accept. The mere chance that he might be there in that house was enough for y/n to waltz her way into the back of Edward’s silver Volvo.

***

Edward drove like a maniac and somehow, that made sense. Y/n gripped the edge of her seat as she glanced out the window focusing on the never ending blur of blue and green. The conversation was casual and somewhat stilted but y/n couldn’t even try to care, her mind was already there in the Cullens house. She pictured popping into Edward’s room to grab the book and bumping into him, or the scenario where he was in the kitchen, or what about seeing him as he comes home from work, wearing the same pale shirt and tie.

Y/n hated how obsessive her mind was. But it genuinely felt as though she couldn’t help it, as though she had no control over her thoughts whatsoever. A small knot had twisted its way into existence in her gut and what was worse, they had already arrived.

“You guys can stay for a bit,” Edward got out the car heading into what can only be described as a mansion. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s out.” These seemed to ease something in Bella but had the opposite effect on y/n. Trying not to think about it y/n was quick behind Edward and Bella who had loosely interlocked their fingers as they walked in.

Taking her time, y/n absorbed what was probably the most beautiful house she had ever seen. Wood and glass flowing from wall to wall in eccentric shapes and patterns. Artwork y/n would never understand slung across the walls. A grand piano, smooth like silk displayed in the corner

“Oh, y/n.” Edward called her back to reality, “I’m pretty sure I left the book in the kitchen, I was going to bring it to you tomorrow.” Y/n was taken aback.

“Wow, thanks Edward. You really didn’t have to.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, “You’re free to get it, Kitchen’s just up the stairs and to the right.” Y/n smiled at him gratefully before heading up the stairs. Partly to leave Bella and Edward in peace, partly to admire the home interrupted. She took her time going to the kitchen, admiring the way the Cullens lived. Of course they lived somewhere like this.

Once in the kitchen, y/n spotted a worn copy of ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’ waiting for her. Picking it up she thumbed through the first few pages noticing small faded scribbles in pencil - it would be nice to have a look in Edward’s mind.

“Y/n.”

All he said was her name and yet she knew in an instant who it was. Snapping the book shut and spinning around, there he was. His trousers were dark and tucked into them was a crisp shirt, white as skin and unbuttoned slightly, the sleeves rolled up to display his forearms. They looked like marble, pale and stony and completely solid. His silver hair was swept away from his face, his eyes a golden brown similar to Edward’s. “How did you...” he trailed off, his voice soft and distant, not a hint of anger.

“Sorry Carlisle,” Edward appeared out of thin air behind her. She took note of how he never called him ‘dad’. “I thought everyone was out. I brought y/n and Bella up to collect some things for school.” The two Cullen’s stared intensely at each other, something passing between them in that look.

“I’m sorry,” Y/n blurted after a moment, feeling as though she had intruded, “I’ve got what I came for,” She held up the book, “I can head back now.” She attempted a half-smile not meeting Carlisle’s eyes.

“It’s fine.” He said almost too quickly. His voice quiet, meditated. “You’re no bother to me.” The way he spoke, it was so elegant and unlike anyone in town. “I see you two are friends now after the accident.” Edward and y/n shared a glance.

“It was no big problem really.” Y/n felt herself melting into his presence, now more confident to steal looks at his unwavering eyes, fixed on her. “Just a scratch.”

“Still,” A smile had warmed into his stony cheeks, evidently comfortable himself as he busied himself with a folder already fanned out on the counter top, “Edward’s behaviour was unacceptable. He did apologise?” Carlisle leaned on his forearms, his smile widening.

“Yes...I did.” Edward groaned, y/n couldn’t help but giggle. He then turned to her, “You should’ve heard the verbal lashing I got when I came home.”

“Edward.” Carlisle warned, his smile dropping disapprovingly. Edward held y/n’s gaze for a moment before slowly reaching Carlisle's stare, again something seemed to pass between the two. “Did you say Bella was here?” Carlisle swiftly changed the topic.

“Yeah, I best go find her.” Edward added, the two easing the tension with expertise. “Before she falls down two flights of stairs and through a window or something.” He muttered.

“Wouldn’t put it past her.” Y/n agreed.

“Me neither.” Carlisle added distantly causing y/n to flash a smile at him. Edward bounded out of the room, distantly calling Bella’s name as he began his search. “Good book.” Carlisle commented.

“Yeah when Edward said I could borrow his first edition I was in shock to be honest.” Making conversation was disturbingly easy.

“You can take anything you want from our library, it’s full of first editions.” Carlisle said without thinking, “It’s sort of a...hobby. For us.” The way he said ‘us’ made y/n shiver, he knew that him and his family were exclusive, outsiders. Us and them, and y/n couldn’t figure out what side she was on.

“I have a feeling this one will take me a while but thanks. I’ll keep your offer in mind.” She smiled without thinking.

“It’s nice to see Edward’s making friends. We’ve been here a few years now and he’s only just branching out.”

“Well, ‘making friends’ is a bit of an overstatement,” She leaned back against the counter top, comfortable, “Technically me and Bella are the only two people he’s talked to outside of his own family. And I’m pretty sure he’s only putting up with me because I live next to Bella, that and your...verbal lashing.”

“It wasn’t that bad, honestly.” Carlisle chuckled to himself.

“Thank you though, nonetheless.” He eyed her carefully, his golden orbs flitting across her face and, unless she was mistaken, for a moment they glanced down her body.

“Your cut cleaned up perfectly.” He spoke into the silence, “No scarring at all.”

“I don’t think I would’ve minded a scar. At least it would be a conversation starter.” He laughed, it was softer than Edward’s, more rounded and from deep within his chest.

“Ah yes, then you could tell everyone about the time you walked into a car door.”

“Technically, I think the car door walked into me.” He laughed again and y/n’s chest swelled with pride. She was doing it, holding a conversation with him at ease. “It feels like ages ago now,” She pondered aloud, “And it’s really how Edward and Bella met. Funny that.”

“Yes.” He agreed, his eyes holding hers a second too long before he turned back to his paperwork. “Well,” He cleared his throat, “Best get back to business.” Almost like clockwork Edward and Bella appeared at the stairs, giggling to themselves about some inside joke.

“Yeah uh, I’ll see you around.” Y/n shot him a tentative smile. He didn’t say anything in response but his eyes were conveying an emotion she couldn’t quite comprehend. She already knew that look was going to stick with her.

“You ready to head back y/n?” Edward asked as he sidled into the kitchen. From behind him Bella shot y/n an apologetic look as if she were sorry for leaving her with Carlisle. How little she knew.

“Of course.” Y/n smiled at Edward.

“Okay, just head down to the car I’ll be down in a sec.” With one last smile at Carlisle y/n skipped a little to meet up with Bella before the pair headed downstairs. It wasn’t until they were far out the house and near the car that Bella started a conversation.

“Sorry for leaving you there.” She half-smiled.

“Don’t be.” Y/n tried not to smile too much.

“Carlisle’s lovely isn’t he?” The question caught y/n off-guard, it took her a minute to realise Bella was speaking of him as a fatherly-figure.

“Uh, yeah.” Y/n stammered, a pink flush spreading across her cheeks. Bella noticed and went to say something when she realised.

“Y/n, your book?”

“What?” Y/n was confused again before realising, looking down her lap was empty. Completely devoid of all 19th century classical text. “Shit, be back in a sec.”

And with that she was out, jumping up the house steps two at a time. When she was in the house though she slowed down again, afraid of the mere thought of falling and damaging anything within the house. As she moved through the house she became aware of somewhat raised voices.

“What game are you playing?” It was Carlisle’s voice, not angry, not anything. It was completely monotonous. It was wrong to eavesdrop but it felt like she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one hand it was rude to eavesdrop, on the other she was already stuck behind the corner of the kitchen and had no idea how to walk into the kitchen naturally, especially since the conversation had already begun and the Cullens would know that she must’ve heard some of it.

“I’m not doing anything.” Edward’s voice was soft as well. The pair arguing without arguing.

“What you’re doing is dangerous.”

“You’re so happy for me and Bella. Every time I enter a room all I can hear it you’re praise of approval. Why can’t you let yourself be happy.”

“Edward-”

“I’m being serious.”

“I don’t need this right now I’ve got paperwork.”

“If we were to live life your way you’d quite literally be doing paperwork for eternity.”

“The smell Edward. Even I have only so much restraint.” Whatever she was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. Y/n was brutally offended. Surely, surely he wasn’t talking about her. Mortified, y/n tugged her shirt to her nose and inhaled deeply. It smelt like her mother’s washing detergent and y/n’s cheap perfume from Christmas. The statement had knocked her so off balance she wasn’t quite aware of Edward stalking in her direction. Hurriedly, she paced down three steps before walking up them as if it were the first time.

“Y/n.” Edward exclaimed loud enough for Carlisle to hear. Y/n looked at him, trying to mask whatever emotion she was feeling.

“Sorry. I forgot the book.” She smiled, hoping her eyes didn’t give her away. Edward said nothing, just disappeared and returned with the Hardy, gently passing it to her before leading her downstairs. Did he know she was listening?

The drive home was silent.

next part

requests open <3

Tag list:

@itsshelbygates

@quixoticcat

@pluckastarfromthesky

@flirtygerty

@sadbean18

@nialeesato

@the-fall-guardian-fox

@thechangingcolourswithinthewoods

@lazy-girl82

@bvbwestfall

@badedum-badaboom

@originalsoulcollector

#twilight #twilight imagine #edward and bella #edward cullen #Bella Swan #carlisle cullen #cullen #carlisle cullen imagine #carlisle cullen x you #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle cullen x y/n

706 notes · View notes

not-xpr-art · 3 years

Text

Art Advice #9 - My Creative Process (and my 2nd mural!)~

Hi y’all!

For my next art advice post (the tag for my other ones is here), I wanted to go over my creative process for my 2nd mural which I recently worked on at my work!

A thing I want to note is that not all my artworks are created in this manner, and some are more ‘spontaneous’, but for bigger works I find I usually end up following these steps instinctively...

Another quick note before I get into the post is that this is my specific creative process, and I’m in no way saying everyone does or should do art in this way!

My Creative Process (and my 2nd mural) ~

One of the first things I think of when starting a new piece is what I’m going to be drawing it on. Sounds obvious, but often the size and material of your ‘canvas’ can have a big impact on what you end up drawing.

The next part is specific to whether you’re doing a mural/some artwork that is going to be on display in a specific place. I usually look around the area, seeing what colours are on other walls and/or other artworks hung up. Perhaps even considering the history of the place you’re in or any other important factors that might tie the piece to the place. (like, Michelangelo didn’t show up to the sistine chapel & think ‘huh, this’ll be a great place for my furry art’ ... not that there’s anything wrong with that kind of thing just... there’s a time and a place lol)

For example, my recent mural is at my place of work was influenced by the specific area of the building that I chose, where there was a panel of wallpaper with some of Roy Lichtenstein’s prints on it. This immediately made me want to reference Lichtenstein’s work in a piece, so I began sketching.

The above images were my initial idea of a girl on the phone, and the exaggerated use of ‘ben day dots’ which Lichtenstein often used in his own work. (also featuring some random ideas for the text, if you can read my handwriting lol) However, these ideas didn’t feel connected enough to the place so I had to go back to the drawing board (...literally).

This was when I remembered that the mascot for my work is a horse, and thought it could be fun to play with that, and so then proceeded to spend the next half an hour or so googling horse puns to see how I could incorporate a glimmer of humour into the place.

This is another thing I do in my creative process for a lot of my artworks: figure out what kind of mood you’re going for. Whether I want something to be funny, serious, sad, romantic, etc is a key aspect of the first few stages of coming up with an idea. Of course, this may change as the piece goes on (often times I’ve been known to 180 a mood and suddenly everyone’s crying), but if I have a vague idea of what I am trying to convey with an artwork, it can help me in the long run.

So after laughing at horse puns for a while, I settled on a new design idea which I thought was both funny (well, to me at least) and would still be visually interesting.

I played a lot with colour in this project. I knew I wanted the background to be vibrant red dots, but I wasn’t sure whether I should also include colour on the horse and girl. In the end I thought it was more impactful if it was left monochromatic (plus a sweet woman told me she wanted me to keep the horse white, so who am I to deny her?).

So after finalising the sketch (and checking it over with my boss, since I wouldn’t be able to go through the idea if she didn’t like it), I started on sketching it out on the wall. This involved a lot of pencil sharpening and me getting through a good third of my rubber (aka an eraser for the non-brits).

After this it was just time to paint and make everything look finished (which sounds simple, but took roughly 2 weeks to finish, so here’s just a few images of that process).

And the final result!

(Which I’ve called ‘How The Stables Have Turned’ because I think it’s hilarious lol)

(there are 234 dots by the way, all hand painted... yes I am insane lol)

I struggled with whether I should add red to her lips, but decided it looked kinda unfinished without it (so hopefully you agree too, since there’s no way I can get rid of them now lol...)

And this is the conclusion of this little blog post going over the very basics of how I go about creating an artwork, I hope it was either interesting/useful to anyone who has read this!

As mentioned before, this isn’t always my process, particularly for smaller or more experimental pieces (which often end up evolving into something else as I make them! by the way, let me know if anyone would be interested in me going over my creative process for that kind of artwork in a blog post!) and I’m definitely not telling anyone else to do art this way, of course!

I just personally always think it’s interesting to see other creative people’s processes for making artwork lol!

side note: my post for my first ever mural is here if you haven’t seen that yet!

#art advice #creative process #creativity #mural #mural painting #artists on tumblr #art blog post #art blog #artist #acrylic painting #pop art #roy lichtenstein #so far the only people that have understood my joke in this is the middle aged guys i work with pfft...#i guess dad humour is my humour lol?

11 notes · View notes

coeurdastronaute · 4 years

Text

Essays in Existentialism: Boss

Prompt.. Lexa and Clarke sleep together one night, the next morning Clarke comes in to start her new job and turns out Lexa will be her boss (basically how Meredith and Derek first meet in grey's anatomy) yeah cool...love your writing

The tiny townhouse on the corner of Grant and Lincoln was nearly unpacked, but still occupied the unfinished zone of moving in. The furniture was there, with boxes opened and in various states of emptied. Sheets were tossed on the bed, but it wasn’t made. Clothes were rooted through and half hung in the closet at the top of the stairs. The only things in the fridge were little Chinese take out boxes and a handful of sauce packets.

But that didn’t mean a thing to the bodies on the couch.

Well tired and sated, the two tangled torsos and limbs hung and clung to each other on the small area, not having much to discuss the night before, but rather making the other body too tired to hear and speak and think, and thus fell asleep in a knot. It wasn’t many hours of sleep between the bar and the sex and the moment one of the bodies shifted and the otehr fell to the floor with a thud.

“Ow.”

“What was--”

“Just my back. And hip. And… head,” the body on the floor wheezed slightly, wincing against the pain.

“Oh shit, it’s daylight,” Clarke squinted toward the windows witn no curtains or blinds and realized how late it was. “Oh fuck!”

“Seems to be.”

The body on the couch sat up and hopped over the back before snatching the blanket and carefully wrapping it around her naked body.

“I have to go. I have work...um…”

“Lexa,” she sat up from the floor, propping herself up on her elbows and looking up over the cushions.

Completely naked, the girl on the floor smiled and pushed away a mess of hair while Clarke looked at her and blushed and tried not to look, desperately. She wanted to look, but that would distract her from the process of getting ready, and Clarke had to get to work. It was her first day, after all, beautiful naked sex god be damned.

“Right. Lexa. Nice to meet you, but I have to--”

“Yeah, of course,” she nodded, tugging a pillow in front of herself to shield as much nakedness as possible. “Do you live here?”

“Just moved.”

“Cool. From where.”

“I really have to-- It was fun and all--”

A pair of blank panties were held up from the floor by hands attached to a mischievous hand oddly victorious grin. Clarke remembered the same smile somewhere between the whiskey and tequila, the smile nd the eyes and the intent way the stranger in the bar listened to her words. More importantly, she remembered the fragments of the sex and the things that mouth could do and that was the reason for the victory, and it was deserved.

“But you have to go to work,” Lexa repeated.

With a graceless motion, Clarke reached over the couch and snatched the offending lingerie before agreeing full-heartedly.

“It was nice to meet you, Lexa,” Clarke promised. “But when I come back downstairs, you’ll be gone, and I’ll be on my way to work.”

“Right. Work. I should, too. It was nice, to uh, do this. Maybe we can again--”

The offer was barely acknowledged as Clarke hopped up the stairs and toward the shower, leaving Lexa smiling somewhat, amused at the display before she looked down at herself and chuckled at what the past five minutes of her life looked like.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was incredibly stupid. It was monumentally stupid. It was the dumbest thing she’d ever done, or at least very close to the top of the long list. But after three weeks of refusing to unpack the house and dealing with the question of employment, Clarke couldn’t handle it any longer, and joined the land of the living again. Perhaps a bit too hard, which was, above all else, stupid. Incredibly stupid.

Clarke didn’t have too much time to think about anything else as she sprinted into the tall building that had its own distinct imprint on the city. Hair a mess and shirt sloppily in the process of being tucked in, she flashed her badge and rushed toward the elevators as she repeated how stupid it’d been to get absolutely drunk and hook up with a stranger on the couch, and then not setting an alarm, for her first day of her dream job.

Again and with emphasis, Clarke was an incredibly stupid and gay individual.

“Ms. Griffin,” the receptionist greeted her with a smile. “I’ve been instructed to ask that you wait right here until Ms. Moore is finished with her phonecall.”

“Right, of course,” Clarke nodded as she attempted to underplay how extravagantly winded she was.

Grateful for the moment to process, Clarke took a seat in the reception and processed what the past hour of her life looked like. She somehow woke up and kicked out a very naked woman from her house, that she could almost remember the name of somewhat. And she’d run across town and made it to work. On time, or at least on time enough for her boss.

Only when she’d caught her breath did Clarke realize that she never got Le-- La-- Lara? Lena? Larry? Fuck. She never got the stranger’s number.

“Hey, Clarke, thanks for your patience.”

The woman who interviewed her twice finally walked out from behind the hallowed doors of Woods Publishing, and Clarke gave up trying to remember and prayed she did not smell like as much tequila as she’d inhaled the night before.

“I’m so happy to be here, Ms. Moore,” she grinned and shook the outstretched hand.

“Luna is fine. We’re the creatives,” she winked and led Clarke toward the door. “We get a little more freedom than the stuffed shirts in editing and sales.”

As they moved down the hall, there was a minute smell of weed, and Clarke realized that this job was going to be better than she’d ever imagined.

“I thought for your first day, I’d kind of get you set up, take you to our morning huddle and pitch meetings, and then after lunch make you meet everyone in a super awkward and invasive department bash.”

“Bash?”

“Yeah, well, people stop coming when I call them meetings and ice-breakers. I’ve decided to rename things different, more fun words to trick them into the same meetings.”

“How’s it going so far?”

“Amazingly well. Just wait until you see the turn out for your meet-and-greet… I mean bash.”

Clarke couldn’t help but smile. Her boss was calm and cool, funny and approachable, and most importantly, she was clearly very into her job, which was a godsend. Hiring was often abou personality and camaraderie, as in how well a new personality would fit into a team, and Clarke already felt at home.

The day went by easily enough, as all first days are known to do. She met her team and got her desk, got to feel out a little of how the day flowed with the promise of her assignments arrival soon enough. Luna passed her off around lunch to one of the teammates, and Clarke fell into enjoying her new coworkers with very light company gossip over not terrible sandwiches in the cafeteria. She learned all about the office romances and the merger, the new corporate structure and how great it was compared to other companies. She learned about the owner’s daughter who started a few months ago and was actually nice to work for, and more importantly, Clarke learned that there was a very lax policy when it came to punctuality. She breathed a sigh of relief.

By the end of the day, Clarke felt like she would like it there, and was eager to help and work on drawing some of the projects. She was ready to work with the team and she was ready to finally be creative and produce something.

“Thank you all again, for welcoming Clarke to our team,” Luna grinned and held up her glass as the rest of the team did the same.

She was right, of course, that calling it a bash did something to make them all want to stay a few minutes later and mingle.

“Enjoy the gift baskets sent from the studio for our last project, but within reason. And we’ll jump right in tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Clarke smiled and accepted a drink.

“I’ll see you bright and early. We’ll get you started on part of our new programming and onto the new project.”

“I can’t wait.”

Clarke found herself pulled into a conversation over artwork for the storyboard on the wall in the main rom, and even though it was technically about work, the other artists were more than eager to talk about their plans, even over drinks.

And then she looked up and nearly spit out her drink before turning around very quickly so that her back was to the familiar green eyes and the person she’d kicked onto the floor that very morning.

“Looks like the boss decided to make a stop. I’m going to finally ask her out,” one of the guys decided as he stood a little straighter and awkwardly fixed his hair.

“There’s no way Lexa Woods gives you the time of day,” Raven scoffed, sipping her drink and sneaking a look at the grinning CEO. “I bet you twenty bucks she doesn’t even speak to you.”

“She’s really nice.”

“Oh, I know. But I bet she won’t even notice you.”

Clarke felt the blood leave her face as she hurried to sneak another look to confirm that it was, in fact, hell freezing over. And sure enough, for some stranger reason, in a city of hundreds of thousands of people, she was in the same room as the stranger she drunkenly hooked up with sixteen hours beforehand.

And that stranger was her boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. That stranger was Lexa Woods, CFO of Woods Publishing, daughter of the owner, inheritor to the castle.

“What do you think, Clarke?” Raven turned toward her. Just five minutes ago, Clarke liked Raven, but now, she wanted to disappear and Raven was blocking the exit. “Think Dan here has a chance?”

“I don’t really know anything about her,” Clarke shrugged and downed the rest of her drink, careful to stay turned around.

She didn’t know anything about Lexa Woods, except how she tasted and the noises she made and this thing she did with her fingers that--

“She hasn’t been here long, but she’s actually not the worst, as far as suits go. She likes the creative floors. Her dad’s given her a few projects I’ve been on and I think we work pretty well together,” she explained, offering Clarke a refill.

“Cool, cool, nice.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or you’re a very bad drinker.”

“I, uh, had a few too many last night.”

“Hair of the dog then,” Raven grinned and clinked their glasses. “I think I’m going to like having you around, Griffin. At least until you start asking for advanced tech and drive me crazy with your doodles. Oh shit, there he goes.”

Despite herself, Clarke turned around and watched the illustrator move through the crowd. She looked immediately at Lexa and actually caught her eye. She held the look and she watched Lexa smile at her, though she couldn’t move to return it. Mortification was at the forefront of her brain. That and oddly proud of herself for pulling someone like Lexa Woods, even when she wasn’t on her A game.

Only when Clarke saw Dan get close, did she look away and break the stupor she found herself stuck in.

“I can’t believe he hasn’t figured out that she’s gay.”

“What?”

“Dan has the worst gay-dar of all time,” Raven chuckled. “I almost feel bad taking his money. Almost.”

Sure enough, as he walked up toward his boss’ boss’ boss, full of confidence and vim, Lexa didn’t even notice him, her eyes firmly locked on Clarke’s as she moved through the crowd, finally deciding to approach. It took a few steps before Clarke realized what was happening, and only then did she feel the two and a half drinks she’d had.

She really didn’t like Raven.

“I knew it.”

Clarke didn’t say a word, but rather looked for a quick escape, though none existed and she already knew that.

“Hey, I thought I’d come welcome you to the team personally. I’m Lexa Woods.”

With a smile and her hand outstretched, the CEO stood there, as if she hadn’t gone down on her new employee on her couch.

“Lexa Woods, as in…”

“Yeah, that’s my name outside, but don’t hold it against me,” she grinned, holding the handshake a little bit longer. “It was Callie, right?”

“Clarke.”

“I’m sorry. Clarke.”

“I didn’t expect to see you on my first day.”

“Yeah,” Lexa chuckled. “I can imagine. I like hanging out down here more than upstairs. How are you, Ms. Reyes?”

“Doing alright,” Raven nodded, appraising the scene before her. “Taking Clarke under my wing, as it were.”

“I’d be careful,” the boss warned. “It was nice to meet you again, Clarke. I’ll see you guys later. I have a meeting I should try to get to ontime. Punctuality is key.”

Clarke burned red and nodded.

“Nice to meet you, too, Ms. Woods.”

“Lexa’s fine.”

“Yeah you are.”

Lexa just smiled and waved again before disappearing. Dan joined the group a second later and passed a twenty to his friend. The boss left the room a moment later without a look back, and Clarke finally breathed.

“So,” Raven furrowed. “When did you fuck our boss?”

XXXXXXXXXX

For three weeks, Clarke managed to avoid all thoughts and ideas of Lexa Woods, CEO and absolute beauty. She didn’t avoid her social media, nor did she avoid much of the idle gossip about her at work, but for the most part, Clarke refused to think about her as much as possible, which amounted to about never.

Sometimes at work, she was able to go for hours, focusing on her projects. Sometimes, Clarke found herself avoiding areas she suspected she might show up, and for three glorious weeks, she was fairly successful.

Bent over her drawing board, Clarke found herself in a period of Lexa-less thoughts, happy to escape her life and all else, and instead find some sort of outlet for everything she’d been feeling over the past year.

“These are very good.”

“Fuck, you scared me,” Clarke breathed, turning around quickly. “I mean. Not fuck.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t followed up,” Lexa smiled softly, hands tied behind her back as she perused Clarke’s wall of sketches for the short they were doing. “I was out of town on business. How is your first month going, Ms. Griffin?”

“Do you take such an interest in all of your employees, or just the ones you seduce?”

“I believe you were the one seducing. I was drunk and adorable and you took advantage of me in my drunk and adorable state.”

Clarke balked and grit her teeth before seeing that Lexa was making fun of her, which did nothing to calm her.

“Someone who pins the other to their front door, is not being taken advantage of.”

She smiled again and Clarke found it infuriating. And hot. But also infuriating a little more.

“I did do that, didn’t I?” Lexa nodded. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to address that… trist.”

“It was a fluke, and I think we should stay professional. Like we have.”

“I thought I was keeping it fairly professional.”

“I just mean, you can’t-- we don’t have to talk about that… trist.”

“Or we could?” she waited to gauge Clarke’s reaction. “Or not. Definitely not. Very professional. Just pretend it never happened.”

“Exactly. Thank you for stopping by, Ms. Woods.”

“Lexa is still fine. We’re going to be working together a bit. Everyone calls me Lexa.”

“Professional,” Clarke repeated.

“Casual, even. Professionally casual.”

“Exactly.”

XXXXXXXXX

“Professional,” Lexa nodded to herself and tried to catch her breath. The naked body beside her repeated the same thing with a sigh.

“But we can’t do that again. We were just scratching an itch,” Clarke reasoned as Lexa agreed, humming along with the familiar song.

If any of that were true, she wouldn’t have been naked in Clarke’s half-made bed, next to a full-naked girl. If she had anything to say about it, they’d be doing it much more and often and professionally. But she was the boss, and she wasn’t allowed to make that call. Clarke had to make it. And Lexa was very grateful that Clarke made it.

It wasn’t Lexa’s fault that they enjoyed the same bar, or that they happened to notice each other, and it wasn’t her fault that she liked kissing Clarke.

“I quite like scratching that itch with you.”

Lexa turned her head and watched Clarke smile before regaining her composure.

“Don’t sweet talk me, Woods. I’m your employee.”

“Yeah, but like, only kind of.”

Clarke turned and gave her a look before Lexa chuckled and rolled toward her, pressing her luck as she pressed against Clarke, kissing her shoulder and her neck.

“What are we supposed to do?” Clarke turned over as well. “Go into HR and tell them we’re sleeping together?”

“I could fire you?”

“Lexa.”

“I could quit?”

“Shut up.”

“Or you could agree to go on an actual date with me, and promise not to take your clothes off.”

“You’re the one that takes them off of me!”

Despite her wiggling, Clarke let Lexa pull her closer. She ran her fingertips along Lexa’s cheek, squishing her cheeks together so she was making fish lips and smiled at the display, amused at herself and how Lexa let her do that.

“I zwant tovee hrofeshinal widzth you. Vutd I sink I alike you.”

“You sound ridiculous.”

Lexa sighed until Clarke let go of her cheeks, unable to keep the smile there. Instead she held her chin now, between her forefinger and thumb, keeping her steady and there. Fingertips moved up and down her back.

“I think we can do this without messing up work.”

“How?”

“We just don’t work together. I’ll stay off of your projects. Luna has complete control over personnel and who is on what.”

“If it goes bad?”

“Then I’ll definitely quit. Sell the company probably. Move to Zurich,” she decided.

“That plan developed quickly.”

“It’s always in my back pocket in case a beautiful girl who works for me creates a problem. I will not be caught unprepared again.”

“Again?”

“It’s an expression.”

“Mmm,” Clarke smiled and nodded.

She didn’t waste a moment. She leaned forward and kissed Lexa because she had to be certain, and she had to find some kind of bravery. She should think about it more, and she should have made a pros and cons list, but something about this moment, this person, Clarke just felt alive, and she’d been chasing it for so long.

“Did I get the job?”

“You got a date. One date.”

“I can work with that.”

309 notes · View notes

torujours · 3 years

Text

"Their Portrait"

✏️ paring: kita x gn!reader

✏️ summary: it's not easy when artist can't find inspiration, in the last attempt to find some Kita to find it in the form of you on a warm November day and he's determined to find it again.

✏️ WC: 1656

✏️ warnings: none other than my bad writing

✏️ A/N: hope you like this one! i have been trying to write something for kita foreVER cause the brainrOT is real and as always reblogs are super duper appreciated!!

The sun shone down on the park as birds chirp over head, kita inhales taking in the November air. It's an unusual warm day so why not enjoy it before the snow comes. He doesn't go to the park often, preferring a much more quiet enclosed in space. Yet, he holds onto his stretch book tightly as he walks past people walking their dogs, children playing and older people feeding birds that have landed on the ground. This is perfect, he should get a lot of inspiration here right? He has been struggling the past few weeks trying to get some inspiration to pick up his pencil and just draw. He was hopeful at least.

So he finds a tiny table, most of them taken from other people, and set his supplies down. Looking around at his surroundings, being an artist was always both a challenge and enjoyable to him. Inspiration hit him like a truck some times and other times it's as if he couldn't draw even if his life depended on it.

Shaking his head, he knew inspiration would come when it came so he decided to start sketching the trees around him till that time came.

He hoped it just came soon.

~~~~~

The smile doesn't leave your face as you stop jogging and take deep breaths in and out. You have jogged the longest you have in a while so you are feeling pretty accomplished. Plus it's gonna be hard to jog outside when the snow came. but it was time to give your legs a break, so you walk around the familiar park and even greet some people you have met while jogging in the past.

It takes a little while for you to find an empty place to sit, not really wanting to sit on the ground (cause you knew that after that run you wouldn't get up if you did) but your legs saving grace came when you saw an empty chair across to someone with gray hair and black tips. He is doing something with what looks like a book but you walk over anyway “excuse me?” you start politely and he looks up, pushing up his glasses while taking in your “yes?” you send him a smile “can i sit here? sorry i just need to give my legs a break” you chuckle a bit but he just nods “sure thing..”

His smile is subtle but it's there. Saying thanks, you sit down and sigh happily.

Now kita doesn't want to seem creepy but watched you from the corner of his eye for a moment after you sit down. Blaming it on his “artist blood” was the reason why he paid so much attention to your side profile. Kita was man who could admit you had a nice face. Calling you good looking was too much for him, after all you are a stranger but you caught his eye and that’s saying something.

Kita stares down at the tree sketches and found himself annoyed with the lack of inspiration but hearing you giggle making him look over for just a second. You are now leaning on the table, looking at your phone. A smile can be seen on your face and Kita just picks up his pencil again, flips to a clean page of his sketchbook and starts the outline of a human face.

God this could be seen as creepy but he draws the best faces when there is a much closer example and here you are, still minding your own business and typing away at your phone. Kita keeps you in the corner of his eye, wishing to look at you head on again for a much cleaner view but he can't do that. So he roughly sketches your cheeks, the shape of your nose, the arch of your eyebrows, the way your lips look soft and nice-

He stops his hand, feeling embarrassed his by his thoughts so he moved on from your...lips and moved to your eyes. The sun wasn't shining in them or anything but they still looked bright (maybe it was your phone), the shape of them was unique and he would love to get a better look. He sketches and sketches your face, a small smile on his lips as the drawing smiles up at him but his pencil stops as you stand up and stretch your arms. He looks up at you for a moment before dropping his head again then second you turn to him “thank you for letting me sit with you...goodbye” you give him a small wave and he just nods “goodbye...” and with that you jog away, leaving Kita alone with his incomplete drawing of your happy face.

~~~~~

Kita tried to complete the portrait of you but he couldn't. He just couldn't replicate your face the same way without you in front of him. He prides himself in not letting artwork unfinished but what can he do in this case? It's not like he would see you again? He shuts his sketchbook and sighs, maybe he would go back to the park tomorrow. Maybe he would see you again. Maybe he would say something this time. Maybe.

Well two of those three maybes came true, cause once again Kita was greeted to a warm day as he making his way around the park. Just as full as yesterday but now he had a mission, an objective, inspiration.

Maybe this was stupid, he knew nothing about you. What if you had school or work or don't even live around here? Why was he so caught up in finding you besides his pride to finish the sketch of your face. Still he found the same table he was at the previous day Once again placing his sketchbook down he sat and looked around for you he knew his chances of finding you again we are slim but he tried to remain hopeful anyway.

You were going to go back to the park, but a friend of yours wanted to meet up there and spend some time together. You were walking around trying to find a place to wait for them but they texted you that they couldn't make it something came up so you thought about what you could do with your changed plans while still walking around. You were just about to walk back and out of the park when you realize this was the part of the park you were just yesterday and more importantly, you saw Kita. So being nice, you wanted to greet him before making your leave (so you don't disturb him he looks like he is looking for someone) so you walk over and almost laugh as he jumps slightly at seeing you appear beside him.

“Hello again! sorry I didn't mean to scare you” he laughs awkwardly and turns to face you head on “ah no you didn't but hello it's nice to see you again” you notice the words “sketchbook” on the book resting on the park table “likewise but hm that was draw you were doing yesterday i see” kita panics a bit as you sit down across from him again, yet he nods “yes i’m an artist..” “really? that's amazing! and oh i’m y/n by the way haha i didn't get to introduce myself yesterday” Kita smiles “I’m Kita Shinsuke and i’m not that good of an artist honestly..” you rest your cheek on your hand “i’m sure you are wonderful, I’d love see your work if you are comfortable...” kita thinks for a moment, his hand already going to hand you the precious sketchbook “here you go, it's alright...” wait his sketch of you is in there but it's too late cause you are smiling widely as you flip carefully through the various sketches he's done over the course of having the sketchbook. “They are beautiful!” You take in the talent strokes of his pencil carefully as you look at all the sketches. Kita watches you nervously, feeling a little sick as you get to the last page of the sketchbook.

The page with your Portrait on it.

it doesn't hit just what you are looking at till you notice the date, time and place written at the bottom of the page along with a tiny title “the Portrait”. It's you. He started drawing you. A lot of thoughts run through your head but first of all, it's beautiful. He has already captured so much of your face in the small amount of time you two were together yesterday. And you giggle a bit, feeling flattered but kita is about to explode from the embarrassment. “I-I...I'm sorry I should have ask your permission before I started doing anything-” you cut off his apology with another chuckle as your fingers trace over the paper “don't be sorry this is so amazing... i’m really flattered you saw me worthy of even drawing in the first place”

he made you look so good wow even if it was incomplete.

You hand him back the sketchbook and smile “so when can I pose for you to finish it hm?” Kita coughed a bit to hide his surprise as you flash a big smile toward him, he was cute honestly “huh?” “you wanna finish it don't you? but you need my face so consider me your muse” you state proudly, you never molded for anyone before so this was new yet excited for you. Kita pushes up his glasses again before breaking out in a much bigger smile that almost catches you off guard with how warm it is. “Muse huh? I’d like that...”

You and kita chat as he softly moves his pencil, finally getting that perfect view of your face and maybe it's just he is glad to have some inspiration or something more but he could get use to drawing you much more and more.

68 notes · View notes

jabbers-artsy-hoard · 3 years

Text

All right, ladies and gents and non-binary friends! The fact of the matter is, I’m currently struggling to make ends meet. I’m not going to lie about that. I have no job, no money currently coming in at all. At least not from my end. I’m not going to let it keep me down, but I am going to look to you guys, to the people of Tumblr, for a little help while I try to get my life in order.

So I am opening up some fairly limited commissions. And by limited, I don’t mean ‘limited time offer’ or that I’m going to limit how many commissions I take. No, nothing like that. Instead, it’s going to be limited to what I know I can do well right now, and may open up for other things later. That being said, let’s get started!

Have you ever wondered what your muse would look like, if they were a dragon in the Spyro universe? Or maybe you’ve wondered what you would be like if you lived in the Dragon Realms. Well, wonder no more, friends! Because that is exactly the kind of commissions I am offering you! It’s been a lot of fun for me to try to translate other characters into Spyro-verse dragons. Typically they’ve been humans to dragons so far, but I’m willing to do absolutely any kind of muse! Animal or alien or humanoid, throw them at me!

So yeah. I’m starting with Spyro-verse dragon/dragonsona commissions, since it’s the easiest for me to do right now, and they’re the ones I can get done quickest for the time being. My computer has been buggy lately, so while normally I would offer other options such as icons or rp graphics, I can’t include those at this time. Even if I do have a couple icon commissions that have been unfinished for months.. But anyway! Without further ado, let’s talk prices!

All right, so I am offering these commissions in a few different ways, but I’m not going to put the prices too high for now, because.. well, I need to get people to start buying first. So, I’ll start low and maybe move up as popularity grows, I dunno. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway! Commission types and their related prices are as follows.

Basic Sketch - $10 (+ $5 for any additional characters, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example:

Inked - $15 (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example:

Inked & Shaded - $18 (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example:

Inked & Digitally Colored - $20-$30, depending on complexity (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories, please allow up to two weeks for coloring, I have limited resources)

Example: Currently N/A

Full Scene, plain sketch - $30-$40, depending on complexity, usually features up to three characters in the base price (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example: Currently N/A

Full Scene, inked lineart - $35-$45, depending on complexity, usually features up to three characters in the base price (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example: Currently N/A

Full Scene, inked & shaded - $38-$48, depending on complexity, usually features up to three characters in the base price (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories)

Example: Currently N/A

Full Scene, inked & digitally colored - $40-$50, depending on complexity, usually features up to three characters in the base price (+ $5 for each additional character, + $1 for large weapons or accessories, please allow up to one month for coloring, I have limited resources)

Example: Currently N/A

Expression Sheet - $20, comes in a basic set of six, can be ordered in multiple sets, each additional set costs $10 if bought in a single order

Example: Currently N/A

Now, I am also offering something in addition to just making the drawings themselves. Each commission, when finished, will be gifted to the commissioner free of charge, and in physical form. Yes, that’s right. Because I am going to be doing these commissions by hand and on physical paper, once they’re finished, I am going to ask you guys for an address that I can mail them to.

Now, I’m not asking you to give me your home address necessarily, unless that’s the only place you can receive mail, but if you have a P.O. box address I can send your commissions to, then that’s what I’ll be asking for. And actually, I should mention that this isn’t required. It’s just an added bonus if you would like the physical copy of the original work. But you don’t have to take it if you’re not comfortable giving me an address. I can also keep the physical copy, safely tucked away in a file of my work.

This might not include digitally colored commissions, but there is a possibility if I am able to access a place to print them. I do have somewhat limited resources, but I am always happy to give you guys the actual artwork that you pay for, and you don’t have to pay shipping fees. That’s the gifting part of the deal. All you’re paying for is the process, the time, and the artwork itself. Even if you don’t want to have it in person.

And that being said!!

Oh, but.. Wait. Just one more thing.

If you are under 18+, do not read below the cut. Any requests for these extra offers by anyone under 18 will be denied.

I am also willing to accept nsfw commissions. Yes, that’s right, folks. Considering that I myself am 30+ years old, I do not mind the occasional ‘adult content’ commissions. These commissions can include:

Nudity

Sex

Gore

Vore

Horror

or any other type of content that would be considered nsfw. But again, these are commissions for your Spyro-verse muse. Only for dragons this time. But if all goes well in this first round of commissions, I may open this up for other types of muses as well. And, if you really want, I will also offer self-insert nsfw commissions. I do not judge, and I do not refuse any ship or muse or self-insert content.

Unless you are underage. Which, I have no doubt that the under 18s got curious and read all of this too, so I will remind you guys that I will be asking for the ages of any of these nsfw commissioners, and I expect honest answers. Especially since I will be going through a three-day long protocol list for these commissions to ensure that I am not accidentally selling p*rn or other such nsfw content to minors.

And for those adults who get subjected to this three-day process, I am honestly very sorry to make this seem a bit inconvenient, but I’m sure you all understand that I am doing my best to protect the younger folks. I want to be careful, and I want to do right by the youth of today. But that being said, I also will be doing what I can to ensure that an adult isn’t buying a nsfw commission for someone under 18+.

I am treating this with the same level of caution and dedication, as if I were selling alcohol in a grocery store, which I have read up on the laws for, actually fairly extensively, so I do know how to manage this. I’m sorry to those inconvenienced by this, but if you’re really getting inconvenienced by an artist taking the necessary precautions to protect any minors, then perhaps you shouldn’t commission me for something nsfw. Just something to think about.

#art commissions #commission info #;; the jabberwock makes art (commission info)#i hope you guys consider commissioning me!#i look forward to working with you!

11 notes · View notes

jarienn972 · 3 years

Text

La Sirena - Chapter Eight

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

We’re nearing the completion of this @cssns tale, and despite the challenges this story has posed, I’m a little bit sad that it is nearly finished.

This chapter has a lot of action as we pick up right where we left off with Regina’s nefarious plan to “test” Killian’s worthiness. Our poor lieutenant has no idea what the devious siren has in mind and it isn’t going to be pleasant.

Thank you, @kmomof4 for all of your beta assistance, especially with your suggestions for this chapter! And thanks again to @courtorderedcake for her beautiful artwork!

Catch up from the beginning on AO3 or FF.net Tumblr chapters: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

“Retribution”

No amount of naval training could have prepared him for this, Killian thought as he inexplicably found himself standing barefoot on the shore. One moment he'd been crouching inside the cavern awaiting Emma's return and the next, he was facing down the tempestuous ocean, thoroughly exposed. His knuckles had gone white clutching desperately to the cutlass, but as he stared out at the sea, he knew in his heart that the weapon was no match for this unnatural battle.

Above the whitecaps in the distance, he could just make out the crest of Emma's head and that of another person with darker hair coiffed beneath some sort of massive, glistening crown. Was this the mysterious sister that Emma had spoken of? He couldn't make out anything they were saying over the roar of waves crashing against the rock. But it was the dichotomy of their expressions that sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't even dare hypothesize the meaning behind the look of abject horror that spread across Emma's delicate features.

Shivers washed over him and his gut filled with apprehension when his gaze was drawn to movement on the horizon. Could this be signalling the arrival of the siren council that had Emma so concerned? The surface of the water seemed to rise, bubbling and foaming in the most unearthly manner. It was like nothing he had ever seen in all his years at sea and in a mere moment, he was about to wish it could be unseen.

As a mariner, he'd often heard tales of encounters with the legendary kraken and he'd shrugged them off as nothing but fantasy. Perhaps he'd been too quick to judge legend from truth, he found himself thinking as he marveled at the sheer size of the tentacle that emerged from the depths. It was simply beyond belief. From his experience with squid and octopi snared in fishing nets, Killian suspected that this creature would have to be supernaturally large, and that thought was confirmed as it reared its humongous head above the bay.

Even if he hadn't been practically paralyzed with shock and trepidation, he never would have had a chance to outrun the beast's speed or reach as another of its incredibly strong tentacles snatched him off of the beach. The slimy appendage constricted around his upper body, lifting him into the air and pinning his arms to his sides as it threatened to crush him.

First pirates, then sirens, and now he was eye to eye with a bloody kraken… All of them apparently competing to see who would kill him first…

Grimacing in pain, he struggled against its grasp and cried out to Emma for help. He may have been at the mercy of these mythical beings, but his own survival instincts remained fully intact. He wiggled his right arm free enough to draw the cutlass from its sheath. He didn't exactly have full range to properly wield his weapon, but he managed to secure an angle that allowed him to thrust the blade into one of the circular suckers on the underside of the tentacle encircling him. The monster howled and retaliated by lashing Killian into the waves, stunning the sailor as it increased the pressure on his body and dislodging the sword. The blade dropped into the ocean below while a barely conscious Killian could both feel and hear his ribs cracking under the assault.

Emma could only watch in a panic as the kraken scooped Killian off the shore with its tentacles wound tightly around him. She tried in vain to repel the monstrosity with her magic, but her barrage of light energy blasts had little to no effect on the creature.

"Your magic isn't strong enough to deter a kraken," an amused Regina insisted.

"Call it off, Regina!" Emma shouted angrily as the monster's tentacle squeezed ever tighter around Killian's very mortal body. She could hardly bear to see the agony expressed by his features. "This isn't the way! The beast is going to kill him!"

"He was on borrowed time already, sister," Regina reminded her sternly. "But if this pitiful human is as worthy as you claim he is, he certainly should be capable of defeating a kraken - shouldn't he?" She chuckled giddily as Emma's gaze focused on her weak little human, completely aghast by the impending carnage.

"I do not know what you and lord Triton conspired upon, but this is a repulsive abuse of power!" Emma admonished her sister while whipping around in the water to confront the rest of the council when they surfaced to take in the spectacle. "Why can none of you understand that he survived because he did not hear the song? Are you all complicit in this? Serving him up as hapless prey to a kraken is hardly the task our kind was given! Do you think this is what the great Poseidon intended? We were created to sing and only to sing! Any further judgement belongs to the gods, not to the sirens!"

There were a few nods and murmurs from the council but despite Emma's fervent pleas, none of the members seemed to be willing to challenge Regina.

"Cowards…," Emma hissed as she returned her attention to her sister. "I don't know what power you wield over the council, Regina, but I believe that even they know this is wrong. If you want to challenge him, do it with your voice, not with Triton's oversized toy…"

"But this way is so much more fun," Regina smirked and that was what finally pushed Emma over the edge. With a flip of her muscular tail, Emma lunged at Regina, shoving her tentacled sibling beneath the surface and yanking the coral and shell studded crown from atop Regina's head. "Why you insolent little bitch!" Regina cried out as Emma flung the headdress aside. "You've always been a poor excuse for a siren and now you're proving that by all of this fervor to save your human pet!"

Regina flicked two of her tentacles toward Emma who defensively batted them away with her arms and tail fin. The skirmish sent many members of the council scrambling to get out of the way.

"Why are you doing this?" Emma demanded with a brisk swish of her tail that lifted her out of Regina's reach for the moment. "This has never been our way… Please - call off that kraken!"

"You have been away too long. You've gone soft," Regina scolded. "You're practically fawning over a human. How deranged can you possibly be? Have you forgotten what it is to be a siren or are those powers wasted on you?"

"The only deranged one here is you! I know I did the right thing no matter what you believe. Maybe I did go soft but if his life was spared from the siren call, he deserves to live…" Emma couldn't stop her voice from cracking as she continued to plead for Killian's survival. How had this man managed to affect her so greatly in such a short amount of time? Why did she care so much? Compassion wasn't an emotion that sirens were supposed to have…

"No human is worthy to pass through this realm. That was the edict of Poseidon himself," Regina sneered, raising her right arm above the water's surface as she prepared to unleash her magic on the helpless human who'd gone limp in the kraken's grip.

"PERHAPS I SHOULD BE THE JUDGE OF THAT," a booming voice sounded above the bay, silencing all, including the roaring sea beast.

A glistening trident with tines that blazed as brilliantly as lightning bolts broke through the waves. Emma immediately bowed her head even before the god's visage appeared and her action was followed by the siren council members who'd remained. Even Regina demurely lowered her head at the sight of Poseidon's face, but no amount of posturing would spare her from his ire. With a scant raise of his trident, the seas instantly grew calm and the kraken, still clinging to its human prey, was now frozen in time.

"Enough distractions," Poseidon said as his attention fell to the combative sirens. "The creatures living in this bay alerted me to all of this… whatever this is. What in the name of Olympus is going on here?"

"Mighty Poseidon," Regina began as she slowly lifted her chin to gaze upon the god of the sea. Her eyes darted back to the sea at the sight of his deep-set scowl. "We were just trying to complete some unfinished business, but there has been some disagreement over doing what needs to be done."

Poseidon shook his head in disdain as he glowered at the brunette siren. "This is a disagreement?" he queried as he nonchalantly pushed his glimmering three pointed crown back into position atop his pure white hair, echoing Regina's earlier behavior. "I think this is a ruckus and I would like to know how a council of sirens got themselves into such a bizarre situation. I don't recall krakens being a part of the siren song."

Regina's cheeks burned with embarrassment and anger. How dare Emma and her human put her in this position? "My apologies. Had Erimetha not abandoned our code and rescued a human, we wouldn't be here. The kraken was merely a suggestion from your brother, Triton, as a means to expedite the process."

"Was it now?" Poseidon quipped sarcastically before his scrutiny passed to Emma who, to this point, had remained reverent, silently treading water as she awaited the inevitable wrath of the god. "I'll need to have a stern conversation with my brother about his suggestion, but Erimetha - pardon me, I forgot that you prefer to be called Emma - is what Regina says true? Did you rescue a human from a doomed ship?"

Emma managed a weak smile over the fact that Poseidon had remembered her preferred name and even corrected himself. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't being viewed as the villain here.

"Regina's words are partially true. The man had already survived the siren song. He never heard them sing. All I did was prevent him from rolling off of his makeshift raft," Emma replied as she dared raise her head to face Poseidon.

"What possessed you to do such a thing?" Poseidon asked with a raised brow, intently listening for her response.

Emma had to pause for a moment, trying to best form her words, but the best she could come up with was: "My instincts told me I should."

"I see…" The god of the seas scratched idly at his beard as he contemplated Emma's answer - one that Regina clearly didn't believe to be good enough.

"She admits she helped the human," Regina rehashed her opinion, crossing her arms over her chest indignantly as she awaited the god's agreement.

Giving no audience to Regina, Poseidon continued his interrogation of Emma as only the outcast siren's first-hand account was going to answer the questions he wanted answered.

"You claim the human did not perish during the siren encounter because he didn't hear their song. What led you to that conclusion, Emma?"

"As he was recovering from his injuries sustained at the hand of the pirates who had abducted him and during his escape from the sinking ship, we conversed a few times. He believed the ship's crew had abandoned their vessel after striking the rocks and left him behind. It wasn't until after Regina came to my cove the first time in search of a survivor that he learned the truth about the siren attack, but he didn't recall hearing any music before the ship began to go down. It was my belief that he might possibly have been deaf to the song so I tested the theory by singing to him and he never heard me. He never fell victim to the trance. Does that not make him worthy to live?"

Poseidon pursed his lips and rubbed his whiskered chin as he pondered his next query but grew irritated by Regina's refusal to be silent when she interrupted his thoughts.

"This doesn't prove anything," Regina interjected, only to be immediately shushed by the god.

"Regina - my questions are for Emma at this time. It would be in your best interest to remain quiet until I address you," he warned sternly. "When I have a question for you, I shall ask. Do you understand?"

An embarrassed Regina nodded and gave a sheepish "Yes, your majesty." before floating further back from him.

"Emma, what do you know of the history of the sirens?" Poseidon inquired.

She was caught off-guard by the unusual question, but she did her best to surmise the history she knew. "Centuries ago, the gods lived in peace with humans, but a time came when the humans no longer showed reverence to the gods. As the human realm grew in size and they began to traverse the globe, you and Triton established this part of the mighty oceans as your sacred realm. We sirens were created to guard entrance into the realm as our song was supposed to determine whether a human was worthy to pass.

"Over many generations, only one human proved to be worthy - although the precise means of how his worth was determined remain unclear. Anyway, this human gained your favor and in time, was granted permission to marry your daughter, Ursula. Their civilization then flourished for many years, until the same insolence led to the destruction of that advanced civilization.

"Humans were once again regarded as evil, and while there are many tales of your descendants being spared, no one but you, your majesty, knows the veracity of that. All I know for certain is that even long before I isolated myself away from the sirens, no human ever traversed this realm successfully. All of them perished - until Killian came along. I do not know what criteria you intended us to use to judge men such as him, but he isn't evil. If he was able to make it off of that ship alive, does that not mean he was worthy of passage?"

Poseidon raised a brow at the thoroughness of her reply. He'd known for quite some time that Emma was unique amongst her kind, but he'd not expected to find such an underlying passion for life within a being who'd been created to kill.

"You are very much correct, Emma," he said at last, leaving a disgruntled Regina aghast.

"But Lord Poseidon, she defied the siren code by interfering!" Regina insisted and she was met with a harsh rebuttal.

"Regina, my instruction was for you to remain silent until you were addressed, but you seem to have difficulty following such a simple directive," he admonished the unruly siren. "You and the council are dismissed!" Lifting his trident, he aimed it at the frozen kraken, divesting it of its human prey. In a flash, an unconscious Killian Jones was removed from the creature's grasp to reappear safely upon the sandy shore. He waved off the layer of imposing clouds that shrouded the skies, allowing the sunlight to bathe the cove once again. The kraken reared to life as Poseidon's spell wore off, but the god quickly neutered its wrath. "And since you summoned it, you can return that blasted beast to my brother on your way home to your end of the island! Once I have completed cleaning up the mess you have made here, you will stand before me to answer for this abuse of your powers! Even with the most convincing apology, you may find yourself relieved of those powers."

Regina's lips parted to complain but wisely, not a single whimper escaped as she turned away from the intensity of his glare. Glancing around the bay, she could see that not a single council member had stayed behind to see her humiliation, so perhaps she could count that as a single victory. It was still her belief that she'd done no wrong, but for now, it was far better to lick her wounds and depart than further provoke the wrath of a god who had just publicly castigated her in front of her rival.

Visibly shaken, Regina gave one last little flutter of her wrist to vanquish the kraken, scowling eyes locked on Emma the entire time. Despite her fallen crown being forgotten and abandoned to the sea floor, she held her chin up audaciously before slipping beneath the waves with the knowledge that this may have been her last act as a siren.

#cssns #captain swan supernatural summer #cssns20 #cs ff #cs au ff #la sirena #siren emma #one more chapter to go #are emma and killian going to get their happy ending?

17 notes · View notes

golchaworld · 4 years

Text

You See Love Is A Game (And I Still Want to Play) | C.YJ

➳ pairing: campus player!yeonjun x female reader

➳ genre: college!au, angst, suggestive fluff

➳ word count: ~5.2k

➳ warnings: some suggestive moments, language, super brief mention of death, set in a nursing home, ambiguous/open ending, bi!yeonjun (not a warning but it’s there lol)

➳ summary: A workplace romance is a cliche. But if it’s not a romance, that should be perfectly fine, too. It sure seems to be fine with Yeonjun. So why isn’t it fine with you?

A/N: Y’all this took me forever! I’m kind of happy with the way this turned out though. As always, feedback is encouraged! Requests and prompts are also always encouraged so don’t be shy. Also there is a high possibility of a part two for this, so if you’re interested feel free to let me know. The title is from “Don’t Wanna Fall In Love” by KYLE.

Part Two

Choi Yeonjun was nothing but leather jackets, perfectly styled hair, and sleazy smirks. His look fit his character to a tee. He was a loud, obnoxious player who could have anyone on their knees for him with just a smirk and his signature wink.

You hated it.

Sure, college is the time to explore yourself and your sexuality, and you were never one to judge. But to see someone taking so much pride in being known as nothing but a player was a tad bit...unsettling to you. As a psychology major, you always wondered what was going on inside Yeonjun’s head that made him so okay with his reputation. However, you never got close enough to pick his brain.

Keeping your distance from Yeonjun was something you decided in your first semester. You had been walking down the hallway of your dorm (the one he unfortunately lived in as well), ready to set out for the day when you were met with a shocking sight. Yeonjun had been walking out of the bathroom, freshly showered. His towel was knotted low on his waist, exposing his toned torso that was littered with drops of water.

The minute he noticed you staring, Yeonjun pulled out the classic smirk and wink before walking away. To say you were left with flushed cheeks for the rest of the day was an understatement.

You couldn’t deny that the boy was attractive. There was something so enticing about his cocky demeanor and careless walk that drew you in. His plush lips were always drawn up into that greasy smirk that highlighted his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His hair was always perfect, even when it was messy, and he was always dressed to the nine.

In short, Choi Yeonjun was infuriatingly attractive.

And as you found out, fury, disgust, and attraction proved to be a dangerous mix. It had your stomach in knots every time you so much as caught sight of the boy. If anyone were to ask you, it was out of a weird distaste for him, but you knew better.

Which is why you find yourself currently in the library, trying extremely hard to focus on your 19th century literature homework as Yeonjun sits at a table a few paces away. He’s flirting with the innocent boy who sits at the table with him. You can easily tell by the way Yeonjun’s smirk is sitting on his face and the fact that the other boy’s cheeks are dusted with pink that he’s doing well.

You internally roll your eyes, averting your gaze back to Frankenstein in order to not be caught staring. Leave it to Choi Yeonjun to turn a place of learning into an opportunity to score. In all honesty, it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does. But you can’t help the way your mind runs an internal rant about Yeonjun’s antics, when in reality it has nothing to do with you.

As you grow more tired, it becomes harder to focus on your homework, leaving you distracted. Yeonjun still sits with the seemingly innocent boy, apparently still laying on the charm thick if their hushed giggles are anything to go by. Part of you can’t help but be jealous of the boy. It must be nice to have all of Yeonjun’s attention, even if only for a fleeting moment.

You’re too busy pondering that thought to notice that you’ve been staring. Suddenly, Yeonjun’s eyes meet yours from across the room, and you know you’ve been caught. You’re quick to avert your gaze then, cheeks heating at the thought of Yeonjun knowing that you were staring at him.

God forbid he knows why. You would never hear the end of it.

Shaking your head, you force yourself to focus back on Frankenstein. You’re nearing the end of your assigned pages when you feel a set of eyes on you. The gaze is piercing, demanding your immediate attention, but you don’t give in, letting your eyes process the words on each page instead.

It’s only minutes later when the chair across from you shifts, and you look up to see it being claimed by none other than Choi Yeonjun. You only spare him a brief glance before burying your nose into your book. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your cheeks have heated up just from his mere presence.

“You know,” Yeonjun whispers, mindful of your location. “It’s not polite to stare.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you respond, not once looking up from your book.

Yeonjun chuckles under his breath, and when you look up to meet his eyes, he’s looking at you in sheer amusement. His lips are quirked up, but not quite in his normal cocky smirk. He seems friendly, almost.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N,” you respond hesitantly.

“Well, Y/N,” Yeonjun says as he begins to stand from the table. “Next time you want my attention, just say so. The staring thing is kind of creepy.”

The tall boy pushes in his chair, surprisingly respectful despite his demeanor. He spares you a wink paired with his signature smirk before he walks away, leaving you with unfinished reading and a flame of annoyance flickering in your stomach.

. . .

One of the pains of being a psychology major is the need for you to participate in field research. It takes up a huge amount of time, and requires more writing than you initially thought, but at least you get to decide what and where you want to research.

Very honestly, studying geriatric psychology in a nursing home isn’t exactly your first choice for research. But when your professor mentions that they are in dire need of research help, you can’t find it in your heart to say no.

When it is finally the first day of your research, you can’t help but feel a little nervous. You know the procedure, and you have all of your interview questions written down, but you still can’t help the jitters that accompany doing anything for the first time. It doesn’t help that you have to go in alone, your supervisor choosing to stay in the lab while you do the field work.

Your knee bounces the entire bus ride to the nursing home, making the fabric of your dress jump around your legs. The short pumps you’ve stuffed your feet into begin to hurt the minute you walk into the nursing home, and you can already tell it’s going to be a long day.

Lucky for you, the home is warm and inviting. The walls are a warm cream color, decorated with the occasional piece of artwork. It’s surprisingly busy, filled with staff, visitors, and residents, all chatting away or busying themselves with a board game.

You make your way to the front desk slowly, still taking in your surroundings. When you arrive, you’re greeted by a dimpled boy sitting behind the desk, giving you a soft smile as he welcomes you to the home.

“How can I help you?”

You swallow down your nerves, suddenly made worse by the boy in front of you. He’s cute...like really cute. “Um, I’m Y/N. I’m here for research. I work with Dr. Seo.”

The boy behind the desk lights up, dimples growing deeper as he smiles fully. “Oh! It’s so nice to meet you. Dr. Seo told us he’d send someone in, but didn’t mention who. I’m Soobin, by the way.”

Soobin extends a hand and you shake it, smiling softly at the boy’s bubbly demeanor. He’s quick to stand, grabbing a folder full of papers from the desk before coming around to meet you on the other side. He motions for you to follow him.

“Normally researchers don’t actually do much on the first day. They just kind of come in and survey the place and take notes.” Soobin leads you down a long hallway, smiling and greeting the residents as you pass them. By the way everyone lights up at his presence, you can tell he’s well liked. “Last year, I was the one who kind of showed everyone around, but now they have me working the front desk so I really can’t anymore.”

The boy stops in front of an open room, which appears to be some kind of break room. There’s a fridge in the corner, plastered with pictures and colored magnets. The rest of the space is filled with a few tables, one of which is occupied by what seems to be a group of volunteers.

“Hey guys, this is Y/N. She works with Dr. Seo,” Soobin announces, grabbing the attention of those around the table.

The last person’s eyes you expect to meet are Yeonjun’s. Yet here he is, staring back at you in his mint green scrubs as he munches on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He looks sincere for a moment until something within him clicks, when the corner of his lips quirk up into a smirk. You feel your heart fall into the pit of your stomach.

Soobin doesn’t seem to notice the shift in atmosphere, and continues his announcement. “I have to go back to the front to help Hyunjin, but can one of you guys show Y/N around? She’ll need to know where things basically are and where to set up.”

Yeonjun’s standing up before Soobin even finishes his sentence. “I’ll do it,” he offers.

Soobin’s face pulls into a relieved smile, dimples popping out in gratitude. “Perfect,” the boy places a large hand on your shoulder. “You’re in good hands with Yeonjun. I’ll be at the desk if you need anything. It was nice meeting you.”

You nod at the tall boy, watching as he sets back off down the hallway from which you can. When you turn back to the break room, you notice that Yeonjun has already cleared his stuff away, leaving his friends with an exaggerated salute that has them all laughing. He brushes past you in the doorway, mumbling for you to follow him as you set out further into the nursing home.

“You just couldn’t get enough of me, huh?” Yeonjun throws a wink over his shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “You wish. I couldn’t give less of a shit about you working here.”

“Rule number one, sweetheart, is that you can’t curse around the residents. So watch that mouth of yours.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks at the use of the pet name. You can tell Yeonjun doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still leaves a fluttering in your stomach anyways.

The tall boy leads you up a flight of stairs, and it’s then when you notice how different he looks. All of his piercings are left void of jewelry. Instead of his hair slicked back with a hard gel, it’s left natural, soft and shaggy. He’s not wearing any bracelets or rings like he usually does, and you smile internally. You like the way this Yeonjun looks.

“We’ll start at the top and make our way down, okay?” The boy’s voice echoes in the stairwell, twisting the pitch as the sound reverberates.

You nod before realizing that he can’t see you from his position in front of you. “Sounds good.”

It’s evident that Yeonjun has been volunteering here for a while, exhibited by the ease through which he guides you around. He turns swiftly around each corner, knowing exactly which hallways are dead ends and which bring you further into the facility. The residents all greet him warmly as the two of you pass, and the older women seem especially fond of him.

Apparently no one is immune to Choi Yeonjun’s charm.

You’re amazed by the time the two of you return to the first floor. The nursing home is huge, much bigger than what you expected when you first walked in. Yeonjun leads you back down the same hallway through which you came earlier, past the front desk, and through a smaller hallway that leads away from the heart of the home.

When Yeonjun stops in front of a small room, he sighs. He opens the door swiftly to reveal what looks like an office. It’s equipped with a desk, some file cabinets, and an assortment of comfortable chairs and pillows.

“This is going to be your office while you work here. Once upon a time, it was mine,” Yeonjun’s eyes meet yours, holding a surprising air of authority. “Treat it right.”

You just chuckle awkwardly in response, not knowing how to respond. And then it hits you. This office was his at some point. The revelation has your eyebrows furrowing.

“You were with a research team?”

Yeonjun nods curtly. “I’m a developmental biology major. What better place to study the last phases of life than in a nursing home?”

Your jaw drops in surprise. “A developmental biology major? I would have never assumed that.”

Yeonjun chuckles bitterly. “You don’t know me. I think it’s a little inappropriate for you to be assuming anything.”

The air in the room is stale, emphasizing the discomfort that you feel after Yeonjun’s words. He’s right, of course, that you don’t know anything about him other than the fact that he gets around a lot. And he doesn’t even know that you know that. You choose to just apologize softly, which has the smirk rising on his face.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Yeonjun looks a little too smug. “Like I said, just treat this place with care. You can make yourself at home here. Whenever you’re ready to leave, just let Soobin know so he can sign you out.”

“Um, sure. Thanks, by the way.” Yeonjun cocks an eyebrow. “For showing me around and stuff. I’ll make sure to take care of your office.”

“Well it’s yours now, sweetheart.”

With another wink, Yeonjun is gone, leaving you once again with flushed cheeks and unfinished work.

. . .

The first week of trying to incorporate research into your already hectic schedule is a disaster. You only have to go into the nursing home two more times, and yet they manage to be the most jam-packed days you have had in awhile.

Working in geriatrics also proves to be more difficult than you’ve expected. Some residents are difficult and mouthy, while some are sweet but forget the question the minute it leaves your mouth. The whole interviewing process is extremely stressful, made worse by the way you have to relive the moments afterwards when you transcribe the interviews.

Additionally, you can’t decide if seeing Yeonjun everyday in your place of work is a blessing or a curse. You admit that he’s a sight for sore eyes after a long day, but he can also be extremely distracting with the flirtatious winks he sends you from down the hall. It seems like every time he sees you, he makes it his mission to fluster you as much as possible.

Occasionally he engages you in normal conversation, and that seems to fluster you the most. It’s when you gossip about the residents or tell cheesy jokes that you find yourself red in the face, absolutely smitten. It’s overwhelming how much you have grown to enjoy his company.

By the second week, it all becomes routine. It’s simple, really. You come into the home, check in with Soobin or Hyunjin, the other cute boy working at the front desk, and they always greet you with a smile. You use placing your snack in the break room fridge as an excuse to see Yeonjun, who always sends you a flirtatious wink in greeting.

Then you settle into your office, interviewing and transcribing for a few hours until your brain is melted. After that you retrace your steps to gather your belongings and leave the nursing home. It’s a pretty simple routine...until it’s not.

It’s the Thursday of the 5th week when Yeonjun comes barging into your office. You had been cramped in the small room all afternoon, and it was nearing 6pm. You weren’t anywhere near done with your work, but Yeonjun didn’t seem to care.

“Get your jacket,” the boy commands after his surprising entrance. “We’re going out.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the boy’s words, leaving him with a confused frown.

“There’s no way. I’m not even close to being done. So I have to stay here and work. Just go out by yourself.”

Yeonjun’s frown deepens, and you admit that it makes him look adorable. He stands before you with unstyled hair and a frown, clad in those mint green scrubs all of the volunteers have to wear. You internally smile at the fact that his name tag is upside down.

“You’ve been in here for over five hours. You deserve a break. We’re taking one now. Come on.”

Yeonjun’s stare is demanding, but with the subtle frown on his face, he seems to be pleading more than anything. After a few seconds of staring at the boy, you sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Fine. But only for a half hour. Then I have to get back to work.”

Yeonjun beams brightly at you, and you wonder how you’ve gotten to the point where Yeonjun smiles at you more than he smirks. You shrug off the thought and grab your jacket, following Yeonjun out.

The two of you opt for a quick stop at the local coffee shop rather than a full meal, knowing that what you need is just a pick me up. You settle into a booth towards the back of the cafe, seeming more interested in your drink than the boy in front of you.

Yeonjun chuckles when he notices the way you are downing your drink, taking a slow sip from his own. “You must have really needed that.”

When you look up, you notice how Yeonjun’s nose is scrunched up in amusement. He looks different like this, cuter, and you wonder what about the nursing home brings out such a cute side of him.

“Yeah, this research is kind of killing me,” you reply. “I don’t know how you did it.”

Yeonjun’s smile transitions to something softer. “I really loved it, so it never seemed like a big deal. I would rather be bombarded with patient interviews than have only a little bit of paperwork. Being face to face is so much more rewarding.”

You find yourself nodding in agreement, taking yet another sip of your drink. Although you had spoken to Yeonjun quite a bit since you’ve started your research project, you’ve never seen him so open. He’s normally all teasing quips and playful jabs and flirtatious compliments, but all of that seems to fall away as he looks at you with sincere eyes.

“What made you even want to work in the nursing home to begin with? Don’t most developmental bio majors work in embryology? Why didn’t you work at a fertility clinic or something?”

At this, Yeonjun’s smile falls. He looks down at his drink, stirring it softly as a way to fidget. He can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he begins speaking.

“My grandmother was actually a resident at the home, like 3 or 4 years ago. She had really bad Alzheimer’s disease, and couldn’t live on her own, so I started visiting her when she was sick there.

“After she passed, I guess I couldn’t really stop myself from visiting over and over again, even though I knew she wouldn’t be there. So when one of my advisors told me a research position was open there last year, I jumped on it.”

You place your hand on top of his and give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”

Yeonjun nods sadly, finally looking up to meet your eyes. “It’s okay now. Volunteering at the home is something I really enjoy, so something good came out of it all.”

After a second or two, Yeonjun flips his hand over, interlocking his fingers with yours. You instantly flush, even though you try not to show how flustered the action makes you.

“Thanks for asking, honestly.” Yeonjun starts softly. “No one has really ever questioned it, so it feels nice to be able to talk about it.”

You nod, letting out a shaky breath when the boy squeezes your hand. He doesn’t let it go after, letting it rest softly in his. You realize that he’s giving you the chance to pull away, but something in the pit of your stomach tells you not to.

The two of you end up spending the rest of your break chatting idly, fingers intertwined on top of the table.

. . .

No matter how much you get used to seeing Yeonjun in the nursing home, seeing him on campus always throws you for a loop. Even now, as you stand in the obnoxious crowd of the frat party your friends have dragged you to, you’re surprised to see the familiar head of perfectly styled hair.

He’s standing by the staircase, nodding his head softly to the beat of whatever EDM song is blasting through the house. His demeanor is the exact opposite from when he’s at the nursing home. Instead of being soft and open, he’s closed and rigid, seemingly predatory as he scans the crowd. You suspect it’s for his next hookup, and green briefly flashes behind your eyes.

He meets your eyes from across the room, sending a wink your way. You just roll your eyes, excusing yourself from your group of friends before walking over to him. Yeonjun looks surprised as you approach, taking a long sip of whatever concoction is housed in his red solo cup. He leans against the adjacent wall before greeting you with a smirk.

“This is the last place I ever thought I would see you, sweetheart.” His eyes glitter with delight.

You roll your eyes, sipping on the seltzer in your cup. “I could say the same thing to you. Aren’t you, like, too cool to be here or something?”

This makes Yeonjun laugh, his prominent cheekbones protruding as he smiles genuinely. “Of course I’m too cool. But I just decided to grace all of these poor souls on campus with my presence.”

You hum in amusement as Yeonjun takes a step further into your space. He glances down into your cup, raising an eyebrow at its contents.

“Vodka soda?” He questions.

You shake your head no.

“Gin and sprite?”

You shake your head once again.

“Tequila seltzer?”

His incessant guesses have you laughing, but you finally take pity on him. “It’s just seltzer, Yeonjun. I’m not drinking.”

Yeonjun scoffs, leaning further into your space as you two lean against the adjacent wall. “What’s the point of coming to a party just to be sober? Actually, never mind, I would assume nothing less from you, sweetheart.”

“Hey,” your jaw drops in mock offense. “Someone once reminded me that it’s a little inappropriate to be assuming anything when you don’t know someone.”

“I think I know you well enough.”

You cock an eyebrow challengingly. “Prove it.”

The smirk takes hold on Yeonjun’s face. He tilts his head slightly, making it easier to make eye contact. You’re struck by the intensity of his gaze, even in the fairly dim lighting of the party. He crowds further into your space, forcing you back onto the wall just a little bit. You’re ashamed at the way it ignites a flame in the pit of your stomach.

“Would it be inappropriate to assume that you want me just as bad as I want you?”

The question takes you by surprise, but the fire in your stomach only grows. If it weren’t for the intensity of his stare you would think he was joking, but something in his eyes tells you he’s dead serious.

“What makes you say that?” You don’t know where the sudden confidence comes from, but you take pride in your ability to flirt back.

Yeonjun chuckles. “Don’t think I forgot how you were looking at me in the library all those weeks ago. You were practically begging me to fuck you with your eyes. And honestly,” he shrugs. “I would have. I still would.”

You swallow thickly, brain momentarily short circuiting at the boy’s words. He still has yet to break eye contact, seemingly searching you for any sign to back off. Obviously, he doesn’t find one.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

Yeonjun’s smirk grows, dripping with a sense of pride and satisfaction. He’s quick to take you by the hand, leading you up the stairs to wherever the two of you were bound to spend the rest of your night. You mentally apologize to your freshman year self for breaking your promise to keep your distance from Yeonjun. But really, you aren’t all that sorry.

. . .

You feel dirty.

No matter how much concealer you use to hide it, it makes you feel extremely dirty to come to work with hickies. It makes you feel even dirtier that the one who gave you said hickies volunteers there.

However, what makes you feel the dirtiest is the fact that when Yeonjun comes into your office and locks the door, you take the bait. You only have a 20 minute break in between your interviews, and you spend it fucking Choi Yeonjun...again.

No matter how dirty you feel, though, you can’t help but feel an underlying sense of giddiness. Being with Yeonjun just ignites something within you that has you thrumming with happiness for the rest of the day (not that you would ever tell him that).

The two of you had decided at the party that there was nothing wrong with a little fun as long as it was left at just having fun. And with that, the two of you just arose.

You don’t know where quickies in your office fall on the spectrum of “just having fun,” but you go with the flow anyways.

Yeonjun chuckles as he watches you slide your discarded panties up your legs, pulling down your pencil skirt as you fumble with the buttons on your blouse. He looks no better, the drawstrings on his scrubs untied, a blooming hickey forming underneath his collarbone. You both are a mess, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You’re straightening up your hair when Yeonjun moves to leave. He approaches the door slowly, seemingly wanting to draw out the moment between you two. Eventually he exits the office with a sleazy wink.

“See you around, sweetheart.”

And with that, he disappears. When the door clicks shut behind him, you swear to yourself that it won’t happen again.

Naturally, it does. Time and time again, you find yourself with Choi Yeonjun embedded in you, and you can’t say you regret it.

Your connectedness bleeds into your work, as you often find yourself thinking of the boy during your interviews. The two of you share secret glances whenever you cross paths, accompanied by the occasional rendezvous in your office.

It bleeds into campus life, too. You find yourself leaving every party with Yeonjun’s arm wrapped around your waist, him whispering dirty promises in your ear as he leads you out.

Every single time you encounter Yeonjun it always leads to the same two things, sex and unfinished work.

He takes pride in it, too. Yeonjun loves the way he has you dropping everything for him the minute he says the right things. He loves how you always greet him with a sweet smile, one that’s dripping with sugar in a way that’s only meant to conceal something. He loves the way you moan for him, say his name, tell him that you’re close. Yeonjun loves.

He loves.

On month two of you two “having fun,” Yeonjun decides he’s had enough of loving. He’s loved before, sure, but this, this is love. And if he knew anything, he knew that “having fun” and love could not coexist.

He lets his eyes roam your naked figure as you lay sleeping in his dorm bed, the two of you squeezing onto it late last night and haven’t moved since. He wonders when sharing a bed became enveloped in “having fun” and he assumes it was around the same time when loving you was.

This is not the Yeonjun he knew himself to be. This is not the Yeonjun that tore through the boys and girls of campus just to chase a meaningless orgasm. This isn’t the Yeonjun who got cute boys to tutor him by pretending not to understand physics. This new Yeonjun feels. He feels for you, and he hates himself for it.

Yeonjun can’t stop himself from smiling as you slowly start to blink awake. On instinct, his hand comes to your hair, stroking softly to further coax you into wakefulness. When you make sleepy eye contact with him, you smile softly. Yeonjun’s heart clenches.

“What are you staring at, creep?” You mumble into the shared pillow.

Yeonjun chuckles softly. “Just a loser.”

“That wasn’t what you were saying last night.”

And Yeonjun blushes. The Yeonjun that he knew himself to be never blushed. He was always the one making others blush. He used to make you blush. He wonders when the tables turned.

After waking up fully, you’re quick to leave the bed, searching the small dorm room for your clothes. You get dressed without batting an eye, straightening out your appearance as much as possible. Yeonjun just watches from his bed as you go through the motions, taking in the sight of you.

When all your stuff is gathered and you’ve deemed yourself appropriate, you head to the door. Yeonjun wills himself to say something, anything. But his voice is caught in his throat, and it’s not until you’re halfway out the door does he find his words.

“See you tomorrow.” Stay, please.

You just smile over your shoulder. “Bye, Yeonjun.” Ask me to stay.

You’ve made peace with the walk of shame since you find yourself doing it so often. But there is always something that nags in the pit of your stomach as you walk down the corridors of the dorm. You wonder if people can look at you and know, know that you’re just another one of Yeonjun’s conquests.

Somewhere along the line, you convince yourself that it’s fine if that’s what they think, because that’s what you are. Choi Yeonjun doesn’t do feelings, not for you, at least. He just takes and takes until he’s satisfied. There will come a day where he’s satisfied, and you two will return to being nothing but coworkers.

You wonder if Yeonjun has taken anyone else recently. You’re sure that he must have, but you can’t help but hope that he hasn’t. You hope that you’re the only one, that you’ve been the only one, but that hope is futile. You know that. So why does it hurt so bad?

As you exit the dorm, the cold air of early December whipping past your face, you realize that you’ve been taken. Choi Yeonjun took you, every piece of you, and you wonder why you let him.

You wish that you stuck to your freshman promise of keeping your distance. But distance only makes the heart grow fonder.

Part Two

#choi yeonjun #choi yeonjun imagines #txt #txt imagines #tomorrow x together imagines #tomorrow x together #choi soobin #choi soobin imagines #escritos

188 notes · View notes