Alaric and Iris sat across from each other in the vast, dimly lit hall, the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the large windows. A faint scent of turpentine and aged canvas lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle traces of fresh paint.

Alaric leaned back in his chair, observing her with a quiet intensity. "So, are you ready for your class?" he asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

Iris straightened, her hands resting on her lap. "Always ready," she replied confidently.

A ghost of amusement flickered across his face as he tapped a long, slender finger against the wooden table. "Before we begin, we need to identify something first."

Iris frowned slightly. "Identify what?"

He tilted his head, his dark eyes studying her closely. "Are you learning just because you want to impress your professor, or are you truly interested?"

She blinked at his question, then shrugged. "Can't it be both?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "One always outweighs the other. What’s more important to you?"

Iris bit her lip, thinking for a moment. "For now, I just need to create an excellent piece, something that stands out, so I need to learn for that. But…" she hesitated before continuing, "it was also my dream to learn from you. To create paintings like yours."

Alaric’s smirk faded into something more unreadable. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "You already know where my paintings come from. They’re not just art—they're reality on canvas."

She nodded, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the surface of the table. "That’s exactly what I want to do. I want to create something similar"

His gaze sharpened. "You want to create something similar, but not the same?"

She hesitated again before offering a small, nervous laugh. "Okay, let me be honest… I admire your work madly."

Her voice lowered as she whispered under her breath, "Just like I admire you."

Alaric’s eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

She immediately straightened, shaking her head. "Nothing! I just meant I really love your paintings. They’re dark and intriguing. And when I found out they were based on real-life events, they became even more captivating. But… I don’t think I can create something like that."

"Why not?" he asked, his voice smooth yet slightly challenging.

She exhaled deeply, trying to gather her thoughts. "I mean, it looks like you do a lot of research. You find inspiration before creating your paintings. It’s a lot of work. I might not be able to do that—I’d probably get lost in researching the stories rather than painting them." She sighed. "I’d feel bad… extremely bad. And honestly, some of those stories would haunt me, like ghosts following me around."

Alaric chuckled softly. "And here I thought you were fearless."

She gave him a half-smile. "I can handle a lot, but looking at real crime scenes just to paint them? I don’t think so. Besides…" she smirked playfully, "I’m kind of lazy when it comes to finding inspiration."

Alaric leaned forward, his expression unreadable, but something dark glinted in his eyes. "You don’t have to find inspiration. I can find it for you."

"I don’t mind creating inspiration for you," he said, his voice laced with something almost sinister.

She frowned, tilting her head. "What do you mean?"

His lips curled into an enigmatic smirk. "I mean, dark paintings are just that—dark. I base mine on reality, but that doesn’t mean you have to. You can create them from your imagination."

She considered this, tapping a finger against her cheek. "But won’t that take away the realistic touch?"

Alaric tilted his head. "What if, instead of painting what we see, you paint what we feel?"

She frowned slightly. "I don’t understand."

He leaned in, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "You have a natural instinct for emotion in art. When you painted me, you didn’t just capture my face—you captured my essence. The way you played with the light in my eyes, the subtle shadows, the way my other half looked… It wasn’t just technique. It was how you imagined I felt while creating my own paintings."

She stared at him, realization dawning. "You’re saying I should paint emotions instead of just scenes?"

Alaric nodded. "Exactly. Emotions are far more powerful than mere imagery. A scene might disturb someone, but emotions… they linger. They haunt."

She took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. "That’s… actually a brilliant idea."

His smirk softened into something almost approving. "I know."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course, you do."

"I’ll guide you through it." His voice was smooth, reassuring. "We’ll start with something simple."

"Like what?" she asked, intrigued.

"Do you like reading?" he asked suddenly.

She blinked at the change in topic but nodded. "Hmm, I do."

"What’s your favorite genre?" His gaze was steady, curious.

She thought for a moment. "Romance, I guess. I just like the idea of love," she admitted with a small shrug.

Alaric’s lips curved slightly. "That’s it, then. You can create paintings on that—the feel of love."

"Like how you paint thrill and fear?" she asked.

"Exactly. You start with what you feel deeply."

She hesitated, biting her lip. "But those won’t be dark. I want to create dark ones."

Alaric leaned in, his voice dropping slightly. "Then why not try dark Romantic paintings?"

She tilted her head. "Dark yet  Romantic?"

"Do you know what that means?" he asked.

She shook her head.

His smirk deepened. "Love in a darker shade,  dark yet romantic, It’s the kind of art that takes love and twists it. It’s passion laced with obsession, beauty shadowed by danger. It’s the kind of love that consumes, that haunts, that lingers even when it shouldn’t. It’s a kiss with blood on the lips, a touch that burns, devotion that borders on destruction."

A shiver ran down her spine. "That sounds intense."

"Because it is," he murmured, his eyes glinting. "Love, when pushed to its extremes, is just as terrifying as fear. If you want to paint darkness, start there."

Alaric leaned in, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

"Dark Romanticism isn’t just about painting shadows and sorrow—it’s about capturing love at its most haunting. It’s the kind of beauty that aches, the kind of love that lingers even when it shouldn’t."

She  listened, her fingers lightly gripping the brush.

"Think of a love so intense it borders on obsession," he continued, his gaze fixed on her. "A touch that stains, a gaze that traps. Lovers who reach for each other but are forever separated by fate—or by something darker."

She swallowed. "Like a tragedy?"

Alaric smirked. "More than that. It's a love that refuses to die, even when it should."

He gestured toward the blank canvas. "Imagine this—two lovers. Their hands nearly touching, but something unseen pulls them apart. Maybe time. Maybe death. Or maybe it’s their own obsession that keeps them bound, yet never together."

Ahe could almost see it forming in her mind.

"Colors matter," Alaric went on. "Deep crimson for passion, navy for sorrow, ghostly whites for fading memories. And shadows, always shadows, creeping in like whispers of doubt, of longing. Because love isn’t just light, Iris—it has a darkness of its own."

She exhaled, feeling the weight of his words.

"And what if I want something... darker?" she asked, surprising even herself.

Alaric’s smirk deepened. "Then you’re finally starting to understand."

"Come with me " he said getting up .

" where ?" She asked .

" let me show you a dark yet romantic painting " he said.

Alaric turned on the lights, illuminating the forgotten room. It was different from the space he used now—older, untouched, yet filled with the weight of unfinished stories. The paintings here weren’t like his current works, but they weren’t any less haunting. Each one was a reflection of something raw, something deeply human.

The eyes—every figure in the room had eyes that held a story, emotions trapped in pigment and canvas. Fear. Longing. Despair. Some figures reached for something unseen, others seemed consumed by a force beyond themselves.

She took a slow step forward, her breath hitching slightly.

"These feel... personal," she murmured, trailing her fingers over the edge of a nearby painting.

Alaric smirked. "That’s because they are. I think I started right here."

"I’d love to see more," she said, intrigued.

Without another word, he walked over to a wall-sized storage unit, flipping through canvases that towered over them. Each one he moved revealed another glimpse of his past—of faces twisted in expressions that were both beautiful and terrifying. Finally, he pulled one out.

It was large, its presence overwhelming as he placed it on the stand. A man and a woman, frozen in time, their story unfolding in a single moment.

They looked young, in their twenties, faces turned toward each other with a subtle, knowing smile. But what caught her attention first wasn’t their expressions—it was the red string.

The girl's wrists were bound, delicate hands stretched forward as if surrendering willingly. The red string wound tightly around her skin, leading up to the man’s fingers. He held the end of it, not forcefully, but with an undeniable sense of ownership. It wasn’t just restraint—it was possession. And yet, she was smiling. Not forced. Not pained. But accepting.

"This," Alaric said, "is what we call dark yet  romantic."

He turned to her, eyes gleaming. "Look at her expression. She’s bound to him, but she isn’t trying to escape. It’s love, but with something deeper—something consuming. This is what happens when love stops being soft and turns into something unbreakable."

She stared, analyzing every inch of the painting.

"She’s happy," she murmured, "even though she’s tied. It’s like she chose to be."

"Exactly. Love isn’t always about freedom, Aris. Sometimes, it’s about being willing to be owned. Love that binds you, not because it has to, but because you want it to. A love so intense that it controls you—and you’re more than happy to surrender to it."

A shiver ran through her, not out of fear, but something else. Something undeniably thrilling.

But something was missing.

She stepped back, eyes scanning the room until she spotted a can of red paint sitting beside the door.

"Just wait," she said suddenly.

Before Alaric could ask, she dipped her fingers into the paint and walked straight up to the canvas.

"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping forward, his brows furrowing.

She didn’t reply. She simply pressed her red-painted fingers to the knot of the string, smearing the paint into a shape. A heart.

Alaric stopped.

Iris turned back, her expression unreadable. "Now, this," she said softly, "is dark yet  romantic."

He stepped closer, tilting his head.

"Explain."

Her voice was steady as she pointed at the heart.

" this isn’t just about control—it’s about mutual destruction. If she loves him enough to surrender, then he should love her enough to make her surrender worth it. If she’s bound by love, he should love her enough to bind himself, too."

She traced the heart again, her red-stained fingers shaking slightly.

"This isn’t just a girl being controlled, Alaric. This is a girl being cherished in her control. If he binds her, then he, too, should be bound by love. Not force. Not manipulation. But something even stronger. A dark romantic doesn’t just take—he gives, too. This is what I will call love a dark yet romantic"

Silence stretched between them.

Alaric exhaled slowly, his lips curling into a smirk.

"You’re not as innocent as you pretend to be, Aris."

She met his gaze, unflinching. "Maybe I just understand more than you thought."

"Maybe a dark yet romantic is a form of dark romance , where it wasn’t just about possession. Maybe it was about choosing to be possessed." Aris  said .

" I guess you are right " he said.

"So, are you ready to create such art—dark, yet romantic?" he asked, his voice laced with intrigue.

She met his gaze, something shifting in her eyes. "I think I’m more than ready," she said, her lips curling into a confident smile.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Good.  until I bring inspiration for you, you should start from here,” he said, gesturing toward the painting, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the canvas.

"Definitely " she said admiring the art piece in front of her .

The room felt smaller, warmer, heavier. Alaric looked at the heart again, his mind turning over thoughts he hadn’t considered before.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"I'll check," Alaric said, already pushing himself up from his seat.

Iris nodded, watching him leave.

But the ringing didn’t stop. Instead, it grew more persistent—shrill, almost impatient.

"Coming," Alaric called out, his brows furrowing as he strode toward the door.

The ringing continued.

"I said, I’m coming!" His voice was sharper now, irritation creeping in.

But whoever was outside didn’t listen. The doorbell kept blaring, rapid and relentless, as if someone was slamming their finger against it without pause.

Alaric yanked the door open, ready to lash out at whoever was being so damn insistent—

Only to find no one there.

His gaze flickered down, and his jaw tensed. A strip of tape had been pressed onto the doorbell, keeping it ringing nonstop.

"What the hell?" He ripped it off, silencing the maddening sound.

Shaking his head, he turned to go back inside—

Then he saw it.

An envelope.

It was propped against the doorframe, stark white against the dark wood. There was no name on it. No sign of who had left it.

He picked it up , he tore it open.

And then he stilled.

Inside were photographs.

His grip tightened as he flipped through them,

They were pictures of the room—the room he had painted in and then burned to ash at the paint shop place. His artwork, the was captured mid-destruction. The flames licked at the canvas, devouring it, yet the painting was still visible in the blaze.

Someone had been there.

Someone had watched.

His fingers trembled slightly as his eyes caught something on the back of one of the pictures. Ink. A message.

He flipped it over.

The words, scrawled in bold black ink

It’s your doing, isn’t it?

A slow exhale left his lips. His fingers curled around the photograph.

Someone knew.

Author note : Even though I don’t write smut, my mind is so double-minded when they were talking about control and all. All I could think was—are they talking about BDSM? 🥲😅😅 lol.