With the Frenchwoman leaving, the Artist placed her art materials on her table and jumped off her chair, landing on her bed. She laid on her bed and stretched like a cat – even meowed like a cat as well. With a childish smile adorning her face, she happily turned her attention to the Writer. “So! What brings you here in my room?”

“Who was that?” asked the Writer, brows knitted and arms still crossed.

“That? Oh! You mean Sabine? One of my French clients which now claims to be a part of my friends,” answered the Artist casually. “Asked for a nude portrait.”

The Writer, arms still crossed, nodded. “Cliché. ‘Draw me like one of your French girls’ cliché.” She uncrossed her arms, brows easing back to normal. “Should I call you Jack Dawson?”

The Artist laughed at the reference. “Please, as if Sabine’s a good ‘Rose DeWitt Bukater’. And me as Jack? Jack died from hypothermia, so no thank you. I prefer my character to be alive until the last scenes or heroically died in battle,” she explained with a wide grin. “Anyway, what can I help you with?”

With a nod, the Writer approached the Artist, face still emotionless as ever. “I need a favor.” She then stood by the edge of the Artist’s bed.

“Sure. But if it’s art-related, it might take some time.” The Artist gestured her right hand towards the door where the blonde exited. “Still busy at the moment.”

The Writer felt a slight twinge in her chest when the Artist said she was busy. But she shrugged it off, putting up her stoic demeanor. “Art related but important.” Her voice was devoid of expression. “I need to know how a tattoo artist would react to a special tattoo request,” she drawled, raking her loose long hair with her right hand. “Let’s say, you’re the tattoo artist.”

The Artist watched her flatmate’s actions and listened to her voice. “Depends? What kind of tattoo request? I can draw the design if you want,” she asked, curious about her request.

“Just the usual black quill with the end transforming to sheets of paper.” The Writer waited for the Artist’s reply patiently.

Thinking of the suggested design, the Artist agreed to what the Writer wanted. “I see. It’s not cliché though. Cliché would be the ravens instead of paper.” She smiled sunnily. “So where do you want this to be placed? Arm? Leg? Heart?” she snickered, teasing her flatmate.

Taking a deep breath, the Writer climbed on the Artist’s bed and – which caught the Artist off guard – straddled her flatmate’s waist. She could feel the Artist tensed up and she looked at her flatmate’s shocked expression intensely.

The Writer drank the image of a stunned Artist and burned it within her memory. Setting the exhilarating sight aside, she focused her attention with the topic on the table. She slowly pulled up her shirt up to under her gifted chest, revealing a taut stomach with slightly visible abs. “Here…” she said breathlessly.

The Artist gawked. It was rude, yes, but she couldn’t help but stare at the fit body of the Writer. The Writer whom she never saw working out. ‘Hello Athena…’

Placing her left arm under her breasts, the Writer gently pushed her arm upward, raising her chests slightly. Such daring task revealed the skin that her well-endowed chest hid.

The Artist’s eyes went wide and stared at the bare midriff of the Writer. She stared openly for a second and twisted into a sexy smirk. Her face was flushed as she openly admired the sight before her. It was like finding a shiny Pokémon.

“Under my breasts,” the Writer whispered seductively.

“Holy mother of Apollo…” was all the Artist said before everything went dark.

“That went… well.” The Writer whispered, surprised at her flatmate’s reaction. The sight beneath her was burned to her memory and she mentally filed it away for reference. With a sigh, she pulled her shirt down and climbed off the Artist, whispering her thanks before leaving her to rest.

Outside, Sabine was playing with her mobile phone when the Writer approached her. “Oui?”

“She decided to call it a day. A sudden dizzy spell. You should come back when she’s feeling better,” the Writer said coldly, pointing at the door. “You can leave.” she then went straight to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.

When the Writer was on her way back to her flatmate’s room, she didn’t find the blonde anywhere. She was glad that the Frenchwoman left without any qualms and went straight back to the Artist’s room.

The Artist was still unconscious on her bed when the Writer came back. A sigh escaped her lips and she decided to wake up the fainted Artist by patting her arm a few times.

When the Artist stirred awake, she was greeted by the pokerface expression of the Writer. She could smell the scent of the Writer, assuming it was a cologne, and greeted the woman with a suave ‘hello’.

“Hello yourself.” The Writer handed glass of water to her flatmate. “Drink this.”

Graciously accepting the glass, the Artist drank the contents down to the last drop. After emptying the glass. She wiped her wet lips with the back of her palm and asked what happened.

“You fainted.” The Writer wiped the wet spot on the left corner of the Artist’s lips which earned her a smile from the bundle of sunshine and daffodils. “I’m sorry for what I did. I kind of needed some natural reaction of a newbie tattoo Artist when a customer comes and requests for a tattoo on an intimate place. A project request,” she explained, voice full of remorse.

The Artist nodded, understanding what the Writer said. “Did you get what you need?” she inquired curiously.

“Yes.”

“Good! Glad I could help!” the Artist smiled brightly.

The Writer was used to the Artist’s optimism and was relieved that her flatmate wasn’t mad at what she did. “I also told that blonde to leave. You should rest, considering you’ve been up since yesterday.” She took the glass from the Artist.

“But I need to cook dinner.”

“You need to rest. I’ll coo—“

Even before the Writer could finish what she was about to say, the Artist stood up and flexed her arms, showing her non-existent toned muscles. “I’m in tip-top shape! I’ll cook us dinner,” she announced, bouncing off her bed and went straight to the kitchen.

Alone in the Artist’s room, the Writer was about to leave as well when she noticed a familiar book on top of the clean table. Curious, she went towards the table and checked the book – a slightly worn sketch book. The same sketch book she gave to the Artist. She was about to open the sketch book but the Artist called for her, asking her immediate assistance.

“Next time…” she whispered, leaving the worn sketchbook to aid the cooking Artist.