I jolted up with a gasp. My breath is heavy, fighting for air. My mind is flashing the horrors of my past. It was the family again, with the little girl, all dead, by my hand. My breath is desperate, desperate for air that will not come. I try to count my breaths and think of a calm scenery, like what Wanda had taught me to do in a situation like this. After what seems like hours, my breathing started to even out.
Not wanting to see more of my haunted past in my sleep. I quickly dressed, making sure to grab my gloves. I creeped out of the tower without making a sound. When outside, the chill wind of midnight welcomed me, like an old cruel friend. Having no destination I started to wander on the streets of New York City, my once happy home of my past self, myself that’s no more.
The Grand Salon, the Prado. Francisco Aznar y García (Spanish, 1811-1911). Oil on panel.
Paintings are displayed frame to frame and reach high on the wall, which makes close inspection difficult. The woman to the right reads, perhaps having abandoned work on the nearby easel. The woman to the left is copying a painting, hopefully one close to her eye level.
Everyone gradually began to bid their farewells as breakfast concluded. Smiles were exchanged as plastic cutlery clattered against the elongated table, as all the students were satisfied with what they had eaten. The maid stacked the dishes, carrying them to the kitchen with a polite grin as each person left the dining hall.
Tightening her scrunchies, Harukawa let out a sigh, as she pondered what she could do today. There were only a limited number of things to do in her room, but she didn’t particularly fancy spending time with anyone else.
Again, my huge thanks to the great @xerxia31 who beta-ed this (and there was a LOT of things to take care of) and pressed me writing ;)
My huge thanks too to @the-peeta-pocket for her idea and for hosting this wonderful blog :)
Throughout the Fairy Realm it is understood that being seen by a human is almost always fatal. Humans, or the big ones anyway, don’t believe in the creatures of the Little World anymore. A single glance from a non-believer would result in the sure death of the Fairy. That is the reason why humans never see Fairies anywhere.
But, if you listen carefully, sometimes you can hear them sing.
This is the story of one little Fairy of the Forest.
110: "it's a hobby of mine to prove you wrong" with Barba please x
A/N: Here is some sexy high roller Rafael for my dear readers. Enjoy!
Prompt 110 - It’s a hobby of mine to prove you wrong
Rafael had asked you to accompany him to an art gallery opening and auction held by an old friend of his, a talented and well known photographer. The opening was very high profile and lavish, held in a converted warehouse just outside Manhattan. There were several people walking across the white floors, sipping drinks and admiring the photographs that were blown up onto large canvases and hung up on brick walls. You couldn’t help but feel out of place as you stood quietly near Rafael, who chatted with wealthy socialites and other successful lawyers such as himself. You smiled and chuckled when necessary, the conversation often political and venom-laced. You had excused yourself from the group, trying to ignore Rafael’s look of concern as you wandered into a quiet hallway for a moment of peace to yourself. You brought your champagne flute to your lips, taking a welcomed sip.
Your gaze lands on a medium-sized photograph in front of you. It was a picture of the mall, Central Park’s most famous walkway. The photo was breathtaking, the trees that cascaded over the walkway appeared to be newly transitioned into autumn with bright vibrant yellow and orange leaves. You begin to imagine what the photograph would look like framed over a fireplace mantel, if you could ever afford it that is.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” It was Rafael.
You spun around, gasping as he had startled you.
“Are you feeling alright, Mi vida?” Your partner was quickly at your side, placing a protective hand on the small of your back.
You nod, blush rising in your cheeks.
“I’m fine, Rafi.” You adjust his bow tie, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. Stepping forward, you place a smooth kiss on the corner of his mouth. Lingering for a second, you breath him in, then step back. He is still frowning, unconvinced you’re telling the truth.
“I can call us a cab-”
“Really, Rafael. I’m okay. Can we stay for the auction?” You ask softly. “Please?”
He sighs, grinning as you pout your lip and give your best puppy dog look.
“Okay, Carino.” He says, defeated.
“Sold! To number 19 for eleven thousand dollars!” The auctioneer declares with a whack of his gavel. A beautiful large monochrome portrait of a nude woman in a bed of roses is removed from the easel and replaced with another photograph. The room erupts in applause and you shift in your seat. You look over at Rafael, who has been watching you intently the whole time. His hand is suddenly on your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and the muscles deep in your belly respond. The crowd claps again, as the next piece sells for almost fifteen thousand dollars. You watch as your Central Park photo is placed on the easel to sell and pout in disappointment when the auctioneer informs the room of the ten thousand dollar starting price. A man in front of you bids ten thousand and very few counter, reaching over seventeen thousand dollars.
“Seventeen thousand going once, going twice,” the auctioneer calls. Suddenly, you hear Rafael’s voice beside you.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”
You look at him, speechless.
“Twenty-five thousand going once, going twice. Sold for twenty-five thousand dollars!” The auctioneer declares victoriously.
Rafael lowers his auction paddle, leaning in to whisper in your ear.
“That’s the photograph you wanted, right?” He teases, his smile playful.
“Rafael, are you insane?!”
He tilts his head, looking at you affectionately.
“Not insane mi amor, just un hombre in love.”
Your mouth goes dry. Holy shit. Your subconscious nods with satisfaction.
“When I thought I couldn’t get any luckier, you proved me wrong.” You gaze at him. His expression serious, sincere. You lean over and kiss him gently.
“Well, It’s a hobby of mine to prove you wrong.” He teases as a small smile plays at the corners of his lips, his eyes darken, burning into yours. He looks back towards the front of the room, his hand lovingly placed on your upper thigh.
Butterflies erupt in your stomach at the thought of Rafael later that night, declaring his love for you -
Blonde Woman Before an Easel (c.1903-06). Edward Hopper (American, 1882-1967). Oil on board. Whitney Museum.
Chase’s influence can be discerned in Hopper’s Blond Woman Before an Easel, where the elegance with which Hopper depicts a woman seen from behind as she paints is reminiscent of his teacher’s. Hopper's preliminary sketch of her long graceful neck and upswept hair is a document of his working process. The model is painting a portrait; perhaps she was a member of Chase's celebrated portrait class, which Hopper remembered as being composed of mostly women.
Fic prompt! I want more Sally/Percy interaction! What do you think her reaction was when she first learned he was dating Annabeth? I wanna see her lecture him about dating and giving the talk and Percy just dying from embarrassment.
“Percy, it’s my duty as your mother to educate you about the female body and what to expect during intercourse.”
“Mom, I’m begging you… Please don’t do this to me.”
“Percy, get your head out of your hands and look at this diagram I drew you. I worked really hard on it.”
“No. Please. Kill me.”
“This is a learning opportunity!”
She pried his fingers away from his eyes and Percy was forced to see the halved form of a cartoon woman on an easel in the middle of the living room.
Interior of an Artist’s Studio with a Couple Examining Engravings. Joseph-François Ducq (Belgian, 1762-1829).
An artist, drawing instrument in hand, points out a detail on one of the engravings to the woman, perhaps his wife or lover. Behind him is a canvas on its easel, which he can easily turn to and complete his preliminary sketches for a work in progress.
1 city. 2 People. 3 words. And only 6 months of time to say them.
A/N: Please enjoy the fourth part guys! I’m happy you all are enjoying and looking forward to this each week! Give me your thoughts;)
In the dead of the night, the unsettling still of dead silence makes my ears ring and I can’t force my eyes to close although the moon is high in the sky and night has well already taken over. I tried opening my window to get some fresh air, but eventually it got too cold in the small space of my dorm so I had to shut it, lying helplessly in bed for another hour until I just gave up and went to my desk.
Blue and green flowers cover the new sketchbook my mom had bought before I left, saying I should draw the things around me to commemorate this journey I’d be having, as if some spiritual enlightenment would come from staying in a boarding school on the outskirts of Seoul.
I get a sharp sketching pencil and close my eyes, taking a deep breath before beginning to stroke the random outline of a face, letting the lead take my hand where it wants to go as I sigh in calm reverence. It’s feels nice to just let myself go sometimes and submit to something other than anxiety or control. There is something so thrilling in the adventure of just closing my eyes and letting my mind wander onto the page.
The lead in my pencil cracks in half, my tranquility shattering into peevishness. Cursing loudly, I throw down the pencil and get up, throwing on a pair of shoes and grabbing a jacket from its rack in the corner.
The hallway is completely silent, and I’m afraid my footsteps are too loud as I shuffle across the carpet to the stairs. I couldn’t remember whether Jimin told me they were open or closed after curfew, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
It feels so much cooler on the first floor, the light from the moon shines in through the doors, reflecting off the marble of the floor. I don’t leave the shadow of the hall behind the archways, leaning against the wall next to the stair door.
I close my eyes, breathing thinly through my nose and hoping that I can find some sort of sleep in me. My first day of class was tomorrow and the last thing I wanted was to fall asleep in the middle of it.
I hear voices from the front door and my eyes immediately spring open as panic sets in my senses. What if those are teachers? What if I’m about to get caught being out after midnight? What if they suspend me right away and then I can’t go to France? What if-
“Taehyung.” Seokjin’s soft voice calls.
Two boys come into view, Kim Seokjin, holding the door open as cold air rushes in the room, and Jeon Jungkook, who takes his black beanie off and smooths down his dark hair with agile fingers. “Hurry up the both of you.”
“I’m going to the room.” Jungkook says without interest, turning his back to go down the opposite hallway. “Just tell Tae to knock since he left his key.”
At that moment, Taehyung and Jimin come stumbling through the large doors, hitting each other playfully and laughing about something unknown as Jin scolds them. “Shhhh! You’re going to wake people up.”
The boys shut their mouths, holding back their laughter with shaking shoulders as they eye each other. “Come on.” Jin takes Tae’s arm and pulls him away from the other laughing stock. “We need to get as much sleep as we can before class tomorrow. Good job tonight, Jimin. Rest well.”
Jimin nods and gives Tae one last amused glance before turning in my direction and going for the stairs. I hold my breath and press my back against the marble, hoping to God I blend in enough for him to just pass without noticing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my hands into fists. I know I can’t hold my breath for much longer and it seems like Jimin is walking slower than a snail. I open my eyes and try inhaling lightly through my nose, but it comes in more like a gasp and Jimin stops in his tracks to squint in my direction.
“Hello?” He cocks his head, orange waves falling to the side. Jimin takes a calculated step towards me. “Who’s there?”
I relax my stance, coming to my senses as he stands in front of me, but still unaware I am there. This is stupid. Why am I hiding from him? Why don’t I want him to see me in my joggers without makeup in the middle of the night? It’s not like I care what he thinks about me.
“It’s just me.”
A smile cracks Jimin’s face in half and I pretend to be nonchalant as he gets a look of me. “What are you doing here? Were you waiting up for me?” His eyes glitter with amusement.
“You wish.” I cross my arms defensively. “And no, I just couldn’t sleep.”
He looks at me for a long moment, seeming to contemplate something as his eyes narrow.
“Wanna go out then?” Jimin leans against the pillar, not seemingly tired even after his set.
“Go where?” I reply cynically. “We can’t just leave.”
“Says who? The school knew we’d be out late for our show so it’s not like the band will get in trouble. And you won’t either since they won’t know you’re gone.”
“Won’t you get fired? Or expelled if someone finds out? Couldn’t your label, like, stop paying you?”
He laughs lightly. “No. And they won’t find out unless we get caught.” He raises his eyebrows, cocking his head in silent invitation as his hand gestures to the doors behind him. “So let’s not get caught.”
“Fine.” I lick my lips, giving him a promising glare. “But if we get in trouble I’m blaming the entire thing on you.”
“Mmm yes.” He nods along with me. “You can say I tied your hands behind your back and forced your feet to walk out the doors and then pushed you down the hill and taped your mouth so you couldn’t yell for help. I’m sure they’ll believe that.”
I narrow my eyes and scowl as he mocks me, pushing him out of the way and zipping up my jacket. “You’re such a smart ass.”
He follows after me like a lost puppy. “So does this mean we are going?”
I don’t answer as I push open the doors, swallowing down my anxiety and stopping at the brisk air. “I think it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.” Jimin muses, coming up next to me as I weave through the courtyard.
“I love the rain.” I admit, looking at the smooth pavement as I feel Jimin’s eyes on me.
“So do I.”
I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my lips but I force it down, walking in silence down the steep driveway and hoping I don’t trip. I don’t need Jimin thinking I need or want his help or anything. Because I don’t.
Once we are down the hill Jimin nudges me lightly with his shoulder. I look over at him for a second but choose to ignore his childish action. But he does it again. This time making me stumble to the side a little.
“Yah.” He addresses me, jerking his head to the right side. “Let’s go this way.”
“But, isn’t the town this way?” I point left, stopping at the fork in the road.
He nods, but grabs my forearm and pulls me towards him. “But I know a secret place over here.” I scowl, yanking my arm away but following after as he begins to walk down the street.
“Is this the part where you put tape over my mouth and tie my hands behind my back?”
He looks at me over his shoulder with a smirk that could drop panties in five seconds. “Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t.” I say pointedly. “Thanks though.”
“Hey.” He puts his hands in the air. “You brought it up.”
The sound of music begins to dance in my ears and as we make a left out of the narrow path, the street opens up into a wide strip of vendors and people. At the late hour I’m sure it’s not as crowded as it was this afternoon, but a good amount of people are here, sipping sake from clear cups and holding Korean barbeque sticks in one hand. Being the only foreigner people look at me as Jimin begins to take me through the carts.
“Do you want anything?” He leans close to my ear so I can hear him, shivers going down my spine at the sound of his deep voice in such close proximity to me. I shake my head, absorbed in all the people and the general splendor of what’s around me.
My fingers twitch with the inkling to draw the street, lit with traditional Korean lanterns and stuffed with the scent of burning incense and barbeque. One of the Korean venders is handing out small cubes of roasted duck meat, and Jimin grabs a square for each of us.
The meat is tender and soft between my teeth, bursting with warm flavor as I sink down on it. Jimin makes an appreciative sound, swaying comically at the succulent taste before grinning at me. I shake my head, eyes darting from one thing to the next.
Jimin and I wander down the carts, taking samples and laughing together at some of the drunk people that pass us on the lane, staggering and muttering slur. My mind is turning a mile a minute, finding something new and inviting each way I look. This is no Eiffel Tower, or Seine, but it’s something beautiful nontheless. Something fun and inspirational like he’d promised.
“Are you having fun?” Jimin turns to me, my eyes lit up with enjoyment.
“I wish I could say no.” I let the smile raise the corners of my lips.
“Just wait until this weekend. If you like this, you’ll absolutely love where I’m going to take you next.” He nods excitedly.
I look at him for a moment, swallowing thickly before nodding along with him. I couldn’t fool myself into thinking I wasn’t excited for it. But I could tell myself it wasn’t because of Jimin, that it was because I just wanted to see more.
Which I did.
“Look at this one.” Jimin bumps my shoulder with his and points to a booth filled with beautiful watercolor art. An elderly woman sits behind an old easel, brush drifting over the canvas as she creates a breathtaking landscape of green and skies of blue.
Little figurines stand in front of us on a turnstile, no bigger than four inches in height, girls with intricately painted traditional dresses and long bangs that cover their eyes, and men in military uniforms with little flowers in the lapels of their jackets. I carefully pick up the one in front of me, the bright purple of her dress so vivid to my eyes. Little red blossoms dot along the bottom of the painted silk, perfectly straight bangs and there is something about her that interests me. She’s the only one in purple among the others in red or blue. Like I’m the only foreigner in a sea of Koreans.
“She’s pretty.” Jimin says, looking at me.
I nod with a faint smile, setting her back down among the others.
“Excuse me, Miss.” Jimin picks her up after I set her down, showing her to the elderly woman. “How much is this?”
A grin pulls at her wrinkled lips, as if looking at her creation has brought back fond memories of painting it. Her eyes pass from Jimin to me, lingering on my face for a moment. “It’s free.” She says with a kind voice, nodding at Jimin, who shakes his head.
“There must be some price on it.” Jimin looks at the bottom and the back of the small clay firgure. “I insist.”
“Take it for your girlfriend.” She waves her free hand, speckling with paint and age. “Some things are truly priceless.”
“Oh, I’m not his-” I rush, but Jimin interupts me with a deep bow.
“Thank you.” He says respectively as the woman turns back to her current masterpiece.
I open my mouth, but Jimin takes my elbow gently and guides me from the cart. “I’m not your girlfriend.” I say stubbornly as he stops us along the wall between vendors.
“I know.” He says, looking down at me with a smile. Placing his hand between us he presents the small girl to me. “For you.”
“Oh, why thank you.” I am careful not to touch him as I take the art from his hand into mine. “I appreciate it.”
Jimin hums lightly and I can feel his eyes roaming my face. I part my lips, letting my own eyes wander from his chest and up his neck to his face, a tear falling down his cheek as he stares. “Are you crying?” I asked, bewildered.
“It’s beginning to rain.” Jimin says, the intensity of the moment quickly giving way to a playful smile as the sky opens up. People scream and begin running as if the apocalypse is coming, fleeig in all directions as it goes from sprinkling to pouring in two seconds flat.
A rush of adrenaline courses through me, and I grab Jimin’s hand and pull him from our thin alley and into the street, running into the crowd and laughing at the absurdity of the scene around us. All it is is water, and despite this to be true it’s utter chaos.
I can hear Jimin’s laughter mixing with mine and he runs next to me, but doesn’t let go of my hand, our shoes beginning to splash in the forming of puddles as we make a mad dash back for the school.
The hill is already slick with water, and without Jimin’s hand I know it would’ve been a water slide that I wouldn’t have been able to get up. The bushes in the courtyard are dripping with rain water and the fountain is starting to overflow onto the cement. I pray that the people in the lit windows of the dorm won’t look out to find two crazy kids running for the entrance. I pray that we can get away with this.
Jimin’s hair is soaking wet, and sticking to his forehead in thin orange lines. We are both breathless and under the overhang in front of the front doors we stop to catch our breath. “That was…”
“Fun.” He finishes before I can say something sarcastic, chest heaving and the last traces of his stage makeup smearing below his eyes.
“You look like a racoon.” I deadpan, biting back a mocking grin.
“And you look like a drowned rat.”
I hit him, pouting to myself and crossing my arms, the figurine tighly enclosed in my fisted hand. Jimin laughs, reaching a hand over to mess with my hair. “At least you won’t have to take a shower.” He makes light of the situation.
“I still smell like a wet dog.”
He chuckles. “We should probably go in.”
I nod, trying my best to wipe off my feet so no traces are left before we scurry across the marble as quietly as possible and head for the stairs. Lights come on just as we open the door, Jimin cursing an dpushing my back up the first flight as someone calls.
“Who’s there? Come out!”
I try not to laugh at the exhileration, Jimin continuing to push me until we get up and close the hall door behind us. “I better hurry and go to my room before we’re caught.” I turn, but Jimin grabs my forearm and spins me around.
“Wait a sec.” He forces me against him and envelopes me in a wet embrace, somehow still warm despite being drenched in rainwater. “Thanks for coming with me. I had a lot of fun.”
“Yeah…” I try to dispel the awkwardness I’m feeling, pushing off his chest and smiling. “Me too.”
He laughs at me lightly, before shaking his head and turning down his respective hall. “See you tomorrow, Sienna.”
I don’t respond, fishing my key from my back pocket before running to my door and pushing in the key forecefully. Thank God it works, even though it got wet. And thank God we didn’t get caught, or I’m sure I’d be a lot worse off than just smelling like a wet dog.
Leaning against the back of my now closed door I take a deep breath, rolling the small figurine between my fingers. I can feel the warmth of his hand against mine although he’s gone, and something I can’t describe starts to hollow the pit of my stomach.
Kicking off my wet shoes, I go into the bathroom and grab a towel for my wet hair.
“At least you won’t have to take a shower.” His voice rings in my ear. I begin wonder why he risked getting in trouble like that. Maybe he was hoping to run into some fangirls or some paparazzi so that he could have more of a bad boy image. Perhaps after his stage he was just too jumpy and used me as an excuse to stay out.
Once my hair is dry and brushed I place the figurine on the shelf above my desk, the lavender of her traditional dress and black of her painted hair popping out in front of the white wall. I step back, something sharp poking my foot as I gasp. The pencil I’d thrown down earlier must’ve rolled on the floor, the sharp edge of the cracked lead facing upward.
Picking it up, utterly annoyed, I go to place it back on my desk but… My lips part as my eyes fall on my open sketchbook. The lines I’d been aimlessly drawing earlier had taken shape, I trace the outline of his jaw, the small crescent of his right eye, the outer shell of his ear, partially covered by soft tufts of his hair. I thought I’d just been sketching random lines that came to mind.
But the nearly finished product in front of me made it clear.
Portrait of Huguette Clark, full-length, at her easel. Tadeusz Styka (Polish, 1889-1954). Oil on masonite.
Among the paintings that sold from Christie’s auction of Clark estate treasures was a portrait of Huguette as a young woman at her easel, apparently painting a nude man with his back turned. The painting is by her teacher and friend Tadeusz Styka.