#Fit; a person with severe separation anxiety seeing one of the people he cares about most leaving like [HEART SHATTERING] | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wincore · 4 years

Text

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

summary: there are some things that come with dedicating your life to fashion: a taste for finer fabrics, a splash of love for art, and an appreciation of the human body. none of these are supposed to include the hottest model you have ever laid eyes on, or the fact that you completely, utterly hate his guts.

genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, light smut, comedy-ish

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

a/n: woohooooooo she’s finally here!!!! i cant believe this!! everything aside, i do not have first hand experience working in the fashion industry so please do take this with a grain of salt. i’m also going to pass out. good night <3

A list of things you appreciate: colours, satin, comfort.

A list of things you do not appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

The hum of the car engine has little effect on you; you travel like this almost every day. Tall buildings, scorching pavement, the blare of traffic—it’s Seoul, after all. You sigh, more of a short expression of annoyance, scrolling down with your thumb and back up again. Since when did he get permission to post pictures from pre-fittings? And one of your works, no less.

His feed is so messy. You click your tongue. For a model, that is.

You open the story again and consider messaging him. It’s your cherry red coat, or rather the collar of it, golden thread sewn in swirls of patterns, and a sheer floral shirt extending all the way up to cover Jaehyun’s neck. You frown. It’s meant for showcase, not teasers. Even if the picture extends just from the curve of his shoulder to his parted lips, you can’t stand the sight of it on him. It’s not bias, you try to tell yourself. This is business. You tap your fingertips rapidly against the back of your phone. This is obviously business.

Seoul Fashion Week is the height of your anxiety, which means you have little regard for anything else decorated around you. With a new frenzy arising in every minute of your day—you don’t have time to think, a sense of madness in the way you keep busy. Your Elixir collection is more than what you had hoped for it to be, a twinge of satisfaction sitting at the pit of your stomach. It nicely puts together everything rich and extravagant, humanity’s first love—everything you despise really, so Jaehyun wasn’t a bad choice for a model.

You backspace on your text. Is this rude? Should you care if you’re being rude? How unprofessional, you imagine his voice saying. It wouldn’t be the first unprofessional thing you’d done.

The final text reads ‘Glad you’re enjoying my designs, but they were not meant to be publicly displayed before the official show, as common sense predicts.’

No, of course you’re not trying to be snarky. It’s perfectly formal. All that time writing professional complaint letters to companies for ripping off your designs paid off, you suppose.

You exit the Uber, thanking the driver quickly before you rush into the building, checking the time on your watch. It’s sunny, and hotter than you anticipated. You can only hope it’s cooler tomorrow so the heat doesn’t suffocate your models.

The company building is another madness in its own. Joohyun greets you with a quick smile, a bunch of fabrics being handed to her before she can make any conversation with you, and the rest of the workers bow in greeting before getting back to their own individual windstorms. You step over a few boxes on the grounds, beelining to your workspace so you can settle down your bag.

You’re team leader, you tell yourself, a short breath tumbling out of your mouth. Even so, you don’t do very well under several pairs of eyes on you at once. Some part of you is still the timid fashion designer, packing your entire identity into a small sketchbook.

The sunlight is blaring out of control in the place—it’s meant to be spacious and sunlit, of course, but the heat makes you adjust your collar before you can move forward. The bustle of the style and design team along with the production team in the same place is akin to a nightmare, and you trace your steps quickly.

“Guys,” you begin, fidgeting with the leather strap of your watch as you continue, “Firstly, good job.”

There’s a bunch of short cheers and clapping to interrupt before you can continue.

“As for tomorrow…stylists, I need you to touch up the collars in all the Western-style coats. The detailing needs to be kept clean and sharp. I want the audience to be able to see it.”

You pause, your tone still neutral. “And let’s not start again on the lacing. We had that discussion yesterday.”

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation.

“Production team…I don’t think I can say much to you without Doyoung getting on my case.”

There’s collective laughter and you crack a smile. With a few more rapid words, you dismiss yourself, walking over to your colleagues to help them out. You’re team leader, the one with the final say in all the designs, but you can’t possibly imagine completing it without Joohyun or the others.

“Good pep talk there, (name),” Joohyun says, walking over to you as her hands sharp and steady as they go through the clothes rack.

“They think I’m an asshole,” you say, breathing out. You know your words are too direct. Drunk co-workers on a Friday night are not the best place to discover facts about yourself. Sometimes even you think you sound bossy. You check the key parts for each item, knowing you’ll be doing this once again before the show.

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere without direction,” Joohyun responds, laughing as if you’d said something silly. “We’re all glad you’re here, (name).”

Words like these are so easing for a mess like you, not that you’d admit it. Joohyun has always been a sort of mother figure to you after you entered this company, followed by Doyoung. A good few years senior to you, she started out as a model before she moved on to designing.

It’s her last year working in this place. But of course, it’s a given when she’s starting her own label (mom clothes and children’s apparel, she’d called her clothing line, rolling her eyes) and one of the most well-known names in South Korean fashion not having her own label is sacrilege (according to your colleagues anyway). She’d said to contact her when you start your own family, and maybe she’ll send a congratulations package for both you and your baby. You’d laughed. Out of all the insults you could ever receive, that was perhaps the loveliest one.

Ridiculousness aside, you’ll miss the comfort of her presence. You were still in school when your designs led you to a showcase in New York Fashion Week, your sponsor more than generous. You stepped into it too soon, too eager. It was breath-taking and awful all at once—and the first time you saw a world outside of your own. It was overwhelming. There are few people in this new world as kind as Joohyun.

The sound of your notification snaps you out of your thoughts. You swear you kept it on vibrate, a little irked at having to search for your phone when your hands are full. The notification itself brings on a stronger wave of vexation.

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

The ‘for you’ adds an unnecessary effect, you think as you hold back a scowl. And what does ‘could’ mean? A miscommunication with the sales team isn’t even on the list of things you need to worry about. Honestly, you don’t have time to fight him, quickly typing out a ‘whatever. it’s okay’ before looking back up.

You jump, the look on Joohyun’s face a little suspicious for what might come out of her mouth.

“It’s not a crime to text people.” She shrugs, shuffling through the rack one more time to take the clothes for transportation.

You’re quick to jump to your defence. “I have nothing to do with him.”

Joohyun looks at you, amused. “He’s not a bad person, you know? How long are you going to keep hating him for one thing he did?”

“It’s not one thing,” you groan, averting your gaze to the clothes so as to help her. “I just- he’s so- so- oh come on. You know how I feel about him.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have any reason to. Everyone’s different from what they appear to be. Especially in this line of work.” Joohyun balances the clothes you give her across her forearms.

“So he’s fake. I hate that even more.” You sigh, pulling out the blue silk overcoat, the colour matching Joohyun’s work dress.

“You mean unreal? Models tend to be that way—don’t be so harsh on him, honey.”

You simply shake your head, words entering one ear and out the other. Joohyun presses her lips into a line but lets it go soon enough. She knows you’re capable enough to separate professional from personal and that should be enough. You’re not keeping a tab on something as warming as spite.

You can’t believe you’d ever been within five feet of him without turning your nose. You can’t believe you’d smiled at his jokes once, even if it was just that one night. He was the godsent Prince Charming, just perhaps not yours. Paris surely had a distressing effect on you that year.

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

You walk back to your desk to take a seat and scavenge through your belongings, most of the people already outside. Fashion Week, which once upon a time was a faraway dream, now is part of life—exciting and exhausting. It’s almost always over in a flash, your love for it whisked in peaks of bittersweet. (“You work your ass off for six months and it’s, what, fifteen minutes long?” your mother had asked after you’d brought her to one of the shows.)

This line of work is a nightmare without mental preparation. You have a degree, you have experience and yet it doesn’t feel enough, confidence easier to drain in a person than blood. And you’re not very fond of pale cheeks.

It came to asking yourself if you really have it in you for a few months—a test of sorts everyone puts themselves through at least once in their lives. At that time, your favourite professor, a bald man nearing his retirement years with the wrinkliest face you’d ever seen, had asked you just one question.

Do you love it?

Of course you fucking do.

You couldn’t say that to his face, sure, but you know he saw it in you—either the effort you put out every day of the semester or the way your hands moved across fabric like a machine, your designs made with the persistence of nature. Your final year project landed you an internship at one of the largest clothing brands in Seoul and your internship landed you a job at the same. Your job, well, lead you to Jaehyun, among many other things.

You scowl at the image of his face that appears when you close your eyes, massaging your forehead—it’s hard to not see it everywhere already, from Cosmopolitan to Vogue.

While you were biting your nails in New York, Jaehyun had flown out to Paris with Saint Laurent, one of the younger male models to show his face for the first time. He’d taken the whole place by storm, you had heard from a friend. To say half the world had fallen in love—either with his dimples or his confident walk—would be an understatement. A privilege, to be gold-plated in a mercenary world.

You’d briefly made eye contact at the airport the first time you saw him, a year later, when you were arriving in Incheon and he was leaving it. It was London, that time. For him, Milan. As much as you couldn’t believe living a fashion student’s dream, Jaehyun’s face was truly, unironically much more unrealistic. Your classmates’ gabs and gossip in sewing class had suddenly made sense. You taught yourself to not be swayed by faces, even if they look like they’re stitched together by Aphrodite and Apollo with their bare hands—friendly advice from seniors at the orientation night ‘party’.

You’d met him formally in Paris, after you’d graduated from fashion school. He was certainly the most beautiful face in the room—and you weren’t the only one aware of it. The entire night you’d been starting conversations you couldn’t relate to, till he came along with his charming dimples and a faux connect. You were naive, and a little tipsy. The attraction was obvious, and it had been you by the bathroom pulling him in for a drunk kiss till he’d snapped out of the daze—as if it were some joke you’d been playing. He’d apologized before leaving, like it wasn’t a big deal, with silken lips parted in a gesture of remorse and a short, firm bow. It didn’t settle very well alongside the merlot in your gut.

You. You’re a big deal.

You were alone in a room full of painted faces and he sat atop the throne they worshipped. Why had you expected any more from him—in the understanding nods or the few kind words that escaped his lips? You felt stupid. He made you feel like smiling for the first time that night and you hated him for it—you’re sure he doesn’t care either way. Or maybe he does, with the wonderfully irked responses he graces you with.

Jaehyun made something out of himself in these nine years, just as you have. Runway supermodel to the face of South Korean men in fashion to an entrepreneur, he might as well have a documentary on him—and he would if he didn’t evade paparazzi and reporters like his life depended on it. Enigmatic, the articles wrote. You scoffed. Conceited, more like. After the initial years, he decided to settle in New York, frequently flying to Seoul and other fashion capitals for business and contractual events. Some of those occasionally include your shows.

Having Jaehyun gets more attention but it’s not like you’re a new, doe-eyed kid. Your works have been featured for popstars and foreign celebrities, and you’ve been invited to several interviews with big magazines. You’ve gone global (albeit under the brand’s name) and you’ve been to places you’d only seen pictures of in the very same magazines you looked up to. They can describe your work as unique all they want—and you don’t mean to sound fucking pretentious—but your job is nothing more than an expression of the self. It’s a part of you; you first started sewing patches onto things simply because your closet lacked colour. And eventually, you found yourself searching for more—colours, fabrics, dreams. You’re devoted to your job because you love it, you want to do it. You’re allowed to be a little arrogant about it.

If only trying desperately to be arrogant did something about your insecurities.

You hope your works redefine themes, your need to stand out contrasting with your fear of it. Eye-catching is always your forte; this time it’s fairy tales and royalty in a mix of East meets West.

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

The press is here, you take note. Photographers. Models. Students. Vloggers. It’s a burst of colours down there.

You hate running late, rushing down the stairs to the plaza through the crowds of people. Some recognize you, as they make their way to you but you end up walking a little faster to minimize your presence. You curse yourself for wearing the jacket. It goes nicely with the rest of your outfit and March isn’t supposed to be this hot. You wipe the sweat from your hairline, hoping the makeup is waterproof like it said.

You consider stopping at the café for a fix of coffee but stop when you notice Joohyun holding a bunch of cups by the venue. She doesn’t look too happy about the sun, or the burdening errand of fetching coffee. You adjust her little red beret at her request, smiling at her annoyance but trying your best to keep it hidden. You don’t want to get cussed out by Joohyun.

“Someone tell Doyoung to get his coffee,” Joohyun complains. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” you say, sipping your coffee. The taste fills your senses with a pleasant dose of energy and you hum out a satisfied note. “Why are there so many students out here? Influencers? Did we sponsor this many kids?”

Joohyun shakes her head. “Jaehyun just got here.”

You suppress an eye-roll. “Wonder why he still comes back for Seoul when he’s booked full for New York.”

“It’s his hometown.” Joohyun shrugs. ��I’d come back too. Even if I’m paid more out there.”

You finish your coffee and duck into the fitting room, much to Joohyun’s displeasure as she’s left alone again. Doyoung’s in for an earful, you chuckle thinking about it.

It would look like a hell of a mess to anyone not accustomed to this. Everyone is a flurry by themselves alone but if you mix them with the eclectic crowd you find at a Seoul Fashion Week backstage, it’s more of a disaster. A colorful one, at the very least.

New York was worse. You were too young, in a world that was too big. It’s a miracle you even received an opportunity from so big a name. But, you suppose, it hardly matters now.

You no longer live in a world where Seoul is far from Paris. Fashion and art are things unmarked by place of origin.

It’s easy to spot Jaehyun in a corner, two people adjusting his coat for better fitting at the waist. His makeup’s done, you notice as you get closer. Good, you think. If any makeup were to get on the fabric, you’d go feral (although you do have full confidence in the makeup artists here and their choice of product).

“Jaehyun,” you greet. Your co-workers give each other a look before excusing themselves. You raise an eyebrow, too late to stop them. They didn’t finish the looping of the belt properly, you take notice. You wrinkle your nose. Sloppy.

“(name).” He responds with an equal lack of amusement.

You pull the belt at his waist, Jaehyun stiffening at the contact.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

Jaehyun presses his lips together and lets you complete the altercations. The chiffon shirt allows you to see the hazed definition of his core, a rather flustering thing to be exposed to for anyone with eyes. When you look up in a moment’s mistake, you’re reminded of why his face is everywhere. Flawless, almost. You hate it. Averting your eyes, you fix the collar so the pattern stands out more. You can feel his eyes over your outstretched hand all the way to your face, subtle as ever. If Jaehyun thinks you’re bothered by it, he’s an idiot for believing so.

You take a step back to analyse the coat. The golden threads are flawlessly detailed, spiraling in patterns of different flowers and vines around the collar, gradually getting larger as they twine at the base of the neck. They meet the polished rhinestone buttons a little lower. You almost smile. You’d sewn each thread and each button in yourself the first time. It hardly looks the same now.

Bright red is an eyesore if you look at it longer than five minutes, you realize. The frown that’s been itching to show up finally does. Suddenly, you’re glad Jaehyun is modelling this piece. You shake your head and look back at his face, from his deep-set brown eyes to his full, tinted lips before pausing. The little Swarovski pearls line strands of his hair in a starry display, perfect in every angle of it. It’s easy to appreciate the human beauty when you see his face, and even if you claim your vehement dislike for him, you’re not a liar nor an idiot.

How infuriating it is, to let things be. Bad blood can only dry to an ugly, unusable brown.

You narrow your eyes at the thinning layer of glitter on his peach-blushed cheeks. He doesn’t exactly need much more of it but the unevenness bothers you.

“Your makeup needs retouching,” you say, frowning. “Did you touch your face? I thought you were a more...professional model than this, Jaehyun.”

“You walked in,” he replies, casually. “I was distracted.”

You feel your cheeks colour. “That’s- that’s not a reason.”

He smiles politely. “I suppose I’ll leave you then. You must have other work to do.”

You hold back a biting remark. His playfulness doesn’t sit well with you; he’s polite just enough to annoy you and straightforward just enough to make you want to throw something at him. He could’ve directly told you to fuck off maybe—but oh no, it’s Jung Yoonoh, seamless and radiant, with only the sweetest collection of words on his tongue. You think of the first time you met, something warm in the corner of your heart. You’d mistaken it, of course.

He didn’t care for you, or any of the people trailing after him and his silver flute, or the rest of the shallow carcass of a world so undeniably obsessed with him. It didn’t hit you till he’d left you hanging, mangled memories of something close to hurt. You’re glad you didn’t kiss him. You wouldn’t be able to get over the embarrassment, the blow to your pride had it escalated any further.

And of course, the one thing he did to make you absolutely certain of his distaste—was simply choose another designer’s work over yours when given a choice. It seems silly, unprofessional even, but the lack of response to your Fall/Winter ready-to-wear collection had been embarrassingly low, someone else’s designs sold out at an equally awful rate. You—your insecurities—wanted to blame your own failings—maybe it was the lining of the coats, or the colours maybe— the fabric? Perhaps, you hadn’t focused on comfort all too well. But it was clear, a word from Jung Yoonoh could change the minds of a fashion-forward youth as easily as his face and physique scored contracts with the biggest brands and labels. And it was clear he didn’t like you very much.

You walk over to the other models, eyes scanning down to the T. You glance over one of Joohyun’s designs, a modern men’s hanbok. The blood red paired with yellow is certainly easing on the eyes, though the shades vary from top to bottom, like a sunset. The dark grey chunky shoes fitted under dark tights complete the entire future oriental look you suppose she was going for. She’s only showcasing two of her designs this year and they’re just before the centrepiece. You shake your head, clutching the fabric of your jacket sleeve. You hate seeing other designs before a showcase, even if they’re a friend’s.

You turn your head to make eye contact with Jaehyun across the room. It takes a few seconds but you snap your head in another direction to break the spell.

How strange. You haven’t had nearly enough coffee to feel jittery under his gaze.

You’re forced to take a breather away from this jungle of liveliness.

The amount of people outside the venue gives you yet another headache. Excited college students and fashion vloggers stand outside expectantly, and you give a short bow and polite ‘hello’ to anyone who approaches. You desperately want to be left alone. Even if it’s for a few seconds.

You walk quickly, your feet soundless against the floor. Your mask performs considerably (and surprisingly) well in hiding you. You consider visiting the Design Market to enjoy a seat alone and charge your phone before it’s show time.

Open spaces. You need open spaces. Suddenly, the DDP seems to be suffocating you despite its tremendous size.

“Hey!” You’re greeted with a sudden force to your right side, an arm wrapping around you. You look up to see Johnny, a wide grin on his face and you let yourself mirror it, shaking your head.

“Big day,” he says. “Want me to take some pictures? I’ve got some time between shows—lovely outfit, as usual.”

It’s strange how Johnny’s the photographer and not the model—you’ve heard he receives a lot of requests to get on the other side of the camera though he always refuses. He doesn’t visit Seoul as often, but he has much to do in uplifting the mood with his strangely effective sense of humour. The coffee-coloured shirt he’s wearing goes well with the plaid grey coat, reminiscent of Fendi’s Spring collection, and sometimes you wonder whether a job as a fashion photographer ever had much to do with his style. Johnny has always been effortlessly impressive.

You politely decline, your mind still focused on the smooth running of things. Nothing’s ever on time when it comes to Fashion Weeks—yes, it’s called fashionably late but it just makes you annoyed. You consider ducking back to your venue, adding some final final touches and any more last-minute altercations. Years have passed and you’re still not used to it, fingers itching to do something about everything. You’re grateful the company gives you your creative space but it only makes you wonder just how far the limits are.

Johnny accompanies you to the charging station till he’s distracted by some of the children in the latest Fendi kidswear and you make a mental note to never bring your kids to Fashion Week, if you ever choose to have them.

You breathe in and out for a few moments, feeling lightheaded before the sense of reality touches on you. People walk in and out of the stores lining the pathways, a soft buzz of conversation in the air as your eyes follow their movement. You wonder if you’ll have your own stores opened in plazas like this—here, in Seoul, and on brightly lit streets of the world outside. After all, colourful dreams are the hardest to get rid of. You sit quietly till you get a text from Doyoung asking you to get your ass over there quickly with several exclamation marks. You smile to yourself. Joohyun might have had a sour effect on him.

You arrive back at the venue, trying to tear your eyes away from anything that might want to make you fix it. You avoid Jaehyun’s eyes even more so, like you’ll jinx something right before it’s showtime.

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

The show finally starts. And it’s over. Twenty-two minutes, this time.

That’s the way it goes. You hold your breath till you’re sure it’s safe to let go, blind to everything that goes on in between. Sometimes it’s underwhelming, sometimes you can’t give a fuck when you love doing this anyway.

You breathe a sigh of joy when everyone gathers backstage, Johnny making all the models pose together for one giant group photo. It’s like a ritual for him, always finding time for a backstage picture with the models goofing off.

Jaehyun looks at you instead of the camera, a nervous shiver running through you. His gaze is not something of inconsequence, eyes piercing into you with words hanging in the air that you don’t care enough about. You think he sends you a smile, cockier than you’d like. Despite your efforts, you have to look away.

Now, what should your dear Fall collection look like? You exit by yourself, relief humming through your veins when you think of getting back to your apartment, papers to be sketched on in your hands, soft fabric to be sewn on your table. Maybe they’ll display your works in the front rows of the stores, maybe you’ll even have displays outside of Seoul. You’re not a student anymore and your job has taken you enough places.

Even so, Paris and Milan sneak into your dreams often. You used to dream of them so much that it was hard to consider them reality—finding yourself in those streets, in between all those beautiful picture-book monuments.

You prefer Seoul, you decide after conscious thinking. You don’t have to worry about the world outside.

Afterparties are not your thing.

You somehow still find yourself in them, hoping to catch a drunk video of Doyoung for blackmail or make eye contact with an attractive stranger only to stop at exchanging numbers because you never find the time.

It’s a social event. You’re supposed to be doing social things. It’s exhausting.

The last person you expect to bump into is Jaehyun, drinks in hand as he looks down at you with a greeting of surprise on his tongue. He’s wearing a simple dark Oxford button-down, two buttons at his chest undone, and tucked neatly into his pants. His hair looks untouched since afternoon, parted in messy waves, minus the pearls. The music changes to something with slower beats as you stare at each other for a few moments.

“What are you doing here?” You raise an eyebrow. There are other afterparties he could be attending. Big ones.

Jaehyun tilts his head, cracking his neck before smiling. “Charming, as always. I’m here because I want to be here, obviously. So does everyone, I’m sure.”

“Fucking narcissist,” you mutter to yourself. You think Jaehyun might have heard you because you get a dirty look thrown your way, masked with the signature apathy across his relaxed lips.

“That’s a little rich from you,” he mumbles.

The muscle by his mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything more. This is probably the most emotion he shows, you think. Wouldn’t his lovestruck magazines relish seeing him riled up like this? They’d still find a way to fall in love with him.

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous.

You’re aware he’s booked for at least three other shows this week. It’s a miracle he agreed to yours, considering your mutual distaste for each other. You suppose it had more to do with his agency than himself but it wasn’t like you were the keener one. Jung Yoonoh is the face professionals look for and your company loves the publicity, although you keep telling yourself your designs would still shine without him.

Jaehyun excuses himself before you can get on with any unpleasant conversation you might have. At least you have something in common—that is, trying to avoid each other as much as possible.

A few minutes (and uncomfortably snaking through swarms of bodies) later, you find Doyoung, unfortunately sober and intending to remain so, people congratulating him with claps on the back for securing the position of PR Head. You think it was supposed to be a secret, but someone higher in the ladder must have spilled early. Joohyun never attends these, and honestly, good for her.

Afterparties are not your thing.

You shouldn’t have taken those shots but you’re on the dance floor now anyway—what more could happen? It’s easier when you’re not paranoid about all the eyes on you, dancing against a stranger with a lion tattooed against his neck. Maybe you’ll go home with him, maybe you’ll leave at the first signs of attraction. Romance isn’t quite on your to-do list, but an occasional intoxication with the skin works just fine. You could live like this for a few moments.

Your back runs into someone else’s rather forcefully and you turn around, apology bubbled up to your tongue already, mixing with the alcohol.

“Oh look.” You roll your eyes. “It’s the prince of high fashion. What can I get you today, sire?”

Jaehyun drives his tongue over his lips, quite definitely over your antics. Soft breaths leave his mouth in a rhythm irrelevant to this box of laughter and blaring music called a party. You love how he never knows how to respond—what new words will he choose to keep false dignity? If you think about it, he’s the embodiment of why you always thought everything was so out of your reach—big names, exclusive parties, not for kids like you. They were never for fashion students too honest to know their own worth.

“Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear.

You scoff, a pang of annoyance sizzling through you. “Jealous? Of who? You?”

You sneer at the last part, Jaehyun’s frown deepening. Some days you just like to think you’ve won. A few moments pass between you two, the sound of pop music filling in the gaps.

Jaehyun presses closer to you, your chests almost touching as your breath hitches in your throat.

“Do you know what makes success?” he says, head dipping lower to look you in the eye. The smell of alcohol disturbs you for a second before your heartbeat gets loud enough to drown it. You try to not focus on how his mouth is so near yours—and perhaps if you were drunk enough, you might commit a mistake against the very core of your being, something you’d been dangerously close to once.

You stay quiet, the pulsing in your ears too loud in the shallow distance between the two of you. You swear it’s always the two of you pressed up like this once you’re drunk enough, the dislike growing stronger and stronger with every breath exchanged. You’ve intertwined each other into a strange garden of contempt, easy to forget when you're facing him. Jung Yoonoh has the prettiest face in the industry, and the only one you can’t bear seeing.

“It’s confidence,” he answers, as slow and steady as ever. “And there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance I intend to keep. I’m not so sure about you.”

The rest of the night passes without conflict and you retire early, Jaehyun’s breath still hot against your face. Only when you collapse on your bed do you get an urge to shout, yell, anything that doesn’t make you call him up and scream at him. You have your precious dignity too, something he seems to look past. The effect he had on your breathing, the crawling over your skin—God, you hate him. You’re too stubborn to not continue doing it.

“What’s this?” you ask, your eyes darting in between the director of design and Lee Taeyong.

To say you were surprised to see him would be an understatement. You note the simple dark rimmed glasses in contrast with his light dyed hair, the mellow blue of his cashmere sweater sporting his own label’s logo—Lee Taeyong is a household name. You feel yourself shrink the tiniest bit.

This industry’s all about names, you think miserably. You meet people and you remember the ones who can get you ahead. It’s tiring.

Taeyong started his career even earlier than you did, and before he had changed his major to fashion. He’s a little older than you, though he doesn’t look it and he had begun with working exclusively on jackets. Several rejected designs later, he had popped up as one of the designers to look out for in Seoul Fashion Week. Now he has his own global label slowly turning brand, several worldwide stores and everything dreamers in the same place as you look up to. You think you’re fine here, you tell yourself despite that.

The director smiles at you, her hand gesturing rapidly at you to come forward.

“You’re going to be so happy,” she says, signalling Taeyong to continue.

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

A little awkward for a world-class designer, you think.

“I’m Lee Taeyong. You might have heard of me—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, ignoring the disapproving look of the director.

“Oh, that’s good!” He smiles. “I’ve seen your work—I’ve been following your work for a few years now…and, well, I’d love for you to work under my label—in a collaboration of sorts. You’ll have full creative freedom, of course! I’m just there more or less for supervision, really…”

You think you feel your heart stop for a few moments, Taeyong’s sudden stream of information fading out. The pinnacle of your career, you believe, had been Paris Fashion Week four years ago and you’d been dreaming of it ever since. This is a business contract, you’re sure, and you don’t know if you have a real choice but maybe you could take that step forward you’ve always wanted to.

“Isn’t that great, (name)?” The director interjects. “You get to work under the Lee Taeyong label. And…surprise! You’ll have your work presented at New York Fashion Week in September. They’ll hit the stores a week later.”

You freeze.

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

“Yep!” Her voice a notch away from annoying. She’s not the first person you’ve met who sounds so goddamn manufactured. “Pack your bags, darling. You’re flying next weekend.”

You must be looking like a deer caught in the headlights because Taeyong opens his mouth to say something, alarmed. You speak before he does.

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than them. It should be a good thing. It’s supposed to be a good thing. Even so, you feel the anxiety in your ribcage threatening to overgrow into thorns.

“I’ll- I’ll do it,” you clarify. Looking from your manager’s bright yet stern face to the hopeful smile on Taeyong, you don’t think you have much of a choice.

New York, huh. How long has it been? You shudder at the memories, your focus a little off for the rest of the day.

Joohyun visits you a day before you leave. She places the box of chocolates on the coffee table, that Doyoung apparently sent for you.

“You know, I’m really happy you’re getting this chance,” Joohyun says, crouching down beside where you’re splayed, trying to count the travel essentials and everything else on your messy checklist.

“He gets promoted and now he can’t even come visit me, huh?” you say, shifting to grab the box and tear off the clear wrap.

Joohyun laughs. “He’s certainly enjoying his duties. I can’t wait to boss him around again after I leave.”

Your shoulders hunch, a sigh leaving your lips. “Great. You’re leaving. Doyoung’s too busy to annoy. And now I’m a part of this godforsaken project for almost six months.”

Joohyun softens a bit, running her hand through your hair. “I heard you accepted it. All by yourself. You’ll do just fine, don’t worry.”

You feel yourself turn pink, a feeling of warmth you’ve been missing for a week. It’s cozy in your apartment, always the right temperature with a tinge of happy memories. You wish you could find comfort in people as easily as others do. Everything happened so fast, you can barely remember the conversation you had with Lee Taeyong. A few moments pass, Joohyun and you picking out chocolates before you can rummage through your suitcase again.

“I hate New York, Joohyun. Just what else can you throw into the mix to make me hate it even more?”

She freezes for a fraction of a moment, pressing her lips together before clearing her throat. “Oh. Uh. I probably shouldn’t tell you what I was about to tell you then.”

You turn your head to her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

She shrugs, eyes not meeting yours. “You know. New York. Fashion capital of the world. Lots of things to love.”

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

She sighs, defeated. “A certain someone might be on the same flight as you. I was about to give you his number in case you needed help.”

You pause to think, curling your lips. “It’s Jaehyun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

You groan, dropping your head back and yelping when it hits the coffee table. Joohyun moves to rub your head and ease the pain as you let out a stream of complaints.

“You really thought I’d call him for help?” you yell. “Him? Of all people?”

“I think you’d rather have a known face there. Besides, he’s a good kid,” she reasons, looking you in the eye. “And stop yelling.”

You quieten a bit at her glare, gulping. She adds the number to your contacts, saving it with a professional ‘Jung Yoonoh’ before she helps you clean up, advising you on how to manage your finances abroad. You know she’s trying to ease you, but how could she—after dropping this awful news on you like it shouldn’t matter at all? She doesn’t even know what happened—almost happened in Paris, or the fact that your honeyed feelings had turned bitter so easily. She’s worked with him before, you know this, when he was a much younger model and she trusts him more than you ever could.

But maybe, just maybe she can’t see what you see—after all, she’s also part of the elite, crème de la crème of this industry, more so in this country. It’s frightening, and so vague what goes on up there, at the top of the chain; and whatever you have—it might never be enough.

You’re you. Sometimes, that isn’t enough.

You jump at the water rushing from the shower, too cold for skin and scramble to twist the knob the other way. This time, the water’s too hot and you yelp, shutting it off altogether.

You press your hand against the shower glass, breathing heavy. You’re trying—you’ve been desperately trying ever since you landed a week ago. Change is not something you can take lightly. You miss the dim lights of your apartment in Seoul that Joohyun always warned would get you some brand new prescription glasses. You miss walking down the streets to your favourite convenience store at three in the morning to get honey butter chips. You miss picking fights with Doyoung over which detail to scrutinise during your project discussions. This project seems to have torn apart several things that belonged to you.

You can’t seem to get your head into it either—even spacing out during the meeting you had with Lee Taeyong among several other things. You can’t remember a single design detail he’d specified or what the theme was even supposed to be—a bunch of bright foggy lights replacing whatever fuzz was growing in your head. A twenty-something-year-old shouldn’t be letting homesickness affect them like this.

You finish the rest of your shower with a heavy heart and a clouded head.

Taeyong booking a luxury suite for you was a bit…much. Not that you’re complaining, but it gives more fuel to the profound sense of emptiness you keep drawing. There’s no intimacy to this place, no love. It’s a little hard to create things without love, and comfort.

Still, you grit your teeth and get dressed into something more comfortable for the night. If not today, then tomorrow. Something will have to give, even if it costs you—whatever the hell your parents keep telling you when you’re going through problems. What if you don’t want to be cost things? Compromise isn’t as delicate as it sounds. You try to comfort yourself, rocking yourself on the much too large couch, hugging a pillow close and trying to think of things that don’t immediately make you want to throw up.

The memories of your first visit are a little less than pleasant. You think you cried after the entire ordeal because you thought you did a bad job of talking, socializing, the most ordinary things. There are some people who are good at wearing masks—good at making copper look like gold, good at shining under dim lights, and good at using words that don’t have much meaning to their existence other than being pretty.

You were not one of them.

The intense need for everything to be perfect was still there, even when you couldn’t possibly have achieved it. You wanted to make things and show them to the world—what was so wrong with that? Why did being there make you feel like you could never even touch your dreams? You were so out of place, feeling completely out of touch with yourself. There were people from the top there, established and famous. It felt out of your grasp. You felt fake.

The city lights twinkle with life but there’s no sound, the windows shut tight. The ambience of the room is kept to a caramel minimum—the best you can do to honour your sweet little home back in Seoul.

The hatred for everything pretentious was born with your first step into this place, into the game that the big boys play. It showed in your designs, your choice of fabric, your distaste for certain people. You wanted reality—you wanted a taste of life in your everyday clothes. You wanted that flavour you feel on your tongue in a room full of strangers or the one on a quiet night by yourself at your apartment rooftop. You didn’t want dignified fur coat ensembles, you wanted the naive chaos you feel every day and you wanted to make it look good. It’s driving you insane just how much you feel like you’re losing now.

You take out your phone after what seems a few minutes of contemplation.

Jung Yoonoh. Your finger hovers over the call button. What would he say if his night is interrupted by your voice?

You’d met at the airport after landing, though you were only two seats away in the plane. You’d made no error in acknowledging his presence, browsing through the inflight magazine half-heartedly. Truth be told, sometimes you couldn’t really seem to get over him. Sometimes the thought of him made you so pissed, you had no idea what to think of it.

“Welcome to New York,” he had said shortly after you’d exited, a giant crowd of people greeting out-goers, holding up placards with names of people, in numbers you’re unaccustomed to. Or, used to be accustomed to.

You hadn’t talked since—and really, you weren’t expecting to.

You press your home button, any lingering thoughts of him vanishing at the force with which you tell yourself it’s not worth it. How is Jung Yoonoh better than anyone else you know here? He might have been living in New York for quite a few years now, and he’s probably the only one you’d feel comfortable enough to swear at—that doesn’t mean you’d actually ask for help. That doesn’t mean he’d actually help. Joohyun must have had her hopes far too high to have convinced you for even a moment.

The couch feels colder all of a sudden, and you turn down the air conditioner. This place will never adjust to you, and your stubborn little self won’t either.

You think of Jaehyun from the afterparty, loose shirt and knowing eyes, and you wonder if he feels just the same frustrated agony, if not more. You think of his parted lips and breathing words close enough to be provocative, discomfort growing at the base of your stomach. Who does he think he is? He might have the airs and dignity of someone way up in the hierarchy of society but you know what people can be like. You know envy, you know malice, and you know lies. He has to fit in there somewhere—and perhaps you would have hated him less if he did.

Even if you’d scoffed at the idea of jealousy, that might very well be the closest to what you feel, what you keep hidden in the darkest corners of your locked chest. When you first met at that star-spangled dinner, you’d felt what it’s like to watch a fireworks show or a big musical opening; but the fireworks are being blocked by skyscrapers and you’re only the helping staff at the theatre, watching from a balcony at the very back. Jaehyun was impressive with barely any words. It annoyed you so much and somehow, the only solution you arrived at was the tremendous need to understand him, pick him apart and see what made him.

No. That’s wrong. You were annoyed because you still wanted to kiss him after he’d pushed you away, his dislike steaming clear. It strikes you as gently as lightning that the only reason someone would have to hate Jaehyun is being attracted so violently to him. God, you hate making a fool out of yourself.

You pass the night in quiet contemplation, promising yourself a better tomorrow. After all, no one else is going to do it.

You walk with your chin up as if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You picked out your black Harrington jacket to look at least a little more professional, but you might have miscalculated the size and the material in the equation because you look completely and utterly ridiculous in it. No one would look at you and think you even work in fashion, much less be competent in that line.

(To be fair, you wear the same beige sweater and black corduroy pants to work and if your coworkers choose to judge you, you wouldn’t blame them.)

It’s only been a month and somehow, it translates to forever to you. You think you’re adjusting better now, and you pat yourself on the back for it. It’s not raining today at the mercy of the skies, a tidal wave of sunlight splashing through the buildings every time you take a turn. The city doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. It’s a good day, for once.

You lean your head against the car window, eyes trailing up and down the reflective blue of each skyscraper. You can barely see any clouds, and the sky’s endlessly the same, comforting blue. Just like back home, you think for a moment. Your eyes move back to the sidewalk, people passing by—mothers with their babies in strollers, kids clutching the strap of their school bags as they run, men and women in all levels of professional clothing. No one stops in this city. Except the fucking traffic apparently.

You sigh, glancing at your watch. Only moments ago, you were moving and yet again, you’ve stopped. The cycle keeps repeating and you’re trying to keep patience focusing on things around you that you can appreciate.

Maybe you jinxed it when you said it was a good day.

You reach Taeyong’s studio just in time (not that you’d get yelled at or anything, he’s too nice of a guy). Your eyes fixate on the numbers that light up on the elevator one by one till it finally reaches the first floor.

You walk right into someone’s chest, an apology tumbling out of your lips as you bow out of habit.

“(name)?”

You look up to find Jaehyun in the elevator of Taeyong’s building, a casual white shirt clinging to his frame that’s tucked into his jeans to look somewhat formal. A pink overshirt hangs at his forearm and from the windswept styling of hair and his perfected dark locks, you’ll assume he’s here for a shoot—even without it, he looks like something from a teen magazine, someone people would see and instantly daydream of. Best known for high fashion, Jung Yoonoh is still a spectacle in casualwear.

“I can’t believe I have to see your face here too,” you mutter, getting into the elevator. You’ve had your share of moments with him.

“Good to see you too,” he says, bemused.

You make a sound of acknowledgment, taking out your phone to turn the damn notifications off so you don’t feel it vibrate in your pocket every few minutes. You feel eyes on you for a moment and snap your head to the side.

Jaehyun has his eyes focused on the door, quiet breathing fresh against his lips and you hesitate before concluding you might have been mistaken in your perception.

“You’re here for a shoot?” you ask, curious about his relationship with Taeyong.

“What else can I be here for?” He says nonchalantly.

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”

“It’s a little weird, you trying to make conversation with me. You’re usually raving about me too much to actually talk to me.” He smiles, the dimples provoking and eyes the familiar beguiling brown.

“I’m not trying to make conversation,” you hiss, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I forgot you’re only a person in front of cameras.”

Jaehyun takes a sharp breath before turning to you, a not-so-happy look on his face despite the calmness over his features. You’ve seen it enough times.

“How long are you going to keep up the pretentious this and pretentious that before you face it, really?” He looks at you with tight lips, poisonous implications in his question. “Why you love to get up in my case all the time?”

The words take time to settle in. You shake your head when you realize, a sardonic laugh leaving your lips. Of course he’d think that.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You’re so full of yourself. You think I’m interested in you? Don’t let what happened years ago get to your head.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, what did you mean then? Pray tell.”

“First of all, stop cutting me off,” he says, taking a step towards you. A certain feeling of uneasiness runs through you when you detect annoyance in his quiet statement.

“Secondly,” he says, taking a another step forward just as your back hits the wall of the elevator, “Stop treating me like I’m the bane of your existence. I have nothing to do with you.”

He’s right, of course, but the words sting where they hit. Asshole, you think. He has no business telling you what to do and what not to do. But in this moment, you can’t fish for the correct words—you don’t have the strength to when you’re so close to each other like this, the scent of his cologne syrupy and sickening. His tall stature is intimidating, with his straight shoulders and proud jawline.

The elevator dings at the seventh floor, Jaehyun stepping away from you without a glance or care, striding out just as smoothly as on a runway.

You take a moment to breathe, unsaid words burning holes into your tongue. You wish you could’ve said something better, anything that didn’t make you feel so pathetic. Maybe you should’ve told him to stick his words up his ass, sounding vulgar being the least of your worries. You wait patiently to reach the last floor, each ding souring your mood little by little.

You are so glad you didn’t call him that night. To think he’d ever help you knowing it’s mutual, the whole hating each other’s guts. You just can’t believe the audacity of him—to accuse you of, what, romantic feelings? In an industry where you can’t tell apart gold from copper? Where all the people warming up to you are fair weather friends and competitors? He must have let all that attention get to his head. Runway faces aren’t as easy to fall in love with as he thinks.

“(name)! Come quick!”

Taeyong’s voice urges as soon as you enter and you settle your bag down, rushing to him. His smile drops when he sees your seething figure place your bag on the desk with a loud thud. You turn to him, without a hint of sweetened formality and ask him the day’s schedule.

Taeyong gulps before responding, undoubtedly afraid of your lips, a twitch away from a scowl, but he explains nicely nonetheless.

“Can you do a rerun of these designs for me?” he says, arranging the papers on the desk. That’s how he says these need improvement. No wonder the interns love him.

Taeyong’s in his usual attire, still too chic for you but strangely comfortable to look at. You nod, immediately scrutinising them, your (almost pointless) years of training trying to give you hints as to where you went wrong. You’re not really expecting to find big flaws or anything—just details you can enhance. You’ve learned enough about Taeyong in a month and it’s that his sense of style encompasses comfort, even in the most abstract of concepts. You respect him for that. It doesn’t change the fact that you think it’s a little overdone maybe.

Taeyong laughs, breaking you out of your daze. You raise an eyebrow.

“Is- Is something wrong?” You look at him, perplexed.

“It’s just that- It’s just you remind me a lot of the fashion students.” He smiles at you.

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

Taeyong rephrases himself quickly, waving his hands about. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing! It just means you still…love doing it.”

It sticks with you longer than you’d expect, as you work throughout the day. You think Taeyong is too nice to criticize you properly but he eventually gets the point across—stick to the theme, written in Taeyong’s dainty handwriting and pinned to the softboard.

Secrets.

What an atrocious concept. Firstly, it makes no sense apart from sounding like a fucking lingerie collection. Secondly, when you went over Taeyong’s designs with the layers and patches, you supposed he wanted to focus on the inside of things because everything he’d drawn was inside out. Thirdly, when you heard him explain it, you were a little taken aback to hear it was going to be all about you, us. The designers, the models, the photographers, the magazine editors—there are millions and millions of people working to make sketches come to life, for a few items of clothing in someone’s closet. It feels nice to hear that from him. You promise you’re going to perfect it.

And perfection is your dear old friend.

It’s what you always strive for, but end up with something else that’s a little less beautiful. You take slow breaths, removing and adding details (after all, art is in the details). But perfection can easily grow tiresome. It makes you increasingly frustrated and you don’t think you have the heart to tell Taeyong everything in his studio stresses you out.

“So, you’re working with Jaehyun?” you ask, trying to look less antsy.

Taeyong blanks out for a moment before responding. “Yes. Why? Is he- Is he making you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable wouldn’t even begin to explain what he makes you feel.

“No,” you deny. “Just curious.”

Taeyong smiles. “We usually work on summer shoots together. It’s like tradition.”

“That’s…nice,” you say, trying to reciprocate his smile.

“Oh, but we’re having terrible weather so the shoots keep going longer than planned. That’s why I’m having to compromise planning time with you. Sorry about that.”

You try to keep your posture despite the mild annoyance brewing at the back of your head. Great. Now you have to see Jaehyun’s unbelievably annoying face every time you walk in. Maybe if you plead enough, you’d get permission to leave early and not want to throw some insults at him.

You decide to walk, despite Taeyong insisting his driver help you get home. He doesn’t act like it but he’s a busy man, with side projects and interviews coming up so often you lose count. It’s no wonder he had to, and you hate using this word, hire someone for the label’s next venture. You think articles like Lee Taeyong loses touch and hires designers instead of doing his job would make him upset but he seems to genuinely not let it bother him. It’s about ideas to him. His label, almost large enough to be a brand, is for ideas; what a pretty thing to base your business around. While you thought you were a big shot back in South Korea, you’re almost nothing more than Lee Taeyong’s co-designer—assistant here.

You feel drops of what you felt years ago trickling down your throat. Overshadowed. Powerless. Imposter. Something about New York makes you want to pull all your hair out. You wish you hadn’t been here in the first place, maybe then this would seem more of a fun trip than memories weighing you down. But then if you hadn’t been here, you might not have even started.

You hug yourself at the sudden downpour, clouds kind enough for it to be nothing more than showers but you’re soaked anyway. Kind, but still a little cruel. Running under the eaves of a store, you curse yourself for not bringing an umbrella the only day you needed it. You stand there for a while, just breathing.

Real life is never like movies, is it? Cameras lie. Pretty faces lie. Sometimes you end up stuck in New York rains without an umbrella or a friend to call or a lover to protect you. You end up getting an Uber, taking awfully long to arrive due to the traffic the rain had ensued and try your best to ignore the disgruntled driver mumbling about you wetting his seats.

You still don’t know how the goddamn shower works.

You manage to complete without either scorching your skin off or freezing it to Greenland and back—a feat much more successful than whatever you had going on for today. You slip into the absurdly soft mattress, pillows and covers swallowing you into a state of sleep.

You start the day almost pouring coffee onto Jaehyun’s spotless white shirt. And you might have were it not for immense self-restraint, and the fact that Taeyong’s eyes were trained on the two of you.

“So…are you two…a thing or something?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“No,” Jaehyun responds calmly while you sputter it out.

Taeyong apologizes, a laugh following. “You seem to have worked together before. Jaehyun, you never told me that.”

“I…I thought you knew,” he answers, leaning back against the tabletop.

“Ah, well,” Taeyong shrugs. “Thanks for helping me out with this, (name). Maybe- maybe we can draw some inspiration for the collection from outdoors.”

“Of course,” you say as you smile wide, trying hard not to break the coffee mug in your hand.

If you’re being honest, you had a gut feeling you’d be asked to help with Taeyong’s (apparently) infamous summer shoot. He walks into his studio every morning with hair in a disarray, talking to more people than he might enjoy and the entirety of New York weather against him. There’s only so much time a man can have and under pressure, he’s going to have to choose. It’s easy to feel sorry for someone like him.

This should be the stylist’s job. Jaehyun stands with his chin up as you adjust the fitting, smoothing out creases and making sure the cerulean shirt is pinned right, satin feeling cool and nice under your fingers. Sleeveless is back in trend this summer, and so are low-cuts.

“Careful there,” he says when you hand brushes a little lower, just below the full-grain leather belt.

You hope your face isn’t steaming from the rush of heat but you manage to limit your emotions to a sound of discomfort, remembering the horrendous accusation he’d thrown at you. “I don’t care about your dick, twit.”

Jaehyun laughs, bending a little to whisper. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“You look like you’re having a wonderful time making me uncomfortable.”

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

His dimples are getting on your nerves. You reach up to button his collar, perhaps a little too harsh because he chokes, an uncharacteristic sound leaving his mouth as he winces. You suppress a smile, glad you managed to do something about the look on his face.

The sunlight over this park feels like Christmas come early, with the way Taeyong is flitting from model to model and stylist to stylist with the intensity of a five year old after an ice-cream truck.

“Is he- Is he usually like this?” you ask, eyes on the makeup artist getting directions from Taeyong.

“I just assumed all of you are this way,” Jaehyun, responds looking at the same sight.

You roll your eyes. “We’re not all crazy.”

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe a little bit,” you correct yourself, watching Taeyong almost trip over someone’s bag in order to greet the magazine’s style director.

Jaehyun chuckles, eyes meeting yours for a moment before the two of you go about your own business.

You like magazine shoots for the most part. You never find a glass of water anywhere, but some intern or the other will definitely be there to fetch you Starbucks. There’s at least three people fussing over each model and at least two exasperated photographers trying very hard to snap clean shots. The stylist and designer look as though they might explode any minute, although the relief on their faces after it’s all over is something worth looking at. The skies are so bright and blue, you think, for a cosmopolis. The trees and shrubs lining the park are in a state of tranquility compared to the chaos it encircles.

Magazines might not be as important in an age of social media advertisement, almost part of nostalgia now—but maybe some of you are not yet willing to deny kids the thrill of reading a magazine under their blankets in the middle of the night. It often gave hope to little boys playing dress up and little girls sewing their own clothes.

You’d forgotten just how exhausting shooting with magazines is. The models must be having it worse but their masks don’t come off easy. If you had ever underestimated their job difficulty, it comes back to throttle you at full speed every time you’re at a shoot.

Looking good in front of a camera is pretty damn hard.

They don’t even get to keep the clothes, unless some asshole of a designer decides to pay them in apparel instead of actual money. Most models leave New York in debt. Men are paid even less than women. You’re surprised Jaehyun is as celebrated as he is—or the fact that he was clever enough of a businessman in launching his own high fashion-themed restaurant. You’ve heard he barely visits it, like a careless afterthought. But you’re not one to get carried away by sketchy articles on the internet. All you’ve needed are more reasons to hate him.

You sip the iced coffee, its effect pretty much worn out during humid afternoons. It’s time for a break, but no one’s willing to break momentum. You find yourself feeling a little awkward, as nothing more than a guest with creative advice, and so you sit under the comforting cool of the giant green umbrella at one of the tables. You could sink into your chair were it not so damn uncomfortable.

Jaehyun takes a seat right beside you to your surprise, offering you a box of diced mango before you fervently decline. You still think he’s an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense—why accuse you of unsaid affections and then flirt with you like he never said it? It’s not like you’re even friends, how ridiculous. There are quite a few jerks you’ve met in your life, but Jung Yoonoh really takes the cake.

“What?” you snap when his gaze gets on your nerves.

“I didn’t say anything.” He raises his hands defensively, eyes still on yours. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy the air conditioned suite Taeyong booked me more than this, yes.” You sigh, leaning back. “I don’t really have anything to do.”

“I’m assuming he booked you the luxury suite on the fifteenth floor,” he says, chuckling.

You furrow your eyebrows. It’s not impossible that Jaehyun knows Taeyong’s favorite suite to book for guests.

“The view’s pretty nice from there, right? Oh, and you must be enjoying the silence.”

“I actually like the outside sounds,” you defend. “It’s calming.”

“Not when you’re on the third floor,” he says, shoving a piece of mango into his mouth with a fork. “All you hear is middle aged men screaming.”

You rest your elbow on the table, placing your chin against your palm. The shade is separated from sunlight by a thin line against his chest, pale blue satin glimmering where the sun meets it. Jaehyun’s eyes shine a darker hue of honey under the shade, moving to the box in his hands occasionally before trailing back to the background noise again. Taeyong really does love pretty fits, but this might just be one of the most gorgeous pieces you’ve seen this summer (and you’ve already been through all the ready-to-wear lookbooks you possibly could). A thought passes you in a breeze, that maybe it's the model making it seem that way.

“You’re talkative today,” you note quietly, the sun harsher on your cheeks than before.

Jaehyun shrugs, hurrying to finish all the pieces. He suddenly pulls a face, one you don’t see very often in high fashion websites and Instagram pages. It’s almost cute.

“Sour.”

You find yourself laughing, a gentle influx of peace filling the inside your chest. You quickly recover, looking back up to see Jaehyun simply staring at you, breathing. He looks caught off-guard, no camera to warn him. You straighten, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“Is- Is something wrong?”

He immediately shakes his head, more to himself than you. There’s a pause before the two of you are happily distracted. The style director appears to be gesturing at him from the other side and Jaehyun responds with a curt wave.

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

You raise your eyebrows. Well, they’re definitely taking advantage of the good weather. They could just photoshop it, in your opinion, but authenticity is everything when it comes to magazines nowadays.

“Well, don’t let me hold you back,” you say, your tone dismissive. “Go get changed into whatever pretty shirt Taeyong has up next in his collection.”

“The next shoot doesn’t have a shirt,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

You almost choke on your coffee, blaming the heat for your weak state of mind. You’re just having one of those strange days—just that, nothing else.

You finish the rest of the coffee, cup resting in your hand till you find the energy to get up and find a trash can.

Jaehyun was right. This time the shoot’s a little too wet and a little too much skin for you to enjoy. The only thing added to Jaehyun above the waist are a dainty red scarf knotted over his neck and a small, flat hoop earring on his left ear. The velvet fingerless gloves, although you’re not very fond of them, complete a rather rugged yet soft look. You didn’t expect Taeyong to come up with something like that.

Jaehyun’s well-developed physique, while you’ve seen it in other shoots and online articles, is completely different when you’re a few feet away from it. The dark blue cargo pants, silken, are a signature style of Taeyong but the details don’t distract you easily enough. Funny, this is the first time you’re feeling somewhat flustered in a place full of half-naked models.

You suddenly think of reds and oranges, lilac shrubs and a hint of Burberry men’s perfume. In a way, it reminds you of the strums of the guitar your roommate used to play while you stayed up late, coming up with concepts. Cherishing, soothing—and special, just enough. The corner of your lips twitch and you take out your pocket sketchbook. It’s never too late to add a design to the collection, right? After all, you have secrets too. Maybe Taeyong was right about the outdoors for inspiration.

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

The next time you walk into Taeyong’s studio, you feel the sun on your face better. Everything seems to be fitting into place, as you smooth through designs at a pace your student self would be jealous of. When Taeyong praises your work, you feel a rush of pride smearing the inside of your chest and you finally feel like everything’s not falling apart. It feels good. It feels like you’re someone.

The days go by in what seems like barely seconds—you know what they say about New York minutes. The mustard cloth draped over your desk to the cottage blue of your curtains, the colours around you change as quickly as the wind. Sometimes they’re abstract—and other times, well, they have more to do with a stranger’s eyes, or the swirls within a coffee cup. It’s the way in which transition occurs around you, that you often forget it moves something within you too.

You’ve put together some samples with Taeyong, most of them by yourself; the process of making is ever comforting, fabric even more so. You’ve sent the revised designs for production, feeling giddy about whatever is to come like it’s something new. (It shouldn’t be.)

You fucking hate how different this is. Seoul is nothing compared to New York. The anxiety is nearly ten times worse, the streets are far more attractive when it comes to inspiration and the figure of Jung Yoonoh is no longer as easy to ignore.

Even after the summer shoot’s over, Jaehyun often comes by to hang out at the studio, dressed in what you would call the simplest fucking thing you’d ever seen and still managing to look just as gorgeous. He blends in well with university students, often wearing the ugliest baseball cap you’ve ever seen, and the look of his face feels much, much worse than ever before. It’s at ease, smug even, but never failing to smile at you when you’re trying to focus. You don’t care how good of friends Taeyong and Jaehyun are—you want to tell him to leave.

But you just can’t bring yourself to. It’s not that you don’t trust yourself, you certainly do, but whatever New York has done to you, includes making you feel a different way about him. Sometimes you find yourself pressing your legs together harshly, stiffening at any proximity with him and a pool of warmth at the base of your stomach you’d rather not feel.

It’s embarrassing to even think about it—the fact that he makes you feel that way, so hot and bothered like it’s your first time. You blame your lack of going out these few months because after all, anyone could fall in love with runway faces. It doesn’t have to mean it’s him you want. You carry on doing what you’ve been doing for the most part of your career, your best to avoid him. There are more pressing matters, and your head might just implode if you keep on worrying about things (a man, of all) you need not.

Time passes even faster when all your thoughts revolve around the same thing.

One month. D-30. Whatever the hell you call time before the end of the world.

Your palms sweat a whole lot easier here. It’s a little weird, considering you don’t find much difference in humidity between Seoul and New York. Your heart often catches up in your throat too. Not a great feeling, your heart choking the breath out of you, but you’re used to it. You cope and you learn, that’s what it means to be human.

You pull your hand down before it reaches your teeth. The day ended in a meeting with Taeyong’s production team—everything’s running smoothly so you need not worry, he said.

Why are those the words that make you worry the most?

You check the time on your phone. 23:05 and a whole month to go. You better get some sleep for all the meetings you have scheduled tomorrow. You close your eyes and for a while, everything falls quiet.

You dream of New York Fashion Week. People come here to feel included. Everyone wants to be a part of something they don’t understand.

The models walk down the runway in increasingly uncomfortable outfits. You didn’t design any of them. Where are the ones you worked on? You can’t move from your seat, or turn your head from the runway, anything at all. Something’s wrong, everything’s wrong. You don’t belong here. Thunder strikes outside the venue and you wake up with a gasp caught in your throat, and the clock on the bedside table flashing 2:14.

You’ve had enough. You swear you’ve had enough.

You get up out of bed, pacing the giant bedroom, the empty spaces making you feel more and more miserable. The city twinkles with innumerous stars beyond your window, curtains half drawn so they can comfort you whenever you need—but these lights don’t shine for you, or anyone else. They shine for themselves. That’s what it means to be in New York again.

What time is it in Seoul? Could you call your mother? Joohyun? Everyone must be busy right now—you don’t know what to do. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so helpless. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding New York for this long and now it’s come crashing down on you.

This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You look down at your phone, the light hurting your eyes despite being set to the lowest brightness. You think a little, and then some more. There’s no one else you can call. Even if he’s busy charming all the other employees whenever you see him, even if half the world is in love with him, there’s no one else you can call. This time you don’t stop yourself.

You tap the call button beside the Jung Yoonoh saved neatly. Tapping your foot against the floor nervously, your mind goes blank for a few seconds or so. He answers when you’re just about to hang up, breath hitching in your throat at the sound of his voice.

“Hello? Hello? If this is a reporter—”

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

The line goes quiet for a moment and your voice overlaps his before he can begin.

“I- I didn’t mean to call so late. Sorry…uh.”

You scrunch up your face at your own voice. This is not getting you anywhere.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice lower.

You fall silent, unable to answer without breaking down into tears. You did not call Jung Yoonoh for that.

“Yeah,” you choke out. “Fine. Completely fine. I just…”

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

“I’ll send you an address. Be there in an hour.”

You blink back tears, confusion adding to the burning pile of worries inside your head.

“What?”

“Address. I’ll text you. Be there. One hour.”

“I’m not stupid, Jaehyun,” you snap, strength refilling your voice. “Why?”

“I’m not answering questions, just be there.”

With that, the line goes flat and an embarrassing amount of ‘hello’s get you to realize that he hung up. A notification pops up a minute later and you’re too groggy to decipher it, logging it to Maps instead so you can follow. It’s fifteen minutes away, you realize with a sigh of relief, so you can at least present yourself within the given constraint.

You can’t grasp what you feel in the moment, the night air and warm streets beckoning you to leave the clamped apartment soaked in fear. You think this is unlike Jaehyun, what he’s doing, but you’re too shaken to care. You need some respite, even if it comes from somewhere you can’t picture.

“You…wanted to meet me at a Korean barbecue restaurant?”

Jaehyun’s ears turn red, as they often do when he doesn’t know how to respond to you.

“I-It’s not that I…Never mind,” he tries to explain, fidgeting with the cloth over his shoulder. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”

We? You think, eyes scanning his face in confusion. If you want? Where’s the uncaring Jaehyun you’ve known, foreign eyes and impassive lips? He hardly looks the part he’s meant to play—a billboard face with a confident jawline and nothing more behind it. Outside of work—you don’t even know what else to call this—Jaehyun looks hardly intimidating, or abrasive. He seems different, gentle almost, although the dark circles under his eyes might have something to do with it. Maybe he’s too tired to say anything more and that’s it.

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?”

There comes the remark you were hoping to not hear. You just wanted to look nice; you’d hardly call this overboard. The loose, mustard-colored chiffon shirt cinches at the waist, paired with your nicest (only not faded) pair of light blue jeans and shoes that haven’t seen the light of day since you arrived here. You barely ever design clothes for yourself anymore but you thought you looked good in this.

“No,” you defend quickly, feeling your face grow warm. “You’re underdressed.”

You say that, but he clearly looks good in anything he wears. Could you expect any less of a supermodel? He doesn’t seem to have dressed in as much a hurry as you had. Clad in a plain black T-shirt that’s half tucked into skinny jeans, he’s added his hideous baseball cap and a pair of navy blue shades which looks just as ridiculous as it sounds. You really think he shouldn’t be leaving his house without the help of a stylist.

“I…I just mean you don’t wear anything other than the same sweater and pants combination to work, so… please excuse my surprise.”

Jaehyun's eyes flicker over your figure before masking it with an awkward cough. You reach out and pull the shades over his head, the look bothering you more than anything else. He doesn’t respond to it, at least not in a way that’s obvious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do—you fixing his hair and unquestionably awful sense of style.

“There’s a soju place a few blocks ahead. Or if you’re not into that, there’s a noodle shop just at the edge of K-town,” Jaehyun rambles on, not meeting your eye. “If you’re looking for something inexpensive—"

“You came all the way here to give me directions?” You raise an eyebrow. You might even be enjoying this, although your inner voice bites back at you, denying it.

Jaehyun shakes his head, the red in his ears pulsing back up. “No. I…I needed some fresh air.”

“You…have someplace to be then?”

Jaehyun might not realize it, but the answers he gives always have room for teasing. Aloof. Vague. Yet somehow sweet.

“And you’ll go alone? At this hour? No, I’ll accompany you,” he says out loud, trying to play off the sudden vocal inflection. You sigh. Boys will be boys, as they say. Even if they’re twenty-six.

You let him keep you company. Though the first few minutes are painfully quiet, neither of you knowing quite what to say without starting a disagreement, you continue your walk through a city that never sleeps. It’s awkward even, being side by side without you seething at his charming, (undoubtedly) fake smile. He feels real, for once, and you don’t know how to react. There seem to be some gold-tinted cracks appearing in your reality, slowly but surely, and you’re not very good at patching anything other than fabric.

“You know, it’s actually a little relieving to see Korean letters here,” you say, sighing. You never thought you’d be so corny, but it really does feel good being here.

Or is it him?

“Thanks,” you add quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear. No, maybe you do. You can’t tell at this point.

“I…I know what it’s like,” he says, so softly that it almost gets carried away by the wind. He clears his throat, an ‘ah’ escaping his lips as he stops abruptly.

“We…We missed the turn,” he declares, a little sheepish as he scratches the back of his head.

You look at him in disbelief. “Jaehyun, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, I was born here actually,” he says, tilting his face to look at you, blunt sarcasm evident on it. “How many times have you lost your way to the convenience store in Seoul?”

“Literally zero times.”

Jaehyun puffs a cheek before going back to normal and turning a hundred and eighty degrees down the street.

“Hey, wait up!” you huff at his increased pace, half jogging to keep up.

You reach the acclaimed noodle shop, your breath barely within your lungs and swearing at Jaehyun who looks like he wasn’t bothered one bit. He reaches his hand out to help you and you swat it away, chest still heaving with your hands on your knees.

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

“I don’t think I deserved that,” he responds with a widening smile.

“Asshole,” you say, standing up straight to glare at him.

“What would Seoul say hearing their beloved designer swear like this?” Jaehyun looks almost amused, as if you hadn’t shared an awkward time together, like two teenagers who were forced to walk home together from the bus stop.

“They can go to hell,” you retort. “As can you.”

Jaehyun laughs, a strange sound to hear and you blink a few times, unsure of what to do. You wonder if it’s the night playing tricks or if Jaehyun really is an actual person, not the basket of preprocessed insults you were used to. The cracks are widening—you’re not sure if they’re meant to be patched.

Perhaps you were a little eager to enter someplace warm, but you feel immense relief in this little shop, despite the smell of chili paste and noodle soup wafting through the air. It’s a little empty; in fact, you two seem to be the only people there apart from some students at the other corner, but you sit there in your own bubble, talking with Jaehyun of all people about which singer is better. He laughs occasionally, still managing to catch you off-guard with how honest it sounds and you wonder for a moment, how nice this feels. For the first time in a month, your heartbeat seems to have settled at a normal rate.

“What?” you enounce, a little offended. “What’s so wrong about my love life?”

“You just- You just don’t seem that type,” he explains, his ears as red as the bowl.

“I don’t have time for commitments, Jaehyun,” you sigh. “It’s what happens when you’re good at your job.”

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response.

“So, your, uh, what is it? Training camp? What’s that about?” you ask, in between blowing your food.

“You could really Google things once in a while, you know?” he replies, bringing his chopsticks close to his mouth.

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not one of your creepy stalkers, Mr. Jung.”

“Nothing to do with that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s for kids interested in fashion, modeling, photography—stuff.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I just sponsor them. You know how difficult it is to get noticed in…this industry,” he explains, like it’s not a big deal. Nothing ever seems to be a big deal to him.

You nod, unable to help the smile. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, but you’re sure now that you were mistaken. Just a little bit.

“I was lucky,” you mumble. “I can’t believe they saw those ugly embroidered patches and decided to sponsor me, oh my god. That sweater was hideous.”

Jaehyun laughs loudly. “They saw me cleaning outside my school and decided to pick me up and ship me straight to Paris.”

“Nothing’s worse than the first day.” You take another mouthful, the taste savoury and filling.

“You know, I’m pretty sure they photoshopped my ears out in the first magazine shoot I had.”

You laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Your first year was rough, huh?”

He hums, his eyes flickering from your nose to your lips. It makes you a little self-conscious, blood rushing to your cheeks at an unexpected pace. Who knew Jaehyun could have such an effect on you?

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

He’s handsome. But it’s the sort of handsomeness that tells you, you don’t know much beyond it. You look back at your bowl, sobering up and completing the rest of the noodles.

It’s still midnight blue in the faraway sky as you walk down the streets. Most of the people you see out and about are those drunk off their faces from club hopping or a particularly enthusiastic group of tourists. The watermelon soju, while better with budae-jjigae and arguably the best soju flavor, somehow had little effect on you with the bitter aftertaste still settling in. The crowds in other places would make for great people-watching but you walk in a lonely street that calls for proximity. Beside you, Jaehyun sneezes, the sound of it making you jump on the quiet sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ, Jaehyun,” you huff, wincing at the sound, “you sounded like a fucking tractor.”

Jaehyun laughs, looking down at the pavement. When he looks back at you, the circles underneath his eyes seem to have darkened and you wonder if yours are the same. Yours can’t possibly be as important as his, though, and you wonder if it’s appropriate to laugh at how dorky he looks.

You find yourself not wanting to walk back into the safety of your suite. Jaehyun has a look of calm across his features, drawing over the landscape around you. New York lights don’t faze him, they only reflect in his eyes.

The way his soft breaths fan out against his lips remind you that he is human, after all—he has a soul and body, thoughts and its beautiful intricacies. When he turns back to you, you feel those criminal feelings all over again, except this time it’s even louder. It feels so wrong, and yet you can’t help but think of the liberation that could come with his lips on yours.

You could swear out loud, all the colorful words ready at the tip of your tongue.

“Your collar’s…”

Jaehyun’s voice trails off, his hand moving to fix your flipped collar, and when the heat of his skin brushes your neck, you try to not think of where else his hands could be, his lips could be.

In fact, there’s a moment within where it’s perfectly reasonable for him to kiss you, the taste almost on your tongue. But Jaehyun moves away, an indecipherable look across his face.

“I should get going,” he says, “I have a- I have a shoot early tomorrow—today.”

You nod, cheeks coloring at your own unsaid thoughts. Just what have you done to yourself? Why is your skin searing, why does your stomach feel upside down and why were you so ready to give in to him? To Jaehyun? You’ve never felt want like this before, this need to press skin against skin in a manner so illicit.

You part with a short goodbye, the sudden loneliness in your path making you want to backtrack, ask if you can go somewhere else again—maybe there’s a club nearby so you can see him through a round of shots as you usually do. Maybe the bitter feelings will return then.

When you think of the words you exchanged over the course of so unusual a night—your former unforgiving words contradict you. You hate the realization but being so obscure in front of a camera doesn’t have to mean he’s pretentious. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe someday you’ll even admit it.

You feel a flash of heat in your face. You are not running to Jung Yoonoh—what an embarrassing thought. If the very core of your being isn’t repulsed by it, there’s something wrong with you.

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

You breathe sharply, trying to organize your thoughts. As if the paparazzi wouldn’t have a treat out of this meeting you had with him if they got to know. You’d better limit it to the only one.

You bite your nails out of force of habit. It’s not going to help. You know. But there’s hardly anything else to cool your nerves.

Front row tickets to New York Fashion Week—the most mortifying dream out of all the ones you’ve ever had. The way Taeyong fidgets, you want to believe he’s in the same boat as you—it makes you thankful even.

Even outside of New York, Lee Taeyong is known for booking out exclusively intimate spaces. There are some props for the pre-show photography, including inked sketches on giant vertical banners stuck to the walls and tables with a messy collection of coffee cans, pencils and a sewing machine. Diverse types of fabric roll off the table in long strips, gently lining the floor till they end midway to another table. It’s a mess—a mess you made look good.

You’d left that and the backstage behind now. All eyes are on the sparsely lit runway, your aspirations coating the air in a thick veil. Are you ready? You won’t know till the first model steps out and till you can elicit a response from the audience.

Jaehyun’s at another venue—career before friendship, or, heaven forbid, attraction. You’d seen the fitting, cape skirt doing daringly well with his long legs clad in black pants, and a classy vest over a ruffled white shirt. You hate seeing other designs before a show, but god, were you glad you’d visited Givenchy to meet Johnny.

But you’re relieved even, that Jaehyun isn’t here. You don’t have the strength to face him anyway, all your energy directed into this chasm of whatever you’d call six months of effort. You want to call yourself accomplished. You want to be proud of yourself.

So this time, you remember all twenty-six minutes of it.

God, they look so beautiful up there, when they’re being looked at, seen for what they are—you’ll never get over it. There’s still hardly much to remember, except this time you’re happy to do it all over again. Effort only exists if it’s acknowledged.

It settles in quite a while later, the weight of all you’d done. You could almost cry, but that’s better left to pillows and the unrelenting skies above a midnight-coated rooftop. This is your moment. For once, you’re anything but afraid.

Afterparties are still not your thing.

However, you had your nicest outfit picked out and Lee Taeyong’s fancy, themed afterparties are something notorious among your colleagues. You’ve heard designers tend to go all out, wearing the best things they’ve designed even if it makes them a little embarrassed to be wearing their own work.

You feel a sigh leave your lips as you finally find a place to sit, your earlier conversations leaving you drained of social energy. You don’t feel alien—it’s strange—and their compliments feel almost warm. The music playing over the speakers is something, you’re sure, from a 60’s American movie, and while it has its own strange allure, the champagne gives you a larger dose of relief.

In fact, if you’re not mistaken, it’s quite like the ballroom in Paris, although significantly smaller. Burgundy wallpaper and lit up crystals hanging in hexagonal shapes across the ceiling—it’d look lovely on a dress too.

Taeyong’s speech, of course, gives you a spike of anxiety with the sudden announcement of his label’s future, a brand now. He smiles on the small podium, everyone admiring his radiance when suddenly he gestures at you, the glass in your hand feeling hotter and hotter.

“…I couldn’t do this without the only designer I felt was up to this—the first designer to work under my brand, as of now…”

You try not to blush under all the pairs of eyes that turn to you.

“(name), thank you.”

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

Everything feels natural, as if a dream gone right. You’re no longer afraid of the world you stepped into, or the accumulation of feelings that molded you into the person you are now. The confidence you so chased after as if it were morphine, you’re going to be keeping an eye on it before it can run away again.

There’s still one little problem to your night of triumph, though.

Jaehyun hasn’t taken his eyes off you ever since you entered, a conversation yet pending. You already know he looks good in the plainest of T-shirts, so it might be a no-brainer that he looks absolutely stunning in a suit. The crystals lining the lapels of his coat glimmer amidst the crowd he’s gathered. It’s hard to come in contact, however. He’s magnetic, almost formidable in the way he attracts attention, and you know it’s something that comes with being a man of few words.

“You’re not enjoying the party?” you ask, taking in Jaehyun’s figure on the veranda overlooking the garden. He sits on one of the mahogany chairs, swirling the glass of champagne with a look of indifference coating his eyes and lips.

“I am,” he says, turning to face you. “Needed a short break.”

“I suppose being the most attractive man in the room needs a break,” you say, taking a seat beside him.

A wry laugh leaves his lips, as he lays his eyes on you. “You don’t seem bothered by it though?”

“I believe that pretty is as pretty does,” you say, your lips twitching.

Jaehyun smiles, furrowing his eyebrows yet still. “You think multimillionaire companies are built on things like inner beauty?”

He’s right. What’s inside is beautiful—it’s too idealistic a phrase. You sigh, adjusting your sleeve. It’s a difficult life, walking the runway no one dares to step on.

I think you’d make that cut too, you want to tell him.

“You know the best thing I got told today?” you ask, diverting the stream of conversation. You think he’s a friend. Even if it could be the champagne talking. Even if you want something more than the innocence of friendship.

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow. “Did Cristóbal Balenciaga’s ghost show up to compliment you?”

“No,” you emphasize, laughing at his pronunciation. “It was this girl. A student. Said she wrote an essay about me.”

Jaehyun hums, dimples marking his cheeks. “I didn’t know a student could get you so giddy.”

You laugh, looking down at your hands before resting your gaze on him again. He leans forward in his seat, strands of hair falling over his face from the rest and a contemplating look over his features. He looks much, much different from when you first saw him, and even handsomer, if that were possible. He’s grown up from the awkward boy you saw in the press release pictures of the Saint Laurent Fall Collection—he looks sharp and valiant on front covers, his shoulders broad and his eyes darling. Jaehyun is still unironically the most breathtaking man you’ve ever met. He might even be one of the sweetest, inside out.

You look to his lips, full as ever. Perhaps you have something to confess. Secrets aren’t meant to be kept so long.

“Jaehyun,” you call, bringing his attention before faltering. It’s not like you’re the only one fawning over his smile. You get up instead, excusing yourself. “I’ll see you inside I suppose.”

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

Jaehyun gets up, brushing his suit and fixing the lapels. The gentle night haze and the contrasting calls of the brightly lit party inside brush over an effect you’ve never felt before. “I…I like you. It’s pretty straightforward, I think.”

You deny it, or rather, some repressed little emotion inside you denies it vehemently. “Jaehyun, really. I admit I was a complete asshole to you and- and...it was…kind of you to accompany me that night but—”

“Stop. Don’t- Don’t call that kind. You’re not seeing the full picture.”

You stand there, unsure of what to do as you feel your chest grow warmer. Jaehyun turns his head upwards, letting out an audible breath. You can see conflict on his face, the struggle of someone still mulling over the perfect words.

“I don’t hate you. I never really hated you even if I wanted to.”

You suppose it wouldn’t be the right time to say that you might have indulged in that.

“I did,” you confess. “I hated you for a very, very long time, Jaehyun.”

“I know,” he whispers, looking straight at you. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging—”

“Jaehyun, I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising, “You told me you felt suffocated in bow ties and laughed when I asked if you wanted to run away with me. I just ended up thinking you were a goddamn liar.”

“Fine,” he says quietly in his baritone timbre, sounds of the chatter from inside numbing away. “Then let me be honest.”

“When I met you, I thought there was someone like me doing just the same—so…suddenly in the midst of everything. Even if you were a complete asshole to me. You were still real.”

He phrases it delicately, lilting, as if that hasn’t been your whole purpose here. He’s only a breath away from you, but you don’t want to push him away this time. There’s a moment’s pause.

“Between work and myself, which is more important? For once, I thought I could answer that question.”

Your breaths are soft and shallow as they fall, trying to understand his words.

“And then you just fucking stopped. You stopped flying out and I’d barely see you outside of Seoul like you- like you gave up or something. I didn’t understand—what happened to you?”

Jaehyun looks at you with a hardened expression, ears turning red as if he hadn’t expected this outburst of truth. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. It’s not like him to open his mouth and let out words that are raw and honest; it makes you feel the weight even more. You were still kids that night. You’re not anymore.

“Jaehyun,” you whisper before reaching your hand out and placing it against his cheek.

It’s so hard to not take in the details. The prominence of the muscle by his mouth when he speaks, the fine lines by his nose which appear sporadically or the look of complete reverence in his eyes when he’s staring at you like this—everything those runway shots can’t possibly capture. Your eyes trail to his lips, your own drawn to it with a desire you don’t know how to comprehend—and don’t quite wish to, either.

You want to believe he made the first move but you give in so easy, it’s alarming. Your lips move against his in a rhythm new and frantic, his hands gripping you with full strength at the waist and you part your lips to allow a deeper kiss. Your hands are free to roam his perfectly styled hair, tousling it in a fashion that makes him groan, only to push you harder against the wall.

“I should’ve- I should’ve let you kiss me that night,” he mumbles against your lips. “Maybe I…I wouldn’t have made you hate me.”

“Maybe you should shut up and kiss me right now,” you respond, your tongue pressing against his, effectively doing the job.

It’s not difficult to see stars when his hips press against yours, his hand resting on one thigh to pull it up slightly. You feel the impact of it head-on, almost moaning out loud when his fingers press harder against the back of your thigh.

“Tell me- Tell me you want this,” he breathes out when he breaks the kiss.

You respond with reconnecting your lips, your tongue sliding against his in fervent affirmations. You’ve already forfeited your modesty, there’s no reason to stop.

You leave early, getting into the car you’d booked for the night. It would be far more embarrassing were it not for the separation between the front and backseats, when Jaehyun’s hands are up your clothes and his lips rough against your neck. The lip colour has smudged by the side of Jaehyun’s lips, a short giggle escaping you when you notice. It’s not enough to halt the kissing, or feeling each other up —something that feels long overdue. You try to keep your sounds to a minimum but Jaehyun seems to not care about things as worthless as shame, at least for the moment.

“Well, you’re about as graceful as a sea lion when you’re off the runway,” you hiss when Jaehyun’s teeth prick your skin.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he responds in a low tone, the rest of his retort pushed away by his lips against your mouth.

You don’t have time to take in the details of Jaehyun’s apartment because he’s already carrying you to the bed, your legs around his waist and continuing to kiss you as if making up for something. All those years, you could have been doing this. Maybe you do have some regrets.

The material of his dress shirt feels expensive but clothes are not what you need right now. His phone rings once but he drags a finger over it to reject the call, his mouth still pressing against your collarbone. The only sounds you hear are rugged breathing and you fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you pull it over his shoulders. The city lights below you reach through the drawn curtains, all the unrelenting complicacies left behind in those faraway streets.

Jaehyun makes a sound of annoyance at the phone ringing yet again. He breaks apart from you, receiving the call while his fingers massage his temple.

“Hyung, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later—”

“I was just wondering where you disappeared and you don’t even grace me with a hello?” Johnny’s voice rings clear in the all too silent bedroom.

“Hyung—”

“Wait a minute.” There’s a pause within which Jaehyun seems to tense up. “Are you fucking? Like did you leave the party to get la—”

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.”

The coral pink spread over his ears is almost as pretty as the look of pure annoyance over his face.

“That—”

“Didn’t happen,” you complete, giggling. If someone were to tell you’d be seeing Jaehyun like this a few months ago, you wouldn’t know whether to be embarrassed or exhilarated.

You place your hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

Sex is barely ever beautiful—even if it’s Jung Yoonoh over you, planting kisses from your mouth to jaw, neck to chest and whispering sweet, delicious words against each part. He certainly knows how to use that tongue of his, better than you’d expect from a boy so pristine.

It doesn’t matter if it’s not beautiful, when it’s just like a slow dance—in shared solace and love out of time. You bite your lips to stop smiling too often for it to feel as serious and indifferent as all the other times. Sometimes you feel Jaehyun grinning into the crook of your neck, the giddiness of love taking over the movement of your hips against his. The perfect anatomy of his, paired with his candied words makes you think that maybe you do fit together.

Jaehyun pushes into you at a steady pace, your fingers digging into his back and over his shoulder blades only to draw out sounds more pleasing to your ears. You let someone else take charge for once, his praising whispers of ‘that’s my baby’ or ‘you just look so good’ far too teasing but he follows through, your body barely able to respond apart from shaking and shuddering till you reach your high.

The sound of skin against skin dies down well into the night and you get cleaned, still blissed out from making the summit of all your senses. It’s warm inside, despite turning the air conditioner on.

“Jaehyun,” you call, lowering yourself to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“Hm?” He gives you a drowsy smile, arm under his head and hair sticking to his forehead funny.

“Did you really not hate me? Not even once?” You rest your cheek against your palm as you lie beside him.

Even under the dim lights, it’s not hard to spot the blush on him when he positively glows. Jaehyun reminds you of warm auburn and the touch of cool satin—it’s easy to make things, find inspiration in love.

“Oh my god, you were lying!” you accuse, sitting up straight. “There’s no way you didn’t hate me. I called your modeling as good as a coconut’s!”

“As you so love to remind me,” he mumbles.

There’s a brief moment before the two of you crack up, his deep laughter perfectly mismatched with yours. There’s hardly many sounds on the eighteenth floor, but maybe you’ve always been yearning for this privacy—this proximity in shared laughter and warm touches.

“No, I didn’t,” Jaehyun answers your question after it’s quiet once again. “I thought...I think you’re…”

Jaehyun trails off, his eyes flickering over your face before fixing on your lips as his own tug into a smile. He gulps. “I think we’d be in trouble if the paparazzi saw us throwing choice words at each other, don’t you think? You were barely out of school then.”

“Me?” You laugh. “You were thinking about me?”

“And a little bit about me.”

You fall asleep against Jaehyun’s chest with the certainty of kinder tomorrows, a thing he teaches you through whispers against the pillow and fingers playing with your hair. There’s something private in the way he holds your face, something delicate and homely running from his long fingers to his flushed knuckles and the rest of his hand as it presses against your cheek. It’s warm here, and safe, and maybe home is where the heart is, after all.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit sad I’m leaving?” you ask, placing your hand over your heart. “Who’s going to help you when you’re getting bullied in the workplace now?”

Doyoung huffs in annoyance, placing the box down beside the moving truck. “You’re the only one who bullies me in the workplace.”

You adjust the ugly baseball cap on your head, the one Jaehyun had pulled over your head in an attempt to stop you from complaining about his messy apartment. You hadn’t realized you’d worn it all the way to Seoul till the articles about your questionable choice of accessories had surfaced.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,” Doyoung says, making a face as he picks your phone up from the box near him. “I can’t even believe this. All those years of flirting and—”

You snatch it from him, glaring at him for the choice of words. He raises his hands defensively, rolling his eyes at your sudden movement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me flying to Seoul?”

“Unless you’re planning to work in a truck rental.”

You hear Jaehyun laugh on the other side of the line. Is it normal to have blood rush straight from your chest to your ears at the sound of laughter? You hope that doesn’t change.

You’d visited him a day before your flight. It hasn’t been all that long but Jaehyun certainly makes it out to be, just so he can use his cheesy one-liners. You try not to smile thinking about how he had flung his hair band out, immediately tousling his hair back into a pretty mess and struggling to keep a straight face when you’d visited out of the blue. Jaehyun wakes up at one in the afternoon when his schedule is empty and it had appalled you enough to help him out with basic chores before you left. (It didn’t end well. He kept putting his chin on your shoulder and sneaking his arms around you while you did the dishes.)

“(name)? (name), are you daydreaming again?”

You sigh. “You can’t wait three more days, Jae? It’s, what, one in the morning there!”

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think I can sleep without waking up to your face.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, unable to grace him with a response. The dreamy languor in his voice is more than recognizable and if you’re not mistaken, he’s going to be saying something highly inappropriate.

“Do you know what dream I had last night?” he asks, the smile almost evident with how suggestive it sounds.

“Jaehyun, no,” you warn before lowering your voice. “I swear if it’s another dirty dream—”

“Come home and I’ll tell you all about it. With demonstrations.”

This time you can’t help the laughter, trying to mask it with a cough only to fail. You push the back of your hand against your cheek in order to soothe the involuntary blush. Your perfume smells just like him, and you realize suddenly why he’d gifted it to you.

“That definitely makes me want to leave faster,” you quip.

“I certainly hope so.”

It’s different now, especially if you remember your feelings just last February. Change feels easy for the first time in your life. You check off your list of items, counting the boxes as they’re lifted onto the truck. It took a good amount of thinking, and a bunch of fights before you could decide. New York isn’t so bad. Not when you have reason to be there. You’d like to call it love.

A list of things you do appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

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simplyotometrash · 4 years

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Some Obey Me Headcanons!

Part One!!

Lucifer

Lucifer has always been the dad sibling. After each of his brothers were “born” while they were angels, he was the one to raise and teach them everything.

It’s common knowledge that Mammon is his favorite. Even if he hates to admit it. He’s hardest on Mammon because it’s the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

Despite the fact that they don’t seem to get along because of Mammon’s antics, Lucifer only ever confides some of his most pent up feelings to the second born.

The only other person he confides in this deeply is MC.

Before the fall, Belphie was his second favorite brother. Even after things have settled after Belphie was free again, he can never look at the youngest the same.

All he wants is for his brothers to be happy and live on. Even if it means working himself into the ground for their sakes.

He doesn’t ask for help. Help has to be forced upon him.

With how much he works, even at home, it’s not uncommon to find him napping with a pen in hand at his desk and his head on his paperwork.

He wishes he had done better raising Satan. He blames himself for their strained relationship, but he feels as if it is too late to truly fix it.

Sometimes he also wishes he had raised Satan as his son and not his brother, considering Satan was born from his wrath.

Children, for some reason or another, flock to him.

His control issues and needing to know everything that happens under his roof stems from the trauma of the war, the fall, and what happened with Lilith.

It’s his deepest fear that he will lose his brothers and be completely and utterly alone.

A bisexual mess of a demon. No one can convince me he doesn’t have at least a small crush on Diavolo.

Mammon

Oh the second born brother. He just wants to see everybody happy. But he always messes up and ends up making people angry instead.

He has severe impulse control issues, hence why he’s broke all the time. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to save his Grimm, I headcanon that his sin of Greed compels him to spend. It controls him and so he struggles to keep money.

But by gods does he have great luck with gambling. Get him going and he will win big every single time.

But keep that money where he can’t just grab it or else he will be compelled by his sin to buy things.

He doesn’t even want most of the things he buys. His sin took root in that empty space left from the fall and being cast out by the one he called his father.

His sin pushes him to try and fill that void with objects and money when really he just wants someone’s love.

After centuries of being called scum and a degenerate because of something he has little control over, he gave up trying and gave into just being his sin.

He cries easy but only to MC or Lucifer. He won’t show his tears to any of his other brothers. Maybe Beel sometimes. But only sometimes.

He knows Lucifer’s most precious and deepest secrets. He’s his brother’s confidant. But he doesn’t even breathe a word of these secrets to anyone else.

He tries so hard to get attention, so he does stupid shit. After falling to Devildom, his family was changed forever. So any attention is good attention even when it’s him being punished.

MC is the one who showed him positive love and attention again. It is one of many reasons he sticks to their side like fucking super glue to skin.

He’s actually a total mom-friend, though you wouldn’t guess it. You’d think he is the type to get drunk and pass out at a party? His alcohol tolerance is actually much higher than he lets on. He cleans up and takes care of people after they’ve all passed out.

Leviathan

He wasn’t nearly as anxious and against socializing before falling to Devildom. He retreated into himself out of fear of the unknown world they had all fallen into after the war.

He has an anxious attachment style. He knows it isn’t healthy. It’s rooted in the trauma that losing Lilith created.

The longer he stayed closed in on himself, the worse his anxiety got. To the point he became a recluse.

He fears getting close to someone. He feels insecure in relationships, not just in himself. He doesn’t feel like he’s good enough.

He’s had relationships in Devildom before, but the first one ended poorly and it only made things worse for how he saw himself. The demon only dated him because of who he was, and preferred his status as the Grand Admiral of Hell’s Navy. Not as who he really is.

The few relationships that came after all ended before they really could begin because his anxiety monster was screaming that he wasn’t really good enough. That they only ever pursued him for who he was in status and power.

MC’s persistence to become his friend is what made him begin to do some self-reflection.

They tried so hard to become friends with him, they put so much effort into him, and they encourage him to just be himself. If they do all of that, maybe he really is enough as he is.

He does try to step outside of his comfort zone more because MC opened his eyes to the truth of himself.

But baby steps are needed.

He taught himself how to code just so he could make games. He got bored after making one and preferred playing to creating.

He doesn’t actually hate Mammon. Their little rivalry traces back to when they were angels and still growing up, competing for Lucifer’s attention. He actually loves his brother very much, despite how irritate he gets.

His envy is its own thing. It took root within his insecurities and has a voice all its own. It used to be so loud that he couldn’t think. But the growth he’s had since MC came into his life helped quiet that voice down a lot.

He’s closest with Satan and Asmo, feeling like he doesn’t fit with his older two or youngest two brothers anymore.

Satan

He knew from day one that he wasn’t like the rest of his brothers. He was always different. Born a demon, never once an angel. He knew that they weren’t truly his brothers.

All he ever wanted was for Lucifer to be his father. Not his brother.

Lucifer once was his hero, the person he admired and respected with all his might.

As he got older, his wrath only grew with him. And his anger at Lucifer grew as well.

He wanted to find himself as separate from Lucifer. He knew where he’d come from. But everyone treated him as if he were just some offshoot of Lucifer. He wanted to be his own person. For everyone to see that. It fueled his anger and built the wall that came between them.

He’s an excellent shoulder for comfort. He often comforts Levi when he breaks down or provides reassurance to Asmo.

These three are the middle children, they stick together.

He was alive when the Library of Alexandria was burned. Even though he wasn’t supposed to go to the human realm, he saved some texts from the library and keeps them safe.

The real reason he wears his jackets the way he does is just like when you’re in bed. If it’s full on with both sleeves, he’s too hot. If he doesn’t have it on at all he’s too cold. So one arm in a sleeve and one arm not in a sleeve.

Asmo has tried and failed to give this boy fashion help. He refuses to take it. He thinks he looked like an intellectual (for the love of god please lose the black undershirt at least, Satan).

He carries cat treats and cat food in his bag at all times in case he comes across a kitty in need.

He has sneaked many cats into the House of Lamentation. Lucifer knew the entire time but let Satan have a few days before he “found out” about the cats.

His wrath has burned strong for so long, even when he was passive, that he didn’t know what it was like to feel calm. But MC’s very presence sends a wave of peace right to his very core.

Asmo

If you’re insecure and you know it clap your hands.

Levi might seem like the king of insecurity, but Asmo takes the cake.

He masks his insecurities with what people think is narcissism and over confidence. He puts on a show so nobody knows how he really sees himself.

Lust was always shoved down his throat as sexual only. So he went with it. He was supposed to be the Avatar of Lust. To be what was expected of him and to make sure he was liked, he did what he thought everyone wanted.

And it turned him into someone he never wanted to be. He didn’t know how to find himself again.

He isn’t nearly as sexual and lewd as everyone thinks. He’s touchy and clingy, yes, but touch is his love language.

When he’s hurt or doesn’t feel well, if he’s had a bad day, if he’s sad- all he wants is to be held by the person he loves and who loves him. He wants to hold hands or link arms. He wants to wrap his arms around them all the time.

But because everyone in Devildom only saw him as a sex symbol, he had to bury his truest desires. He had a persona to keep up.

While he does love to take care of himself, he used to break mirrors because he was so sick of who he had become. It took a lot of time for him to get through it.

His MC is the only one who wasn’t tainted by his power. A power that seemed to just be active all the time whether he wanted it or not.

Everyone was all over him but it wasn’t as if he could control it. His sin was always active, it attracted people.

But MC wasn’t interested or affected.

And that was what was most attractive to him.

They saw him for who he was and encouraged him to just be the true Asmo. Not the Asmo everyone wanted to see.

He is excellent at sewing. He loves making his own accessories and clothing from his own designs.

He’s ambidextrous. You think that the king of fashion only uses one hand? Darling, if he only used one hand then his homework would never get done. He write with one hands and be painting his toes with the other.

One of the few people that can get Levi out of his room to hang out. They’ve always been close. Sometimes he does that just so the others can get Levi’s laundry and dirty dishes.

He’s the most emotionally open and stable of the brothers. He’s made peace with his inner monsters and can coexist with them. He’s also surprisingly good at advice.

Can and will break into Lucifer’s study to make the eldest relax because he’s working too har.

He has bobby pins on him at all times. Not just for fashion but for lockpicking! He can be clever and beautiful!

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo

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scotianostra · 3 years

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On 21st July 1796 Robert Burns died in Dumfries.

Rather than write up an account from several sources and my own knowledge as I normally do I will leave it to the poet and neighbour of the Ploughman Poet, Alan Cunninham, to describe the fateful day……

“It was soon spread through Dumfries that Burns had returned from the *Brow much worse than when he went away, and it was added that he was dying. The anxiety of the people, high and low, was very great. I was present and saw it. Wherever two or three were together their talk was of Burns, and of him alone. They spoke of his history, of his person, and of his works - of his witty sayings and sarcastic replies, and of his too early fate with much enthusiasm, and sometimes with deep feeling. All that he had done, and all that he had hoped he would accomplish, were talked of: half-a-dozen of them stopped Dr. Maxwell in the street, and said, "How is Burns sir?” He shook his head, saying, “he cannot be worse, ” and passed on to be subjected to similar inquiries farther up the way. I heard one of a group inquire, with much simplicity, “Who do you think will be our poet now?”

Though Burns now knew he was dying, his good humour was unruffled, and his wit never forsook him. When he looked up and saw Dr. Maxwell at his bed-side, - “Alas!” he said, “what has brought you here? I am but a poor crow and not worth plucking.” He pointed to his pistols, those already mentioned the gift of their maker, Blair of Birmingham, and desired that Maxwell would accept of them, saying they could not be in worthier keeping, and he should have no more need of them. This relieved his proud heart from a sense of obligation. Soon afterwards he saw Gibson, one of his brother-volunteers by the bed-side with tears in his eyes. He smiled and said, - “John, don’t let the awkward squad fire over me!”

His household presented a melancholy spectacle: the Poet dying; his wife in hourly expectation of being confined: four helpless children wandering from room to room, gazing on their miserable parents and but too little of food or cordial kind to pacify the whole or soothe the sick. To Jessie Lewars, all who are charmed with the poet’s works are much indebted: she acted with the prudence of a sister and the tenderness of a daughter, and kept desolation away, though she could not keep disease. - “A tremor,” says Maxwell, “pervaded his frame; his tongue, though often refreshed, became parched; and his mind, when not roused by conversation, sunk into delirium. On the second and third day after his return from the Brow, the fever increased and his strength diminished. On the fourth day, when his attendant, James Maclure held a cordial to his lips, he swallowed it eagerly - rose almost wholly up - spread out his hands - sprang forward nigh the whole length of the bed - fell on his face and expired. He was thirty seven years and seven months old, and of a form and strength which promised long life; but the great and inspired are often cut down in youth while "Villains ripen gray with time”.

I can’t really add to what Cunningham has written, what I will add is the remarkable story about the night almost 40 years after his death the poet’s skull was taken on a wee walk by a group of Dumfries locals with a strange interest.

The men, led by newspaper editor John McDiarmid, were keen advocates of phrenology - a now discredited pseudo-science that believed you could read deep truths about someone's personality from plotting the bumps on their head.

McDiarmid and others were keen to study the skull of the ploughman poet - a man who was thought of as a natural genius and whose personality was well-known throughout the world.

The phrenologists were interested in Burns because he was such an important character in the public imagination and therefore they wanted to see if the bumps on his skull would match up to his public persona.

However, the Bard's widow Jean Armour was not thought to be keen to allow the phrenologists to disturb her husband's resting place because his remains had already been moved once before.

When Burns died in Dumfries he was not buried in the imposing mausoleum that currently stands in the town's St Michael's kirkyard. The bright, white, rock star tomb, with its pillars and domes and its marble figure of Burns at the plough, was erected 19 years after his death, following a long fundraising effort. His widow was disgusted by the gruesome exhumation of the poet's body, and the remains of two of his sons, to the relocate them to the new monument.

Dumfries Courier editor McDiarmid wrote an account of removing Burns from his original resting place.

He told how when the workmen tried to lift the original wooden coffin "the head separated from the trunk, and the whole body, with the exception of the bones, crumbled into dust".

The newspaper editor may have been accurately describing the scene but he was not there at the time, he arrived in town two years after the event and must have cursed his luck at missing out on getting his hands on Burns' skull for a phrenological study.

It was not until Jean Armour died in 1834 that another opportunity arose to get a plaster of Paris cast of the skull. McDiarmid realised the crypt of the mausoleum was going to be opened and he appears to have obtained permission from Jean's brother to take a cast of the skull. The group carrying out the plan comprised of six men plus their assistants, and by the end of the night the Provost, the Dean of Guild and rector of Dumfries academy as well.

They don't want to be seen and they didn't want a mob to assemble and say 'here they are violating the poet's grave, we are going to stop them. They make their first attempt at 7pm but there are too many people about. At 10pm in come our boys again over the walls, sneak up to the mausoleum with the keys, they go down into the vault with a ladder and a muffled lantern so people didn't see the light.

According to Burns' experts who reconstructed the process, McDiarmid had thought he would be able to take a plaster cast of the skull in the vault but he realised he couldn't. So he popped it into a linen bag and walked it up the high street to Queensberry Street where the plasterer James Fraser worked. They made a mould and from that they took a cast of the skull.

There are several persons involved, one of which is the surgeon Archibald Blacklock and according to the published accounts he, very scientifically, handles this skull.

He also apparently tried his hat on it out of awe, because the skull is so large he wants to know if his hat can fit on it or not. The workmen around him then all apparently try their hats on the skull as well. The freshly-cast skull was rushed to Edinburgh, to George Combe, the master of phrenology, who prepared a report on Burns' personality.

Phrenologists believed the brain was made up of 27 individual "organs" that determined personality and these could be measured by studying the shape of the skull. Combe's report rated Burns for a number of character traits based on the size of the "organs".

One of Burns' organs that was very large was his organ of “philoprogenitiveness,” his ability to produce and care for children! Along with a high score for benevolence, the phrenologists said this explained his love for weak and helpless creatures displayed in poems such as To a Mouse and On Seeing a Wounded Hare. A lot of it was just talking about the poetry and the life and trying to make sense of this scientific analysis in relation to Burns' well-known public character and his written work.

This was a "risky" strategy, because Burns was so well-known that if their findings had been at odds with his public persona it would have made phrenology look like a fraud. So they worked very hard to make sense of these materials. Instead of the scientific philosophy of trying to prove your hypothesis wrong, the phrenologists wanted to confirm their prior beliefs.

The anatomical museum of the University of Edinburgh has a cast of Burns' skull which is likely to be one of the original copies made that night in 1834, there is also a copy in The Burns Museum at Alloway.

Pics include a drawing of the poets “death room” and the skull in the museum.

#Scotland #scottish #poetry #rabbie burns #literature #national bard #history

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junghoseokwife · 3 years

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Merfolk in a Manhole 2

Merman! Yoongi, Merman! Seokjin, Merman! Jungkook, Merman! Jimin, Merman! Taehyung, Human! Namjoon, Human! Hoseok Human! Reader Summary: After getting kicked out of your apartment, you moved in with your parent close to the beach. Digesting as much salty air as you had, you became restless going to the beach to relax. A rather harsh wave smashed onto the beach bringing seaweeds a buttload of fishes and a hideous fish man with big bug eyes and webbed hands or was he a beautiful, sculpted tanned merman who needed help to find his friends? Paring: OT7 x reader Wordcount: 2.7k A/N: Sorry it took so long and I have been trying to get the hang of tumblr so please bear with me editing mistakes. Thank you for all the comments on the first chapter, I am never satisfied with my work so seeing you all like it makes me excited for more.

Your legs weren’t carrying you as fast as you wanted. You wanted to be as far away as possible. The financial stability you had been pining for had just been flushed down the drain and you were just so overwhelmed. You were never the most athletic of the bunch but today you could prove yourself wrong. The only sounds you could hear was the wind whipping against your body. You furiously tried to breathe, but the air was knocked out of you with every step you took. Your vision was collapsing on itself with the lack of oxygen that was entering your lungs. Your body shook violently as you round the corner of the street a little too late slamming your foot on the red and white traffic pole. The minor injury did not slow you down at all. You kept running the harsh pavement heating up under your foot, becoming a pain to move. Your name echoed through your head, your body jolting backwards slamming into a hard surface. You winced in pain as the adrenaline left your body, finally feeling the weight of your situation and the open wound on your leg .You watched the cars zoom past, too busy to care about the pedestrians waiting to cross; this foolish crusade of yours could have ended badly. The arm that had pulled you back tightened around your wrist. Your eyes scanned the road in front of you before looking up at the owner of the hand. “Hoseok” The drive was suffocating. Hoseok had not said anything after he bandaged your wounded leg and dragged you into his car. He tossed his now damage groceries, that he had dropped to chase you, into the trunk. Your anxiety peeking through as you nibbled at your fingernail. He looked through the rear view mirror letting out a disapproving sigh. “Stop that” He motioned for you to take your finger out of your mouth which you did reluctantly. He refocused on the road leaving you to your own devices once again. You decided to look out the window, small trees and dried grass was all you could see for miles. Crossing your arms you allowed the wind to blow your hair not minding the way it whipped your face. You had concluded Hoseok wasn’t carrying you home and you could not be happier, but a little knowledge on where you were going would put your mind at ease. You didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment, but knowing Hoseok and you weren’t on good terms made you queasy so you did the only thing you knew would melt his heart. “Hoseok?” You whispered putting on the best puppy eyes you could “No” He deadpanned not even looking at you. You scoffed; leaning back into the seat “Rude” you whispered under your breath missing the way Hoseok had to bite his lips to contain his smile.

..........

“Wow!” Your voice was louder than you expected on the quiet beach. Hoseok had hauled your injured self out of the beach and dragged you onto the sand. You made a small snail trail that would be helpful if you got lost wondering the beach which wouldn’t be unlikely with how excited you were. You’ve never seen the ocean in your life; your parents never liked the salty air or the sound of the waves. They wanted to live in a wealthy area not ‘some fisherman’s village’ and you just never had time for recreational activities. The aquarium at work could not compare to the vast ocean and long beaches. You sat down, unable to walk anymore with your injured leg. The sand was warm under your skin, sighing contently; you looked at the water eyes reflecting the scorching sun that bounced of the ocean. Everything was serene Everything was beautiful The sand crunched under Hoseok’s weight, you didn’t pay attention to his persistent poking to busy soaking up the view that you might not see again in a while. You really should visit the beach more often. Hoseok was fed up with you ignoring him like he had done to you through the whole car ride. He spun the soda can, now full with condensation, trying to find the coldest area. He smiled devilishly as he placed it onto your skin. You quickly jolt back hissing in surprise, quickly slapping Hoseok on his arm before he had time to flee. He fell into fits of giggles when you grumbled, rubbing the your skin to heat it up. “Namjoon told me about what happened” He sobered up rather quickly opening the can and handing it to you. You swung the can into small circles, slushing around the soda in the can. You hummed as you took a sip, peeking over the can waiting for Hoseok to continue. He also seemed to be waiting for you to say something or at least to give a different reaction if the deer in headlights look on his face was anything to go by. You cracked a smile taking another sip before putting the can down. “Is that why you took me here then, to cheer me up?” “No. I wanted to see you in a swimsuit.” He leaned in a little causing his breath to tickle your face. The serious look on his face caused you to splutter a little. You made a disgusted face leaning back to put distance between both of you. Hoseok’s laughter sound like music to your ears. He returned to his former position, finally taking a sip from his own drink. Hoseok and you had developed a flirty relationship over the years; you both would either reciprocate or reject the other person advances. This type of friendship came out of nowhere but you had no problem with it. “You should move in with your parents. If you get kicked out I mean…” He rose from the ground dusting the sand off his clothes. “They’ve probably been waiting for you to go home for a while” He held out his hand for you to take pulling you off the beach. “I know” you whispered, picking the cans off the sand. “They’re just -”A sigh escaped your lips as stacked the cans ontop of each other following after your friend to the car. Your parents weren’t bad people they just weren’t ready to have children, and it showed. They always kept you at arm’s length, like you were an acquaintance. They would control your social circle deeming Hoseok not worthy to be your friend and that you should get married to Namjoon for connections to his family. “I know…” He smiled sadly “But it’s been years. They are old now. You can leave if it becomes too much.” He turned around taking the cans from you, resting them into the cup holder. You grunted deep in thought. What if he was right? Could they change? You looked back at the beach for the last time as the car started driving. You missed it already.

“Hoseok wait!!” He slowed down the car; you ignored the confusion all over his face as you popped the door open running far down the beach. You ignored the pain that surged through your body, probably reopening the wound on your leg. The sand clung to your feet like it was trying to stop you from where you were going, you stumbled a little before scooping the item in your hand. You turned around to the street giving Hoseok a thumbs up. Following the trail you made earlier in the day you clambered into the car closing the door. You held the item closer to your chest, contented.

..........

Packing was all you seemed to be doing nowadays. Your possessions seemed endless with the need to rest cutting in ever so often. You looked at your still bandaged leg frowning a bit. The leg had gotten infected when you underestimated the severity of the injury giving you a well overdue hospital visit. Hoseok refused to make you continue packing since you needed to ‘rest according to doctor instructions’. He was correct but your rest time prolonged your packing. You had the whole week to pack up and move out which you thought was more than enough time since you had the help of Namjoon and Hoseok, but they had been at work for majority of the week, so most of the work fell on your shoulders. Despite your lack of communication, you were thankful that your parents had paid for the damage to the apartment, saving Namjoon and your wallet from the burden of a lifetime. You decided to rest, wobbling over to your bed. You looked around your almost barren room spying the item you had picked up from the beach. It collected the sunlight in your room separating them in small rays illuminating small areas off the room. You weren’t sure if what you picked up was a seashell, it was shaped like one; if you put it close to your ears you could hear the sea but it looked like an aquamarine gem. It looked so fragile you didn’t dare to take it up after you accidentally dropped it earlier in the week. You have been thinking about making it into a necklace. Warmth spread around your chest whenever you looked at the seashell, you weren’t sure if it was a memory of your time at the ocean or because of how beautiful it looked just sitting on your bedside table. You taped the final box, bending backward to stretch your back. You let out a pleased groan when the muscle loosened. You looked at the clock, just in time you thought. The boxes were already lined up at the front of your apartment waiting for the moving truck. Namjoon had texted you, sorrowful that he couldn’t be there to help you move out. He was just so endearing you couldn’t be mad at him. You sat down on one of the boxes, checking the time. “Any minute now” You grumbled staring at the phone like it would cause time to speed up. When the sound of feet approached you, you quickly got up from the box to give the movers space to do their job. But the sound of your name caused you to look away from your phone. “Mom?” Her eyes were glassed over as she took in your form. You guess that happens when you haven’t seen your only child for years. She covered her mouth choking on her tears a little before turning to your father. They really aged gracefully. The fine lines and wrinkles on their face gave them a softer appearance than what you were used to. They looked like grandparents, kind and wise. You could imagine your mom baking cookies and your dad making a fool of himself trying to help her before she kicks him out of the kitchen. ‘Imagine’ “Mom” She teared up repeating what you had called her. “I’m so sorry, my daughter” Few words had to be spoken to know what that meant. How deep it cut you? You might never know, but the tears streaming down your face had said enough for your parents. The movers quickly stacked the boxes into the truck not sparing a second glance at you and your parents tear eyed and red faces, probably to not make you uncomfortable. After finalizing the move with you the men returned to the truck transporting everything to your new residence. Your father started off in the direction of their vehicle not saying anything to both you and your mom. Her watery smile struck you in your heart, she clasped her frail hands. “Let’s go home”

..........

“Mom!!” She placed a hand over heart still not used to the term of endearment. She wasn’t sure how she went through most of your life not liking the term. She hummed, still stirring the porridge she turned to look at you. You were clinging onto the door frame for dear life having woken up early to go to work. It would take an hour or two to reach but you didn’t mind. You ha adjusted nicely into your new home despite it being a couple days. Your parents had tried their best to make you feel welcomed, correcting their past mistakes. Asking about Hoseok and Namjoon ever so often, trying to integrate your friends into their lives.

“Have you seen my wetsuit?” Before your mother could answer, your father was at the door handing your wetsuit to you. He didn’t say anything as per usual, walking back to his chair on the front porch to overlook the sea. You folded the warm wetsuit placing it under your arm; he must’ve hanged it outside on the line for it to dry since you were too tired to do it last night.

“Thanks dad” You whispered. He grunted as a reply waving you off to get dressed.

Old age does change how someone perceives life. Your parents seemed to value a more peaceful, simple life. Unlike their younger selves who wanted money, business and connections. Now your mom went fishing with your father, she hummed songs as she planted flowers in the windowsills or baked for the children in the village a mile or so from the beach where you reside. The beach house was rather beautiful perched on a cliff, surrounded by shrubs and coconut trees, which mom always had use for. She would experiment making grater cake or coconut pudding allowing you to be the taste tester. Ideally you’d have wanted a father just as openly doting as your mother but this was fine. He took care of you in silence, behind the scenes, washing your wetsuit or suddenly not being hungry when only one portion of lobster was left. If you refused and told him to eat it he would leave the table and sit in his chair overlooking the ocean, forcing you to eat the last piece or it would go bad.

Placing all your belongings into a draw bag you pecked your mom on the cheek and your dad on the forehead before making your way to the bus stop. Your parents had insisted you use their car but your lack of driver’s license would make that impossible.

.........

You, Hoseok and Namjoon were the only ones at work. What irked you more was the lack of work you were getting. The tenseness in the air was palpable as you munched on the snacks you found in the fridge. Namjoon looked too sick to eat picking at his food ever so often. Hoseok was trying to sleep which remain unsuccessful. The lunchroom door opening startled all of you to varying degrees. Seeing your boss march through the door you pulled your hand from the fridge taking a cup of coconut pudding with you. Namjoon was alert while Hoseok sluggishly sat up, fatigue settling in his bones.

“You’re eating more food?” You bossed cocked an eyebrow in your direction. The question sounded normal; as eating before doing your job, which mostly involved swimming wasn’t the best idea. But you understood what he was insinuating, he ‘teased’ you alot. You shoved another spoon of pudding into your mouth to avoid confrontation. Seeing he wasn’t going to get a reaction, he cleared his throat deciding to talk about the matter at hand.

He placed a flyer on the table. One you had been seeing for a while now, on every surface they could fit.

A photoshopped picture of a mermaid sat at the forefront. Around the image were words saying this was the newest attraction for the aquarium. The aquarium wasn’t running low on funds so you didn’t know the need for a stunt like this. It didn’t matter to you, the more the merrier. You could ask them how they managed to hold their breaths so long or swim so gracefully.

“You and you” He pointed to both men in the room. “I need you to train them.”

“You” He pointed to me, seemingly taking in my current condition of being unable to swim he thought carefully about the task. “Reward them if they deserve it; punish them if they deserve it.

The already quiet room fell into a deafening silence.

“They’re arriving in a week or so, so be prepared.” He pulled his phone from his coat pocket, dialing someone before making his exit. Leaving all of you to rationalize what he had said, because mermaids were only mythological.

They didn’t exist.

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kandoesfanfics-writes · 5 years

Text

Maribat Secret Santa 2019

@eve-valution, here’s your gift!!! I really hope you enjoy it! :)

Warning: There is a scene of physical assault later in the fic.

Marinette could feel her heart thudding against her chest as her anxiety began to claw at her throat. She knew that objectively that she looked perfect. Her dress had no noticeable flaws. Her makeup was on point, including her waterproof mascara and eyeliner. There wasn't a hair out of place. Her mask was flawless. Her hotel mirror didn’t lie. There wasn’t a single thing out of place with her outfit

So why did she feel so on edge?

It couldn't be because of her class.

While it was true that they would be attending the Wayne Christmas Gala, thanks to Bruce Wayne himself, Marinette wouldn’t be going with the class. She was going with Jagged Stone as his special guest and personal designer. No one in the class had seen her dress or her mask (as it was a masquerade theme with a midnight reveal) beforehand, so she should be unrecognizable. She would be able to enjoy the party without having to dodge her would-be tormentors.

"Calm down, Marinette! You look gorgeous. I'm sure you'll have fun at the gala. You're sure to turn heads!" a cheerful voice gently reminded her charge.

The little red and black Kwami was gently patting her cheek, trying not to smear her makeup. Tikki just knew Marinette would have an excellent time at the gala. She couldn't tell exactly why, but the Goddess of Creation learned a long time ago that she could trust her gut. Marinette would have a wonderful time with or without her class. Preferably without...

"Thanks, Tikki," Marinette sighed. "It’s just...tonight’s a big night. Uncle Jagged’s officially introducing me to the world. People will know I’m his designer...and it’s a lot.”

Tikki nodded sagely. She knew what her chosen meant. While Marinette felt very honored, and in Tikki’s opinion had rightfully earned everything, she still felt nervous about facing the rest of the world. Marinette knew there would be critics, there always were, but this was something entirely new. The unknown was frightening, and Tikki felt proud of Marinette for deciding to jump headfirst into this.

Marinette adjusted the silky black gloves on her arms again before looking at her heart. The little pink heart smiled at Marinette before floating over to sit on her shoulder. It was still cracked quite badly, but it had regained some color thanks to her platonic soulmates. She was nervous to have her heart come along with her, but she’d been reassured by Tikki several times that everything would be perfectly fine. Her little heart would be happier staying with Marinette rather than sitting back in the hotel room. Marinette would be happier too.

Tikki knew that humans could be separated from their hearts, but that it wasn’t healthy for them. Their hearts were the representation of their souls. To lock one’s heart away or be separated from it had potentially devastating consequences. While she knew Marinette would be okay away from her heart for a few hours, Marinette’s mood would surely tank the longer she was separated from her heart. Tikki wanted to make sure that Marinette had the best time at this gala.

Marinette looked at the clock before rushing to put on her black heels and grab her black clutch. Jagged and Penny would be there soon. Marinette looked at her phone to see Penny had texted her that they were almost at the hotel and to meet them in the lobby. Marinette’s class wouldn’t be leaving for another hour and were currently at dinner. There should be no one to see her sneak out.

There should have been no one to see her sneak out.

Unfortunately for her, there was one classmate that was not at dinner.

Adrien hadn’t felt like having Lila draped all over him during dinner, so he’d lied to Ms. Bustier. He told the redheaded woman that he wasn’t feeling well, and she’d let him go without a fight. The blond had seen Marinette leaving the hotel, eyes glued to her as long as she was in sight. He felt his heart pound as he wrestled internally.

“I don’t love Marinette! I love Ladybug, and only Ladybug...but Marinette sure looked amazing in that dress. Maybe Kagami was right though… maybe it's time I change my target.”

The blond knew their friendship had been rocky since the whole Lila thing, but if there was one thing Adrien knew, it was that Marinette was the most kind person he'd every ever met. She'd surely forgive him once he explained everything! And who knows… maybe she could be his soulmate. Ladybug was supposed to be his other half, but Adrien knew that there were more than one type of soulmate. Perhaps Ladybug wasn’t his romantic soulmate after all.

Adrien had never touched Marinette's heart before. He had been expressly forbidden by his father to touch other people's hearts because 'it could complicate or sour business relations'. Adrien had broken that rule only a few times.

Chloe and Nino were the only two people aside from his family whose hearts he'd come into contact with. Nino was silver, defining him as a platonic soulmate. Chloe's bond had been a metallic blue, signaling her as a sibling bond. Had because Adrien wasn't sure if it had remained the same. He hadn't touched Chloe's heart since Lila joined their class.

Who knows?

Maybe Marinette was destined to be his golden match.

If there was one thing Damian Wayne despised, it was these vapid charity galas his father forced him to attend.

There was nothing enjoyable about standing around while rich people faked basic social skills. It happened every year without fail. Bruce would show up with select members of his brood. Ladies would flaunt their jewelry, dresses, and wealth at them, trying to flirt. Women would surround Bruce, and he’d be lost until one of his investors or someone else came to speak with him. Women would also come and gather around the Wayne boys, and if Cass showed up, there would be some men too.

This year Jason and Cass were on patrol along with Stephanie and Kate. Red Hood, Black Bat, Spoiler, and Batwoman would be on the move throughout Gotham. This would leave Bruce, Dick, Tim, and Damian to attend the gala. Dick was going to be the only one safe from the clutches of the rich socialites. He was attending the gala with his wife and husband. No one would DARE hit on Dick while Kor’i and Wally were nearby…well so long as Kor'i was nearby.

Tim was flying solo for now. Time would only tell if Conner would show up to see him. However, Damian also knew that Tim would be more than preoccupied with the investors and other people inquiring about the company. Women would still throw themselves at Tim, but it wouldn’t be the same. Tim would easily be able to divert his attention to the business aspect while he would have to suffer like his father.

Since Damian was only sixteen, and had no real stake in the company just yet, there wasn’t much to talk about aside from his classes at Gotham Academy. The girls wouldn’t care about his schooling, so they would coo and clamor for his attention. They would tell him all about them and ask if he was dating anyone. It made Damian want to vomit.

He looked in irritation at his father before Damian demanded to know if he could go on patrol as well. Bruce shook his head before saying, “You know the deal, Damian. It’s your turn this year. Besides, you might have fun. Jared’s coming with his wife and his new designer. Apparently, his designer is a young lady your age.”

Damian rolled his eyes at that. Sure, he’d have a great time with some snooty designer. He wasn’t expecting her to be any different than the designers he’d met before. He was almost positive she would be full of herself, brag about her many accomplishments, and try to woo her way into the family. Just like all the others before her, this girl would get on Damian’s last nerve. He’d then be in trouble for insulting a lady’s sensitivities, and Bruce would pretend to apologize.

“I saw that, Damian. Jared, or as he’s now known Jagged, doesn’t hang around just anyone. He’s the only one allowed to be a primadonna, so the people around him are usually very down to earth,” Bruce said. “Give her a chance, please? Jagged said she’s never been to an event like this before. Besides, with masks on, no one should know who we are until midnight. Then you only have about an hour or two of the ladies trying to woo you.”

The youngest Wayne gave a deep sigh before telling his father he’d give the girl a chance. If she’d never been to one of these events before, perhaps there was still hope for her yet. Maybe if Damian kept her all to himself, she might be a bearable gala partner. He pulled on his overcoat before walking to the limo with his brothers, brother-in-law, and sister-in-law.

There was no getting around it, so Damian might as well try and have fun. Besides, Bruce had a point. Since this year’s theme was a masquerade, perhaps he could avoid the annoying ladies until the end of the party. He could walk around incognito to everyone but his family, and perhaps he could actually enjoy himself for once.

Well, Damian thought, what could it hurt to hope? ———————————————————————— The second Penny saw her, the pink haired woman cooed over Marinette.

“Oh, my little star! Look how gorgeous you are! I love the design! Jagged, isn’t she just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Jagged smiled widely at Marinette before giving her a thumbs up.

“Rockin’ outfit, Nettie! They’re sure to go wild for it!” Jagged said with a grin. “I’m lovin’ that mask.”

Marinette smiled before looking over Penny and Jagged.

“Everything fits, right? No one had any wardrobe malfunctions?” she asked, tense in her seat.

Penny laughed before telling her everything was perfect. Her mask was white with black around the eyes, decorated with pink lightning bolts made of rhinestones. Her dress was a mermaid style with ombre fabric. It started off at pink at the top that faded into black at the bottom. She was wearing the pink diamond necklace Jagged had gotten her as along with the pink diamond ring when he proposed to her. She had iridescent music notes sewn into her dress with translucent thread.

Jagged’s suit was an ombre as well except for instead of pink, it was purple that faded into black. His suit had similar music note designs. His mask was solid black with flames on it. Jagged wanted him and Penny to have similar designs as this would be the first event they would be attending as husband and wife. He was holding Penny close as he smiled brightly at Marinette.

“When we get there I’ll introduce you to my old pal, Bruce Wayne,” Jagged told her. “We went to school together when we were boys, and he was really the only one who thought me being a musician was a perfect fit for me. I’m positive he’ll commission you the second he sees your amazing work.”

“It’s really-”

“Now, little star,” Penny began, her tone warning. “We’ve talked about this; no more talking yourself down! You’re brilliant, Marinette. You’ve earned your place here with your amazing designs.”

Their hearts nodded eagerly from their spots on the couple’s shoulder. Jagged’s royal purple heart was holding onto Penny’s raspberry pink heart. Both were smiling at Marinette, reflecting their owners pride and affection for the young lady.

“Okay,” Marinette responded softly. “It is amazing...but do you really think Bruce Wayne will like it?”

“Of course, Nettie! Little star, that man can be surprisingly rock ‘n roll for a bigshot,” Jagged said with a grin. “Besides, you’re way too awesome for him not to like!”

The driver chose then to let them know they had arrived. Marinette looked out at the crowd as her anxiety skyrocketed. That was a lot of people...and a lot of cameras. She felt her heart burrow into the safety of her dress. She touched her face anxiously to make sure that her mask was still firmly in place. Reassured that it was, Marinette followed Jagged and Penny out of the car.

Only for her to be swept away by the lights and cameras. ——————————————————————— The press was there and were making a nuisance of themselves.

Fantastic.

Damian forgot how much he hated the press until there were cameras being shoved in his face. Even with his green cat shaped mask, most of the press immediately parted to let him through. He figured it was what Jason called his ‘murderous aura’ that made people move away from him, even though they had no way of knowing he was Damian Wayne. He had almost reached the door when his heart tugged his hair, making him look to his left. He spotted someone shaking in terror as microphones were shoved in her face.

She looked to be only about five foot, maybe five foot one in her heels. She was wearing a gorgeous sleeveless qipao that reached just above her ankles. It was black with the most intricate embroidery that Damian had ever seen. The bright red thread swirled into delicate flowers...and what appeared to be ladybugs on closer inspection. Her hair was in a bun with two delicate gold hair sticks as her accessory.

Damian could tell she was freezing, clearly not being prepared to be outside with the press for as long as she’d been. She had her arms crossed, rubbing her gloved hands against her bare skin. She was trying to answer one question until another reporter asked her something else, distracting and overwhelming her.

His jade green heart kept tugging aggressively on his hair, eventually flitting down to his sleeve. It tugged and tugged until Damian began walking towards her. His heart flew back under his suit coat the closer he got to the cameras. He took off his coat, strolling over casually to the young woman. He gently draped his coat over her shoulders, before smiling stiffly at the press.

“Enough with your rudeness,” Damian said as politely as possible. “Miss, why don’t I escort you inside? And please, keep the jacket until you warm up.”

The young lady looked up at him in shock, and Damian nearly felt his throat close. True, he couldn’t see half her face, but what he could see were two absolutely breathtaking blue eyes. Her mask was solid black, much like her dress, embroidered with the same red thread and design as her dress. She looked at him timidly as he gently guided her into the building.

“Are you all right, Miss? The press can be animals,” he said, arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. “Are you here with anyone? Maybe I can help you find-”

Damian paused as his heart peeked out from behind his suit jacket. His green eyes widened as his cracked and bruised heart gently pressed against the young lady’s bare cheek. His throat went dry as his heart shimmered gold. He saw her blue eyes go wide as well as she reached up to cradle the heart in her silk covered hands.

“Oh..OH!” she said in clear shock.

Her heart peeked out from inside her clutch, still trembling. Damian figured her heart was probably still stressed from the previous situation with the press. He gently held out his hand and watched as the pale pink heart warily floated into his hand. The moment it touched Damian’s fingers, it shimmered gold as well.

“Hello there,” Damian said softly. “It’s very nice to meet you, my golden match.” —————————————————————— Marinette felt like she was going to panic.

Jagged and Penny were nowhere in sight. They’d gotten separated when the paparazzi started swarming around her. She had cameras shoved in her face as people asked her a million questions at once. She could feel her heart trembling in her clutch as she tried to navigate the cameras and questions.

She could barely hear what they were asking her over the pounding of her heart. How in Kwami’s name was this supposed to be fun?! Marinette was freezing now since she couldn’t get inside. The camera crews were blocking her path, and she was struggling to make her way through. Marinette started to shake as she became overwhelmed and nauseous.

Then she felt a weight on her shoulders and felt warmth surround her. She looked up just in time to watch a handsome young man tell the press off. He had dark black hair that was spiked up and beautiful jade eyes. His mask was a dark green color, cat shaped with pale gold thread making a beautiful looping design on it. He had a strong jaw, and gorgeously tanned skin. He was built, and Marinette felt much safer with his arm around her protectively. He led her into the building without hesitation, taking her away from the flashes of the cameras.

She felt her heartbeat in her throat as the man told her to keep the jacket until she was warm. Marinette couldn’t help but feel touched when the man asked her if she was okay. He genuinely seemed concerned for her and was about to offer his assistance until a gorgeous jade color heart popped out of his suit jacket. Marinette nearly bit the inside of her cheek as she looked at the heart.

It was badly cracked and bruised, much like her own heart. Marinette felt it press gently against her cheek and watched the young man’s green eyes widen. Why were his eyes widening? Unless...unless his heart was reacting to her? Was it? Could they be soulmates?!

Marinette’s eyes widened as she reached up to touch the heart. She looked down at the heart, still a brilliant gold color, resting in her hands.

“Oh...OH!” she said shocked.

She watched her own heart peek out from her clutch. The little pink heart was still trembling, though Marinette couldn’t blame it. She was still rather shaken up after the whole incident with the press. The only thing keeping her grounded was the golden heart in her hands, and the arm that anchored her to the present.

She watched as the man held out his free hand towards her heart. Marinette was surprised to see her heart actually float towards him. It was watching him warily, but the second it touched his fingers, it turned a brilliant gold. She looked up at him, only feel her knees go weak at the expression on his face.

Those green eyes were locked onto her with the gentlest expression Marinette had ever seen. He was smiling at her broadly before saying, “Hello there. It’s nice to meet you, my golden match.”

Marinette flushed a brilliant red color before looking down at her shoes. Why was he looking at her like that?! He didn’t know anything about her! So what if they were romantic soulmates? That didn’t mean she’d fall in love with a complete stranger just like that! She looked back up at him to see he was looking at her with concern.

“I-I-I’m not go-go-going to fal-fall for you just be-be-because we’re golden hearts!” Marinette stammered, her accent coming in thick. “I-I don’t kn-know you!”

She braced herself for the anger that would come with her response. Chat Noir had always gotten angry at Ladybug for telling him that she would not fall in love with him. He would scream at her that they were meant to be and that she did really love him. He would grab her wrists and shake her, telling her to stop being so stubborn and accept fate. Chat had also gotten very cross with her for not letting him see her heart.

She’d told him several times that if she showed him her heart, then he’d be able to figure out her civilian identity. Chat had told her he didn’t care. They were Ladybug and Chat Noir, two halves of a whole, destined to be together for the rest of their lives. Marinette had responded that she barely knew Chat, and she couldn’t fall in love with a stranger.

“...Miss! Miss! Are you okay? You’re shaking,” a voice broke through. “Do you want me to leave?”

Marinette’s world snapped back into focus. She noticed that know her golden heartmate’s hands were resting on her upper arms. He was leaning over to look her in the eye. The worry was clear in his expression. He smiled at her reassuringly before saying, “It’s okay. That’s perfectly understandable. I’m a complete stranger to you, soulmate or not. If you’d be comfortable, would you like to accompany me? We could talk during the party, but if you’re not comfortable, I’ll take my leave.”

Marinette couldn’t help the look of shock that appeared on her face. He...he didn’t mind? He didn’t mind that Marinette wasn’t in love with him on sight? He-he wanted to talk with her? He wanted to get to know her? He would leave if she asked? Was he really that concerned about her comfort?

“I...could...you really aren’t angry?”

She watched her heartmate’s expression shift into shock.

“Red...why would I be angry? We’re both complete strangers to one another. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted me to leave, or at the very least, wanted me to take off my mask so you can see my face,” he said. “You’re my golden match, but if we aren’t meant to be together at this moment, than I can wait a little longer for you. Besides, not all golden soulmates end up together. Some choose to love others outside their bond...just because we’re golden doesn’t mean we’re trapped in a relationship.”

Marinette almost began to cry in relief. Her eyes watered as she realized this guy wasn’t going to be like Chat. He was giving her a choice. He didn’t look like he wanted to leave her, but he was giving her the chance to walk away. If she said she didn’t want to talk to him, he told her he’d leave. For whatever reason, Marinette believed him when he said it too. There was just a strong feeling in her gut that told her he wasn’t lying to her.

“...would...would you mind escorting me around?” Marinette asked timidly. “I lost the people I came with.”

“Of course, Red,” he replied, holding out his arm. “This way.” ———————————————————— Damian was very concerned about his golden heartmate.

She was terrified after telling him that she wasn’t going to fall in love with him just because they were golden heartmates. She had zoned out after that, her blue eyes staring off into empty space. She had gone extremely pale, and her eyes were haunted. She had even begun to tremble, leading him to grip her upper arms and try to get her attention.

She was clearly thinking of something extremely distressing or trapped in an unpleasant memory. He called to her until she came back to him, distress clear in her body language. He tried to smile reassuringly at her while comforting her. Damian reassured her that he didn’t expect her to fall in love with him on the spot, and that if she wanted him too, he’d leave her alone.

Damian really wanted to get to know his golden heartmate, but clearly she’d been badly hurt by someone. He wouldn’t push her to accompany him around the gala if it was going to hurt her further. He didn’t want to hurt her...not her. He was sorely tempted to grab his katana and run through whoever made her so terrified of establishing boundaries with people.

Just because she was his soulmate didn’t mean she owed him shit! She was her own woman. She was free to do what she wished, with or without him. Damian would very much like it to be with him, but once again, he didn’t own her. If she didn’t wish to, she didn’t have to be with him.

His heart looked sadly at the girl when she asked Damian if he was angry. Damian looked down at her heart, which was holding itself and looking up at him with such trepidation. It made him sad, and his heart reflected that, looking up at her with such sorrow.

Who had hurt her like this?

Damian told her exactly how he felt about everything. They were strangers. He wasn't expecting her to swoon upon seeing him. He'd wait for her. He'd be willing to give her up should that be what she desired. He didn't own her, soulmate or not, and Damian wanted his soulmate to make the choice to be with him.

He'd called her Red on instinct, feeling it would not be wise to ask her name at the present moment. If they decided to separate now, the odds of them knowing who the other was and finding them again would be slim. As much as it hurt, Damian was prepared to leave in order to show his respect for her feelings.

Then she asked if he would take her around, and Damian felt a spark of hope.

“Of course, Red,” he replied, holding out his arm. “This way.”

Red took his arm timidly, but had a firm grip on him. She was looking around anxiously until they stepped into the ballroom. Then Damian watched as Red's eyes went wide, a smile breaking out on her face. She almost immediately released his arm to pull a small sketchbook out of her clutch.

Damian watched as Red flipped to a blank page, noticing the book was full of clothing designs.

"The architecture is very beautiful," Damian said, looking around. "The Waynes have their Christmas Gala here every year. It was a tradition Bruce Wayne's parents started."

"I can see why!" Red said enthusiastically. "It's absolutely gorgeous."

"Getting any good ideas, Red?"

"Oh, I'm getting plenty, Green. I apologize, but if I don't at least write the details out, I'll completely forget what I was thinking."

Damian raised an eyebrow at the nickname. Green? Oh well, Damian figured there were worse things she could call him. At least she was talking to him without fear…

And what a beautiful sight it was.

Red was much more animated now. She was smiling brightly as she sketched away in her little book. She even started to talk about herself a little. She mentioned she was a designer here as someone's special guest. She told him that she'd designed their outfits as well as her own… though admitting that seemed to bring back some anxiety.

"You are very talented," Damian said with a gentle tone. "That qipao looks absolutely divine. You did the embroidery by yourself?"

Red flushed beautifully at his words. Her big blue eyes looked at him with surprise before responding that yes, she had done everything herself. She then asked how on earth he knew it was a qipao.

"My mother," Damian replied with a shrug. "I haven't quite found a passion like you have, Red. I will probably go into business like my father before me."

"Your father's a businessman?" Red asked, slowing her furious pencil strokes.

"Yes, and so is my one brother."

"What about your mother?"

"...we don't talk anymore. She wasn't… she tried, but she wasn't the best mother."

Red looked sad at that before quietly apologizing for asking.

"Red, don't apologize. Believe it or not, that's the nicest way anyone's ever asked about my mother," Damian tried to reassure her.

That seemed to set something off in Red.

"What do you mean? That's the nicest way?! Just what were these people asking?" she demanded, her adorable accent getting thicker.

Damian laughed before quickly trying to change the topic. Red seemed to dislike that until he told her if he gave her an answer, she would be able to figure out who he was easy. Damian pointed out that if she wanted to know the real him, Red would need to talk to him without knowing his name. She seemed confused, so Damian explained.

"Not everyone gets to be themselves in their day to day lives. Celebrities, for example, have an image they need to uphold at all times or it could ruin their careers and damage their reputation. Some people you hear their name and have an immediate idea of who they should be based off their media coverage. Just because that's how you think it should be doesn't make it right."

Red seemed to ponder that for a moment before saying, "No names, no identifying information, but everything else is fair game."

"Sounds reasonable. What does your family do?" Damian asked.

"My parents are bakers. I think Papa was hoping I'd carry on the family business, and I do love baking, but fashion is where my heart is. I don't have any siblings."

"Want some of mine? I have four officially adopted siblings and a gaggle of people who might as well be my siblings. They're around our house often enough."

Red laughed before saying the house must be busy. Damian rolled his eyes and told her she had no idea. He nearly melted at her genuine laughter, finding her rather adorable when she was smiling.

They continued to ask each other questions, and Damian found himself utterly fascinated by the young lady beside him. She was Chinese-French. She was from Paris, and her class was here on a trip. She was sixteen, and in the French equivalent of high school. She had already won a fashion contest and designed for famous individuals. She was an only child, but babysat frequently. She wanted a hamster for a pet but loved other animals as well. She was very excited when Damian told her he had a pet cow.

He had also learned that she was being bullied. She admitted there was a girl in her class who was constantly lying, and despite that, everyone believed her and liked her. This girl had turned their entire class against Red. She’d almost gotten Red expelled, and that was merely the tip of the iceberg. Red continued to tell him about all the nasty things this girl had done to her, and how only one classmate knew the girl was lying and had done nothing to stop her. Red admitted that it was nice to finally be able to vent about the situation, since her class wouldn’t believe her and told him about Hawkmoth as well.

Damian quietly made a mental note to check the Justice League’s database to see if they’d been aware of the situation. If not, he would quickly rectify this mistake. After all, there was a super villain that needed to be stopped.

In return he told her that he wasn't originally from Gotham, but had been living there for the last six years with his father. He told her he was sixteen as well and attended high school. He told her about his pets, especially Batcow upon seeing her excitement. He told her about his day-to-day life, and they made their way over to the food spread.

Damian took turns eating with Red after asking the other a question. He found himself having fun with the young lady beside him. She was very sweet and funny. She took her time answering his question and asked him very thoughtful ones about himself. Red really seemed to want to get to know him, and she really paid attention to Damian’s answers. The fact she looked adorable in his coat didn’t hurt either. She still had it over her shoulders, occasionally pulling it closed like a security blanket.

Their hearts seemed to be content together as well. They had started the evening on one another’s shoulders, but eventually, Red’s pink heart decided to hold hands with Damian’s own jade heart. Damian secretly hoped that Red’s heart trusting his meant that Red was starting to trust him as well.

They were discussing what they’d like to do for college when someone screamed Red’s name. ———————————————————————— Marinette felt a chill creep down her spine as she heard her name.

"Marinette! Marinette! There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. Why'd you leave so early?"

Adrien.

How did he know it was her? He shouldn't know. How did he know? He. Shouldn't. Know. She didn't show anyone else her gown or her mask. She was wearing Green’s coat! How in God’s name did he know it was her?!

Marinette turned around slowly, pulling Green’s coat closed as her heart darted underneath it. She took several deep breaths before turning to look at the blond boy coming up from behind her. He was wearing a mask similar to Green’s. It was a cat-like mask, but in black. The threading on it made a more geometric pattern and was made with silver threading. His green eyes swept over her body, narrowing once he spotted the coat. His expression at first had been friendly, but it quickly turned into something more sour.

Adrien was followed by the majority of their class. Some of them looked confused, as if they didn’t know she was here, while others looked at her with disdain and scorn. Alya, still recognizable even with her cheap looking orange mask, was the next person to come up to her.

“Funny, I thought we left your worthless ass back at the hotel,” Alya hissed. “You shouldn’t have come, Marinette. You’re just going to ruin this for everyone.”

Marinette’s eyes drifted up and down Alya’s form, taking in the cheap taffeta dress she was wearing. It was a formless dress that really didn’t do her any favors, in Marinette’ opinion, that was a shade of orange. Her hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she was wearing orange flats.

“Funny, I thought your outfit would have ruined the night,” she said calmly. “It really doesn’t look like it belongs in such a fancy party as this.”

“That’s because you refused to make our dresses! You’ve always made our dresses! Just because you don’t like Lila, doesn’t mean you get to be a bitch about it!” Alya snapped.

Several of the other girls nodded, glaring at her. Now that Marinette could see her classmates, it appeared as if they’d all bought their dresses from the same store. They were all wearing cheap-looking taffeta dresses in different colors with matching flats. Their masks were all rather plain looking, clearly made at the last minute. Marinette almost burst out laughing at how terrible they all looked.

The boys faired only slightly better. Their suits were cheap-looking, but not as terrible as the dresses. They had ties and masks that matched their dates (if they had one), but at least all their shoes were black. They looked uncomfortable with everything, not even really looking at Marinette.

The only one that looked fine was Chloe, who wore a beautiful mermaid style dress that was a pastel yellow. She had her blonde hair down for once and was wearing a diamond necklace and bracelet. Her mask was a pale gold color with the gold becoming darker above her eyes. It was edged with intricate black lace. Clearly her father had given her the outfit (or she’d bought it with his money).

Lila looked downright livid upon seeing Marinette. She was wearing the same thing as Alya, just in a darker shade of orange. She tried to grab Adrien’s arm, but he pulled away from her. Her sickly green eyes glared daggers at Marinette as Adrien walked up to her.

“Marinette...who’s this?” he asked, his expression sour. “It’s not safe to hang around strangers. You should come be with your friends. I even wanted to ask you if you’d like to dance. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“This is my friend,” Marinette said flatly. “We were having a good time talking before you showed up. I do not want to dance.”

“As if! You’re just saying that!” Alya sneered. “You’ve been in love with Adrien for years. Tell him Marinette! Tell him how you’re the one who made him all those gifts, like the scarf he thought was from his dad! How it was always you who wanted him to go to stuff. How you were always trying to get together with him!”

Adrien looked shocked as he glanced at Marinette. She had made him that scarf? She was the one who was always trying to arrange things so he could go? She was the one remembering all these important dates? Had Marinette always done things like this, or had he been special? Did she really love him? Did he really have a chance-?

“Not anymore. I used to have a crush on Adrien. It’s true I did a lot for Adrien to get him to notice me. Then I realized that Adrien wasn’t worth it. He was never worth it.”

Marinette had a steely expression as she spoke, holding her head high.

“Lila’s a liar, and Adrien’s been hiding the truth from you. Adrien knows that she lies about things, but he told me not to rock the boat. He told me to ignore Lila in hopes that she’d just go away. When you all told me I was a terrible person, a bully, a freak...when you told me I should...I should just disappear, Adrien did nothing. True friends don’t stand by when their friends need them,” she sighed before holding her hand up to Adrien. “And don’t try to apologize. I won’t accept it. You can have fun with Lila. You two deserve each other.”

Marinette turned back towards Green, not noticing the darkening expression on Adrien’s face.

The boy couldn’t understand why she’d say such terrible things. Why wouldn’t Marinette let him apologize? He wanted to apologize! Adrien felt terrible that Marinette felt so neglected. If she’d just give him a chance, then he could prove himself! He could prove that he could be a good friend to Marinette. He just needed to touch her heart! Surely if he touched her heart, then Marinette would see that they were meant to be together in some way!

Adrien shook off Lila again, grabbing Marinette by the arm.

“Show me your heart!” Adrien demanded, his grip tight despite the coat adding extra cushion. “Show it to me, and I’ll prove to you that we’re meant to be at least friends! I can’t lose you, and Ladybug! Ladybug will never love me, but Marinette could, and I demand to have a chance!”

“No. Let me go!” she hissed. “Let go of my arm, Adrien!”

“Let her go!” Lila pretended to sob. “Adrien, she’s not worth it! Can’t you see that she was just a whore playing with your affections? Please, Adrien! I love you too much to let you go through with this!”

“Yeah, she’s nothing!” Alya joined in. “C’mon, Adrien. It’s almost midnight! That’s when all the masks come off, and Jagged Stone will be unveiling his new designer!”

“Don’t you want to see Jagged’s designer?” Lila said, still pretending to cry. “I worked so hard to help them get there! I need to go see Jagged unveil my creation to the world! Besides, that designer is one of my best friends! I promised I would be there to show my support!”

Adrien just gripped Marinette’s arm harder, causing the black haired girl to let out a whine of pain. Marinette tried freeing herself from his grasp, smacking his arm, and trying to pry his hand off of her. Adrien responded by gripping harder and began to shake her. As Marinette struggled to free herself, Adrien began shouting at her that she needed to let him apologize so they could start over.

When Marinette refused, Adrien swept his leg under hers, causing her to fall to the floor.

They were now drawing attention from the other party-goers, some who rushed to get security and others who watched the whole thing go down.

Adrien tried to get a hold on Marinette again, but got frustrated with her struggling and grabbed her by the hair, ripping her bun out. Marinette struggled to her feet before punching him in the gut. Adrien lashed out, catching Marinette across her right cheek with a loud thud.

Before any of the French teenagers could blink, Adrien was on the floor, his nose profusely bleeding. —————————————————————————————— The punch was the last straw.

Damian didn’t even hesitate before punching the annoying blond in the face, most likely breaking his nose. He had a bad feeling this was who had hurt his soulmate so deeply that she was afraid of Damian’s reaction to her saying she wasn’t in love with him. This pathetic boy had demanded his chance from his golden heartmate as if it was something he was owed! Not only that, but he had hurt Marinette!

Marinette, Damian thought, such a pretty name that fit such a pretty girl.

He thought he’d been pissed off before when the girl, Marinette had called her Alya, was insulting his golden heartmate. The only reason Damian hadn’t stepped in was simply because it appeared like Marinette had had it handled. He didn’t want to fight her battles for her, not when she was clearly able to do so herself. More than likely, Marinette would have just found that insulting as he’d gathered from their talks that she was rather independent.

So, he’d swallowed his rage and allowed her to defend herself. At least until the stupid boy— Adrien— had hit her. Once Adrien was on the floor, he put himself directly in front of Marinette. He glared at the other French teens, daring one of them to try and take him on.

“What the fuck was that for!” Alya screeched. “You broke his nose!”

“He hurt Marinette,” Damian replied, hearing Marinette gasp in shock.

She had probably thought Damian couldn’t understand French One look at her class told him that the others were of a similar mind. They looked at him with shock and fear. Adrien was the only one who didn’t look shocked, just pissed off. The blond got to his feet before snarling, “Who the fuck do you think you are!? Why are you getting in between me and my princess?!”

“Because you brain dead imbecile, Marinette doesn’t belong to you! She doesn’t belong to anyone! Marinette is her own person, and if she doesn’t want to hear your sorry apology, then she doesn’t need to hear it! She doesn’t need to do shit for you!” Damian snarled. “You put your hands on her. You assaulted her. You hurt her. I simply thought it was time for me to step in.”

“So you stepped in after I hit her?” Adrien questioned.

“I stepped in after it was clear that the situation was no longer under control,” Damian responded. “Marinette was handling herself just fine until you hit her. She’s not weak, and she’s most certainly not defenseless. I did not believe she wished for me to fight her battles, so I didn’t.”

Damian could hear security approaching as well as a woman shouting something in French. The red haired woman rushed over to Adrien and began looking over him. She also tried to get the others under control, as they’d all started screaming and yelling at one another. Damian responded to security by yanking his mask off, revealing who he was.

“The blond in the black cat mask with the bloody nose assaulted the young lady behind me,” he said curtly. “I’d like him removed from the gala, and I need to find my father. He’ll be barred from any future Wayne Galas as well.”

“You can’t do that!” Adrien hissed.

“I can,” Damian responded, turning to look at Marinette.

Marinette was shaking again, all the previous courage she had gone. Her mask was off now, having been knocked off during the struggle. Her blue eyes were wide, framed by beautiful black lashes. She had a cute button nose that was splashed with now visible freckles. Her right cheek was already bruising, and her hair was a mess.

Damian knelt down and gently picked up her gold hair sticks from the floor. He held them out to her slowly, not wanting to frighten her, as he stood back up.

“Marinette, do you need my help?” he asked gently.

He waited for the dark haired girl to decide patiently. He knew she probably wasn’t okay, but he also wasn’t sure if she’d want him to touch her. She’d just been assaulted, so perhaps he should find a woman that could be trusted to help Marinette fix herself up. He was relieved when Marinette took the golden sticks from his hands. He was even more relieved when she moved closer to him.

Marinette rested her left cheek on his right shoulder, trying to hide her face in his shoulder. Damian could hear her start to sniffle and wrapped his arms around her. He gently rubbed her back, allowing her to cry while shielding her face. Marinette shook in his arms, and he felt the rage come back...until he felt Marinette’s heart began to nuzzle against his neck and her face, searching for comfort. The rage faded, and Damian focused his thoughts on making sure Adrien couldn’t touch Marinette again.

Damian spotted his father walking towards him, followed by Dick, Kor’i, Wally, and two other people he hadn’t met yet. They were talking with the security guards, and Damian would bet that Tim was probably going over the security footage. His father walked up to him with a serious expression.

“Damian, could you please explain why you punched one of the students from the visiting French class?” he asked sternly.

“He assaulted his classmate,” he said. “He grabbed her and tried to get her to come with him. When she refused, he swept her legs out from under her. He tried to get a grip on her, but got mad and pulled her hair. She got up and punched him in the stomach so he’d let go. Then he punched her, and that’s when I punched him. Show him your face, Marinette.”

Damian gently touched Marinette’s head. She lifted her head up to look at him, and he watched his father’s expression darken. Bruce may have been mad at Damian for possibly starting an international incident, but he knew that his father wouldn’t hold it against him for defending someone else. He noted that several bystanders had come up to defend him, telling Bruce what had transpired before security arrived.

A strange man with black and purple hair rushed over to him, followed by a pink haired woman. Both looked horrified and concerned. The woman actually pulled Marinette from Damian’s hold, but seeing how Marinette immediately latched onto her, he swallowed his displeasure. The woman held Marinette tightly, rocking a little, as she asked what had happened and if Marinette was going to be alright.

Dick chose this time to come in, tapping the man with the purple and black hair on the shoulder.

“Jagged Stone, this is my youngest brother and Bruce’s only biological child, Damian Wayne. Damian, this is Jared “Jagged” Stone. He’s Bruce’s old friend. The woman with the pink hair is his wife, Penny Stone,” Dick said.

“While it’s nice to meet you, Damian, I want to know what the hell happened to Marinette!” Jagged said, glaring at Damian. “We got separated by the paparazzi when we arrived and weren’t able to find her since!”

“She was with me, though I didn’t know who she was,” Damian responded honestly. “I saw her getting harassed by the reporters and stepped in. We’ve spent the last few hours talking to one another until that Adrien boy found us. He tried getting Marinette to come with him, and he didn’t seem too pleased that I was here. He hurt her when she refused to go with him, so I punched him.”

“What?! That little bastard punched my niece! Where is he? I’ll take his damn head off!” Jagged growled, surprising both Dick and Damian with the ferocity behind it. “Penny, watch after our little star! I’ve got a boy to skin.”

“Follow Father. He’ll be the only one with the bloody nose,” Damian supplied helpfully.

Jagged stalked off with Dick behind him as Kor’i and Wally stepped up to the group. Kor’i immediately went to the other two women and asked if Marinette would like to clean up in the bathroom. Penny had looked towards Marinette, and the dark haired girl simply nodded. Kor’i led the way towards the ladies room while Wally stood beside Damian.

“Well this is a mess,” Wally tried to joke.

Damian nodded sullenly. Instead of continuing to try and talk to the boy, Wally settled for watching Bruce and Jagged rip into the boy, his teacher, and the class for trying to defend his actions. Damian felt his anger reach the boiling point when her classmates called her a liar and a bully. He also felt angry when the teacher tried to excuse it away as “teenager stuff”. He almost laughed out loud when Bruce responded that he had raised four teenage boys and that none of them would have thought this was acceptable behavior. Her teacher had almost wilted at that.

But nothing was quite as sweet as when Jagged brought the liar to her knees in front of the class that revered her.

“I can’t believe you people! You’re standing here trying to tell me that my favorite little designer, my little niece is a bully and a liar?! Not rock’n’roll at all! Marinette is the sweetest, most creative little star I’ve ever met. She gets my jagged style, and she’s an extremely hard worker. Marinette didn’t get to be my designer based on lies. She got to be my designer based on her own hard work and skills,” Jagged snapped at the class. “Besides, no one deserves to be assaulted!”

“That’s not true! Lila was the one who set Marinette up with you. If it hadn’t been for Lila, she wouldn’t be your designer at all,” Alya argued. “She was just being an ungrateful bitch!”

“...but Marinette doesn’t like Lila...and Lila said the designer was one of her best friends,” a red haired boy quietly pointed out. “How could Lila have done what she said if Jagged’s telling us that Marinette is his designer?”

“Marinette is my designer! And who is this Lila? Why is she telling lies about my little star?” Jagged demanded to know.

“But Lila saved your kitten! Remember? It was on the runway of the airport! You wrote a song about her too! It’s all over my blog!” Alya asked desperately, not wanting to believe Lila had been lying to her this whole time.

“One, I’ve never owned a cat. Fang’s been my only pet for twenty years. Two, I would never write a song about an underage girl. Three, the only girl I’ve ever written a song for is the superhero known as Ladybug. These are all things any competent reporter would know,” Jagged said.

Damian watched as Alya turned on the brunette with sausage hair and terrible dark orange ensemble. Alya started screaming at her, demanding to know if she was lying about everything else as well. This got Marinette’s whole class involved, as well as Jagged. The class was torn between yelling at Lila and being horrified to find out she was lying. Jagged was busy yelling about how Lila would be hearing from his lawyers for defamation of character.

The Lila girl began crying again, and Damian turned away from them. His instead chose to scan the crowd, waiting for Marinette to return. ————————————————————————————— Marinette was in shock to say the least.

She had expected Adrien to be angry with her. She had expected him to argue with her. She hadn’t been expecting Adrien to put his hands on her though. She honestly never thought that he would hit her like he did. She was frightened to know now that Adrien was not above using force to get what he wanted.

Penny had been fussing over her for since the agent got her hands on Marinette. The beautiful red-headed woman, who led them to the bathroom, stood silently next to the door. She had introduced herself as Kor’i Grayson, wife of Richard and Wally Grayson, and daughter-in-law of Bruce Wayne. She offered to stand guard by the door and ensure that no one else came in while Penny was helping Marinette clean up.

“Marinette, sweetheart, what happened?” Penny asked, gently wiping away the tears from Marinette’s eyes.

“The press...they surrounded me and started asking all these questions. I didn’t even notice you and Uncle Jagged were gone until I looked around. They kept pressing me for answers until Green— I mean Damian— stepped in. He gave me his coat because I was cold and led me inside. He offered to keep me company until I was able to find you and Uncle Jagged,” Marinette began.

“Green?” Kor’i asked with amusement.

“His mask was green. He called me Red first, and then said he wanted to talk to me without names and expectations. He was really nice to me, Penny. I was so scared, but he was nice about it. I didn’t even realize how close to midnight it was, I was having so much fun with him. We were eating when Adrien found us...I don’t know how he knew it was me, Penny. I didn’t show anyone my dress or my mask, so he shouldn’t have known it was me—”

“Breathe, Marinette. It’s okay. He won’t put another hand on you, I swear it!” Penny said, gently rubbing Marinette’s arm.

Marinette took a few deep breaths before continuing.

“Adrien wanted me to go with him. I think he wanted to apologize to me and ask me on a date,” she said, her voice cracking. “I told him no. I didn’t want to hear his apology, and I’m no longer in love with him. He didn’t like that answer. He grabbed my arm. I fought him. He swept my feet out from under me and grabbed my hair. I managed to get up and punched him in the stomach so he’d let go. That was when he punched me...and then Damian punched him back harder.”

Marinette took a few more deep breaths.

“I thought I had it under control. I thought I could handle him without help. Even when he knocked me over...I wasn’t expecting him to punch me. I’m glad Damian punched him...if Adrien had tried to hit me again, I don’t know if I would have been able to fight him off…”

What she didn’t want to admit was that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to shake off the shock quick enough. Marinette knew that she could fight Adrien. She was Ladybug after all, and Adrien hadn’t been akumatized. That was also the other thing she couldn’t admit— being Ladybug. She could have passed it off as self-defense lessons, but Marinette knew it still would have been suspicious.

Marinette chose to tune out Kor’i and Penny as she fixed her hair. She pulled it back into a bun before putting the golden sticks back into her hair. Marinette allowed Penny to fix her makeup, though not much could be done about the bruising on her cheek. At this point, she was just settling for looking like she hadn’t been crying after being assaulted.

Once she was cleaned up, Marinette hugged Penny tightly before asking if they could postpone her reveal. Penny told her that they would of course postpone her reveal. Kor’i promised not to tell anyone that Marinette was Jagged’s designer, but she did congratulate Marinette on her achievement. Marinette had smiled and thanked her in response.

Oddly enough...Marinette wanted to go back to Damian. He had been polite, kind, and absolutely fun to be around all night. He’d reassured her when she was scared. He’d waited for her to come to him after Adrien attacked. He’d held her while she cried until Penny showed up. Marinette didn’t want to label it as love, especially since they were golden heartmates, but she would admit that she wouldn’t mind going on a date with Damian. Perhaps she might follow fate’s lead and fall in love with Damian.

Only time would tell, and Marinette felt safer establishing boundaries with Damian than she did anyone else. He had not tried to push or argue with her about her boundaries. Instead he had respected them without question, something Marinette was immensely grateful for. Thinking about how he’d acted the whole night, Marinette didn’t think falling in love with him would be such a bad thing.

She was smiling as she left the bathroom with Kor’i and Penny. Marinette continued smiling when she noticed Damian looking for her in the crowd. She felt happy when Damian’s face lit up upon seeing her. She hugged him tightly once she was within reach before looking at the chaos that was her class. She raised an eyebrow before Jagged broke in, demanding to know if Marinette knew that the Lila girl was spreading all sorts of nasty lies about them.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” Damian said smugly. “Now they’re all trying to pick up what little dignity they have left.”

Marinette laughed at that, feeling joy in the fact that Lila had finally been revealed. However, she chose to ignore her classmates arguing and pleas for forgiveness to hold out her hand to Damian.

“Let’s try this again. Hi, my name’s Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” she said with a grin. “I had a lot of fun with you, and I would very much like to go on a date so I can get to know my golden heartmate better.”

A wide smile appeared across Damian’s face as he shook her hand.

“Hello, my name is Damian Wayne. I also had a very good time with you and would love to take you on a date,” he responded.

Marinette giggled as his heart darted out to nuzzle her cheek, just barely catching the gasps from the people around her as the heart flashed gold. Her own heart had zipped over to Damian and began nuzzling his cheek as well, also turning gold.

“Would you like to leave now, Marinette?” he asked. “I could have our driver drop you off at your hotel if you’d like. You probably should ice that bruise.”

Marinette looked at both Jagged and Penny to see what they thought. Both of them were smiling at her and nodding, so she turned back towards Damian.

“Thank you, that would be very nice,” she replied.

Damian held out his arm towards her again, and this time, Marinette took it without hesitation. Looking at the handsome, dark haired boy with kind green eyes, she decided there were worse people she could have as her golden heartmate. When he kissed her hand upon dropping her off at the hotel, Marinette made another decision.

She stood on her tiptoes, gently pressing a quick kiss to his lips. Marinette giggled as he flushed, his eyes wide and clearly surprised. Yes, she thought, perhaps having him as a romantic soulmate wouldn’t be the end of the world. Perhaps...perhaps loving him could be the best thing that happened to her.

Little did she know that Damian agreed.

#maribat secret santa #daminette #eve-valuation #maribat #marinette x damian #damian x marinette #im not nice to adrien here #so if you're not here for that don't read #there's some salt here #im not nice to the class either #tiny bit of alya bashing here #soulmate au #soulmate hearts au #i really hope you like it #im sorry it's so long #long post

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queenbirbs · 4 years

Text

the mountain between us | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Sloane McTavish)

Rating: E

Warnings: language, adult content, N*FW, description of a panic attack

Word count: 8.1k

Summary: In which the return to Edenbrook doesn’t go as planned, or: Ethan and Sloane get the hell out of Dodge Boston.

Notes: This story continues off my previous fic, waiting for rain , although this can be read as a stand-alone. It is a sort of AU of chapter 12, in which Danny has a separate funeral of his own (I mean, I get why PB wrote it to save time/redundancies, but I don’t see them somehow managing to secure burial plots right next to each other? Anyway, the wonders of fiction aside…).

------

She makes it to the diagnostic office with two seconds to spare.

The muffled thump of the door meeting the casing is like a gunshot, echoing in the quiet room. She stumbles past the table and over to the couch, trying to get out of direct line of sight. The leather creaks under her weight as she collapses onto the cushion. That constant undercurrent of dread builds into a wave, washing over her. Her hands start to shake and soon, the rest of her body follows suit. The faux-wood grain of the coffee table before her is the only thing in focus; the rest of the world is warped, as if she’s viewing it through binoculars. Her heart feels as if someone has a fist around it and is trying to pull it free through her throat.

“Stop… fucking… crying,” she hisses, wiping furiously at her cheeks. But her lacrimal glands pay no mind to her threats, nor does the rest of her when she begs it to stop panicking.

All this, she bemoans, over plastic wrap -- just a patient’s sandwich that he asked for her help unwrapping. But the moment she touched it and felt it crinkle under her hands, she was back in that tented room, shrouded by the thick plastic draped over the walls, sealed in and suffocated by the opaque sheeting, waiting and waiting and waiting to die.

She doesn’t remember what terrible joke she made about not being a fan of tuna, nor does she remember the trip from the oncology ward to here, several floors down. None of her friends must have seen her, because none of them have followed her in here, at the ready with their hugs and assurances, suffocating in their own loving way.

“You’re the worst… person on earth,” she whispers, clenching her jaw in an effort to stave off another round of tears.

“Sloane?”

She glances up to see Ethan stepping into the room, his mouth crumpled into that familiar frown of worry -- the one he’s worn ever since she returned. He says her name like it’s a question, as if she has the option to shake her head no and become someone else. It’s a tempting idea. Her reply is at the ready, as natural as breathing now. Not that she’s doing a very good job of doing the latter.

“I’m fine.”

“I see that.” Though the words should be harsh, his tone is anything but -- weighed down by all the concern in the world, it seems. His gaze roves over her, observing and diagnosing her like the specimen she is, walking through Edenbrook’s halls once more. “You’re having a panic attack,” he says, more to himself than to her.

“Correction: my second. First was in the supply closet. Decided I wanted a change of scenery.”

Although it’s a struggle to get the words out, her audience doesn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

“Do you want me to sit with you?” he asks.

“Please.” The plea is whispered into her clasped hands. She tightens her grip, trying in vain to stop the tremors working through her.

Ethan crosses the room and takes a seat next to her, giving her the illusion of space by twisting at the waist to look at her. In blocking her view of the hallway, he also blocks them from seeing her. His hand comes to rest on the space between them, a show of support that doesn’t make her feel crowded or trapped. She could kiss him right now, if it weren’t for the whole world-feeling-like-it’s-falling-out-from-underneath-her sensation. Her lungs ache with each choppy, shallow breath she drags in.

“I’m here. You’re safe with me.”

Untangling her laced hands, she reaches down and rests her hand atop his. With a gentle motion, his fingers shift to nestle alongside hers, grounding her with the pleasant warmth of his touch. With her eyes closed, she focuses on the smooth breaths he takes, mimicking them as best she can. Seconds turn to minutes, marked only by his murmured phrases of assurance and his pulse, sure and steady under her palm. Gradually, her breath begins to ebb and flow, rolling in and out of her lungs in languid sweeps.

She opens her eyes. The office fades into focus. The track lighting is still too bright, so she turns to Ethan. The sympathy welling in his eyes almost makes her want to shut hers again. His gaze tracks over her in a fitful dance; he’s mapping out each tear that stains her cheeks and neck.

“I’m okay,” she tries this time.

His eyebrows scrunch down as he studies her.

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, fine, I’m not.” Sloane leans forward and rubs at her cheeks. If she puts her hair down, she could maybe make it to the bathroom and wash away the evidence before a staff member notices. “Have you thought any more about Aurora’s proposal?”

“The one you two dropped on me at the private memorial we had on Tuesday morning? No, I can’t say that I have.” Shaking his head, he pinches at the bridge of his nose and sighs. “God, Sloane, I don’t want to talk about the hospital. I don’t give a damn about it right now. I only care about you.”

The cushion creaks as she shifts, uncertain how to drive the conversation away from her. She goes with the best tactic: avoidance.

“Well, thanks, then. But I should go. I’ve wasted enough time as it is. I’ve got to pick up some labs and check up on Mr. Evans and see what Baz wanted from--”

Ethan puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, once, then again.

“Stop. Stop worrying about everybody else for a second.”

She snorts out a humorless laugh at that. “I’m serious,” he continues, pressing on her shoulder and urging her to look at him. “I know that you practically begged Naveen to let you come back to work, even after I told you no, but I think you need to give yourself more time. I think you pushed yourself too hard.”

“I was stuck here for three days, and then stuck at home for another four. I’m done waiting around. I can only take so much medical leave. And I can’t just… sit at home cowering in fear.”

“So you thought doing it at work would be better?” he asks candidly.

“Fuck you.”

Sloane jumps to her feet and rounds the table, leaving him to throw his pity party for her all by himself -- then freezes. Outside the glass walls, the hallway is teeming with people. Nurses and orderlies and patients mill about, pushing gurneys and cleaning carts and wheelchairs. Several nurses at the station spot her and then, like marionettes on shared strings, turn towards each other at once, their chins tipped low as they converse. She feels like a zoo animal, on display for the hospital to ogle at.

“Go home, Sloane,” comes Ethan’s voice from behind her. His footsteps drag across the rug as he approaches. “For another day or two, at least. Please.”

She turns from the hallway and brings her arms around her chest to hug herself tight.

“I… it’s no walk in the park there, either. Being there alone is frightening enough, but when everybody’s home, they walk on eggshells around me. Even Jackie, who I can always count on to be a certified bitch, has been coddling me. It’s... I hate being home. It’s like they’re too afraid to say something that might -- I don’t know, offend me? -- so they don’t say anything at all. It’s like living with a ghost, except I’m Bruce Willis in this scenario.” She stops short, figuring she’ll have to explain that one, but he holds up his palm to keep the synopsis at bay.

“I understand your reference. You know, I have seen a film or two.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

She tries for the usual smile that wants to form when making fun of his limited pop culture knowledge. Her bravado falls away, though, as he comes to stand close to her. His arms cross over his chest, as if attempting to keep his hands to himself in front of their audience. “You know what it was like for me,” she continues, “being in that room, doing nothing--”

He cuts her off, his blue eyes suddenly ablaze.

“That isn’t what I saw. You stood by Rafael’s side. You helped him when you yourself couldn’t walk without falling over. You lost every semblance of control during the worst moment of your life, and you still were able to relay the changes in your symptoms. You saved Rafael’s life--”

“That was all Tobias and the team’s--”

“You know as well as I do that patient care is more than an antidote in a syringe. You think that if we’d stuck him in a room alone, away from you, or inside one of those glass boxes that he would still be alive? Think again, Rookie.”

The passion and heat in his voice, along with the return of her nickname, sends a tingle up the length of her spine. “I watched you struggle to be by his side. I watched you have all your faculties ripped away. Which is why I’m so worried that you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Ethan--” she starts, but he barrels right over the deflection attempt.

“If you had a patient who was experiencing the same symptoms at work, would you tell them to get over it? Would you tell them to push past their fears and their anxieties, in order to stay on the clock?”

Her lips purse at his point, knowing that he’s right. But she doesn’t want to let him win this one.

“Doctors do a lot of things they tell their patients not to. We’re the biggest hypocrites of them all.”

“No, I think that honor falls on politicians,” he quips.

The little laugh feels foreign in her mouth. She can’t help but notice the way his eyes light up in response to the noise.

“I have an idea.” She raises a brow in interest, spurring him on. “Let me take you somewhere. Anywhere you’d like. We can leave today, spend a long weekend away. We’ll swing by your place, pack you a bag, and go.”

“And you think we can just… leave? Slack off on our duties like that? What about our patients?”

The corner of his mouth hitches up in a smirk.

“You’re talking to the person who does the scheduling. And I happen to know your boss wouldn’t mind. My boss has been not-so-subtly sending me couples vacation rentals after seeing our appearance on national television.”

Taking a deep breath, Sloane considers the offer as he watches her, not an ounce of hesitation on his face. That tingling sensation returns, banking higher and higher within her.

“Okay,” she agrees, hating how her heart beats a little faster at the brilliant smile on his face. “I like the way you think. Let’s go.”

------

Within two hours, they load up Ethan’s car and make their way out of Boston, Jenner wiggling happily in the backseat.

The city center gives way to the urban sprawl. That soon becomes overtaken by suburbia and its penchant for shopping outlets and tract housing. Sloane can’t help the sigh of relief that comes when they reach Medford and the city skyline drops away in the rearview. They leave the coastal lowlands of Massachusetts behind, heading north along the interstate and up into New Hampshire. Though she packed a bag with what little information he gave her, she’s curious still when they stop at a food truck for lunch.

“You realize you could hit the navigation screen on the GPS, right?” Ethan points out. “It’ll tell you exactly where we’re going.”

“That’s cheating. I thought you taught me to be a better doctor than that.”

“No, I taught you how to be a smarter doctor. Besides, you’re the one knowledgeable about technology.” When she doesn’t immediately outright ask, he settles back in his chair and pets Jenner when she approaches for attention. “All right, then. Diagnose it.”

Sloane’s fork pauses on its way to her mouth. She shoots him an incredulous look, but when he simply cocks an eyebrow, she takes the bait.

“We’re headed north. At first, I thought Maine, especially with what you suggested I bring, but we’ve gone too far west now. It wouldn’t make any sense to make a big right turn and head east. And we’re not going as far as Canada, because you didn’t tell me to bring my passport -- which I do have, by the way, though I’ve only gotten to use it one time.”

“I know,” he tells her. “There’s several photos of your semester abroad on your Pictagram page.”

“Those photos are from my senior year of undergrad. That means you scrolled for quite a while, Dr. Ramsey.” It’s impossible to miss the blush burning along his cheeks and up his ears. Sloane tips her head to the side, eyes wide, her words teasing: “Were you that interested in Stockholm?”

“It’s a lovely city.”

That thick, bottom lip of his ticks up in a grin. The little cafe suddenly feels too warm for her, but she resists the urge to tug at her sweater.

“Right. So, not Canada. I have to admit, I’m not well-versed in what New Hampshire or Vermont have to offer, other than maple syrup and hiking. Ooh, and Ben and Jerry’s.” Twirling her straw wrapper around her finger, she looks him over for another minute before giving up with a shrug. “Nope, I’ve got nothin’.”

“Some dedicated physician you are.”

His grin widens as the balled-up wrapper hits his chest.

------

They leave the interstate behind after entering Vermont.

Instead, the state highway takes them through the proper countryside. When the satellite radio fails to connect, Sloane steals the aux cord and plugs in her phone. Ethan’s protests quiet down soon enough when, instead of the pop drivel he expects, Nat King Cole croons out of the speakers.

The Taconic mountains roll along beside them, as if shielding them from the outside world; Sloane appreciates the gesture. Clusters of horses and cattle float along in their fenced-in pastures, the grass rippling under a light wind blowing off the mountains. Towns seem to sneak up on them as the road curves through the valley. Tiny stores and tiny gas stations and tiny churches, Johnson’s Hardware and Morgan’s Jewelry and Lee’s Drugstore line up along the roadside. Hanging signs advertise berry farms and local maple syrup, their arrows pointing up into the hills. Then the highway curves again, and the towns disappear from the rearview.

Sloane watches it all from her reclined position against the center console, her hand in Ethan’s as he drives. Jenner’s wet nose bumps against her cheek when the Boxer mix demands affection. Though they swore off it back in Massachusetts, they talk about work, which leads them to medical articles, which leads them to the inaccuracies in medical dramas. Serenading about her need for a Sunday kind of love, Etta James joins them as they cross into New York.

It doesn’t take too long before the feminine voice of the GPS announces that they’ve arrived. Sloane does a double-take at the welcome sign as they pass it.

“Wait -- isn’t this where that horror movie was set?” she asks.

“The film took place in Maine, actually.”

“How are you suddenly an expert on horror movies from the late nineties? And how did I not know that? Did I finally find your film niche?”

“My friend forced me to attend his Halloween party in high school,” he admits with a sigh.

They pass by the shops and bars and restaurants that line Main Street, all the brick facades and rugged decor blocking the view. Locals and fellow tourists clog the sidewalks, meandering in and out of the storefronts as they enjoy the afternoon sunshine. Eventually, the buildings fall away, and the world is filled with nothing but a cloudless sky and clear water that stretches wide beyond the guardrail. Just over a stretch of land, Lake Placid burns a deep blue in the sunlight.

Sloane keeps her eyes on the sights, but shifts her attention back to the man in the driver’s seat.

“Okay, now I have to know: what was your costume?”

“A doctor,” he says, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

She chuckles at the image of a teenage Ethan in his white coat and his patterned tie, swimming in his tailored shirts and trousers, lecturing his friends on the risks of alcohol poisoning.

“Oh my god, of course you did. Did you at least dump fake blood on yourself or something?”

“No.” His brow crinkles as he glances over at her, confused. “Why would I have done that?”

“To look scary.”

A smirk appears on his face at the idea. “Right. And what did you dress up as when you were sixteen?”

“I’m pretty sure I went as Daphne. My girlfriend Ruby went as Velma.”

“What, you didn’t douse yourself with fake blood?”

“Honestly, we should have. That would’ve looked badass.”

Ethan shakes his head at her, but she can see that smirk of his hasn’t disappeared. Turning off the main drag, he takes them down a one-lane road that winds back into the wilderness. After passing the town lodge, the occasional driveway and accompanying mailbox are the only signs of human life among the towering pines.

The house is tucked back off the road, a pretty little cottage painted robin’s egg blue. Two rocking chairs frame either side of the front door. Once Sloane releases her, Jenner darts out and takes full advantage of the lush front lawn, sniffing along the shrubs and tree line. Leaving Jenner to her exploring, Ethan hauls in their bags with Sloane following behind. The rustic decor leans too far towards kitschy for both of them, but she finds the log bed frame and large, dramatic painting of a howling wolf charming. The real draw, though, is the wide back deck, where the sea of trees parts to offer a stunning view of the lake.

It’s the perfect place, she decides later while sipping from her second glass of scotch, to watch the sunset. From his position, Ethan seems to agree. His arms are wrapped around her waist as they spread out across the porch swing. Bundled up in scarves and blankets to ward off the evening chill, they watch the sky turn from blue to orange to black. The stars, when they fade into view, are thrown into sharp relief against the night. It’s almost dizzying to be able to see so many.

It reminds her of back home, of lying on Ruby’s hood in her grandparents’ driveway under the pretense of looking for falling stars, but actually making out under the cover of darkness.

Curled up atop their feet, Jenner sighs in her sleep; Sloane mimics the noise, stretching out against Ethan. Her eyes flutter closed at the sensation of his lips against her temple.

“Do you remember the Stevensons’ house down in North Quincy?” he asks, continuing before she can respond, because he knows that she doesn’t forget a patient. “This place reminds me of that. But the desire for peace and solitude makes a lot more sense to me, now.”

She shifts in his arms to rest her cheek against his shoulder.

“It reminds me of where I grew up, in this one-horse town in Virginia.” It’s a detour of the conversation he wants to have, but she can’t help but avoid talking about That for just a little while longer. “I mean, really, a real hole-in-the-wall kind of place. My grandparents lived there for sixty years, though, so that was home. When I was nine, my mom dropped me and my brother off at their house and never came back. So, it became our home, too. They took us in and let us have the run of the land -- which was easy to do, since we were surrounded on all sides by mountains. I was happy there -- happier than I’d been with my mom. But I spent a lot of time daydreaming about living in the big city, going to all the college parties that I saw on television, and travelling the world.”

His grip tightens around her. “And then you didn’t,” he murmurs.

“No, I didn’t,” is all she says, knowing he’s replaying her deathbed confession in his head, just as she is. “Though I blame that more on becoming infatuated with this diagnostician who wrote all these amazing books, and who inspired me to go to medical school and one day become one of the country’s greatest doctors.”

“What do you mean?” At her hum of confusion, he clarifies. “You already are, Sloane.”

Tears spring to her eyes at his declaration, but she hides them by burrowing closer into his warmth.

“But yeah, despite growing up in the middle of nowhere, it’s nice to be there again. I mean, you can’t get views like this back in Boston.” She waves a hand towards the thick spread of stars above them.

“Your file didn’t list your grandparents as contacts.”

The invitation to talk about her past lies in the proverbial space between them; she takes it.

“They passed within a few months of each other when I was seventeen. They left what little they had to me and my brother, and I used that to get to college.”

She tells him about the farmhouse and how it would become so big and lonely; and the vintage, rose-patterned sofas that would collect dust; and the little kitchen at the back that would never smell of fresh coffee and banana bread again.

She doesn’t tell him about how it felt like being abandoned all over again.

Time has healed the wound’s edges, but it flares to life on occasion. Over the years, she’s learned to sit with the grief, to take long moments to study it and inspect it and move through it. It’s how she knows, despite the horrific tragedy at Edenbrook, that she’ll be okay. Maybe not right now, or next week, or next month, but someday.

From inside, muffled through the French doors, comes Gladys Knight singing about life’s ups and downs. Sloane closes her eyes, focusing on the song and on the steady brush of Ethan’s thumb as he strokes her arm. Across the dark expanse of the woods, a whippoorwill calls out, its warble echoing off the water.

At some point, she stirs to the sensation of movement, of warm lines of pressure along her back and behind her knees. Ethan is talking to Jenner in that low, gravelly voice of his, as if trying not to wake her. Before she can tease him for it, the blanket of sleep wraps around her once more.

------

After a lengthy argument on staying in bed versus exploring the town, Ethan takes the loss with a surprising amount of grace.

Oh, he grumbles a bit as he tugs on his sweater and makes several comments on how proper vacation etiquette does not include rising before nine a.m. But once she gets him downtown to the farmer’s market and gives him the task of finding the ugliest souvenir for her to give to her roommates, he perks right up.

Under a stretch of white tents, card tables are laden with wares and plants and produce. Buckets of brightly-colored croton and chrysanthemums flare against the white tablecloths. Necklaces, fishing lures, and welded sculptures glint, swing, and jingle, catching the attention of passers-by. Wines and cheeses and honey are bottled and wrapped and canned, their labels touting how local, how fresh, how organic they are. From somewhere along the thoroughfare comes the smell of hot apple cider as it drifts between the stalls.

Sloane is marveling at a collection of wind chimes that she has no use for whatsoever when she feels a hand settle on her lower back.

“I found it.” There’s a strange sense of pride in his voice as he lifts a nondescript, brown paper bag up for emphasis. Jenner knocks her body into his legs, as if reminding him of her role in the game. “Alright, well, technically Jenner did.”

“What is it?”

“As per your request, the most hideous object known to mankind.”

“I don’t think I was that--”

“Fine,” he concedes, “known to this region -- or state, at the very least.”

Out from the Lake Placid News’s crumpled pages comes a tankard of a coffee mug with Don’t confuse your GOOGLE search with my Medical Degree! printed along the side. Then, stamped underneath as if an afterthought: Adirondack Mountains, NY. Sloane stares at it with a sort of horrified amazement.

“It’s…” she trails off, unable to form words.

“I know,” Ethan agrees, turning the mug around to read over it again. Looped around his wrist is another smaller bag.

“What else did you get?”

“That one’s a surprise.”

Jostling the tote bag on her shoulder, she gestures to the cork sticking out. “I bought us some wine to go with dinner. C’mon, show me what you bought.” It may sound like she’s whining, but she’s not.

“Are you unaware of how surprises work?” he questions, raising a brow at her insistence.

“Okay, fine.” She lets the topic slide, grinning and rolling her eyes at his desire for secrecy.

Reaching towards him, he answers in kind by sliding his arm through hers. They spend the rest of the morning strolling through the stalls together. He buys a nice bottle of bourbon for Naveen; she buys a little box of self-care items for Sienna. When Sloane comments to the shop owner on the pretty photo printed around the candle, he mentions that it’s his own photograph of a nearby trail.

“It’s a short hike, no more than three miles roundtrip,” Terry tells them as he wraps up her gift. “You pass Lake Placid Lodge and keep going about four, four ‘n a half miles, and the trail is at the end of the road. You can’t miss it.”

------

Terry was right.

It’s impossible to miss the trail, given that four-hundred feet past their cottage, the road dead ends in a gravel semi-circle. Two boulders and a single post mark the trailhead: Kiver Mountain, 1.4 miles. After dropping off their purchases and changing into more terrain-friendly shoes, they set off on foot from the cottage.

Despite autumn’s grip on the foliage above, the last vestiges of late summer remain on the forest floor. Thick, leafy undergrowth makes the trees appear as if swimming in a downy sea of green. The hike’s elevation gain is slow and steady, which Sloane is grateful for, considering that eighty percent of her exercise comes in the form of running up and down hospital hallways. The other twenty percent is spent with ‘the boys’ in their dungeon gym that hasn’t seen the wet side of a paint roller since the Clinton administration. The views there, however, certainly make up for the lack of decor.

It’s the same view she’s enjoying now, what with Ethan in front of her. There is something to be said about wearing the proper apparel for such an activity, she’s finding.

“Sloane?”

Her gaze shoots up just as Ethan twists to look over his shoulder. “Were you listening?”

“No, sorry, I was--” she fumbles for something to say. The altitude must be getting to her, she reasons, because the next words out of her mouth were about to be ‘staring at your ass.’ “--um, I thought I saw a… snake.”

“They’re usually more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“You’ve never experienced me with a snake before.”

“I’ll make sure to warn them of your presence if I see one, then.”

“All snakes in the surrounding area just gave a collective sigh of relief.”

Her poor attempt at humor earns her an exasperated sigh, though she does catch the chuckle that follows. Ethan keeps talking, but she doesn’t really hear him. Mostly due to the fact that Jenner and he keep going, while her attention is caught by a small, branching path through the trees.

It’s been a long time since she spent a weekend away from the city. When her friends spent fall break camping or borrowing a friend of a friend’s uncle’s boat to cruise around on the lake, she stayed holed up at her desk, studying and outlining. Her first copy of Diagnostic Principles looks like she closed it around a rainbow, what with all of the colorful sticky notes peeking out from the pages. That same copy moved with her through every dorm at Duke, all the way across the Atlantic for her semester at Karolinska, and then at every off-campus apartment at Johns Hopkins.

After she left for college, the closest she came to the wilderness were the views on her Pictagram feed, or the nature documentaries Aurora likes to watch. Here, as Sloane pushes past bristly limbs, the scenery stretches out before her, live and in full-color. Drenched in sunlight, the valley stretches wide to whatever direction she’s facing. A trio of birds swoop down from above her, heading towards the staggering shelves of trees that line the distant hills. At the furthest edge, the blue shadows of the mountains melt into a spatter of gray clouds. It’s all very picturesque, so much so that when she hears a noise on the path behind her, she expects to turn and see a frolicking deer.

“Did you not hear me calling your name? What are you doing?” Ethan demands, his jaw firmly set as he looks her over. Trotting along beside him, Jenner sniffs at the ground, unaware of the impending argument. Sloane hops down from the outcropping she climbed for a better view.

“Sorry, I was--”

“You shouldn’t go off on your own like that.” The heat of frustration burns along his reprimand, surprising her with its intensity for such a small offense. “This isn’t a walk around the block back home. I was-- you can’t disappear on me like that.”

Sloane tries to let his tone roll off, but she also isn’t going to roll over for him. She sucks in a breath and mentally counts to five.

“Wow, okay. You’ve never fought me before about something so absurd. What’s this really about?”

In an instant, the fire is gone from his eyes. Ethan wipes a hand across his face and over his jaw; he gives his head a little shake, as if rousing himself from the spell of anger.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the blue of his eyes burning cool now. “I hoped that if we got away from the hospital that…” his words trail away under the birdsongs echoing around them.

Sloane takes Jenner’s leash and motions for Ethan to keep moving up the trail. She gives him an encouraging look when he glances over, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. The gentle slope becomes steep stone steps that they trudge up, climbing higher and higher, wary of the loose ones that wiggle under their feet.

“I thought that I would get better at this,” he finally says.

“This?” she prods.

“At coming to terms with what happened. And not just with you, although that’s a large part of it, obviously. But when Naveen was sick, when he was damn near death, I could still work. I could still be Doctor Ramsey. But when you…” he swallows and shakes his head again. At his sides, his hands clench into fists. “I was terrified, and I think some parts of me still are. But when I was in that lab with Travis, and I saw him lying on that bed near death, I felt vindicated in some horrible way. I was happy that he was in pain, for what he did to you.”

“Ethan--”

“He refused to give me any information,” he bowls over her attempt at reassurances, his voice strained. “Then he begged me to ease his suffering. It was his dying request and I walked away. As someone whose friends he had killed and injured, I can compartmentalize that. But as a physician, how can I continue treating patients? How can I work with them when I not only failed, but refused to ease another patient’s suffering?”

They reach the top and step out onto the cliff.

Over the edge, purple-tipped shrubs choke the rock shelves that stagger down the cliff until they reach the forest floor below. The valley dips low before them, cradled by a long line of mountains in the distance. They roll along in a lazy sort of wave, deepening to a hazy blue the farther they stretch. True to its name, the water of Lake Placid is calm and still, reflecting the foliage’s vibrant array of colors, fuschias and reds and oranges peppering the mountains that flank the lake. Pale crags of rock decorate some of their peaks, so bleached from the sun that they almost look like snow.

Keeping a firm grip on Jenner’s leash, she breaks the silence they’ve fallen into.

“Unfortunately, you suffer from something incurable.” At his answering noise of interest, she wraps an arm around his waist and hugs him close. “You’re human.”

His hand sweeps across her back, holding her tight.

“I’m sorry.”

She shoves down her need to use humor as an emotional crutch by mentioning this must be a record number of apologies for him. Instead, she lets her head rest on his shoulder.

“What for?”

“For burdening you with my problems, which pale in comparison to what you went through. It’s not fair to--”

“Hey,” she cuts him off, hugging him tighter for a beat. “You can’t work through the trauma if you discount it like that.”

“You sound just like Naveen.”

“Smart minds think alike.”

Her heart squeezes at his familiar, half-formed huff of laughter. They spend a good length of time at the top, enjoying the peaceful view and watching clouds roll in from the west. Eventually, her stomach growls and he teases her about doing strenuous activity on an empty stomach. Jenner leads the way as they start back down the trail.

The two boulders and trailhead sign come into sight just as the rain arrives.

Fat raindrops plod the canopy above, drumming through the leaves and onto them. Ethan lets out an undignified yelp when cold rain lands on him, prompting a full-throated laugh from Sloane. They race down the path, sprinting between the boulders and down the road. Jenner barks with excitement when she tugs free of Sloane’s grip and barrels ahead of them.

They reach the cottage, Jenner at his heels when Ethan rushes inside for towels. He makes it to the hall closet before realizing that Sloane isn’t following. Retracing his steps, he returns to the little porch and finds her standing out on the front path. Her arms are stretched out beside her as the rain soaks her clothes and hair. He sets the towels down on the rocking chair and approaches her, raising his voice to be heard above the downpour.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s silly,” she answers with a shrug. Contentment and grief coat the words; it’s an effort to push them free of her throat. This close, he can see the rivulets of water running along her trembling lips. “But I was waiting for this. It’s been sunny every day since… and all I wanted was for it to rain.”

It’s not difficult to recall her angry words as they drove away from Danny’s funeral.

“It’s not silly.” Reaching for her, he takes her hand and guides her under the porch and out of the storm. “Silly would be how I worry about you constantly now -- that if I leave you alone, or you go off somewhere without me knowing, that it could happen again. I’m terrified, Sloane, of losing you again. Every patient room you step into could lead to another disaster, and it might be another one that I can’t fix.”

He keeps busy while he talks, picking up a towel and wrapping it around her shoulders. With another he dries her hair; his fingers clench and release the wavy strands like he saw her do a lifetime ago in their shared hotel room.

“It’s why I’ve been keeping tabs on you this week,” he says with no small amount of embarrassment. “Why I’ve been following you around the hospital. It’s how I knew to go to the office yesterday. And I know that’s awful and overbearing of me, and I understand on every sensible level that you’re safe. But there’s that one percent of something that keeps me at it.”

Sloane reaches up for the towel in his hands and tugs it away, letting it drop to the ground. He cups the back of her head and settles her against his chest, right against his heart where she belongs.

“I’ve spent enough years being a cynic and a pessimist, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Ethan clears his throat, swallows, and steadies on. “But when I held your hand that night, I didn’t think about what the next hour would bring, because I wasn’t sure if that next hour would include you. And to have to stand there and watch you -- you, who’s always brave in the face of death and danger -- accept your fate in those last hours, that scared me more than anything.”

“I knew it would hurt more if I begged you all to save me.” She feels the shaky rise of his chest, the tension of the muscles as he goes rigid at her words. “But I’m glad I wasn’t alone.” Her cheeks are wet with tears -- whether his or hers, she isn’t sure. “I -- my grandma, we didn’t make it to the hospital in time before she passed, and she died alone, and I know that hurt my grandpa more than anything. So I’m glad you were with me.”

When he speaks, the passion and heartache in his tone unfurls something in her chest.

“I don’t want to waste what time we have left. I’m tired of playing pretend. I’m tired of holding myself back. I don’t know what to do, other than tell you that I care about you, and that I want to be with you. And I know it’ll be messy, and I don’t have all the answers for how we go about it, but I know that I want you so goddamn much, Sloane, that I don’t care anymore.”

Gripping his wet shirt, she pulls him down for a kiss. He answers in kind, his lips dragging against hers; his hands come up to frame her face, to keep her close as he drops another kiss, then two, then three against the corner of her mouth. The roar of the rain turns to a muffled drum as they fumble their way through the door and down the hall.

The bedroom is lit only by the tall windows, reflecting what weak sunlight manages through the cloudy sky. A wall of fog floats between the trees, blocking out the rest of the world. Sloane leans down to the nightstand and flicks on the Tiffany lamp. Honeyed shafts of light fill the space, warming the room with their glow.

Ethan peels their wet clothes away, stripping the both of them bare. His lips cruise every inch of her damp skin; she shivers at the cool, stagnant air of the bedroom, then again at the heat of his mouth as he kisses her shoulder, her breast, her belly. He guides her to the bed and she sinks onto the soft mattress, the sheets smelling of them: his soap and her shampoo, his aftershave and her lotion. It’s a scent she wants to wake up to every morning.

“I never got to take my time with you,” he laments as he lays her down. Goosebumps follow in his wake as he runs the backs of his knuckles down her throat. He cups one breast and then the other, brushing the pad of his thumb over her pebbled nipples. Mesmerizing, he thinks, of the sweet noises she makes and the way her hips shift in time to his touch.

“We’ve got time,” she assures him, her fingers trailing up and down his ribs. She’s unable to hide her grin when he squirms, obviously ticklish around his sixth and seventh rib. Lifting up onto his knees just enough to capture her hands, he presses her to the bed and takes a long moment to admire.

Frizzled from the rain, her strands spread across the pillow and dampen it -- no doubt the one that he’ll end up being forced to sleep on. The light dusting of freckles across her nose and shoulders are more pronounced in the yellow light. There’s the scar along her inner thigh from climbing over chicken wire to feed the hens, the burn mark on her inner arm from fumbling a hot pan of cinnamon rolls. He kisses the sharp cut of her cheekbone and the soft skin of her stomach, reveling in every facet of her. He takes a deep breath, and then another; they feel like his first real ones since approaching the window of that damned room.

Her hands, along with the rest of her, squirm underneath his hold.

“Ethan.”

He doesn’t ask what she’s demanding; he takes one of his hands back and urges her thighs apart, pressing the heel of his palm against her and circling her wet heat. Her response is almost as erotic as the act itself; her knees jerk up, her muscles stuttering as her body rolls into his touch. Her freed hand snakes down her body to circle his wrist, her nail digging into his pulse point as she directs him how she likes. Increasing the pressure, Ethan can feel his cock growing harder as he watches her enjoyment. He’s too enthralled by her; his grip loosens on her other hand. In a flurry of movement, she’s got an arm around his neck and hauls him down to her for a messy kiss. He retaliates by changing gears; he slides two fingers inside her, delighted at the strangled moan that escapes her.

“Is it good?” he asks, unable to stop the smarmy grin on his face.

“Yes,” Sloane breathes out. She rolls her hips down when he curls his fingers and strokes her with all the precision in the world. “Yes, it’s good, it’s--” the words are lost to the crest of another wave as it pounds through her. She squeezes his wrist in a vice-like grip, keeping him where she needs him, and croaks out his name as she comes.

He eases the glide of his fingers, but doesn’t stop until he’s got her climbing again.

“God, you’re still so tight.” He nuzzles the arm she has planted against his shoulder, nipping at the sweat-tinged skin. Her fingers dig into his flesh in time with his thrusts. “So responsive, all for me.”

“Please,” she begs, “please, Ethan, I need--”

In a flash, he slides down her body, scoops up her hips, and drags the flat of his tongue across her. Sloane cries out, arching up into the wet heat of his mouth. His knees ache as he kneels before her and worships, coaxing hymns from her lips until she’s dragged under once more. Ethan eases her down from her high, running his fingers up and over her hip as her equilibrium returns. He rouses from his own arousal-induced haze at the sensation of fingers stroking through his hair.

“Come here.”

He goes, without question, into the circle of her awaiting arms. She meets him with a messy kiss, her tongue tracing the corner of his mouth. His blood pulses hot underneath his skin, knowing she’s tasting herself on his lips. One of her curious hands skims along his stomach and down to wrap around his cock.

“I want to make you feel good, too,” she murmurs, stroking him with a quick, little twist at the base, her thumb swiping across the swollen head. He barely holds it together, clenching his jaw to keep from thrusting into her hand like some horny teenager. “I… ever since that last time, you’re all I think about.”

“It’s the same for me,” he admits, too many emotions bubbling to the surface that he isn’t comfortable with declaring right now. Pressed against the long line of her body, he feels the vibration of her laughter when it comes, ringing through the room.

“Well, yeah, that too. I was mostly talking about when I masturbate, though.”

“Oh.” The word tumbles out before his brain has a chance to catch up and say something suave. It gets another giggle out of her, though -- and he finds that the taste of her laughter is even better than the sound of it. “Christ, Sloane,” he groans when he breaks their kiss, “tell me what you need.”

“You,” she says in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were stupid for expecting another answer.

Ethan slides an arm across her back, cradling her close, needing to feel her against every inch of him. He pushes into her soaked heat, his breath escaping him in a moan when she digs her nails into his shoulders. Giving her a moment to adjust to the stretch, he nips at the soft skin of her breasts, pleased with the rosy marks that bloom from his attention. One of her hands drifts down to his ass and squeezes.

“Move,” she begs.

At her command, he does; he wraps his free hand around her hip and uses the leverage to drag his cock in and out of her with short, heavy strokes. Her legs come up to encircle his waist, her body rocking up to meet his. The new angle is sweeter, deeper than before. Sloane gasps at his next thrust. Words fall free from his lips, nothing more than murmurs of praise. She writhes and keens underneath him; he has enough wherewithal to slide a hand down between them, knowing exactly what she needs. The rhythmic clenching of her sends him overboard with her, the both of them are dragged under the warm sea of pleasure. He pulls out and collapses next to her, nestling close when she slings an arm across him. The room spins around them as they wait for their breathing to turn to normal.

As his heart rate slows, he finally hears it: the rain, beating steadily against the tin roof, a cocoon of white noise that shelters them from the outside. Before he can speak, he hears another familiar sound. Sloane rubs her nose against his shoulder and chuckles.

“What was it that you said about strenuous activity on an empty stomach?”

His laughter echoes through the room. After some poking and prodding, he manages to convince her to get out of bed and meet him in the kitchen. Ethan is reprimanding Jenner for dancing around his feet and gathering ingredients when she wanders in, dressed only in his button-down and a pair of wool socks. He manages to not whack his head against the upper cabinets, but only just barely.

“Hey, you never showed me what you bought.”

He follows her finger to the little brown bag, still sitting on the bar where he dropped it off earlier.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he says.

“And satisfaction brought it back,” she replies in a sing-songy tone.

“Go ahead. Open it.”

He watches her sift through the tissue paper and lift the object out. The snow globe catches in the kitchen’s recessed lights. Inside the glass is an overly-contrasted photo of Lake Placid, looking out towards Whiteface Mountain and the surrounding Adirondacks. “I figured you could add this to your collection.”

Sloane looks up in confusion. “My collection?”

“When I visited your apartment, I noticed the one you had from Stockholm on your shelf. Now, the next time you travel, you’ll know what tacky souvenir to buy yourself.”

“Why would I do that, when I have you to do it for me?” she teases.

Setting the snow globe down on the table and away from Jenner’s interested nose, she crosses the kitchen and slides her arms around his waist. The kiss she gives him is gentle and sweet, her lips curled into a smile as they press against his; he wishes for a thousand more. “But that’s a good idea. Too bad I didn’t get one in Miami.”

He switches on the gas stove, glancing back at her with an impish grin.

“We could always go back.”

“You know,” she hums, “I like the way you think.”

------

Author’s notes and what-have-yous:

There’s probably a reference to something recognizable in here, but the only one I can think of is a line from an Alan Jackson song (don’t ask, I’m just having fun).

#open heart #choices #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart fic #Kaila writes things #f: the mountain between us #also if you read this after 9/23 I did some minor editing on the backstory part because I forgot it's canon that MC has a brother

139 notes · View notes

mirrorforevers · 4 years

Text

silently • graham coxon/reader

this is a direct result of this prompt right here

don’t b sorry love, we’re all horny here. this prompt immediately took me out of my writer’s block so yeah gsdjsdhgsdj it was a blessing! tysm for sending it n i rly rly hope u enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it aaaaa i literally couldn’t stop. this one has a special place in my heart now.

also please tell me whatchu think abt this one on my askbox! unbeta’ed bc i love danger

word count: 2.809

warnings: smut. shameless, fast paced fluffy smut.

You couldn't understand why the hell he was so nervous. On the way to your parents' home he asked more questions than a 4-year-old on their way to a park - what are they like, what do they like to do, do they know Blur? Do you think they will find my shoe ridiculous? I'm sure they'll think I’m a weirdo. What did you tell them about me? Even the many kisses you gave him were not enough to calm him down, leaving you to assure him that even if your parents didn't like him - which would be impossible, Graham was never better and more pleasant to live with - you would continue to like him. Very much.

Couldn't live without him, actually.

When you arrive at the door, your mother greets you with a wide, surprised smile - it didn't even seem like she had been begging to meet Graham for months and meticulously planned every minute of the time you would spend together. Her friendly posture seemed to make him more comfortable, the fact that your father was traveling also ended up making him more relaxed. “Dads are always frightening,” he’d say. He agreed to spend the rest of the night there after having an extremely pleasant dinner.

While he does the dishes, you and your mother clean the table when you decide to stop by the kitchen to talk to your boyfriend.

"It wasn't that difficult, was it?" You ask, a daring tone in your voice.

He smiles sheepishly. "Everything went significantly better than I thought it would, honestly."

“You did well. Not that she is hard to please, but you are really sweet.” You kiss him on the cheek. (It's so cute how he still blushes at these things after months of dating.)

"Thank you, love."

"I mean it. I think you deserve a gift for being like this.”

He looks at you, starting to pay even greater attention to the direction of the conversation. “And what do you have in mind?”

You whisper in his ear in the most seemingly innocuous tone you can feign. “I, for one, think you should fuck me senseless in the room upstairs.” He smiles, gaze a little lost in his surroundings as it usually goes whenever he’s pleasantly disconcerted by your dirty talk. Your hands travel his body subtly under his shirt. He hisses: “Can’t wait.” His voice is weak. You love to tease him like that.

You give him a little peck where his mouth and cheek meet – and then you motion to leave after a wink. “See you in a few minutes.”

“Babies, sorry to interrupt,” your mom arrives at the door, instantly killing off the whole mood you’ve created. “I forgot to tell you, but some other people from our family will be here in a few minutes. We’re not done yet!”

Graham’s really confused. You shrug and give him some context – “My family just loves gatherings in general. And they’re excited that I have a boyfriend now, apparently.” To which your mom points: “Exactly! They want to meet you too, Coxon!”

You can feel the anxiety building in him again already. He’s so uncomfortable it hurts, and you know his head is spinning. He doesn’t want to let you down, and after your mom leaves, you go back to calming him down again. “Baby, it’s okay, I promise. If you’re too overwhelmed we--”

“No, no. I signed up for this. I’ll be okay. I’ll have a drink or two…”

You completely discard this possibility. No associating alcohol to social abilities anymore after everything he went through because of it. “No. We’ll find other ways to calm you down.” After some seconds of a silent yet intense brainstorm, you have an idea. But you won’t tell him. “Ok, I know what to do to take your mind off the pressure. Just wait and see, and no beers, alright?”

“Alright… I guess.”

After giving him yet another peck while he finishes cleaning the plates, you quickly run upstairs to change from the tight jeans and band shirt you’re wearing to a very light and flimsy sundress. And that’s all the clothing you choose. It fits you well, and leaves not much to the imagination. You know it’s a family gathering, but it’s also summer, so no severe dress codes were being enforced in any significant way.

He reads your mind the moment he sees you in the dress, shaking his head in pleased disbelief at the sight. He mouths a small “you didn’t” while a stupidly joyful smile slowly shines over the tight expression of worry he once had. To which you mouth back: “I did.” You then go back to playfully teasing each other a bit while you take care of the sudden assembly’s preparations.

Your family members arrive and, as expected, they’re really thrilled to meet your guy. Graham answers so many questions, and ends up sharing so much of how he feels about you with them, and bit by bit, the warmth and wholesome aura of your closest relatives makes him feel truly welcomed. He feels like he knows you even better now, now that he knows where your energy and vitality come from. He could see bits of your personality in every single one of them – of course you are still the splendid whole, but still. It made sense.

Also, you noticed he didn’t take his eyes off you the entire time. He was hungry and you’re glad your plan worked. It was easier to forget about how hard sociability is when his mind was somewhere else.

After a while, though, you could sense him getting fidgetier. Even though he was considerably and visibly more relaxed than he was a few hours ago, that amount of social interaction, specially while sober, still drained a lot of his energy. You take his hands, announcing you two were getting something else to eat. You go to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the lights, and though the house is empty you two could still hear the enthusiastic discussion your family is having outside, slightly drowned by the distance and the walls separating you now.

“You did so great, baby.” You smile, giving him a victory kiss while he envelops you in a tight hug. He’s proud of himself too, and he deserves to feel like that. “They love you already.”

“They’re just like you, in a way. I’m glad everything went well,” he sounds relieved, still tired, but relieved. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that proposal you made me earlier, though.”

“I know,” You plant a chaste kiss on his jaw. “I felt your eyes on me.”

This second kiss he gives you feels different. It’s longer. Famished. Purposeful. His hands are friskier now, traveling hastily throughout your body, and you alternate between giving in and becoming progressively more alert of your surroundings. You can have an idea of where this is heading. The swirling of his tongue around yours makes you dizzy, and the feeling somewhat akin to an electric shock – but milder, and definitely more carnal – that flows through your body when he bites your lower lip and brings your hips closer to his brings you back to reality. “We have to be careful,” you whisper, each of your lips just barely touching while you breathe each other’s air.

“I promise I’ll be. You look delicious in this dress, I… don’t know where to start.” He cups your cheeks while drawing imaginary lines across your lips with the tip of his thumbs.

“Think fast. Never took you for a quickie guy.” You chuckle.

“I like to take my time, yes, but some things can’t wait.”

And with that, with the dexterity and carefulness of a cat, he sinks to his knees in front of you, lifting up your dress with one hand and one of your legs with the other, your leg now resting on one of his large shoulders. He takes hold of your hips, angling you toward him. You hiss in anticipation, and you can feel your core burning in expectation too. Your hands now firmly grab the counter behind you for support while you turn behind you with attentive eyes to see if no one’s coming. You’re safe, for now. The thrill of getting caught is one that will never get old.

His eyes seek yours for reassurance. You, without a word, give it to him. You both look lovely bathed in moonlight. He teases you first, kissing and sucking at the skin on your inner thighs, moving closer and closer to your center until after a couple minutes of that sweet agony his lips graze across that aching part of you.

He flicks his tongue delicately through your folds, playing with your wetness. The way his hands caress your lifted thigh so delicately while his tongue inscribes poems to your clit is something that makes your stomach flutter, you simply can’t ignore those tiny adorable actions that make loving him so addictive and rewarding. Keeping yourself silent and struggling to remain somewhat composed to anyone who might see you from outside is a painfully arousing contradiction to the sensations you’re feeling. He’s doing his best to fuck you up, gradually setting a rhythmic pace to his movements with the intent to release the spring now starting to coil tightly low in your abdomen.

“Jesus, Gra—f-fuck. Fuck.” You whisper, breathlessly, while simultaneously suppressing a moan when he delves his tongue even deeper in your core, your fingers instinctively curling and closing a fist on his hair, making him groan. You buck your hips against his lips and you can feel sweat beading on the backs of your knees, heart threatening to jump out of your mouth by how fast it’s racing.

You suddenly freeze when you hear a voice from outside approaching the kitchen and you lightly tap his shoulder. Graham stops on command, but he won’t get up until he’s absolutely certain he should. He sprinkles your thigh with small kisses again, eyes droopy with the high from giving you the pleasure he knows he’s giving you while he admires you. The person heading for the kitchen takes a turn to the opposite side and you sigh in relief. “False alarm. Go on, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You notice he’s panting, and you can only guess how hard he is, judging by the tone of his voice. The time you spent frozen wasn’t enough to completely burn out the fire he’d already created within you, but he’s determined to give you an orgasm before anyone can interrupt you again – now he had two fingers moving, stroking, curling inside of you in delightful ways while his tongue began to work your clit in tight little circles. You could feel him moaning against your sex, he really liked this. And fuck, he was good at it. He slips one more finger into you, his ring finger, making your pleasure soon explode into a trembling climax. You couldn’t stop the little sound you made and he kisses your thigh in reply while still lazily fucking you with his fingers. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

One of your hands move to your mouth in order to cover the sound you really want to make. Graham, once again, looks really proud of himself.

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you and cleans them with his tongue before he lifts up again as inconspicuously as possible. You try to look like nothing happened, and you’re both glad that, apparently, no one’s giving a single fuck to whatever’s going on where you are. Given the realization, you look at each other and giggle. He then pulls you in a hug, voice husky when he teases, and confesses, “You can’t imagine how bad I want to fuck you right here. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“We’ll have to take this to the bedroom, love.” You reply, still recovering from your orgasm. You can’t risk more than you’ve already risked. He looks slightly…

Disappointed.

You smile. “You thrill-seeking bastard. You enjoyed this way too much, didn’t you?”

“Didn’t you?” He questions back, tickling your sides, a wide, satisfied smile on his face. God, you loved him so much. He pulls you back to him again, and you turn to the other side so he can grind against you from behind. He’s rock hard. “We have some thick curtains here, after all.” You say, mischievously, before you close the curtains as carefully as possible. He lifts up your dress once again, this time high enough so he can fill his hands with your breasts, and he, agonizingly slowly, teases your nipples with his fingertips while he keeps grinding against you. This, alone, gets you motivated enough for another round. “God, Coxon, you’re going to be the death of me.” Your voice’s painfully needy, just like every other part of you.

You spread your legs a little wider to give him better access to you. Feeling cool air against your bare ass, you bite your lip and screw your eyes shut when his hand squeezes your butt. “Dripping wet for me. You’re glistening.” He quietly notes, giving your butt a little kiss - you then look over your shoulder to watch him get his jeans open. His hard cock bounces against your ass as he pushes his boxers down. You wiggle to get him inside you while he tortuously slowly runs the tip of his cock between the slick folds of your pussy. When it bumps against your sensitive clit, you can’t stop the mewl of his name.

After a few more hard breaths, he was inside you. You’re hungry for him too, and the sound of your body clashing against his is something unbelievable. You begin in a faster pace than the one you’re used to – and that’s not a problem. At all. Speed is of essence, but you’re also starving for each other. It feels like no contact is ever 100% enough.

Your hands keep firmly gripping the balcony and when he lowers his chest against your back you can’t hold back the involuntary gasp that leaves your throat and echoes through the empty house. One of his large hands holds your hips in place while he fucks you mercilessly, the other one covers your mouth hastily – his shaky voice betrays how badly this is affecting him too. “Shhh, love. You don't want anyone seeing you in that state. So fucking tight around me.”

He was sinking more deeply into you with each thrust now, and trying to keep your eyes open while his now awaken dominant side is doing that to you, exactly the way you want him to, is torture. You feel like you’re going to pass out from the all the sensorial and contextual stimulation. “You want me to come inside you, baby?” To which you keenly reply with a nod, not bothering to uncover your mouth. This was perfect.

He edged his hips back so he reaches your most sensitive spot and his grip on your mouth constricts when he notices how loud you want to be. “Feels like a dream inside you but keep. Quiet.” His voice lowers to a breathy whisper against your throat and the hands that were holding your hips in place now snaked to the front of your body to help you get off. And like that, you do, coming a second time, this orgasm even more intense than the last. The way your walls twitch around his dick is enough to push him over the edge too, and you feel him spilling inside you. You milk him of every drop, and after you both ride off your high, you feel a tender kiss that lasts for a while in your scalp, a silent “thank you” while he slips out of you.

You put your dress back on place, trying to compose yourself before you can look another human in the eye again. You have a positively overwhelmed, just-woke-up-from-an-incredible-dream look on your face. “You better not get me addicted to this kind of risky shit.”

He laughs while he also does his best to look like not one hair or piece of clothing ever went out of place. “Sorry, Y/N, I think I already did.”

#graham coxon #graham coxon x reader #alex james #dave rowntree #damon albarn #britpop #smut #imagine #reader insert #graham x reader

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theninjamouse · 4 years

Text

Ocean on Fire Phantom of the Opera AU Master List (To be added to as I see fit)

Strap in, this is gonna get long. Big thanks to @thaylepo for indulging me and sending many brilliant ideas.

This is a basic rundown and ideas that would happen at some point in the story. Obviously some things could change or be added but I’ve just got to get this down before I go nuts

Shore and Grillby were childhood friends.

Shore is the child of a wealthy business man, taught from childhood that the arts are to be treasured and appreciated

However, while she may learn instruments and dance and music, she is to take over the family business, not run away to star in the opera like she wants

Grillby's father (he has parents in this au) was a famous violinist who often was called by Shore's father to perform for parties. He wound up teaching Shore fundamentals of music

Little Grillby was a shy flame. Always trailed along behind his father, clutching his tailcoats

Shore saw the tiny elemental and decided instantly: I'm going to be his BEST FRIEND

Queue stuttering, hesitant Grillby being dragged around the manor, getting into all sorts of trouble and adventures. He's a lot more hardy than Shore is, so he rather often found himself acting as a sort of guard dog. He was utterly distraught when Shore fell and broke her arm. Shore teased him about crying because she couldn’t stand to see him so upset

They also learn music together from Grillby's father. First time Shore hears Grillby sing, she grabs his face and screams with delight until the poor little guy is fully bright blue with blushing

Then Grillby's father dies. A family friend takes Grillby away to one of the opera houses to work. Grillby and Shore are 13 and 10 at this point and have spent the last 6 years together. Shore makes Grillby promise to keep singing, to keep the spark of his father alive through music. He promises

They both wait until they are out of sight of the other to cry

Grillby cries every night for the first 3 months in the opera house. As a monster, he is bullied by many of the other students. He mourns his father's passing and he misses Shore to a near unbearable level. The only comfort he has is when he sings quietly to himself in those few moments when he is alone doing his chores

Then he hears a voice, a soft and gentle voice that asks him why such a bright flame weeps. He runs away in fear and hides in his bed

But the voice asks him again and again. 'Why does such a bright flame weep?' Slowly, over the course of a year, Grillby tells the voice his story

The voice says he is the Phantom of the opera house. Grillby thinks he sounds rather young to be a Phantom

The Phantom replies that Grillby is rather young to have such a lovely voice. He offers to teach Grillby. The fire monster agrees upon hearing the Phantom's beautiful and haunting voice

After all, he did promise

15 years pass. Shore has taken over her family business and is finally able to offer herself as a patron to an opera house that has shown remarkable growth over the years, becoming well known in the arts circles

Partially thanks to the star of the show, a humanoid robot named Mettaton. Most of the monsters we know work the show behind the scenes, so having a monster in the lead is a new leap in gaining treatment that is more fair for monster kind as performers

But Mettaton is also a diva. The day Shore arrives with new managers, he throws his tantrum and quits after a rather suspicious accident.

Shore only has eyes for the fire elemental standing frozen with the rest of the crew. She suggests letting him take the lead role. Promising that she knows he can sing.

Grillby is so quiet most assumed he couldn't even talk so naturally protests break out and Shore maybe uses her power as a patron to insist. 'He promised me,' is all she says, looking right at him

So he sings and everyone is stunned at the strength and grace of his voice. The managers instantly whisk him away to prepare for the show

After the show, Shore goes to his new dressing room and they fall into each other's arms. They speak of times past, of the loneliness of being apart. But when Shore says that she wants to take him out to celebrate, he hesitates. The Phantom will not be happy if he leaves, he knows this

But he agrees and she leaves to let him change

Enter in The Phantom. Showing himself for the first time, a figure in black wearing a simple white mask over his face. White hands punched through the palms. Grillby is enchanted, dazed and follows The Phantom into the tunnels under the opera house

*Music of the Night noises*

Grillby has a bit of a Crisis because he genuinely cares about Phantom and they became very close friends as much as teacher and student but this is kind of odd?? A little frightening?

Phantom sees this, backpedals real hard but hides it and sends Grillby back upstairs before falling into bed and screaming into his pillow

When Shore finds Grillby vaguely wandering back into the theater, she goes, uh??? What happened?? Were you kidnapped? I kind of stayed up all night looking for you??

Grillby, still a little in shock because what the heck just happened "Kind of?"

Now that won't STAND

Shore starts digging to find out everything she can about this opera ghost, keeping a close eye on Grillby. There is no gaslighting here folks like in versions of the story that to this day drive me crazy

As Shore digs, accidents start happening. Loose floorboards, unlatched equipment, a falling sandbag or two. Shore catches on pretty quickly what’s happening when she catches just a flash of shadow more than once right before or after these little ‘incidents’

Finally plants herself down in the middle of the stage and calls for the Phantom to show his face. It takes a while then she sees a shadow just barely move. He’s up in the rafters, crouched like some kind of bat

“What is your freaking deal?”

“Why are you trying to take what’s mine?”

“Yours? He belongs to himself you dingbat”

That makes him laugh for reasons Shore doesn’t get

Conversation happens, a lot of dodging questions, shifting blame. Phantom is oddly charming. For being an attempted murdering/kidnapping jerk

“Are you the one who keeps trying to kill me? The sandbag dropped on my head, the broken trapdoor, the spiders in my hat??”

“Oh my God, I’m not responsible for every little thing that goes wrong in this place. It’s an old building, accidents do happen.

“The sandbag was me though.”

Grillby materializes just to smack him in the head for that

And so it goes, Grillby and Shore trying to reconnect, Grillby trying to maintain a level of friendship (and maybe more?) with Phantom and Phantom attempting various levels of accidents to get Shore to leave the theater

Until one day he finds Shore on the stage. She’s singing to an empty theater. She’s not...good exactly but...rather unpracticed. He’s startled enough that he stops his evil giggling and untwisting of the hidden trapdoor in the stage to listen.

He comes up silently, creeping on the edges just out of sight. When he speaks, Shore shrieks and nearly falls off the stage anyway. Her blushing does a weird thing to his Soul. Like a sort of flip flopping squeeze.

“Well, if you’re going to think yourself worthy of my Flame, you’d better have a voice to match. Let me hear you sing again.”

Many ‘threat’ filled lessons later-

“Hmm. Maybe there’s hope for you after all”

“Maybe there’s more to you than a creepy stalker personality.”

Past the Point of No Return scene happens at some point. I don’t make the rules

Also Phantom and Shore have a sword fight that maybe starts out as anger fueled but rather quickly changes to a pent up Feelings kind of deal

Grillby’s concern is quick to fade and he watches the two idiots dance around each other, wondering why exactly they don’t see how much they actually do like each other.

It’s also at this moment he realizes fully that he loves them both

“Well shoot, I love these two morons and they love each other but won’t admit it. This is going to be very ‘fun’ to sort out”

Eventually, Shore asks for Phantom’s name.

“My name...died with the person I was long ago.”

“Maybe it’s time you reclaim it.”

His name is Wing Dings Gaster and for countless years he was held by the Void. He doesn’t fully remember how he escaped, nor what he looked like before. All he knows is that his face is broken with terrible cracks and skeletal in only the vaguest sense with a body that ebbs and flows with darkness. When he first stumbled back into the light after the darkness of the Void, people screamed and ran from him. Or worse, they chased him, calling him an omen of death. So he retreated down below the theater and resigned himself to always be a watcher and made a mask to cover his face.

He was alone for years until he heard young Grillby crying in a corner and sat as close as he dared. It took a while for him to gain the courage to speak to the elemental

Given the fluid nature of his body, it’s easy for him to change his voice to sing. It’s the only part of himself that he can see as holding any worth.

Grillby was his only source of socialization and he’s terrified of losing him, which makes Phantom a tad bit clingy with some pretty severe separation anxiety

Phantom is a sad, sad boy who needs a lot of hugs and therapy

Shore is kind to him despite it all (and despite the irritation at the ‘death threats’)

Phantom finally admits that she was never in any actual danger because he might be a messed up guy but he’s not a murderer. He might have even nudged her out of the way with blue magic a few times to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

Eventually Phantom realizes he no longer wants her to leave. He wants to stand with her and Grillby. He wants to be a better monster but he doesn’t know how to do that so kind of retreats into his lair

Grillby and Shore have to track him down. And queue the heart to heart, the great Crying Session, the Unmasking or whatever you wanna call it

And they all live an OT3 happy ending, the end

#OoF phantom au #grillby #gaster #gaster/grillby/reader #undertale #WHOOO finally got this all down #listen in this house #love triangles mean that all three are in love with each other!#and it's wonderful!#OoF extra

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kihyunswrath · 5 years

Text

A masterpost about Wonho leaving and Starship being whiny wankers

It’s been a full day since the news came about Wonho leaving and I finally also decided to write a post of my own. So I came here to bring some logic to this thing because they haven’t cancelled the news yet and it looks like Starship has given up on literally every bit of sense they had. I’m still so fucking pissed off. I’m 10000% ready to fucking fight, as I always am, because I am true to my fucking username.

So away with the crying and missing Wonho, and wailing and lamenting because I think other fans have done their part with that. I’ll focus fully on just listing the things Starship should have automatically realized if they had even ONE fucking sensible person working in there. This will be fucking long but I don’t care, this needs to be said and heard. So tl;dr: Do they have the slightest idea how to run a business? This is most likely the end of Starship, too, so how can they be THAT dumb to not realize they decided to screw themselves over SUCH A SMALL ISSUE?

1) First of all, Wonho loved his job. This is not about me being sentimental or pretending I don’t understand how pretentious idols can be about their actual working conditions, this is simply the truth. He loved communicating with fans, he loved improving his body, he loved making songs, he loved performing. No kpop companies are treating their idols perfectly, but Monsta X was in general doing very well. This means he with 99% certainty did not want to make things end like this, he just felt he had no other choice, and was panicking.

2) Wonho thinking there will be a huge backlash against him because of his problematic past and there actually being a backlash against him are two separate things, and if he himself cannot distinguish this difference because of his anxiety, his company should at least be able to. They are the ones holding the money and the power. It’s not like their careers are not at stake, too.

3) He was fucking popular. Like he had a LOT of fans, those that were specifically dedicating their money and attention to him, and then those who liked several members at the same time, but he was still among their most favourite. We can pretend all day we love all Monsta X members equally, but looking at it from a purely transactional perspective: there are members who are popular, and then members who are EXTREMELY popular. The more popular members bring more money to the table, and Wonho was clearly a part of that latter group. Him facing not one but two scandals in a very short time period did not change that yet, which can be proved by how much support he and the other members still got in the first days of their comeback. Which brings me to point number four:

4) We do not have evidence these scandals were ever going to affect Monsta X members careers in an indispensable way. We do not know whether Wonho’s reputation would have tarnished the group’s future for good, mainly because WE NEVER GOT TO SEE FOR GOOD. This all happened in one WEEK. What can be said about one week? If one comeback of theirs, after a string of VERY successful albums, singles, concerts and world tours, gets ruined because of this one thing, does it mean Starship should have torn their clothes and started throwing temper tantrums like little babies? After they STILL got a nice amount of money out of this comeback TOO? After not even waiting it out to find out if they could have still received number one positions in the comeback show, for at least one week?

5) Follow the logic mentioned in point two and even the dumbest person in the universe should realize that Starship will end up losing a LOT of album sales, views and ticket revenue now. There was no way of proving that Wonho would actually damage the group long-term by deciding to stay there, and looking at the amount of support he’s now getting, that’s actually unlikely. BUT by kicking him out? DEFINITE LOSS OF REVENUE. People are all now saying we will continue supporting the other members, but the fact is this: many of us won’t. I probably will not. If this is how Starship decided to deal with things, kicking out a member three DAYS after a relatively harmless scandal, started by an absolute embarrassment of a person, I will not support such a company. Kihyun is my bias and I love him to death, but if he’s accepting how things are being handled in his own company, he’ll have to do without my support. That’s how simple it is.

6) Monsta X is the moneymaker of Starship. They screwed everything with Boyfriend, they disbanded Sistar, and WSJN and Starship solo artists are all nugus compared to Monsta X. This is not to say they’re not good, but they do not bring even near the same amount of money to the company. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that Starship cannot afford to make dumb mistakes in relation to how they’re handling Monsta X.

7) As a fan who has followed this industry closely for almost 13 years now, I have seen the rise and death of countless kpop groups. At this point I can say one thing for sure: groups can survive or return back to their old glory even when their members leave, but only on certain conditions. If members 1) leave because they want to change their career, 2) leave because they’re not satisfied with their company or 3) have health conditions that prevent them from continuing, the group might still manage to survive without them. If they are kicked out, there’s a smaller chance for continued success and support, but it might work anyway, if 4) they are kicked out relatively early during their career and 5) if they aren’t popular at all at that point. None of these cases apply to Monsta X’s situation. And if and when Monsta X falls, there is no other groups within Starship that could take their position.

8) Now, we don’t know the truth behind all this. Later on Wonho’s leave might turn out to have other motives we are not aware of yet. But as it is, this juvenile prison thing combined with the debt will be the scandals people will remember until forever. That will affect the reputation of Monsta X, YET that’s not how things needed to go. And why is that? Because those scandals actually caused Wonho to leave, unlike so many of the other things we keep hearing every single day because of twats like Han Seo Hee and other antifan wankers. Idols are under constant attacks, but most of the time these DON’T end their careers. Typically, when it hasn’t been about anyone actually getting hurt (rape, abuse, assault, harassment, murder, etc.) or about anything S. Korea specifically condemns idols for doing (drugs, promiscuous dating/sex life, being piss drunk and causing damage, DUI), people will forget things real quick and move on. There are a lot of scandals I will accidentally find out about years later they actually happened, and the idols in question are thriving. But now? People for certain are going to find out, because the consequence was so dire, and so fucking QUICK.

9) Someone going to a hiatus to solve their private life issues is one thing. Idols canceling or postponing their comeback dates and events because of private life matters is, again, one thing. However, leaving in a matter of days after the scandal started? That’s suspicious, irresponsible, stupid and may make Wonho look much more guilty than he ever was. It may make people think there’s more to this than they know at this point. They may think Starship is partially responsible for hiding things, not checking Wonho’s background or that some of the scandals Wonho is involved in were actually happening while he was in Starship. Because, you know, someone holding a job and having his non-offensive past explored from over a decade ago should be two TOTALLY SEPARATE THINGS. That brings me to point number ten:

10) Making someone all of a sudden, over all these years, face consequences for things that happened ages ago, with a punishment that is not relevant, fair or just? Yeah that does make people think Starship is unreliable, irresponsible, childish and acting in a rush. It’s not like they didn’t KNOW Wonho had been in juvie. It’s not like they hadn’t already decided to give Wonho another chance. It’s not like Wonho DID anything at this point to show he was no longer earning that trust. Actually, he did not do anything at all. Starship changing their mind about it so quick just revealed how vulnerable, spineless cowards they are and how they don’t want to carry responsibility over any of their actions. Not good for any business, let alone one whose LITERAL JOB is to gain profit from positive publicity and keep a close watch of their reputation. They do not survive without fans. They do not survive without Monsta X. They do not survive if they have THIS presumptuous and careless attitude, thinking they can quickly cover up all their “mistakes” by removing people out of their way.

11) The entire concept of Monsta X is revolving around the solid formation of the group. Every single member has a very steady role within the group, one that is not replaceable. Wonho’s position as the muscular, sexy dancer and soft-voiced vocalist was crucial to the image of Monsta X. People became interested in Monsta X because of their masculine energy, and Wonho was one of the key members in that. He was also very important in terms of how often he catered to the fans’ needs, how often he thanked us and sent messages to us and how frequently he wanted to hang out with us in vlive. He was a steady composer and had a plenty of potential, and all of his songs turned out to be popular. His role as a specifically health, bodybuilding and fitness -oriented idol was widely recognized and celebrated. His character as a cute, aegyo-filled, emotional and extremely kind “fake-maknae” was loved by literally everyone in this fandom. I don’t think I ever knew anyone who didn’t have a specific soft spot for him, even when he wasn’t their bias or even if people mainly followed other groups. Other members in Monsta X have their own, just as solid, roles that are irreplaceable, but it’d be stupid to not acknowledge Wonho has been among the first members people notice when they learn about Monsta X. Without him, it’s almost like not one but two members are missing.

12) There goes Starship’s good reputation among kpop companies when it comes to foreign record label deals as well. Did the company in Japan or the US like what happened? Would they have punished Wonho for this kind of a meaningless bullshit? Do they like the idea that they are now supposed to interact with a company that acts this recklessly, isn’t loyal to their employees and throws their hands in the air as soon as a problem occurs? I bet not.

13) Why did no one in the company actually sum up together what damage Wonho had allegedly done, like, for real? 1) He made one non-malicious, absent-minded joke half a year ago not a single Monbebe present at that time complained about. This was brought up by a person who intentionally made him look bad. He apologized and people moved on. 2) He has been in a juvenile prison for a small thievery (or something about as stupid as that, according to the information I found about this) over a decade ago, and he most likely did not get a criminal record for this. Starship however, probably did know this when they took him in, so at least back then they thought he’s atoned for his errors and can fucking move on, right? Being in a prison means rehabilitation, especially if you’re there just once as a kid after committing a very minor crime that does not involve hurting people. Bringing this up now is totally irrelevant. 3) Him not paying back to his old friend (3 million won) has absolutely nothing to do with his career. Haven’t people ever been indebted to their friends? Is that a crime worth you ending up kicked out of your company that doesn’t have anything to do with, well, anything? When he accepted that money, he was still a child. For years afterwards, he didn’t have money to pay it back, and he could now handle that issue in privacy, because it’s no one else’s fucking business but theirs. Considering the people who brought this up and their reputation, there’s also a chance this entire thing was somehow fabricated. In conclusion, none of this means anything at all. These are not big enough reasons to make your entire company lose a substantial amount of money, followers and fans, plus a really good performer who had repeatedly proved he had grown up, changed and was capable of taking responsibility of his own life. However, by kicking him out Starship has now reinforced the idea these things were indeed a huge problem, their company can be attacked by these means in the future too, and that their idols’ wellbeing and career paths don’t mean shit to them.

14) All of these scandals, including the very first thing involving that Me Too -movement mistake, COULD HAVE BEEN TURNED INTO FUCKING STRENGTHS. The thing that was in common with all of them three things was that they have happened in the past. Sure, the debt is, I assume, still unpaid, but there’s a small chance Wonho did not remember it anymore, or that there was blackmailing or other kind of shady business going on with that. With clever strategy, Starship could have turned these “scandals” upside down, disclaim them, say they have happened long time ago and do not reflect the company’s current values. They could have accused Han Seo Hee and that another twitter wench of slander and point out to their decreased sales revenue as a proof of damage they caused them. They could have said they are fine with Wonho’s past because they are not merciless bastards but a good, forgiving company that is giving its workers second chances in life. They could have said they SAVED Wonho and his family from a dark path. They could have said they have learned from the Me Too -movement joke and that they are now strongly joining the feminists struggling against rape and sexual harassment. They could have proved they are a good, steady company with good moral values, a backbone and trust toward their employees. All this could have happened with a couple of announcements, a week-long hiatus from the promotions of Follow and a post about how Wonho has paid his debt with a big interest. JUST LIKE MANY OTHER COMPANIES, CELEBRITIES AND OTHER WORKERS HAVE HAD TO DO THROUGHOUT THEIR CAREERS. Not at all hard.

15) Most importantly: DID ANYONE AT ANY POINT, INCLUDING WONHO HIMSELF, CONSIDER HOW THIS MIGHT AFFECT THE MENTAL HEALTH OF THE OTHER MEMBERS? Did anyone at any point stop to think that they might not be just fine with this, after fighting to debut together, after they have become such a strong, unified group, after they have seen so much together, when they are now very well aware that this could happen to them at any second, too, considering how these accusations were torn from peoples’ dirty shitty anuses? That they might not accept this, that they might not be able to move on from here, that they might want to resign now too, that they know for sure earlier this year was the peak of their career and nothing they will ever produce without Wonho will receive the same amount of popularity.

So yeah. I actually do not hope Monsta X continues as a six-member group. There won’t be “many, exciting things” waiting for them, like those Starship announcers said. There will be depression, more hardships, flopped comebacks and members separating on their own ways, resigning from Starship. The chances of the fucking company itself collapsing are not nonexistent.

I fucking do hope Monsta X members will refuse to cooperate with Starship until they can negotiate a new contract for Wonho. But if I’ll see them continue performing as a six-member group with these sad, depressed and angry faces I saw today in the comeback show, that’s the end then, for me, as a Monbebe.

Fix your shit, Starship, or fuck off forever. That’s the deal.

#wonho #monsta x #monstax #kpop #shownu #kihyun #changkyun #jooheon #hyungwon #minhyuk #mine #gif not mine #pic not mine #원호탈퇴반대

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spacegaywritings · 4 years

Text

“Burning old Bridges and making new ones” (Oneshot)

Teen and Up // Virgil x Logan // ALL sides appear (Janus and Remus only vaguely)

Summary: Logan is tired of the light sides, not being listened to. He cannot handle the utter irrationality his co-sides display when trying to manage some of Thomas’ deepest issues. In frustration, he slowly starts to turn away to them, and open the doors for others.

Tags: invalidation, not listening to one another, slight logan angst, hurt and comfort, analogical, Patton and Roman are too fantastic, thomas, sides au, dark side Virgil, illusions, (which is kind of gaslighty!!), alternating environments, mentions of blood, metaphors of blood etc, crying, tears, heart break, name reveal, ridiculing people, talking over one another, dark side Logan, converting???, calling the sides by their functions instead of names.

My KoFi - Support me ♥ or Commission me

Note: If you miss any tags, have issues with links or any other concerns, please feel free to contact me. Anon is on and my DMs are open.♥

Links broken? Inform me, please!

Story under the Cut: (Word count: ~5k)

10:24 am.

Logan sighed.

They were in Thomas’ apartment, being the helpful sides they were. Thomas had sliced them into functions, so he could better argue with his different motivations in life. Currently, he was debating on yet another issue. He was wondering about whether or not to get that subscription to a gym. On one hand, it was practical, it might motivate him to do some exercising, to work out and talk to professionals about routines and which exercises would be best for him, his body and his goals.

Roman was all for it and so was Patton.

Yet, they left out Logan, as always.

As soon as he had brought up finances, he had been called “party pooper” and “professor of unfun”. For a moment, the malicious words of “obstructing Thomas’ acting career” were aimed at him in one of Roman’s incredibly immature and uncontrolled fits.

Patton was simply up for it. He just took it, complimented the thought and said it was the best thing to do. The fact that Thomas had never held up these sorts of obligations was always shut out. The repeated intervention of Logan’s rational musings and his careful warnings of the consequences and alternatives had all been shut down.

Roman and Patton ran into one another, hugging and cheering on one another. Apparently, things were settled. Logan did not know. He had stopped listening. If he walked out on them or simply ducked out, Thomas would get upset, the others would get suspicious. There would be yet another issue to resolve around feelings, Logan’s feelings. For some days, the other sides would act as though they cared.

Until they would stop keeping up the exhaustive pretence to care even a little.

Logan shrugged the matter off, trying not to get the “HE WILL BE HERCULES! ONLY LESS GREEK!” and similar yells and cheers get to him. The completely delusional Patton and Roman had turned on him and his valuable input once more.

He was seriously tired of it.

If they only listened enough to consider his arguments - it would make him one of the most satisfied sides in the entire Thomasphere. Instead, they banned him from discussions, completely excluding him. Thomas was not ready to realise it.

The logical side disappeared up the stairs, reserved.

Feelings were all over the place. When he faded into the upstairs area, nobody questioned him, nobody held him back. They let him go, ignoring him.

Nobody paid attention.

Nobody even cared.

Thomas tried to hug his sides. It was one of the last things Logan could sense when he pulled himself out of the affair. The sounds of betrayal and ignorance were too loud in his head. It hurt, it thumped, it was agonising.

It needed to stop.

“ugh.”

At the very least, Logan’s unwilling isolation has taught him more than enough things.

As he stepped into the mindscape, he reviewed his knowledge. One foot in front of the other, a slow pace. He was crossing over to the dark side.

1. The dark and light sides were separated from one another.

2. There was no more separating them than the way Thomas imagined them to be

That meant:

A) The sides were marked by different colour schemes

And

B) The sides’ “rooms” were separated from one another in a way that “light” and “dark” sides had two different sides of one hallway.

At the moment, Logan was crossing from one side to the other. Nobody was usually in the hallway. It was just him, crossing over again and again. From one side to the other.

3. There is no need to sneak from one side to the other. Everyone is either in their own room, with Thomas or in the parts of the Imagination.

He stepped closer to one of the doors, hand rising up to the door handle. However, his hand retreated just as quickly. Instead, he remembered something crucial.

4. Every dark side had preferences to their doors and how to open them.

Logan stood tall, straightening his posture. He reached out, this time with a curled fist. Three times short, three times long, three times short again. It was the knocking signal for S.O.S. . Logan thought it to be more than ironic for “Anxiety” to have such a kind of knocking sign as preference.

The door handle disappeared, then the door opened.

5. About half of the space designated to the dark sides was imaginary.

This was supposed to ensure nobody uninvited or unwanted would invade their space. It was rather clever, Logan had to admit.

Anyway, rules aside, the door opened slowly, revealing a dimmed room. Some colourful lights seemed to stream from the glossy ceiling into the room. They danced over the floor, shifting and switching. It was a wild and uncoordinated dance but at the same time, it felt natural, following a pattern invisible to everyone’s eyes.

The floor was stone, dark and partly broken. Several parts revealed cracked areas. Through the cracks, a few flowers seemed to grow. They were lonely but strong. Every single one of them was purple, yet it were different tints of purple in every flower.

For all that was worth, it looked like an abandoned temple. Raided, forgotten.

Some chains hung from the ceiling, around the glass part in the middle. The mosaics of translucent colour-filters was somewhat spheric. The chains were occasionally strewn around that, revealing little lanterns with warm, yet weak light. They were traditionally black, or at the very least, anthracite. From one corner of the room, a bit of smoke rose, striving through the room, twirling and twisting around itself in alluring manners. Incense was burning, giving the room an oddly peaceful feeling to it, no matter how destroyed and abandoned it seemed to be.

Logan cleared his throat. His eyes were still looking for a certain side. Usually, there would be a more obvious sign of that person, but right now-

Ah, there.

Virgil was hanging up some sort of tapestry, monochrome in colour. The design looked ominous, sort of mysterious. It was a moon, a castle around it. It seemed as if there was a whole other layer of meaning to it. Logan could not even imagine it. He was bad at seeing these kinds of things. But it did not even matter. Virgil was turning around to him and Logan nodded politely, not moving until Virgil gestured for him to come in.

“Good day, Logan.”

He slowly moved inside. The door manifested right behind him. When he turned around to see it, there was a lot of stone. It was a wall. There was no door, no more. Actually, when paying closer attention to it, it seemed to be a gate. There was a little metal ring, partly embedded in the same dark and cracked stone material, for knocking.

This had to be how Virgil got out.

“Greetings, Anxiety.”

They both stood there, for a moment. Anxiety looking almost bored. The logical side was unusually quiet. Everything around him was new, confusing. No matter how often he got here, it would always strike him as absolutely novel. It was just that different from where he lived, from where he used to hang out.

“What you doing down here, again? Can’t get enough of me, yet?”

He smirked smugly.

Whenever Anxiety would join in on their conversations, he would “ruin the mood”, aggravate Roman and make Patton stiff and uncomfortable. Anxiety was the one to make them listen, to settle conversations and feelings.

He was the kind of down-to-earth Logan needed and appreciated for their group. He, for once, was inclined to include Virgil in their group. Not that the group of the “light sides” was particularly great, but it was simply for the fact that Thomas needed Virgil to have more say, if he shut down his own logic that much.

Logan felt something tingle at the start of his spine. He shivered, trying to hide away the goosebumps.

Anxiety was dressed in a simple black shirt, a red symbol all over it. It looked like a pentagram. He came closer.

“So?”

Logan swallowed, inhaling the sweet smell of fresh breezes and comfortable darkness. It smelled of earth and of cold snow. Anxiety had the most beautiful shade of brown in his eyes, out of all the other sides, they looked the most grounded and genuinely.. warm.

“Perhaps I needed your input on something.”

His words came out one by one, delicately, taking their time to unfold in Anxiety’s hearing. The edgy side rolled his eyes.

“Lies aren’t welcome here, what do you need, Logic?”

Ah, straight to the point.

It had Logan’s chest feel warm, tingly inside. It was as if he was tickled from the inside. He couldn’t help but smile. It was just a little, more like a shadow.

“It happened again.”

Anxiety’s shoulders fell a bit, tension replaced by a softer, more tender feeling. His eyes seemed to widen in empathy. He could feel Logan’s pain.

Not being heard, not being understood.

Being ignored and invalidated only, but at the same time made to feel as if it was not alright to face this truth, as if they cared more than they actually did.

He sighed.

“You can stay. Spill the beans, ‘the fuck happened?”

The two started talking. Well, Logan was mostly talking. Words cascaded out of his mouth, feelings foaming around his lips in furry and frustration. There was so much piled up and the whole stack was simply tumbled over by someone jumping around from one to the other side of his room, in nothing but black yoga pants and a rather loose punk-styled shirt. His feet were bare, as bare as Logan’s feelings when he came inside.

Every now and then, Anxiety would roll his eyes, chip in with comments like “of course” and “ah, sure, thing.” They were sarcastic, but they did not arm at hurting Logan. No, it was meant to make fun of how hypocritical and unkind the other light sides were. No matter what Anxiety contributed, it felt holy to Logan.

There was the harsh, brutal honesty in direct, raw lines. They were short, they were sharp and the dark side did not hold back even a little.

Logan wandered with him, from one corner to the other. They hung up the tapestry together. Anxiety mumbled something about Tarot cards and heavy meaning. Logan let him have it, smiling at the new information and interesting input.

His steam was off, he was calmer now.

The whole room seemed to be much friendlier, more peaceful, too. The flowers were at full blossom, the dim lights were shining in new vigour. Some of the cracks seemed to be fixed and the floor felt warmer, more inviting.

This was not an abandoned temple, it was a reclaimed sanctuary.

“Do you want to come over?”

Anxiety shook his head. However, he patted something like a table. There were blankets and pillows on top of it. Logan was not sure whether it had been there before. It looked like a bed, but the base was made of stone. He shrugged, taking it.

“For now, until I can trust you fully, you can come here and that’s it.”

Logan nodded.

He was okay with that.

His body lowered itself, automatically, already. It was as if his programming was made to listen to Anxiety, to be flexible with him and lay with him. The dark side roamed around, pulling on a chain. It set off a mechanic, unleashing some sounds. Calm music came out of the ceiling. Logan sat up a bit but Anxiety pushed him back down.

“Take a moment”, he advised. Logan nodded. He laid back down, listening to the calming, almost tangible beats. They were so soft, it was surreal. If they had disappeared at once, Logan would not have noticed either way.

Slowly, he drifted off to something Anxiety would later refer to him as “lo-fi” beats.

***

This was one of their first meetings. By now, Logan could barely remember how he had met Anxiety in the first place. He only knew he had been angry, upset by Patton’s irritating cheerfulness and pure ignorance. Any thought of this experience already pumped adrenaline and disgust through his veins.

Despite his intellectualism and his expansive vocabulary, he was incapable of describing just how sick he was of Patton and Roman completely shutting him out. They were so out-of-touch with life that it could only lead to Thomas getting hurt.

Logan sighed, pushed his thoughts aside. A tug called him into action, asking him to join yet another discussion. He could not believe it.

Still, he tried his best to be helpful, to be present. For the sake of Thomas, he tried to stay strong and persistent enough to make good points, objective points. Maybe he could at least get a word in.

Within the blink of an eye, he was in the living room with more than familiar faces. Well, they all had the same faces - it felt as if this thought was but a comment Anxiety would utter out. It was true, but why say it? Anyway, the princely and fatherly side were there, already chatting up Thomas and asking him about his issues, asking him about what was wrong.

Those were words and sentences they threw at one another, yet never at Logan. Actually, looking around, Logan realised they were not in the living room as expected. (Not anymore). Thomas was walking over to the kitchen, taking his sides with him.

“Okay, this is not too much of an issue but I feel unusually torn about it.”

Patton nodded, an encouraging smile on his face.

“We are always here to help you Thomas! Now, what’s the issue?”

Thomas seemed a bit embarrassed, shuffling his feet, avoiding eye contact. He fidgeted with his hands. If Logan did not know better, he would assume this sort of behaviour reminded him a lot of Anxiety.

Wait-

Before he could even finish thinking his thought, the ice crystals of Anxiety’s appearance could be felt. The time seemed to slow for a moment, then explode. Something in Logan seemed to wake up.

“Now, now, now. What’s this again, Thomas? Do you really think, you should be doing this? I think we can all agree it’d be best to just pack up, go back to bed and leave things like that.”

Thomas frowned.

Hands moved, fingers curling around the handle of a katana. Roman extended his arms, skilled movements exercising a threat imposed on Virgil who literally yawned in Roman’s face as if he could not be bothered to even look at him for longer than a moment without being terribly bored and disinterested.

Roman gasped, pulling back.

“You fiend!! Insulting Thomas and then me?! I am the prince! Keep in line, I am warning you!!”

Patton rushed to his side, appealing smiles on his face. They looked like hearts. Logan’s frown seemed to settle deeper into his facial skin.

When he realised Anxiety was basically next to him, he had to swallow down a gasp. Why was it so warm all of a sudden? It had to be his body balancing out the cold Anxiety would usually bring along with him. He felt strangely comfortable. Again, Logan rationalised his emotions by thinking it was simply nice to know someone was at least somewhat on his side. Having someone to balance out the extreme of Patton’s and Roman’s idiot suggestions.

“Wait a moment! How about we all take a deep breath and wait for a bit.”

Patton’s movements seemed forced when he gestured for Roman to put his sword down. His smile at Anxiety was as fake as his “logical arguments”.

Thomas looked around his sides, tentatively raising one tiny hand to greet the anxious trait. He dismissively shrugged Thomas off, looking at Roman and Patton with brooding eyes.

“Look, this is the same issue all over again. Thomas does not know how to cook and is embarrassed about it. He threw all his money out for usual shit like rent and all - and his new gym subscription - and now he does not have enough money to go get some takeout. This is all a matter of poor management of money.”

Patton gasped at the accusation.

“No!”

He composed himself, trying to contain his sudden outburst.

“Thomas can deal with it. Like a good adult, he will just move past this.”

Roman rose to the conversation, nodding.

“Yes! He will learn how to cook cheap and easy things, so we can adjust our diet!”

Patton squinted.

“What? Why? Thomas does not have the time. Okay, listen to me guys, your old daddy-do knows what to do!”

Logan groaned. Anxiety echoed the sound, seconding the emotion they shared.

“Thomas will just drop his gym subscription, then he can keep up with his meal subscription and does not have to worry about cooking or anything. We don’t want to repeat the last mistake we had in the kitchen ~”

Thomas grumbled, frustration boiling over in him. He pouted, crossing his arms in front of his chest as if to defend himself from the cruel, yet true words.

“Fine.”

Logan’s head snapped to the side. He needed to adjust, so he could look at Thomas. Previously he had been looking at Anxiety much longer than expected or than he had realised. But the speed at which he had craned his neck to the side would probably have injured him, if he was human at all.

There was a scowl all over his face. Thomas winced like a cartoon.

Logan tried very hard not to snap, or at the very least let out an extremely done sigh.

“Thomas, you cannot be serious. You have barely listened to anyone’s opinion on this matter. Can you truly say you are actually making an informed or at least a thought-through decision at this moment? I suppose it would make more sense to listen to everyone, one by one, then wage the different arguments and options and try to find the most satisfying solution to your problem. You might be acting too fast and face preventable consequences if you go o-”

Patton chimed in.

“Logan, Thomas already made his decision. He can do it. He is an adult and doesn’t need to keep thinking and thinking about everything. It will make him sad.”

Anxiety hissed out.

“Not thinking can get us killed, you want Thomas to die?”

Patton gasped.

“I would never!!”

Roman roared.

“Fiend!!”

Patton held Roman back, face slowly darkening.

“I think it is best we leave Thomas alone, now. He is an adult, he made his decision”, then he turned to Thomas, beaming like he did not know anger and pain at all. It was a terrible act but an act nonetheless. The good-hearted man tried to nod it off.

“I am proud of you, Thomas! Let’s go and get yourself some food. Remember, you got a credit card! Now that you are an adult, you can do whatever!”

Anxiety pushed forward, tempest tongue activated but Thomas already willed them away, feeling the anxiety coming on. The dark side found himself in Logan’s room, sitting on a comfortable bed, a fluffy unicorn onesie right under his butt. Before him, Logan appeared, expression unreadable.

“That was rough.”

Logan nodded, mutely. The sadness drained over him. Bit by bit, there was more emotion raining over his face. Anxiety could see the very moment Logan allowed to let the emotions flow into his heart, drown his professional appearance and attempted objectivity.

His chest ached and he got up, slowly catching the crumbling man in his arms.

“It’s okay, Logan.”

The logical trait shook his head. He could not even care about how the onesie was exposed, draped all over his bed. He did not care that the dark side was with him, in the realm of the light sides. His mind could not begin to wrap around the fact that someone else than a light side being there could potentially warp this side of the mindscape.

All he felt was the sadness ripping at his heart, squeezing his feelings and making him so sick, he wanted to vomit out blood until it was over. It felt exaggerated but also somewhat appropriate for the situation.

He had stacked up every bit of feeling, every moment of ignorance and invalidation. The sharp comments, the audacious interruptions. He was sick of it. Everything was like a load of blades he had swallowed again and again. Now it was churning inside of him, ripping him up and destroying him from the inside out.

He coughed, the feelings wanting out and his lungs too exhausted to keep up with all his pain. The repressed emotions and denied doubts all came back to him, haunting him. They were multiplied in intensity, hitting him the hardest when he was at his lowest.

Sobbing, he fell to his knees, Anxiety slowly tugging him to bed and comforting him. Time was no concept for him anymore. He measured the moments in tears and how much it hurt when his heart and lungs sobbed along with him.

Eventually, he could feel more than just his chest’s agony. There was warmth around him, distracting him from the destruction going on inside of him. Anxiety had put a soft blanket around his shoulders, patting him and applying soft pressure with his supporting arms, his uplifting hugs.

As Logan was falling, tripped over by his “friends” - Patton and Roman -, the dark side, the half-stranger was catching him, holding him up and bringing him back to his feet.

Time went by and he did not count the hours or try to keep track of the light intensifying, then dimming down until night settled in. All he knew was that the dark side held him throughout everyone, stammering every now and then, trying to offer him some tissues and cups of water.

“You have to hydrate, Lolo.”

A nickname.

He cried harder, dry-sobbing. When his emotions calmed a bit, he took the cup. His head nodded carefully and he swallowed the cooling water slowly. There was a purpose in his actions and the anxious trait carefully patted his head.

“You’re doing good. Promise.”

He hesitated for a moment but continued to talk after a small break. Logan barely noticed.

“It will get better. I will assure you that.”

Logan inhaled deeply. For a moment, he did not move. Then, he nodded.

“Thank you-”

“Uh”

The dark side interjected. He shifted softly. Logan’s head was in his lap and took the shifting as a cue to move away. Awkward. He slowly rose, rubbing his cheek. It was flat and red from how long he had rested on his knees, his thighs and lap.

“Oh, no. I , uh - fuck. Now, you are looking at me and it’s.. it’s weird again.”

He blushed, shifting away a bit. Logan’s heart skipped a beat. Hope? Panic? The friend turned away, pulling his knees close and hugging them ever so softly. He sighed, trying to steady himself.

“Are you having an attack?”

He shook his head stubbornly at Logan, yet he did not dare look at him. The logical side sighed. His eyes fell on how Anxiety pressed his lips together, afraid of sounds coming out when he was so intense, the tempest tongue would come up again. He had disclosed to Logan, in a moment of trust, that he could control it to some extent but how it would just happen that his voice started distorting itself when he lost his sense of reality, started dissociating or was otherwise in deep distress.

“I, uh - name. My name.”

Logan nodded.

6. For the dark sides, a name reveal was more than just a “big thing”. It was a tremendous vulnerability, hence revealing a name was the ultimate sign of trust.”

“Virgil - It’s Virgil!”

Logan’s mouth went dry.

He.. he actually had done it? He had actually told him his name?

“Really?”

Virgil nodded, weakly.

This time, it was Logan’s time to blush, reach out for the other and squeeze his hand.

“I think it is beautiful. Thank you for trusting me so much.”

He let the word rest on his tongue for a moment, treasuring it.

“Virgil.”

The dark side smiled.

It was Logan’s turn to blush. The two were still holding hands, squeezing one another for comfort as their gazes locked and refused to budge. The black jacket around Virgil was too big, his usual outfit for when he popped up as a side. It looked like the similarly black blanket draped around Logan’s shoulders.

In a way, they were so similar, only in different places.

Little did they know the conversation happening outside their bubble. Voices overlapped, harsh sounds were exchanged.

“Shush! Can you feel this? Padre, there is something happening with the mindscape!”

Roman hissed, looking around. The walls around him seemed to change. He was not in the Imagination as he usually would but he was in the room with Patton. Patton was sitting on his bed. It was a bunk bed with fairy lights all over, colourful blankets and plushies stacking up like in a rivalry. He tilted his head.

“What do you mean, Roman? Do you think there is anyone visiting us?”

The prince tugged at his Katana, fidgeting with the calm yet threatening handle. As he approached the inner walls of the room, his steps seemed to slow down, quieten down. He held his ear against the wall. Slowly, his hands found the wall. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the structure of their realm.

The realm of the true light sides.

7. Patton and Roman might be a part of the light sides but that did not mean they were the “light” kind of personalities.

A shiny blade was drawn. Patton was in the dark, shadows casting over him, shielding the world from his appearance. He rose, slowly, heroically - only that he was a hero to himself and nobody else.

“I think we need to pay someone a visit.”

Patton giggled while Roman detached himself from the wall, blade gleaming and lusting for a few stabs and fights.

“Very much so, Padre.”

***

Yet another day, yet another rejection. This time, Patton’s flowery face gently shoved Logan back into his room, asking him to take time for himself and please be on the lookout because they needed him for Thomas.

It was odd.

He said that while separating him from a meeting with Thomas, trying to figure out yet another issue. Logan felt pushed and eventually just nodded, trying to get away from the sudden force in Patton’s behaviour.

“Good choice! You are so clever, Logan! I wish we talked more!!”

Logan bit down onto his lip. If he had applied just a bit more pressure, he would have drawn blood. The man was too much in control of himself, especially after letting his feelings out excessively, to break out like this again.

As if you would even dignify with as much as your genuine attention, Morality.

In his own mind, he had started empathising with the dark sides so much, he used their names, knew their names. The light sides had become some sort of forbidden topic for him. He did not pronounce their names, only their functions. He pushed them into the corner of his minds, banning them from his own mental conversations.

He waited patiently. His back turned to open the door but he only pretended to do so. At the end, he only waited until Patton was out of sight, so he could rush over to the other side of the hallways, to his true and new home. He passed Roman, not even paying attention to it. The darkness sucked him up, shielding him, as he rushed into the new territory. Doors slowly disappeared before him, gates opened and then he was in Anxiety’s, no!, Virgil’s room.

Before he knew it, calming arms caught him. The darkness engulfing him was gone. He swore he could have heard Roman’s voice calling out for him, someone calling him a traitor. But when he looked up, he did not see Virgil’s room. The colourful lights, the dancing shadows. All of the were gone. They were not in the sanctuary of the abandoned and the forgotten anymore, they were in a whole new place. At the same time, it was more than just a bit familiar.

He saw his own room, slightly altered. Behind him, a door appeared.

“Logan-”

Patton’s and Roman’s calls echoed through the mindscape.

“You can do it Thomas! You just have to believe in yourself!”

“Don’t I have to study?”

Thomas. Oh, sweet sweet Thomas.

“Aw, why would you, little man? You are really clever and your friends need your time more than your books need you. I mean, can you hear your books calling out for you?”

“I guess you are right.”

There was hesitation, so Roman jumped in. Besides being his ego, his passion, he was also his motivation and a bit of that was needed in genuine belief.

“Damn RIGHT he is! Let’s be a true hero to ourselves, to our friends, and go to this gathering!! Prince Roman into the FIGHT!”

Logan cringed. He could feel Thomas do the same, deep inside of him. Deep inside of him, buried away in the dark realm of his own thoughts.

“It is just a barbecue.”

Now Thomas was trying to use Logic? He could feel a tug. It was fainter than it used to be. Virgil was next to him, leaning against the solid walls.

“Feel the changes already?”

Logan turned to him.

It was yet another moment in time when he had neither thoughts nor words to pronounce. It was not that he did not think anything about this, though. This time, unlike when he was crying and his mind went blank, he was full of thoughts and ideas. The only issue was that there were so many, he had trouble ordering them and listening to every single one of them.

“I suppose I do.”

He frowned.

Virgil shrugged, applying his eyeshadow as if to get ready for a party. So he actually did sit down to apply it. Wait, since when was there a mirror- oh yes, he had forgotten, this was his own room. In the dark sides’ area.

“Am I a dark side now?”

Virgil turned around. He actually did look like a raccoon.

“Yeah, seems like it.”

He shrugged, finishing off his dark accents. When he was done, he let his things vanish, simply disappear into thin air. He turned to Logan, grinning.

“Well then, Logic, I suppose it’s time for a new time, a new place and a whole lot more fun~”

He extended his hand.

“Wanna get Thomas to listen to you a bit more?”

His hands were warm. Logic could feel the warmth engulfing him, protecting him. Slowly, more presences seemed to whirl into the blend of energies and imaginations in his room. He nodded, captivated.

“I think I can do with convincing people.”

A sleek voice mused.

Another voice popped up, scratchy and slightly used up. It was almost comically hoarse.

“I think I can do with getting Thomas to listen to everything you want to show him!”

The energies came in, shaping into appearances. Logic nodded again, a smile on his face.

“Welcome to the team, Logic.”

#joey writes #oneshot #sanders sides oneshot #fanfiction #ts fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #ts analogical #logan angst #rest is tagged already hflesjgsr

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jbbarnesnnoble · 4 years

Text

Another Lie

Summary: You struggle with your self-esteem and body image. Bucky and Wanda know something is wrong, but have no idea how to help you.

I totally didn’t forget to swap out the summary from my last fic

Features: Plus size!Reader with PCOS

Warnings: Disordered eating; self-esteem issues; anxiety

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Wanda Maximoff/Reader

Background Paring(s): Steve Rogers/Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanoff

Notes: This is based on my own experiences with my self-esteem and weight as a plus size woman with PCOS. I will likely write another fic in this universe that is much more positive. This fic deals with the struggle of self image while struggling with PCOS. So please, please, please keep that in mind. The reader in this fic has a very unhealthy relationship with food, which is based on my own struggles with it. This can be triggering for some, so please take care of yourself and avoid this fic if you know it will be triggering to you.

Word Count: 2923

You sat by the window, pretending to pick at the salad you had brought. Lunch had turned into an early dinner at the end of the day, taking your break in the last half hour of the work day. You didn’t live at the Avengers compound. Tony had been on your case about at least moving into one of the homes on the grounds, but you stood firm in wanting your work and your personal life to remain separate. You were fairly certain the only person who knew where you lived aside from Tony, was Natasha and that was because it was Natasha. You weren’t an Avenger. You were a desk worker. You helped decrypt intelligence and create mission briefs. You had a critical role with the team, even if you didn’t feel like what you did was all that important most days. You weren’t the one risking your life.

The nature of your job was another reason Tony and some of the others wanted you living at the compound. While putting the team in one place did paint a target, the compound had impressive security measures. Everyone had a place outside of the compound, sure, but a lot of time was spent there, together. Their homes away from the compound were more like a retreat to recharge. Clint weaved in and out with practiced ease, spending as much time as he could with his family when he could.

But you insisted on staying on your own. The only compromise you made was having FRIDAY, though the AI was barebones at your instruction in your home. You had bought the house a year into working with the team. Tony had gotten you set up. You knew he worried. He would never admit to it, but he did. You could handle basic self-defense, but push comes to shove, if HYDRA or some other enemy of the team came knocking, your chances against them weren’t great.

You had always struggled with your self-esteem and self-image. It worsened when you started working alongside Nat and Wanda. You had kept yourself in check, but things had been weighing on you lately. It was easy to start skipping a meal here and there. Easy to pretend you ate something. You knew it was a slippery slope. You were on a collision course with trouble. But when you stepped on the scale that morning, the number staring back at you had you convinced it was okay, that you were fine. It wasn’t like you skipped every meal. You ate. It wasn’t much, but you ate. It didn’t help that your anxiety was interfering with your appetite.

You were pulled from your thoughts when Bucky and Wanda sat down across from you. You hadn’t noticed them come in with Steve and Natasha, who found themselves sitting on the couch, Sharon Carter stretched between them with her head on Natasha’s shoulder and her legs flung across Steve’s lap. Bucky and Wanda were somehow the two you were closest to.It wasn’t something people expected.

“Sticking around for movies tonight?” Bucky asked you.

“And pizza...we can get your favorite,” Wanda said. You frowned. If it was just movies, sure. But pizza...pizza would put you over for the day. You kept a tally of the calories, painfully aware of how many a single slice had. Pizza was one of your favorites, especially from the place the team ordered from.

“Get you an order of garlic knots, know you like them. You’ve been on a health food kick lately. You can have a bit of a cheat day, especially with us,” Bucky teased. You sighed, closing the container that held your salad.

“I can’t tonight. I have plans,” you said. You missed the look the two shared and the staring from the trio on the couch.

“Like a date?” Wanda asked, her voice going up an octave. You snorted.

“Right. Me on a date. No, I just have plans with friends. I do have a life outside work you know. You guys are great but, I do have other friends,” you explained. It was a white lie. Your friends were miles away, scattered about the country and the world. The only plans you had were a bubble bath and a salacious novel before you inevitably lost the ability to distract yourself and forced yourself to go to bed.

“You could invite them here,” Bucky offered. You raised an eyebrow. Wanda tried to hide her laugh before Bucky realized what he’d said.

“Right. Background checks,” he said.

“Security is the way it is for a reason. Maybe some other time,” you said. You finished your lunch before heading to your office to gather your things. You opened your fitness app, inputting your lunch. You sighed as you saw the number for the day. Next time, you’d skip the dressing.

When you got home you threw the container your salad had been in into the sink. You filled your water bottle and went to start the bath. You’d kill for a glass of wine, but shook your head at the thought.

It hadn’t always been this bad. For a while, you’d been fine. But anxiety crept in and twisted things around. You knew, on some level, that you weren’t okay. That you should talk to someone. But then your anxiety kicked in, whispering that your problems weren’t important, that saying anything would be a bother. You and food had a complicated, unhealthy relationship.

You had been on the heavier side of things since middle school. A diagnosis of PCOS once you were out of high school made things make sense. Why you had gained so much weight. Why you had so much trouble losing weight. It also contributed to your anxiety. It was a perfect cocktail for the issues you had with your self-esteem. There were so many ‘diets’ aimed at those with PCOS. Keto. Gluten free. Don’t eat this. Eat that. Cut the sugar. Carbs are bad. You were almost down a size since you’d started down this path again.

You stripped down and turned on the water, adding bubbles as you let it fill. Once the water was high enough, grabbing the latest book you had picked up. You put on a playlist you’d made and slipped into the bathtub. You tried to relax. But you couldn’t. Too many thoughts swirled around in your head. When you got out of the bath, you stared at yourself in the mirror after drying off. You poked and pulled at yourself before sighing. You traced the stretch marks that lined your stomach. You watched the jiggle of your arms and your thighs as you finished drying off. You could almost hear the criticizing tone of your grandmother on the days you felt confident enough to wear a shirt that showed more of your arms. ‘Why don’t you put on a sweater?’ ‘Do you really want to go out in that?’ ‘You should cover up.’ Her words echoed in your head.

Your stomach growled but you ignored it. You had maxed out for the day. You told yourself you would be better off ignoring it. You got dressed for bed and went to lay down for a while. You needed a distraction from the hunger you were feeling.

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Bucky and Wanda were worried. They had retreated to his room after you left. Neither spoke for a while.

“She never turns down pizza night,” Bucky said, giving Wanda a look. He was hoping she heard something. Wanda shook her head.

“You know I make a point not to listen. I tune everyone out unless something is too loud. We can’t violate her trust,” she said, sitting down beside him on the couch in his suite.

“She’s lost too much weight too fast, tell me you see it too,” Bucky said. He always noticed things when it came to you. The jeans you wore that once fit perfectly were starting to look baggy on you. The more fitted shirts you wore were also looser, in a way they were clearly never intended to be. Wanda nodded.

“I have. Tony has too. He can’t use FRIDAY to check on her either,” Wanda said before Bucky could even suggest it. Bucky frowned.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because he promised her. FRIDAY only has the most basic functionalities in her home. Checking for a heartbeat is the extent of it. She wasn’t comfortable having FRIDAY in her home,” Wanda said.

“But when she’s here,” Bucky said. Wanda shook her head.

“FRIDAY doesn’t conduct health assessments on regular employees, not unless someone asks or they’re in medical for something,” Wanda reminded him.

“Couldn’t we ask?” he asked.

“No. Either she has to or Dr. Cho does. And you know Helen won’t do that without her consent. If there were something truly alarming, we have to trust that FRIDAY would alert someone,” Wanda told him. Bucky sighed.

“I don’t like this. Something isn’t right here. You’ve seen it yourself, Wanda,” he said. She placed a hand on his cheek gently, her eyes meeting his.

“I know. But all we can do right now is make sure she knows we’re here,” she said. He pulled her close, hoping you would come to them before whatever it was you were dealing with got too far out of control.

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You had decided to take advantage of the gym at work. Tony had offered the use of the Avengers gym, but you had decided to use the regular employee one.

You found the stationary bike after stretching, deciding to use it. You had one earbud in while working out. It was a habit you had gotten into so you could pay more attention to what was going on around you. Which was why you heard when Aisling from accounting came in with several other women.

“Don’t know why she bothers. She likes Sergeant Barnes and Agent Maximoff. She hasn’t said it outright but it’s pretty obvious. It’s sad. As if either of them would be interested in her,” you heard her say. You knew she had no idea you could hear her. Aisling was always nice to you when you had to bring something by accounting for Tony. You’d even had lunch together a couple times a week, usually.

“Aisling, come on. You’re friends with her, aren’t you? Would it kill you not to be such a bitch?” another woman said. She sighed.

“She’s nice, don’t get me wrong. But life isn’t a movie. People like Barnes and Maximoff don’t end up with people who look like her. And clearly the gym isn’t helping her,” you heard her say. You ended your workout and gathered your things. You didn’t want to hear anymore. You tore out of the gym, willing yourself not to cry. You were hurt. You thought you were friends. You decided to use the showers in the Avengers gym. It was more private. You didn’t notice Bucky and Wanda were in the gym with Natasha and Clint as you rushed past.

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Wanda and Bucky shared a look as you ran past. You were clearly upset. Natasha had a frown on her face.

“Wanda, come on, let’s go check on her,” Natasha said. Wanda nodded as she followed Natasha into the locker room. A shower was on. Through the door of the cubicle, they could both hear loud sobs. They decided to wait until you came out. When you did, you almost screamed. You were fully dressed, but you hadn’t expected to see anyone. It was clear you had been crying.

“What happened?” Natasha asked, jumping right to the point. You refused to look at either of them.

“Nothing,” you said.

“Want to try that again? You ran in here and you were crying. What happened?” she asked softly.

“Sometimes the truth hurts. That’s all. Look, I need to get back to work,” you said. You brushed past them and headed for your office, locking the door behind you.

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Wanda and Natasha shared a look. Wanda wasn’t keen on breaking your trust, but she had to know what happened to upset you.

“FRIDAY what happened before she came up to the gym?” Wanda asked.

“She was in the employee gym. I can play the audio from that time if you would like, Miss Maximoff,” FRIDAY said.

“Please,” Wanda said. FRIDAY played back the audio, isolated from your immediate vicinity. She and Natasha both heard what Aisling said. Things clicked into place for Wanda.

“FRIDAY, contact Dr. Cho. Tell her Bucky and I will be coming by,” Wanda said. Natasha gave her a questioning look, but Wanda shook her head.

She went to talk to Bucky and the two of them headed for the medical wing of the compound. They hoped that Helen would be able to shed light on what was going on with you. If anyone could, it was her.

“Is there anything you can do?” Wanda questioned once they told Helen their worries. Helen looked between the two.

“I can’t. Unless FRIDAY detects that Ghost is in danger, I can’t. She’s not an agent or an Avenger. There’s no reason to monitor beyond basic life functions ,” Helen explained. Ghost was a nickname that had stuck to you. You were good at weaving in and out of networks undetected and that translated to how you moved around the compound at times. You had a habit of appearing out of nowhere. Tony swore up and down you must be enhanced with a teleportation power.

“We just want to know she’s okay,” Bucky told her. Helen nodded. It was no secret that Bucky and Wanda cared deeply about you. The only person who seemed to be oblivious to it was you.

“I understand, Sergeant Barnes. I really do. But for now, be there for her. It might not be something medical,” Helen advised. Bucky and Wanda left the medical wing, still at a loss of what they should do.

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Another week passed. Most of the team was away on various missions. You were holed up in your office, working on decrypting something from the last mission Natasha had gone on, a solo run with Clint as backup. You hadn’t eaten all day. It wasn’t a conscious thing, and FRIDAY had reminded you to eat several times. You could feel yourself starting to shake and sighed. You were in the zone on your work and told yourself you’d grab a snack and a glass of orange juice in a few minutes.

By the time you moved to stand up, the shaking was worse and you were feeling lightheaded. You silently cursed yourself.

“Doll? Everything alright?” you heard Bucky ask. You jumped. You hadn’t been aware he was back from his mission.

“Yeah, yeah, just need to eat. Haven’t had anything today,” you said.

“Since breakfast you mean?” he asked. You didn’t look at him.

“Ghost, it’s four in the afternoon. You haven’t had anything yet?” he asked, alarmed. You sighed.

“It’s not a big deal,” you argued.

“Ghost, how much do you eat in a day?” he asked.

“Enough,” you replied, avoiding the question. You didn’t need anyone judging you for your habits.

“How much is enough?” he questioned, his tone gentle. You knew you weren’t getting out of this conversation. It would be easy to lie. But you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him. You knew, on some level, that what you were doing wasn’t healthy, nor was it sustainable. You unlocked your phone and handed it to him.

“Ghost,” he whispered as he looked at your meticulously kept log. You hadn’t noticed Wanda enter the room.

“Why?” Wanda asked, as she took the phone from Bucky. You didn’t know where to start or how to answer.

“Look at me. I’ve tried every diet and none of them worked. I’m not pretty. I want to feel beautiful, you know? I want to be able to go out without thinking people are laughing behind my back. I want to go shopping and know if I find something I like, it’ll be in my size,” you rambled. You jolted when she brought her hand up to caress your face.

“You are beautiful. Don’t give me that look. You are beautiful in my eyes. In James’ eyes. Isn’t the saying beauty is in the eye of the beholder? You may not see yourself like that, but we do. And that’s okay. Things don’t change overnight, especially how we see ourselves,” she said.

“I think you should talk to Helen. This isn’t sustainable. It’s not healthy,” Bucky murmured. You were confused. You didn’t think they liked you, not like that.

“I don’t...why do you care so much?” you asked, eyes welling with tears.

“Because we care about you. We can talk about this more after you see Helen. We’ll be with you, every step of the way,” Wanda explained. You nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. They walked with you, arm in arm to the medical wing. Helen had been expecting you.

“Everything will be okay. We’re here. And we’re not going anywhere,” Bucky said, taking your hand in his. You nodded. You weren’t sure what was going to happen next, but you knew, they’d be with you, whether it was as your friends or as your partners. Wanda sat on your other side, humming some calming song you didn’t know the name of.

You knew then. Things were going to start looking up. You were going to be okay. And they would be without, every step of the way.

#wanda maximoff #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes/reader/wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff/reader/bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes Fanfic #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #winter soldier fanfic #winter soldier #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff/reader #wanda maximoff reader insert #scarlet witch/reader #scarlet witch x reader #marvel

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cicada-bones · 4 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 29: Fireheart

So apparently, I am on a roll, and this is yall's lucky weekend. Here ya go, another chapter. Just a warning, it made me cry, but that might be just because I’m an idiot. Enjoy!

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Days passed in the flurry of preparation, filled with long hours, hard work, meetings, decisions, disagreements, and anxiety.

Rowan had awakened the next morning and immediately sought out a courier, requesting that they deliver his letters with as much haste as could be possible. Three he sent to Doranelle, where last he heard Gavriel, Fenrys, and Connall were still posted.

The other two he had far less specific information to provide. Rowan knew that both Vaughn and Lorcan were somewhere to the southwest, each on their way back to the capital. Lorcan had left several weeks before, at the conclusion of the conflict with the Erriagti people, and he would likely be slowly making his way up through the south, following the rivers.

Rowan was even less sure about Vaughn. He had received word that the group of spying royals had relieved him of duty, approximately a week previous. But Rowan didn’t know exactly where Vaughn had been, nor how far he had to travel before he would return to more familiar lands – let alone the path the male would take.

Rowan knew that it was a waste of time and energy to worry, that he had done what he could, and they would either answer his call, or they wouldn’t. But still, in the back of his mind, he couldn’t keep his doubts at bay.

Instead, he tried to distract himself with work. Which proved fairly effective – he doubted that over the next few days anyone in the fortress would run out of things to do.

In addition to the normal activities of the fortress, and their other preparations for the coming battle, the armory needed to be inventoried, and replenished. Supplies needed to be gathered, weapons sharpened, and armor fitted. Food needed to be prepared in case of siege, and livestock needed to be gathered and sheltered.

Rowan did all that and more, organizing rotations and separating everyone in the fortress into groups to set traps in shifts throughout the day. More pits were dug, snares set, and traps laid.

Aelin took it upon herself to help train those in the fortress who were more unfamiliar with combat, leading a series of lessons in the mornings and afternoons.

She took them through motion after motion, carefully adjusting positions and providing sound advice. Her voice never faltered, her limbs moving with grace and power – never belying any fear or doubt.

She looked like a leader. Like a queen.

And it appeared in other places as well. A brush across a young female’s newly fitted armor, adjusting it to fit. A small, warm smile given to an older male, encouraging him to be stronger, surer in his movements. Rushing over to help an overwhelmed guard carry sacks of feed into a storage space. The surety in her voice when she made suggestions, adjustments to strategy, her eyes quick and her shoulders strong.

She spoke with authority, but without being condescending or demeaning. She made others listen, and she commanded respect, and she did so not because of her name and title, and not because of her magic, but because of her.

It was a power that Rowan hadn’t known she possessed, and one that he knew was only going to grow in strength as she came into her own.

Perhaps the gods had been planning more with the deaths of her family than just the takeover of one kingdom by another. Perhaps they were creating a champion. Her experiences, while horrific, would significantly aid her in her reign.

A queen that personally understood the evils of slavery? The cost of poverty? Who knew the thoughts and wishes of all, from the slums to the marketplace to the palace? Such a thing was invaluable.

Rowan only wished he would be there to see it.

Malakai and the other leaders began to treat her differently, with a hushed respect, and warmth in their eyes. Several of them, including Malakai and Emrys, had known that she was a princess before now, and they hadn’t let it change the way they treated her. But now, with grace and authority dressing her every movement, they began to see what she really was – who she could really be.

Rowan wondered if Aelin was starting to see it as well, was starting to realize that she was becoming the leader her parents had wanted her to be. Rowan certainly saw it, and so did the others. But he didn’t say anything to her, didn’t want to bring up anything that might damage this delicate thing that was just sprouting between them.

The pair of them worked each day, from dawn till midnight, until their muscles ached, and they were about to drop. Then they collapsed into bed together, where Rowan couldn’t help but lean his body as close to hers as he dared. Where they would often wake up entangled in each other’s arms.

Rowan didn’t know if Aelin touched him out of stress, or anxiety, or the simple desire to feel another’s skin. To remind herself that she was alive. He didn’t know if it was out of loneliness, or because she missed her lover from across the sea. He didn’t know if it was because she was starting to feel those same, tangled emotions that he was realizing were starting to grow in his chest.

They didn’t say anything about it. Only woke together each morning, with the white light of day passing into their small haven, and bringing the outside world along with it. Then arose in silence, and started the day’s work.

Rowan found he spent much of his time with Malakai, planning and organizing and delegating. And he also found that the old male was not only a very competent and shrewd commander, but that the two of them worked well together. As the days passed, he felt Malakai shift, slowly becoming more and more comfortable in Rowan’s presence. Felt the old male lose much of that halting, formal respect, and watched it grow into a more sincere, genuine trust.

By the end of the third day after he and Aelin had returned from their overnight trip, Rowan and Malakai found that they could speak openly and agreeably with each other. It was nice, despite everything, to have earned the old male’s trust, after all this time.

That afternoon, Rowan assembled the eight captains, along with Aelin and Malakai, around a table in the dining hall for a meeting.

“Bas’s scouting team reported that the creatures look like they’re readying to move in a few days,” he said, pointing to a map. “Are the first and second miles of traps almost done?” The captains gave their confirmation. “Good. Tomorrow, I want your men preparing the next few miles, too.”

Rowan led them through the meeting, carefully keeping track of all the arms and legs of their plan. He made sure to emanate a careful steadiness, made sure to use each of the demi-Fae’s names when he addressed them, and he was encouraged by the determination he sensed radiating from them, strong enough that it outweighed the anxiety.

Rowan knew exactly what fear did to people, knew that fear could turn a winning battle into a losing one. So, he did the only thing he could for them – mastered his fear until it was almost entirely gone; wrapped up in cold resolve and ruthlessness.

This time however, the fear was different.

Rowan hadn’t been afraid of dying since he had lost Lyria, hadn’t had anything in life that he had been afraid to lose. His fear before battle for the past two centuries had just been a body’s uncontrollable reaction to danger. A fear that barely registered underneath the walls of ice within him.

Now he feared for another. He feared for Aelin.

Throughout all his planning, all his worries and organization, Rowan had been thinking of ways to keep her safe. In the back of his mind, he swam through possibilities and ideas, the ordinary and the outlandish alike, trying to find a way to ensure that she would walk away from this conflict, unharmed.

The meeting ended, and the captains walked out wearily, going to fulfill the various tasks Rowan had assigned them. He turned to Aelin, wanting to tell her to leave, to flee, to escape before this doom found them. He knew he wouldn’t, knew she wouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop the wanting nonetheless.

Aelin only stared at him, not seeming to notice that everyone had left. She must be completely exhausted. “Get some sleep. You’re no use to me completely dazed.”

“Sorry.” She rubbed at her eyes, and Rowan just looked back at her, waiting, seeing the words on her face.

They had never struggled to communicate, never struggled to understand what the other meant, what they wanted. At least not after those first few shameful weeks. Working with her was effortless, and there was no judgment, no need to explain himself. It was even easier working with her than it was with Lorcan, or Gavriel.

Shame and regret flooded through him. He had wasted so much time. Time spent hating her, and brawling, and wallowing. And now he had so little left.

But she was still looking at him. Rowan frowned. “Just say it.”

Her words came slowly. “We can handle the mortal soldiers, but those creatures and Narrok…” She paused, examining a map on the table between them. “If we had Fae warriors – like your companion who came to receive his tattoo – or all five of your cadre, even, it could turn the tide.” Her tone was careful, hesitant. She traced the line of mountains that separated these lands from the immortal ones beyond. “But you have not sent for them. Why?”

Rowan hesitated, unsure. “You know why.”

“Would Maeve order you home out of spite for the demi-Fae?”

“For a few reasons, I think.”

“And this is the person you chose to serve.” Her voice was bitter, mocking.

Rowan’s response was level, controlled. “I knew what I was doing when I drank her blood to seal the oath.”

Aelin’s eyes darkened, her lips pursing together. Her scent filled with some strange, repulsive odor. Like spoiled meat. “Then let’s hope Wendlyn’s reinforcements get here quickly.”

She turned to leave, but Rowan gipped her wrist, halting her retreat. Unwilling to let their conversation end on such a note. “Don’t do that,” he said, searching for the right words. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“With that…disgust.” He found the name for that thing in her scent.

“I’m not – ”

Rowan just gave her a sharp look, cutting her off. She sighed. “This…all this, Rowan…” She waved a hand to the map, to the doors the demi-Fae had passed through, to the sounds of people readying their supplies and defenses in the courtyard. “For whatever it’s worth, all of this just proves that she doesn’t deserve you. I think you know that, too.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed, and he looked away before she could read his face. “That isn’t your concern.”

Her words were soft and sad. “I know. But I thought you should still hear it.”

When he didn’t respond, she slowly walked out of the dining hall, her light footsteps pounding in his eardrums.

Rowan leaned over the table, his shoulders hunched and his hands braced against the surface, still looking at the map of the lands surrounding Mistward. But he didn’t see it, not really.

He couldn’t tell her the truth – that he knew who Maeve was, that he had known for centuries, and that he had hidden that truth from himself as best he could. To endure.

He couldn’t tell her that if he allowed himself to want, if he allowed himself to let go of the icy wall he maintained over his heart, he would want to stay with her. To join her when she returned to Adarlan. To be by her side, guarding her back.

But he had no way to break his oath to Maeve, no way to turn back time and prevent himself from taking it, to force himself to wait, to hold out for something infinitely better.

For now he knew he truly regretted taking the oath. Regretted it with every fiber of his being. Knew that he would do anything to take it back, would suffer any torture, would endure any pain.

Just so he wouldn’t have to watch her leave him, and know that he would never see her again. She was his mirror, his equal, his only true friend – someone who understood him as well, better, than he did himself. Someone who saw all of the dark, broken parts of him, and did not look away.

And he was going to lose her.

The future was murky, no one knew how the coming conflicts were going to play out, but Rowan knew that someday, perhaps very soon, Aelin would have to face her enemies in the west, and either be destroyed, or take back her crown. Either outcome meant the same thing for him. She would be queen, or dead, and he would still be here, serving Maeve, until Erilea was consumed by the sun.

He would have to wait, to sit in Doranelle while Aelin fought against an entire nation, completely alone.

Rowan knew that he would fight against the oath with everything he had, would fight it until he took his last breath. But he knew it would be in vain.

···

The following day passed much the same as the three previous. Though as their preparations escalated, tensions in the fortress began to mount, edging towards a breaking point.

Aelin concluded her final sparring lesson of the day, and returned to their rooms to wash her face and bandage a burn on her forearm, while Rowan headed to the kitchens to check in on Emrys and Malakai, seeking answers to some trivial question.

But the second he entered the small space, the words crumbled on his lips, his request immediately forgotten.

Emrys was in his mate’s arms, tears silently streaming down his face while Malakai soothingly rubbed his back. Shock and grief permeated the room, and Rowan could feel the horror spreading through the fortress, as whatever news they had received began to disperse.

Something had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

Rowan’s limbs felt like lead as he slowly approached the distraught pair, a wave of panic spilling over all the walls he had created to contain it. His breaths were shallow in his chest.

At the sound of his approach, Malaki and Emrys broke apart and turned their heads towards him. Rowan soundlessly entreated them for answers, unable to speak for the roaring in his head, screaming for Aelin to be by his side, to know she was safe.

Malakai answered his unspoken question, “The slaves. The slaves in Calaculla and Endovier…have all been executed.”

His heart dropped like a stone, even as relief flooded through his body. The news wasn’t of their imminent demise, but of a disaster of a completely different kind.

Malakai was still speaking, giving Rowan the details – the hows and whys. Rowan heard him, but he wasn’t really listening. All his thoughts had turned to the girl, to the princess who had once been a slave. The woman who had sworn to Rowan that she would someday free all those poor, dead, slaves.

His limbs felt disconnected to his body.

A sea of guilt that was not his own stretched before him, and he saw the pain this would cause her. The agony and the remorse. Rowan wondered for a moment if the Adarlanian king hadn’t somehow known what he was doing, if he hadn’t done it on purpose. To make his enemy writhe.

And then Rowan heard footsteps on the stairs at his back, and tasted her fiery scent. He breathed, and steeled himself, turning to face her.

Aelin approached them, full of grim anticipation. Her scent was filled with barely-smothered fear but her face was a mask of cold determination.

As she beheld the scene before her – the grief in the room, the shock and horror Rowan knew was on his face – she paled even further, her eyes widening and her scent becoming thick with copper.

Rowan’s arms hung slack at his sides, his fingers clenching and unclenching. He could do this; he could get through this. He wouldn’t make this any worse for her.

Aelin almost seemed to take a step back, as if to try to avoid this, to evade the doom he held in wait for her.

Rowan took a step toward her – one step, and that was all it took before she began shaking her head, before she lifted her hands in front of her as if to push him away.

“Please,” she said, and her voice broke. “Please.”

Rowan kept approaching, knowing that he couldn’t avoid this, knowing that he had to keep it together, had to bear as much of this burden for her as he could.

He stopped within reach but did not touch her.

He swallowed once. Twice. “There was…there was an uprising at the Calaculla labor camp.” Another shallow breath. “After Princess Nehemia was assassinated, they say a slave girl killed her overseer and sparked an uprising. The slaves seized the camp.” Aelin’s eyes were blank, the gold frozen solid. “The King of Adarlan sent two legions to get the slaves under control. And they killed them all.”

“The slaves killed his legions?” The hope in her eyes nearly struck him to the ground. He breathed once, trying to calm himself, and grasped her hand as gently as he could.

She almost flinched at his touch.

“No. The soldiers killed every slave in Calaculla.” He could see the words twist in her, gutting her like a knife.

But she was still in denial. “There are thousands of people enslaved in Calaculla.”

Rowan nodded, the weight of that death settling on his shoulders like smothering blanket. But still – she didn’t know the whole truth, only half.

He opened and closed his mouth, trying to master himself, forcing himself to grit and bear it, to bear causing her this agony.

She breathed, “Endovier?” It was a fool’s plea.

Slowly, so slowly, Rowan shook his head. “Once he got word of the uprising in Eyllwe, the King of Adarlan sent two other legions north. None were spared in Endovier.”

Her eyes went dark, and she stared but did not see. Her knees began to buckle and he gripped her arms as if he could keep her from falling into the abyss.

Aelin’s face was utterly blank, wiped clean of every thought. She breathed in quick, panicked gasps. He could almost hear the wailing echoing behind her eyes. And his heart broke.

“Aelin,” he whispered, too softly for others to hear, letting all his emotion, all his tenderness and care, reveal itself in that short word.

But at the sound of it, at the sound of her name on his lips, Aelin tore off his grip and was running out the kitchen door. Running across the courtyard, her feet pounding over the cobblestones. Running through the wooden gate, and out of his sight.

Rowan’s arms were still held out, but she was gone.

Her name.

He had known what that name meant to her, a connection to her past, the identity she had lost, that had been taken from her. And he had said it anyways. He had reminded her of her guilt, the responsibility she felt to protect all who had been connected to the country she had been born to lead. Aelin, the name of the person who had been promised to the world to protect the defenseless.

Guilt coursed through him as he stood, making to follow her out of the fortress. But before he made it out of the kitchens, Malakai’s voice broke through his reverie.

“Wait! Prince!”

Rowan stopped and turned, taken aback by the urgency in the male’s tone. What could possibly still matter? What could still make any difference?

From the pain in Malakai’s eyes, something certainly could. And Rowan realized suddenly that the grief in the kitchens upon his arrival, the grief that he could feel flooding through the fortress in a desperate, panicked wave, was not due to the deaths of strangers across the sea.

No, something else had gone wrong. Something much closer to home.

Rowan barely had time to steel himself once again before Malakai spoke once more. “The courier also brought news from Wendlyn.”

He swallowed, his voice shaking slightly. “Their northern border has been attacked by three thousand men on Adarlanian ships. Most of their fleet must have been dispatched.” Malakai paused for breath, but Rowan knew what the male was going to say.

“Reinforcements aren’t coming.” The words were barely a whisper.

Malakai shook his head. “No. We are on our own.”

Rowan swallowed once, then nodded at the old male. “Then we will just have to make this the fight of our lives, won’t we commander.”

Something sparked in Malakai’s eyes. “Yes, we will, Prince. We will.”

They shared a moment of deep understanding. Of pain, and of leadership. And then Rowan turned and stepped out of the kitchens, transforming with a burst of light.

He soared above the courtyard and over the battlement wall, his eyes already straining into the dark woods beyond, searching for any sign –

But he needn’t look so far. She hadn’t left the fortress grounds, hadn’t even gone through the ward-gates.

Rowan felt his stomach drop, his eyes widening. But not in fear. In wonder.

A torrent of fire coursed out of Aelin, a blast that shook the trees and set the earth rumbling. A torrent cast straight at the ward-gates. And the magical barrier devoured her power whole, absorbing every last ember.

Rowan swooped down, shifting in midair as he moved to stand beside her. But he dared not get too close.

Aelin just stood there, burning more powerfully than he had ever seen, more powerfully than anyone he had ever seen, and she did not stop. She fed her rage, her grief and pain and anger, into the barrier stones and they lapped up every flicker, every spark.

She truly was the Heir of Fire, the Heir of Brannon. Rowan had known it, had felt the beast slumbering beneath her skin. But still, seeing and believing were different things.

Her power rose from within her, a behemoth from the deep.

Rowan looked at her, and he marveled.

Hours passed, and she worked herself into exhaustion. Her fires waned, the colors shifting from whites and blues down to deep reds and pale golds, until they flickered, and went out. Rowan sent a cool breeze her way, the only comfort he could think to give her.

The forest had gone silent, the birds and insects quieted by her fiery assault. But the barrier now seemed to hum with fresh power, the stones crackling and sparking with electricity.

Aelin turned to face him, and Rowan expected to see exhausted eyes and weary limbs. But instead, her face was bright with pain. Despite the intensity of her assault, yet more flames bloomed in her eyes, their golden core molten and ferocious.

Rowan could still feel the wildfire roaring beneath her skin, could still taste her flames in the air. Aelin’s well of magic had not run dry – her power still demanded to be let out.

Aelin just looked back at him, her shoulders sagging under all that weight, and Rowan breathed, preparing to add to her burden. “Word just arrived from Wendlyn. Reinforcements aren’t coming.”

“They didn’t come ten years ago.” Her voice was raw and cracked, though her words were calm. “Why should they bother helping now?”

Rowan’s eyes softened. “Aelin.”

She turned away, gazing into the darkening forest, too far gone to really hear him. Rowan knew she wouldn’t listen, knew it was useless. But still, he had to try. “You do not have to stay – we can go to Doranelle tonight, and you can retrieve your knowledge from Maeve. You have my blessing.”

She turned back to face him, her eyes hard. “Don’t insult me by asking me to leave. I am fighting. Nehemia would have stayed. My parents would have stayed.”

“They also had the luxury of knowing that their bloodline did not end with them.” His words were near-desperate. He couldn’t allow her to give in to this, to give in to the pain until she vanished under its weight. She couldn’t just submit to the fate she had been given. He needed her to fight – to survive, by any means necessary. Even by sacrificing the lives of their friends here. It was a burden he would bear.

She just gritted her teeth. “You have experience – you are needed here. You are the only person who can give the demi-Fae a chance of surviving; you are trusted and respected. So I am staying. Because you are needed, and because I will follow you to whatever end.”

A long moment passed as her words coursed through him. Burning, forging.

Rowan could feel something rising from deep within, and it enveloped him. When he emerged from its embrace, he knew he would be forever changed.

He did not look away.

“To whatever end?”

She nodded.

Rowan reached into his tunic and pulled out a dagger. Her dagger. He held it out, finally returning it to her. The metal gleamed in the faint moonlight, reflecting Aelin’s golden eyes back at him. She took the blade slowly, seeming to recognize the gesture for what it was. An acknowledgement.

Rowan looked into her eyes, into the very core of her. And she looked right back, piercing him through with her gaze.

And he said the only thing he knew, the one true thing. “Fireheart.”

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