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#this is in fact SO LOUVRELY

yoakkemae · 4 months

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paris is certainly beautiful this time of night , he thinks as he runs over top of the rooftops. he was in paris for a favour to chat noir -- the senior , as he teased her earlier since there was now a parisian hero who was wearing her name and her aesthetic -- and even though he doesn't owe her anything ... well. nothing says paris than breaking into the louvre just to decorate , he thinks.

speaking of chat noir ( the junior , this time ) , his partner , ladybug , was chasing after him ( he's pretty sure chat noir was chasing the other chat noir , which , good luck to him , she isn't as nice as kid is ) , and while he was used to detectives chasing after him , there was a different thrill being chased by a hero. for once , she was able to following him over the rooftops directly rather than just following from the group. in another , he might not have to dodge soccer balls , but avoiding her yo-yo was interesting enough.

it was after one particularly interesting dodge , involving his flexibility , parkour , and awareness of the next three rooftops that caused @yinbug to ask , more even than he would have thought after running after him for at least ten minutes , " where'd you learn to pull a stunt like that ? '

he can't help but laugh in return , even though he doesn't slow down , adrenaline keeping his mood up. ' talent , miss ladybug. ' a sharp grin , characteristic of kaitō kid when he has someone right where he wants them , blossoms on the bottom of his face. ( the only visible part of his face ). ' say , should i take this response as a rejection for my redecorating effort ? i thought the venus de milo needed a shirt. '

#yinbug #tbt.#don't look at me and the fact this took me like four weeks to respond to #literally didn't steal anything (they broke into the louvre so that they'd up security)#and just like gave statues some new clothes and shit like that LMAO

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minhosimthings · 4 months

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Angels in Tibet

Symphony Smut Series Day 13: Amaarae's Angels in Tibet

Lyric: Louvre and Armani I like how you say it

Pairings: fiance!Jay × fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, implied use of pheromone, bathroom sex, semi public sex, fingering, p in v sex, overstimulation, missionary, unprotected sex (not for you baby), mention of breeding, rough sex and I'm talking ROUGH, dom!Jay, sub!reader, fluffy in the beginning

A/N: Day 13 baby! 5 more oneshots to go and we'll be over. I just had to do a Paris fic with Jay cause IT'S JAY. @yunabi436 a gift for you darling

THE SYMPHONY SMUT SERIES MASTERLIST

Jay was a 'date to marry' guy. Which was very evident from the fact that he bought you your favourite flowers on your first date which he had asked you about the day before.

The ring on your finger never shone brighter than now, when Jay had proposed a pre-wedding holiday to Paris, even though you had begged him not to spend more money on you.

"What kind of a husband would I be if I didn't?" He reasoned, blocking your attempts to put in your credit card to chip in for the trip, "Plus you've always wanted to see the Louvre so we're going, no buts."

"Not even my butt?"

Paris was beautiful. Paris was amazing. Paris was amazing. But most of all, Paris had The Louvre.

A place you had been wanting to visit since you saw it in a magazine when you were seven. You had always hada knack for art history, which, due to parental pressure, you hadn't taken as a major in college. Jay knew that. And that's why he took you to see the triangular polycarbon (or atleast he guessed it was polycarbon) structure, where treasures beheld your eyes.

"You know the interesting thing about this painting-" you stared at all the beautiful swirls of colours on the frame in front of you, "is that even though it is more harder to paint than the painting opposite of it-" you glances at the crowd of people behind you, "It is still largely ignored."

"So you'd much rather analyse The Wedding Feast at Cana rather than The Mona Lisa herself?" Jay rested his chin on your shoulder, reading the brief introduction of the painter carved at the pedestal.

"Mona Lisa is a masterpiece I will admit. But this!" You gestured dramatically towards the painting with your hands, "This is magnificent."

"Darling as much as I would love to stand here and watch you talk about this painting, didn't you want to get a look at Psyche by Antonio Canova? And isn't that in the next room with the sculptures?"

"Oh yeah." You responded. Seeing all the artworks of the Louvre would take approximately 20 days and you were only here for a week. So you obliged and took Jay's hand casually strolling off to the next room.

Though you hadn't mentioned it, your nostrils had had a sense of misdirection throughout the entire time Jay strolled close to you. You had brushed it off as a thing of the atmosphere, continuing with your tour.

Unbeknownst to you however, earlier that day, Jay had rubbed some of his 'special' cologne onto his wrists and neck. You were a generally freaky person, and he knew that. So your everlasting wish to fuck in the bathroom of a museum was about to be fulfilled today.

"Jay ah-ah fuck."

Jay's got you pinned against him, back to chest, feet balanced atop the muscle of his thighs. Spread wide open, bare and exposed, helpless in the way he traps your throat between bicep and forearm.

“This what you had in mind for the bathroom of The Louvre?” he asks, circles a wet finger over your clit, a ghosting touch that leaves your hips canting upward. Almost frantic, a silent pleading, but he traps you steadfast.

It started as a small kiss. A peck. A brush of the lips so gentle you barely felt it until he pressed his mouth to yours fully. There was no tongue, nor any breathlessness when he pulled away and looked at you again. But you could feel the shift in the air. The drop in your stomach and sudden stillness in the room while a white noise clouded your head.

You’re a little light-headed, blistered beneath the skin, needy and fidgeting. Maybe you want him to hold you still, to fit you tight against him, to fight against your struggle—something carnal deep down that gets off on his strength, the power you know he can wield over you.

Your vision begins to speckle and fizz, and pleasure coils blinding hot in the pit of your stomach. At his mercy, desperate for anything he’ll give you—the helplessness breaks you apart, soaks you between the legs. The sound of his pumping fingers is filthy and slick, and your cunt sucks him in. Begs more than your mouth ever could.

You meet each thrust of his fingers with a tilt of your hips, exhale a stuttering moan when he begins to grind the bulge of his cock against the curve of your ass. When he pulls you hard against his chest and whispers a string of praise into your ear.

His name is the last coherent word you get out before it’s only feral moans of bliss. You’re so close it’s like a fire burning in your limbs, every muscle tensing as you try to withhold it a little longer to prolong this moment where all you cared about was him and the way he could send you into the stars. When the tip of his finger pinpoints and stiffens to flick teasingly before he latches once again, that’s all it takes to have the elastic snaps, sending a shockwave from your core all the way to the tips of your fingers, your muffled scream echoing off the mirrors. He’s satisfied with himself, smiling as he stands and lets your legs fall limply from his grasp, his hands catching your boneless body from slinking down onto the floor.

This man was beautiful, so godsdamned beautiful.

And he was all yours.

"Can you take more darling?" Jay questioned, clutching your hips to keep you steady, admiring your naked back in the mirror behind you, "I can do it all night if you want."

Without warning, he shoved his cock into your pussy, hearing your muffled whimper as he'd done so. "quiet, don't wanna wake up the sculptures do we?" His own voice was strained as he scolded you, beginning to set his own pace. Unforgiving and harsh, making you lightheaded and dizzy.

You felt him right at your womb again and again and fucking again. You felt any semblance of your very sanity begin to melt away as he fucked you, so roughly that it almost had you begging for him to go easy on you.

He was fucking you like a thing void of a soul, like a rag doll. Every single time you felt him back inside, he pushed you deeper and deeper onto the marble. Your hands had felt useless, not even able to support your own weight. You offered them to him, feeling his lone hand take both of yours, anchoring himself to you without his pace even faltering. It was a reminder to you both that he's fucking huge, so strong and capable of easily overpowering you. It had you nearly sobbing, your insides squeezing him snugly.

Jay holds your stomach down and goes deeper. You squeal as you cum on his dick. He keeps going until eventually he slows down and cums, the warm feeling enveloping your pussy like a cocoon.

Jay looks up at your almost passed out figure and lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he pulls out.

"You doing okay baby?" Jay asks uncertainly, noticing how hard you were breathing.

"Park Jongsoeng how is our wedding day sex gonna beat this?" You joke, leaning against the cold marble. Thank heavens that the museum wasn't too busy today.

"Oh don't worry about that." Jay growls in your ear, squeezing your waist,

"I'll make sure to fuck a baby into you on that day."

Taglist: @ramenoil @mynameisniya150 @demigodmahash + whoever wants to be tagged, send an ask my way!

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mikareo · 2 months

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౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ A LOVE LETTER TO: THE LOUVRE ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀呪術廻船; geto suguru x fem reader ⠀ ꒰ . . org. writing repost ꒱ . . . word count; 12.9k

⊹ ⠀⠀ for as long as he can remember, geto's world has been black and white - giving him no reason to appreciate his mother’s profession as an artist and the beauties that art can provide. however, an accidental meeting with you gives him reason to doubt his former beliefs - proving to him that there may be true beauty in a world that’s void of everything bright, that beauty being the sunshine that you provide.

contains; colorblind!geto, painter!reader, geto's mom is reader’s art mentor, he hates art, strangers to friends to lovers, major crushing from both sides, slow burn but also not slow burn, swearing, fluff, reader acts like she’s on an adrenaline rush 24/7, jealousy, angst, explosive arguments, lowkey toxic, extremely inaccurate depictions of colorblindness!!, geto sucks at flirting author's note; repost of a bllk fic i have, titled 'rationalism'. if there are any plot errors pls let me know,, the original fic is still posted, i just wanted this up for jjk too,, enjoy!

Whenever the sun meets its peak at the high dawning point in the sky is when Suguru knows it's a perfectly acceptable time to visit his oh-so-beloved mother. If he could, he would spend every waking moment with her - he’s a momma’s boy through and through - not only because she birthed him and taught him everything he knows, but because she’s kind and good. She’s also one of - scratch that - she’s the only person he can stand to be around for more than twenty four hours - and he takes great pride in having such a wonderful woman in his life.

However, despite how dearly he holds his mother to his heart, the issue with visiting her at this time of day is that she’s in her art studio. A place he loathes more than having to wear wet socks with sneakers. While it’s a beautiful space, with high wooden beams and floor to ceiling windows, he finds himself nauseous at the mere sight of the countless tubes of oil and acrylic paints. It’s not that the smell or colors are distasteful, it’s the fact that no matter how hard he squints and struggles, he cannot fathom what the simple color red looks like.

Complete black and white color blindness isn’t a life threatening condition in the slightest, but for Suguru, it feels as if he’s being stabbed through the sternum at any notion of the changing leaves or colorful streaks of light across the sun-setting sky.

He doesn’t hate his mother for being an artist, he simply hates the art itself.

And he especially hates pieces of art like the one sitting before him, now. With the blobs of squares and triangles against the supposedly white canvas, sitting perky on the easel as if to mock him - he decides to reach his hand out - and remind himself how emotionally detached acrylic paints make him feel. It’s wet, he observes, rubbing his thumb and pointer finger together to mix the possibly different hues. Suguru hopes he didn’t ruin the artist’s painting in any way, he wouldn’t know if he’d accidentally smeared shading or contrasting primaries - but surely the artist could fix it in a jiffy.

“Do you like it?”

Well, that certainly isn’t his mother’s voice.

“I tried using cooler tones in the corner here, and then migrated towards warmth in the lower portion.” You’re beside him now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his position, and completely ignoring his personal space - all while he’s never met you before this day. Your finger is extended, pointing towards the artistic decisions you’re elaborating on that, in all honesty, he doesn’t give two shits about. “I’m thinking about sketching some paper cranes on top of it all, I want it to represent the change of seasons.”

“What do you think?”

You’re staring at him now, bright eyes shining with curiosity. Suguru is at a loss for words, mostly due to your unannounced appearance in the studio, but also because you’re possibly the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on - which is shocking, considering the sight of thick paint smudged against a person’s face typically sends him running the opposite direction. He’s never felt an immediate connection to the women of his past - however you, a strange girl who resembles a dog waiting for its treat, has his heart beating at twice the rate.

“I like this shape.” Suguru purses his lips into a straight line, never having felt so awkward in his whole life. “This square is nice, too.”

You look utterly unimpressed with his evaluation. Your nose is scrunched in distaste and the fold beneath your right eye seems to be twitching in disapproval for your own artwork. “That’s all that you like?” You step ever so slightly closer to him, chin tilted up to meet his gaze, before retreating quickly and coddling your painting. “Perhaps I overestimated my color palette. I really thought it would be the outstanding moment of this piece, but I guess I could rework it if the shapes are all that matter—”

“Did you touch my painting?”

Oh boy, he’s in for it now.

A nervous laugh leaves his mouth, embarrassing him further as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck in an attempt to look casual, only for you to grab his wrist out of thin air. “Oh my god, you did!” Your mouth is agape, inspecting his tattered skin in shock - yet somehow he knows that you aren’t truly upset with him - you don't seem like that kind of person. “Did you not realize that you’ve got scarlet red all over your palms?”

Suguru’s mind is blank, his ability to form coherent sentences is gone, and he can only muster up the cheesiest, most terribly dreadful joke that he’s said in the twenty three years he’s been alive.

“I guess you caught me red handed?”

There’s a moment of silence, with the two of you displaying the most aloof expressions either of you have ever made, until your face lights up with laughter. He doesn’t understand what could possibly be so funny - his joke was awful - but the sound of your contagious fits of giggles make his heart feel a little bit warmer in a place that he commonly feels suffocated in. For the first time, the studio gives him a sense of comfort rather than distress - and he knows it's because he’s developing a very clear crush on the pretty girl beside him.

You’re hysterical, resembling that of insanity while Suguru is simply stuck in time. He can’t tell if he should be steadying you before you trip over your own feet or if he should simply take his leave and forget this day ever happened.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he begins, watching you wipe a tear of laughter from the crinkle of your right eye, “but why are you here? Do you have an appointment, because I could’ve sworn there weren’t any other people that were allowed in the studio at this hour—”

“Oh, I do know you!” The volume of your voice just seems to get louder and louder. “You must be Miss Geto’s son! She always mentions how lovely her little boy is, I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you! Though, I expected you to be like six or seven, not my age. She should’ve mentioned that you were handsome, not cute - she really chose every adjective other than the ones that wouldn’t make you sound like a primary schooler.”

Does she ever stop talking? Suguru doesn’t think he’s ever heard another person ramble on-and-on like you do. Normally he’d have ended the conversation by now, walked away without a second thought of whether he acted rude or not, but he knows that his mother would strangle him if he was to blatantly disregard her current favorite student. The student that she loves telling him stories about at the dinner table every Sunday night as he’s just trying to eat his fingerling potatoes in peace.

The same student who he’s somehow enjoying talking to - though it’s mostly just you talking to his blank face - and is causing a soft yellow blush to form on his cheeks. He doesn’t actually know if yellow is the color related to blushing, but he thinks he’s read it somewhere before.

“Anyways, to answer your question—”

Suguru feels like he’d asked you hours ago.

“—I’d walked all the way to the train station and realized I’d forgotten my wallet here - which is strange because normally I never forget anything. I’m a very organized person—”

Yeah, he doesn’t believe that.

“—and then I had to run all the way back here—”

Your shoes are scuffed. You definitely tripped on the way.

“—where I accidentally ran into a stroller…poor baby—”

Yep. Tripped.

“—which led me to you!”

You’re smiling now and Suguru doesn’t think he’s seen so many teeth shining at him in all of his life. God, do you ever run out of energy? No matter, he knows exactly where your missing item is. The anonymous wallet had been the first thing his eyes had grazed over when striding towards your artwork - good thing it’s only an arm’s reach away.

He snatches the wallet from the art easel and is pleasantly surprised by the quality of the possibly monochromatic leather. The clasp is simple, requiring just one twist before the contents of your identity are laid out before him. “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Suguru recites the name written on your license and holds the items out to you, to which you reach out, eager to reunite with your belongings. However, at the last second he waves it in the air - away from your dying fingertips - and clicks his tongue two times. “Try not to lose it again. It’s a luxury brand, isn’t it? I like the black color.”

“Black?” Shit. The tilt of confusion your head makes indicates that your wallet is not, in fact, black. “I’m either stupid or color blind, but this is red.”

Before Suguru can respond, he’s saved by the bell. Well, technically his savior isn’t an actual bell, but you get the gist. “Miss Geto!” Thank god she’s finally here to distract you. He’s been fighting to maintain his pride throughout your entire interaction. “I made an extra trip to the studio and ran into your son, here! You weren’t lying when you said he’s a little quiet - honestly, I feel like I’ve been talking to myself this whole time.”

You quite literally have been doing that very thing for the past ten minutes.

“Oh, Suguru! Have you been acting rude?” His mother’s expression is tense, stricter than the time he ‘accidentally’ took her (grey?) Kia Soul on a joyride that one weekend he and Satoru decided to go on a midnight run to the department store. “Please don’t mind him at all, dear. You see, he doesn’t exactly get out much - his social skills might be a little underdeveloped.”

She can’t actually be saying this right now. This is exactly why he hasn’t had a girlfriend in months - his mother embarrasses him in front of every pretty girl they come across in the first two minutes of saying ‘hello’. It isn’t that Suguru is a terrible flirt - which he is, but he likes to deny it - it’s that he loves his mother so much that he can’t bear to tell her that her attempts at ‘hooking him up’ are always bound to fail.

However, you don’t appear to be phased by her words. If anything, you’re actually pleased by the sound of him being socially impaired.

“That’s actually perfect!”

What.

The.

Fuck?

“He can be my portrait model!” You’re still talking. Please, for the love of God, stop talking. “You know how I’ve been trying to become better skilled in the emotional aspect of my paintings, he could definitely help me out by showing anxiety and embarrassment - and you’ve been telling me it’s about time that I found myself a model.”

The endless trail of words that continue to string from your mouth seem to reach their end. Rather than speaking in spitfire, you’re now crazily staring at Suguru, himself. Both of your fists are clenched together in a pleading hold and he doesn’t think that you’ve blinked since the start of your conversational rampage - but despite the absurdity of your proclamation, he believes you have good intentions. There really is no reason to deny the request - after all, he’d be helping out his mother in the process, she does love having successful students - but he just can’t imagine himself spending any more time in the dreadfully grey studio than he already does.

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” His mother catches your words before he has a chance to give you his own oral letter of rejection. “Suguru’s never been one for art.”

“Oh.”

All you have to say is ‘oh’?

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” you continue. The expression on your face is suddenly stern. Has he offended you in some way by saying no? “I’ll figure something else out, Miss Geto. I apologize if I overstepped.”

You’re bowing your head before him now, and Suguru is shell shocked. His first impression of you was undoubtedly a dud, considering how you actually do seem to have a rational bone in your body despite the hyperactivity you displayed just moments before. While he’s mustering up a response, you lift your eyes - lashes fluttering like upwards brush strokes on a canvas - and send a small smile his way. It’s as if you’re silently apologizing to him for the undivided attention you tormented him with, but he doesn’t want you to apologize.

He just doesn’t know how to say that he actually liked your personality.

God, he’s so bad at flirting.

“Thanks for finding my wallet, though.” Your fingers are suddenly touching his, momentarily grazing against his skin as you pluck your wallet from his hands. There’s no chance that you haven’t noticed the rising heat that’s currently warming the blossoms of his cheeks, and he hopes that you find it endearing. While he isn’t great with words, he likes to think that he may be at least a little bit cute. His mother always calls him a ‘cutie’ - which he appreciates, but it’s also so degrading for someone of his age. “Maybe I’ll be forgetful more often, now.”

He hopes you’ll start being more forgetful, too.

You’ve left your entire bag this time.

He can’t tell if you’re trying to be subtle and coy with the budding feelings that’re growing between the two of you, and you’re just as awful at flirting as he is - or if you’ve just given up on leaving small signs of attraction. Honestly, in the past few weeks of you leaving paintbrushes and lanyards in the studio, he’d assumed it was all naturally an accident. This, though? How do you expect him to believe that you left your entire satchel in the studio? Sure, you can be a little dense, but not that dense.

It’s obvious that you’ve begun to lose track of your belongings for the simple reason that you enjoy partaking in the awkward exchange of items when you ‘hastily’ return to the empty renovated greenhouse and get to act surprised to see him standing there with his arms full of things with your name written all over them. In fact, this instance has happened so often that Suguru is beginning to believe that he actually enjoys it, too.

Sometimes he thinks that maybe you should just write your name on him to speed up this dreadful ‘will they, won’t they’ process that you’ve been pacing together.

He likes you. He really really likes you, and you both know it.

You’d picked up on his feelings from the second time you met - when he willingly stayed behind in the studio for an extra two hours just to hear you ramble about the difference between heavy and soft body acrylic paints. There was something about the way you grinned at him. How your chin would angle upwards to his height in order to have a proper conversation. How you weren’t afraid to say anything and everything that was on your sporadic mind. How your eyes would sparkle at the dedicated eye contact he was making - letting you know that he was hanging on to every word that left your lips (which he just recently found out are pink - and boy does he wish to know what that undoubtedly lovely color looks like against your skin).

He hates to compare you to a painting - which he still finds a positively dreadful blob of nothingness - but to him, you are one. You’re a captivating piece of art hanging on the walls of the nationally acclaimed museum in his mind.

A captivating piece of art whose art of subtlety is extremely lacking, considering that your phone number is quite literally painted on the largest white canvas your easel can hold, in bold lettering that he would have to be visually blind to miss, plastered behind the hiding place of your bag.

‘P.S. It's written in red paint. I know you have a thing for red.”

As much as he likes you, you can be such a pain in his ass. The bane of his existence, if you will.

It pains him to notice how he hadn’t thought twice about typing the digits into his text bar, smiling to himself at the sight of your make-shift contact with the horrid selfie you’d taken on his phone to be your future contact picture. Your hair is an utter mess, with flecks of paint scattered across your hairline - which, to be honest, look like dandruff to him with their lack of vivid color, but he told you that they resemble snowflakes. He lied - but what you don’t know doesn’t hurt you.

Without hesitating, he types a singular ‘hey’ before backtracking. What if you don’t know that it’s him texting you? What if you think that it’s a random stranger who just so happened to be in the art studio and thought to add your contact information to their phone? He better be more clear.

‘Hello. You know me.’

Perfect.

In less than a split second, you respond. He can feel his nerves itching at the sight of the grey text bubble popping in and out of view. Suguru can’t even remember the last time his heart beat so fast. Perhaps when he was standing in front of his secondary school health classroom and he accidentally mistook a photo of the urinary system with the ovaries during a speech about the female menstrual cycle? The stream of liquid projected against the white board was in fact not what he thought it was (how was he supposed to see the difference between red and yellow?), which turned into a horribly disgusting presentation that Satoru still bothers him about to this day. That was dreadful - but this is definitely equally as dreadful, if not more.

‘Stalker much?’ Huh? ‘Hi though, Suguru. That text was very…you.’

‘You added my number pretty quickly.’ Man, you text really fast. ‘You just couldn’t resist me, could you?’

He doesn’t know what to say back. It’s as if his mind has been scraped raw of all romantic material that one would usually use in this situation - the situation in which an unbelievably pretty girl is talking to him through a phone screen. Suguru is completely frozen in place, time, and thought. The only part of him that isn’t paralyzed is the hole in his chest that is beginning to be thawed by you. His frozen heart of past relationships has found its fire - and oh does it burn for you.

“Cat got your tongue?”

Where the fuck did you come from?

Swiveling on his heel, he turns to face your approaching figure. Your footsteps are lighter than air, likely being the reason as to how you managed to stealthily sneak in so quietly while he had been distracted with his phone. The light denim jeans that cover you from waist to ankles are perhaps his favorite pair you own. You’ve painted on them over time, sketching out a garden of patterns that don’t require color to appreciate. Your artistic ability is uncanny - he can’t deny the fact that you’re incredibly skilled - and he believes that you should be given an award for making ‘art’s number one hater’ a growing fan.

“You left your bag.” No shit, Captain Obvious. “Do you want it back?”

He’s so bad at this.

You skip towards him, your left foot following your right in a rhythm of peppiness, and lean up towards him with a shine in your eyes. God, you look so pretty. Sure, seeing you from a comfortable distance with an easel separating your bodies was nice and all, but when you pull stunts like this - with no room for him to scurry off and run - he actually takes the time to digest your features in their true beauty. You’re the artist, yet he seems to be the one who’s always studying you.

“Do you have any plans for today?” You ask in a curious tone. Your hands are held together behind your back as you send him a beaming grin with an upturned lip. “—because I was thinking about grabbing some tea, and it would be so unfortunate if I had to go all alone and sit by myself with all of those strangers around me. Who knows what could happen? If only there were someone who could protect me in case a sleazy guy asks for my number…”

Are you trying to manipulate him, right now?

“I’ve got nothing to do today.”

—because he’ll gladly let you do so.

The peaks of your eyebrows raise in surprise, not expecting him to accept the offer so quickly. Over the short time you’ve known one another, you’ve noticed that Suguru’s reluctance to spend one-on-one time with you has dwindled. He’s slowly becoming more comfortable in your presence and whatever inner turmoil that he’s facing is fading into the tide of your raging tsunami. There’s a peaceful gaze behind his brown eyes, now. One that you love to study whenever he isn’t looking your way (which isn’t often).

“Then it’s a date!” Surging forwards, you take his arm in yours and link yourselves together. He’s initially shocked by the immediate physical connection you’ve managed to make within mere seconds, but he thinks that he likes it. It’s been so long since he’s even held hands with a girl, so he’s understandably tense, but you’re giving him time to adjust. After all, scaring him away would be your last intention. “I’ll even pay for your drink, since you were kind enough to find my lost satchel.”

“Yeah, your lost satchel was so hard to find.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He smiles to himself.

Yes, you do.

He isn’t sure how, but he’s somehow burned his tongue again.

“Shit!” Suguru hurriedly places his mug down onto the circular wooden table that separates the two of you, while attempting to be gentle since he doesn’t want to waste the perfectly tasty coffee that you paid for. He groans, dabbing the corners of his lips with one of the complimentary paper napkins. “Why does it get me every time?”

This is perhaps the third week in a row that you and him have ditched the studio and decided to claim the neighboring cafe as your designated date spot - though you’re still an unofficially exclusive couple. Unofficial as in Suguru hasn’t found the nerves to ask you to be his girlfriend, and exclusive as in neither of you are nor want to see other people. It’s a confusing situation for both parties to be in, but he just can’t seem to take that next step with you no matter how hard he tries to push himself towards the ideal solution.

Suguru is a rationalist. He takes in the information given to him through interactions and associations, working through it with logistics on his mind, and tries to find the best outcome. It’s how he’s lived every hour and every day of his adulthood, and he’s fairly set in stone with his mannerisms at this point. He always known who he is, what he wants, and how to obtain those things. What he didn’t know, though, was that an unpredictable variable (you) would crash into his life and disarray the routine that he’d been building for twenty-three years.

The hypothesis born of the situation isn’t a difficult one to solve, after all he’s had it written down for a month: if Suguru finds the courage to ask you to be his girlfriend, then you’ll likely say yes and the two of you will live happily ever after. Easy, right?

Wrong. He’s a chicken.

“Here. This might help you cool down.”

Your arm is extended, offering him your drink of the day without hesitation. Every time you come here, arm-in-arm, you order something different. ‘There’s no fun without surprise’, is what you tell him after the consistent strange glances he sends your way when you’re ordering, and he can’t help but disagree. You’re very different individuals - and that difference is extremely apparent with the light, mint garnished tea in your glass compared to the dark roast coffee in his.

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.” He sighs in relief as the cool liquid flows down his throat in an internal waterfall. “Holy shit, this is actually so good.”

You laugh, “I would hope so. I only got it because of the photo on the menu. It’s like a rainbow of color.”

And there it is. The thing that isolates him the most from your world.

As much as he likes you, which is more than he can explain, he can’t help but have that itching thought at the back of his mind that you’ll never truly be able to connect with one another. You bask in the beauty of the world around you. From the apparent golden sun showers and bouquets of stark red roses - two things that you’ve described to him in great detail amidst your walks through the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings - to the countless brush strokes against the white canvas at his mother’s studio, you adore a world in color.

It’s a viewpoint that’s shaped who you are, from infantry to your current age of twenty-two, and it’s something that you’ll never be able to let go of.

To be quite frank, it scares him. It keeps him up at night knowing that seeing the world through your eyes is impossible. That it’s a far off dream that is unobtainable, taunting him in his mind and heart like a bone dangling in front of a dog’s face. He wishes that he could admire the blue streaked skies and emerald green ferns that line the streets of the city. He yearns to feel overcome with pride at the sight of your watercolor drafts - which you attempt to show him after every class session to no avail - and congratulate you on the progress you’re making. There are so many things that he dreams of doing with you, dreams that exist solely in your world, as they’ll never be possible in his.

He hasn’t officially asked you to be his yet, because how could he?

How could he bind you to him? You’d be miserable looking through his eyes - having to see only hues of black, white, and grey, similar to the pencil sketches that you’ve openly shown your hatred for in front of him. ‘There’s just nothing there,’ is what you mumble to yourself. ‘No life, no anything without color.’ To which you then drop a single ounce of paint against the seemingly dreadful piece of art - and the sparkle in your eyes as it comes to life is something that he loves to see but can’t understand…

…as you see the world in a way that he can never understand.

Suguru doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to tell you about his condition. It would end everything all at once, and he isn’t sure how he would recover from that kind of heartbreak. You’re so blissfully unaware of how much conflict runs through his veins on a daily basis. Hell, you don’t even notice how he orders a singular black coffee every time you approach the counter together. You don’t see how he struggles to agree with you as you admire the assortment of blended beverages with a forced smile on his face. You don’t understand why he chooses to indulge in such a bitter drink and make sure to comment on it every single time.

He can’t blame you, though - it really is disgusting - but he also can’t tell you that he orders his coffee black since it’s a universal drink that appears the same to everyone who sees it. At least when he’s holding the steaming mug between his large palms, he knows that it appears to you as it does to him. That the divide that’s ripping a ravine through your connected hands is lessened in a sense - and you’re truly viewing one thing as the same.

Which is why he sits pretty and appreciates the short time that you do spend together, and suffers through piping hot coffee three times a week with no interruptions.

“I think I’ve made some progress on my portfolio.”

Your drink has been returned to your hands now. The small, clear glass is ringing as you tap the sides with your fingernails. It’s somewhat soothing, the rhythm following the tune of one of your favorite songs that Suguru happens to know very well after walking in on you in the middle of ‘art therapy’, in which you blast the music at full volume and deafen all other sounds. You have a tendency to be impatient - art being the only thing that can really pin you down for a long period of time - yet you’ve made room in your heart for Suguru despite this.

“Really?” Suguru dabs his mouth carefully, being ever the proper suitor in your presence. “My mom hasn’t given you any recent critiques?”

“No, she has.” As your words continue, you take a long sip of your tea. He can feel his cheeks flush while you swallow. He loves anything you do. “Just little comments about negative space and color theory, but I’m getting there.”

“Nice.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Yeah, nice.”

Despite his seemingly rude reaction, you’re still gazing at him with a smile on your face. It isn’t an exceedingly joyful smile or one of excitement, but something of contentedness. You’ve become comfortable around him - shedded the hyperactive layers of skin that you display to onlooking strangers - and have begun to share the side of yourself that only your bedroom walls know. Seeing this side of you has made him fall even harder. Knowing that someone so confident, so bold, is just like him - caring so much about first impressions and likeability - and has their own insecurities is validating. Validating in the sense that you find him special enough to throw away the filter and be your true self in his presence.

“You know,” you begin in a wistful tone, “you aren’t a man of many words, Suguru - and if I’m being totally honest, my patience is running out.”

He hopes this isn’t going where he thinks it is.

He’s not letting you ask him out before he can—

“What am I to you?”

Oh.

Your eyes are giving him an expectant look, now.

What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

This is the quietest you’ve ever been, you aren’t even swirling the star-shaped ice cubes in your strawberry lemon tea.

Why can’t he think of anything to say?

His silence is causing you to furrow your eyebrows in concern.

This is so embarrassing. Just say something. Anything.

“You’re my mom’s student.”

Anything but that.

“I’m…” the words at the tip of your tongue seem to dissolve like damp sugar cubes, “I’m your mom’s student.”

Your sentence is more of a statement than a question. It’s as if there’s a machine in your brain, working through his given answer and comparing all of the other possibilities he could’ve said. There were endless responses to your inquiry, and he somehow managed to pick the worst one.

He needs to fix this. How can he fix this?

“You’re not just a student, though.” His words are tumbling over one another in somersaults and you seem to perk up at his continuity. The hope in your heart grows a little bit larger, pulsating and yearning for him to say exactly what you’d been wanting for weeks-on-weeks. “You’re my mom’s special student.”

Oh God, he made it worse.

“What?” Suguru tries to reach for your hand in an attempt to compensate for his actions through physical touch, but you retaliate and instinctively jerk away. You quickly stand, drink in hand, and back away from him as he follows like a lost puppy. Your head is shaking from right to left, disbelief exerting from the pores of your skin like poison - sentencing him with death while it seeps through his gaping mouth and empty palms. “I’m a special student?”

How the hell are you so fast?

Within seconds the two of you are at odds outside of the building. The weather is somewhat chilly - springtime having just come around with the cherry blossoms in full bloom - and it’s probably a beautiful day with the petals raining down on the pavement. You’d usually make a comment about how wonderful the horticulture was outside of the shop, but now you’re stomping over every fallen flower and budding stem that lies in the way of your rage-filled path. He’d always thought of you as a gentle soul, but apparently even gentle souls have their breaking points - and he never dreamed that he’d be yours.

“If I’m so special, what makes me different from the girl before me and the one before her?” This is the first time you’ve ever raised your voice at him. “Did you take all of them out for drinks? Did they all get to spend one-on-one time with their mentor’s ‘handsome’ son? Did you lead all of them on, too? Suguru, what kind of answer is that?”

You’ve found yourselves in an alcove now - about a block from the cafe in a small garden nestled between two buildings. The blossoming trees continue to surround you from all sides, perfectly framing the tragic picture of him saying anything and everything you absolutely do not want to hear. A large sigh leaves your lips, heaving from your chest as if he’s popped a balloon and is pushing all of the air out with the strength of his smooth hands.

“That’s not what I meant!” He pauses as you halt in place, slowly turning to face him like you're something out of a horror movie - a monster who’s ready to murder their prey. A gulp runs down his Adam’s apple. You’re terrifying when upset. “Please, just let me explain!”

“Explain what?” Suguru flinches at your volume. “If you want to explain yourself so badly then tell me why the hell would you say something like that?”

“Sure, you aren’t the best with banter or having a crush - but dear God, you cannot possibly be that dense.” This is getting bad. “I’ve left hundreds of hints! Every single goddamn day - and you’ve picked up on all of them! You know, I thought that when you’d hold my hand or kiss my cheek that you actually meant something by it. I figured ‘he spends so much time with me, he can’t possibly not like me’, but no. I’m just a student.”

Your face is fuming with every dreadful word that comes out of your mouth. “Oh, sorry. I’m a special student.”

If this were a scene in an animated film, your hair would be on fire now. Flames as high as mountain tops would be spiking in sharp peaks at every end of sentence and statement spitting from your mouth. Your normally warm irises would be drawn as ice cold, not leaving any room for life as they skate across his timid features - wishing for him to reach freezing level so you could smash him into a million pieces.

You’d always told him that red and blue - fire and ice - were two things that you admired most. With their ever changing states of matter and forceful power amidst the seasons, he found himself believing as you do. Suguru actually learned to appreciate their vast palette as if he could see it with his own eyes - but now? Now he thinks that they’re the two worst things in the universe - as their destructive nature has decided that their target is him, and he has absolutely no defenses prepared.

“I should’ve caught on sooner, shouldn’t I have?” You’re still going, hot tears building up and threatening to stream down your cheeks. Never in his life has Suguru been at the receiving end of such anger - and never in his life has he learned how to manage a situation as such. So, he does what any clueless man would do - he returns the anger.

“You’re not even listening to me!” His hands are violently moving while his words cut like knives. “You never listen to me!”

“I never listen to you?” He’s apparently hit another nerve. “Is that some kind of sick joke? Suguru, all I do is listen to you! It may not look like it, but I see the way you tense whenever I talk about my passions and dreams. I notice the way your face drains when I’m asking you for your opinion on my works in progress. Sometimes it’s like I can physically hear your eyes rolling when they see me walk into the studio with my bag of brushes and materials. Yet, you think that I don’t listen? I take note of every single thing that you do when you’re around me, because I don’t want to miss out on a single moment with you, and you don’t even care!”

He can’t believe that you’re pinning this on him.

“How could you even say that?” Suguru can’t tell who’s in the right or wrong anymore - all he knows is that if he doesn’t stop speaking, you’ll walk away forever. “I’ve never cared about anyone as much as you! I’ve done my best to entertain your interests and the absurd things you ask of me—”

“Well, your best hasn’t been enough.”

You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

“Are you being serious, right now?”

Your eyes are stoney, rock solid with stubbornness as you refuse to accept his side of the story and he knows that you won’t be budging from the beliefs that you’re choosing to hold against him. Suguru doesn’t know how everything went so wrong so fast, but he does know that he doesn’t have what it takes to save the situationship that he mistakenly put the two of you in.

“What the fuck did I do wrong that you resent me this much? Not even an hour ago all you wanted was to see me get down on one knee and profess my ‘undying’ love for you.” He’s so angry. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry. “Now I’m some asshole who doesn’t give a shit about your wellbeing? If everything I’ve done hasn’t been enough, then I might as well go fuck myself, right? I’m sorry I’m not perfect like you! I’m sorry I can’t see the world through crystal lenses like you! I’m sorry that I’m not good enough for you!”

His face feels wet. When did he start to cry? Was it ten minutes ago? Five? Just now? The hurricane of emotions that he’s putting himself through is more than he’s endured in years - his mental blockage of his condition finally coming to light as his heart runs off of the rails - and you’ve definitely seemed to notice considering the concern etched into your expression.

“I was never going to be perfect for you,” he begins with a softer tone. Perhaps his hot bundle of rage has subsided for a few moments. “I can’t be with you. I can’t understand how you see the world. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life listening to you ask me all of these questions and opinions on your work when I can’t even see it fully.”

You’re so close to him. Somewhere in the flurry of words, you took a step in his direction. “Suguru, what’re you talking about?”

As he bites his bottom lip with the fear of judgment raging in his mind, his secret is set free.

“I’ve always liked this shirt on you,” he solemnly smiles, “This shade’s my favorite color that you wear.”

You look up at him, pulling at the fabric against your chest in confusion. “Red?”

“Grey.”

He’s laughing lightly, making up for the thoughtful silence that you’ve found yourself in. It’s like he can physically see the gears turning in your head as they attempt to make sense out of his statement. “It’s more of a rich grey - almost black - and it compliments your skin tone. You know, my mom used to tell me that the way to a woman’s heart is through compliments. I’ve always tried my best to do that, but it clearly hasn’t been working.”

His hands somehow find yours as he shares the inevitable truth he’d been hiding so hard - and with a deep gulp, his secret is finally exposed.

“After all, how could I ever reach someone’s heart without even knowing what color their eyes are?”

He misses you. He can’t help it, but he does.

The memories he has with you are a cassette tape on autoplay - constantly running through his mind on repeat, and always ending with the awful confrontation that you’d left each other with. Suguru wishes he hadn’t raised his voice. He wishes that he would’ve been honest with you from the very beginning, but he hadn’t, and there’s no changing the past. All he has now are two empty hands that would much rather be interlaced with your paint-covered fingers.

“How much longer do you think you’re going to be moping?” Satoru’s call is distant from the turning gears within Suguru’s brain. He’s sure that his best friend has grown tired of his constant state of melancholy - having been forced to be his support system after you walked out the door - and Suguru feels awful about it. If he could, he’d rip his heart from his chest and allow you to step on it. To stomp and tear through the organs just as you’d done to those poor bystanding cherry blossoms on the sidewalk.

“As long as she’s still upset with me.” He groans as his forehead hits the marble of the island counter. “I’m such an idiot.”

“Yeah, well we already knew that.” The bright-eyed man beside him scoffs while taking yet another drink of his apple juice - which he has unfortunately had to drink for the past hour and a half since Suguru had somehow consumed his small supply of alcohol within the past few weeks that the two of you hadn’t been speaking. “I was really rooting for you, man. I thought she was the one to break your cycle.”

“Cycle?”

What the hell does he mean by ‘cycle’?

“Oh, you know,” Satoru continues without even taking a breath, “The cycle of life you’ve got going on with your inability to actually attract girls.”

Suguru hates him.

“You’re so funny.” He grumbles, taking his own swig of the pint of orange juice he found in the back of his fridge. Is it expired? Likely yes. Does Suguru care, at all? Definitely not. Is he even more pissed off that he doesn’t understand the irony of why it’s called orange juice? He doesn’t want to answer that question. “An unhelpful funny guy who should definitely stay over and cook dinner for me since he wants to make up for being so unhelpful.”

Satoru scoffs, shaking his head whilst the thin, soft strands of his hair flit back and forth. His right eyebrow raises in a mocking expression, “You need to get yourself back out there, man. You’ll be old and grey if you keep waiting for the perfect girl to come knocking on your door, so just talk to her. Just talk to her and put me out of my misery.”

“Are you trying to make this about you, right now?” Suguru stares at his best friend in utter disbelief, but he’s not truly upset. He knows that Satoru holds good wishes for him in all manners of life - this being no exception - and takes his words to heart. He’s right. Of course, he’s going to lose you if he doesn’t even try to get you back. “The sun must be falling out of the sky because I’m actually considering following your advice.”

“That’s a pretty picture to imagine,” his friend chuckles, causing Suguru to roll his eyes. What’s the sensation that everyone has with mentioning imagery every five seconds? “Just talk to her, man.” Satoru continues, “Please, I’m all out of advice.”

Suguru takes his friend’s pleas to heart. It is quite ridiculous that he’s spending his time depressed and lonesome when he could be reconciling with you. Perhaps it’s his fragile masculinity acting out and refusing to take blame for the situation, although he’s fully aware it’s completely his fault that you’re upset with him.

It’s difficult for the gears to begin turning in Suguru’s head. They’re covered in brittle rust that’s been creeping deep into the crevices of his mind for his entire life - slithering down his spine towards his blackened heart that you had only just begun to breathe life into. He misses the feeling of spring that came when you called. The freshwater rain of your laughter and budding blossoms of your smile that washed away his loneliness and replaced the awful emotion with an overgrown garden of bliss. He still doesn’t understand how he managed to mow that garden down with one sentence. He might as well have taken a chainsaw and brutally hacked into every connection that he’d managed to make with you in your time of knowing each other.

Now he’s going to be on his knees begging for forgiveness with his hands stained by the minced grass. Does grass stain green or yellow? Hopefully not brown, dear lord. He’ll be buried deep into apologies that should definitely be rehearsed, but he knows he’s not an artist with words and he won’t bother to waste your time with crumpled-up ‘I’m sorry’ notes and improvised tears.

You deserve nothing but the best - so much more than he’s been giving you and he needs you to hear those words come straight from his mouth.

When did you begin to mean so much to him? Suguru doesn’t even know.

It could’ve been when you showed up to his community soccer game unannounced, with first row seats and a booming cheer that he never knew he desired. ‘C’mon number ten! I know you can do better than that! Beat their asses, Suguru!’ He nearly tripped at the sound of your voice, and falling on his face was the last thing he wanted to do in front of the opposing team - but to be completely honest, he doesn’t remember much of his qualms with his rivals from that day. Suguru was solely focused on playing well for you. The world stopped and he was given all the time needed to impress you. You give him a reason to be better, a selfless reason to do good.

Perhaps it was when you’d shown him around your homey apartment, with maple art easels and splattered canvases lining the walls, and watched with glee as he made his best attempt at a finger painting (which may or may not have ended up looking like two worms kissing). ‘It’s abstract’, you’d say every time he found something new that was wrong with the art piece, ‘All it needs is a home. See?’ You hung his shitty little sketchbook paper on your living room wall, right next to your TV for the whole world to see. The way you stood there staring in awe still rattles his brain. You’ve always been able to find beauty in even the smallest things.

Or maybe his heart had begun to beat a little faster that Saturday night on the way out of the theater. The romance of the film the two of you just witnessed was still on Suguru’s mind, provoking his alcohol-induced body to make a pathetic attempt at holding your hand - which resulted in him accidentally knocking you over into a street puddle that swallowed the heel of your shoe. ‘I needed to take a shower anyway, Suguru, it’s fine!’ Your smile continued to be bright despite the low temperature and sprinkling rain, and he can recall wondering how you managed to stay so positive in such a dreary situation. As you discarded your soggy heels into a nearby trashcan and skipped barefoot on the pavement, you called, ‘Come on! Dance with me!’ The shared laughter between the two of you echoed through the seemingly empty streets that surrounded you - hands connected as you swung in circles around each other and fell over one too many times, until he carried your sleeping body home. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever been able to make him laugh as hard.

The way the corners of your eyes crinkle amidst fits of giggles is his favorite image to replay. He doesn’t need to know the color to be able to see how beautiful they are - to appreciate the blinding sparkle that overwhelms your irises when he accidentally trips over the uneven sidewalk or knocks over your painting station - or even when he unintentionally makes a sexual innuendo that you just so happen to pick up on. ‘That’s a love hotel, Suguru! Why would I have stayed there before?’ It was almost as if you were conducting a symphony of glorious laughter that night. The violins played the tune of your voice in a higher octave and the cellos added a punch everytime you’d bite your lip in an attempt to calm down. He hadn’t known what a love hotel was intended for before that night, but he’d also made the mistake to say, ‘I wouldn’t mind going to my first one with you, it could be a first for both of us.’ and you still haven’t let him live it down. Suguru’s honest with himself for the most part. He’s awkward, insufferable, and a bore to be around - yet, for some odd and unknown reason, those are your favorite things about him. Why?

Why is it that he can’t function like a normal person when your eyes meet his?

Why do his words rearrange themselves and become complete gibberish when he attempts to woo you with his charm?

What is it that keeps him coming back to you, despite holding such deep hatred for the things that you love most?

“I need to text her.” Suguru feels his chest vibrate as he finally makes a decision, the words pouring from his mouth in a short word vomit - forcing Satoru to piece together the jumbled mess and attempt to comprehend whatever it was that his big brother was trying to say, to which he jumps up from his seat at the island and aggressively pats Suguru on the back.

“That’s what I’ve been saying, dumbass! Get those fingers movin’!”

His phone falls into his hands in a millisecond, with Satoru eagerly awaiting to hear his poetry. He’s grateful to have such a supportive friend. Suguru knows that there aren’t many people who would be willing to put up with him for so long - having been moping around and complaining day-and-night of relationship problems that were solely caused by him - and he can’t imagine not having his support. Hopefully he’ll be able to introduce you, one day. You’ll both give him so much shit for his attitude. Oh well. It’ll all be worth it having two people he loves get along.

…

Did he just…

What did—

There’s no way.

Did he really just use that word? That godforsaken word?

He’s trembling. Suguru’s phone is shaking in his hands as he finally comes to the realization that he does, with his entire heart and being, love you. In an instant, his entire world scrambles together with rapid dashes and line art that he can’t even comprehend. There’s no rules to follow with these types of feelings - this insistent need to see you. Hold you. Kiss you.

Fuck, he wants to kiss you. He can’t think of anything else he’d rather be doing.

Like tapping raindrops that never cease their fall, his fingertips move against the keypad in a rhythmic motion - singing a song of love that can’t be contained into a simple lullaby. His heart pours out into the message, apology after apology being pasted in paragraphs, and hopes with his whole soul that you’ll find it in yourself to at least see him in person. There’s no way you won’t. Suguru knows you well enough now that he’s certain he’ll be seeing you again. All he needed to do was take the first step towards forgiveness, and he’s finally willing to be vulnerable and own up to his inability to be honest about his feelings, because he loves you. He loves you and he wants to tell you a hundred times, a thousand times, and a million times until you beg him to shut the hell up and kiss you.

‘I’ll be at the studio tonight. I miss you, and I’m sorry.’

He ends the message with a final apology, begging fate that you’ll read it in time to meet him while he still has courage - and with that, he’s on his way to the place he hates most, awaiting the person whom he loves most.

An hour has passed - well technically it’s been fifty-seven minutes, but who’s counting?

He’s counting.

The sun went into hiding ages ago and the moon now stalks him as he sits in his chair, lonely with two vacant eyes that wish they were gazing at yours. Suguru can’t even tell if you’ve read the text or not - the grey speech bubbles look the same as they always have, and the delivered sign is posted at the bottom with no response. He wants to send a follow-up message, just a little ‘hey, you there?’ but he knows that’s a little bit much. If you want to see him, you’ll see him and he’ll confess his feelings once-and-for-all - though, he’s feeling much less confident than he was an hour ago. Ahem, sorry. Fifty-nine minutes ago.

Suguru has a plan of what he’s going to say to you, and hopefully it makes sense when the words begin to fall from his lips. He’s said it many times before, but he’ll say it again, he’s never been good with words or feelings or anything of the sort. He wants to get better, though - to become more emotionally aware for your sake, because he knows that’s a priority for you. You have an image of your dream guy that’s been in your wishes since primary school - tall, handsome, daring, dashing, yada, yada, yada - and he’s trying to be that guy. He needs to be that guy. He’ll be anything for you.

Anything and everything…even the desperate guy who can’t get a text back.

Y’know, for a moment - a brief and fleeting moment - the world seemed a little more beautiful in his self-realization of love. The stars glistened brighter and the street lights sparkled in their reflections. Before tonight, Suguru hasn’t ever been able to appreciate the natural beauty of what surrounded him. He never understood your fascination with replicating real life into paintings and sketches, but he seems to have digested the concept - at least a little bit. The only thing that could undoubtedly make his world more dazzling would be the sight of you, and holy shit there you are. There you are opening the front door - and your gorgeous, perfect reflection in the glass is looking straight at him.

He doesn’t need the ability to see color to know that you’re the most fascinating and jaw-dropping sight in the entire universe - and that the rainbow should be rearranged in the letters of your name in honor of your ability to captivate attention and inflict a multitude of emotions on him that he’s never felt before.

“Suguru?” Your melodious voice is the remedy that his ears have been yearning for. “Suguru, is that you? Why’re you in the dark?”

This means you haven’t read his text, right? Otherwise, why would you be confused as to why he’s here? Wait, why’re you even here?

You begin to explain yourself without him needing to ask, “I left my phone in here earlier like an idiot and I’ve been looking for it all day. Isn’t that so dumb?” You let out a little laugh, amused at your inability to keep track of your personal belongings. Why aren’t you acting like you’re upset with him? The last time you talked, you could barely look him in the eye - yet now, you’re so casual, almost as if nothing happened. “Here I am looking for my lost phone, but instead I find a lost Suguru Geto.”

“What are you doing here? Sitting in the dark?”

The repeated question is met with a pregnant silence as Suguru fails to piece together the rehearsed words he had come up with earlier, settling on a bear hug that nearly suffocates you.

He’s so overwhelmed by the feeling of touching you again that he barely notices how stiff your posture is. You’re practically a piece of rock in the midst of being carved by its maker, frozen and unable to formulate an action in response - which, in this case, means that he’s your artist. Suguru relaxes his hold, urging you to reciprocate his warmth by nestling his face in your neck. Your right arm finds its place wrapped around his waist and your left around his neck, allowing him to engulf you further into his hold. You smell so nice. He notices the lavender perfume that he bought you is still rubbed into your skin, and he’s glad that you’re finally using it.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

Suguru’s fingers run through your hair in smooth waves, gently kneading out the small knots and helping you relax - and he can tell that your full attention is on him. For the first time in knowing you, there aren’t any distractions or excuses to avoid this conversation. It’s just you, him, and the bare truth. He just hopes he can execute this right.

“There aren’t enough words to explain how sorry I am, genuinely. I shouldn’t have ever belittled you like that.” He takes a deep breath, one of many, and closes his eyes. The scene of you stomping away from him has no end in his mind. It constantly plays at every hour of the day, re-run after re-run, to torment him and remind him how horribly he screwed up with you. Please, please forgive him. “You’re not just my mom’s student. You’re not just a friend that I get coffee with. You’re so much more than that and I’ve been such a fucking chicken and haven’t been able to be honest with you.”

“You couldn’t have possibly known about my condition and it was wrong of me to take my frustration out on you.” Suguru can feel himself begin to cry, his tears raining down his cheeks in cascades of pent up anger and hatred for how he made you feel that day. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve to be treated like shit by him. “Your work is important to you and I know it should be appreciated. What’s important to you is important to me, okay?”

“You love your art, and I love you.”

He says it over and over again. Those three special words rapidly become six words, nine words, eighteen, forty-two, and onwards as you look at him with an empty expression. Please, please say something. For every second of no response, he confesses his love to you. He confesses as if it’s his source of air - the only way that he’ll be able to survive this encounter is if he bares his emotions with no regrets. If this were a movie, he’d be the desperate protagonist in the climax of the story who fucked up his love life and is begging for a second chance - hell, this is real life and that’s exactly what he’s doing. Just, please, have a happy ending.

You open your mouth, yet nothing comes out. No words. No statements. No confessions. You’re simply staring at him like he’s just told you the most absurd news in the existence of the universe…

…and then a tear falls.

One tear slips from your eyes, followed by another, and another…until your face is drenched in salty rain with black mascara creasing your eyes. You look like a raccoon. Suguru almost starts laughing. No. He is laughing; laughing because your false lashes have fallen into your hands as the glue refused to be waterproof - and now you’re standing before him in a puddled mess of makeup and disheveled hair. You’ve never looked more beautiful.

Suguru brushes his fingers across your cheek, attempting to wipe away your tears like an artist covering up a beautiful mistake. If he were a painter, he’d paint you a million times and more - hanging every portrait on every single wall of his apartment, until there was literally no space left for a scrap of paper. You’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever laid his eyes on, and the smile that suddenly bursts from your sobs confirms it.

“What’s going on? I’m so confused, are you happy or are you sad?” He’s so concerned and his inability to read emotions correctly only makes him more helpless. “Talk to me, beautiful. C’mon.”

You lean into his touch and he instantly knows that everything is going to be okay.

“I just never thought I’d hear you say that.” Your smile is directed at him now, and he feels a warmth that is so familiar yet unfamiliar and he can’t get enough of it. It’s similar to the feeling of being showered in sunlight or snuggling beneath a comforter in the winter - an overwhelming comfort that’s a gift from you to him. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever. Fuck you for that.”

Now you’re both laughing, giggling, and beaming at each other. His heart feels so at peace. The civil war between his divided emotions, love and loneliness, has finally ceased.

“I love you.”

Neither of you can stop the flow of confessions that slip from your tongues and in an instant your lips are on his - clashing and colliding in a furious kiss that rivals the strength of a hurricane. It’s almost as if he can physically feel your love pouring into him and warming his heart into a heated flame, stoked by the embers of your touch. God, he missed your touch. The feeling of it is addicting. It’s his personal heroin and he’ll never get enough of it.

Your lips are just as soft as he imagined them to be, perhaps they’re a rosy pink color with the slightest touch of strawberry lip balm that he keeps getting a fleeting hint of taste from. Never in his wildest dreams did he think you’d love him too. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. He silently repeats over and over - grateful that he’s been so blessed to know you…feel you…and love you in the awful world that he hated living on his own - the world void of color that you’ve somehow brightened by simply breathing beside him.

His hands are everywhere. Your hips. Your waist. Your breasts. Your neck. He can’t get enough of the feeling of you. With every passing second he’s falling deeper and deeper in love. You’re utterly perfect, he would kiss you for years if that was an option—

Aw shit, he knocked over an easel.

“Goddammit,” he mumbles while briefly pulling away from you. Of course he had to interrupt the moment he’s been waiting months for with his clumsiness. He’s such a dumbass. If he could punch himself in the gut, he would - but that would be way too embarrassing in front of you - hold up, this painting is familiar!

“Well I'll be damned.” He chuckles and turns the canvas towards you, to which you burst out laughing. “I thought you’d have thrown this out.”

“No,” you gaze at the painting with love in your eyes. “I could never, that’s how we met.”

The painted streak he accidentally inflicted upon your artwork remains in the same position. It seems that you never even bothered covering it up and embraced the imperfection. While Suguru cannot decipher the magnitude of colors on the canvas, he’s sure that the various strokes look gorgeous and masterful. You’ve always been so talented. He’s so lucky.

As he places the painting upon a now-standing easel, you rest your forehead against his. He loves you. He loves you so much. So much so that he can’t help but take a step closer, not just one but many, and embrace the overwhelming love and passion he holds for you. There are so many words he wants to say, confessions that can carry on for an infinite number of lines, but there’s no need for that now. You have forever - and he decides to start that forever with his favorite thing…

…a kiss.

“I love you.” You whisper.

“I love you more.” He replies.

This is a fancy-ass venue.

Suguru can’t help but feel underdressed for the occasion, despite being clad in a fitted white button up and black tie, whilst his dress-shoes cramp his feet in the worst ways imaginable. He almost looks like that one moviestar in the romantic comedy you love so much. Was it the one with the rich guy in Singapore or the one where they worked in an office and he was a businessman? Suguru can’t remember. Whatever, it doesn’t really matter either way. He’s distracting himself too much, he needs to focus— tonight is one of the most important nights of your career. No, it is the most important night for your future career. His mother contacted every big art distributor and critic that she has professional relationships with. It’s your night…and wow did you kill it.

It’s almost as if you’ve plastered yourself across the walls. Every art piece that his eyes roll over is exceptionally you - your personality, your passions, and your heart - and it’s obvious you’ve spent months curating the most perfect array of paintings a person could muster.

He can read your story like an open book while he slowly makes his way through the gallery. There are paintings depicting your childhood, ones that remind him of the stories you tell him of your primary school drama and premature interests. That one must be when you broke your arm while learning to ride your bike. You’re particularly stuck on that story— strongly stating how upset you were because it was your dominant arm, halting your ability to paint for seven weeks. Referencing your painting passion, there’s a whole array of canvases dedicated to your love for art; beginning with inspirations of immaturity to skillful selections of texture techniques. Suguru is obviously no art critic, but if he were, he’d write a whole expose on how amazing you are.

With his mind so engaged with your talent, he’s oblivious to the people passing by; so oblivious that he doesn’t even notice his own family approaching.

“She’s talented isn’t she?”

Holy shit. The familiar voice of his mother startles Suguru, but he instinctively wraps a loose arm around her waist and greets her with a grin. She returns the affectionate expression and it’s painfully obvious that he got his smile from her, and even more painfully obvious that they’re all trying to embarrass him when Satoru walks up with his teeth beaming.

“Your girlfriend’s a pro at this stuff, Suguru.” Satoru ruffles his best friend’s hair and lightly nudges his shoulder. “I told you something like this would happen one day! You’ve found yourself a dream girl.”

Suguru rolls his eyes in amusement at his friend’s quips, completely ignoring him and focusing on his mom. Satoru’s always been his number one supporter. Though he’d be surprised if Satoru actually kept a girlfriend longer than a month with his constant busy schedule and inability to focus on one girl at a time; but that’s a story for another day. What matters now is his mom’s praise of you.

“Y’know I always knew she had an innate ability.” Miss Geto has a faint smile on her face, gazing at her son with nothing but pure happiness. It’s a true display of a mother’s love for her child, and Suguru doesn’t know what he’d do without her guidance. She squeezes his side and presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. God, he’d be so embarrassed if his friends saw this. “Though, I always thought she specialized in artwork.”

Hm? Suguru sends a puzzled glance in her direction. What is she going on about?

His mom continues, knowing her son well enough that he needs a clear explanation in order to understand anything at all, and presses her hand against his chest. “I didn’t realize she was so skilled at touching hearts.”

His heart is beating faster at the mere thought of your beauty.

There are tears behind Miss Geto’s eyes and Suguru can feel the waterworks attempting to break his own dam. They’re an emotional duo, him and his mom, Satoru gets tired of their antics sometimes— but Suguru knows he loves them. His mom always knows the right thing to say. “I never thought I’d see you like this, Suguru.”

Satoru smiles, nodding in agreement. “You seem so at ease. It’s cute.”

Reflexively, he pulls them both into a big hug— which is the first girl-related hug he’s given Satoru since he was a teenager, seventeen years old and inseparable. Suguru finally understands what it means to love and be loved, all because of you; and now he can apply that same love to his perspective on life, which was dreary for so long. The overwhelming comfort he feels in his family’s arms is the same warmth he felt when he was a child, to which he ran into his mother’s arms at any moment for a grasp at joy. For a long time, Suguru believed that it was only possible to have a singular love. Oh how wrong he was.

“I get it now.” he says softly into their ears. “She helped me understand.”

“And we’re happy for you,” Satoru pats him on the back as hard as he can, eliciting a threatening glare from his best friend, to which Suguru’s mother laughs.

“Check out the centerpieces down the hall.” Miss Geto nudges Suguru on, standing beside Satoru. “I think you’ll love them, sweetheart.”

With their encouragement, he carries on with the gallery and down the straight hallway of evolving paintings. Every step he takes, seems to carry him into a new era of your life. It’s almost as if he’s time traveling through memories that seemingly morph from abstract to realistic art; and he learns more and more about you with each passing second, ultimately leading towards one large painting in the center of the room.

Holy shit. You’re breathtaking.

Never in Suguru’s life has his world stopped due to paint on canvas— but right now, it feels like every single brush stroke is a frozen second that he gets to relive again and again, just basking in the presence of your beautiful skill.

The way you’ve outlined your hair with thin lines and highlighted your lovely cheekbones, is nothing short of masterful. If he looks close enough, he can understand the comforting feeling of cupping your face with just his eyes. He didn’t even know you did self-portraits, but now he wishes he could hang this very one right above his couch; to show off the talent of his amazing girlfriend for everyone to see (not that he actually has many friends other than his former classmates).

Where are you? He needs to let you know how special it is to be with someone like you—

“Cat got your tongue?”

Speak of the devil.

“Do you like it?” You raise your eyebrows at him expectantly. “What do you think?”

You said the same thing when you first met.

Suguru looks between you and the painting, now realizing that no matter how masterful your skill is, it’s impossible to capture just how gorgeous you are in any form of art. You’re simply exquisite. The most talented painter in the world wouldn’t know how to appreciate your beauty. Davinci? No. Botticelli? No. Di Angelo? Not even he could sculpt your features to perfection. However, despite his high standards, Suguru believes that your self portrait is the greatest thing he’s ever seen.

The familiar feeling of flusteredness grows on his cheeks as he holds eye-contact with you, wondering what color it is you’re wearing. He bets it’s red, you always wear red around him. “I love it.”

As your right hand finds his palm, the left reaches up and cups his cheek. With a gentle touch, your lips are on his and Suguru feels his head take a spin on the merry-go-round of love. He can’t get enough of you. If he had a choice, he’d spend every waking second of his day peppering you in light kisses on every part of your body— and he’d make sure that you never felt loneliness again. You deserve nothing less than the absolute best, and he’s made it his life’s goal to give that to you.

Slowly, he begins to feel your smile against his lips and you pull away with a lovesick gaze. He pulls you into his chest, cradling your head and kissing it softly before whispering how proud he is, and it’s almost unbelievable how far Suguru’s come. Somehow you’ve lured him into a bottomless ravine where the only resource to live is to be hopelessly in love with you— and truthfully, he never wants to escape. You’re everything to him.

“You love it?” your eyes are shining brighter than the sun. “You haven’t even seen my best work yet.”

“Oh?’ Suguru raises his brows, mocking surprise at your statement. “Well now you have to show me. It’s only fair.”

You place your hands on his chest and peck his lips before spinning him around. He’s confused for a moment, wondering what you’re doing when you could’ve just led him to the canvas instead of guiding him around like it’s a dance class…but then he sees it.

He sees himself.

Never in his life has he completely understood what being in love is. Yes, he's felt love. From his mother, who raised him to be the man he is; caring, thoughtful, and compassionate. From his best friend, who helped him understand ambition and sacrifice. From his community, who challenge him to be the best he possibly can and to support one another without holding grudges. He's felt different types of love from so many people in his life. Familial. Platonic. Admiration. This is different, though. The love you show him is true love. It's the kind of love that movie stars win awards for portraying. It's the fantasy that kids dream about having when they grow up into big adults. It's the thing he thought was impossible to obtain, but was lucky enough to stumble upon you in that empty art studio on the best day of his life.

He didn't know love could be expressed in this kind of way. Through the very same paint strokes and brush marks that used to make him nauseous with hatred. Seeing your masterpiece, he doesn't understand how he could ever hate something so amazing. Art is spectacular. No. Your art is spectacular. You are spectacular.

"You love it right?" You're trying your best not to giggle at his awestruck reaction. "Want to know the best part?"

Suguru can feel himself nodding, desperately reaching for your hand in an attempt to ground himself from the air he's walking on— and you begin to explain. "It's a dual piece. Notice how we're facing each other?"

Oh my god, you are facing each other. He hadn't noticed it before, but he can see clearly now. You've placed him in the dead center of the room, giving him a full view of both of the paintings— opposite of one another on two opposing easels. "Tell me more, baby." His voice is nothing louder than a whisper, only for you to hear.

"I'm painted in black and white."

Oh?

"You're painted in color."

...Oh.

"I wanted to show how love knows no bounds. There's beauty in how you see me and how I see you. It doesn't matter that I'm colorless to you, you still look at me like I'm the prettiest girl in the world; and I only wish you could understand how vibrant your eyes are, Suguru. You're the most handsome man I've seen in my entire life."

He loves you.

He loves you so, so much.

A part of his heart feels like he's falling in love with you all over again. It's growing larger and larger, unable to contain the capacity of feelings he holds for you. He's so overwhelmed with joy that tears begin to fight to escape his eyes, ultimately dripping down his cheeks like watercolor on paper, and he sweeps you into the tightest hug known to man.

There's really only one thing left to do. One thing to close this chapter and carry on with the rest of your love story, something that's sacred only between the two of you. Something that he hopes to say to you everyday, every night, every hour, and every minute that he can.

"I love you."

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restless-historian · 21 days

Text

There are three types of Ukrainian artists. Those who were killed by russia, those who were repressed by russia and those whose legacy was stolen by russia. Armenian-Ukrainian artist Ivan Aivazovsky belongs to the third category. So here I present 6 fun facts about his life.

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1. For almost an entire life he lived in the city of Feodosia in Crimea. He loved the city and was its patron, he financed museums, galleries and the development of the city.

For example, when the ancient Armenian church of Surb-Sarkis burned down, the restoration was carried out at the personal expense of Ivan Aivazovsky. From year to year, the painter donated the author's icons to the Church of St. Sergius - "Walking on Water" (1888; oil on canvas, 70 x 50), "The Last Supper" (1890; oil on canvas, 44 x 60), "The Virgin and Child ” (1891; oil on canvas; 125 x 103 cm), “Prayer for the Chalice” (1897; oil on canvas; 94 x 72).

Feodosia. Moonlit night, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1852, 29x36cm, oil on canvas, private collection

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2. History and archeology were his huge hobbies. He even participated in archeological digs. Though he hated reading.

Chumaks leisure, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1885, oil on canvas, Belarusian National Arts Museum

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3. He created his marine landscapes not on the coast but in his workshop from memory.

The Ninth Wave, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1850, 221x322cm, oil on canvas, State russian museum

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4. He was the first Ukrainian artist to be exhibited in the Louvre.

View of the island of Capri, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1845, 40x57cm, oil on canvas, Kyiv National Art Gallery

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5. Pope Gregory XVI (Gregorius PP. XVI; 1765-1846) unexpectedly wished to purchase a painting by an artist from Feodosia for the Vatican. So, at the beginning of 1841, the marinist repeated the seascape in his own way and, kneeling down, personally presented it to the Pontiff. Touched by the artist's noble gesture, in the late autumn of 1841, the governor of St. Peter personally awarded the Ukrainian Armenian with the Order of St. Sylvester and the Golden Militia.

Chaos. Creation of the world, Ivan Aivazovsky, 1841

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In 2023, during the bloody occupation of the Ukrainian city of Kherson by russians, not only were thousands of civilians tortured and killed, but numerous museums were also robbed. Three paintings by Ivan Aivazovsky were stolen from the Kherson National Museum of Art, along with thousands of artefacts from all over the country. The stolen paintings are: "The Storm Subsides," "The Sea," and "View of the City of Odesa." Reminder: Such actions are a direct violation of the Geneva Conventions.

Support Ukraine!

In Ukrainian text states: STOLEN! Ivan Aivazovsky, View of the City of Odesa, oil on canvas

In Ukrainian text states: STOLEN! Ivan Aivazovsky, The Storm Subsides, oil on canvas

In Ukrainian text states: STOLEN! Ivan Aivazovsky, The Sea, oil on canvas

#art #art history #painting #artwork #museum #sea #ivan aivazovsky #ukrainian art #ukraine #support ukraine #russia is a terrorist state

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frenchkisstheabyss · 9 months

Text

♡ Venus in Cyprus ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!hyunjin x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut

♡ Summary: A peek inside your boyfriend's mind and heart when he's making love to you. Told from Hyunjin's point of view.

♡ Word Count: 721

Warnings: unprotected sex & that's all, darlings

A/N: I wrote this to break my writer's block. I've never written anything from a male's POV before, let alone a male idol so let me know what you think ♡

I’ve visited museums that some artists can only dream of stepping foot in. The Musée du Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. The Tate Modern in London. The Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I’ve been inches away from Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” painting, depicting the arrival of the goddess of love herself to the island of Cyprus.

Its beauty is enough to bring some to tears but it’s nothing more than pigmented egg yolk on canvas, dull and unremarkable when compared to you. With you staring up at me, your eyes oceanic trenches of eternal admiration, the rest of the world falls away. I drown in them...in you.

I gently brush my finger along the line where your lips meet. They’re like velvet against my thumb. They part, the air stolen from my own lungs filling yours as I sink into you. Your body welcomes me into your warmth, eagerly swallowing my length inch by inch until you have all of me. My body trembles as my mouth meets yours.

I can feel your smile. A tiny one at first. The corners of your mouth barely lift. You clench around me. Release. Clench. Release. Your smile grows wider the deeper I groan. You know what you do to me. You love it. And so do I. Your hands skim my bare chest, arms coming around to trace my spine with your fingertips.

“Hyunjin” you gasp, the pressure of my throbbing tip hitting that one perfect spot overloading your senses. “Hyunjin.” My name’s sugar cane on your lips. I crave the sound of it. I lift you from the bed just enough to take two handfuls of your lush ass into my hands. I grip you tightly, securing you in place, and thrust into you harder.

“Say it again. My name.” Please don’t make me beg because I will. Anything to hear you say it. “Hyunjin” you’re moaning, hips raising to meet mine. I trail kisses down your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and saffron permeating from your soft skin. Your fingers are tangled in my hair now, delicately tugging at my hair, guiding me along your collarbone.

Between your cleavage. To the rise of your succulent breasts where your buds stiffen to meet the textured surface of my tongue. I free a hand up to caress your breast as I lap at your delicious bud, pausing every now and then to watch it glisten with a thick coating of my spit. You twist beneath me, your body too lost in pleasure to know what to do with itself.

I can feel your heart racing, a rhythm I could mimic in my sleep like the notes of my favorite song. You’re soaking wet. I can feel your juices dripping down my shaft. Coating my balls. Making such a mess of your plush thighs. My hands, they have to travel. Explore the gentle curves of your body. I’m a slave to the way your soft body gives to my touch.

Addicted to tracing every stretch mark. Nibbling on the plumpest, sweetest parts of your figure. No paintbrush in the world can mimic the art of a body so tempting I’d give my whole being simply to lay eyes on it. You say my name again. Broken. Laced with need. You whisper to me, my lips at your neck once more, how close you are but I know. By the fluttering of your walls and the arch of your back.

I sneak an arm between us, stroking your firm clit with two of my fingers. Your nails dig into me, tearing skin, leaving behind an abstract message that I am, in fact, yours. Yours when your body tightens and twists, your whimpers flowing through the air. Yours when the ecstasy of your high has you trashing. Screaming. Incoherent. Nectar rushing from your pussy like a waterfall. Majestic and powerful all at once.

Yours when your sweat slicked body relaxes in my arms, those angelic eyes staring up at me with the same admiration as before. “I…” you start but your voice cracks. You clear your throat, shaky hands cradling my face like I’m some precious thing, “I love you.” And I love you. My work of art. My Musee du Louvre. My Musee d’Orsay. My Venus in Cyprus.

I love you too.

#hyunjin x you #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x y/n #stray kids smut #stray kids x thick reader #stray kids x chubby reader #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #plus size smut #chubby smut #thick reader

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seravphs · 10 months

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO SATORU x FEM READER

“What I want from the river is what I always want: / to be held by a stronger thing that, in the end, chooses mercy.”

wc — 1.5k

tags — quote from Advantages of Being Evergreen by Oliver Baez Bendorf, title from the Louvre by Lorde, feral Gojo, kidnapping, NPC death

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Gojo asks as you’re lying in bed, whispering to each other before you fall asleep as you often do. It’s a strange question, but not worse than other ones he’s asked before.

“I’m not sure…once I helped Shoko steal cigarettes from the local konbini because she wanted to try the delinquent life, but I left money behind when she wasn’t looking.”

He laughs so hard tears pop into his eyes, probably more at you than with you, but you don’t care. You’re as gone for him as he is for you, and that means humiliating yourself for a chance to hear him laugh is an honor you’d accept over and over.

“What about you?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says, hand rubbing your stomach lightly. He can’t help the urge to touch when he sees your pajama shirt ride up. It makes you squirm, his long pale fingers stroking over the tender skin.

He likes it. Something about seeing you belly up - vulnerable, trusting, ready to be plundered - speaks to the worst instincts in him. He never pretended to be a good man.

“No, seriously,” he shakes his head when you pout. You’re a little annoyed by the unfairness of it, after all, you had shared yours with him. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. You really don’t want to know, especially before you fall asleep.”

You’ve never really thought about it before, but Gojo is a bit of a monster, isn’t he?

“Hey,” someone taps your head lightly. “Keep her awake.”

“Is she fucking dying? Hello? Are you dying?”

It makes sense for them to ask. Your eyes keep fluttering shut, but you’re not dying. You were just reminiscing on the past.

“Idiot!” There’s a yelp from somewhere in the room. “I told you not to hit her so hard!”

“I thought she could take it! That’s Gojo Satoru’s girl!”

That hurts more than any of your injuries. How embarrassing, to be caught off guard. When Gojo rescues you, he’s going to make fun of how easily you let yourself get captured.

“Is he coming soon?”

“Why, you scared?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m scared! It’s Gojo Satoru!”

“Good,” comes a familiar voice. “You should be.”

You open your eyes. Gojo looks like Gojo, which is to say-

Impeccable. Mischievous. Divine.

A smile flickers across your face even in your condition.

“Took you long enough,” you croak.

“Don’t move!” One of your guards is holding a knife to your neck. If you had the energy to, you’d sigh at the naïveté. “I’ll kill her!”

In the blink of an eye, Gojo’s by his side. He wrenches his hand off you with nothing but brute force, without even using a technique. You take the dropped knife and plunge it into the man. It’s only right to return the favor. Even that one movement takes so much out of you. You’re shaky on your feet.

“You’re stronger than this,” Gojo chides even as he pulls you into him, supporting your weight. You slide forward limply, letting your chin hook over his shoulder. He hoists you up with one arm to carry you.

You know he won’t hear any excuses. When you’re back on campus and fully recovered, it’s going to be hours of training before he lets you go on another mission on your own again, regardless of the fact that you were set up.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m going to take care of the rest.”

Then the screaming starts. It dies as quickly as it began. You peek up at him. The look in his eyes is terrifying. He doesn’t look all human - or all there. There’s a thirst for blood in him, a debt to be paid.

“Is it over?”

“Almost, sweetheart. Just give me a minute.”

“Please,” you hear someone begging. You think it’s the man who confessed to being scared. It’s so like Gojo to save him for last. Those who know their own place should be rewarded, after all.

“I have a message for Suguru,” Gojo says casually. The guard relaxes a little in his hold. He knows that means he’s getting home. “Tell him he doesn’t need to hurt her to get my attention.”

The guard starts to open his mouth, and then Gojo tightens his grip. “I changed my mind.”

He’s dead before a second has passed.

You don’t remember getting back to campus, but you remember Shoko giving you a Hello Kitty band-aid after she patches you up.

“Just got them,” she says, rattling the little can. “Satoru dropped them off. Says he wants me to use them on Megumi. I don’t have any stickers, so this is all you’re going to get from me.”

She pats your back when you hug her.

“Okay, okay,” she says with a laugh. “I get it, I’m amazing. Satoru wants to see you when you’re done, by the way. Think he’s hanging around the training yard.”

You give her a pained look. “Please, no.”

“Oh yes,” she says cheekily.

When you get there, Gojo is pacing the training grounds like a chained animal. His head snaps up when he sees you. Relief spreads over his face before he whisks it away.

“Good, good,” he nods. “There you are. I was starting to think Shoko was losing her touch.”

“I was just making conversation,” you say, walking over to him. “Some of us are polite, you know.”

“I’m polite.”

“You’re so cute when you’re delusional,” you say, leaning forward to give him a peck on the nose.

He scrunches his nose up, never quite sure how to respond to your overt affection before he just takes it.

“You can call me names after you beat me once,” he says, hefting a wooden staff in hands. He tosses you another one.

“Did you steal these from Maki?”

“Don’t try to distract me,” he scolds. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Come on,” you wheedle. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I must not have trained you well enough if you’re getting taken down that easily,” Gojo teases.

“Don’t play the all knowing teacher with me,” you say. “I’m not Megumi. I knew you when you were struggling with Infinity.”

“Three rounds,” he promises, “and we can get food after. Just give me three.”

You’re smarter than the cronies Gojo just annihilated for you. It’s because you know the cardinal rule of facing Gojo: never expect to win. All you’re trying for are one or two hits.

You give him the first one. Then, right when he’s in your space, you lunge forward, tapping your staff against his shoulder. It touches -

And he doesn’t flinch.

“Cheater! Turn off Infinity!”

“I never said I was turning it off,” he says, returning to his starting position. “I’m going to be serious now. Get ready.”

“Okay,” you laugh, and then you’re flat on your back. Gojo leans over you. He looks the same as he did during the earlier fight, his teeth bared. It’s the kind of expression that belongs on him, blood on his hands and eyes like that of a god.

You can’t stop staring, devouring the image of him even when it shakes something in you. As much as your animal instincts are cowering right now, telling you to roll over in submission, it feels strangely good. You know Gojo would never hurt you. To be caught in his grip like this, still knowing you’re safe despite being able to feel all of the power that thrums through him does something for you. Your breath catches.

“Oh,” he says. “I thought so.”

You blink at him, completely and utterly confused as to what he’s blathering about now. Sometimes the only way to deal with Gojo is just to let him run his course.

“I know it’s the first time you’ve seen me-“ he gestures vaguely in the air, which does nothing to clarify the matter for you, “but it doesn’t have to change anything. Just forget it happened, and I’ll tone it down. You’ll never see me like that again.”

“Babe,” you say, patiently in a tone you usually only reserve for the students. “What are you talking about?”

“I know I went a little harder than I normally do on those curse users, but I was just worried about you! I’m not normally like that-“

Lies. He totally is, and you know it. It makes you laugh at him.

He grabs you by the chin, his big palm covering your mouth in an attempt to shut you up. You know it annoys him a little, to see you so lighthearted when he’s so tense. Must be hard to get a dose of his own medicine.

“Oh, Gojo,” you say, unbearably fond even through a mouthful of his flesh. “I’m not scared of you - I’m scared of how much I want you, even at your worst. I’ll never look away from what you are.”

“Okay,” he says softly. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I like the part of you that needs me,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than anything he’s ever given you.

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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non-stop-imagines · 3 months

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The moment we've all been waiting for🥁...finally a peek at "Raincheck" that's worthy of sharing ☺️

(aka: a sign of life from me 😚)

Sneak a peek under the cut 😘

...He quietly opened the door, seeing you sitting at your vanity on the other side of the room, and from the noise, he could tell you were sifting through your jewelry. "You're all dressed up."

You physically jumped a centimeter from your seat when you heard Max's voice and then whipped your head around to see him leaning on the door frame. Your... ex-husband? The situation was confusing at the moment and difficult to think about so you just focused on the matter at hand.

"Why are you here!?" Your hand pressed against the exposed skin of your chest in an effort to slow your beating heart, then leaned over to pick up any jewelry that fell, still side eyeing Max.

"I came to pick up the kids. My weeks." Max speaks in his usual, very matter-of-fact tone, letting his eyes unabashedly trace over your image. And you were an image of beauty, prettier than any work of art that dons the exhibits of the Museu de Louvre, in your marble patterned green dress.

"No, I know it's your weeks. I'm mean here, in the room. You're usually in and out when you pick up the kids." You push back your softly curled hair behind your ears to preview the earrings you narrowed the selection down to. You could see Max slowly approaching you in the mirror of your vanity, but you didn't focus on how his eyes followed followed down the lines of your enticing brown skin from your neck to your arms, finally ending at looking at your face in the mirror.

"I haven't seen my wife in a while. Almost forgot how beautiful she was." You allowed him to gently place a kiss on the top of your head, stiffening your body as he did so, but still allowing it because you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn't miss his touch even a little bit. "The ones on the right. Those have always looked very nice on you. Somehow they made your eyes look bigger, brighter." He moved away from you and to the left toward the large king size bed you two used to share, perfectly made. On the ground at the foot of the bed, black Saint Laurent strappy heels sat pristinely out of the box. Those were one of a couple birthday presents he gave you last year. His brain wandered back to that moment, to you pushing the box back to him with happy tears in your eyes because even with the ten years of celebrations you've had with Max, you don't think you could ever get used to the extravagant gifts. "This is the first time you're wearing these, right?" Max picked up the shoe like the scandalous piece of clothing it is and examined it before looking at you through his lashes, both you you knowing the answer to his obvious question.

"Max, please. My date-" You just wanted him gone, but in your feeble attempt to finish getting ready inconspicuously, you revealed the reason for your dressing up, and you could immediately see Max's eyes darken and his ears perk.

"A date!? That's what this is all for? The hair, the dress, the shoes?" He slowly walks back over to you, shoe still in hand as he examined your appearance again, analyzing the situation.

"We're not together anymore." You plucked the shoe that Max had out his hand, pausing a moment, taking in his scent, meeting his enticing blue eyes, looking away before you could get sucked in and making your way to the bed for the other shoe. Max had to recoil from being so close to you again, from what Max believed was your perfume swirling around his head and a less hate-filled gaze being directed at him for the first time in 3 months, before following you to the bed where you were strapping on your shoes. He wanted to dip down and finish the job for you, but his knowledge of your persistent independence made him act otherwise, watching as you finished putting on your shoes.

"You just kicked me out with absolutely no warning, Yn. We're still married." His eyes never left your figure, moving with you as you leaned over to finish fastening your other shoe, your pretty, clean white painted toes on display in the most appropriate way.

"We're legally separated. And I kicked you out for a reason." You stand up from the bed and smooth out your dress, sauntering skillfully past Max to finish putting on your rings and then examine your finished look in the full length mirror by the en suite bathroom door.

"A reason I still do not know." Max whispered this to himself as he lagged behind you, something nagging his brain, telling him to look at your outfit again.

"You should." Your snarky response came as a shock to him but ended up being perfect as you turned to face him and walk by him to grab your purse, stopped by the grip oof his large hands on your shoulders. "What are you doing?" You couldn't help but freeze under Max's observant eyes, feeling a spark of emotion as they trailed briefly along your made up face and hair, the earrings he suggested and down your neck, not fully taking in the singular piece of jewelry until his eyes returned from examining your dress. Your necklace. "What, Max? I have to finish getting ready." You try and shimmy out of his grasp as his face begins to twist into a cheeky grin, one hand reaching slowly to grip the charm of the necklace you had on.

"So, even though she says she's fuming mad at me, my pretty little wife still likes to show of her husbands initials, huh?" He slowly lifts his attention to your face, cheeky grin still stagnant as he lets the gold charm drop onto your chest....

...(a little skip but I was pretty proud of this part)

"What the fuck do you not understand about being legally separated? How do you think you're gonna stop me from going out?" You were back to being a hair's distance from Max, staring unwavering into his darkened eyes. You weren't sure what was going to come next, the past few months had been accompanied by considerably heated arguments anytime you two were in a room together for too long. But it was a shock to say the least when Max's large hand went to hold the base of your jaw to keep you still for him to crash his lips onto yours.

Three months was way too long.

_____♥_____

A/N: Obviously this is gonna be edited, things added and whatnot. There's a cute part before this but I wanted to save that and I cannot wait to get to the smut for this one! 😈 I have the Charles one you guys voted for about 75% done, but it's that last 25% that's giving me trouble but I'll figure it out. I just really wanted to get something out for you guys. Also expect a post that's just a rambling list of all the ideas and WIPs I have. 😘 Anyway, I'm rambling, hope you're all having a good day! Love you all! 💖💛💖💛

#formula 1 #black reader #sneak peek #f1 imagines #formula 1 x black!reader #f1 x black!reader #max verstappen #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x black!reader #i need to get these fics out before the pre-season silly season completely ruins me 😭

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wndaswife · 11 months

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following your lead | taylor sloane & fem!reader

Taylor Sloane is the kind of person who gets what she wants, and she wants to be your girlfriend. But during your first date together, she begins to wonder if she's good enough for you at all.

Word count: 5020

Tags: fluff, some angst, jealousy, taylor being a gigantic cutie who's obsessed with you

gif credit to vanessacarlysle

The dim white light of Taylor’s laptop was cast on her face as she scrolled through the website directory of the museum her first date with you was to take place at. She took the nail of her thumb between her teeth as she leaned forward slightly, squinting at the museum layout and its floors.

When you asked her out, she had been so excited that she just had to blurt a bunch of stupid and untrue things in the heat of the moment.

‘I totally love museums!’ she had suddenly said out of nowhere right after quickly agreeing to go out with you. ‘Nicky and I love to visit any sort of museum when we travel together. Like, there’s this one in Paris, I think. The Louvre. Super pretty. Like, really pretty.’

She’d never even been to the Louvre, and actually made about a billion excuses to avoid going on the day the famous museum was set on the travel itinerary. But things just seemed so perfect at the time, she could hardly stop herself from making up lies just to make the night go even better.

Dan Pinto was holding a camping trip to film one of his movies, and on the day of wrapping he held a get-together to celebrate having finished filming his first official short film, written and produced by him and his close friends.

Taylor didn’t know Dan all that well aside from the fact that he was Ingrid’s boyfriend, so she was initially against going out and spending a night with his band of friends when Ingrid invited her to go, not to mention that Taylor hated camping.

To her, there was nothing enjoyable about sitting around a dirty field of grass in the middle of nowhere to get eaten alive by mosquitoes and have your hair filled with all sorts of flies and bugs that you wouldn’t ever be able to get out of there until you showered — and although she made a point to shower right after being outdoors for a period of time, the idea of having bugs in her hair at all was a complete turn-off.

But Ingrid begged for her to go because she’d only been with Dan for about two weeks by then and she too knew very little of his friends, and didn’t want to go to the celebration without a friend with her. She finally gave in, and both Taylor and Ingrid went to the mosquito-infested forest party.

Taylor had met you several times before, enough to have gotten your number; you were a mutual friend of one of Dan’s mutual friends, and Taylor first met you at a Christmas party. She hadn’t any clue you were going to be at the get-together and the moment she saw you, she knew she’d weather as many mosquitoes and hair-bugs as it took if it meant spending the whole night talking with you.

And she pulled it off perfectly. She was able to get you alone for most of the night, talking with you while sitting with each other at one of the camping park benches away from the celebration, around the fire when they started making s’mores, and anywhere it was quiet enough to have a conversation.

But she did like it especially when it was a bit louder, for that meant you had to step a bit closer to her in order to hear her when she spoke, and Taylor thought you smelled nice.

Because she had work in the morning, Ingrid ended up being the one to pull her away from the party, but not before you asked Taylor if she wanted to go out with you one afternoon when she was free. She was more than enthusiastic to set a date with you, which ended up being that weekend, and you suggested going to a museum you’d been wanting to visit.

She wanted to be completely prepared for her date with you and not come off as a liar so early into things, but most importantly, Taylor wanted to be able to impress you with all her knowledge on the things you loved. She spent about an hour and a half that night researching various things about what the museum was showcasing on different floors and exhibits so she had something interesting to say for just about everything.

Taylor went to bed feeling assured in her preparation, knowing that she’d come off as an intelligent and worldly person who was not as materialistic and shallow as she seemed from her social media, and someone you’d want to go out with for a second date, and a third, and all your dates from that point onwards.

In simpler terms, Taylor wanted to secure her chances at being your girlfriend.

The day of the date, she woke up extra early to make herself a fulfilling breakfast and to take some extra time on her makeup and to carefully plan out her outfit for that afternoon so by the time you picked her up at her place, she was completely ready.

She tried not to think much of it, especially as Taylor wasn’t typically a nervous person, but she also felt compelled to wake up early to prepare for the date because she was rather anxious for her day out with you.

You hadn’t ever spent that much time alone with her before. What if you realised that she wasn’t all that you thought she was? What if you regretted asking her out?

But Taylor was skilled at self-control and self-discipline, and she told herself that continuing to think about the possible negative outcomes of her date left less room for the positives. So she kept herself busy from the moment she awoke until the second she stepped foot outside her house to wait for you.

Her nerves began to fray again and she picked awkwardly at her pale pink nail polish. Her mind was soon filled with heaps of questions that only made her feel a lot more nervous.

Taylor had always been a straightforward type of girl with straightforward answers to straightforward questions; she wasn’t an overthinker, she wasn’t a worrier. But standing in front of her house waiting for you to come around and pick her up for your first date together made her feel uncharacteristically anxious.

She didn’t think you were the type, but Taylor worried that perhaps you might change your mind halfway to her house. She wasn’t very much the kind of person she seemed like online and she never minded how she seemed like on social media until now.

What if you changed your mind about her?

The soft hum of an approaching car came down the road and Taylor raised her head to see you driving towards her. Her worries were immediately done away with at the sight of you and she quickly raised her arm and waved excitedly.

You greeted her eagerly when she slipped into the passenger's side.

“Hi, Y/N,” Taylor said in return and reached over and hugged you. You smiled at the warm enthusiasm that was typical for her and Taylor felt reassured. She buckled herself in and smiled at you. “I’m really excited,” she confessed.

“Me too,” you replied honestly. “I’m glad we finally get to spend time together on our own.” You put the museum’s address into Google Maps then went on your way. “I mean, every other time was really nice too but…”

Taylor tucked her hands under her legs and leaned forward a little to get a look at your face. “But it’s nicer to get each other to ourselves,” she said.

You nodded in agreement and Taylor smiled. She felt good about the upcoming date and on the way to the museum, she briefly went over in her mind what she’d researched last night to be able to keep it fresh in her memory.

“This place is so pretty,” Taylor mused after the two of you parked and were now standing on the steps of the museum looking up at the front.

Beautiful sizable pillars stretched up into the never-ending sky, holding up the angled stone roof. The architecture looked Grecian though in the center of Los Angeles, a beautiful grand stone building that looked nearly like polished marble when it glistened in the summer sun.

“Do you wanna post this on your Instagram?” you asked then paused on the steps to allow Taylor to take a photo.

Hesitantly as if considering whether to finish her response though she’d already instantly began to reply, Taylor drawled out a nervously prolonged, “No.”

Then she quickly supplemented by asking, “Did you want me to?”

“No,” you answered and looked over at her with a bit of a grin.

Taylor ventured through your eyes with her own and found your implicit way of saying you wanted the date to be just for the two of you to be extremely endearing — especially your sincerity.

You were genuine and kind-hearted and Taylor felt so trusting of you, and she was glad to feel that way too.

After watching her cheeks flush slightly, you walked forward up the stairs and looked back at Taylor who quickly caught up with you, her shoulder brushing against yours.

Her eyes darted around the exterior of the museum as it grew larger and taller with each step towards it, green irises filled with childish fascination and what you assumed to be liberated vulnerability as you’d never seen Taylor look so comfortable.

The two of you always had good conversations when you’ve spoken with each other and to some extent, being with a stranger you feel comfortable with nearly always warranted one’s guard to be let down, but this felt different.

It felt like Taylor didn’t feel as if she needed to be alert and on her toes, always ready to have conversations with one person to the next, seemingly always being able to read those in front of her with charming ease.

But today she looked relaxed with her guard let down, and you wondered if this was how it felt to be someone who was close with Taylor Sloane, the influencer with a beloved and infamous social presence.

Taylor felt you staring at her and looked over at you when the both of you joined the line to pay for the museum tickets, and she felt her heart skip a beat at the sight of how intrigued you seemed just looking at her.

She felt a little nervous having your undivided attention, which was uncharacteristic for her as someone who normally always had eyes on her.

But it was different when it was you.

For a good while, things went perfectly; Taylor could recall all the things she’d researched from last night and felt proud of how she could contribute even a little to how excited you were talking about the museum as you walked through it together.

She felt that you thought she was intelligent and worldly, and that you were seeing how different she could be outside of social media.

You seemed to be in awe of the museum entirely, and she couldn’t help but feel weak at the knees every time you went on terribly dorky spiels about things like the Roman Empire and the Italian Renaissance.

She was never into the kinds of things you were impassioned by, and in fact, Taylor was sure that if you’d met during any point of time before when she first met you at the Christmas party last year, the two of you wouldn’t have ever interacted — you were just so different in interests and friends and hobbies.

Even so, Taylor knew that she’d listen to lectures upon lectures on things she’d never even think twice about like the agriculture in the era of Ancient Rome or painting techniques used during the Renaissance so long as you were the one speaking.

She wondered if her cheeks flushed as much as she felt they did every time you looked over at her with the sweetest grin while you were talking about things you liked, and how it widened each time she expressed interest in them.

Last night’s research took a few hours away from her sleep but she was repaid tenfold at the sight of your excitement when she mentioned things you loved.

Taylor didn’t often care about her impressions on people away from her life as an influencer as most times socialising was just business — promoting herself, making connections to better her interactions and reach, and encouraging brands to sponsor her.

But she felt herself caring a lot about things with you that she couldn’t recall even considering with others, like proving to you that she wasn’t as shallow as she might’ve initially seemed online and ensuring you’d enjoy spending time with her.

It felt like things would go just as Taylor had meticulously planned the night before, and if she was as charming as she hoped, she’d even get a kiss or at the very least the opportunity to hold your hand.

She didn’t anticipate in any of her preparations, however, to have her date with you interrupted.

Taylor had only ever talked with Elliot a handful of times and only within a group of people — and she wanted it that way. She considered him to be pompous and self-obsessed.

He was the kind of vegan to blurt out much louder than necessary that he couldn’t eat a type of food offered to him because he was vegan, to have negative opinions on every infamous classical philosopher and writer to show that he was the intelligent black sheep, who abhorred every form of self-promotion and platform of social media because they were ‘part of a intricate labyrinth that supplied vanity to those who lacked true confidence in themselves.’

In every way, he and Taylor were complete opposites, and to put it frankly, she couldn’t stand him.

He approached you and asked what you were doing at the museum, to which you said you were on a date with Taylor for the afternoon.

She swooned at your willingness to call it a ‘date’ to other people.

Elliot looked over at Taylor at the mention of her. His height made it seem to her that he was regarding her from a position of superiority and Taylor bristled defensively at the sight. He seemed perplexed at the idea of her and you being out on a date and his eyebrows furrowed together then arched up as if he was humoured at something.

But a moment of silence passed wherein no laughter was exchanged and Elliot then knew that no joke had been told.

“Oh,” he said.

To be cordial or perhaps to mock, he asked, “Are you enjoying yourselves?”

“We are,” Taylor quipped.

Elliot’s eyes narrowed the tiniest bit and he looked as if he was picking apart her response. It was a subtle tell, but Taylor could see the way he scrutinised her.

“What are you doing here?” you asked in a friendly tone.

Taylor refused to look at him lest it give him the hint that she did want him around and saw him as anything more than an irritating intruder.

As the two of you spoke, she looked around at the museum floor and at all the things she had yet to say about a particular porcelain vase that was in a glass case a few metres away, a history in which she’d researched in detail last night because of how pretty it looked.

She thought you’d be pleased with how much she knew about it.

From what Taylor was forced to hear, Elliot was waiting for his family to arrive at the museum for he was planning on giving them a tour; they were visiting him and they’d only just landed from Paris this week.

“Would you mind if I followed the both of you around until they arrive?” Elliot then asked, and Taylor could swear that she wouldn’t have felt worse if suddenly the museum ceiling crumbled down and crushed her under its debris and broke her ankle.

In spite of having just been told that you were on a date together, he had the gall to suggest that he intrude on your time together. He very evidently did not take the date seriously, nor did he respect Taylor as a serious prospective partner of yours.

She knew you’d say yes for although she was assured that you were certainly not as close with him as she was with you, you were friendly and warm — Taylor liked this about you a lot, so she couldn’t entirely complain about your resolve — and because she’d never told you how she felt about him.

But you turned to her anyways, much to her surprise, searching her expression for an answer.

Taylor felt so warmed by your gesture, seeking her approval for a decision you easily could’ve made on your own and in doing so only further defining the time you were spending together as a date.

It wouldn’t be for long, could it, if he was just waiting for his family? And what could possibly happen if you already seemed so interested in spending time with her?

So Taylor finally said, “That’s totally fine with me.”

Aside from the discomfort of having Elliot walking alongside you while she followed along the other side, things seemed to be going alright; there weren’t any disputes between Taylor and Elliot, and you still kept trying to make sure that she was comfortable with him tagging along.

It was only because of how you pulled her to the side at one point when Elliot was on the phone and quietly asked her if she was really okay with him tagging along that Taylor was able to subdue the bitterness she felt towards him.

Hearing you apologise for his intrusion and seeing how much you had in common with him — talking to him about old college friends and some interests you shared with him that Taylor didn’t share with you — encouraged her to bear his presence.

As the long minutes passed, Taylor began to feel increasingly different from you.

Initially, she’d believed that she and you were closer than you were with Elliot by a long shot, and yet there were references to jokes and memories that Taylor didn’t know about and discussions of shared interests that she couldn’t even begin to pretend she knew anything about.

For a few moments she felt as if she was only someone passing the two of you, no different from all the other people walking by who’d happen to brush your shoulder and who’d come with their own families and friends, people you’d never even met nor spared even a passing glance to — strangers.

You always made sure to include her in your conversations, always brushing the back of your hand against hers to get her attention so you could meet her eyes and silently check in on her to make sure she felt alright, so it wasn’t that you treated her like a stranger in any respect.

In fact, you were attentive to her and so considerate, and that only made Taylor want to try harder in earning your favour. So she decided she’d try her hand at befriending Elliot, to bridge that distance she felt laid between the two of you and win a better chance at becoming your girlfriend.

You excused yourself to quickly dash out of the museum and pay for an extra hour of parking that you initially didn’t think you needed but ended up having to go out and get lest you leave the date with Taylor with a parking ticket under your windshield wiper.

So Taylor thought it was the perfect time to try and get closer with Elliot, who she was left with beside the museum’s food court.

Feigning a sudden realisation to ease into a natural conversation, Taylor said, “I think Ingrid told me that you met Y/N in college. How long were you in Miami for?”

“Miami?” he asked with a slightly humoured expression then looked over at her.

Taylor uncrossed her arms and replied, “Y/N went there for college, didn’t she?”

“Oh,” Elliot said and chuckled a little. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in Miami, chérie. We met in Paris; she studied there for a year.”

Taylor didn’t know you’d ever been to Paris. It wasn’t a major detail of your life, but a bout of uncertainty settled within her anyway.

In the midst of the blanket of self-doubt that started to come over her, heavy and downcast, Elliot spoke. “I hope you don’t take offence to this, but I never expected Y/N to take up company with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” Taylor repeated, evidently feeling a bit insulted as she looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

“I only mean that I would’ve never predicted for Y/N to take a social media influencer such as yourself on a date,” he replied. His words were condescending and belittling of Taylor’s occupation, but she found herself wanting to know more about what he was saying. “The type of partner I always imagined she was interested in was… understated, in a way. And you have a lot of presence. That is all that I mean.”

Perhaps she should’ve brushed him off and made peace with not befriending him, but all Taylor could run through her mind was how much she’d been enjoying her date with you, and how all she wanted to do was have you like her.

So she asked, “What do you mean by understated?”

“The partners she had in college were the kinds of people you wouldn’t realise were attending a party until someone brought their name up by chance,” Elliot tried to explain. His accent made his recollection sound allegorical. “And yet, you are someone who everyone knows of, or if not you’d be easy to spot in a very crowded room, easy to get to know through word of mouth.”

Taylor bristled. How could he possibly know anything about her, having only had a handful of conversations with her and hearing more about her through others rather than from herself?

“I am only saying that I am surprised you get along so well,” he concluded.

It was clear that he thought little of her, and that he was being outwardly friendly with her as one would treat someone they pitied. He regarded Taylor from a position of superiority, seeing her as nothing but something to brush off with his twisted version of kindness whose bitter arrogance was guised as goodwill.

But in spite of all that, Taylor couldn’t help but think that perhaps he was right, in a way. She started thinking about all the things she had yet to know about you, and here she was envisioning being your girlfriend.

She’d spent all day trying to convince you that she wasn’t what she seemed like at first glance, but Taylor considered that she was exactly what she seemed — vain, uneducated, and shallow.

And… you didn’t deserve someone like that.

“I’m back, sorry!” you huffed when you jogged back over to Taylor and Elliot. “Okay, I paid for another hour so there’s no rush.”

Taylor avoided meeting your eyes and she looked over to the side while Elliot told you that his family would be about half an hour, so he’d leave before your parking spot expired.

The three of you walked forward, picking up from where you’d left off when you had to quickly run out to the car.

You stepped back and let Elliot carry on before you circled your fingers around Taylor’s wrist carefully and kept her back with you.

“Are you feeling okay?” you asked in a hushed tone, and it felt like it was just the two of you again.

“I’m feeling okay,” Taylor reassured with a smile that didn’t look convincing. She looked up from the floor when you didn’t respond right away.

She saw the way you regarded her with suspicion and she insisted, “I’m okay. I’m just a bit tired from all the walking.”

Your hand raised and the back of your index finger ran down against the slope of Taylor’s jaw. It was so gentle and, oh, you looked at her with so much kindness in your soft eyes.

For a moment Taylor considered letting the overwhelming feelings from the day catch up to her so she could cry and have you comfort her.

“I’m gonna get rid of Elliot, okay?” you told her. “And we can just be on our own like we planned. Is that alright?”

Taylor let the warmth in her chest settle before she nodded happily. Then you wrapped your hand around hers and squeezed it before leaving her and catching back up to Elliot ahead.

She watched as you exchanged a few words with him. He seemed shocked and even perplexed at being left, and that almost brought a sense of joy in Taylor.

The bastard.

You came back and took her hand, interlacing your fingers and leading her away. She stepped close to you so your arms brushed against each other every time either of you swung them in the slightest.

“I’m glad we left,” you breathed out when you got down to the floor below together. “I’m sorry that he stuck around for that long. I had no idea how to get rid of him.”

“I thought you liked him,” said Taylor, surprised.

You shrugged and looked over your shoulder a little to make sure he wasn’t still around. “I’ve known him for a while,” you told her. “We’re friendly, but not friends.”

You stopped walking and looked at Taylor, running your thumb against the back of her fingers. “Besides, I wanted to be alone with you today. It was supposed to be a day for just us.”

Taylor all but melted at your words, then felt a heavy pang of guilt spread through her stomach. She looked away.

“What’s the matter?” you asked, following her eyes as she looked over at a group of people coming off the elevator.

The concern you’d shown for her countless times today made Taylor feel like the worst person ever. She didn’t deserve your consideration.

She took a breath before finally saying, “We’re so different.”

“So? I like that. You’re so outgoing and open and nice. I’m not as out there as you are, but there’s also a reason why everyone knows you. You’re… sort of magnetic,” you confessed, feeling a little bashful and awkwardly scratching at your cheek.

“Plus, we’re not that different,” you told her with a smile. “I like you exactly as you are. I like you even more because of how you pretended to love museums and miraculously came to the date with all this knowledge about the most niche things ever.”

Taylor’s lips parted and she looked surprised. “You knew that I just… searched it up?” she asked.

When you looked at her with a lighthearted smile, she felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment and she redirected her gaze away from you. But you cupped her cheek and made her meet your eyes.

“But I like that about you, you know? I don’t know if you know, but you’re really just as nerdy as I am. What kind of person does all that for a first date?” you said with a laugh, and Taylor looked into your eyes to find you staring at her with so much admiration and warmth.

“So… You actually like me?” Taylor asked, perking up.

You giggled a little — you couldn’t help it looking at her perk up like an excited puppy — and she hit your arm before looking away. “S-Stop… I’m being serious.”

With your warm hand still on her cheek, you made her look at you again before saying, “Taylor, I really like you. I think you’re so smart and really cute. I love how creative and outgoing you are, and I’ve really been liking spending time with you. But we’re always with other people, and I think it’d be better if we had time to ourselves. Don’t you agree?”

Taylor felt so much more hopeful now and she nodded excitedly. She couldn’t believe how lucky she’d gotten going on a date with you.

“Have you ever been to the zoo here?” you suddenly asked.

She smiled. “No.”

“Me neither,” you replied. “Do you wanna go?”

She nodded and stepped towards you. She raised her hand to yours that was cupping your cheek and wrapped her fingers around your wrist gently. “Yes, please,” she answered.

The two of you left the museum together after taking her hand with yours again.

When you stepped down from the museum steps, you stopped for a moment and Taylor felt the tug of your hand. She turned around and you pulled her against you.

You rounded your fingers to the back of her head, pulling her close and kissing her. You really did feel like doing it; maybe it was feeling how soft her hand was or watching how pretty her hair looked when she walked ahead of you or seeing the smile on her face.

Her lips were so soft. She tasted like mint and grapefruit.

You pulled away and Taylor was blushing, eyes locked on yours and taking in how you looked at her. She eventually looked away from you when the wind blew a bit of her hair in her eyes and tore her away from her enamoured stupor.

“Is that how you kiss all your friends…?” she asked with the intention of teasing though you knew her words had more meaning.

After a moment of admiring how adorable she looked, slightly pouty and jealous, you softly ran the pad of your thumb against her cheek and whispered, “No. Just you.”

Taylor looked back over at you and smiled. She got to hold your hand and got a kiss; she was the luckiest girl in the whole world. She couldn’t help the way she started laughing. She was just so happy.

#taylor sloane #taylor sloane fanfiction #taylor sloane x reader #ingrid goes west #ingrid goes west fanfiction #elizabeth olsen

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jeneseoquoi · 9 months

Text

nct 127 | hyung line + fluff

♡ random fluff with our favorite ilichil hyungs ♡

(note: i was listening to 'eleven' by khalid when writing these so they were originally gonna be like time stamp scenarios, but then it just turned into random fluff for jn, ty, dy, and yt. so basically ignore the random time stamp in taeil's lmao. also, i was going to do all nine members until i hit a block therefore it's only hyung line for now. if you guys want a part two for the rest of the members, let me know! oh and i'm notorious for switching tenses in my fic writing so if that bothers you, this here is your warning lmao.)

taeil: the sunlight bleeding through the light colored curtains, taeil’s soft hums as he moved about the kitchen and the subtle warmth from the bacon frying on the stove made for such a peaceful morning. you glanced at the clock as you pulled the eggs out of the fridge, carrying them over to the stove; 11:31 am. taeil wasn’t normally this eager to get out of bed at this time, but when he heard your stomach growl for the fourth time that morning, he just couldn’t go back to sleep. not when his love was practically starving.

“what are you smiling about?” taeil questioned, breaking you out of your short daze.

“nothing.” you giggled causing him to cock an eyebrow. “this is just nice. the two of us, cooking breakfast together in our own apartment. nowhere to be but here, with each other.” you sighed happily. taeil couldn’t help but laugh at your sudden tenderness.

“you’re so sentimental honey,” he walked over to you, pecking your cheek, “but you’re right.” he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his head on your shoulder. his fingers played with the diamond on your left finger, sighing in contentment.

“there’s no place i’d rather be than here at home with you.”

johnny: you sipped the last of your wine as you put the finishing touches on the canvas in front of you.

“okay! ready when you are.” you smiled as you admired the masterpiece you created.

“it’s about time.” johnny retorted sarcastically. “okay, on three. one, two, three.”

you both picked up your canvases, turning them to face each other before busting out laughing.

as your guys’ laughter died down, you spoke up “it’s safe to say that maybe we shouldn’t have had two whole bottles of wine BEFORE starting the paintings.”

he laughed loudly, “nah, that makes this so much better honestly. these belong in the louvre.”

you giggled, absentmindedly reaching for your glass, but stopped shortly as you remembered the last drops you finished just moments ago.

“looks like you’re empty. should I pop open the next bottle?” he asks, gesturing toward the empty glass in your hand.

you shake your head. you’d only been on a couple of dates with johnny so far, but he made you so comfortable. he was easy to talk to and get along with plus he made you laugh. not to mention he was undeniably attractive sat across from you with his bare face, loosened up black black button up, and an unmistakable lusty, hazy look in his eyes. it was no wonder how you eventually made your way to his side of the coffee table, and into his lap. as if instinctual, he wrapped his arms around you, settling them on your lower back.

“ready to call it a night? should i get you a taxi?” he questioned, trying to analyze your face.

you shook your head, “nope. as a matter of fact,” your voice barely above a whisper, looking between his eyes and lips, before leaning in, “i have something better we can do.”

a sly remark threatened to leave his lips, but before it had time, he leant forward meeting you the rest of the way.

taeyong: the elevator began to descend as you pressed the floor number for your boyfriend’s studio. stepping out as the elevator dinged, you made your way down the hallway, two coffees in hand. not long after knocking, the door to the studio flew open, revealing a smiling face.

“you’re here!” he exclaimed.

“i’m here! and i brought coffee.” you smiled back at him, carefully shaking the cups in your hand. he grabs them from you, leaning in to give you a peck as a greeting & thank you all in one.

“come in, i was just in a writing block and you’re the perfect inspiration i needed.” you could feel warmth rise in your chest from his sweet words. he pulls a chair next to his, patting the seat for you to sit, and you happily do.

“tell me what you think of this.” he plays the track he’s been working on, and you bop your head along to the beat until a familiar humming captures your attention. “wait, tae…is that me???”

a flush comes to his cheeks as he stops the track.

“maybe. do you remember where it’s from?” you try your best to recall, but it just doesn’t come to you. slightly amused by your stumped look, he gives you the answer.

“it’s from a few weeks ago when i was having trouble sleeping. you stayed up with me all night, and at some point you started humming. something about it was so soothing, that i was able to finally fall asleep to it. and it’s been stuck in my head since.” your face softens as he recounts the memory.

“so i thought, why not make it a song that i can listen to forever.”

you feel a burst of butterflies release in your stomach and before you can help it, you find yourself blurting out the words you’ve been wanting to say to him for a while.

“i love you taeyong.” he reached forward, clasping your hands in his and let out an excited giggle, “i love you too.”

yuta: you sighed deeply, throwing back what felt like your fourteenth shot of the night. you came to this new years eve party in hopes of getting to spend some quality time with and hopefully confessing to your crush, but since you guys arrived he’s been preoccupied with all his friends. i mean what did you expect, he did invite you to their annual lonely hearts nye bash, but you couldn’t help the part of you that hoped he invited you to make each other’s hearts less lonely. you shook your head, pouring yet another shot from the liquor bottle in hopes of drowning your thoughts. that was until you heard a familiar sound.

“alright it’s about a minute to midnight…” you heard the host of the ball drop say on the tv.

you jumped off the counter with a loud sigh, a sense of urgency suddenly taking over you. it was now or never. you threw back the shot and marched out of the kitchen in search of yuta. he wasn’t hard to find with his dark orange hair and sparkly party hat standing out in the small in crowd of his friends. you called his name, walking straight over to where he was standing in front of the TV with a shot glass.

“hey! where’ve you been? i thought you left.”

you shook your head, “yuta listen, I have something to tell you.”

“TWELVE, ELEVEN…” his friends started counting down.

“right now? can it wait?” he gave you a confused look.

it’s now or never. you shook your head, and tapped fully into your liquid courage.

“yuta, i like you. and i came here tonight because i want to be your new year’s kiss.” he looked like a deer caught in headlights at your sudden confession, but before his brain could even formulate a response he was interrupted by the shouts of his friends.

“FOUR, THREE, TWO…”

without another thought, he cupped both of his hands around your face, pressing his lips softly to yours. it was only a couple of seconds, but it was the best ones of the new year so far.

doyoung: it was early. too early almost, considering the amount of times you’d woken up through the night to tend to the new addition in your little family. it’d only been about two weeks since doyoung and you had brought home your new child, and it was safe to say the adjustment was proving to be more draining than you guys imagined. due to this, things around the house had started to pile up, quick. so it was a little surprising when you rolled over to the other side of the bed and felt…emptiness. the space was cold, meaning your partner hadn’t been occupying it for a while. you sat up, stretching your arms above your head before venturing out from under the warmth of the covers in search of him. on your way toward the kitchen, you stopped by your child’s room, barely inching the door open to see them fast asleep. you walked into the kitchen immediately spotting doyoung at the sink. a smile crept on your face as you watched him wash & rinse the dishes in his pink gloves. quietly making your way over to him, you wrapped your arms around his torso, startling him. he tsk’d, turning off the water and removing his gloves, before turning to face you.

“nooooo. why are you up?” he whined, making you scrunch your face at him.

“am I interrupting something?” you ask with a giggle.

“of course not, but…” he sighs, “i wanted to get the house cleaned up a bit before you woke up. i know you’ve been so tired lately, so i just wanted to take one more thing off your plate.”

a rush of warmness radiates over your body causing you to lean toward him for a kiss, which he happily accepts.

“you’re so good to me” you whisper against his lips before he pulls away. “i know. but you deserve it.”

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jellycatstuffies · 7 months

Note

Gaston Duck is in stock in the Louvre in Paris ?!? My absolute dream Jellycat that I thought was retired years ago, I’m so happy omg 🥰

It's awesome that you found your dream Jellycat! Congrats! Enjoy your new friend💕

Gaston Duck was in fact officially retired years ago, but I am pretty certain that the Louvre has a deal with Jellycat to continue to sell him in their gift shop.

It is to my knowledge the only place that still sells him, and what would be a more fitting place for him than the Louvre? He was originally part of a group called "Animals Of The World" and represented France:

Gaston Duck

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multific · 1 year

Text

Date Nights

Vincent de Gramont x Reader

Warning: sexual innuendos

Summary: It wasn't very often that he took you out on dates, it did happen occasionally, and you always enjoyed every second of it.

"You know, when you asked me to come shopping with you, this is not what I expected, but I'm not complaining," you said as you sipped on your champagne as Vincent appeared wearing another three-piece suit.

The shop closed as all of the assistants are with you.

When Vincent asked you to go shopping with him, you assumed you were going to buy dresses for yourself, but when he brought you into the shop he gets his suits made, you were delighted.

First, he had a gorgeous all-grey suit on, then a beautiful black and now, he was standing in front of you, in black pants and a red top. He looked stunning.

"Oh, now that is just perfection." you said as he turned a full circle. "Your ass looks really good in that." you hummed as he looked at you through the mirror.

Now you knew how much he liked when you pointed out certain parts of him which you enjoyed.

Since it was usually him complimenting you not the other way around.

But you weren't lying, he looked stunning.

He ended up getting everything and soon, you found yourself in a nice little restaurant for lunch.

You really enjoyed dates like these.

Simple shopping and food. There was just something about how comfortable you were around him every time silence fell upon both of you.

After lunch, you two went to the Louvre, Vincent had a fascination for paintings and so did you.

You spent good minutes looking at all the paintings, as if it was the first time you saw them, when in fact it wasn't.

"All this history, all this beauty and yet, you are the most beautiful." he said, not looking at you but rather at The Coronation of Napoleon. "When we first met, I often came here to clear my head, I looked at all the marble all the paintings and yet, all I could think about was you. How beautiful you are and how nothing in here could ever compare." he finally looked at you and you smiled at him. "All I could think about was the imperfections of the paintings or the statues because, in my eyes, you are perfection."

"You hold me to a very high standard, Vincent. I will grow old and imperfect while the paintings and statues will stay as they are."

"You will never be imperfect."

"Thank you, Vincent, but truly, you don't have to say all of this. Your guards will hear you. You cannot let them think that the high and mighty Marquis has feelings!" you giggled as he pulled you to stand in front of him, looking at the Mona Lisa. He towered behind you as you let out a sigh. "I still prefer Van Gogh or Dali. But I won't deny the beauty of this. You are a work of art yourself, Vincent. Especially when you are naked." it was meant as teasing, but you knew he took it seriously which you were also okay with.

"I wish I could paint like this. I could paint you and put it in my office." he said as his hands tightened around you.

"For some reason I find that to be both flattering and unsettling. You should get a Monet instead of me. I'm not some 18th century Queen." you looked up at him as he moved both of you to the next painting.

Liberty Leading the People.

"You are my Queen though." you nearly laughed at his cheezy comment.

"Should I get a painting of me for you birthday? One for you office and then one for home, a nude one?"

"If you stand in front of any other person naked, I will have to kill them after the painting is done. No one else is allowed to see you but me."

"I'm okay with that."

"Then I will leave it up for you." he smiled, not looking at you. "See? She is leading the people, a representation of freedom and power. The power the people took back and yet all I can think about is how powerless she is compared to you."

"You are in love." you said watching her on the canvas.

"That I am."

"And I am in love."

"That you are. We are in love."

You hummed.

"I love date nights."

"Who said this is the end?"

"Oh? What else do you have in mind?"

"Dinner and then we drive home, have sex in the car then barely make it into my apartment, have sex against the front door, scare my poor housekeeper, then have sex in our room."

"Now that's a plan! Can we have Italian for dinner? You know I love pasta."

"Of course, if I can come inside you later, Mon Amour."

"Of course." you finally turned around in his arms as you smiled at him, his eyes watching you as you reached up, one hand behind his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

Oh yes, you loved date nights.

More Vincent

Taglist: @fleursirvart @greenarrowhead @thisismysecrethappyplace @sincerelyfan @theoneanna @aestheticsandmarvel @rororo06 @castellandiangelo @destynelseclipsa @spilledinkindumpster @capsiclesdoll @puknow @alwayshave-faith @alex12948 @lxdyred @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @praline357 @trshngyn @avengers-r-us @violet-19999 @top1bbgloak @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

Vincent Taglist: @l4venderia

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, PLAGIARISE, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS

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king-krisu · 9 months

Text

Opening up the Käärijä tag like:

Look at this goofy photo from a few years ago lol :)

*meme about how many boyfriends this man has*

I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I WANT THIS TWINK OBLITERATED

Honestly he deserves so much I can't wait to see his career flourish and for him to achieve everything he wants <3

*unbelievable fanart worthy of the Louvre*

Your honour I want to Observe him under a microscope. Maybe see him in some Situations!!!

He's so silly look at this tiktok caption

I WANNA Tear my fucking EYES OUT I NEED TO BITE HIS TITTIES I NEED TO MAKE HIM WHIMPER IN THE MOST PATHETIC WAY

Oh look he posted a new photo

I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I WANT THIS TWINK OBLITERATED

He HAS a small penis guys. fact.

#käärijä #eurovision #jere pöyhönen #cha cha cha #käärijä penisposting extravaganza #real tag now you cant stop me #i love all of you so much #im glad i half emigrated from tiktok back to my roots

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yeoldenews · 5 months

Text

I'm honestly not entirely certain as there were definitely dolls available in 1918 that would seem to fit Ruth's criteria.

(source: Sears catalog, Fall/Winter 1918)

My best guess is that she was either referring to quality, and/or she wanted a doll with a bisque porcelain head and limbs - as that would have been the predominant style when her mother was a child.

By the late teens most doll heads/limbs were made of composition - a material consisting mainly of sawdust and glue. Composition dolls were marketed as "almost unbreakable" (as you can see above) which, considering how many late 19th/early 20th century letters to Santa involve stories of broken porcelain dolls, was definitely a needed innovation.

The most prized dolls at the time were made in Germany and France - which obviously meant that WWI severely interrupted the supply chain.

The fact that so many little girls coveted German-made dolls took a rather hilarious turn once the US and Germany were at war. I've found many, many dear Santa letters from children vehemently declaring that they would rather not have a doll at all than one made in Germany. Some went as far as to purposely break their German dolls in tiny fits of patriotism - such as Nancy from last year who had to request a new doll from Santa after she took her German-made doll and "chop it head off".

(source: Grand magasins du Louvre catalog, Christmas 1918.)

If you compare the Sears catalog dolls to dolls from a French catalog from the same period, you can definitely see the difference in quality - as well as the fact they more closely resemble dolls from when Ruth's mother was growing up.

#asks #history #@unicornwishes #dolls #world war i #wwi #kids #dear santa

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quitefair · 4 months

Text

The Temple of Mythal and Greek Sculpture

Or: How Bioware takes from history without any nuance.

Picture this. You're me, playing Inquisition for the first time. You get to the Temple of Mythal, the doors shut behind you and you finally get to look around. It's a typical elven ruin for the game, nothing much seems different...

Hold on.

Hold the fuck on.

You know what that is.

You know what that's based on, and for a long time after it tickles you. Oh, maybe that meant something in the grander scheme of things! We've never seen such a blatant reference to a real-life sculpture anywhere else in game (to my knowledge at the time)! Maybe it'll come up later and it'll all make sense!

Here's the deal. I've been bothered by this for years. The more I think about it, the more angry I become. Anger over a single fucking type of statue, you say? There's a lot of other shit to be angry over in this game, and you choose this?

YES! I CHOOSE THIS! AND THIS IS WHY.

Picture this. You're me again, aged 14 this time. You're in the Louvre, the first museum of Western classical art you've ever been to. You've grown up in a place where this interest could only be cultivated from extra-curricular reading, and for a kid that age from my country to be ass deep in Greek and Egyptian myth is frankly lmao. Neurodivergent. Anyway.

So we're wandering around the Louvre, I've just taken my parents through the Egyptian section and given them a thorough infodump on everything I know about burial rites.

And then we enter this room. And I very nearly fall to my knees when I catch sight of her.

This is the sculpture the statues at the Temple of Mythal are based on - one Winged Victory of Samothrace.

She is a sculpture from the Hellenestic era, depicting the goddess Nike stood at the prow of a ship. Her head and both arms are missing, save one hand with two fingers (also in the Louvre but displayed separately). She was found on the Greek island of Samothrace, among the ruins of what was known as the Sanctuary of the Great Gods. It seemed like she was displayed at the top of a hill, looming down at all that regarded her.

I’ve had the absolute privilege of seeing her in person twice in my life, both before and after the 2013 restoration. And let me tell you, regardless of which staircase that leads you there, the sight of her will stop you in your tracks.

[Now with people, for scale.]

She is massive. Larger than life, and immediately is the centre of your attention. It's not the fact that she has no head, no arms. No, you will realise the closer you get to her, the more you're able to appreciate the details of this absolutely astounding piece of history.

No. It's because she feels so alive.

The way her robes drape against flesh, wet from sea-spray or rain, yet flowing with the motion of an invisible wind. The wings cast behind her dramatically as her right foot steps forward. Standing tall and proud, unflinching, unbowed against the elements. Even without her arms, you can feel how dynamic the torso and legs are.

You don't need to be an art historian, or even have any knowledge of Greek myth or art history to stand in front of her, as I once did as a young teen, and nearly be brought to tears.

So.

This brings me to the first of the two main gripes I have with the way this sculpture is used in Inquisition.

Compared to the way she's displayed in the Louvre, and also presumably how she was presented to her original audience - larger than life, looming, powerful, beautiful - she is relegated instead to smaller, repeating statues of the same nature throughout the temple.

This diminishes the purpose of the original sculpture, which was to instill a sense of awe and wonder. The singularity that forces you to focus and appreciate the scale and intricacy. The aura, the gravitas of having a single, massive sculpture of such a dynamic figure is completely gone.

And to make things worse, they Mythal-ify her. Adding a helmed head and changing her beautiful feathered wings to leathery dragon wings. They don't even add arms, which is odd because the original sculpture very clearly is missing its arms.

And, may I ask, Why?

It feels cheap, like they saw the Winged Victory and were like 'oh shit this is a cool sculpture, we should add it in game' without giving any fucking thought to what the sculpture means.

Which brings me to the second gripe. The complete disregard for the symbolism of the Winged Victory.

Detail from the Athena fountain, Parliament Building of Vienna, showing Nike the Winged Victory in the palm of Athena's hand [source]

Nike is a minor Greek deity, said to be the daughter of Pallas (a Titan) and the river Styx. Her other siblings by the same parents include Zelus (Zeal), Bia (Might) and Kratos (Strength).

Yes. That Kratos.

She was one of the earliest gods to pledge her allegiance to Zeus in the Titonomachy, and after the victory of the Olympians, Nike and the other gods that allied with them were allowed to live on Olympus. In her aspect as Victory, she is closely associated with several of the major Greek gods, and in particular, Athena.

There's also her Roman counterpart, Victoria. This version doesn't come with the backstory Nike has, but is more of a general concept of victory. This is the aspect that is present in a lot of the modern sculptures and interpretations of Nike/Victoria:

Left: Detail from the Berlin Victory Column. Right: Detail from the Victoria Memorial, London. Note the similar iconography, of a woman seemingly standing against a strong wind, fabric and cloth adhering and yet flowing against the breeze, wings outstretched.

From this, we can probably extrapolate what our beloved Winged Victory might've looked like. Here's an artist's render of one possibility:

There's some iconography we need to go through before moving on - symbols that are commonly associated with Nike/Victoria.

One is the trumpet as see in the reconstruction above, the sound and symbol of the end of war, of impending peace. Another is the laurel wreath, another Greek symbol of victory and achievement. Famously, laurel wreaths were used to crown victors of the original Olympic games.

This is another conversation entirely, but there’s a discussion to be had about the duality of Elgar’nan and Mythal, in term of vengeance and justice, and how an emotional rage versus a calculated wisdom can be compared to the difference between the two Greek gods of war – Ares and Athena.

If we can compare Mythal to Athena, in the sense of her wisdom in making difficult decisions, then it’s not a stretch to associate Mythal with the symbolism of Nike, and therefore explain the presence of statues similar to the Winged Victory in her temple.

But since Bioware absolutely did not put this in the game for anything other than the Aesthetic, there’s some problems that need to be addressed.

Mainly in the way in which these statues are scattered throughout the temple. If you wanted static, ominous statues to line the walls as your player characters explore, perhaps have like, I dunno. Less dynamic statues that you reference?

Left: Nike of Paionos, Right: Stele 1 of Las Incantadas

Or maybe instead of statues, have friezes lining the walls. Like this one from the equally iconic Pergamon altar, depicting the Giganomanchy.

It’s the same symbolism, the wings, the smiting of foes and victory of good over evil.

And then perhaps, at the heart of the temple... where, y'know Bioware, lay a body of water sacred to Mythal herself, you could've perhaps done something remarkable. You could then have had the most dramatic and beautiful entrance you’d ever seen.

[Nike, at the iconic Daru Staircase, the Louvre]

It was at this moment that Mythal walked out of the sea of the earth's tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar'nan's brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew that his anger had led him astray. - Codex entry: Mythal: The Great Protector

Mythal herself strides out of the Well Of Sorrows, the metaphorical tears of her followers that died and kept their knowledge alive in her name. Her (draconic) wings spread out, (restored) hands outstretched to touch her husband, to calm the rage that nearly destroyed this world.

A symbol of victory against the blind rage of a god against His father, the Sun. A symbol of wisdom and grace, against the violence of hatred. A divine sense of something bigger than anything we could imagine.

There's also the lack of iconography regarding victory, instead piling on some cheap representations of what we think of as Mythal. That's another post entirely on the symbolism of the Elven gods, but if Bioware really wanted to hone in on the Athena/Athena Nike parallels, they might have thrown in the trumpet/laurel/palm leaf symbolism with the statues, alongside the dragon wings.

If this were the case, then maybe, just maybe, Inquisition would’ve then earned the use of this sculpture in the game.

Sources not listed above/Further reading if you're interested

https://www.louvre.fr/en/explore/the-palace/a-stairway-to-victory

https://www.worldhistory.org/article/1412/winged-victory-the-nike-of-samothrace/https://smarthistory.org/nike-winged-victory-of-samothrace/

https://smarthistory.org/nike-winged-victory-of-samothrace/

https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/ancient-art-civilizations/greek-art/hellenistic/a/nike-winged-victory-of-samothrace

#da lore #da meta #mythal #temple of mythal #dragon age #da lore and meta #yo this has been simmering and brewing in my brain for like 8 years now not kidding #and im already neck deep in like..... figuring out the evanuris and trying to tie them into real world mythology and thats super fun too!!!#watch as this consumes and destroys me #my writing

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